10.08.2006

You can totally flip off kids...

I'm transferring some older blogs from my myspace account before I delete it. Enjoy this golden oldie, originally posted 10/8/06:

On our way to Chevy's for lunch (we were pay-day rich) Matt and I got stuck behind a school bus.  There was a kid staring at us out the back window holding his hand up in a peace sign.
Naturally, we gave him peace signs back.  We smiled, we made faces, we said hello, he just stared at us.  It was the most coerced-looking offering of peace I've seen since I last attended a Catholic church.

"Maybe I should flip him off," I said.

"NO!  Don't do that," Matt scolded me.

"You're right; there's probably a cop around anyway.  I'd get pulled over."

"No, that's not it.  You can TOTALLY flip off kids if you want to.  It's not illegal; it just makes you a dick."

"Did you hear what you just fucking said?  'Yeah, you can TOTALLY flip off little kids!'"

-PAUSE 10 MINUTES FOR THE KIND OF GIDDY, SCHOOLGIRL LAUGHTER YOU USUALLY ONLY EXPERIENCE WHEN REALLY HIGH-

Eventually I had to change lanes and as I moved to the left lane on the side of the bus I notice the kid's expression didn't change.  He was frozen in his half-hearted peace offering.

"I don't even think that kid was looking at us."

"Oh, then you totally should've flipped him off.  He's probably autistic.  He would've counted the hairs on your hand, but he wouldn't have known what a middle finger means."

10.04.2006

Chinese Food Must Be Great For Your Tits

I'm transferring some older blogs from my myspace account before I delete it. Enjoy this golden oldie, originally posted 10/4/06:

Oh, girl at the Chinese Buffet Matt and I visit way too often, why are you always there?  Surely your lot in life is not as miserable as ours; surely you are not forced to dine on MSG-laden starches and overfried mystery meat available in large quantities for a mere $6.65.  And yet, there you are.  Every single time.

You never eat off plates.  You instead pile small, downright RATIONAL portions into bowl after bowl.  First soup.  Then some random breaded meat (maybe chicken, maybe pork, maybe Honduran National).  Then you start on those weird Chinese doughnuts.  I can never bring myself to eat even one, and yet today you piled away six that I noticed.

You're not fat, as your diet might lead one to believe.  In fact your body is rather attractive.  Particularly the gravity-defying tits you flaunt like it's your job.  Who wears low-cut boob shirts to a Chinese buffet?  You do, my little eggroll-sucking slut. 

Confucious say "Girl showing cleavage at buffet has more than crab rangoon on chin."

We could go on dates to various Chinese buffets.  I would watch you down pot stickers, General Tso's Chicken and the like.  Later you would down Captain Cleveland's Cream of Sum Yung Guy.  I would read you your fortune:  "Good things come to those who dip nipples in Sweet & Sour sauce."  One night, perhaps an anniversary or birthday, I would go all out and take you to Olive Garden.  You would be floored at the ambiance, the food, and the lack of steamer trays.  You would fall for me, and we would live in gluttonous, glorious love for all of time.

You're not attractive in the face area though.  It's unfortunate, too.  Good body, AMAZING tits (have I mentioned this?) an obvious affinity for shitty food that leads me to believe you'd be easily impressed; you could almost be the perfect girl.  But you're not.  And therefore your only use to me is so I can stare at your cleavage through the sneeze guard while you're on the other side of the steamer trays. 


Thanks all the same.

8.23.2006

Wednesday, August 23, 12:00 am: a reenactment

I'm transferring some older blogs from my myspace account before I delete it. Enjoy this golden oldie, originally posted 8/23/06:

"...this is going pretty well.  For real though you've been talking way too much.  No reason to give her your life story.  What is it about this girl?  Kiss her.  Ah, wait, you missed it.  Okay, regroup.  Taking the t-tops out was a horrible idea...the thousand bugs flying in and out of the car kind of kill the mood.  Oh god, listen to that fake ass laugh she just gave you.  You're bombing, dude.  Time to pull out the big guns; tell her the funniest story we've got.  Okay maybe it IS a little soon for the high-five tale; nix that.  Way to go, slick.  Everyone likes a guy who talks about the features of his car.  Uh, except she seems genuinely interested.  She must be feeling as horribly awkward as you.  Silence...kiss her!  Dammit, she looked away again.  Is she doing that on purpose?  Shit.  How do we know?  Ah, wait, damn, she's getting out.  Ooh!  You have to put the t-tops back in.  Perfect!  Get out, get out!  Okay, open the trunk, we're still talking, it's good...shit we're stallin' out.  Do we even have any authority to kiss this girl yet?  I mean, we kissed Friday but from what she says she was wasted.  Damn.  We'll go cheek.  It's polite, she can't get TOO horribly offended.  Alright, here we go, initiating hug, response good, going for the cheek an- what the hell?  She's turning her face to kiss you, abort abort!  OH GREAT YOU FRIGGIN' RETARD YOU JUST MASHED YOUR MOUTH AGAINST HALF HER FACE!  NICE WORK!  Couldn't decide on lips or cheek so you figured you'd just take it all at once, eh?  Your lameness disgusts me.  Look at her getting in the car, she totally knows we screwed that up.  She's going to tell everyone 'well the night was great until he tried to eat my face.'  Okay, get back in the car.  Let's just sit here a second and collect ourselves.  Wait, she's getting out again!  This is your shot at redemption!"

"Yeah.  I know how to find my way back to the highway.  Thanks though!"

8.21.2006

The Journal Part III

I'm transferring some older blogs from my myspace account before I delete it. Enjoy this golden oldie, originally posted 8/21/06:
  
Here it is, friends.  The culmination of the last week or so of build up.  Our protagonist, who as yet has not revealed his name, cannot hold back his feelings any more.  

In one heaving, thrusting, retarded spasm he vomits his innermost heartache onto a page.  Seriously.  This page has a huge brown stain all over it.  It looks like it could be crayon, but I think it might be blood.  It's probably just chocolate milk.  Tards are messy.

"The Letter to Deb."
I ASKED THE LORD TO         MY FEELINGS FOR YOU
LEAD ME TO YOU, HE          HAVEN'T CHANGED, I
DID, NOW I ASK FOR          WILL ALWAYS CARE AND
STRENGTH FOR THE HURT.      WISH THAT THINGS
                            WOULD HAVE WORKED FOR
                            US.  BE SAFE, MY ANGLE.[sic]

DEB,
         YOU HURT ME REALLY BAD
THIS TIME BABE.  I SAW YOU
RUN IN THAT HOUSE AND THEY SAID IT WAS YOU.  HOW COULD
YOU DO THIS TO US?  I REALLY
LOVED YOU, PLEASE GET SOME
HELP.  I CAN'T DO ANYMORE [sic] FOR
YOU, YOU NEED STUFF THAT I
JUST CAN'T DEAL WITH ANY MORE. (notice it's not a matter of needing stuff he can't give...he just can't deal with giving it)
AFTER THAT TALK TODAY, AND
ME TELLING YOU WHAT WOULD
HAPPEN IF YOU DID THIS AGAIN,
YOU STILL DID IT.  I GUESS
THE STREETS BEAT ME AGAIN.  (sounds like he's ripping off a Billy Joel song)
I WISH YOU WELL, YOU'RE SO
BEAUTIFUL.  I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN [unintelligble]
COULDN'T KEEP YOU.  I'M
JUST NOT WHAT YOU WANT.
I PRAY FOR YOU, MY FRIEND,
MY LOVER, PLEASE GO TO YOUR N.A. (ha!)
MEETINGS AND CHURCH.  I WIL [sic]
ALWAYS LHINK [sic] ABOUT YOU AND
HOPE FOR YOU THAT THE GOOD
ANGELS KEEP YOU SAFE.  LOVE,
                           SPARKY   



He really drew a little smiley face.  It's as if he discovered a mathematical formula to create some sort of emo supernova that would collapse under the weight of its own lameness and have a gravitational pull so strong that no self respect could escape it.

One can only assume that Deb is still out there, hopped up on goofballs, probably dropping into Sparky's life periodically to fleece him for cash to get her next fix, all the while remembering the good times in high school when she was still fleecing him but he at least had the illusion that she cared.  

Sleep well you silly little bastard.

8.17.2006

The Journal Part II

I'm transferring some older blogs from my myspace account before I delete it. Enjoy this golden oldie, originally posted 8/17/06:

Here it is:  installment #2, "The Long and Winding Road," transcribed letter for letter by me.

This is very obviously a song written for catharsis or to impress a chick (possibly Deb, to whom our next installment is dedicated).  Again, it's in all caps.  The penmanship is hard, and abrupt.  I can almost visualize the author carving the letters into the page.  He probably held the pen in a fist, much like you would hold a knife if you were stabbing at your own inadequacies in a fit of retarded anguish. 


(THE LONG AND WINDINW [sic]  ROAD)
The LONG AND WINDING ROADTHAI [sic] LEADS TO YOUR DOOR
WILL NEVER DISAPPEAR, I'VE
SEEN THAT ROAD BEFORE,
IT ALWAUS [sic]
LEAPS [sic] ME HERE, LEAD ME TO YOUR DOOR
THE WILD AND WINDY NIGHT,
THAT THE RAIN WAS HED [sic] AWAY, HAS
LEFT A POOL OF TEARS, CR'Y'IN [sic]
FOR THE DAY, DON'T LEAVE ME
WAITING HERE, LET ME KNOW THE WAY
MANY TIMES I'VE BEEN ALONE
MANY TIMES I'VE CRIED
ANYWAY YOU'LL NEVER KNOW
THE MANY WAYS I'VE TRIED

[for some reason the next part has quote marks and underlining]

"BUT STILL THEY LEAD ME BACK
TO THE LONG WINDING ROAD
YOU LEFT ME STANDING HERE, A
LONG, LONG TIME, AGO, DON'T KEEP
ME WAITING HERE.,
[sic] LET ME KNOW
THE WAY."
MANY TIME [sic] I'VE BEEN ALONE
MANY TIMES I'VE CRIED
ANY [sic] YOU'K [sic] NEVAR [sic] KNOW THE MANY
WAYS [scribble, possibly "I"] TRIED

I like the extra size and bold on "TRIED" at the end.  You can feel the ham-fisted (and no doubt -scented) frustrations of our Romeo.  Life has dealt him an awful hand.  Perhaps it has cruelly dealt him a pair of lobster claws for hands with which he clenches his ball-point pen.  

Anyway, tune in next time when we delve into "Letter to Deb," when we reveal the source of our protagonist's heartache and misery (other than the gout, I mean).

8.11.2006

The Journal, Part I

I'm transferring some older blogs from my myspace account before I delete it. Enjoy this golden oldie, originally posted 8/11/06:

I was setting up for a picnic yesterday at Rend Lake when a storm skirted the campground.  We didn't get rained on so it stayed about 104 degrees, but we did get a lot of wind.  A spiral-bound notebook blew in and I grabbed it.  What I uncovered was a list of people's addresses and phone numbers, as well as some of the most laughably wretched emo journal/poetry shit I've ever encountered.  After some extensive work translating the Downs Syndrome-inspired handwriting, I present to you the unedited text. Today's Installment:  "It's Like Eminem, but Lame and Whiny.  Let's Call it EMOnem."

(This is hand-written in all caps, so I'll type in all caps to preserve the spirit of the original.)

TO BE OR NOT TO BE ?
THAT IS THE QUESTION
THE NEXT QUESTION IS TO BE WHAT?
CAN WE REALLY BE WHAT WE WANT OR
IS IT UP TO EVERYONE AROUND US TO
DECIDE WHAT WE CAN OR SHOULD BE.
DO NOT LISTEN TO THE WORLD BECAUSE
THEY INTEND TO MAKE YOU THINK WHAT
THEY WANT YOU TO THINK AND BE
WHO THEY WANT YOU TO BE
  BE YOURSELF AND PROUD OF WHO
YOU ARE AND NEVER LET THEM
CHANGE WHO YOU REALLY (unintelligible.  I believe the next word was "ARE," but the author's pen ran out of ink.  Or perhaps "they" silenced him before he could scrawl the last word and the key to our liberation.)

There's a break of three lines.  Then begins what I can only assume is a song or rap of some sort.

             EVERY OTHER GIRL IS JUST
             THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
WELL I DON'T KNOW BUT IVE (sic) BEEN TOLD
THAM (sic) ESKINO (sic) GIRLS ARE MlakYY (sic) COLD
BUT THE GIRLS ROUND HERE ARE AWERIR (sic)
HOT, I CANT (sic) HELP MYSELF BECAUSE I
LIKE 'EM ALOT, BUT THE GIRL ONE I
LOVE IS RIGHT BY MY SIDE, AND SHES (sic)
THE ONLY ONE I'M GONNA MAKE HTN (sic) MY
BRIDE

That's page one.  Tune in next time as we explore "The Long and Winding Road," and later we'll climax with the hilariously angst-ridden "Letter to Deb."