Friday, February 24, 2006

Annoying Internet Quotes

I'm on the computer too much -- usually writing or doing shit for class or procrastinating. Usually procrastinating, which puts me on the internet wasting away on the inane, like reading people's away messages and checking and re-checking websites since I only have about six I go to.

I will never reach the end of the internet.

If you don't already know, I hate cutesy shit. And I hate unoriginality and triteness. Sometimes these things come together to form one entity: the annoying internet quote. You've probably seen all of these before in some form of supreme shittiness. Chances are if you know a girl whose favorite color is pink and she's on your buddy list, you've seen them all. LOL! Here they are listed in no particular order. You can find the archetypical purveyor below them:

To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.

Female between twelve and twenty years old. Maybe older, depending on how soon she grows a brain. Highly insecure. Fat or skinny, ugly or pretty, her self-esteem could clog a toilet at the Burger King. She wears a lot of makeup and perfume or body lotion or spray. Girls like her can make MAC's stock rise two points on a Saturday shopping trip. She is the reason for tanning beds and guys not washing their hands before their friends catch a whiff. Smells like dumb bitch, to me.

A good friend will come and bail you out of jail, but a true friend will be sitting next to you going ,"Damn! That was fun!"

Uh oh. Party girl on the loose. Date rapists, ready your roofies. This girl is pretty much the same as the above, except she's edgier, even though she still makes sure she is completely shaved before she leaves her apartment for the night. She's not a hollaback girl. She won't take your shit. She's secretly happy when she gets a DUI because now she has something to complain about in her Marlboro Light-drained voice, loud enough for everybody to hear. Drunk driving is cool. She's going to party till she dies... which may be very soon.

All your base are belong to us.

Mountain Dew drinking online gamer. This dumb quote, which is a grammatical error from the horrible Nintendo game, Metal Gear, is sure to get a laugh from fellow douchebags who jerk off to naked cartoon characters. Nevermind that it's been slapped on t-shirts and sold at Hot Topic -- it's still every bit as original and funny as it was when the first gaming nerd posted it after conquering Morgoth with Fuph, his Level 12 Dwarven Elf Ranger who is really fucking good at magic. He could totally be a mage. All your Code Red are belong to me.

The human body is not meant to die in perfect condition, but to skid in and kick up dirt, completely used up, singing "Whoo! What a ride!"

Or some variation of this. I haven't seen this one for a while, but it is still very fucking stupid. It's usually found in the IM profile of ugly, dorky girls who have just been introduced to clubbing and partying. Getting drunk, something that used to be so wrong and sinful, is now the it thing to do: "It's like my body's a moonbounce and everyone's invited!" She wishes she would have started being a lush sooner. Then maybe she'd have friends; ones who don't punch another hole in the Ozone every time they change their underwear. Woof!

Women can fake orgasms, but men can fake entire relationships.

He wouldn't have to fake a relationship if you weren't so hell bent on being "exclusive" before letting him sample the goods. Or bads, which is probably why he left and probably why you've spent the past hour crying to your friends, who, by the way, don't really like you and are sick of you shedding tears over the dumbest shit. You're afraid you're never going to find Mr. Right. You desperately want to fall in love because you're just not interesting enough to make it as an individual. You are why magazine quizzes exist. Go buy some ice cream and rent Love Story.

I live for the times I can't remember with the friends I'll never forget.

Sorry, sweetheart, but they won't be your BFFs next month.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Fratboys Sodomize Goat


Fratboys at my school fucked a goat in its ass. Fraternity brothers, I mean (sorry, guys!). A few things I want to address first:

A - This is a farm fraternity. Most of the brothers are Ag majors.
B - The goat was male.
C - I used to go to parties at their house and I was never sodomized.

Then again, I'm not a goat, although I'd like to think my big biceps, thick brown hair, and Slater-like dimples were enough to garner some consideration.

What I find funny is these hayseeds, these goat fuckers, are the same assholes who get drunk off Busch Light and pretend they've participated in a queer bashing before. These are the same assholes who won't watch a movie like Brokeback Mountain because "it done got faggots in it." The least they could have done was make sure the goat was female. I mean yeah, I know it's not like the goat was drinking V8 and doing somebody's hair and gesticulating with a limp hoof. That may account for the mistake. Still, at some point one of them found out the goat was male and somebody decided that it didn't matter. The sex of the livestock is unimportant if you're going to rape it, I guess.

At least they used condoms. None of them popped, according to the article. That's understandable. I have a hard time going with a rubber on too, although I can't imagine not being able to blast off when boning an animal of such beauty and grace.

Goats are hot.

I don't know if I could have one time sex with a goat. It wouldn't even be sex; it'd be love-making. I'd bring it a Wal-Mart bag full of cans and feed them to Larry like grapes. That's the name of the goat I'm going to fall in love with. Larry the fucking beautiful goat. He's an art major and he's seen every episode of Will and Grace at least twice.

Four naked pledges were found hiding in the shower. They all immediately claimed they didn't fuck the goat. The cops probably didn't even show up because of the goat. They probably showed up because there were too many redneck douchebags in one area and they wanted to join the party. They were all going to wear overalls and talk about tractors and Dale Jarrett or some shit.

Apparently, fucking the goat was part of the initiation, as if shelling out $1400 a semester wasn't already enough. Maybe it was a metaphor for brotherhood. The goat represented all of their fathers's bank accounts. Baaaah!

The fraternity was suspended and now, thanks to the strength of the brave goat, cows and chickens and hunting dogs are mooing, clucking, and barking about past cases of abuse they've experienced at the overalls of their owners. With any luck, jail terms will come and soft packs of cigarettes will stop being sold.

WKU, my school, is upset. Not for the goat, but because this incident perpetuates negative stereotypes associated with the state of Kentucky. Let's be honest here: Kentucky has earned every fucking negative stereotype associated with it. Actually, I don't even think the term stereotype applies. Everything that the rest of the United States thinks about Kentucky is true. Absolutely 100% true. All the fraternity did was remind the public how fucked up this state is.

That's a fact; not a stereotype. Come to Kentucky and see the weirdos. You know those pictures of fat women you get forwarded to you in your email? They're all from Kentucky, but they don't fuck goats.

They fistfuck bags of Sam's Choice potato chips.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Quick Update

I'm drinking skim milk right now and am getting ready to hop in bed with this little Asian girl who's been sleeping for over an hour. She brought me up her computer to use since mine's being raped by the Geek Squad right now -- the victim of trojan horses and spyware. Hydra-like shit, as in the motherfuckers regenerate even though I disable system restore and remove them in safe mode and etc etc. Somewhere a kid drinking Mountain Dew and playing Counterstrike has a boner. Fuck you, kid.

Any of you who know me on a somewhat intimate level know that I'm not very vocal about my relationship with Ms. Kimberly. This isn't because I don't care about her; I do. I'm just an insecure young male who doesn't know what he wants and doesn't know where life will take him. I also can't stand when people can't shut the fuck up about their cool BF of GF and the trite things they do for each other. I'm not a vocal relationship dude. However, I must say this: this girl, she fucking takes care of me. Like no other. The things she does for this asshole are unprecedented and she does them at the drop of a hat. And I'm ever-grateful. We also hate all the same people, so that's a plus. Anyway, no more V-Day talk on V-Day. The cliche spaceship is going to come down and beam me up by the dick if I continue.

The Women's Studies program is having a writing contest. 750 word essay on something due by March 3. I think I should, but I know I shouldn't (I've been called a misogynist before even though I loves da bitches, son. I think the girl just wanted to sound smart too). Having trouble of coming up with a topic. Any suggestions? I'm kind of leaning towards how I think traditional gender roles (physically, at least) are important for healthy relationships. Basically if I write the essay it's going to be like one big blog entry. I'll be sure to post it on here for you faithful readers.

What else, what else... Oh, yeah. New picture up. Big Papi Griffin brought the camera to the gym today so we got to boot goofin' (as my friend Dane would say). More shots of me and my arm. Compliment me so I don't feel insecure. I think the right gun (pow, mothafucka!) is pushing about twenty inches in that picture. Not bad.

I'm done with my skim milk. I'm off to bed to spoon and be spooned. I leave you wonderful human beings with a poem I had to write for class. Of course I altered the assignment to how I saw fit. I was supposed to do a mad lib poem, wherein I would keep the framework and insert my own nouns and adjectives. I said fuck that. So I kept part of the first line ("never mind the") and did my own little short and sweet.

Ice Cream in the Cold

Nevermind the cold wind
and smell of fire.

Let's eat ice cream like
summer on a porch.

Our hands will
get warm again.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Religion and Me!

Religion was never really a big thing in my family until my parents got divorced. I think I was five or six. I can’t remember for sure. My dad worked late, my mom worked late, and my brother and I would be at the Hispanic babysitter’s eating shitty meals like macaroni and cheese and hotdogs. I don’t hold that against my parents. Doing such a thing would be selfish. Both of them are journalists. The way I look at it is I could’ve never been born at all.

Anyway, although we weren’t a religious family, we never questioned whether God existed or not. He did. It was a fact. When my cat Chloe died she went up to heaven. So, despite the absence of religiousness, there was an instilled sense of a higher power there, although I can’t remember being taught about it.

When my parents divorced and my dad got weekend custody, he suddenly developed a spiritual side. My mom said it was because he wanted to look good for the judge, but I think his intentions were more genuine than that. He’s a good dad. But I hated church. I fucking loathed it. It was probably the most boring thing on the face of the earth. Shit, it still is. To this day I cannot sit through a church service. I’m ruined for going. For that, I blame two things: my dad forcing me to go and church being boring as hell. It was a catholic church we went to. St. Louis. It smelled really nice, like incense and candles. One thing I still can’t understand is why churches insist on smelling like sleep-inducing scents when people are already struggling to stay awake as it is. Is it a challenge from God?

At first my dad let my brother and I take coloring books and reading material to keep us occupied. Then, as we got older, we had to sit through mass like big boys. That sucked. I remember my dad told me that when I heard the priest ring the chimes it meant church was almost over. I’d perk up when I heard those chimes because I knew it was only minutes before I was back home playing Nintendo with my brother.

Right around this time I started going to Sunday school. My first day of class was probably one of the most eye-opening experiences of my life. The memory is a little fuzzy, but I think it was the first time this phrase ever crossed my mind: what the fuck? The kids were self-righteous little goody-goodies. I hated them -- all eager to do well and learn about Christ. Naturally I acted up in class. I had to go to school all week; why should I have to go to school on Sunday? The teachers, a bunch of smelly old schoolmarms/swingers, assigned homework too. My dad wanted me to take it seriously, but I couldn’t. The only way I’d get it done is if he threatened to hide the Nintendo controllers. And even then I’d treat it like shit. After all, I wasn’t being graded.

My dad has still never thanked me for what’s about to follow. Third-grade Sunday school with Ms. Kyser. She was nine years younger than my dad, not too bad-looking. She wore too much makeup. Too much. Per usual, I was the class asshole. I cracked jokes about Jesus and the pointless shit we had to learn. Even then I knew it wasn’t practical knowledge. I knew it wouldn’t help me in my life. Shit, it’s not even anything you can really throw around at a cocktail party to wow a stupid woman into giving it up for the night. My dad started having meetings with Ms. Kyser regarding my behavior.

Lots of meetings.

And I wasn’t even being as bad as I could be. I later found out that they were dating. Why? Because me, the little shit, brought them together with my general lack of concern for religion and the feelings of others (those pussies). So yeah. They ended up getting married when I was twelve-years-old. Right now she’s preparing for a C-section in the next two weeks. Twin half-brothers for me. I wonder how I’ll feel towards them? Not sure. I worry that they’re going to grow up to be like the people I disagree with. My step-mom will see to it. I feel sorry for the ultra-religious, like they’re missing out on so many great things. Like they’re putting all their eggs in a basket that may or may not exist.


Sometimes I get scared that there’s nothing after this. Blackness. I hope there’s an afterlife. I really do. But at the same time I can’t be sure, you know? I want there to be one but I don’t know. It’s scary thinking this is it; this is your one and only chance to do it. Of course if that’s the case then you won’t know when you’re dead, but that’s frightening. Not knowing. It amazes me that Buddhists work for a nirvana that is nothingness. To live is to suffer, they say. True, but to live is so many fucking things at once. Perhaps when you’re in your nineties you’re just ready for it to end, ready to see if anything comes next (like beating a video game and waiting for the ending, which almost always blows).

For the most part, I think religion is a big fluffy pillow to rest your ass on and smother your fears under. Imagine how much more you can enjoy life knowing that something even greater awaits. But I wouldn’t trade my inquisitive mindset for the world. Not for all the beautiful ignorance in the world. I’m not saying that religion is wrong; I’m saying it might not be right.

Also, how do we know which one is the right one? What I don’t like about religion is its cockiness. It’s so sure of itself. To hear a Fundamentalist Christian so matter-of-factly say Jews are going to burn and fags are going to rot is just so fucking wow. Wow. How does this asshole know that Allah isn’t the one pulling the strings from the sky? Maybe forty virgins do await those of the Muslim faith. When you think about it, it’s really no different from the “civilized” religions thinking they’re going to be reunited with their loved ones and pets in a land in the clouds.

It’s weird, isn’t it? But what if it’s real?

I want it to be. This can’t be it. No fucking way. If it is, then life is merely a handjob on a night that promises great sexual conquests.

I want to conquer.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

In the Food Court


I saw a wigger lesbian today. I was in the food court, not enjoying my Chik Fil-A (or however the fuck it is) when I heard what sounded like a sixteen year old kid warming up for a battle rap with his neighborhood's only black kid. That's when I saw the wigger lesbian, and I'll be goddamned if this bitch didn't try her hardest to look like a piece of shit. Du-ragged cornrows and a black t-shirt that said Game Time. She was with her black girlfriend, her giver-of-street-cred. Her black girlfriend looked like James Brown's famous mugshot. I felt so sorry for both of them that I wanted to give them my last crack rock but I had already smoked it four years ago when I decided to come to this fucking school (Go Hilltoppers!). The wigger lesbian pronounced "lids" as "leeeds." She had a booger piercing. You know, one of those ugly little silver ball studs that people stick somewhere between their upper lip and nose. It looks like shit. Like a booger.

I saw two fat rednecks in camouflage hats and high school football t-shirts today. They ordered everything from our shitty excuse for a Taco Bell. Tangent: Campus Taco Bells ARE NOT the same as real Taco Bells... end tangent. Apparently these fat redneck former high school football players still think they're playing offensive line. Therefore they're not fat; they're all muscle. I wanted to go up to one of them and ask him if he knew if Gravedigger was going to be at the monster truck rally this weekend. I wanted him tell me about his paintball league. I wanted to see his short, blonde high school sweetheart who loves to suck the dip residue from his yellowed, crooked teeth. If we were on a hunting trip I would stay behind at the camp while he went looking for deer and dump all of his Busch Light into the creek. See how much he fucking cares about hunting when he doesn't have cheap, white trash beer to fuel his adventures in mediocrity and being a stereotype.

I saw a frat mascot today. She was blonde (no fucking kidding, Jeff) and chunky and it looked like she let Michael J. Fox do her makeup for her. She wore a purple SAE shirt and I listened to her complain about all kinds of pointless Greek shit that makes her world so fucking liveable. She was with two of her "sisters." I wanted to tell her she looked like runner-up for Homecoming queen in the shitty little county she came from. She would've most likely taken it as a compliment. I was waiting for her to take out her big sunglasses and put them on so I could dislike her even more. I was waiting for her to go outside and sit down and fold her big legs over each other -- the prelude to smoking a Marlboro Light. Some Ryan Cabrera poser in a sport jacket sat down next to her. When I first saw him the chorus from the song "I'm Coming Out" by Diana Ross looped over in my head. He is what I call a Southern guido: every bit as effeminate as a Gotti boy without the tough guy persona. He buys a new pair of frayed shorts or sandals the night before so he has a reason to get up in the morning. He secretly hates black people and loves to sing Rocky Top when it comes on at a party, always perfectly timed for when everybody is pretending to be the most drunk. Southern by the grace of God. Fuck you, kid.

See, I wanted to do all of these things, but I didn't. Why? Because society doesn't work like that. Every day we want to do things we don't. That's called restraint. Restraint is a good fucking thing. The best thing about being a writer is you automatically have an outlet. I just wrote this whole blog in less than ten minutes, barely stopping for a moment to collect my thoughts. Some of you may accuse me of complaining, and that's alright. I love to complain because I come up with some beautiful thoughts when I complain. I don't complain for the wrong reasons either. Sometimes I just have to purge.

Anyway, sorry for the lack of updates. I'm currently reworking my final draft so it's ready to enter in the Slamdance Screenplay Competition. People smile politely when I tell them about it: "This fucking meathead thinks he can make a dent in the world?" Screenwriting, my friends, is not an easy thing. Unless you're writing shit. As far as the competition goes, if I do well it can be a launch pad. Bigger and better things. It's more of an indie script competition. No, I don't hope to write indie scripts, but the one I'm writing now has indie all over it because it's important. Previous winners have been The Woodsman and Maria Full of Grace. Right now you're thinking, "This fucking meathead thinks he can write movies of those caliber."

I know I can. Wish me luck and I'll update when I can.
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