Saturday, January 01, 2005

Yuppie Walnut Creek Fuckheads

Need I say more than that? This place is overwhelmed with cock-cucking WASPY fucks who want nothing more than to preserve their conservative value system lest it be overwhelmed by the masses of smoking, ass-fucking, atheist, nature-worshipping pagans. It's nothing short of a culture-war. They won the election, the blinded, simplified, electorally-college challenged election that you probobly didn't vote in due to some other pressing matter like going to the mall or paying felatio to your friends to keep them your friends. That doesn't mean we'll give up.

The progressives will have their day. I hate labels, but that's what we really are. we want to progress. Basicly anyone who wants something better that what we have today sees that the current system doesn't allow for the kind of change and progress needed to get this country to where we should be. Simplistic, I know, but I'm a political scientist by indoctrination and not interested in giving a diatribe on why we'll make it so. Poly Sci burnt me out on politics for a long time.

The object of my intense aggravation tonight was a Mannheim Steamroller ( an East-Bay term for a typical white, blond, evil cocksucking bitch woman who is spawned by the controlling forces of social manipulation that manifest in this area) who had a problem with my smoking. I was smoking in the OUTSIDE smoking area of a bar, around last-call. Nearly everyone out there was there because they too, were smoking. She walks up, and demands (not asks, mind you) that I move since she doesn't like cigarrette smoke. Her attitude was one of intensely disdainfull condescending venom. I dismissed her through ignoring her very presence and proceeded to blow smoke in her face intentionally several times while lamenting on the enebriations of the multitudes and how it can bring them to such futile stupidity. Yes, I was, admittedly, an asshole like that.

On a side-note, google a search for "blonde Walnut Creek assholes" and you're sure to come up with tons of interesting shit. The best was probobly the thread on the asshole from Walnut Creek who pulled his girlfriend to safety after her Fiero broke down on the bay Bridge and was struck by a drunk driver. Good shit....but i seriously digress.

At any rate, I have no real point in this posting other that to say that people who live in Walnut Creek should never reproduce. Or vote. Or state their opinion on ANYTHING. They're by-and-large cocksucking clones who should all just shut the fuck up. Yep, pretty much.

Anyway, I'm looking for a new vodka drink. I've been through the martinis, vodka tonics, and vodka redbulls. Anyone have any good suggestions? Don't say vodka shots, I hate shots.

I haven't the energy for anything more witty to say to end this.

Piss off,

Friday, December 31, 2004

It wasn't my scene

Mood: traumatized by the finiteness of life, read why...

I went out to one of my regular places for some usual intoxicating socialization. It was OK. The place was jam-packed, which was kinda unusual for a Thursday night.

I had debated even going out tonight. Since I had planned on going skiing this week, and the fucked up weather had unfortunately precluded my making it to the sierras in my shitty little 4-cyl, I've been mostly a shut-in for the past few days, aside from the occassional jaunt to the city and whatnot. Tonight, something drew me out though.

As I was on my way home, going up over Lime Ridge on Treat through Pleasant Hill (how ironically named, ...) I came upon a couple cars in the road, flashers flashing. Given the massive deluge we've been experiencing the past week, a wreck wasn't totally unexpected. This is, after all, California. People either drive way too slow in the rain, or like total fucking fools. Something was definitely amiss here. It was obviously a wreck. I turned my flashers on, and ventured out to see if I could assist. The most obviously evident issue, since there was a group of people gathered around the crashed cars, was that there was little warning that there was a californication up ahead, given the hill (the ridge) and the turn in the road just before it. It was something miraculous that I hadn't gone sliding into it firsthand myself, given my great affinity for devilish speeds.

So I set about setting a few flares in and before the bend in the road leading to the wreck. No small feat given the monsoonal-like deluge that was quickly sobering me. I overheard from the onlookers that the coppers had been called. Feeling jaunty, akin with my newfound soberness due to the rain, and having set my flares (thanks for the foresight, my brother, for giving me those), I ventured forth to investigate the calamity of the collision. Calamity is right. As I grew near I noticed the front-end of the high-end SUV that had struck the tree was utterly demolished, the rather large tree it had obliterated, the same. The other car involved had moderate damage.

The focus of the small crowd gathered about was on the SUV. The air-bags were still fully deployed, and, aside from that, nobody was obviously still inside. I made my way into the semi-circle of stunned onlookers and asked if anyone was still in the vehicle, hoping against hope that it wouldn't be so, given the obviously detrimental physics involved in the crash. A young 20's-ish guy, obviously in total shock standing next to me responded.

"Yeah", he said, looking glassy-eyed, "no pulse". I looked a little closer. I wish I hadn't.

By then, the fire trucks and cops were arriving on-scene. I made my way back to my car and slowly drove off. It wasn't my scene.

I thought that venting this into a blog might help to alleviate the shock of the experience. Death happens. Life happens. I became an Uncle, for the first time, a couple days ago. I should've expected a balancing experience to mitigate the joy of that event.

Blogging this has only served so far to take it from the ethereal, dreamlike experience that it was when it happened, into the real. Writing, for me, has always been a valve which I use to release the energies that I'm dwelling upon.

Something tells me that this experience, this night, is one that might actually have a different effect. Writing it out just isn't enough. This shit, this experience, this energy, might need greater ventilation so as not to leave me with lasting regret. I did everything I could. But, given my personality, in an event like this, I know that's never enough. I just know it.

While I wish I wasn't like that, at the same time, I know that's really not the point. Someone lost their life in front of me tonight. The feeling of helpless abandon is one I've never been good at coping with, but it will never compare to the loss that that person's friends and family will be confronted with in the next few hours as the police track them down to relay the tragic events that unfolded tonight.

Anyway, tomorrow's New Year's Eve (err, tonight). I hope that if you happen to read this, that you drive safe. Even if you drive a high-end fucking SUV, it can still not be enough when confronted with a large immobile tree. Not that even driving safe might help, that's an assumption. But it just might help.

I hope 2005 is better than 2004.

buenas noches,

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Option 7/7

Mood: Enflamed with Possibility
Music: Cubanate

I was at my usual bar tonight, drinking limey tonics with Grey Goose (the fuckin BEST) when a new angle approached my bearings and made itself apparent. for a change, it didn't involve any ot The Usual Suspects, but rather a newcomer to my scene. A bartender (whom I'll call "S" to needlessly protect her rugged identity) was espousing on her latest issues with a boy. What kind of fucking age do we live in when the bartenders tell you their problems as opposed to the opposite? For some reason that seems to fit with the zeitgeist of the times.

So her problem (in a very small nutshell)...she has been narrowly avoiding death for some time at the hands of a brutal and unnamed disease that has been stalking her like so many of the men she has known (that's another story, for another time). The disease, most recently, collapsed a lung and winded her up in the ICU flirting with Herr Reaper the Dreadnaught with many complications. Herr Reaper avoided harvesting her this time and she dragged her scarred and stronger soul back to the bar to sleph off more booze to the Walnut Creek morons, literati, and Usual Regulars. Her explanation is that she supports her mom, most unusual and respect inspiring.

The Disease (which she brags immodestly is being considered by researchers at UCSF for research as a New Disease), has had some side effects on her relations with her fellow hominid (in an obviously psychological sense). She has issues with commitment and intimacy due to the fact that some fuckers whom she considered friends had completely abandoned her when she was solicited by Herr Reaper. Her magnetism had apparently waned as she rotted away in the ICU, and the fuckers hadn't the souls to see her through. The Fuckers.

Where she's stuck is that she attracts two kinds of potential mate these days, the stalker (not talking about them) and the bi-polar-esque guy who at first appears emotionally unavailable and later turns "weird" on her. The first breakthrough made is that she is so damn aggressive with them that she emasculates and role-reverses them in the budding "relationship". She uses them and discards them as soon as they begin to become emotionally involved with her. San Francisco seems to be full of women like this, nore than one of which I've fallen victim to (that's another fucking tangent I'm not yet going to explore). Suffice it to say, she is frustrated with the outcomes of the intimacies she intiates.

Which brings up another interesting point...if she doesn't intitiate, she doesn't pursue. Which is in line with the modern SF feminist philosophy of gender equality (fuck, that's a huge can of worms I just opened up, sure to catch flack for that). As much as she wants the intimacy, she wants it on her terms. She MUST be the aggressor. If she isn't, she withdraws. If he pursues at that point, he becomes something akin to a stalker in her mind. Thats a fine line for the modern male to tread. He must let his intentions be known, if they're in line with her wishes and if he pursues then he becomes a stalker. The trick lies in letting her believe that she pursues, not he.

Anyway, the thought crossed my vodka-soaked mind that I might do something completely altruistic for this woman. After all, my altruism score was a scant 31%, ;p

Well, maybe it wasn't entirely altruistic, after all, I would be scoring points with a hot and desirable woman. At any rate, it probobly wouldn't work since it wouldn't be something she was initiating and (more to the point) CONTROLLING. It would be about her being given something, not of her making or choosing if she accepted. In all probobility, therefore, she wouldn't accept it.

What I was considering offering, was to take her on my travels with me. Plan 2/7 was to quit my job and travel the world for the next year. Taking her with me became plan 7/7 and wouldn't require much more significant expense or planning. Fuck, if I was expecting to die within the next year, why would I want to continue working? I wouldn't. But what else could I afford to do? Not much else, probobly. Anyway, it's not a realistic proposition to even make, given the insights into her situation. It would just sound like a pretentious and lame come-on from the vodka-soaked acquaintance in the leather jacket next to the blond at the end of the bar. Right?


Intentions at this stage preclude incisive interludes in deciphering the indecipherable pretentions of the modern woman. That shit has gotten me into far too much trouble in my linguistic meanderings of late. Suffice to redoubt myself into the realm of the perplexed masculine, tangibly miffed. Not that I yearn for the carnal opposite, for a red-state girl would only take my lamentation to the point of ridiculous intropective self-flaggelating ironic dishumour. Know what I mean?

Thank the gawd of retail that Ketel-1 is on sale at Safeway right now, I think I need to go imbibe more in my state of histrionic malfeasience. Perchance I shall maketh the mosteth of this time off from work. Hmm, work...that might make an interesting topic for the next little diatribe I inscribe here...

I need to stop experimenting with arcane vocabulary, I'm getting complaints that I'm
"indecipherable" and "overly expansive". Что Вы думаете?

Bon Nuit,

Monday, December 27, 2004

Uncooperative and Immodest

Advanced Big 30 Personality Test Results
Sociability |||||| 13%
Aggressiveness |||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 84%
Assertiveness |||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 87%
Activity Level ||||||||||||||| 42%
Excitement-Seeking ||| 8%
Enthusiasm |||||| 16%
Extroversion ||||||||||||||| 41%
Trust ||| 6%
Morality |||||| 12%
Altruism |||||||||||| 31%
Cooperation ||| 2%
Modesty ||| 3%
Sympathy |||||| 15%
Friendliness |||||| 11%
Confidence ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 91%
Neatness |||||||||||||||||| 52%
Dutifulness |||||| 15%
Achievement |||||||||||||||||||||||| 78%
Self-Discipline |||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 84%
Cautiousness |||||||||||||||||||||||| 72%
Orderliness ||||||||||||||||||||| 65%
Anxiety ||||||||||||||||||||| 67%
Volatility |||||||||||| 40%
Depression ||||||||||||||| 41%
Self-Consciousness |||||||||||| 36%
Impulsiveness ||||||||||||||| 47%
Vulnerability ||| 8%
Emotional Stability ||||||||||||||||||||| 61%
Imagination |||||| 11%
Artistic Interests |||||||||||| 38%
Introspection ||||||||||||||||||||| 63%
Adventurousness ||||||||||||||| 50%
Intellect ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 92%
Liberalism ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| 94%
Openmindedness |||||||||||||||||| 58%
Take Free Advanced Big 30 Personality Test
personality tests by

flatulent turtles beware

Current music: The Postal Service
Current mood: licking my wounds and growling to myself

Getting drunk and having an allergy attack nearly simultaneously is something of an enlightening experience. At the same time as this was occuring, in The City, last night, the sky literally opened up and dumped an entire ocean on us. It was magnificent. Massive deluges of precipitation tend to lend a spectacularness to any night out in The City. The last two particularly splendorific nights I've spend carousing The City till the wee hours were marked by just such an atmospheric event. I can always tell if it's going to be an epic night in the city when the sky opens up with a fecocity that sends people skurrying like rats for higher ground.

I've never thought of myself as a City Person. In factorificness, I used to disdain and dislike The City with a passion reserved for few things - religion, bigotry, cities. THE BIG THREE. Cities were like a place reserved for the mentally retarded. Who the fuck would want to live in such close proximity to other hominids? it's unnatural! People suck!

The tick was that I was still coming to terms with my dislike for my fellow hominid. I hadn't gotten past it yet. It's taken me years, but I've grown comfortable expecting nothing but the worst from people, and with that has come an acceptance that I can traverse the highest peaks of their civilization and gain something from my explorations of their settlements utterly unexpected. I can have fun with them when I expect nothing of them. Go in with absolutely no expectation of anything great, profound, wise, or even worth experiencing and you wind up surprised when you actually discover some morsel of coolness. That's where I'm at now.

The City (San Francisco for all you non-Bay Areaasters), is a fucking awesome city to par-tay in. I've done the same in a variey of cities around the globe, but SF has become my fave. I won't bore you with the standard ramblings on how it feels a bit like New York or some European city, while maintaining the intimateness and romance of a smaller town. It is what it is. I definitely like the fact that it doesn't feel as crowded as say, Tokyo, nor as pretensious as Paris. Everytime I go there now, I feel like a veteran returning to his field of battle. Many a conflagration I have fought there, sometimes escaping narily by the plaque of my masticators, wearily to return to bivouac and regroup for the next foray into The Center, the place where shit happens.

Digression time, spurious musings follow:
Vodka infused with sumptuous splendorous sprightly things that speak to the tongue of the wonder of sugars of unbridled elixoration barely conceal the fuel of exileration fed to the soul as the hazardous byproduct of some wonderful oddity of nature as I is unbound to rebind and reflect as discovery of the magic of tiny creatures whose genetic adaptation has it to collude to make us feel in our fealty as thus for their amusement I suppose at the tiny cosmic interplay of microsephalous gases escaping into the great windy openness of frontier we wind into the streets and the lights of free playthings dance upon us and we dance within them illuminated through our inner luminosity posessessed upon us.

Breathe, it continues.

Ending the situation as therefore surmised we thusly escape into the androgonous streets of mind and the back alleys of freedom, where hath my cigarettes gone to? for wet we be and need fire us hominids of modernity yet youthfully faulty sprites we are, luminous in only but for our veracity of spirit, our dogma of lacking our lactating mother who hath sent us to create to find to define and spirit withhold for we are no longer but something that thusly thrust into the light of day is blinded.

achem, is that you? nein, a chumly spirit forboded upon to rise.

Sprechen sie junk? for we are but the detritous of cosmic shit flushed from the toilette of numerous castations of wormly nothingness, for that we keep in mind and know how little and meaningless it is for us to define and have our way with like a cheap streetwalking emboldened wicken potion weilding wondrous assignation of ancient technofierocity. Shisputh!

guten nacht,

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Modest Mouse sumptuosity

So I'm listening to Modest Mouse today. 'So what?' you might say....well, if you've never given them the time, you really should. They have a way of making things feel summed up, a product of experienced coalesced. It's a rare trait in a Interpol, they give me a similar impression, though in a slightly different way. It's more than a difference in style, the substance of experience is defined in a similar but totally different way. A defined zeitgeist, but a completely separate zeitgeist. similar starting and ending points, but a different path to get there. Wow, I think I managed to say absolutely nothing that made sense there. Tragic. Shed a tear.

the ocean breathes salty ...indeeed...eet does.

good song though.

It's damn good and fine to have these days off work...even if it is for a holiday that fills me with cynical dread. The hypocrisy of the Christmas season is something I touched on in my last's a bit more on that. First, if you know anything about the history of Xmas, you know that it's a relatively new invention for our relatively new culture. It fit's so well too - a holiday that celebrates and presents consumerism as it's central tenant, while enjoying the warm cloak thrown over it by it's supposed "religious" significance. What a complete pile of shite, here's why:
  1. Parts of xmas were lifted from a Danish tradition celebrating Saint Nicholas and other parts from pagan Germanic traditions involving tree worship and shit like that. The rest of it was a consumerized industrialist invention to promote the sales of needless crap in the middle of the winter season when sales traditionally fall since it's so fucking cold out in most of the country that no one wants to go out to buy shit.
  2. The Christians lifted the supposed birth of Christ from Apr. 1st and magically transported it to Dec 25th to coincide with Xmas and usurp the meaning of the holiday. I'm not sure which is worse, lying hypocritical opportunistic christian fucks moving the most sacred date of their year around to try to lure in more pagans by usurping their holidays, or the way xmas has become a consumerist frenzy of buying throwaway products and various shit you dont need.
  3. The fucking discipline of deference that people pay to this shit. That irks me to no end. lighten up, your holiday sucks. At least the jews go all out in their consumerism. If you're going to give gifts for your holiday, you may as well do it continuously for days on end until you've broken the bank. Nice. Or else celebrate it like the atheists do - go out and drink heavily. I'm starting to lean in the latter direction personally. Big surprise there.
  4. To sum it up with a quote from Fight Club: Tyler Durden: We're consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don't concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy's name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra. Narrator: Martha Stewart. Tyler Durden: Fuck Martha Stewart. Martha's polishing the brass on the Titanic. It's all going down, man. So fuck off with your sofa units and Strinne green stripe patterns.
  5. oooh, and another: Tyler Durden: Reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of materiel possessions.

I'm onto the song "white lies yellow teeth" now. Yep, more Modest Mouse. I love songs that increase in tempo as you go forward through the song. I can't make out most of the lyrics in this song though. I might have to play it over and over later to decipher it. Dare me to? I might just be that crazy...

I'm going to tangentialize again and talk about "manufactured identity". I don't pretend to be an expert in anything really, so if you happen to be reading this and have some good suggestions or tidbits to add, please feel free to contribute, even contradict me. I enjoy a good debate. So, what i'm talking about here regarding identity, is the way our culture seems to have grown so fragmented and manufactured and unreal as defined in the way that people, especially the youth, tend to defne their identities in groups, subgroups and such. To get more specific, I'm talking about the tendency for people, usually starting around adolescence to begin to define themselves and create identity through the adoption of identification with and adoption of the identifying markers of primarily musical and socio-economic identity. Here's a short list of what these strata are:

  • Rockers: including all the various subgroups like, metalheads, death rockers, 80's hairband types, heavy metalistas, grungers (these also fit variously under the "Alternative" strata at times), and the other kids who want to rebel in a very outright way and are too dumb to see any nuance or irony in their rebellion.
  • Rappers: including R&B'ists, hip-hoppers, dubbists, and other various types. Generally...these can be segmented into two main groups: impoverished inner-city youth who know no better, and privileged suburban kids who either know no better or make identity with this strata integral to their rebellion.
  • Alternativists: mods, punks, etc. The kids who want to rebel in a socially acceptable way, nuanced with irony and self conciousness. Unfortunately the part about self-conciousness becomes ironic unto itself as these kids realize that they too have just found another uniform to wear to lend themselves identity in a time and place were none really exists. It's manufactured alternativity. It's still a recipe. A recipe for something else. Feck
  • The dorks, geeks and nerds: These kids don't really know any better, or maybe they do. Either they missed the day where every kid was that little portion of their brainputer programmed with identity or they just don't have the time to waste on it. I repect these ones more than the others, and identify with them in their lack of adoption to manufactured identity. I guess that makes me one of them. So be it, I can still kick your ass. ;p
  • Oh, one more group...the emos/indies: Very similar to the Alternativists, except they consider themselves even more elitist. They reject any notion of manufacturedness in their identity since they see themselves floating completely above that, untouched by anything "corporate". OK, so your music wasn't marketed by any major record company perhaps, but it was marketed by a record company. Chances are your tiny little record company is a tiny little subsidiary of some behemoth like AMG anyway. They still own your ass, whether you like it or not.
  • What does it mean? Steal your music. Just download it. Make the economy of it all collapse. That's right, I'm advocating it. Make these kids define it for themselves. Make them create their own music. The world will be better off for it.

to sum this shit up (credit to Fight Club): Tyler Durden: Fuck what you know. You need to forget about what you know, that's your problem. Forget about what you think you know about life, about friendship, and especially about you and me.

Fuck, that's gotta be the best movie ever. Some day I'll get around to reading the book too. Here's another quote to throw into your cute smug little world to really fuck shit up: Tyler Durden: In the world I see - you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you'll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.

I get accused of being an asshole alot. I also spell a lot alot a lot. Do I look like I give a shit a lot. Not alot.

Time to switch soundtracks. Benny Bennassi or Laibach? mmm, perhaps Jayzeezer. YES. That's right, it's Jay-Z mashed-up with Weezer. It's some silly shit, damn good though. You should check it out if you get the chance. You can download the shit for free, and the dj doesn't give a fuck. Awesome.

Here's some more shit for you, someone told me a little story once. Now, given the source of this story, I find it hard not to think there might be something to it. Alot of people, including me, have a tendency to dismiss shit like this out of hand. Even if it's just a dumbass story, it's still interesting. Judge for yourself, with an eye towards incredulity: On Sept. 11th, 2001, the latest day of American infamy, outrage, righteous indignation, and justification in our collective sub-concious for future wars of revenge something else happened. Apparently NASA has a random number generation system that they use around the world at their tracking stations for shit like assigning numbers to near-earth objects in orbit (they track schtuff like this to be able to discern threats to shuttle flights, etc.). So, on this particular day, subsequent to the attacks occurring, some weird shit began happening with their random number generator - it began spitting out numbers sequentially. The justification I heard floated for this was not a bug in the software running their algorythm generator (which it probobly was, if this actually occurred), but rather that subsequent to the attacks' occurrance, people began all thinking the same shit. Namely, schtuff like, "oh fuck, we're under attack by the fucking ragheads". "Get yer gun Myrtle, the Commies are cummin'", and "wow, I shore hope they don't crash a plane into Walmart in my shitty little town.". Well, maybe we weren't all thinking the same shit. Half of the people I know went about their day somewhat oblivious to anything. Then again, these are game developers I'm talking about, and shaking them from their single-minded focus on surfing the web and AIM'ing their EQ nerd-buddies is like trying to separate a cloud of flies from a stinky pile of dog poo.

At any rate, it's probobly all total BS, like most of the crap that circulated post Sept. 11th. Remember how George W. Bush's approval rating jumped to like 90% in the week following Sept. 11th? I rest my case. Threaten us and we become like single-minded lemmings who'll listen to almost any BS we're fed.

You might be wondering who the fuck is this asshole writing this shit? That is, if you don't know me already. Well, I'm kinda like George Carlin, I'm an equal opportunity offender, I offend everyone. I don't give a fuck if you're a pinko pussy-assed patchoulli-smelling liberal dumbfuck, or a gun-toting sister-fucking Walmart-shopping spotted owl-hunting smalldick redneck republican Christian fuckface. I'll insult you either way. So have a nice fucking day, fucker. :)

Speaking of becoming involved and taking sides, anyone who hasn't heard Green Day's rebirth album "American Idiot" should immediately self-flaggelate your couch-potatoe ass to your computer to download it. It's some of the best shit I've heard in a long time, even if they did rip off "Foreigner" of all bands for the song "Boulevard of Broken Dreams". It's a song worth ripping homage to with a cover. Billy Joe is still somewhat genius-tastic.

I think the song Holiday is the best off that album. It actually has something meaningful to say. Not that some of Green Day's other song's from previous albums don't (take "Minority" for instance), but it's refreshing to hear substance included instead of further exploitation of punk/pop stylings.



New Blog! yay!

merry xmas. merry buying of totally useless shit you dont need and most people dont need and it's all about a damn god you dont believe in anyway. except when you're like "ohmyGAWD, I'm so fucking drunk Im falling off the bar stool...". or perhaps, "Ohgawd, hotty at 6 o'clock...BEHIND you stupid!...".

I realized today... shit I forgot already. so much for that.

well, here's another realization for can choose your path and you can choose your friends, but you can't choose your friends' paths. Yeah, I know, that's a lotta crap. I forget the name of what that's called, but it basicly is easy to manufacture with any to things that are separate. take, for instance...oh yeeah...the old cliched friends and noses one. You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose but you can't pick your friends nose. Well, unless thats one good m'fuckin friend. that's the kinda friend that might just give you a bj when you're done picking their nose for them, they're such a good friend.

I'm sorry if you've read this far so far, so very verrry far. Did you think I actually had something profound, interesting or entertaining to say here? heh, read on, if you're a good little cherub, I might just give you the key to the chastity, something.

We used to do this writing exercise in elementary school where we'd go total chain of unbridled conciousness and write everything down as fast as possible without thinking about it and see what happened. Scary shit. I think most of my classmates either wound up in prison or working in the video game industry. Or in porn. Either way, ....mmm pooorrrrnnnn. As I was saying, my delving into the nether regions of wordly masturbation at that age led roughly to this space and time where I'm spouting gibberish, callooh callay, all whumsy and with a snik-snak, into a blog of feathered freedom spoilt only by the knowledge the bird is going to be eaten by a small greasy child in the morning. AS it turned out, I wound up in all three. Though not in the literal sense. Except in games.

Some fucker once said that porn is for people without imaginations. Someone else once said that porn is for people lacking in sex. A third genius once surmised that porn is addictive like drugs. Of course, duh, it's all three. It's also a great outlet for the raw pujilistic self-flaggelating freak to see to it that they're really still alive. Much more thrilling (and cheap) then video games in that regard. Both can lead to lasting trouble if you have a mate, GF, BF, small woodland animal, monkey, whatever - and you do it too much. Your significant other (the monkey in your case, you sick fucker), WILL eventually get jealous.

Of course, if your monkey left you, then you can stay up late into the night stikying your keyboard with copious amounts of as you um.....type into your blog at a feverished pace of insurmountable enthusiasm. Ah, BLOG! How you STIMULATE me so! heh.

Toodles, I think I should sleep now. That was about the worst pun cum allegory EVER. er, so to speak.

One last thought. I made the vastly unwise decision this past evening to google my own name. Take my advice, unless you're a famous person, have a unique name or are a pathetic masochist (if you're one of these, write me, I have a spanking for you), DONT EVER GOOGLE YOURSELF! It will only make you feel small, pathetic and totally sad compared to the other people who share your totally common name and have apparently been spending the last (insert time length here) accumulating doctorates in the astrophysical economics of tertiary geology with an emphasis on transmutational dialecticysm in the medula oblongata, while you sat your ass in front of the keyboard writing love letters to porn stars. Shit. That sucks.

On a good note, I did eventually find my name in a sea of names, but I had to include multiple other clues to my identity. to get to one site that had a really bad and dated profile of me that it got gawd-knows-where. Made me feel a little better. Like search-engine mental masturbation. About that key now, my little cherub,... ;p