Thursday, December 20, 2007
Nonetheless, I'm done! You'd think I'd be happier about not having to hop on the train three days of the week, rain or shine.. No, not me. That damn school gives me a purpose, a reason to wake up. Now I'm up at 10 of Six in the morning, and by 'up' I mean I haven't slept. Why not? I'm not entirely sure actually.
One thing I am sure of, is that my room has more hazardous vapors in it than the shower area at Auschwitz (which may or may not have existed...OH!) It's also about forty degrees hotter than it should be with the with the window open as much as it is. And lastly, I'll always be completely unsure as to why I have no hair whatsoever on my calves.
Going to keep this brief, due to my lack of having anything to say and my need to sleep. Big day today, involving a pay check and buying some wood to build a shelf. Expect pictures of my stigmata'd hands after that inevitable debacle.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Her exterior is hot, literally, she is radiating. It's a nice feeling though, so close. She hums, letting me know she's there still. She hasn't moved an inch since I fell asleep. Those sharp contours, that sleek and slim body, they said she was the best. I didn't think I could afford her, but in this business, you can't afford not to have the best.
My fingers get her to do whatever it is I want. I own her, she responds to all of my commands quickly and without a word. She's all I need, and she's mine. After last night, everything we tried, I wasn't sure she'd be this warm to me, but she's indifferent. Underneath that pristine chassis, just circuits, just like all the others.
(Falling asleep next to your computer in bed;You may not be alone, but you're pretty dead inside.)
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Literally, the barrel full, I was throwing them out. I let the mail build up for a day and it was like an avalanche of low APR this, adjustable rate interest that! Visa, MasterCard, American Express! They all want me to spend their money! I should feel honored I suppose.
Since I'm a student, and I barely work anymore, I decided, "What the hell.." and opened one of them up. Ok, reading through. There's some % thingies, I was never good at those in school. Alright, no liability for fraudulent purchases. Cool. Oooh, pick your own card design? I was sold, granted their templates were lamer than lame, but whatever, I've always envied those fancy people with their tacky American Flag credit cards. Filled out the application online, got approved, and waited.
Today, at long last, I received my beautiful new credit card. From Capital One, complete with the "Starry Night" background I requested. I was going to go with the declaration of Independence header "We The People" but in todays world, it may as well been the Mayflower Compact since in the event that I did lose my card, no one is going to respect such a strong symbol of American independence, but rather rape my fragile credit line on a plasma TV or some pogs or whatever Identity
Thieves are into these days.
I read through the 'fine print' which was more numbers and % things, and then called the 1-800 number to activate my card. After my call reached the switch board in New Delhi, I spoke with a delightful young lady whose name I cannot pronounce, which isn't so bad because she couldn't pronounce mine either. We spoke of those APR things and she told me I could have $1000 somehow, and then some more about other stuff. I really couldn't understand her very much at all, crafty bastards. They're not outsourcing to save money, they're outsourcing to trick people. They may as well just get Ms. Swan to explain the policy on Identity Theft Protection. The only part I caught was that it'd cost me $9 a month, and I did most politely inform her she could fuck that noise.
My card got activated, I got a pin, I have a line of credit. I'm ready to join the millions of Americans crippled by debt. Payday is not until next week, but I simply can't live without an Ipod touch. No problem! Charge it! Charge it all! Lady behind me in line at Best Buy? Yeah, what the hell, you've earned that washer and dryer! Put it on the card baby! What's free money if you're not going to use it,right?
Oh but I jest. Your humble Blog-rator is not nearly that reckless (with money) that he would do such a thing. No, just like that condom you had in high school, this card is going to stay in my wallet until the time is right... or she's just that drunk.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Born after 1987? You've got ADHD.
Every gotten into trouble? ADHD.
Acting out in class? ADHD again.
I have to say, as skeptical as I was, these things are freaking great! I was up until 4 am last night writing a manifesto and learning French! Without Adderall, I was sluggish and run down all the time, choosing anti-social behavior over that of a stimulating nature. That's all changed. Come tomorrow, I shall own most rightiously in all of my classes and then retire for the evening with Disk 2 of my pirated "Learn French in your car."
Why French? Why the hell not. My pills are wearing off for the night, and I've got to get some sleep anyway.
Au revoir! Douche bags...
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
It might be that I smoke a carton of cigarettes every 5 minutes, or the stack of empty Fresca cans. It could even be the dried out paints, or the cup of dirty water, but something truly pungent has invaded my once pleasant milieu, something more eviler than Skeletor himself.
To the right, you'll see a cake that I baked and decorated myself. I blew off that paper I was supposed to write for English but baked a cake. A model of productivity is me.
It looked like shit but tasted alright, providing nourishment for a couple days.
That's right, I lived the dream of every 5 year old in the world, to eat cake every meal. Or every Ethiopian child, to eat a meal.
At any rate, I'll be doing some cleaning eventually, or emptying a bottle of Febreeze into this som'bitch. Whichever requires less effort, I'm lookin' at you Febreeze.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Judging by the ten or so calls I received today from anonymous numbers and pre-recorded 'Please support' messages, I'm going to take an educated guess and say it's election time. A time when people stand on corners and hold big signs with other people's names on them, and wave and smile at cars. And as I mentioned before, when I get 10 calls a day from recordings telling me to vote for someone I've never heard of.
I was thinking of running for mayor. I mentioned it quite a few months ago, but the last call I got (literally 30 seconds ago) urging me to support Mayor Phelan, was just the push I needed.
People always talk about the issues. I've got plenty of them. I've also got ideas of how to waste people's money. For example, instead of putting up those ultra gay banners on all the street lights in Quincy Center, we build more bomb shelters. And by bomb shelters, I mean shelter, as in one. Big enough to fit myself, my entourage, one (dozen) or so suitable child bearers, and a lot of guns in the event of a nuclear holocaust. When the bombs drop, we'll need someone like me, you'll see.
Rather than having resources for kids, we build robots. Not for cleaning or maintenance, but like some high-tech ass robots that just sort of co-exist in our society. Give 'em some quarks and let 'em loose. Good luck bringing down Postpartum Depression Torrettes bot, wreaking havoc at the local church. And it looks like ol' Decapo-borg just ripped another senior citizens head off. Since we don't need Christians or the elderly to have a good city, I don't see these things as problems.
In addition to a bomb shelter and robots, I would propose Quincy become it's own sovereign nation, much like the various Indian ones. All of the important areas will be represented (With the exception of Quincy Point, because it's Quincy Point...) and everyone would get along. We'll leave peacefully for a while, but then, using cunning and subterfuge we slowly annex the surrounding areas. First Dorchester, then Southie. We'll launch a few h-bombs into Weymouth because no one likes Weymouth, and move onto Braintree. Pretty soon, the suburbs will be under Quincy rule and before you can say "Appeasement" my term will be up and some poor fuck will have to try to undue the damage I've done.
Might as well just call me Jim Sheets...
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Sadly, with my responsibilities, I will not be celebrating Halloween, as I have a class until 10 PM. Sure, I could go out after, but then there's that pesky 9 AM class the next morning. Yes, all work and no play makes Hans Strongo a bundle of rage. Meh, what else is new? It's all pretty pedestrian, the holiday thing. Not just Halloween, all of them.
I've given up drinking. Yes, I know, I know.. I've said it before, this time for real. No more "Just a couple beers" or "No hard shit" I'm just done. No more alcohol. If my blogs start to make sense and show some coherent structure, you can blame my abstinence and I apologize in advance. I figure if I can give up drinking, I'll be able to give up smoking a lot easier, because addictions suck and I'm striving to be even more of a douche then ever.
For you geeks out there, they released Manhunt 2 today. A brief synopsis of the first one: You're a death row inmate, you're released by a dude called "The Director" who watches you on camera. You have to kill a bunch of people, snuff style, in order to gain your freedom. Fun stuff! Now, before it's release, this game was branded by the ESRB(bunch of retarded Christian fucks) as Adults Only, which will pretty much guarantee that the game will tank. With an AO(adults only) rating, stores have to be extra strict with sales of the game. Well, even with the Mature rating, leave it up to the liberal bags of dicks to try to ruin everything. This game was all over the news, being blasted for it's "Over-the-top violence and realism." Parents are being urged to not allow their children to play this, because logically, they will turn into pure bred killing machines. One Harvard twat even said that when played for the Wii, it teaches kids HOW to kill... They then went on to say how Columbine was pretty much influenced by a violent video game the two faggy goths used to like to play. Imagine my surprise, here I am still thinking Marylin Manson was still at fault.
Kids, play all the violent games you want. Shit, go into the streets and act out your favorite Grand Theft Auto moments. That's what kids do these days, accept it. They're going to sell drugs, they're going to have unprotected sex and rainbow parties. They're going to burn down churches and suffocate in plastic bags; it's nearly unavoidable. For these children, I'm releasing my idea for a new game controller.
Now, it's not yet patented, so please don't steal my idea. The gist is, after an afternoon of merriment and mayhem, giggles and guts, when your child must feed his need for blood after hours of polygonal pandemonium, let them play with this little gem. It comes with 1 9mm slug (refills available for large families) and an easy to use 1 button interface. Simply put the mouth piece into your mouth(or to the side of head/under chin) and pull the action trigger.*
*Fuck-your-blog.blogspot.com not responsible for any injuries/deaths caused by product. Don't be a fuck-hole, violent video games don't turn people into psychos, organized religion and politicians do. Listen to heavy metal and worship Satan, have unprotected sex, and do whatever the hell you want until you're old enough to be tried as an Adult, then grow the fuck up.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
A plague of miscreants, leaving their nice suburban homes and office jobs to brave Landsdowne St for their favorite team. And no, there's nothing wrong with that, I have nothing against a group of over paid, over appreciated guys who get paid gross amounts of money for doing something they love (bitter?). It's the fact that these people (and I use that term loosely) act like the biggest douches on the planet.
MOVE INTO THE FUCKING TRAIN! Pretty much common sense right? To a Red Sox fan, when the train driver says "Please move into the train so that others may board" it means "Eeeeey, stand by the doo'ah, guy. It's gahnna be wicked pissah,dood!"
Oh, I'm sorry your kid has a broken leg. Maybe you should have left them at home instead of bringing them to a baseball game? No sir, I'll not give up my seat for your defective kid. It's every man for himself on the train, and Red Sox fans get absolutely no sympathy from me. Don't want to be crammed next to another dude? Sure, I don't either, but it doesn't make you gay. The way you idolize an athlete, now that's leaning a bit on the homo-scale.
If my memory serves me well, the Yankees played the Indians for their shot at whatever we played the Angels for. So then, shouting "Yankees Suck" at the top of your lungs from Park Street to Kenmore served what purpose? And um.. haven't they won like 4x the amount of World Series we have? This is our second time being here in 20 years, don't get so god damn cocky.
Being the nice guy I am, I revamped the logo for you Red Sox Nation types. Please, feel free to use it, embrace it, love it. You all have certainly earned it with your boy crushes on large Dominican men, over used(and factually inaccurate) slogans, improper T etiquette, and general failure to be decent human beings. Enjoy my lovelies
Yes, a Vulcanite Anal douche, sounds very Star Trek but you've earned it. No really, no need to thank me, it's all for you Red Sox Gay-tion. If the Red Sox lose the series, I'll personally assist in any way I can in a mass suicide, honestly, it'd be my pleasure. I'll dispense the Kool-aid right on Yawkey way for yas.
Bunch o' cunts.
Friday, October 5, 2007
I lost one of my books for school and had a bit of a meltdown. After doing one of the mandatory stress tests and totally freaking out on the poor women whose job it is to read the shit, I felt a little better. I decided rather than waste the day reading comic books and watching movies, I'd be productive.
As I've stated in the past, I don't drive. Never got my license, driving permit is expired, I have no valid ID whatsoever. After going to the tattoo place, I was informed I'd need at the very least a Mass ID. The only problem with a Mass Id, is that I need a real social security card and all I have is a photocopy. I glanced over the Social Security website for the requirements of getting a replacement, and it stated clearly that they could not use photocopied ones or birth certificates. At this point, I'm freaking out. What a vicious circle! Can't get ID because I don't have a Social Security card and can't get one because I don't have ID! I took my school ID, birth certificate, pieces of mail, and my photocopied card just in case.
For those of you who are familiar with Quincy Center, the Social Security office is in Presidents Plaza, across from the T station. I had no idea, but yes, it is apparently more than just a Dunkin Donuts, a "Stash's Pizza, and a Dentists office. Who knew? Anywho, it's on the second floor of this building. I went in, took a number, and sat down in my own section of the room. What a sight it was.
On one side of the room, you've got a myriad of cultures, all trying to figure out social security or they've been caught using a fake one, who knows? On the other side, it was a grazing ground for a group of industrial size vats of tapioca pudding, vaguely resembling human beings. And last but not least was a band of coffin dodgers, older than the hills and smelling of Polydent and death. They were there to let the Social Security people know that against the very will of the universe, they would still be receiving their social security checks. Adult diapers and hard candy aren't going to buy themselves, now are they?
I waited for what seemed like an eternity, I thought for sure we'd have at least one casualty before my number was called. Between the shifty eyed Latino man jumping out the window at the sight of an INS agent, the Mack truck sized woman, whose breathing I could hear over my (very loud) music, heart giving out, or one of the denture wearing geriatrics to simply getting too close to the air vent and turning to dust before my very eyes, leaving a pile of orthopedic shoes, cataracts glasses, sensible slacks, and a "Life Alert" bracelet behind.
Alas, nothing of the sort. Waiting, waiting, waiting. There was a slight argument, but no blood, not even profanity. Finally, number 104 (that was me) gets called. I snake my way through the refugee camp, fat camp, and the AARP headquarters and get to the window. I tell the woman behind the glass my needs, and present my Student ID and application. In the back of my mind, I half expected to be told I didn't exist. A SWAT team busting down the doors and repelling through the windows to haul me off to some secret base in a mountain somewhere. Or have to face an interview with Harrison Ford or something to determine if I was a replicant (Blade Runner reference...) Safe this time. She entered my info in the computer and gave me a piece of paper. I will be the proud owner of a brand new Social Security card in 7-10 days.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Another day in Brookline, where the library gets barely any signal wireless wise and everyone reads the fucking newspaper. Don't these people have jobs? I decided after finishing up at the library, I'd loaf around the streets of "The Line" and see if I could find anything cool.
After 30 minutes in Brookline alone, the mind starts to wander. The sheer lack of anything cool to do puts tremendous pressure on an outsider, mentally and emotionally. I must've looked like Arnold Scwartzenegger at the end of Total Recall (when he is on the surface of Mars) I thought my head was going to explode.
Luckily it didn't. I don't think this town could handle such excitement. After getting some shitty pizza at some shitty pizza place, I went to my school. I was like 2 PM, and thus had 2 hour to kill. I decided to see what kind of connection I could get sitting at one of the many little outside tables we have. Sure enough, great connection! I'm fucking zooming! Signal was stronger than the Pee smell in the doorway to the garage under the Stop and Shop building in Quincy Center.
My 4 PM English class was canceled, I can finally leave Brookline!
Monday, September 24, 2007
On the train this morning, I started thinking about what hell would be like, if such a place exists. It's always been portrayed as sort of a fire pit with lakes of lava and rivers of dead babies and stuff like that. It's not really logical, I mean, what's going to keep all that fire going? Not to mention, if your body is rotting in a coffin, who's ass is getting prodded with the all mighty Satan's pitchfork? Would they really go out of their way to give you a new body just to get it all scorched and holy (as in full of holes, get it?)
The train was particularly packed this day, and with a giant bag full of art supplies and another messenger back full of laptop, it made things kinda shitty. I was smack dab in the middle of the car, and the poles were just out of my hand's reach, I could only hold on with my fingers. After 1 stop, my arm was tired. This would be something I'd hate to have to do for an eternity (IE: Eternity in "Hell"). As I stated before though, if I'm rotting in a coffin(suitcase,body of water,ditch,smoldering fuselage) I don't really have to worry about my arm popping out of it's socket when the train jerks.
If I had to give a visual of something my hell would be, it'd be pretty mundane for most. I don't foresee fire or lava or anything like that. Hell would have a very "Asian person's house" smell, and you'd get one pair of white sneakers with a rock in it that you couldn't get out. You'd have to wait in huge lines to do anything, like, to leave your hell house you'd need to wait in a line. No matter what, the guy in front of you would have a "XxX" tattoo on the back of his neck and excessive amounts of back hair. People would ride bikes, and wear bike shorts, but only guys. So like, everytime you'd look, hoping to see some nice female ass, enhanced by lycra, it'd be a dude (though I guess you'd learn not to look.) There'd be giant speakers set up everywhere, that would only play Dane Cook comedy (because he isn't funny... at all.)
Doesn't sound to pleasant, does it? Certainly not a future I'd like to see. Thankfully, since I'm not part of that plague called Christianity, I don't feel the need to worry. Unless my theories are incorrect, I'll just have to deal with the minor inconveniences of life until I'm worm food.
Thanks for reading, and remember, have your Christians spayed or neutered.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Armed with a veritable ass-load of free time and my totally sweet Macbook, I set out, to paint the town of Brookline red. After just 10 minutes, my school disappearing behind the other buildings in the area, I was in the filthy, wretched, bowels of Brookline. Also known as Brookline, without the filthy and wretched part, as it's quite clean.
I had been here before, my last Thursday class got out even earlier and I was forced to feed my wanderlust. This Utopian, predominantly Jewish hood has a toy store, lots of new wave hair salons (the kind that have a lot of beads and vases and gay stuff like that) and rival coffee shops.
Being able to hear your stomach over music is discomforting so I scoured the town center for anything resembling a Chinese restaurant, craving some tasty General Gao's Tofu. I got my tofu, but it was certainly not of the Gao variety, and that made me a sad panda, plus the rice had eggs in it.
With a belly full of bean curd, I padded along, down Harvard St. to the dueling coffee shops. On one side, you've got the New England favorite, Dunkin' Donuts. On the other side, you've got a Starbucks, for people who like their coffee to be dripped slowly from the ass of Rosie O'Donnel and pureed in a blender then heated up nice and hot and ridiculously priced. Obviously I chose the first one, and to my utter shock, they not only spoke English, were super nice, but they were like .50 cheaper than what it costs in Quincy!
Smoking a cigarette in front of the liquor store(with a giant clock) I watched a yoga cunt trip and fall right on her face not even five feet before my eyes. I had to beat a quick retreat for fear of her hearing my laughing and putting me an awkward position, like asking me why I would laugh at her for falling.
Now here I am, at the Brookline Public Library with an hour left on my battery and almost 2 hours til my next class. The bastards made me throw my coffee away too, which I guess isn't too bad because I know have yet another objective to fulfill.
So good bye anyone who read this, my oh so rare "Two in one day" blogs. See you all really soon with other dumb things you can read to waste time.
Welcome to Boston, a city rich with history and culture. Come see the famous Boston Commons, visit the holocaust memorial. See Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox. See the city from one of the wonderful Duck Tours. How about Faneuil Hall? While you're here, stop off in Cambridge, where Ben Affleck and Matt Damon will now have intersections named after them.
You read right. These two "natives" are getting intersections named after them. In a state that saw the lives of Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Jack Kerouac, John Adams and son, and a good majority of the other founding fathers; and these two get a god damned intersection named after them?
Thank God! I was running out of reasons to hate it here. What's next? What else are they going to pull on our fair people? It's bad enough that the cost of living has made Boston a haven for yuppies and scum of the like, but now this? Gigli Boulevard? Bourne Parkway? Smokin' Aces Community Free Clinic.
Sure, we had that whole throwing tea into a harbor thing, but this is truly a defiant "Fuck You" in the face of everyone. Maybe I'm wrong here, but am I the only one disgusted by this? It wouldn't surprise me, being the only person in the state who thought "The Departed" was a massive pile of runny shit.
Ben: You were married to Jlo for like a week and your movies suck. Deep throat a shotgun.
Matt: "The Good Shepard" was the worst 2 hours and 38 minutes of my life, catch a bullet with your face.
Fuck Your Intersections.
Friday, September 7, 2007
School has started and I've got to say, it's been pretty neat. The whole feel of the place is kinda nice in general.
Classes are not too bad so far, though I haven't had English or "Fundamentals of Design" yet. Thankfully, that dreadful last post is behind me. I wouldn't really have topped myself if I didn't get in, I just would have waited until next semester, but who doesn't love the drama?
I went out and bought an MacBook and I've got to say, it's quite possibly the coolest thing I've ever owned. It's just plain hot, the super model of laptop technology. The keys are so smooth, it's like typing on a vagina.
I've lost interest in this blog,sadly. Time is not on my side these days and I'm running out of witty things to say (if you haven't noticed...) It's about time to introduce phase two of FYB, which you'll (the 3 1/2 people who read this) will see.
Anywho, I've got a train to catch. The Brown train waits for no man....
Get it? No.. I figured.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
It turns out I did get accepted and went to my orientation,disregard the rest of this blog.
I didn't get accepted to college. This was the last resort. If this blog isn't updated after today, I've killed myself.
Thanks for reading.
PS:Fuck Your Blog
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Don't do this to me,baby. We can work it out. I'll buy you an ice cream if you work. I'll stop looking at other computers. It was one time, one fucking time! You know I'd never replace you. We've been through so much together, don't do this to me now.
You fucking cunt! Start or I'll fucking kill you! I swear to God I'll smash you into a thousand pieces, not even your mother board will be able to identify you. You like that bitch? Cold boot, in your fucking face.
Safe mode? Work! Oh my God please work. Yes. Yes! To when the times were good, go there! Do it! Do it!
And now we wait..
Yes! You're my fucking bitch! I own you! You work for me!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
So yeah, if you're interested, my thing is at www.myspace.com/fuckyourblog and send me a friend request. Join the Fuck Your Blog army and all that.
In other news, I put in my 2 week notice at Burger King, where I've been working for the past couple months. It seems like the shittiest job in the world, and it is, but there's certain things that make it not so shitty. Perhaps the one that sticks out most in my mind is not really giving a fuck whether I get fired or not. If you haven't had a job like that, I suggest you get one before you die, you won't regret it.
Another important aspect of working there is sluts. There are a lot of sluts in Weymouth. As the old saying goes: "Girls in Weymouth will have sex with you" and they will. Even with my lower than low standards, there are a few I wouldn't touch with a pool skimmer, attached to a yard stick,attached to another man's penis... but that's to be expected.
Having a cool boss helped, and the fact that there are some supple barely (not quite) legal hunnies for which to gaze upon while working. These few are the exception to the skanks mentioned above. Sweet girls, untarnished by their town's reputation. That plays a large factor in the "Hans Strongo wants to defile your body" scheme. Luckily, with the absence of occupational responsibility and a lax sexual harassment policy, my advances are given the freedom they need to possibly blossom into that drunken night those poor naive girls will look back on in disgust many years from now.
I will bid the kingdom good bye, leaving with a sense of satisfaction, 3/4 of a gallon of marinara sauce, and about a pound of mozzarella cheese, which is also how I'd imagine the morning after sex with Rachel Ray would be.
I don't get it either...
Friday, August 17, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
I swept through the suburban utopia, pulling my trench coat up above my ears in an attempt to mask the shame that showed in my face. Ok, actually it was my hoodie, and I would have had the hood up if it wasn't hot enough already.
Finally, I arrived at the Night Deposit box. I had to act as if I was engaged in some sort of conversation on my cellphone, as a car drove by just as I was about to relinquish myself of the smut. At long last, my pornography was returned safe and sound, and two days late (still no late fees though, awesome!)
In other news, I signed up for college. New England Institute of Art. I'm to be a full blown art fag, in the field of graphic design. As you can see by all of my pictures, I know quite a bit about photoshop. Or atleast putting words over pictures, that I can certainly do. I met with a guy today and I have to write some essay about why I chose graphic design, which I'm putting off doing because I don't feel like it.
I didn't care for the amount of guys in girl pants, but I guess I'll have to adjust if I want to make fat loot fucking with photoshop though. The sacrifices I make..
My break from the internet is now over. I'm back full swing until September. That means I'll be socializing again in real life! Which means back to binge drinking and all that good stuff. Because of this, I'll be turning my basement into a pirate bar. That's right, a fucking pirate bar! Pirate stuff, pirate flags, a bar... Pirate Bar! So for you readers who know me in real life, give a call to my cellphone on Friday, this time I'll probably answer.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
It was a business transaction like any other. Traveling salesman, nondescript; like so many other Johns before him. The same motel room. He wore a gray suit, blue slacks. She wore a tight black dress, clinging mid thigh to her black stockings.
There was a full moon that night, just barely peeking through ominous black clouds. A dreary Tuesday like so many others in the city. Nothing could be suspected on this November evening, certainly not in a situation like this. While she rattled off the prices for services provided, reciting as if from some imaginary sex menu, he simply smiled.
Removing his tie and untucking the oxford shirt from his cheap trousers, the man stood up. Throwing his blazer on an adjacent chair, he laughed. Unsure of how to react, she too let out a nervous squeal. Removing his undershirt, he revealed a deep scar on his chest that seemed to be pulsing with every beat of his heart. He arched his back and clenched his teeth, doubling over, shoulders almost touching as he retched and quivered.
She was barely out of her second knee high boot when he was on top of her, tearing through the cheap fabric of her black dress with his pointed incisors. "You ripped my dress you fucking prick" she shouted, slapping the side of her head with the palm of her hand.
He stopped. Craning his neck he peered into her pale blue eyes with his own. They glowed a sickly orange, his once plain face now bristling with what looked like dog's hair. His teeth jutted like a wolves, he snarled and took short breaths like some feral beast. Surely there was no price fit for this treatment.
She recoiled in horror, vaulting this man-beast off of her by lifting her legs over her head, a method she had certainly perfected. He was launched into the 27 inch black and white Magnavox that sat on the dresser. She pulled herself up, using the bed that had bought her Prada bag as support. grimacing at the tear in her favorite dress, she looked for the attacker, bringing the stiletto out of her bag slowly.
He was no longer there. The splinters of a dresser, the crumpled carcass of a television, and a bible were all that occupied that floor now. She threw her back to the wall, her breathing labored. Figuring he must have ran from the room in a fit of shame, she looked to the heavens and let out a sigh.
Checking his watch, two hours had gone by. He had not heard from his top money maker and had begun to worry. He knocked on the door of the usual room. No answer. He pressed his ear to the door, his diamond stud making a slight rap against the imitation wood. No sound. He kicked in the door, sending it flying off the hinges. The lights were off, but from the moonlight flooding the room, he could see the bed had no occupants. The shower was running, cautiously he went for the door of the bathroom.
He could feel the dampness a foot from the door through his gator skin boots. With his large, ring laden hand, he turned the knob. He burst in, and to his horror found the remains of his favorite ho, still being gnawed on by this wolf creature. He turned to leave but stumbled on a piece of shattered furniture. He felt the burn of fangs in the back of his neck as his vision of the parking lot went black.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I did all of this without looking at my computer once. It has been off for two days, a new record (save for when it's being fixed.) I've decided to take a well deserved break from the internet and start living my life, something that is long overdue. I'm taking a break from any taxing social obligations as well, and due to my new found alcohol abstinence, I'm sure no one will mind.
"You're not drinking..You're a vegetarian, and now you're isolating yourself from people? What the fuck man!"
Yeah, that's what I thought too. I want to paint. I want to travel. I want to lose 20 lbs. I want to watch sunsets and drive around at night. All these things are made increasingly more difficult to achieve when you've become burdened with things like relationships, whether friendly or romantic. I'm giving up. On both, for now.
I'm not depressed. I'm being productive. I'm doing the most positive thing I can for myself, which is staying away from elements that drain my time and energy with negativity. No more will I drag myself into work on a Saturday morning, still partially drunk and feeling sick from the Chinese food I ate at 3 in the morning. I'll still be pissed off by the fact that I'm at work, and I'll still be cross and snippy with customers, but that's who I am. My whole mission is to continue being myself without having to be bogged down by upholding a social life.
There's no ill will toward anyone, this is just something I want to to. I'll continue 'blogging' (I fucking hate that word) and I'll continue working two jobs. Wouldn't want to disappoint the three people who read this thing.
Lastly, on the subject of vegetarianism: If Hitler can do it, so can I.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Marsella,from the bank, one of these days I will muster up the courage to ask you to a sensibly price dinner. Wooed you shall be with my amusing anecdotes and expertly timed zingers. Marvel at my observational and situational comedy, and if I play my cards right maybe I'll get a tour of the vault? Eh? Vault being her vagina, though I hope with her taste in smart clothing she'd have a more hygienic method of storing her loots.
I'm thinking about going rockabilly, if not for looking cool, then for those 'fly' chicks they get. You know the type.. Sassy, with a 'Fuck your rules' attitude and some 'hawt' tattoos. Cherries,dice,ect ect. I'll have to drive a hearse, but hey, I can adapt.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
I know I addressed this once, but my new phone is so freakin' awesome that I felt the need to mention it again. In other news, I'm back to exercising. I worked out for an hour yesterday and vomited. It makes me think about quitting cigarettes. FOR A MINUTE!
Fashion is dumb. They should make those sweatpants with words on the ass say better things. Like "gonorrhea" or "chlamydia" and things of that nature. Juicy sounds gross enough, like diarrhea or something.
I drank like 13 or something beers in about an hour today. A few hours later, I took a nap. That's why I'm up at 4 AM and bored out of my mind (thus the blogging.) This is boring.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Sure, Fresca never had a Van Halen song to rock out to. But while Crystal Pepsi was being enjoyed by those hundreds of people, Fresca was networking. Building lasting bonds with a taste that never left you unsatisfied. Fresca wasn't out to become famous, he just wanted to be liked.
While OK Soda was out selling Ludes to kids at raves, Fresca was delighting the world with it's crisp citric bite that made you feel appreciated. When you sit down with a Fresca, things are going to be more than just OK.
Surge pushed us to get X-treme! Get your skateboards! Let's hit the half-pipe! It's only a scratch; it's only a broken vertebrae! Get up! Get Surge! Surge it! Yeah! Fresca did the opposite. Fresca promoted chilling out. "Hey buddy, why don't you take a load off and enjoy some wonderfully delicious, always delightful Fresca?"
How can you say no?
This distinctive refresher with a light citrus taste just keeps on rocking. Long after the Mellow Yellow's and Pepsi Blue's of the world fade out, Fresca will be there. Whether you've just mowed the lawn or some particularly violent and sweaty coitus has concluded, when you reach for that Fresca, you've made that right choice.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
My phone has been dead for almost a month so I went and picked this little gem up the other day. It's officially the coolest thing I own. I already have an Ipod, so fuck an Iphone, and plus Apple is kinda gay.
My status in the world is increasing. I take it out and pretend to talk an awful lot more than ever. I can even read my own blog from it (and do), what more could you ask for?
It's got a stylus pen so I can scratch my balls and I can organize my week with it too. It's like having a secretary who will scratch your balls with a tiny stick (and not sue you.)
Yeah, it drained my bank account but it was so worth it. Who needs a positive balance when you've got such a sweet piece of machinery? Exactly.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
It would seem that summer is finally here. The oppressive heat, the blistering sun, and oh yeah: The ladies.
It appears the sun has defrosted whatever part of my brain that gives me the balls the hit on chicks, and though I hate myself for doing it, I give in every time. The girl at Borders, the woman behind me in line at 7-11, even people coming into my work; no one is safe from my smooth talking and relentless libido.
It dawned on me the other day, while eating Ramen noodles in my underwear at 1 in the morning and watching "Sean of the Dead" on Comedy Central: I need a woman. Not just any will do anymore, it's time to move up from the minor leagues and get back into the game.
My last sexual encounter was certainly less than spectacular (for me not her.) I won't go into the details, because I'm mildly disgusted with myself, but let's just say I faked it and couldn't look at her for the rest of the night. She wasn't my type in the least, and this is what I blame my sluggish performance on, but what exactly am I into?
I always hate to say a girl is "Not my type" since I'm not exactly sure what type is right for me. If it's got anything to do with past relationships, I'll take issues. Lack of self-esteem, paranoia, jealousy, ect. Those would be my turn ons, if we were taking that route. Real interests I have:
Glasses: No coke bottles or anything, but cute glasses are win. They make a girl look sophisticated, no matter how vapid she may be. Sure, I'll find out later of their resentment to killing lemons for lemonaid, but it certainly softens the blow.
Since I'm also a sucker for pretty eyes, if you have such eyes, they'll be magnified and I'll be able to see them even better.
Sense of Humor: If you laugh at my jokes, you're in. I don't care how off color or certifiably inappropriate it is, if you crack a smile, I'll love you. This also ties in with the ability to be candid, speak what's on your mind or just in general. Not that you should prattle on about things I could care less about, but awkward silences make for a bored and agitated Hans Strongo.
Vagina: Not really a preference but a prerequisite. At least one required for any type of relationship/one night stand/my attention during a donkey show,ect.
Down the road it helps if you can cook and you'll put up with my shit. Those three things will certainly help you get to that point, where you're cooking for me and dealing with my shit.
I'm contemplating running for mayor of my fair city, more to come on that later.
Proof reading is for suckers.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Elderly: "Respect your elders" they say.... What says respect more than holding someone down, the grip on their Polident® smile slowly giving as the dentures slide to the back of their throat. Repeatedly kicking about the face and neck, as if to tenderize an old milk carton. Brittle ribs crack like nilla waffers, space age plastic hips give way to circa 1991 WWF style Leg drops and pizza dough skin quickly plums with broken blood vessels and blunt force trauma.
You're as old as the hills, wonderful! You deserve a discount because you're incontinent and cranky? They ask a lot of questions about different things but never seem to listen to a word of advise. It is my belief, that everyone over 75, with the exception of those with special permits, should be put somewhere and not allowed out.
White Trash revival: Larry the Cable guy isn't funny. Jeff Foxworthy isn't funny. Incest isn't funny. See a connection? When you don't bathe, you start to smell bad, and when your body fat percentage is over 30% you shouldn't wear just a tank top(no matter how hot it is!)
There's not a whole lot of ''Rednecks" in the North East, but there are dumb yokels nonetheless. Wearing NASCAR hats, holding the arm of their beautiful brides(Almost always over 200 lbs, waaay to short shorts, and a Tweety bird shirt with some mildly 'fresh' slogan on it.) You are white trash, please stop living.
Friday, June 15, 2007
I'm actually busy these days, having something to do is always a nice feeling. Sure, I don't get to stay up until 4 every night, drinking and playing Ultima Online, but you have to make sacrifices. Not that I really have anything I need at this point in time, thus making my whole 'sacrifices' argument useless, but still...
I've been working on some super secret things to give to my loyal fan(s). I've received almost 700 hits thus far, so someone is reading my stuff. This makes me happy, knowing that at least one person might get a chuckle out of these worthless ramblings. Good game lurkers, keep up the good work.
It's 5:27 AM. I've yet to sleep. Rather than slumber like any normal person, I watched "The Last Run." "The Wonder Year's" Fred Savage as a sex addict, need I say more? It had a good ending, the dialogue was strong, I give it an A- overall.
Well, until we meet again,or just when I become more interesting, I shall bid you all adieu.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Oh Paris, it must have been terrible! You had to endure three (3!) days in Prison, separated from all the actual criminals (and people that don't have daddy's money to play with and the best lawyers , you know, they type that get spunk-depository Heiresses out of minuscule jail sentences for being irresponsible twats.)
She was released today after 72 hours! Three days and she's home, due to "Medical reasons" according to the news. I didn't know 'Cock Withdrawal' was a medical condition. To show that they still meant business, they've placed her on house arrest.
SHE LIVES IN A MANSION WITH EVERY POSSIBLE AMMENITY!
So for the next 42(?) days, she'll lounge by a pool. Text message her friends, make some sex tapes,ect. But she's being punished. Now go to your room,Paris, you get no dessert tonight.
At least Martha Stewart did 6 months.
Monday, June 4, 2007
With the music two notches past reasonable and bass long past the line of good taste, four men, dressed in the height of urban fashion available(without leaving the suburbs) cruise the main drag for any 'fly hoes' for which to 'holla at.'
A red light. An uneven sidewalk. Rod goes sprawling onto the pavement. 'C-dub' (Real name Charles) pulls his 'whip' (1994 Pontiac Sunfire,hunter green) to a stop. Noticing Rod's predicament from the corner of his eye, 'Loc da Mak' (Loke-the-Mack, real name Travis) let's out a bona fide 'gangsta' giggle.
Phillip, the brawniest of the group, standing at a towering 5'9, with what could have been muscles protruding though his navy blue,button down, Ralph Lauren shirt ($16.99), shot a cold stare into the direction of the heckling homies.
A volley of insults were exchanged, the 'fresh ride' pulled into an adjacent parking lot, and the two rival forces soon found themselves face to face in the middle of the outdoor food court.
To Be Continued
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
- You must wear a white bandanna in your left back pocket at all times
- Grey t-shirts are worn for any type of gang meeting/barbecue/picnic/car wash
- You must be able to perform the gang handshake without a moments notice (revealed upon application approval)
- You must act like you know everything, and let other people think this too
- Never say sorry, unless you have to, but don't be sincere about it
- Be able to snarl
- Act smug at all times
Pretty standard stuff. I am obviously the leader. We'll find some other 'crews' to 'rumble' with down the road, but for now we'll just mull around my backyard, drink Heineken and scoff about the latest styles, hypothesize, scrutinize,and other things that end with the suffix 'ize.' Send all applications to Hans.Strongo@gmail.com, include your name and address so I can send your bandanna.*I quit smoking for 45 minutes because I left my cigarettes on the kitchen table
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
It dawned on me the other day at work that I have no idea what the hell the song "Black horse and The Cherry Tree" is about. I tried as hard as I could to focus on each and every lyric and put some sort of meaning to it. I ended up dropping everything I was carrying and saying "Fucking Cunt" in front of a 4 year old Filipino. It bugged me each time the song came on(about once an hour) and I wracked my brain, trying to wrap my brain around what kind of message this woman with bright red lipstick was getting at.
On the walk home, I had the Ipod on shuffle. From 'Brother's Roast beef' to Dunkin Donuts, Manowar told me about how great they were[Kings of Metal] and while I waited to cross Hancock Street, I learned about the benefits of the AIDS virus from Ethnic Cleansing[Hail AIDS.]
Back at work, I'm lost in a sea of confusion. On my time, the music I listen to is simple. I relate to it. If I'm going to punch you in the face, or drink some beer, or talk about love being a battlefield, you're going to understand it. I don't need to throw out archaic terminology or use complex metaphors to describe my feelings. Sure, I can! I sometimes do even, but it's not really appropriate to launch into prose when the guy selling you cigarettes asks how you're doing, or to baffle him with your prolific take on life.
Perhaps you're a fan of this KT Tunstall broad. I'm not. I'll tell you why even. The song she sings, not that it is awful, but it is. Like most pop songs are. Yes I called it pop, why? It's Popular. Or was. It was on the radio, it was on Mtv. You have no license to artistic integrity when you package yourself for mass media. Put on 60 lbs and then belt out one of those "OOoh OOohs" with your ruby red lips. See how far you get then, baby.
You can read the lyrics to the aforementioned song at the link below. http://http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/kttunstall/blackhorsethecherrytree.html
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
You delighted us in Empire Records as the lovable, neurotic, whore. You stole our hearts in Mallrats when we got to see your boobies. We waited at the edge of our seats for you to eat muff in Chasing Amy. You made us cry in Jerry Maguire (so it was Renee Zellweger, but they could be sisters! Or atleast neighbors)
Where have you gone, Joey Lauren Adams? Why do you hide from the lime light, letting lesser actresses like Kiera Knightly steal your thunder? Who names their daughter Joey? Are you a baby Kangaroo?
Whether your're in rehab or just getting back to your Marsupial roots, I want you to know that we all miss you. It doesn't matter that you were in Dr. Dolittle 2. If you see this, let's hang out. OK?
Audrey Tautou(French actress famous for such films as Amelie and more recently,The DaVinci Code). Let's just say I'd like to 'yes' in her hair.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Not quite, but hey, I added a counter! I even took out the hidden advertisement they had their for 'Natural Male enhancment.' Ever wonder how "Bob" from the enzyte ad lives? Going to the gas station/mall/adult book store must be hell for that guy. I can only imagine trying to pick up a hooker and being recognized as "The dude from the dick pills comercial."
Moving along at break neck speed... 28 weeks later? Dub tee eff? (That's what we cool kids do, spell out acronyms,bee tee dubya) Anyway, I'm assuming this is the sequel to "28 days later" which was I guess alright. With the exception of opening with some dude's penis and "Rage" zombies, not a bad flick. But why? End it there!
Danny Boyle, who directed 28 Days Later, also directed Trainspotting. Trainspotting, which you don't know (since no one I know in real life will read this garbage) is one of my favorite movies/books. It's been said that there's work being done on the sequel to Trainspotting(Porno) and I've been waiting for this for quite a while. More waiting I guess.
I'll leave you with this,my loyal 10 followers.
Friday, May 4, 2007
This water tastes like paper towels. Figure that one out.
I'm missing a party for this. Not that I necessarily planned to sit hunched over a keyboard, chain smoking and firing out lines of text in my neato-burrito blog... It's just that watching "This is Spinal Tap" and playing 4 hours of Fallout seemed like a good idea, while missing 4 phone calls from well wishers and the party planning comittee. It wasn't like I was supposed to bring the crepe paper.
Was I supposed to bring the crepe paper?!
Thursday, May 3, 2007
I've always considered blogs the most selfcentered things in the universe. Douchebags across the universe(yeah, universe) clacking away at their keyboards trying to verse their opinions to a sea of deaf ears. Or eyes, you know what I mean. I suppose you could say this is a cautionary post, because this is where I'm going to tell you that you'll find nothing constructive.
I'm caustic; I don't get along with people in the real world. I don't like people and yet work in customer service...
I don't socialize, and wonder why I'm so lonely.
All this "I" talk makes me want to go to Ihop.
Atleast now I can say "Oh this is soooo going in my blog" in a really lispy voice. And then paint the walls with my brain.