"Yes, Virginia. He is an asshole."

Your Kissy Face Isn't Hot And/Or Sexy

2006-12-19T12:03:00.000-06:00

Fucking quit.

"How was it?" "Fucking sucked."

2006-12-15T11:34:00.000-06:00

New, semi-satirical/semi-me five-words-or-less movie review site. Check that shit.

http://moviefuckingsucked.blogspot.com/

What I Learned from Killa Season...

2006-11-16T17:12:00.000-06:00

I have seen the worst movie of all time. And I learned a few things.

-- Inner-city kids always turn to drug-dealing when they miss game-winning shots.
-- A drug dealer who won't hesitate to split a nigga's wig with a "street-sweeper" in broad daylight will hire urban youths to cover the sound of gunfire with firecrackers in the privacy of a high rise.
-- If you take your niece to Papa John's because she gets good grades, she will be shot.
-- Getting your chain snatched is ten times worse than having your niece shot.
-- Papa John's doesn't care if you sell drugs or split wigs in front of the store.
-- Homicide detectives knock on random black people's doors to investigate disturbances.
-- Drug dealers don't sing at funerals. They rap.
-- All it takes to curb a serious drug addiction is a few classes at the local community college.
-- Drug dealers smoke blunts inside of government buildings.
-- Drive-bys are done on mountain bikes.
-- Black people carry dice on them at all times.
-- If you want to test your "shit", give it to a junkie in the middle of a grocery store and let him snort it.
-- Uncles are bad influences.
-- Weed is a Hyundai and Coke is a Ferrari.
-- A wifey is not a shorty but shorties can be wifeys.
-- Word is bond. Until that nigga fucks your shorty.
-- When shit gets tough, you can always charter a jet to fly you to an Atlanta strip club and subsequently film an impromptu rap video.
-- Junkies can buy a bag of coke, walk away, snort it all, and buy another one in less than eight seconds.
-- If you leave your block for moe than eight seconds, it will be taken over.
-- Taking over blocks consists of standing on the block with your fist in your hand and saying, "Let's take over the block."
-- Police chiefs are easily outwitted by drug dealers who commit crimes during the day every day in the same spots.
-- Every inner-city drug dealer will eventually become a professional rapper.
-- I need to fucking elevate my "fur game".

For those who missed it...

2006-10-16T12:17:00.000-05:00

Since I'm too lazy to properly update, here's one of my first posts from last year. Probably my favorite one. The "Be Safe" Phenomenon.

--

Three years ago you could go to the grocery store and people couldn't give two shits whether or not you survived the drive there. Sadly, those days are no more. Now everybody is suddenly concerned that you may not make it. Pretty soon you'll be wearing a neon-orange vest to take a shit. Housekeepers will be paid an extra twenty-two cents to taste-test Girl Scout Cookies and Pepsi One for poison. Due to the rising demand, helmets will sell for hundreds of dollars and quality blowjobs. Soccer moms will wear bullet proof vests during their afternoon pussy-licking sessions with the other neighborhood wives whose husbands work too much. Everybody will be strapped. And we'll all have this little phrase to thank: "Be safe."

"Be safe" has sidled its way into our goodbyes and I'm afraid that it's here to stay. What bothers me is, unlike media violence, I doubt this is something I will ever become desensitized to. That means it will be joining the likes of Mormons, people who get offended too easily, and Joey Gladstone on my list of shit I should make an effort to tolerate. Should make an effort to tolerate. That's like saying I should try to make less jokes about those fat bitches that putter around Wal-Mart on the courtesy motorcarts, stinking up the whole damn ride with their old Tweety Bird shirts and aqua-green sweatpants.

It won't fucking happen.

No. "Be safe" has to be stopped. Safety has never been cool. I don't care what McGruff and Smokey and signs at amusement parks and neighborhood swimming pools have to say; safety is a hassle and it makes you look like a bitch. Remember when you were little and learning how to ride a bike and your parents bought you all those pointless neon-colored pads and that huge fucking helmet? What did that helmet do for you? Did you fall head first against a mailbox? No, you didn't (if you did then stop reading. You're hurting my argument). I bet that helmet is sitting in some box in your garage right now. It would cry if it could, but it can't. It's a fucking bike helmet. "But Jeff, what about motorcycle safety?" When your pink Huffy with the tassles on the handlebars can do speeds upwards of 100 mph then a helmet is acceptable, but that's only so you don't get a mouthful of insects. Insects don't splatter on your face when you're chasing down the Good Humor man at 5 mph. Especially if you still use training wheels. Especially if those training wheels have My Little Ponies painted on them.

But I'm not just talking about bike safety; I'm talking about safety in general. Next time somebody asks to borrow your pair of scissors, hand it to him blade first. Don't double-knot your shoes. Frequently change the radio station when you're on the freeway during rush hour. Jump in an elevator (that shit is scary). Sit too close to the TV. Play Goonies II on Nintendo until you develop blisters and then play Super Mario Bros 2. Cross the street without looking EITHER way. Try to pet a mean-looking dog. Drink household products in the cabinet with the Mr. Yukmouth sticker on it. Refer to a black person as your "nigga." Share needles. Skin your knee and don't show your mother. Drop in on a half-pipe with no skateboarding experience. Watch the movie Twister. Don't have an adult check your Halloween candy before you eat it. Have unprotected anal sex with someone who coughs a lot and gets jealous when you mention your high T-cell count. Forget to wear your raincoat.

Be UNsafe. Do it for spite. The next time somebody tells you to "Be safe", tell that person, "No. You can't tell me how to act." They're not your parents, so why do they think they're the boss of you?

You especially need to watch out for the people who try to sound cool when they tell you to "Be safe." Sometimes these people wear their hats backwards, sometimes they don't. Maybe they'll offer you a candy cigarette. In that case, use the broken record method. These people want to be your friends, but they want to be your friends for the wrong reason. They want to be your friends so they can say "Be safe" and sound cool. How will they do this? By attaching the words bro, buddy, pal, or man to the end: Be safe, bro... Be safe, buddy... Be safe, pal... Be safe, man... Tricky, aren't they?

Make it known that you're a fan of horseplay and swimming in the deep end without your floaties (or milk jugs if you happen to be from a poor family). Don't be bullied by people who are concerned with your well-being.

But what are you supposed to do if they don't stop bothering you? Endanger others, preferably a little brother or sister or the neighborhood kid with shit and piss running down his legs like the Jamaican track team. This is by far the quickest way to get somebody off your back. I recommend pushing the stinky kid really high on a swing. So high that he starts to cry because he realizes that the situation he's in is no longer safe. Your front deltoids (those are shoulder muscles) may get tired, but it's important that you keep pushing until a concerned adult comes along to save the day and yell at you. This is when you tell that adult to go fuck himself. Pull out a comb and run it through your hair if you really want to get your point across.

The more you practice, the better you'll get. Pretty soon people won't even want to say bye to you. But no goodbyes means no "Be safe's." That's a victory in my book. Now go take a shit and leave your neon-orange vest in the closet. A pussy may need to use it.

I'm Here

2006-10-05T13:08:00.000-05:00

Still alive, still writing. Having some trouble with a current script of mine. I'm about 42 (good) pages in and stuck at the moment.

But fuck it. What's killing me is I've got two solid scripts right now and I don't know what to do with them. I want to send out query letters, but to who? Who do I contact? WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?

I live in constant fear that somebody with connections, somebody established, is going to uncover some dark, fucked-up corner of their mind -- the corner I eat, sleep, shit, and play in -- and produce something similar to what I've written. And then get it optioned or sold. I know I'm giving myself way too much credit here, but I'm completely shut-out from "the biz" at the moment.

I'm waiting for the new Hollywood Representation Directory to come out so I can scoop that up and start shooting out query letters like girls named Tammy shoot out fucked-up looking children.

Anyway.

What's new? Just got a job at Costco so I'm going to be getting some money together while I decompose at my keyboard. I was looking at the movie theater for a minute, but they wanted to pay me $7.50 for a managerial position.

Fuck that.

Besides, I think I'd rather be stocking extra large boxes of extra large maxi pads than pretending not to loathe unibrowed D&D all-stars who burn through a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew at every meal. Those fucking film-school flunkies who all share the same "unique" vision and pretentious cinematic taste ("Commando just wasn't transcendental enough for me").

I don't know when I start. Soon, I guess. So, other than that shit, nothing's new. I eat Arby's way too much and I occasionally park in a nearby neighborhood to steal wireless internet.

New albums I've been listening to:

The Killers - Sam's Town (disappointing)
Ludacris - Release Therapy (eh)
Lloyd Banks - Rotten Apple (raw shit... then again, I just got it yesterday)

Any recommendations?

The Agony of Not Winning

2006-09-14T09:35:00.000-05:00

I've always been that guy with the Honorable Mention.

Never quite good enough to place. Never quite sucky enough to not give a shit about not placing.

That was an awkward sentence.

Here are the numbers:

This is arguably one of the top 5 major national competitions.
There were over 2000 scripts submitted.
10 places.
5 honorable mentions.
With an admittedly flawed script that I'm going to start rewriting today, I still managed to be 1 of those honorable mentions.

So I finished in the top 15. Top 1.5%.

For a young nigga who's fresh in the game (and to the craft), I'd say that's quite an achievement. Especially since the real value is not measured in placings, but exposure and whoever might request your script once the information is posted on the website for the industry to see.

Can you tell I'm trying to make myself feel good?

Getting this far and coming up short is kind of like being told, out of nowhere, that the prettiest girl in school has a crush on you. By her best friend.

You go to bed thinking about the girl. You wake up thinking about her. You're not sure what's going to happen, but you feel special. After all, who the fuck are you?

And then, on the day you muster up enough courage to ask her out, her best friend tells you she likes someone else and you get that punch-in-the-gut feeling and then the only thing you've been thinking about for the past two weeks -- the thing that's been driving you crazy and making you excited -- is gone. In a fucking flash.

And you wish you never felt it in the first place.

But do you really?

Nah. :)

Wish me luck on my rewrite. And maybe, hopefully, I'll get a few interested parties dropping me a line.

Semifinalist!!!

2006-09-08T13:28:00.000-05:00

No fucking way. Even I can't believe this.

I'm in the top 45 out of over 2000 something.

I may crack the top 10.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Quarterfinalist

2006-08-30T21:40:00.000-05:00

After much debate I've decided to post this on my blog.

Why the debate?

Because I don't want to fucking jinx myself. But I figure I've knocked on enough wood tonight and a bit of preening is justified.

After all, I am new to the craft of screenwriting and I am extremely insecure.

Anywho,

http://www.slamdance.com/screencomp/winners.asp

Sixth from the top.

Wish me luck.

Boredom in a Movie Theater

2006-08-20T11:40:00.000-05:00

So I saw Snakes on a Plane.

Yeah...

It's kind of like going to a strip club late on a Sunday night.

You're stoked, but the novelty wears off in ten minutes because there's maybe three strippers - uglier ones - who don't really want to be there, so they keep doing the same shitty routine, hoping for the occasional dollar.

Meanwhile, the A-crowd is at home doing rails of coke off of DVD cases.

Yeah...

The problem with this movie is it doesn't take itself seriously. It knows it's bad and it joins in on the fun.

It's like trying to pick on a little kid who openly acknowledges how fucking pathetic he is. Where's the fun in that?

It's like a self-aware retard. Definitely not as fun as a 'tard who can't figure out why people keep handing him graham crackers and asking him to dance.

Alright. Enough analogies.

"Snakes on a Plane" is a new cinematic low. Never ever take advice from Mountain Dew swilling e-geeks on how to make a movie, because this is the end product. Meanwhile, there's a surplus of this shit that goes straight-to-video and is actually ten times better.

But I reached a new low too. Entering the theater, I spotted a half-eaten bag of large popcorn and a large drink shoved beneath a seat. If there's one good thing about ghetto-ish movie theaters, besides the loud black audiences (there were none for SoaP, disappointingly), it's that the employees don't clean up after every showing.

So I took the fucking popcorn bag and drink and I cleaned them out in the bathroom and got free refills.

My dignity is apparently worth $11.50 and butter flavoring.

But about those straight-to-video masterpieces.

If you're in the mood for a fucking AWFUL movie that is so hilariously bad and doesn't even know it, I recommend checking out Down.

I was over at my friends's house one night, stoned out of my mind, when I ran into this little motherfucker on Cinemax. It's about a killer elevator.

A killer fucking elevator. Apparently taking the stairs is not an option.

Best line:

"We live in a vertical world. If we can't trust elevators than what the fuck can we trust?

Hand this movie some graham crackers and watch it dance.

A Myspace Bulletin is NOT the Answer

2006-07-30T19:56:00.000-05:00

My kindergarten flame had her soul broken recently. I don't know what the fuck happened because I haven't read her new Myspace blog. But I did read the fucking bulletin announcing it.

I skimmed through the other six she sent out too.

Myspace bulletins are the internet equivalent of that little shit at the public pool with the permanent Kool-Aid lips who keeps asking his mother to watch his cannonballs.

New pics!
New background!
New song!
New survey I spent 20+ minutes on!

Look, look, look!

We are a generation of attention whores. Nothing matters unless other people confirm that it matters.

In bubbly, glittery letters.

Like my kindergarten flame, we rely too much on others -- on our "gurlz" -- to massage our egos and assuage our grief. We're self-important. We actually think people give a fuck that our favorite color is green, or black if you're gothic or have a similar, cutting-edge style and/or personality.

It's like calling somebody over to admire the bits of corn and threads of protein in a monster shit you just took.

Impressive to you, maybe, but it didn't come from my asshole so why should I give half a fuck? I shouldn't. And I don't. Nobody does. Yet you receive comments.

Why?

Because those people want comments in return. There are no selfless comments on Myspace. No genuine concern. "Just saying hey" is code for "I still want to fuck you. Write back and acknowledge my existence."

The more comments you have, the more page views you have. The more page views you have, the more bulletins you've sent out.

Unless you're somebody like Dane Cook. Then your comments are proportionate to how famous you got from yelling.

All of this amounts to greater self-esteem. You've cultivated a persona that people pretend to care about on the internet. It doesn't matter that your coworkers think you're a fucking disgusting slob that smells like ass.

In real life you're 300 lbs. On Myspace you're a BBW with a fanbase consisting of thuggish black guys who say "ma" a lot and bald, forty-something white guys who weigh less than your labia. They worship the rolodex that is your stomach and they'd eat a mile of your shit just to get to your ass.

You're a celebrity. So why not share everything with them that pertains to you?

Newsflash: If you have 30 - 60 minutes to kill and you opt to fill out a jumbo fucking survey then you're not worth reading about, regardless of how much you THINK are.

Sorry, shithead.

Here's a short, to-the-point list of the bulletins I hate the most:

6. wut would u do 2 me if we were alone

If I mention autoerotic asphyxiation will you be freaked out?

5. repost 2 see who looks at ur profile!!!!!

Right. Because if I catch a hot chick looking at my profile I can jerk off to her pictures thinking that maybe she's into me. And then the nut is that much thicker.

4. OMG! this is soooooo saddd!!!

Some dude gives his girlfriend a fucking rose and dies or a note that says "i cant live without u" after they break-up and dies and if I don't repost this shit then I'm fucked in love for the next ten years. If I repost, my crush will tell me how much she loves me at school tomorrow...

3. cleaning house

If I don't repost this I'm going to be deleted from a friend of a friend's "Friends List". OK... then why the fuck did you add me in the first place?

2. myspace is shutting down!!!

Sign this petition and Tom won't throw away millions of dollars in potential ad revenue because he listens to people who matter in this world, like Mike from Iowa and Tiffy from Florida.

1. do u no ur number 3?

If I want to know more about the third person in your Top 8 -- "Dreamin of U", that ugly chick with the trite e-pout that she thinks makes her look good -- I'll befriend that bitch on my own terms.

Let's use some fucking discretion, OK?

Go drink some Kool-Aid and give the cannonballs a rest.

The Gay Bar

2006-07-08T11:28:00.000-05:00

Abercrombie.

That’s what I thought when I heard the thumping bubblegum techno music and saw the clean, tan men in there sandals.

And that was just the parking lot.

I clung to my girlfriend like a semi well-dressed dryer sheet. She had been planning this excursion (notice I didn’t use “outing”) for the past three weeks: “Ooh! Jeff said he’d go to Tribe! Jeff wants to go to Tribe!”

This is true. I wanted to go. Not to find a potential suitor for my asshole or anything like that, but out of general curiosity. Not bi-curiosity.

There’s something fitting about entering a gay bar through the backdoor, like that’s the only a way a first-timer should go in.

Rear penetration.

A hippie-ish redhead checked our IDs and then we were inside and there were ripped, shirtless bartenders pouring pink and purple drinks for mostly good-looking men with perfect, effortless-looking hairstyles that, for me, can only be experienced for a few sweet moments after leaving the stylist’s chair (“I have to do what with the gel again?”).

I was surprised to see a lot of older, fatter gay men there; men who think of something completely different when you mention the Chicago Bears. Once the Thunderpuss Remix of Britney Spears's "Everytime" started to blast through the speakers, they proved to be the fruitiest of the bunch.

There were also plenty of sweaty lesbians in bandanas. More than enough to satisfy Rosie O'Donnell's left labia.

Before I delve further I think I should explain what we were doing here. My girlfriend and I weren’t just a couple of straight people who went to a gay club for shits and giggles. We were there to meet Rob, her manager from Gap Kids, another clean, tan gay guy with a penchant for the 18-20 crowd; the ones searching for an older, experienced teacher to show them the true ways of the dong; the ones whose fathers still have yet to find out that Little League Baseball didn’t pay off in the way they had hoped it would.

A gaydle robber. Bad pun? Yes, I know.

I tried to stay within two feet of my girlfriend as she scoured the crowd for Rob. Because of my large frame, it was hard to squeeze through the crowd and I often found myself bumping up against foreign asses and crotches. The good thing was I didn’t have to apologize. The bad thing was I didn’t have to apologize.

I kept my eyes down like Dylan Walsh in “Congo” when he was about to get mauled by the silverback gorillas. For the first time in my life I knew what it must be like to have a vagina. All the leers and whispers. Somebody ran his hand down my back and I thought I heard a giggle.

Would I be the cub in some bear’s wet dreams?

We finally found Rob near an auxiliary bar area and I calmed down a little and felt less like prey. He was with his friend Chris, a friendly-looking CPA. If he were a girl I think he’d be one of these good girls who may or may not be a closet freak.

My girlfriend, who was already more than a little tipsy from pre-gaming (“I’m having soooo much fun!”) bought the first of three Mattresses – a pinkish-purple drink with orange juice, cranberry, and vodka. Of all the bottles of liquor behind the bar, the one that stood out to me was Knob Creek. Much like the rear entrance, I found it fitting.

And then I saw what I had always expected but had never known for sure.

My Sociology professor was sitting with his back to the bar and chatting it up with three dudes, the most notable being a short 50-year-old with a salt and pepper goatee and gray tank top.

In the car earlier, my girlfriend and I had joked about seeing him here. Two years ago she thought she had seen him at Play, the club next door (we’ll get to that in a moment), but she had her doubts. And now here we were watching him work a small crowd with some inconsequential anecdote that he probably reserves for picking up ass. I stared in awe until he noticed me. He jumped a little, but recovered quickly. I gave a little wave, a gayish wave (by accident), and he extended his hand for me to shake and then went back to scheming on the cock.

A little backstory: Now back at school, before I graduated, I would see this professor in the gym often. In retrospect, I should’ve known he was 100% gay because all he did was work his chest and biceps. Regardless, since I thought he was gay, I spent a lot of conversation time during my last semester telling him how impressed I was with Brokeback Mountain to hint that I was simpatico with the homosexual lifestyle (if another man wants to fuck another man in his ass, who the hell am I to intervene?).

As we moved on, I asked my girlfriend if she had waved at my Sociology professor (she had him too). She said no. In fact, he hadn’t seen her. She was so embarrassed and giggly that she had hidden behind Rob. I thought for a second.

Gym. Brokeback Mountain. Seemingly alone at a gay bar.

Did he think I was gay?

(stay tuned for part 2)

American Idol Spin-Offs They Should Have Done

2006-06-27T20:34:00.000-05:00

I don't watch TV much, but when you're trapped in the woods and burnt out from writing and masturbation it can be a welcome reprieve. I throw it on about once a day. We don't have cable or anything, so I'm at the whim of the networks: ABC, NBC, CBS, Fox. I think we get the UPN and WB too, but I don't know what channels those are and I can't be bothered to find out, especially since Moesha and Dawson's Creek are no more.

But I still get to see Brandy. (Aside: Musically, black people did everything first in the nineties, didn't they? Boy bands, girl groups, solo pop acts)

Along with David Hasselhoff and a Shit Simon Cowell Took (generic, snooty British guy), Brandy's judging NBC's "America's Got Talent!", an Idolesque "Gong Show" that may as well be called "If You Don't Sing Then You're Not Fucking Talented!" Perfectly talented saw violinists and jugglers have been booted off the show for not showcasing their vocal cords like a fat gay black kid belting out Gospel in a dorm hall lobby.

The worst and most shameless is "So You Think You Can Dance", an Idol rehash that even uses the same fucking color scheme for its promos. The judges: either a white or black hip-hop dance expert (they fucking alternate), some overweight, overmakeupped Marie Osmond look alike, and this British cocksucker named Nigel -- another shit Cowell took. Couples dance and America votes for the best ones. The overall winners are ultimately offered walk-on roles in "You Got Served 2: Dancing for My Supper".

Just kidding.

Apparently people eat this shit up. Sad stuff, right? Especially when you realize that it's garbage like this that keeps the original, funny stuff OFF OF TV. In the spirit of hatred, I've concocted a few (un)original spin-off shows they should've done. Let me pitch them to you:

America's Next Hero

Local media outlets judge as Retards and Dead GIs battle for the title of America's Next Hero. Each week, tards and flag-covered coffins with framed pictures of the dead GIs on top of them travel to places across Middle America to see who can capture the most hearts. America votes. The winner gets to be called an "inspiration" for a few months.

So You Think You Can Exploit People

Media whores Nancy Grace and Oprah Winfrey judge contestants as they interview victims or friends and family of victims who fit in with the current national interest. In the crucial "Nobody Gives a Fuck Anymore" round, contestants must cut off all ties with said victims and find new stories (victims) to pursue in order to keep their ratings high. America votes. The winner gets her own talk show.

Who Wants to Be an Annoying British Judge on an American Idol Spin-Off Show

Network bigwigs search for the next asshole with a Hugh Grant accent to be the archetypal cocksucker douche judge on an American Idol Spin-Off Show. Untalented contestants verbally abuse people of minimal talent with tired insults that sound fresh and twice as harsh when uttered in limey. America votes. The winner gets to be an annoying British judge on an American Idol Spin-Off Show.

American Idle

Friends and family decide which contestant does the most shit-talking about doing big things ("I'mma get this label off!") in life and then sitting on his ass and putting it off until tomorrow. America votes. The winner gets to sit on his ass and talk shit about how winning the show is going to help him get his label off.

America's Biggest Asshole

Actually there's no need for this show. This title goes to that withered old cunt on "The Price Is Right" with the last bid: "$1151".

---

If you guys have any ideas drop a comment.

Still Alive!

2006-06-18T15:41:00.000-05:00

I'm in Panera jacking free wi-fi internet on my laptop right now. Hence the update.

Between writing, incurring my mother's wrath, and the sluggish crawling of dial-up internet, I haven't had much a chance to post. Nothing is new, I assure you, but I just want you guys to know I haven't forgotten about you.

The only big happenings out here in rural Tennessee are the new redneck neighbors who deserve an award for living up to the stereotype in EVERY IMAGINABLE WAY. Three pickup trucks -- all parked in their yard -- and guess what colors? Red, white, and blue. Starting at eight in the morning, they hop on their three-wheelers and proceed to tear the fuck out of their yard for the next few hours while their pet rottweiler and pitbull chase them around barking like hungy retards at a graham cracker factory.

Speaking of retards, I watched "The Ringer" on DVD, probably the worst fucking movie I've seen since Poltergeist III on the UPN Saturday Afternoon Matinee. Seriously, slapstick and forced pathos have to go. I would've stared at an Easter Seals donation jar if I wanted to be beaten over the head with the "They're just as good as we are" theme. Right, because I'm on equal ground with somebody who requires the special needs and attention associated with a family pet.

Let's stop condescending to the mentally challenged and treat them like people. Don't talk to them in that voice you normally reserve for the shell of what once was grandma. Use your normal tone: "Hey, cocksucker, want to go to the store with me? If you drool on the upholstery I'll take it out on your hide. Don't make that face at me."

Retards are people. Treat them that way.

What's next for Jeff?

2006-05-18T14:47:00.000-05:00

Recent happenings:

- college graduation

- sent my script off to the Slamdance Feature Competition (keep your fucking fingers crossed!)

- living in Nashville for the summer

So what's next?

Words. Words, words, words. Who knows besides that? There's talk of me getting set up in Las Vegas as soon as October, but as of now it's just talk. I need to get my personal trainer shit worked out before I do the whole manifest destiny thing.

I'm going to end up out West though, in search of my own, personal, motherfucking Comstock lode. My final destination: L.A.

Until then, it's post-college limbo, which is as intimidating as it is liberating. Perhaps my future would be more mapped out if I were some genius Indian kid with a last name long enough to perplex even the most avid of Wheel of Fortune watchers.

But alas, I suck at math and computer science, so here I stand with thoughts in my head and English degree in my hand. And you know what?

I don't think I'd have it any other way.

A Sociologist I Am Not

2006-05-09T11:06:00.000-05:00

Well I am, but not on paper. Nor will I ever be.

In my infinite apathy for all things academic (I've been going to school for 18 fucking years) I've managed to do poorly enough in what everybody calls/knows is the "joke major." Not Elementary Ed.

Why would I double major in something as impractical as Sociology?

Because I'd be here for fucking five more years trying to get the never-offered classes I need for a Film minor. So why not Broadcasting or Communications? Fuck. I don't know. In hindsight those seem like open pairs of tanned, beautiful legs.

And I remained abstinent.

My minor in Sociology quickly turned to a major when I realized I could get a full-blown degree with only three more classes. I could be somewhat of a god on paper ("Two degrees?! Fuck, bro. I didn't know you were smart. Hit this.") I didn't expect much else from the program, figuring it was on par with other major sciences like Phrenology and Physiogonomy. And, of course, I was right.

A brief history of Sociology:

Sociology was started by a bunch of old white guys who weren't good at Phrenology. Or Psychology. Or much else. One day they were sitting around this one guy's mom's basement, smoking some opium when this dude named August Comte stood up and said, "Fuck, bro. Did you see the way that schoolmarm looked at me today? I wonder if she'll let me hit."

She didn't, but that didn't stop Comte from planting the bastard seed of further study right there in his knuckle. More old dudes who had gotten suggestive looks from schoolmarms continued Comte's "critical thinking." One of these dudes WAS NOT Karl Marx. See, Karl Marx used to straight up murder the bitches with his dick. He was a philosopher. A pimp. NOT a sociologist. But he felt like being nice one day and said, "What up, my nigga?" to one of the sociologists and they've been claiming him as one of their own ever since.

So what is Sociology, exactly?

so·ci·ol·o·gy - the study of human social behavior

Not that I don't already do this on an independent basis or anything. The problem with "official" Sociology -- besides me passing 30 hours of classes and not getting so much as a coupon for a free Wendy's Frosty -- is that it spends man-hours galore pointing out the obvious and/or the inconsequential.

Did you know urban areas are higher in drug use than suburban areas? Yes, of course. No shit.
But did you know there are still fucking studies being done on the subject? That's right. As I type this, some dude who got his outfit from Kohl's is sipping cold coffee and drawing up charts to PROVE that the ghettos of Des Moines, Iowa are more heroin-prone than the cozy-lawned homes of Fuckmeintheass Drive.

Nevermind that studies have already been done in the major U.S. cities -- they haven't been done in Des Moines. And who's to say Des Moines isn't major? It's a state capital, isn't it? It's home to many of the nation's shriveled dicks and hanging vaginas (the elderly love Iowa).

So what can we do with this information? Scholars will smoke a pipe, read it, and pretend like it's important enough not to wipe their asses with. The rest of us will wipe our asses with it.

And that's the fundamental problem with Sociology: no solutions are EVER provided. It's like pointing at a retard and going "Hey, look at that retard!" (which is part of the reason why I can't believe I've done so poorly in this field of study).

Actually, no. It's like pointing at a retard and going, "Hey, look at that retard!" and then hypothesizing why he's retarded, doing a study complete with graphs and charts and lots and lots of pointless fucking math, writing a convoluted article boring enough to put a raving crackhead to sleep, and then going, "Hey, look at that retard! He has an extra chromosome!"

That being said, how many Sociology majors go on to become sociologists? Maybe they should do a study on that.

My hypothesis:

Whoever doesn't go into Real Estate, Street Pharmacy, or Young Motherhood. So about 1% with an alpha of .05

Huge Update Coming Soon!

2006-05-02T20:29:00.000-05:00

Getting ready to graduate on the 13th, but there's one final hurdle. It's a big one too. I'll write about it when everything's smoothed out. In the mean time, here's the poem I turned in for my class book today:

Scenic Route

A thick ass in brown gauchos
pops out like a bubble blown
by the small of her back. It volleys
like a tennis match and my head
remains while my eyes slide
side-to-side. I

held the door for her. I’m
nice like that. She had big tits –
melons, miniature gumballs
to a giant. Her ass
on her chest. The type of girl
that could accuse anyone of rape

and win. I’m a pig, animal, lecher,
motherfucker. “Real beauty” – the
wind, grass, trees, sky – surrounds
me like a million picketing feminists.
I will not apologize for having a

dick.

Everything Happens for a Reason...

2006-04-24T21:26:00.000-05:00

Fucking tired of hearing this/reading this.

Not to pick on the girls and contribute to the misogynistic undertones of this blog (even though they are completely fucking unintentional), but I'm doing my away-message stalking today and I notice this written in about four different profiles -- all girls. Now, if I remember correctly, these are females who like to e-wear their relationships on their sleeves. For example, previous away messages/profile entries have been to the extent of I LUV BEN!!!1 or Ur just jelous cuz were yong and in luv or Brad 4/2/03 or some shit.

Right now you're probably asking why I have such people on my buddy list. I'm asking the same fucking question. I'd delete them but I'd feel like a loser cleaning house on e-friends. What's the fucking difference anyway? So on we go.

Gone were the bon mots and first pregnancy scare anniversaries. All proclamations of undying love and vows to live like two assholes in a country music song had disappeared, replaced with Rascal Flatts lyrics and EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON. Yes, everything does happen for a reason. That reason is cause. The world is full of cause-and-effect relationships. If I get the shits then it's probably because I ate that funny-tasting burrito. Was it the beans or the gamy meat?

Everything happens for a reason.

Ben left? Maybe you shouldn't have dyed your hair reddish-brownish-blondish. To sit here and delude yourself that he left because it was "in the cards", because that what "God wanted" is fucking laughable. If God gave us free will then why would he feel the need to intervene for some Elementary Ed major from Shitsburg, KY or wherever? By the way, I'm not talking about anybody specific here (you know me; I work chiefly with stereotypes). :)

We reassure ourselves too much. We try to convince ourselves that our fuck-ups, no matter how big or small, are somehow going to benefit us down life's road. If your leg falls off in your sleep, is it a blessing in disguise? Probably not, although exceptions do occur (see Mark Zupan in the movie Murderball).

Shit happens, okay? Shit is not good. That's why it's shit. To sit here and say that shit works in our favor is fucking ignorant and silly and stupid all a once, like a basket full of poison muffins. If Ben leaves you then he leaves you. You may meet somebody better, you may not, but if you do it's not because that's what was "supposed to happen." Tell that to the fucking families of 9/11.

Girl: Your son was supposed to die on that plane. It happened for a reason.

Mother: Bitch, I will fucking kill you for saying that.

One thing's certain though:

If you get your ass kicked, it's for a reason.

Define stereotype.

2006-04-13T15:34:00.000-05:00

Shirtless fratboys in frayed shorts and sandals throwing a football in front of "the house" while Margaritaville blasts from speakers on the porch.

My Writers Workshop Class

2006-04-12T19:39:00.000-05:00

Workshops are breeding grounds for some of the worst shit that will ever be written. Ever. And I'm not excusing myself either. Not because I can't write something decent. I can. It's just hard to perform when you don't give a shit (see my grades). There's something about a writers workshop that just sucks every last ounce of fucking creative energy from your body. You don't even want to touch a coloring book after you're dismissed from one of these things.

Imagine a bunch of odd-looking wannabes sitting around with your latest piece of shit in their hands, trying to think of nice things to say about it regardless of whether they like it or not. They never say anything bad about your work, and if they have to say something negative, it's usually to the extent of "I really like this part, but I think here you could do this. But that's just my opinion. I mean you don't have to."

There's this one girl in my class with hairy forearms and the ugliest haircut on a girl I have ever seen (besides a bowlcut on an Asian chick). It looks like pubic hair tangled up in a shower drain. Anyway, she grew a set one day:

"I don't like how the lesbian character's last name is Hole. I think that's offensive. You might want to change it. I also don't like the part where you write, 'If he were Italian he'd be beating her [his wife] right now.' I'm part Italian and that offends me."

I guess she expected me to nod and respect her opinion. Wrong.

"I'm not going to change it. The name has no significance; it's as arbitrary as "bog" or "coffee." And I'm mostly-Italian so I'm not changing that either."

"Oh, well, I mean I was just saying. You don't have to..."

"I know."

At this point the professor chimed in: "Doesn't that bother you that she's offended?"

"You can't please everybody."

Nobody said anything after that. They all just kind of looked down and then passed me back my papers. The extent of their written comments was, "good job!" and "I like this part!" or "Funny!" And, I admit, this was some of the shittiest stuff I've ever written. Way to workshop, classmates!

These are comma-happy people who don't know when to use colons or hyphens. They shift tenses mid-paragraph. They have no grasp of voice or dialogue. And they love to talk shit about commercial writers like Stephen King and Danielle Steele. These people ALL think they're the next fucking Hemingway or Welty. Dog-arms, the girl that tried to call me out, started off her final essay (required for a grade) with, "I was so lucky to be born a writer." LOL funny if you read her story.

Which brings me to my next part:

These people have NEVER heard the old maxim "Write what you know."

In my class there's a dorky white guy with B.O. writing a love story set in ancient China. He thinks because his girlfriend is Asian (and not a hot Asian chick, but one of these immigrant Asians with hair growing out of their ears) he's an authority on the subject. The sad part is his story is probably the best. Definitely a step up from his original idea, "Yukon", which was about a man chasing down a bear who swallowed his wife's necklace. Nevermind this kid has never been to the Yukon; he didn't even stop to think that maybe the man should be digging through the bear's shit for the necklace.

Awww, man!

A middle-aged white woman is writing a story about a Mexican gangster just released from prison. One of her standout lines: "You're an OG now man." (verbatim)

Dog-arms is writing about this odd little girl named Wren. Obvious biographical allusions aside, this story is still shit. She thinks she's smart because she drew a comparison between Wren and a bird and a wren is a bird. Get it? Fuck.

The cute girl next to me (as cute as a girl can get for an upper level English course) decided to do a Winesburg, Ohio type thing and write multiple stories about Bowling Green townsfolk, some of which include a blue-collar worker and an eleven-year-old girl. The voices are mangled beyond repair and, somehow, these people have special powers because one second they're in a field or school bus and the next second they're in a truck or room.

Other people are experimenting with stream-of-consciousness and point-of-view and etc. I don't want to talk shit about them because they're the only halfway cool ones in the group. I keep catching this this redneck-ish kid stealing glances of my arms during class. I can't tell if he's gay or wants to arm wrestle.

Nobody in this class has tackled anything that they may actually be good at writing, myself included. Apathy's a bitch. I've been swamped with my script, other classes, masturbation, etc.

And I want to say this right now:

All of these people will get a better grade in this class than I will. Not because I haven't been doing the work or going to class. The professor, the infamous weasel I've clashed with on previous occasions, is teaching this piece of shit. It also doesn't help that my story is an allegory for my perception of his pathetic life. I think he just figured that out tonight. He was quiet.

He is going to grade my work as subjectively as he can. I'll be surprised if I make a C.

But then I'm out of here and I don't have to play copy editor to Wren and her bird-like manners anymore. I'm flapping my fucking wings over that.

Call me Howard the Duck.

A Nugget

2006-04-10T18:10:00.000-05:00

Funny conversation I heard in the Subway line today between two Phi Mu sorority girls. One was already wearing white pants.:

Girl 1: What do you think "disclosure" means?

Girl 2: I dunno.

Girl 1: Like do you think it means to hide something from somebody, like keep it from them, or to give it up?

Girl 2: I dunno.

Girl 1: Well, okay. Listen to this, k?

Girl 2: K.

Girl 1: So I'm in class and I'm doing my speech and I say, "Disclosure of information hurts the truth" and at the the end the teacher's like, "How can disclosure of information blah blah blah?"

Girl 2: Okay...

Girl 1: Anyway, I guess she said disclosure means to like put something out there for somebody and I was all embarrassed because I messed up all bad.

Girl 2: I would've thought what you thought.

Girl 1: I know, right? God. I was so embarrassed.

Note: I think I captured this dialogue quite well. Hurray for me.

Second note: They both then asked for the Sandwich Artist to dump a whole bottle of mayonnaise onto their six-inch chicken salad sandwiches on parmesan oregano bread.

God bless these people for entertaining me.

Marlboro Lights to Misty 120s

2006-04-03T10:36:00.000-05:00

What's the suicide rate in Kentucky?

Scenario: Wake up today. Beautiful day. 65 degrees. I'm kinda-sorta having trouble breathing. Still trying to get over this whole sinus thing that puts me on my ass around this time every year. This shit never happened until I was in Kentucky. Anyway, I go to fucking Spanish class because the teacher -- the nice lady who uses the textbook curriculum almost verbatim -- docks three percentage points off the final grade for every absence. Conceivably I could get an A on every assignment and still fail the course. So I go and I try not to pass out and I leave for a moment to blow my nose and I come back and we leave and then I go outside and the weather has fucking dropped fifteen degrees. And what about the blue sky and white clouds? Gone. Hello, gray.

I blame Kentucky.

Sure, shit happens, but here it runs its own company. And when Shit retires, Shit Jr. will keep his legacy alive.

Excuse the triteness, but words can't express how fucking sick of this place I am. I have all the funny, disgusting anecdotes regarding America's heart and soul -- the "real" people -- that I'll ever need. Remind me to tell you the one about the morbidly obese girl with dried shit stuck in between the folds of her lower back. Or about a different morbidly obese girl who cashed a twenty dollar child support check in a liquor store and made the whole fucking store stink like curdled buttermilk and ass sweat. You'll never guess what happened next...

Another time. I'm sucked dry of creativity right now. So close to finishing my script and I have to deal with an illness, a diet, a professor who wants me to fail, tons of busy work because professors don't know how to pace their fucking classes, and Kentucky. I have to deal with Kentucky.

I was walking to breakfast after class this morning and this sorority bitch was gabbing away on her Razr phone about some asshole named Matt and his truck or something. One word struck me though. Senioritis. "I think it's senioritis," she squawked. Now was she talking about herself or Matt? My guess was herself.

Now how the fuck can an Elementary Ed Major get senioritis? She's spent her whole college career learning about different types of construction paper and how Crayola crayons are superior to Rose Art crayons. She's read every Berenstain Bears, Amelia Bedelia, and Mr. Frog and Mr. Toad. She probably didn't even take the honors class, which involves Goosebumps, the Boxcar Children, and the Babysitters Club (Claudia and the Phantom Phone Calls, baby).

And she has senioritis?

Here's the rest of her life:

If she's not already married, she will be. Maybe to Travis. She'll have a kid soon. Maybe in Travis's truck. She'll take residence in her hometown. She probably won't teach. I see clerical work in her future. More kids. Her hair gets big. She graduates from Marlboro Lights to Misty 120s. She goes to the football games every Friday night. She dreams her kids will grow up to be something, just like her parents dreamed the same of her.

The cycle will continue. And that's why places like Kentucky are the way they are.

It all reminds me of an episode of MTVs "Made" I saw once. This Ole Miss cheerleader, this fucking bottle-blonde Southern Belle, wanted to dance in New York City. Here she was at school with an omigod! hawt boyfriend, tons of popularity, and bffs gushing from her anus. God, a girl like her could do anything.

Except dance in New York. Or live in New York. Or just visit New York. She was on a different fucking planet. People weren't charmed by her dumb, coquettish methods. I-hate-you looks ran aplenty from everybody. Even her coach. And all she wanted to do was go home, back to where she could hide away from the rest of the world and get married and grow big hair and talk about how mean and strange big city folk are because nobody recognized her sickening sweetness or called her princess or stuck a fucking glittery star sticker to her over-rouged cheek.

There's no place like denial.

Liberal Arts? More like Conservative Arts.

2006-03-28T13:39:00.000-06:00

The most heartbreaking thing anyone's ever told me (besides "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today."):

"Don't be yourself. Write for the grade."

Guess who said it? The Dean of Students.

Quick overview of what I've been through at school: nine different roommates -- three of which I actually didn't mind -- being chased by a drug dealer, kicked out of two dorm halls, five visits to the Dean, an interrogation by the campus police because some 27-year-old retarded kid thought I was prank-calling him, one required trip to the campus psychologist (who I definitely had some fun with), the Farmhouse fraternity threatening my life. I had my computer confiscated for cracking internet porn sites, a shouting match with two professors, an argument with the English Department Head, the campus police pulling me out of my fiction writing class because one of the characters in my story said FUCK, a professor calling me a "piece of shit" at a poetry reading, and another professor telling me I couldn't read my poem "Fat Stripper" at the poetry reading.

I read that motherfucker anyway. Right after "Good-Looking Midget."

People think I write the things I write, say the things I say, act the way I act because I want a reaction. Truth is I'm just being honest to myself. If I write about a fat stripper or good-looking midget, it's because it's what caught my eyes, what compelled me to sit down and punch the keys. Tasteless stuff? I don't think so. Certainly not anymore tasteless than the shit that earns As in my poetry class -- the he-dumped-me poems, the I'm-not-pretty poems, the I'm-here-and-queer poems, the I-love-me-for-me poems.

And the fucking nature poems. The stilted language. The overkill on description. The talkiness. And I don't even consider myself a poet. I have been made to hate poetry by my professors and peers.

Poetry is like taking a huge shit. The hugest shit you've ever taken, and you're so impressed with it and you want to show everybody but nobody wants to see it. That's fucking poetry. Shit.And so here I sit, up to my eyes in everybody else's shit and some of my own and I have to smell it and put my hands it and do it all with a smile. And I can't even shit the way I want to.

This brings me to now. I received my poetry portfolio back today with an Incomplete on it. Why? Because my poem, 9/12, a short little play on obesity in America contained the words "fat girl" in it. My professor, the child, said it came off as a "put down piece." I told him it was -- in a sense. He scrawled back, in his second-grade handwriting, that I'd have to write another poem to turn in or I'd take an F. F for fat girl. Here's a copy of the poem below. The poem isn't good, by the way (what do you expect when we're churning them out twice a week and I have to balance class and my script, the most important piece of writing I've ever done, with this?):

9/12

A fat girl
eats ice cream
in the shade.

Her tear ducts break
when I tell her what
happened:

terrorists flew
a vegetable into
the food pyramid.

Nothing good survived.
She drops her sugar cone.
What a tragedy.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is a putdown piece. An incomplete while the ol' I-got-dumped-again-he-fucked-my-friend earns an A. This professor, by the way, is the one who failed me for tardies, who told me I couldn't read Fat Stripper. And no, I don't have a fat fetish. It's just so easy to notice large women when you go to school in Kentucky.

Wrapping up here: I'll have to write something else. My next poem for class is due today. I shouldn't fuel the fire, but I'll be goddamned if I wasn't inspired. I didn't even have any trouble writing this next piece in the required format (5-7-7-5 syllabic verse, or some shit like that). I need a title though.

Your PhD means shit –
something you masturbate with.
Doctor, mister, missus. Kid.
Who are you again?

You’re a weak handshake –
A wiener at a cocktail
party, dipped in insecuri-
ty. How’s the wine taste?

Frame all the degrees
You can. Ignore the reject-
ions in your bottom drawer.
Self-publish a heart

nobody cares to
hear beat. You’re good enough to
teach. Chalkboard king. Reign over
small desks. You’re the best.

I had a lot of fun writing that. Also, I realize blogs are a lot like poetry -- masturbatory shit -- so I don't expect you to read this far. Thanks if you did. I was going to put something after this, something that killed my spirit for a month, but I'll put it at the beginning now.

Till whenever.

Cam'ron ft Lil' Wayne - Suck it or Not: A Masterpiece.

2006-03-25T16:08:00.000-06:00

(Warning: Listening to this song may cause severe knuck-if-you-buck moments, domestic violence, and hook-ups you may regret.)

I don't know what to say. I mean I've always been happy to have been born with a penis, but this song... this song overflows me with pride. I fill up with warmth the second those horns hit, trumpeting the arrival of the royal cock as it rides in on a white stallion. "Lower the drawbridge, bitches and hos," it says, "for I am here and you are going to suck it or not." But really, the "or not" part is just to be polite. There's never any question that no sucking will occur. Never.

This shit is on a whole 'nother level. Kna'mean?

Cam'ron sets it off with, "My dick hard as a motherfucker," which has obvious thematic implications. His dick is hard. As a motherfucker. Something needs to be done and fast. Right off the bat we know we're in for a ride, one that rap music constantly promises, yet fails to deliver. This is a ride on the brain train (like my double entendre?). Because this song isn't just for the homeboys or the club crowd or the young white people who call their friends their "niggas" but would never actually say it around black people. No. This is also a song is for the intellectuals, as long as those intellectuals have functioning penises.

This is the most masculine song I've ever heard, right down to the beat. The pounding bass, the rising-then-dropping horns: a phat not-so-subtext that mimics the motion a girl's head makes when she sucks it or not. A phat not-so-subtext that all but suggests the inherent superiority of the male species. All hail the King Cock. But the most impressive thing about this song isn't the beat or the flow.

It's the lyrics. Now let's pause for a second while I say that THIS BLOG ENTRY IS COMPLETELY SERIOUS! I LOVE THIS FUCKING SONG! Alright, let's move on. Below are the lyrics. I've bold-faced my favorite parts and bold-faced and italicized my ultra-favorite parts:

[Chorus: Cam'Ron]
Ma, I been hugging the block
That's right! hustlin rocks
I know, I been pufffin alot
But a nigga wanna know
Babygirl, are you gonna suck it or not?

[Cam'Ron]
Huh? My dick hard as a motherfucker
You don't what?! tell that shit to another sucker
I ain't no sucker mama, come on fuck the drama
And kiss it down, lil pucker-rama
I'm so active, you being so drastic
Got something for ya face, fuck pro-activ
I'm a pro at this
Round the globe, atlas
But I need to know ma, are you gonna suck it or not?
Baby girl, I'm in love with the twat
Missionary, back shots, pop it off, rock it off
I tell you right now if my cock is soft
But I want head before and after, top it off
On ya knees, show you how to top a boss
Lick, suck, deep throat, stop, cough, hop on, hop off, lollipop off
I know it's white, but here come the hot sauce

[Chorus]

[Cam'Ron]
Lookin light skinned, mami was tight slim
Fat ass, big tits, I noticed her nice chin
I approached her, slight grin, white Timbs number you can type in
Said she don't like men
I just laughed
Ma, if we lay, we lay
You don't like men? me neither, what a coincidink (what a coincidence)
Ms. Jiggy, Ms. Piggy, Pinky mink, pinky ring blingin'
Ma, are you gonna suck it or not?
I ain't the type to diss you, kinda like to hit you
That's the situation, bring wifey with you
Would you like a tissue? (Why?) You gon' need it
for the cum up in your nose baby girl cause you suckin my cock
Ain't a question now, it's a guarantee
They say I think I'm the shit, well apparently
But you won't hear words like "Marry me"
Only thing you gonna hear is, suck it or not

[Chorus]

[Lil Wayne]
I get head in the strangest places
2 at the same time, call it +Changing Faces+
I tell a bitch "we ain't trading places"
Now stand back and catch my amazing greatness [hehehah]
Taste and savor it
Vanilla Ice Cream, she say "ooh, my favorite"
Do you know who you playin' wit? Wayne
Chillin' like a scarecrow, looking for some brain
Drivin' in the range or flying on a plane
Her head is crazy so she's insane
She know the game
Get in and get right
Every bitch in the industry wanna rock my mic
I'm hot like light
I'm tough like Ike
I don't fuck with dog hoes cause them hoes might bite
Yeah, and if she follows
In the back of my mind, I'm hoping she swallows

[Chorus] - repeat 2X

Impressive, isn't it? If pressed, I'd have to say my ultra-ultra-mega-fave part is "Vanilla ice cream. She say, 'Oooh! My fav-o-rite!'" There's something about Lil Wayne's raspy, gangsta-Urkel voice that captures me. You can tell he's having fun on this track. Not to deny Cam'ron anything, but Lil' Weezy takes it away with his patented, on-track giggling that sounds uncannily similar to Crazy Legs's giggling in "Don't Be a Menace to South Central..."

It's funny, because way back in October I heard Young Buck rap the immortal line, "I just really wanna smoke my weed, fuck these hos, and stack my Gs," on Three-6 Mafia's "Stay Fly" and I was just blown away by the fucking machoness (if that's a word). I thought nothing could top it. I was wrong. While it may possibly be the best rap line ever, it cannot stand up to a whole song busting at the seams with male fantasy.

This song is BETTER than Akinyele's "Put it in Her Mouth." It's NOT BETTER than Kilo Ali's "Love in Her Mouth." But both of those songs have time on their side. They've been marinating for years. There are stories for those songs. Nostalgia. In five years, this will be the song that comes on at a party that makes you stop and say, "Oh, shit! I can't believe they playin' dis!"

And one more thing. I just noticed it actually: a few more jams like this and I'll be able to make a blowjob mix cd. I already have a dead homies mix.

She say, "Oooh! My fav-o-rite!"

It feels good to be the King.

I Miss Ja Rule!

2006-03-20T00:00:00.000-06:00

Venni Vetti Vicci. I came, I saw, I fell off the face of the fucking Earth. Where are you, Ja Rule? I miss you... my nigga. You may have sounded like a Newport-smoking frog, but you were a Newport-smoking frog with talent. When will you hop back into the limelight? When will you reclaim your title as ill fucking MC?

When?

The first time I saw you you were being edited by MTV in the "Can I get a..." video featuring Jay-Z and that hot black chick whom I couldn't understand for the life of me. No offense, Ja, but I didn't know what the fuck you were talking about either, man. The only part of the song I could decipher was, "Baby girl better have my money fa sho." But it was brilliant. "Girl" and "fa sho" is near-rhyme if I've ever heard it. And I'm sure that if I could remember shit like meter, I'd know for sure whether your verses were penned in iambic pentameter or trochaic pentameter or just plain pentameter.

You're my nigga.

Holla Holla was a tour-de-force. I don't know the technical term for what that sound was, that uhUHuhUHuhUHuhUHuh bass-type thing that happened before you said "Holla holla," but that shit was tight. Best line in the whole song: "When I hits it, some women get twisted. Have em' twitchin', like "Damn look what the dick did." I've thought those exact same thoughts before, but I could never articulate them as well as you did. Thank you for being my mouthpiece. Thank you for being a medium.

You're my dawg.

While I enjoyed your work on the Light It Up soundtrack, I thought your single "How Many (Niggas Wanna Die Wit Me)" was much too similar to "Let's Ride," one of the better tracks off of your masterpiece, Venni Vetti Vicci. The part where you rap, "This life gon' drive me crazy... something... something... something" is borderline self-plagiarism. While both songs kick some serious fucking ass, I think they could kick some austere fucking ass if a little more work was put into "How Many (Niggas Wanna Die Wit Me)".

You're my fam.

Funny story: I didn't realize that "Livin' it up," that really shitty song you did with Case (is he still alive, by the way?) during my first semester of college was sampled until the other day when I was in this clothing store. Did Diddy produce that one for you? AHAHHAHAHA! See, I told you it was funny. Anyway, that song wasn't good, Ja. But I will never forget what you dropped after it. The song to end all songs. Ever. The song that will define you.

Always on Time.

Never has a song (besides Mo Money Mo Problems and End of the Road, the phat Boyz II Men joint) gotten so much play from me in the whip and the crib and on my old ass mp3 player that I got for mega cheap off of eBay. You have to tell me, what the fuck is that instrument in the background? It sounds kind of like a bassy harp. You used it in the I'm Real Remix with J. Lo, which was also very good, by the way. Those two songs defined my freshman year of college.

In fact, most of your music did. "Down Ass Bitch" was a perfect springtime jam. "Let's Ride" was slammin' in my friend's '93 Subaru Legacy. He had two 12's and he wasn't afraid to use them. For your music, Ja. Your music. My favorite line from all your songs: "Loose bitches in tight jeans." Jesus Christ, man. What the fuck? And you left us because of 50 Cent and Eminem? No, dude. No. Come back. Challenge 50 Cent to a game of chess or Scene It! You will win. He has no street cred left. It' s okay.

Eminem fell off too. And I liked him better than you!

This is my plea to you, Ja Rule. Find me on the internet, read my words, and come back and drop it like it's warm. Because I promise you this Ja: it will be hot soon enough. Scalding fucking hot. Like your bars, meltin' bitches like hot farts.

Do you like my near-rhyme?

Annoying Internet Quotes

2006-02-24T13:28:00.000-06:00

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.

Fratboys Sodomize Goat

2006-02-21T15:11:00.000-06:00

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.

Quick Update

2006-02-15T01:39:00.000-06:00

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.

Religion and Me!

2006-02-05T18:47:00.000-06:00

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.

In the Food Court

2006-02-01T13:39:00.001-06:00

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.

I'm sorry!!!!

2006-01-25T15:04:00.000-06:00

I know whoever's been reading this blog expects more articles but I've been busy with lots of rewriting lately and classes have just started up. I already have circles underneath my eyes. :(
The best I can do right now is a poem I had to write for my poetry class with the weasel of a teacher I don't get along with. It's nothing brilliant like my poem Fat Stripper, but I have to tone it down for class. Anyway, we had to follow a certain format. I think it's pretty decent.

Nighttime behind the grocery store.
Inside my dad's red car
with the yellow girl in
black pants. Her green apron
made the backseat smell like

Latte. My eager hands struggled
behind her back like life
or death. Three... two... one...
She saved my day...
They still don't live up

to the hype. But I'll
never forget the new touch
that was old to my
friends. Warm like hot lava.
I burned my fingers off.

She pinned a red badge
of courage on my neck.
I would be a god
for a week. The proof
would stay on my hand.

Two kids on a dinner
break and we ruined our
appetites on each other. Thirty
minutes wasn't enough but more
shifts had yet to come.

Prose-ish

2006-01-23T01:24:00.000-06:00

I was in a prosey mood tonight. Why? Fuck if I know. I think I'm anticipating my Writer's Workshop class with this professor I don't get along with. I need to write 20-30 pages of fiction for the class so I started early. Now, I'm used to the terse eloquence of screenwriting, so don't be too critical. It's hard to alternate between the two styles, especially when you work with one more than the other. Anyway, here's a sample:

Johnny Craven had writer’s block. He’d spent the past hour staring at his autographed copy of Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. Did Maurice Sendak ever get writer’s block? Probably not. After all, he was Maurice Sendak, author of Where the Wild Things Are… and a bunch of other brilliant children’s books that Johnny Craven didn’t write. But how did Maurice Sendak get so good? He didn’t have his PhD in Children’s Storybook Writing, not like Johnny Craven. Maurice Sendak didn’t spend his weekends attending Children’s Storybook Writing improvement workshops or drawing idea webs on college-rule notebook paper – a highly effective method of brainstorming. No, Maurice Sendak didn’t do any of those things. He won Newberry Medals.

For the first time in an hour, Johnny Craven looked up at his blank Wordperfect document. Microsoft Word was much too costly for second-grade teachers. The cursor blinked. On good nights Johnny imagined it was a pretty lady winking at him over and over again. On bad nights she was still winking, but only because she had something in her eye. Maybe a bug or something. Maybe a Newberry Medal.

Johnny carefully positioned his small fingers on the home row: ASDF JKL; He shut his eyes and started to type. Scary things like words and self-doubt went away when he couldn’t see them. The click-clacking of keys picked up in speed, tap dancing big black letters onto the white of his outdated word processing software. His fingers moved like those of a secretary with an illegitimate child. Desperate yet proud. Independent. Not reliant on no man to pay da billz. Now the ideas were flowing. Maurice Sendak would be jealous. Oh yes he would. Johnny smiled. He didn’t smile often. Well, not in public at least. Children would ask him where his hairnet and ice cream scoop were when he did. Oftentimes he’d find toothbrushes and Carefree gum on his desk in the morning. He suspected the other teachers but he couldn’t be sure. He tried not to let it bother him. After all, he was a writer. A Children’s Storybook Writer. Writers didn’t have to look good. Or brush their teeth.

Johnny’s girlish fingers stopped sashaying all over the keyboard. It was time to see his genius… Yjr bsy g;re pbrt yjr vsbr… and so on. Johnny Craven had found his way off the home row.

Had this ever happened to Maurice Sendak?

Back to school...

2006-01-20T20:44:00.000-06:00

Back to Kentucky. Back to the land of living stereotypes. Back to the most uneducated state in the US. Back to the state "Where Education Pays!" Back to Wal-Mart. Back to fat-crotched women on motorcarts buying whole milk and ground beef. Back to pickup trucks being driven at supersonically slow speeds. Back to smoking sections in fast food restaurants. Back to Randys. Back to Travises. Back to meth addicts and mullets. Back to feeling like I'm better than everybody else this state. Back to the joke of the United States. Back to inbreds. Back to people buying cigarettes by the carton. Back to people who rent Dolph Lundgren movies. Back to pimped-out Caprices and boat-cars that aren't worth pimping out.

Back to the empty, flat lands of no ambition. Back to the place where dreams don't leave the bowling alley, where children are born to bear more children. Back to the birthplace of the rat-tail. Back to Bush supporters. Back to Fundamentalists. Back to Mountain Dew's target demographic. Back to number 8 stickers on piece of shit vehicles. Back to wigger teenagers blasting old rap music from blown speakers. Back to the town of no goals and immediate settlement. Back to Waffle House. Back to fat girls in Mustangs. Back to ramshackle trailer parks. Back to people who come from counties; not towns. Back to those idiotic, unoriginal "Getting Lucky in Kentucky" t-shirts. Back to nothing worth talking about. Back to things I talk about.

Back to Western Kentucky University. Back to battling with conservative professors over my non-traditional work. Back to looking at the roman numeral IIII on all four sides of the clocktower. Back to reading the sports program slogan: Spread the Red! Back to walking past Diddle Arena. Diddle. Fucking Diddle. Back to hearing about the baskeball team losing to Northern Southwestern Arkansas Tech State A&M Wesleyan. Back to bottle-blonde sorority girls who wear too much makeup. Back to hyena-like giggles and big, tacky, canvas bags with funny-looking Greek letters. Back to fratboys in sandals and frayed shorts driving jeeps with no doors. Back to said douchebags throwing spirals in front of "the house" and listening to loud, Southern rap. Back to said jerkoffs hoping bottle-blondes will walk by and notice them and want to fuck them.

Back to zoning out in boring classes. Back to learning nothing I couldn't learn on wikipedia.org in a fraction of the time. Back to menial assignments for point values. Back to academia and the intellectual masturbation being taught -- expensive cocktail-party knowledge. Back to people trying to fulfill an image. Back to English majors that drink coffee and wear scarves in non-scarf weather. Back to said shitheads and their box-framed glasses and need to impress everybody with their extensive vocabulary and Criterion DVD collections. Back to English professors worshipping these cocksuckers. Back to these children and their clove cigarettes and deep appreciation for everything black and white. Back to the shitty school newspaper. Back to the supremely unfunny humor column written by the black girl who hangs out with the English majors. Back to her relying on nostalgia and apostrophes for laughs ("remember Double Dare? y'know what I'm talkin' 'bout?"). Back to me being an English major who hates coffee but loves the smell. Back to idiot jocks and rednecks and lazy people taking pointless Sociology classes. Back to them thinking it's a practical field of work. Back to them thinking they're smart for majoring in something that ends in "ogy." Back to Sociology being my second major because the film minor classes are barely ever offered.

Back to buying time before I have to support myself. Back to growing on my own. Learning on my own. Honing my craft. Back to skinny freshmen asking me how much I bench. Back to people being afraid of me. Back to intimidating people without knowing it. Back to lots of mediocre food. Back to hoping my roommate won't snore. Back to limited fridge space. Back to a world that is high school on a larger scale.

Back...

Which would you rather step in?

2006-01-15T00:13:00.000-06:00

A pile of dog shit, a pile of horse shit, or a pile of human shit? I know dog shit, horse shit, and human shit tend to vary in shapes and textures and sizes, but for the sake of this question let's say that each pile is perfectly shat out in the shape and size of a cereal box. One of the smaller cereal boxes that you'd buy at a convenience store but pay double for because you don't feel like walking the extra hundred feet to get it in a grocery store.

So you have a pile of dog shit, a pile of horse shit, and a pile of human shit lying on the ground in cereal box form. Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Is it hot? Dry? Frozen? Wet? Is it clumpy? Has the dog, horse, or human been eating off of Taco Bell's dollar menu (I'm fuuuullll!)?" I tell you, when I think of cereal box-shaped shit I think of hot shit. Like a tray of fresh-baked brownies. So, for question's sake, this shit is going to be hot.

Hot, cereal box-shaped, dog, horse, or human shit. Which would you rather step in? Right now you're probably thinking about your shoes. Are you wearing your nice shoes? Are you wearing heels? No. In my mind, we're all wearing black velcro British Knights that we may have possibly won off of Double Dare on Nickelodeon. And we're wearing shorts too. We don't want the dog, horse, or human shit getting all over the bottom of our Old Navy khakis or pantyhose. Capris could work, but are a major risk factor considering the pressure of the step is not a controlled variable (you may stomp into the shit if you like).

So, taking everything into consideration, which would you rather step in? Here's my list:

1. Horse
2. Human
3. Dog

The logic behind my decisions:

In my opinion, horse shit is the least smelliest of the bunch. The stool of the equine sits atop the shit caste system. It's reminiscent of walking across dewy farm land on a foggy, brisk-aired, country morning, admiring the land we stole from the natives, and stepping in something that's probably considered a delicacy somewhere in Asia. Horse shit is glamorous shit. Marvelous shit. Stepping in horse shit is only second to forgetting to put your DVD in the case when you return to Hollywood Video at the bottom of the list of "Things You Wish You Hadn't Done." Bottom is good. The top would be something like marriage or visiting Iraq or being a fan of Jesse McCartney or Ryan Cabrera (or both).

Human shit would be weird to step in, but I could get used to it. I'd rather live in a society where dogs walked humans and pretended to pick up human shit but didn't. Dog shit is just foul, but I'll get to that in a second. As humans, we've developed a tolerance for our own stool, no matter how small that tolerance may be. Stepping in people turds might freak some people out, perhaps on a cannibalistic level. I could see somebody playing touch football, slipping on some hobo excrement, and feeling like they just ate the poor bum for breakfast (bad pun not intended). Still, to me, human shit is tolerable. Unless it comes from a female. Actually that's impossible because girls don't shit. Especially good-looking ones. BAH-BAH-BAH-BAH! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!

Dog shit is despicable. Man's best friend produces shoe's worst enemy on a massive scale. Therein lies the problem. Humans hate dog shit and dogs love to shit. We don't pick it up. We may pretend to, but we don't. This means there's a large amount of shit out there. Intolerable shit that is not being disposed of.

I stepped in a pile of dog shit last month. Prior to last month, it had been at least a good year since I landed in Rover's chocolate pudding. Good odds, you say? Bullshit. I've never stepped in human shit or horse shit before. My feet are batting 1000% when it comes to that. And no, stepping in dog shit does not build a tolerance for it. It fuels the flames of hatred.

Scenario: You don't know you've stepped in dog shit. You're standing around with a whole bunch of people, shooting the shit, and you're thinking, "Man, something smells like shit." Everybody else is thinking it too, but nobody's pointing figures. Everybody just keeps talking about Pokemon and gas prices. Later you get home and you take off your shoe and the smell, the fucking potent smell, hits you right in the face. You look at the bottom of your shoe and you see what you think is mud with grass stuck in it. And you smell it. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. Then you think about the afternoon bull session with Ned and Sandra and your other coworkers and you get embarrassed because you're convinced they all think you smell like shit. Dog shit. You can't sleep. You go into work the next day wearing extra cologne or perfume and when you get home that night you worry everybody thought you were trying to over-compensate for smelling like dog shit. Now there are two avenues you can pursue here: suicide or resignation.

Blame Spot and his Iams lamb formula.

(Note: If you read this and find this mildly entertaining please leave your "shit-list" in the comments section.)

Girls Gone Flaccid

2006-01-12T11:40:00.000-06:00

"Look at those tits!... She's got nice ones... Perky nipples... Not bad... Uh huh... Yeah... Let's watch something else."

If you have ever actually sat down and tried to watch a Girls Gone Wild video then you know that after the sixth pair of tits you become desensitized to drunken nudity for a short period of time. The video serves as kind of a titty flash grenade, which is why I don't understand why some women are so anti-GGW. As none of you probably know, I was recently banned from Facebook because I pissed off a half-deaf, Fundamentalist sorority girl who subsequently had a large portion of her 1100 e-friends and sorostitute sisters report my account.

How did this start? GGW. She used the go-to feminist argument: "It's setting us back hundreds of years." Thing is, she's not a feminist. She's a prude. She's so much better than everybody because her hymen's still intact. She'd like to think her virginity is a personal choice, but one look at her mug tells you it's everybody else's personal choice. I told her to dustbust the cobwebs from her vagina. She called me a pervert (thank you) and mentioned something about how masturbation leads to STDs. I told her standing in front of the showerhead for too long is still a sin.

But that's a whole different story. The issue that arose from that altercation was not her being a sheltered, red-state bitch who thinks God has already chosen her mate for her and it's her job to find him (I wish I had her myspace link for you guys). No, the issue is that she thinks GGW is exploitative.

I disagree.

The girls may be encouraged to drink; they may be encouraged to give bad head; they may be encouraged to do it on film, but they're not being coerced. Some will argue that heavy encouragement is tantamount to coercion. Some will also be wrong. Bottom line: these girls are letting it happen. They know it's happening. They just don't realize the consequences. When they finally do, it's not their fault. No, it's GGWs fault.

Let me break it down like this: you're an old Korean man. You open up a Pawn Shop in the ghetto. Why? Because it will do good business. Now let's say somebody acquires a gun from your Pawn Shop. He then uses said firearm to clap a young nigga for his brand new Iversons. Is that your fault? From a fucked up perspective, yes. You sold him the gun, therefore you're responsible, right? Fuck no. You're just trying to make a living, you old Korean bastard. But why didn't you open up a convenience store instead? Because convenience stores get robbed. You watched Menace II Society. You know that.

But that's besides the point. Let's get back to the task at hand: Creator Joe Francis has made tits boring. That takes skill. Real girls getting naked? No way, man! I remember seeing my first GGW commercial back in high school: that blonde girl in the shower. She looked like everybody's sister's slutty friend. And we could see her naked. For a price. Yes, GGW was going to kick some serious ass. Then I watched my first GGW video with some friends. What a fucking letdown. The kid tried to act all cool because he was the only one who had a GGW video, but you could tell he got embarrassed after we started watching it. He kept asking all of us if we wanted to play Tony Hawk instead. We did.

Francis pushes units on prospect. GGW has never been good; it's an illusion of good. And now here we are in 2006 and GGW is the visual equivalent of the phrase "What happens in BLANK stays in BLANK!" How ad-nauseam.

What I want to know is who still buys this shit? You need a credit card to order. Why not buy porn instead? Seriously. Jerking off to GGW is like jerking off to the E! channel past midnight. Jerking to GGW is like jerking to Jessica Alba in Sin City. Jerking to GGW is like jerking to National Geographic magazine, only with hotter chicks. Jerking to GGW is like jerking to a GGW commercial. All of these you can do for free. GGW actually has these porn-ish interludes that prove to be the highlight of the videos, but if that's the case then why not just buy amateur porn? You won't need to fast-forward through the tits or skip through chapters of tits to get to what you really want.

So who keeps buying this shit? Fratboys, I think. Dirty old men who don't want to feel too dirty since this doesn't actually constitute porno. Porno is arousing. Nevertheless, GGW is pushing enough units to finance new videos -- the most recent being the Girls Gone Wild Games, which looks to be exactly like the Real World/Road Rules Challenge on MTV except without tops. And instead of being refereed by some washed-up X-Games athlete, it's a snaggle-toothed midget calling the shots. Did I mention he's drunk while he's doing it?

Wow! Get the lube!

The only thing worse than the videos are the fucking commercials with that tired, beachy music and girls who will be overweight in ten years pretending to be bisexual for dollar-fifty trucker caps. I'm haunted by the one with F-list comedian Doug Stanhope shouting, "Show me where babies feed! It's natural! It's natural!" You may remember him as "that other guy" on the new Man Show. He's so unfunny he can't even get a laugh when he takes his dick out.

GGW recently came under fire from women's advancement groups for excluding minority women in their videos, thereby violating code 1.3 of the Equal Opportunity Slut Footage Act. I'm serious: women's groups got upset that sluts of all races and creeds weren't being represented. Don't blame Joe Francis; blame his audience. As harsh as it may be, men of all races ONLY want to watch white girls take off their tops because, for these minority men, the white girl represents the unattainable. If you tell some Hispanic laborer that he can have a blonde wife he'll say "que?" But if you say it to him in Spanish he'll laugh in your face. He knows he'll never dunk his plain donut into the sweet, creamed coffee of the spoiled white bitch he works for unless he wants to catch a rape charge. The least he can do is fantasize about her daughter.

I guess I just answered one of my earlier questions. Who keeps buying this shit? Minority men. Joe Francis may be a fucking moron, but he's a savvy moron. He knows Black and Hispanic GGW videos are already available in the form of rap videos. Ever watch late night BET? That's what a Black GGW looks like.

So what's my point? What point am I trying to make here? You know, I'm not even sure. I thought I had an agenda and an argument, but now that I read back through my words I realize I really haven't made any points. I'm just talking. I guess that's the price of some stream-of-consciousness type shit. I'm just rambling, but that's okay because I've included rambling in my blog subtitle. That makes it acceptable.

Hmm.....

I guess what I'm trying to say is tits are great. Videos of tits just being tits tend to get boring. It's like listening to a song you really like six times in a row; you'll still like the song but you'll be tired of it for the time being.

Let's keep tits interesting. Oh, and somebody show Doug Stanhope where bottom-tier entertainers feed:

Joe Francis.

A,Memo,From,The,Comma,... ,

2006-01-10T02:13:00.000-06:00

To: People

From: Comma

RE: You guys being fucking stupid.

My name is Comma. Regardless of what you may think, I am not a period with a tail on it. I cannot be substituted for a good old-fashioned space and I am not what's keeping your little brother from waking up. No, my job is to extend sentences and allow pauses for speech and thought. As you may well know, I haven't been doing my fucking job lately. But that's not my fault. I'm an entry-level tool here at Grammar Corp. This means I have to run errands on top of my daily duties. If xPinkx69gurl needs me to splice together a sentence I have to splice together the sentence, even though I should be preceding conjunctions and ending clauses. Needless to say, the paperwork on my desk is piling up.

I'm pulling upwards of one hundred hours a week and I don't get paid overtime. I've got an ulcer. I think my wife, Less-Than, is fucking around on me with Backspace from down the street. My little Less-Than is making me feel like less-than shit. I suspect she's taken Backspace as a lover because he has the means to do away with me for good. Plus he's the only one who can truly make love to her besides Left-Arrow. But I try, dammit, I try. I'm just spineless. I'm spineless. I can't say no and it's killing my life. Stop asking me to do so much, goddammit!

Period's in danger of losing his job and my best friend Semicolon already lost his. Everybody forgot why he was hired in the first place. They'd stare at him strangely and walk past his desk to put an assignment on mine. One that he could do better; one that he was trained to do (that's for you, old friend). Field reports from English teachers suggest that the students just don't care anymore. According to the reports, gangs and oral sex are of most interest these days. Why think when you can suck? Why become educated when the assholes over at Microsoft Word fix everything for you?

Don't get me wrong. You hire me to do freelance work at Microsoft Word and I'm happy. You fuck up and I'm underlined in green. Boom. Problem fixed. Yeah, problem fixed until you have me go over to Instant Messenger or MSN or the Ryan Cabrera Fan Club message board. Then what?

Please, I beg you. Use me correctly. I'm good at what I do. I'm really fucking good at what I do. Let me do it and you won't be sorry. Otherwise, deal with the consequences. Disgruntled punctuation marks are not pleasant to deal with!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sincerely,

,

Comma

Not good at anything? Forge a future with pregnancy!

2006-01-06T18:58:00.000-06:00

So you've tried everything: community college, American Idol, club drugs -- all of which were met with little to no success (stay hydrated next time!). You're not good at anything. You fucking suck. You're the idiot granny on the Price is Right who can't make it off of contestants row because she refuses to bid $1 when the Marine, Housewife, and College student have already clearly overbid. You were born with less talent than a high school talent show. But that's okay.

You have a vagina.

And as long as you have a vagina you can get boys to like you. Or so you think. After he tells you everything you want to hear ("You're hot," "I'm clean") you let him pound you like a foster child placed in the wrong home. You'll close your eyes and smile at the romantic images that run through your head: holding hands, sharing a snow cone, cuddling by the fireplace, kissing him at your wedding while everybody stands up and claps for your happiness. You'll drown out the squishy sex-noises and make yourself hear the song "Collide," thereby making your fantasy a montage. You won't realize that "Collide" is a breakup song because it sounds good with trite, movie imagery and because you're fucking stupid.

And then he pulls out late. At first you're upset. You say "Omigod!" a lot and try to douche out the rogue seed with a warm bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper that's usually reserved for visits from grandma and her diabetes. Your montage is replaced with disgusting images of Maury Povich and sassy fat black women in the audience who yell, "Girl if I wuz yo momma I'd done smack you upside yo head by now," which will undoubtedly be met with applause from other audience members who are all living their lives soooooo much better than you are.

But you calm down soon. Maybe a baby isn't a bad thing. You can name it something biblical, like Jedediah, or you can be one of those annoying women who rattle off first and middle names at the same time, like Jason Taylor or Illegitimate Child. You start to look forward to your pregnancy. All that time you spent looking for love can now be spent thinking of ways you can use your child to make you feel good about yourself. Your stomach starts to bulge. It becomes a topic of conversation with preggo fetishists and jealous mothers who wish they could go back to the days when their children were cute and malleable. As the bulge grows larger you realize that the world has shifted from its heliocentric orbit and now revolves around you. Suddenly you have friends, many of whom are Marine girlfriends and hope to be well on their way to your position before Travis is shipped off to die for his country. Jealous of all the attention you're getting, the baby's father says he wants to be a man and take care of his child. You push him away and sue for child support because you're an attention-hog.

The child is born a bastard. You name it Michael Thomas. Your attention level is at an all time high right now. You dress Michael Thomas up in cute shit that makes other women gush. You make more friends because Michael Thomas is just so fucking adorable.

But then he starts to grow. The compliments stop and Michael Thomas is quickly becoming his father. Bills pile up and the clerical job you earned with pity isn't cutting it. But, for some fucking reason, somebody still wants to date you. This guy is convinced that you're his better half, even though he has a decent job and a 401k. Did I mention that he just adores little Michael Thomas? He calls him "Little guy" a lot and tells you that he can't wait to play catch with him and teach him how to fish and become a good man.

There is no explanation for this shit. Maybe he grew up in a house full of females and wants to be the positive male role model that his father never got to be. Maybe he wants a family he can slay when the demons finally decide to possess him. It doesn't matter. He'll marry you on one condition: you stay at home and be a full time mom. Instead of becoming dollar signs, your eyes become sperm swimmers. Here is a man who will let you leech off of him as long as you indulge his fucking Jerry Maguire and provide him with little Jonathan Lipnicki's that he can love and be annoyed by and blame later on down the road when you start to develop marital problems.

Until then, the road is paved with umbilical cords and placentas. Whenever Michael Thomas starts to get old, you'll have another, and so on, hence completing your journey from dumb bitch to dumb married bitch with annoying children.

If you ever get divorced you can rent your vagina out as a bungee cord.

Prevent Injury During Face-Fucking

2006-01-05T19:49:00.000-06:00

Yes, this entry contradicts my previous entry. No, I don't give a fuck.

Midgets can comfortably give oral sex to full-sized humans. You would think that sitting in a kiddie chair would accurately simulate such a natural and exciting experience, but you're wrong. A curved back is no match for an erect spine when the mouth must perform these feats of endurance. Too much stress is placed on the neck. This means hardcore face-fucking sessions may result in whiplash. Whiplash is not tantamount to your partner's pleasure. Therefore, unless you are a midget, get your face fucked at your own discretion. Unless you're a midget with another midget. Then face-fucking is just as dangerous. Unless one of you has paint can stilts with yarn handles readily availabe.

But if you're anything like me you realize that the injury is well worth the risk. But why does risk have to be a factor, especially when face-fucking is such a viable alternative to its evil cousin, penetration? It doesn't. Countermeasures can be taken to ensure your next face-fucking is both pleasurable and worry-free. Below are two of them:

1. Strengthen your Trapezius Muscles

Now ladies, I'm aware that you're afraid that so much as looking at a weight will turn you into an Amazonian she-beast. You couldn't be more right. This is why I recommend doing a lot of grocery shopping. In order to reap the full benefits you're going to need to park the vagina bullet or bastard shuttle (for the single or married, respectively) in the back of the parking lot. While shopping, use baskets instead of a cart. Next, grab as much skim milk as you can carry. Heavy, isn't it? Good. Now permeate the empty spots inside the basket with cans of chunk light tuna. The baskets will become even heavier. This is good. Now comes the hard part:

Shrug the baskets up like you're trying to touch your shoulders to your ears. Feel that burning sensation? Not the one in your cervix; the one around your neck. You have just activated your trapezius muscles. I know what you're thinking: "But Jeff, why can't I just Harlem Shake with suitcases full of hammers?" Because that would be too fun, ladies. With baskets in hand and shoulders shrugged, proceed to the self-checkout counter. Yes, you can stop to see if the Massengill douchebags are on sale, even though they're very affordable at regular price. This will add to the time under tension your muscles undergo.

I ask that you go to the self-checkout line because the Tammy's and Latoya's and Esther's and Lupe's and Gupta's and Timmy's that man the cash registers of the world have a knack for bagging your shit in a fucked up manner. At the self-checkout line YOU get to determine how your shit is arranged when it goes into a sack. That being said, equally distribute the milk and tuna into two separate plastic bags. Double bag these bags and head for your vehicle. Keep those trapezius muscles taut. Pretend they're NOT you're vagina. That might help.

When you get home, put the tuna and milk away so your husband won't have a reason to beat you. Not because you necessarily did anything wrong, but because things aren't going well at work and he's having second thoughts about not fucking the the neighbors's barely legal daughter with the tight ass and long flowing locks of perfect brown hair who's home from her first semester of college and thinks she knows how the fucking world operates because she took a few one-hundred-level courses like Sociology and Theatre Appreciaton.

But don't dwell on that. Pour yourself a glass of milk and whip up some tuna salad. For one. The protein in this hearty meal promotes muscle growth and recovery. Wash the dishes (you know why) and take a nap. Your husband may want to fuck your face when he gets home, but you can't let him. When he raises his fist in anger and you see that the cufflinks he's wearing aren't the ones you gave him for your anniversary, don't cry. Explain to him what you're doing. He won't strike you. I promise.

Do this once every other day until you feel like your neck is strong enough to withstand the force 0f a horny mandingo who just returned from a hood barbecue. Then let your husband's boss face-fuck you. Revenge will be sweet.

2. Have Your Face Fucked Against a Flat Surface. Preferably a Nerf Surface.

Nerf was made for face-fucking and spiral-friendly footballs.

The "Be Safe" Phenomenon

2005-12-30T20:01:00.000-06:00

Three years ago you could go to the grocery store and people couldn't give two shits whether or not you survived the drive there. Sadly, those days are no more. Now everybody is suddenly concerned that you may not make it. Pretty soon you'll be wearing a neon-orange vest to take a shit. Housekeepers will be paid an extra twenty-two cents to taste-test Girl Scout Cookies and Pepsi One for poison. Due to the rising demand, helmets will sell for hundreds of dollars and quality blowjobs. Soccer moms will wear bullet proof vests during their afternoon pussy-licking sessions with the other neighborhood wives whose husbands work too much. Everybody will be strapped. And we'll all have this little phrase to thank: "Be safe."

"Be safe" has sidled its way into our goodbyes and I'm afraid that it's here to stay. What bothers me is, unlike media violence, I doubt this is something I will ever become desensitized to. That means it will be joining the likes of Mormons, people who get offended too easily, and Joey Gladstone on my list of shit I should make an effort to tolerate. Should make an effort to tolerate. That's like saying I should try to make less jokes about those fat bitches that putter around Wal-Mart on the courtesy motorcarts, stinking up the whole damn ride with their old Tweety Bird shirts and aqua-green sweatpants.

It won't fucking happen.

No. "Be safe" has to be stopped. Safety has never been cool. I don't care what McGruff and Smokey and signs at amusement parks and neighborhood swimming pools have to say; safety is a hassle and it makes you look like a bitch. Remember when you were little and learning how to ride a bike and your parents bought you all those pointless neon-colored pads and that huge fucking helmet? What did that helmet do for you? Did you fall head first against a mailbox? No, you didn't (if you did then stop reading. You're hurting my argument). I bet that helmet is sitting in some box in your garage right now. It would cry if it could, but it can't. It's a fucking bike helmet. "But Jeff, what about motorcycle safety?" When your pink Huffy with the tassles on the handlebars can do speeds upwards of 100 mph then a helmet is acceptable, but that's only so you don't get a mouthful of insects. Insects don't splatter on your face when you're chasing down the Good Humor man at 5 mph. Especially if you still use training wheels. Especially if those training wheels have My Little Ponies painted on them.

Meet the Girls of Elimidate!

2005-12-30T18:19:00.000-06:00

Wan... doo... tree... ELIMIDATE! The dating show for young professionals... that's if you're a secretary, bartender, student, or just wear a tie to your job like those mall kiosk cell phone assholes who try to convince everybody they're real salesmen (what an accomplishment). Now I searched the internet (first page of Google results) to see if something like this has already been done and I didn't see anything so I said fuck it. I'll write this shit. I may eventually do a "Meet the Guys!" type of thing, but I'm not sure.

I need to establish my credentials before I write this out: I used to watch this fucking show every day. I used to skip Astronomy class my sophomore year to watch it at my friend's dorm in the afternoon and I then I'd watch more of this piece of shit at night. There, I said it. Before I begin I want to posit this little tidbit: I don't think this show is taped anywhere but the prolapsed anus that is the Jersey shore. Maybe Newark too. Don't be fooled by the exterior shots of cities like San Diego, Seattle, and St. Louis. They're merely the freelance masturbation of local struggling film students who spend most of their time in java houses discussing Fellini and being douchebags. I apologize for using so many gerunds in the preceding paragraph (and the two in this sentence).

All that being said, I'd like to present you with MY version of the Elimidate caricatures (I mean archetypes). Keep in mind they can be mixed and matched, but these, for the most part, are the usual suspects you can expect to find on any given episode of Elimidate (except for the black episodes, but those are boring anyway... no, I'm not being racist... shut up).

The Prude

"I'm not going to do anything my mother can't watch." She wastes no time starting arguments. Her insults usually revolve around the other girls's outfits while she constantly asserts her chastity and high quality of character, even though she's in a fucking bikini top with her labia hanging out of her daisy dukes like warm wax candy. The Prude often makes it to the final round, only to be chosen over the Blonde Lush or Obnoxious Minority, who in their infinite stupidity have somehow realized that the greasy guido motherfucker in the black tanktop didn't sign up for the show to find his fucking soulmate. Or maybe they're just sluts. The Prude often uses her final video interview to say something to the extent of "He could've had all this, but he picked the one night stand." Don't be fooled; the Prude is haunted by second thoughts of what might have happened if she made out with Vincent in the rooftop hot tub or VIP room. Maybe she should re-evaluate her "I don't kiss on the first date" or, alternatively, her "No thanks. I don't do sloppy seconds" policy. Seriously, who has the fucking time?

Little Miss Taciturn

This sneaky little bitch of varying attraction (usually kind of average-looking) tries to play it cool during the first round catfights in order to create the illusion that she's sweet and pleasant (A+ strategy, you dumb bitch). She's quickly forgotten when the other girls won't shut the fuck up and is the first to be cut. Regardless of how she actually feels about the dude who sent her packing, she will use her last video interview as an opportunity to dog him and say something along the lines of "I wasn't feeling him AT ALL. I'm glad it's over because now I have the rest of the day to go find a real man." What she really means is she has the rest of the day to sit in a fucking coffee shop and call her friends to tell them how the guy "wasn't even cute" and how the other girls are all sluts ("if he wants them he can have them!"). She'd be singing a different tune if she took some initiative.

Mom

She's on the show to prove men still find her attractive. The oldest one of the group, she's usually blonde and a proud mother of a bastard child (probably named Matty or Mikey). Sit back and enjoy while the other girls tear her apart for being in her late twenties, something to which she often responds with, "No, sweetie. I'm just more experienced, thank you." She's usually knocked out in one of the first two rounds and ends up at another bar down the street so as not to let that full day of child care she paid for go to waste. Kind of like going to a fast food restaurant with a friend so you can use your last two coupons. Don't forget the Sunny D on the way home.

The Lush

Character development on a dating show? Surely you jest. Well, I jest you fucking not. This timid little vixen (also usually blonde) starts off as a potential front-runner for Little Miss Taciturn, only to transform into a sorority girl once she gets a few drinks in her system. Angelo purposefully mistakes her drunken antics for a fun and lovable personality so he doesn't have to slip her a roofie later in case she suddenly doesn't feel like getting reamed. As the rounds progress, she starts to trip over herself and burp and develop a case of bi-curiousness. If you're lucky, her behavior may uncover the latent lesbian desires one of the other girls has bottled up inside. Sensing a potential threesome, Luigi will convince them to makeout for a few seconds. If the girls stop showering him with attention and begin to show more interest in one another, he will cut the one that is least likely to sleep with him. In most cases, the Lush wins because there are less roadblocks to her vagina.

Obnoxious Minority

Usually a Latina or a JAP who wishes she was a Latina. She signed on for the free alcohol and the Lebanese dude who pretends he's Italian. This bitch is looking to start a fight with anybody who doesn't respect her tough-talking persona. She likes to pretend she's "being real" or "telling it how it is" and expects the other girls to fear her. Her favorite phrase is "You don't know me." Look for her to shout it while she stereotypes her competition. She usually ends up in the final round with the Lush or the Prude. If she's pitted against the Lush then Mr. Jersey Shore 2005 will host a kissing contest. The loser gets to leave the hot tub or VIP room. The winner gets to suck his greasy dick when the cameras leave.

Fugly

Scenario: You're watching the opening lineup to see what the girls look like. Suddenly you feel your face twist and contort like you just made love to a fat chick whose favorite condiment is Ranch dressing. Fugly did that. You can't wrap your mind around how the fuck she got on this show. I'll tell you how: she mistakingly showed up to the Elimidate offices to audition for the new reality series Sideshow and the producers cast her anyway. Fugly almost always makes it to the second round. Why? Because fucking A.J. or Lorenzo wants everybody to think he's not shallow, so he cuts Little Miss Taciturn instead. In turn, Fugly becomes the Little Miss Taciturn of round two while the Lush and Prude (or Obnoxious Minority) battle it out. Fugly's not surprised when she gets booted. She's just happy she wasn't cut first and, as a result, says something nice in her final video interview. In her mind she almost won. In ours she belongs on Sideshow.

Eight Cartoon Bitches That Would Get Run Through

2005-12-28T14:02:00.000-06:00

8. The Pink Snork

Imagine the blowjobs you could get from that shit on her head. Her pigtails are sexy too. What's the snork-to-human scale? Is she plankton? I fucking hope not. How is she ice skating if her home is in the sea? She's not amphibious, is she? I hope she falls... on my dick... Just kidding!

7. The Plump Chipette Theodore is Supposed To Screw

I think her name is Eleanor. Not sure. Don't care. She has the lowest self-esteem out of all the Chipettes. Throw her a few "You're beautiful's" and "I can't believe you don't have a boyfriend's" and she's yours. She may be a little on the thick side (girl you thicky thick!) but she's not really fat. Still, when compared to the all-American Brittany and sexy librarian Jeanette, Eleanor doesn't have a niche. She likes sweets and probably still listens to Hanson. I have no doubt in my mind that she's willing to try new things. Anything it takes to one-up her sisters. Ask her to sneak out of the house when David Seville is babysitting. He can't keep track of everybody.

6. Sonja

I tend not to fuck around with spoiled rich girls (or is it that they tend not to fuck around with me?), but this pampered bitch is all about slumming with the underprivileged. Her resident penis, Heathcliff, is one bad motherfucker. HNIC. He's got the block locked down. Shit, even humans are afraid of him and his potential for merckdom. Sonja's master doesn't want her fucking around with a hood cat like that, but she does anyway. She's like Timothy Dalton's homely daughter in Beautician and the Beast, except Sonja is hot. She'll go to bat and catch a case for a nigga, and that's an admirable trait. If you wear a leather jacket and comb your hair a lot, or if you have cornrows, then Sonja may be purr-fect for you (ahhahahahah!).

5. April O'Neil

Auto mechanic or cock hungry nympho? You decide. She does have one hell of a body on her. It's a shame that Channel 6 News insists she covers it up with a yellow jumpsuit. I always thought she was a bit plain in the face. Maybe a lot of people don't watch Channel 6. Maybe Channel 6 News is like the news on the local CBS stations in every city (those anchors are hurting!) Regardless, April O'Neil is desperate for some dick, and I like that. She's easier than a spelling test in an ESL class (as long as English isn't your second language). Apparently that turns a lot of guys off, because I don't think this bitch has ever been on a date. I can't blame the dudes, though. Who wants to date a female that spends her spare time in a sewer? I think the Ninja Turtles are even ashamed at how much of a loser she is. But that's what's so good about her. Nobody else wants her so she's yours by default. Take advantage of her inability to get along with humans. Understand her pain and loneliness and preference for amphibians and she's yours.

4. Babs Bunny

Lapine and underage, I still don't give a fuck. Babs has personality. She's like a pink, rabbit version of Sarah Silverman (who is so fucking sexy). I really don't think Babs's real comedy genius had a chance to shine through on Tiny Toons since it was for kids and all. She could have been real fucking raunchy given the proper venue. Babs is the type of girl who has trouble procuring dick. She's got the looks, but her persona tends to scare guys away (not me). This leads me to believe Babs probably has the largest collection of Acme Dildos this side of Roger Rabbit's asshole. She probably has an anvil sybian too. The good thing about Babs is she's not willing to compromise her personality and sense of humor for some beef root. Stick around when everybody else doesn't and you can hide your carrot in her cave. Maybe she'll do her radical impression of Phyllis Diller.

3. Princess Jasmine

I've always wanted to get with an Indian chick. Wait. Is she Indian? I'm digging on those big brown, will-be-polite-for-some-peasant-dick eyes of hers. And that ponytail too. I'm all about some brunettes with ponytails. I guarantee that every dude in Agrabah has beat it to her at least once. Even the dude that wanted to cut off her hand. Even Abu. The only problem I might have with her is her background. Indian, Arab, whatever, there's a weird smell to them that I can't see myself getting used to. I guarantee the fucking palace smells like curry or fresh martyrdom. All those spices and limbs might throw off my performance. Plus Raja, her tiger, may not want to leave the chamber while I'm trying to shove my scepter into her throne room. I can't fuck when pets are watching. I don't like it when Rover is panting while I plow his master. Is he getting horny? Is he thinking about dog stuff, like eating his own shit? I don't know. Now imagine that shit with a tiger. Iago the parrot could enter at any moment too. Fuck that.

2. Gadget

First off, I just want to say this: Gadget is a fucking slut. Chip, Dale, Monterey Jack (chee-eee-eeeseee!), the swoll green fly motherfucker -- they've all had a piece. When she's not getting dick from them she's screwing herself with her tail. She tries to play it off like she's one of the guys, tries to hide those sexy eyes of hers in her work, but she's not fooling anybody. Those goggles on her head aren't for protection when she's welding bondage devices out of paper clips; they're for role-playing. Sick, twisted, rodent role-playing. They also protect her eyes from bukkake. She'd let Fat Cat hit it from the back if he wouldn't try to eat her afterwards (literally, you perverts). As easy as she is, she still manages to retain that innocent quality. I chalk that up to the superb editing. The Rescue Rangers production team could release a compilation of deleted scenes and win a fucking AVN Award. Gadget is a shoo-in for Starlet of the Year (fuck you, Jenna Haze).

1. Ursula

"So, Jeff. Why Ursula?" Well, I'll tell you why. Yes, she may be a little on the fugly side, but beauty is only a few thousand leagues below. She has a small thyroid problem (girl you thick! you thicky thicky thick!), but that's negligible because she has eight legs. Eight legs. Eight fucking legs. That means FOUR SEPARATE VAGINAS. And since her whole lower body is an octopus, I'm willing to bet that her kegel muscles could break one of those professional grade hand-grip exercisers in half. You don't have to worry about doing anal with a chick like that.

Ursula's also a bit older, but she's still ambitious. She almost took the entire ocean from the miserly King Triton. Ambition is sexy. So is financial stability, which is what Ursula has. I'm willing to barter my young and ready body for a few of her sand dollars (ahhahahahaha! get it?). It'd be a fair trade. And shit, even if she isn't rich, at least I won't go hungry. I bet she could catch me more fish than fucking Captain Gorton. Ursula can also transform herself into a hot, olive-skinned brunette of Mediterranean descent (witchcraft, cuz!). This means lots of nude tanning on the beaches of Greece and Cyprus.

I don't doubt she can swim very fast. If we're just chilling somewhere in the Pacific Ocean and we suddenly have the urge to take a vacation in Chile, I could ride on her back while she jets us through the ocean at lightning speed. Then, when we get there, she can morph into her ultra hot land-roving body. See, that's what's good about Ursula: the best of both worlds. If I'm in the mood for a fat chick I can bone her in the sea. If I'm in the mood for a hot, tan brunette, I can be her land lubber (hahahahhahahah! omigod, I'm good!).

Either way, I'm getting laid.

Bluetooth Shitnology

2005-12-27T20:51:00.000-06:00

We're all just so fucking impressed that you think you're important enough to wear this Matchbox car-looking piece of shit on your head all day. Are you a receptionist? Are you a CEO? Are you an agent? Are you a borg from Star Trek: The Next Generation? No. You're the guy standing in line at Chipotle who hasn't received a phone call in the past two and a half hours. You're the same dude that paid out the ass for a Mini Cooper when the Italian Job came out a few summers ago, rode the ever-loving shit out of it, and then traded it in for a major loss. That shit on your ear is the equivalent of circling the mall parking lot and blasting Nelly's "Ride Wit Me" on repeat. But it's cool, man. No beef... no beef.

So what does it do, homie?... Are you serious?... You mean all you have to do is say "Call Fuckface" twice so that the awesome voicewave nanotechnology can verify that you do in fact want to call Fuckface and then that pack of 25 cent gum on your ear will phone Fuckface while your hands are left free to pick your nose or re-adjust your balls?... No way, dawg. I don't believe it... Okay, okay... Does it come in different designs, like Sonic the Hedgehog's razor-sharp back?... Just futuristic colors like ice blue?... That sucks... Can it blink like those black velcro shoes that retarded kids wear?... Dude, why not?

Do you toggle the volume a lot when pretty girls walk by so it looks like you're trying to hear somebody with a bad connection?... I know. Maybe they'll notice you next time and want to fuck you because you look important and cool with that game piece from Mouse Trap stuck to your large ear. I really think it will happen for you, dude. Really, I do.

One more thing... Eat shit.

Lower Back Tattoos

2005-12-26T01:23:00.000-06:00

Having a tattoo on your lower back is like having a trucker cap sewn to your head: they're both artifacts that are going to be a bitch to get rid of. Remember when you got the Rachel haircut from Friends? It was cute, wasn't it? It got old, didn't it? You wouldn't get it now, would you? Well guess what? You have a fucking Rachel-cut inked into your flesh and it's not going to grow out.

Shit's old now, girls. It's been old. In fact, it was almost gone until Vince Vaughn brought it up in Wedding Crashers. He breathed another year of life into it. So go out and wear your pants low and your shirts high. Get that mileage, because the furrowed brows and regret will soon follow. Laser surgery is expensive. You'll be wishing you were James Bond in the movie Goldfinger, only turned over on your stomach so the laser can vaporize that curled, flowery, iron-looking thing above your ass.

Guys are to blame for calling it a tramp stamp or, after Wedding Crashers (which isn't half as fucking funny as everybody says it is), a bulls-eye. It's neither. Be creative. Make up your own little names for them. So far I've come up with slut barcode and Tara Reid. Both are fitting.

Here's a list of other unoriginal tattoos that girls will continue to get:

Roses
Cherries
Paw prints
White trash nicknames in cursive lettering (ie Angel)
Butterflies
Ladybugs
Their boyfriend's name

I just want to say one more thing. Girls, if you have a lower back tattoo, every guy with a functioning dick thinks he can sleep with you. You could be a Christian mermaid who makes straight As. Dudes are still going to expect you to spread your flipper even though you're incapable of doing so. Some guys will say this is a lie, but it's not. You may be classy. You may be prude. But Tara Reid isn't.

Don't act surprised.

Santa didn't die for your XBox 360...

2005-12-24T15:39:00.000-06:00

... Jesus did. And I think that's thoughtful of him. I'll give him a shoutout from home while the rest of the family goes to church. Why? Because it's boring and I've had to go my whole life. It started out with just Sunday school. The whole thing was bad news from the start. I hated my classmates. So fucking pious and at such an early age. Dorks. All of them. Goody goodies. Fuck that shit. We had these cheap workbooks and we had to do homework. I didn't want to do homework. I wanted to watch Snick and eat junk food. I'd end up acting out in class. My stepmother was actually my third grade Sunday school teacher. My Dad met her because I was unruly.

Then, when I was older, I had to go to church after Sunday school. My Mom says it was because my Dad wanted to show the judge he was a good father (Divorce, baby!), but I think he had more genuine motives. Still, I used to get punished if I didn't go to church. My Dad would hide the Nintendo controllers and then I'd find them and then he'd hide the whole fucking console. Somehow I had trouble finding that. So usually I ended up at church because Street Fighter II just kicked so much ass (Ken, Guile, and Zangief in particular). Years of that soured me from organized religion. Ironically, I never really developed a relationship with God because everybody kept pushing him on me. Even to this day he is being shoved down my fucking throat. Ever been told you're going to burn in hell by a laconic, doe-eyed brunette? Yeah, me too.

Sometimes I feel like an average-looking white girl who has bad luck with relationships, and my BFF (the one who talks behind my back) keeps telling me she's got the perfect guy to hook me up with. Except we don't have anything in common and he's Asian and insists that we talk on IM a whole bunch before we actually see each other.

I think that, for the most part, I do believe in God. I really fucking hope there's an afterlife because I do not want to go to sleep forever. Have you ever had a dreamless sleep? That shit is scary. Imagine that for billions of hours. You won't know you're dead. You won't wake up. You get a certain amount of years and that's it? Jesus Christ. I really fucking hope there is a God. I really do.

As far as heaven goes, I think that God knows whether you're a good or bad person. Don't let these hardcore fundamentalist sons-of-bitches sit here and sell you their little four step or five step plan to becoming another blank-minded soldier of Christ. If Jesus died on the cross for your sins then why the hell are you not taking advantage of that? I'm not saying you have to murder people, but do something. Don't completely deprive yourself of temptation. There's no point. If Adam and Eve hadn't fucked up then I'd say, "Okay, fine. Don't eat fruit." But they did fuck up. Don't let Jesus's death be in vain... Or do you get bonus points if you don't sin? Is it like a flawless victory in Mortal Kombat? Do you get a more comfortable recliner in heaven if you convert so many heathens and/or skeptics? Do you get backstage passes to the Mercy Me concert?

It's hard to take these bastards seriously with websites like http://www.getsavedtoday.com:

"Look, I really have to make quota by the end of the month and you're not going to get a sweeter deal than this. No money down and 0% APR. You can't beat that. I'll even throw in the Tru Coat for free. They install it at the factory and -"

I don't want the Tru Coat.

"Yeah, but this Tru Coat. I'm tellin' ya. It's a sweet deal... Whaddaya say? Brand new soul, brand new ideology, one low price."

How much?

"Your life up until now."

Fuck that, Lundegaard.

P.S. - I googled that picture. If it offends you then please take 1000 cc's of "chill the fuck out." It's just a picture.

Merry Christmas!

Random thought...

2005-12-24T00:06:00.000-06:00

As you probably know by now, I think about the dumbest shit on a regular basis. Keeping with this theme, I was zoned out today at work when it hit me:

A retarded, blind, deaf, half black, half Cherokee female in a wheelchair who makes pretty decent grades and comes from a low income, inner city family would probably qualify for every scholarship under the sun.

Talk about some fucking opportunity. She would have no excuse to not be a nuclear physicist or president of the Motts Apple Juice Corporation.

Chris Brown... Jesus H.

2005-12-22T14:45:00.000-06:00

Is it already time for a new Usher? What the fuck happened to Ray J? Omarion? Nick Cannon? Lil' Romeo? Lil' Bow Wow? Mario? Marques Houston? The black kid from Sister Act 2?... What's that you say? They're all too old to be marketed to black tweens and overweight white girls? Ah! No fucking wonder.

Meet Chris Brown, the latest piece of R&B shit birthed from the bowels of the music industry. Only sixteen years old, this brash motherfucker is already crooning about clubs and hos. Sixteen. He can't even get into a fucking club without a parent or legal guardian or P. Diddy. He probably still has a subscription to Highlights magazine. With any luck he'll be consumed by his superstardom, grow some inner demons, and take the Oedipal route to coping, gouging his eye out like fellow R&B hype Houston. Mark my words -- this kid will be a fucking pastor within the next six years. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Right now, Chris Brown is hot shit on a summer's day. His number-one-smash-hit-single-club-banger-head-nodder-put-a-gun-in-your-mouther Run it! has raped the airwaves and roofied many sets of ears into consent. Even mine (but that's only so I can cry about it). You've probably heard this shit blaring from Escalades and tricked out Fast and the Furious cars for a hot fucking minute now. The dickheads bumping this shit from their two-million watt systems (The bitches love it, yo!) rest easy knowing that the song isn't complete pop or R&B. After all, Dipset's own Juelz Santana peppers the track with street cred and phat bars like "I know what girls want. I know what they like. They wanna stay up and party all night." Obviously Santana is practicing "method-rapping" and taking on the persona of a father of a daughter who's having a slumber party. Savvy move.

According to various Chris Brown fansites, he's not like the rest. He's not an image. He just happens to fit an archetypical role -- the braggadocio R&B/hip-pop hybrid. But hey, that's a coincidence... right? Let's take a look at his tracklist:

Intro
Run It
Yo (Excuse Me Miss)
Young Love
Gimme That
Ya Man Ain't Me
Winner
Ain't No Way (You Won't Love Me)
What's My Name?
Is This Love?
Poppin'
Just Fine
Say Goodbye
Run It! (Remix)
Thank You

Apparently Chris writes his own songs (I'm not fucking surprised). Does that mean the studio sends him the topics to write about? All the requisite genre songs are there. A few "You gone be mine, girl" tracks. The "My fans is ill" track. A "young G on the come up" track. Some "You my wifey" songs. And, of course, more club-banging dance shit, most likely featuring fucking Slim Thug or T.I. (they're on EVERYTHING).

But Chris isn't like the rest. He's not from Hotlanta or the Dirty Dirty or Des Moines, Iowa. He's from the burg of Tappahannock, Virginia. This means he has morals. This means that when the big time begins to take its toll, he can return home and unwind. Pet his dog or some shit. Enjoy mom's home cooking. Go back to his old high school and sign autographs for the "real" people who appreciate him for his personality. After all, he used to be one of them before some record executive realized he was good-looking enough to mold into a product.

Chris already has another over-produced single out that's starting to pick up major airplay on MTV and BET. He spends the whole video dancing on a basketball court in the hood. I don't know what song it is, but there's a very attractive girl checking him out and smiling, not sure if she should go up and talk to him. And what the fuck does Chris Brown do? He keeps dancing and repeating the chorus. Even when her friends make her leave, he dances into the backseat of her Escalade (Daddy must be a rapper). She wants to give him a kiss. Sorry, bitch, I'm singing the same fucking chorus again. Wait 'till I'm done. If you guys know me then you know that one thing I can't stand is the part in rap videos where some thugged-out flavor-of-the-moment whispers in some slut's ear while she grinds up against him. EVERY rap video has that part and now Chris Brown has one upped-them and it's even WORSE.

But he's just keeping it real. He's just KIRing it. Until this single fails. And his next album. He'll be lucky if the Disney Channel picks him up to sing with the fucking Cheetah Girls.

MTV's "My Sweet Sixteen"

2005-12-21T12:14:00.000-06:00

I often joke with my friends about having a "kill somebody" pass, wherein every member of society is allowed to get away with one murder. Up until now I figured I'd end up taking a blade to Ashton Kutcher or one of those Real World dickheads, but MTV's "My Sweet Sixteen" has shown me the light. After mere seconds of exposure, I was relegated to these three words and these three words only: Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Before I tread any further, let me hit you with a little backstory. This show follows bitchy, ugly, dumb, spoiled, loud, foul, slutty, ugly, ho-ish, overweight, Veruca Salt-ish teenage girls as they prepare for the omigah! greatest party of their lives. These little whores are beyond rich. $10,000 stylists. $50,000 cars. $150,000 parties. They don't appreciate shit, yet their parents will not stop showering them with gifts. The show isn't a bit entertaining. It's your utter disgust for everybody on camera that keeps you watching. You burn with hatred for these girls. You want to see them slip on banana peels. You want ACME anvils to fall on their heads. You want them to get shot with trumpet-ended Elmer Fudd rifles.

Enough backstory?

This is the girl I watched today. Her name is Jazmin (the Z is in case she ever needs to strip). It looks like somebody took a vise and squished her face down. If she jumped into a time machine and went back to the late 80s, she could have been an extra in the movie "Willow." Apparently she used to be in foster care until she was adopted by a purse and a wallet that she now calls Mommy and Daddy. This brings to mind the movie "Free Willy," starring that piece of shit Jason James Richter. The character arcs are similar, except the little shit in "Free Willy" has the moxie to enlist the help of one our nation's last remaining Native Americans (the dude from Renegade) to steal a whale that doesn't belong to him. Jaz's (isn't that soooo cute?) parents would have bought her Willy. See the similarities?

Anyway, the whole episode this bitch is flanked by her brace-faced friends who nod and giggle at everything she says. These are the same types of girls who buy shit from Abercrombie just so they can hold the bag while they walk through the mall. These girls want to be VIPs at Jaz's party and they want it so omigah! bad. They pander without knowing it. The one that actually does show a shred of personality (don't exhaust yourself, gurl!) is cast aside, the new pariah of the group. So what does she do? She cries. Her BFF is gone and no amount of smiles and hugs and "you look so hawt's!" can bring her back.

So how does it end? Well, Jaz has a "way phat" party and ends up driving off in her brand new BMW Roadster with a boy in the passenger's seat who she'll end up giving bad head to while he closes his eyes and tries to think of popularity and the puckered assholes of his JV football teammates ("States, baby!"). Meanwhile, Ms. Personality realizes that drama just isn't for her. It makes people mean and people shouldn't be mean; they should be chill.

There are no lessons here. As much as I hate MTV for giving no-name assholes celebrity status (Fuck you, Tek Money), this show is edited just the way it should be. Even though the show shouldn't even fucking exist, I applaud it for perpetuating the spoiled brat stereotype. Not one moment is captured when the little bitches aren't being greedy or jealous or hedonistic. Jaz's rags-to-riches story hasn't humbled her one bit. If she ever gets run over by a car it had better be an expensive one. Her blood is too good to be spattered all over the windshield of some '92 Subaru Legacy with a rear-left wheel that occasionally acts up and a moon roof that leaks when it rains.

Fuck it. I'll hit her anyway.

Marine Girlfriends

2005-12-20T13:01:00.000-06:00

Dear Marine Girlfriends,

You are the most annoying creatures on this planet. Please shut the fuck up about how great your boyfriend is because he was too stupid to do anything else with his life. He may have his redeeming qualities, ones that don’t involve being a Marine, but I automatically hate him because you can't shut the fuck up about him. You are insecure and stupid. You would be lost without a patriotic cock and a big engagement ring. What would you talk about if you didn’t have your Marine? Laguna Beach? “Hawt” guys who work at Hollister or who have filled out an application to work at Hollister? How many magnetic yellow-ribbons are you planning to tattoo on your gas-guzzling SUV? By the way, don’t you find it ironic that your “boo” is fighting for oil and you’re using it all up?

I think it’s safe to say that you didn’t really start listening to country music until you met your “baby.” The days of ass-shaking to hip hop are over and the days of childbirth to fucking Rascal Flatts have just begun. Don’t worry, though. You’ll probably enjoy listening to “Bless the Broken Road” on repeat while you live the true American life as nothing more than a womb who likes to shop and get involved in pointless community activities like “cul-de-sac Arts and Crafts day at the Johnson's house.” Be prepared for the day that will come twenty years down the road, when an evil brown-looking person will ring your perfect doorbell and announce that he is the product of a rogue seed your husband planted in some shrouded Iraqi bitch like a flag in soil. Is there a country song for that scenario? And if so, does Toby Keith sing it?

So tell me, do you love him because of who he is or do you love him because of what he is? Would you love him if Marines weren't "in" right now? Does he have anything going for him other than being a Marine? Is he good at billiards and changing oil? I’m curious. You say you love your Marine so much and then you treat him like a caricature. Normal, smart women don’t go around spouting off their husbands’ or boyfriends’ professions. You know why? Because it’s just a fucking job. What if every woman went around saying, “My Cop” or “My Car Salesman” or “Mah Forklift Operator?” That would be fucked, would it not?

That’s it for now. By the way, Jarhead will be on DVD March 7. Pre-order it and tell everybody you did.

Fuck you,
Jeff

White Trash McDonalds vs. Minority McDonalds

2005-12-19T12:34:00.000-06:00

I’ve pondered this for quite some time now. If I were walking down the street, singing a jingle, and my stomach fancied a cheeseburger and I came across two McDonalds sitting right next to each other – one run by minorities, the other by white trash – which one would I choose? Obviously this situation is very probable and will most likely happen to me tomorrow or sometime next week, so I must know what I would do. Here, today, now, I’m going to use those critical thinking skills of mine. I’m going to be a top-tier problem solver. Let’s split this shit up into categories, shall we? Remember, all assessments are going to be made on the assumption that I get hungry during PEAK HOURS.

Efficiency

You might as well fucking bring a lawn chair with you if you enter any of these establishments during the lunch or dinner rush. Apparently Juan or Kaydence has decided that the best way to combat the influx of assholes is to shut down all the registers except for one, which will undoubtedly be run by a Sudanese trainee who’s starting to have second thoughts about escaping genocide, or a fifteen-year-old girl with yellow bangs who can’t wait to get off the clock so she can go home, get pregnant, and smoke a carton of cigarettes in less than an hour. Either way, you’re left tapping your foot and sighing loudly.

Now let’s say you make it to the front of the line and it’s your turn to order. Fucking yay. The Sudanese trainee has been replaced with a large Hispanic woman; the fifteen-year-old with her ass-crotched manager who was probably born a Garbage Pail Kid. Personally, in this situation, I’d go with the ass-crotch. She’ll call me “hon” a whole bunch of times. The only downside to this is that when I order my milk (yes, I order milk from McDonalds) she’ll assume I mean chocolate milk. Then, when I tell her that’s not what I wanted, she’ll say, “ya want the white kind?” like she can’t understand why chocolate would take a backseat to anything (except for Doral Full Flavors). Now, if I were ordering from the large Hispanic cashier, she would say, “Meal? What kind?” No. Milk. “Mealk?” Leche. “Oh! Meallllk!” Then she turns around to get it and I realize that her tight black pants may have been a tarp or a Lycra parachute in a former life.

Still, all this considered, I’d have to choose the white trash McDonalds. Sure, at the minority McDonalds you can count the wispy mustache hairs on the Indian women in line if you get bored, but the grab bag of cultures operating the place make it hard for them to even understand each other.

Advantage: white trash McDonalds

Cleanliness

Both places will be dirty as fuck. Always. Salt will be scattered everywhere like broken dreams that never existed. Rogue ketchup squirted by some future prince or bastard child will be holding that salt in place. The workers are dirty, the customers are dirty, the food is dirty, you’re dirty. Cleanliness in a place like this can only be achieved on a dirty level. It’s like washing your asshole: it may be clean, but how clean can an asshole actually be? This being said, I choose the minority-run McDonalds. Why? Because I’ll get used to the strange smells emanating from the customers and employees. I will never ever get used to the choking stench of cigarettes being smoked indoors, something that white trash McDonalds don’t only allow, but encourage as well. Come in, vote for Bush, talk bad about colored folk, smoke from your soft packs. Fuck that shit, homie.

Advantage: minority McDonalds

Food Quality

Why the fuck did I come here again?

Advantage: McDonalds Corp.

Friendliness

Apparently these places are “Now Hiring Smiling Faces.” Maybe it’s because none of the ones they’ve hired thus far know what a fucking smile is. Look, I know your job is shitty, but don’t mislead me with those big signs in the window and the way hip “I’m lovin’ it!” advertising campaign aimed at the urban demographic (as if they didn’t eat fucking McDonalds in the first place). Here’s an idea, McDonalds: aim your advertising campaign at rich, white suburban families. Jared Fogle is kicking the shit out of that market. Target the stay-at-home moms who are slowly deconstructing minute by minute. Show salads and bottled water. Make McDonalds a post-gym destination. Lie even more.

Look, we all know McDonalds is not a happy place. No matter what the fuck you do, McDonalds will never be a happy place. The kids who have birthday parties at McDonalds always grow up to be farmers or suicide bombers. Depending on your perspective, these may be admirable professions, but I know I don’t want my illegitimate son becoming a martyr.

Since McDonalds gets about as friendly as a sack full of frowns, this category will be judged in the same vein as efficiency. Until employee warts and moles can smile and say Hi, being called “hon” is as friendly as it gets.

Advantage: white trash McDonalds

Winner: Nobody

Drive Home

2005-12-17T23:10:00.000-06:00

Wytheville, Virginia, birthplace of nothing. This hole-in-the-wall burg is one of those places you pass through without even knowing it fucking exists. The only reason you're aware that you're not passing through some time warp, some fucking blank canvas, is because the livestock on the side of the road look miserable. The fucking cows don't even want to graze in this ville of shit. They want to be slaughtered and consumed and shat into stained toilets and carried out to sea because Wytheville sucks cock for a living. Its main source of revenue is most likely the concession stand at the high school football games (Go Douchebags!). As you may have realized by now, I was ticketed for speeding through this fucking vortex. 80 mph. 15 over. $80 ticket. $51 processing free. $131 of my barter paper is going towards a new steeple for the town church. This will no doubt attract local teens who have nothing in their lives except for Sonic Powerade Slushies, soft packs of Marlboros, and the desire to marry and belch children from the womb.

Tell me this: what the fuck is the processing fee? Fuck that. I pay $51 so some big-haired bitch (probably named Tami or Doris) in a red christmas tree sweatshirt can slam a big "Fucked!" stamp into my paper. There, I've been processed.

Don't even get me started on the fuck that pulled me over. He's probably Doris's husband. Or cousin. Or both. I named him Jed. He's the type of asshole who wakes up at four in the morning to go talk to old people at the local diner because his job is "so much more" than harassing young drivers like me who are just trying to make it home for the holidays. He's such a piece of shit that I consider his children to be bastards, even though he'll probably buy them lots of wooden toys and cheap shit from the local cobbler or blacksmith for Christmas. Doris will buy him a magnetic yellow ribbon to stick to his cruiser so he can be a piece of shit and a patriot at the same time. It will go well with his W'04 sticker. Jed will buy Doris a few cartons of cigarettes and a Johnny Mnemonic DVD he got at the local Wal-Mart (which is 100 miles away). They'll all gather around the Christmas tree and think about football and country music.

One more observation: as soon as I hit Knoxville all the cars morphed into trucks with number 8 stickers (Earnhardt rules, you coloreds!) and UT stickers (Go Vols!). Then, once I got out of Knoxville, all those trucks transformed into SUVs with North Carolina license plates. They were driven by fratboys with goatees and blonde-girlfriends who are slowly realizing they're not as pretty as they think they are.

I'm tired. Goodnight... Badnight.

Jesus Fish and Douchebags

2005-12-16T18:19:00.000-06:00

Before I post I just want you guys to know that I have now enabled comments. They are no longer disabled and drooling on themselves. Har, har... har. Anyway, here:

I have an enemy and its name is the Jesus Fish. Whether its cars, clothes, or cute little ankle tattoos that make me fucking want to vomit, every god-fearing, fag-hating, "nigger-avoiding" boy and girl is proud to wear one in the name of peace and unity. Why? Because they’re just so goddamn adorable… and they like stand for Jesus and how religious somebody is or something, you know? You know what I say? Fuck the Jesus Fish and its looped-string looking simplicity. It’s unoriginal – a symbol of ignorance and complacency. When I see a Jesus Fish I see people smiling through their teeth at choir practice, singing the same hymn over and over and over and over again: “You’re going to burn in hell if you don’t have one of theeeeeeese! Fa la la la la la, sodomize my face!”

One thing I’ve noticed is the girls who wear Jesus Fish attire (i.e. free shit left over from Bible Camp 2001) tend to be more homely and masculine, not to mention large, which poses the question: why do you love God so much if he made you so unattractive and boring? It’s hard enough for ugly girls to get attention from sober males. Couple that with the fact they don’t put out and quote Bible verses and there’s nothing left for them but Christian Rock and a fabricated sense of self-worth. And Jesus. Their lives are self-induced tautologies. You can never go full circle if you keep going in circles. Yet, they don’t care. It’s like they’re trapped in a Kindergarten class halfway through the semester – they have their friends, they know which blocks build the best shitty-looking block houses, it’s their turn to be line leader, and show and tell kicks some serious behind. Everyday is the same beautiful day, even if the sky is black and hailing boulder-sized clumps of hippo shit. I’m serious. A girl once said to me, “Great day, isn’t it?” when it was raining outside. I said, “It’s dark and rainy.” She said, “Every day God makes is beautiful. Besides, the farmers sure could use weather like this.” Then she walked away and I saw a Jesus Fish on her backpack.

What I want to know is if everything’s beautiful then what’s ugly? If everything’s beautiful then beautiful is average. Ubiquity triggers a loss of importance, of resonance – which means Jesus Fish aren’t the key to heaven. Then again, what’s heaven if all those assholes are floating around?

The Latinafication of the White Female...

2005-12-13T11:38:00.000-06:00

This shit has to fucking stop. It's been roughly seven years since Christina Aguilera played the "brown card." Apparently her Dad was part Argentinian or Ecuadorian or whatever and she decided she'd celebrate her heritage with the flaunting of her taco meat and a stereotypical Latin-slut barrio accent ("uh uh! no yoo zin't!"). Sadly, her image failed to earn her street cred with the Rosas and Marias and Consuelas everywhere, but allowed her to capitalize on the Latin explosion of the time that produced memorable collaborations like "Nobody Wants to be Lonely," featuring Ricky Martin, and fucking "Where My Gurlz At?" or some shit, featuring Lil' Kim and her second face (I think she's on number five now).

Still, Christina has planted the bastard seed of a legacy in the cranial womb of dumb bitches everywhere. White ass-jeans, fake accents, and braids that are likely to reek of Newports and Tommy Girl. These are the same girls who hop in their fucking convertibles that Daddy's white collar, white-bred job paid for, and cruise around shopping centers and mall parking lots blasting Mariah Carey on repeat, looking for thuggish guys named Hector or Jose or Speedy Rodriguez who may or may not be affiliated with MS-13. These girls are the same girls who refuse to exercise or eat healthy so that they can be "thicky-thick" for their "men." Hector or Jose or Speedy Rodriguez wants that big Latin ass that used be reserved for black women B.J.L. (Before Jennifer Lopez, and, more recently, Vida fucking Guerra.) They don't care if it's covered in cottage cheese. As long as their girls are pushing two-twenty then they're set.

What's even more annoying is when the white girls actually claim a Hispanic heritage, the most popular being Puerto Rican. You're not fucking Puerto Rican. Daddy may own property or indentured servants in Puerto Rico, but that has nothing to do with you. This is my rule for determining heritage: if you don't look the part then it doesn't fucking matter. This goes for all the white Latinas, the blonde Italian girls, and any asshole who claims he's Cherokee (aren't we all, you lying fuck?). If you go to tanning beds and suck at archery, you're not Native American. If you put on an old school newspaper "Extra! Extra!" cap that's pink and made of leather and matches your poorly-crafted Prada bag that the Korean street vendor overcharged you for on your last field trip to Washington D.C., you're not Latina. You're a knockoff.

"Uh uh! No he zin't!" (yes I zid)

When a fat girl sits down...

2005-12-11T23:05:00.000-06:00

When a fat girl sits down her stomach looks like a surprised Giant's forehead.

I'm so omigod arrogant...

2005-12-11T03:34:00.000-06:00

That's how I feel now that I have a blog. Like anybody's going to read this shit but me. Still, words are my release so I guess this blog makes me an e-cutter. I'll try not to bleed too much.

Anyway, could this possibly be the ugliest motherfucker ever?

He looks like a redneck panda bear!

By the way, if you think I have some score to settle with this kid, don't think. I don't know who he is or if he's going to be in the sequel to Twins. I pulled his picture off of Myspace.com. Don't know what Myspace is? Here's a definition I pulled from dictionary.com:

It's a website where large women post almost-nude pictures for men who are tired of jerking off to conventional porn sites and dead-end free tours.

Maybe he can get together with this chick...

The whole state of Kentucky would rejoice.

Hmmmm....

2005-12-11T02:58:00.000-06:00

I'm trying to figure out how to configure this damn thing. Somebody told me I'd be a good blogger. I don't know if that was an insult or a compliment, but I figured I'd give it a try since I'm constantly complaining about shit that doesn't seem to bother anybody else (you guys are fucking weird).