REPORT A PROBLEM
I can’t believe it’s already December. Time really does fly, doesn’t it? While it has been many years since, it seems like yesterday that we met and you raped me in the alley. At first I was paralyzed with terror and remained motionless; eventually, though, I began to sense a certain affection as you ravaged my bum. It was only a few encounters later that I realized that this was not merely a crime punishable by death in many countries, but love as well. Our friends laugh at the story of how I bought a gun after that.
Hello: Please stop writing me these letters. I most certainly am not in love with you. In fact, I have absolutely no idea who you are. That is not to say that I did not rape you; I rob people of their anal virginity every single day, so it is within the realm of possibility that I did take you forcefully. Don’t feel slighted by me not remembering you; there are just too many. I would go as far as to say that I get more ass than Wilt Chamberlain, Magic Johnson, and Richard Dawson combined. But not Howie Mandell.
I was alarmed by the loud voices in the hallway. It turned out to be nothing, just next-door neighbors coming back from a party. That didn’t change the fact, though, that I had been alarmed and nobody had given me the code or password required to prove that it was not an actual emergency! My panicked thoughts were interrupted as policemen burst into the apartment, weapons drawn, and ordered me onto my knees. Most cops are content to make you kiss boot or fellate nightstick, but this bastard made me poke my tongue in the hole of his gun barrel.
Not that I’m obsessive/compulsive (okay, I probably am) but I have a system for choosing which slices of pizza to take out of the pie. As far as I know, most people do this in one of two manners: (a) take the best-looking pieces or (b) take two conjoining slices. I would like to introduce you to option (c): Pick one slice that looks good and then take the piece diametrically opposite to it. The logic is: abutting slices are most likely relatives, whereas opposite slices are either friends or enemies. I like to make it more interesting for them.
NEW CATEGORIES FOR
2002 LATIN GRAMMY AWARDS:
BEST HABEAS CORPUS
OUTSTANDING RES IPSA LOQUITUR
MOST IN NEED OF TABULA RASA
I’m sure many would say that the Awards are fine just the way they are and who am I to go against tradition? Well, I say to them: We shall see. That’s right – laugh now, but I have a sneaking suspicion that big changes are around the corner. RIGHT around the corner. I’m talking, like, you come around that corner not looking and you’re liable to get your face altered, catch my drift?
So shake your bon-bon at that.
Hi, I’d like to relate to you my latest Hollywood experience: recently I co-starred on an episode of Smallville. It was the one where Clark musters the courage to ask Lana out, but their date is interrupted by a crazed super-villain. I played the part of Lex Luthor’s phrenologist. To be honest, I think the episode got out of hand with all of the celebrity cameos: Fonzie burst on the scene in a Kryptonite-leather jacket; Juliette Binoche is billed as Julia Roberts; P. Diddy shoots someone while Calista Flockhart and Kate Moss sumo wrestle. Luke Duke sobs in a corner.
What’s the story with refried beans? I guess frying them once wasn’t good enough. No, we need to fry them, and when we’re done with that, we need to fry ‘em again! Don’t get me wrong – I love me some refried beans. Mmmm. And cornbread? Yessireebob, that moist-ass cornbread they serve at Chi-Chi’s is the shit. Pun intended, by the way. Anyhow, I’m simply saying that it’s a bit unfair that the fried beans never even get a shot and then Mr. Big Bad RE-fried Beans steals the show. Don’t even get me started on Refried Ice Cream. . .
In my line of work, I come across evil more frequently than you can imagine – it’s everywhere, in every crack and crevice, lying in the shadows just waiting for some unsuspecting schmuck to come along and step in it. But that’s why I’m here: to eradicate this filth from the face of the earth and to make sure it doesn’t come back any time soon. More often than not, I’m successful. Once in a great while, though, the dirt is just too well hidden, too hard to get to. Even still, I won’t let up. After all, I’m the janitor.
Three walk guys into a bar -- a priest, a rabbi, and a man with one eye -- with asparagus stuffed under their armpits.
the BARTENDER says: Sorry, but I can’t serve you guys.
PRIEST: Why in God’s name can’t you serve us?
BARTENDER: That’s just the way it is.
MAN WITH ONE EYE: Let’s put it to a vote. All in favor say Aye.
RABBI: That’s your big punch line? That’s not funny; it’s dumb.
M.W.O.E.: Piss off. Who’s tellin’ this joke, you or me?
RABBI: Actually, none of us. We’re just characters in the joke.
M.W.O.E.: oh. right.
A customer-slash-friend of mine was in the other day and cemented his position as “The Laziest Man in the Entire World.” A few of us were talking about various subjects ranging from Best Buy’s return policy to nymphomaniacs. While speaking on different technologies (I pretty much counted myself out of that one), he shocked us all by saying that he couldn’t survive without his car-stereo remote.
Let me make this clear: he’s talking about a remote to control the functions of the CD player mounted in his dashboard. Eight inches from the driver’s seat.
I am thinking of killing him.
Coming back from Trenton the other day, I overheard the greatest conversation as I was waiting at the toll booth:
Toll Booth Worker #1: Hey, Lou, didja get your Christmas tree yet?
Toll Booth Worker #2: No, I didn’t get my tree, and no, I didn’t start my shoppin’ yet. Don’t ask me again.
#1: Aw, c’mon, man – it’s Christmas.
#2: Fuck Christmas.
That guy rocks. I was going to visit him every day, but at 50 cents a pop, I may have to rethink that strategy. No more frivolous spending for me – I’ve got Christmas shopping to think about…
There’s an old expression: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Another expression: You can’t shine shit.
While seemingly unrelated, these sayings have everything to do with one another. For instance, horses tend to shit a lot. And many beggars, to my knowledge, smell like shit. It’s a safe bet that most horses wish that they could beat the shit out of their riders. Also, a horse’s mane is often shiny. If a horse’s mane becomes shinier after having been washed, and you perform such an act, it can be said that you shined the horse.
If you wanted to.
Corinthians 6:9-10: "Do you know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters, adulterers nor male prostitutes, homosexual offenders nor thieves, the greedy nor drunkards, slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God."
Who the hell does that leave?
And it’s interesting that only MALE prostitutes are prohibited from entering Godland, apparently leaving female whores to go as they please. I wonder if there’s a strict dress code...
Check bible.com under Bible Answers for more on UFOs, smoking, Pokemon, T-shirt messages, Halloween, voting, & Elian Gonzales. Fun!
I am sorry to say that my Pizza Slice Picking Method was not applicable yesterday. We ordered a pie with ricotta cheese and sliced tomatoes, but with mozzarella cheese only on HALF of it (don’t ask.) I definitely wanted both cheeses on my mine, so this negated the Opposite Slice System I have become accustomed to. I pretty much had to throw caution to the wind and pick blindly. For those of you wondering, I chose the two crispiest-looking slices.
I won’t even go on about how the whole place fucking smelled like garlic for two days afterwards.
I kind of like the chime that signals New E-Mail on my computer. I just wish it had a little more kick to it, if you know what I mean. Maybe followed by a trumpet sound, or perhaps accompanied by flashing lights on your monitor. I doubt the cost could be justified to have a robotic arm installed that could tap you on the shoulder when that glorious new mail arrived, but that would be cool, too. No, wait: TWO robotic arms that could also utilize sign language to alert our hearing-impaired friends waiting for electronic messages across the globe.
While browsing the filmography of actor Gavin MacLeod, I stumbled across a few interesting facts: His character Capt. Stubing of The Love Boat, actually had first name of Merrill, and not Mel as I had always believed. I guess Merrill was too faggy sounding, so they referred to him as Mel. Or maybe I just heard it wrong. Anyway, MacLeod played in two unrelated movies both entitled The Comic, one in 1969 and one in 1985. The plot outline for the ’85 version: In a future police state, stand-up comic murders competitor for job, then gets mixed up with stripper.
Speaking of Gavin MacLeod, he was on McHale’s Navy with Jay Novello, who also starred with MacLeod in the 1969 movie The Comic. I’ve always wondered if actors who appear in different movies together become friends. Chances are, it’s like: JESUS CHRIST!!! NOT THIS ASSHOLE AGAIN! There’s a possibility, though, that they act like they have never met one another before. I do that sometimes, but it’s usually only to relatives. I think they’re afraid to call me on it, because they go along with the reintroductions every time. I only feel bad during Christmas, when they’ve brought me gifts.
I just mesmerized myself with my Optical Mouse.
This is the kind that doesn’t have a rollerball on the bottom, but uses the red light of an optical sensor to track movement, much like the scanning equipment implemented at grocery stores. However, if I waved the mouse over a can of Pork’n’beans, I doubt the price would register on my screen. It might, though. I don’t really have any idea how this shit works.
Nevertheless, I did indeed hypnotize myself by shining the light on a can of Iced Tea. I made pretend it was KITT from Knight Rider. VvvrrrrRRRROOOOOOMMMMM.
What is with this 100 Words bullshit, anyway? How dare you tell me when to write and how much?! Next thing y’know, it’ll be WHAT to write, or to whom. Goddamn Word Nazis. The whole Wordcount thing is totally stifling my creativity. I refuse to play by these ridiculous rules any longer! I promise you this: my next 5 entries will consist only of Campbell’s soup ingredients. Or better yet, I’ll write this supercool story that will fuck your shit up, only it’ll be one-hundred-and-ONE words long. Hah! Take that! We’ll see who’s a badass and who’s not, won’t we…
DECEMBER 20 is not a day that will live in infamy. Frankly, I doubt anyone will even remember it next month. Really, I mean, let’s summarize the day’s events: Robert Downey Jr. is arrested for drug possession (again); Michael J. Fox falls down some steps; Madonna is called a foul-mouthed bitch by a photographer and she kicks him in the eye with her cowboy boot; the Jennifer Lopez/GWAR split-seven-inch is released to mixed reactions, low sales, and lots of blood and sperm; on the local news front, 6 Levittown minors were half-eaten by werewolves (meaning 3 fully eaten, 3 unscathed.)
I feel it’s best to be truthful about this kind of thing: I killed a man while typing this.
I know what you’re thinking: How could you kill a man while typing your 100 words? That’s absurd!
Yes, I agree, it is foolish to imagine killing a man while simultaneously tapping handily on the keyboard. The best one could hope for would be to use a firearm of some sort while leaving one hand free to type, but if you’re left-handed like myself, that only leaves the right hand to type, and I don’t do that hunt & peck shit!
I have to piss, but I’m going to write this first to show I care.
Maybe it doesn’t mean much to you, but I’m putting my bladder at stake.
Once you see how dedicated I am, perhaps you will bring me free things, like Turtle Wax or baked goods.
Someone is looking at me rather quizzically; I don’t think they suspect my potty ploy, though.
It simply appears that I’m typing something which may or may not be of great importance.
I doubt my expression gives much away. I am staring blankly, but I also do that when I fart.
I know you’re not the biggest fan of Stephen King’s work, but you totally would’ve loved this: Me & the guys decided to write and direct a play adapting all of the author’s novels at the same time. Citing creative license, we changed a few small details, but I believe the end result was remarkable. For instance, instead of Christine being a classic car possessed by evil spirits, we used one of the Olssen twins. And rather than The Shining taking place in a haunted hotel, we decided the setting should be a brothel. Everything else was the same, though.
The early bird does The Worm, followed by a headspin (he’s really into breakdancing.)
A penny saved is time wasted; nobody gives a shit about pennies anymore.
A stitch in time saves the universe. I’ve seen this on Star Trek. But make sure not to come in contact with your past self; that could fuck things up bigtime! (Just kidding, I don’t watch Star Trek, motherfucker!)
He who dies with the most toys is still eaten by maggots. I’ve seen this on the Discovery Channel. Okay, I haven’t really, but I’m sure it’s been on at one time or another.
You have probably noticed by now that my writings lack any sort of seriousness or human feeling. I suppose I should tell you that’s because I am a robot. During my formation, I opted to skip on the emotions and instead have a 12-disc CD changer installed in my sternum. You can’t begin to imagine how practical this is. Not only can I amuse myself on those long drives to New Mexico, but I am also one helluva hit at parties. For whatever reason, my player is not compatible with Menudo discs; somehow, I think that’s probably for the best.
I would like to explain something to those of you not in the know: turn signals should be activated BEFORE you actually turn, not during or after. I realize that this is a hard-to-grasp concept and that it might seem like a good idea to slam on your fucking brakes in the middle of the road going fifty to zero in two seconds; I just figured I should point out a different way of doing things. Call me crazy. Or better yet, call 911, because I’m going to brain the next retard who decides he wants to do something stupid
Every damn time I walk out of my door, Stephen Tobolowski is up my ass.
Whenever I open a window, in comes his big goddamn bald head.
Each morning I wake up to the sound of what -- birds chirping? Of course not. It’s always,
Hey, Wade, it’s Steve! Listen, buddy, I’m on the roof; is it okay if I come in?
Yeah, I’m sure everyone has annoying neighbors, but do yours track tar and broken shingles all over your living room?
And he’s always throwing the fact that he knows Bill Murray up to my face. What a prick.
I have been told that my behavior has been out of line lately. Well, I suppose that’s just too frigging bad for the rest of the world, isn’t it? I have no remorse for my actions and I do not intend to change. So get used to it. They say Love it or Leave it. Well, howzabout we skip the big fucking song and dance and just Leave it? That’s fine with me. By the way, sorry to hurt your feelings; I hadn’t realized you were made of tissue paper. Goddamn Origami Idiot. Seeya. And hey, don’t forget to write.
I’m slightly amused by these online personality tests such as What Ice Cream Flavor Are You?, What Is Your Personal Theme Song?, What
Character Are You?, etc. While the results are highly unscientific, it passes a few minutes (by the way, I’m a
.) I think it would far better benefit the internet community if they had tests that really mattered, like
What Type Of Serial Killer Are You?,
Why Are You A Racist?,
Would You Be A Prison Bitch?,
and of course
How Much Is Your Eternal Soul Worth And Can You Write The Check Out To Cash?
The thirtieth day of December is very similar to the thirtieth time I became President of the Resident. It’s not always about huge, gaping maws or candy-colored fingers. Or finger-colored candy, for that matter. While two plus two is always equal to more than ants in the pants, it remains to be seen whether the weather will keep driving like a Janet Jackson video. If you’re not getting this, you’re even more hopeless than I could have hope for, more or less. The second to last thing I will say is Fab Five Freddy. The last thing I will say.
Happy Fucking New Year.
Now, right there, it sounds like I’m a big crybaby:
Woe is me, last year sucked the bizzalls and next year is going to be worse.
That couldn’t be further from the truth. Life has been grand, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.
The problem I have is with New Year’s Eve being this huge deal to everyone.
The Beginning of a New Year: Yay!
BFD. It’s just another day, as far as I’m concerned. If your life is shit, chances are the clock hand striking midnight isn’t going to magically change everything.
The Tip Jar