Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Yall don't know, yall don't know.... i'm tight like spandex

So i've been listening to the new eminem cd, and once again my aspirations to become a mexichinked-out rapper have been rekindled. So i was sitting in class today, bored off my ass, and i decided to bust some flows, on paper of course. The result, I will share with you all on this fine evening, so that you may throw tomatoes at me and tell me to give up, and that i suck. But you can take your criticisms and shove them up your ass, because my name is.... G-flow. Yeah, that's it. Don't fuck with the G-flow. I drop shit like pigeons. What you got? Bitch

So i'm gonna post my lyrics to this song i wrote, it reads like some of that old school marky mark and the funky bunch shit. Cuz i keep it real like that. Its called, Niggah with a Gat, and it comes with a lil twist at the end.

Niggah with a Gat.

I saw a boy with a gun in his hand,
I was hoping my eyes weren't right
But the moon was just bright enough to show
That unmistakeable outline in sight.

As he walked by i paused and asked
"How old are you son?"
Before he replied i added,
"What the FUCK are you doing with a gun?
You think you're some kind of gangster?
And where's your mom and dad?
It's a half-past twelve on a monday night,
You ass should be in bed.
Hand that thing over kid
That shit better be made of plastic"

But he pulled away with a menacing glare,
As if i couldn't see past it.

"I'm thirteen," he replied
"My folks work graveyard to make bread
But that's neither here nor there because,
I want this niggah dead.
Ya see my girlfriend cheated me man,
I seen her passing notes to a kid at mass
And then just the other day,
I sees her kissing him after class!"

"Boy, look at what are you saying!
Don't you ever use your head?
Your girlfriend kissed another dude,
And now you want him dead?
In my day we brawled with fists
Nobody took weapons to a fight
If you wanna be a man thats how its done,
And you'll know you've done it right"

"Mister you can't feel my pain,
You probably don't even know what love is."

"Don't you smart mouth me you little shit,
And my past is none of your biz
Now for the last time hand that thing over
Don't make me get upside yo' head
I needa be gettin out of here
And your ass belongs in bed"

"Where are you going?" asked the runt
As he finally handed over his heat
"To be honest son, you inspired me-
Now I have some ass to beat"

-G-funk, Niggah with a Gat.

Monday, November 29, 2004

So what's the deal with Kiwi?

I got the most bitching stomach ache right now, and I'm pretty sure its from eating Kiwi. That insidious little fruit. It's like the kiwi didn't digest, it just evaporated into fucking gases which have now expanded my stomach and rendered me feeling like a bloated mom going through menopause. But i am not a woman. And what the fuck is the deal with the kiwi? First off, its called a k-i-w-i. That's a pet name, not a fruit name. I don't see anyone going around naming new and exotic fruit "sparky", or "spot". I can hardly take a fruit seriously when its called a "kiwi". An apple, now there's a solid name. Or an orange, shiet can't rhyme with that... its a color too. But a kiwi? Sounds like a fruit for queers if ya ask me. Now let us contemplate actual appearance of this homosexual fruit. It's furry and brown on the outside, green on the inside with a white oval center and little black seeds circling its perimeter. Ain't that the damnest thing you'll ever see? This fruit is a fucking freak of nature if i've ever seen one. It's like evolution coughed, sneezed and farted at the same time and alas the kiwi was born.


Since i'm in the mood to bitch, i'm gonna talk about why i hate "common sense". Not because of what it is per se, but because of the people who fuckin swear by it. Only stupid people love common sense. Why? Because common sense is the only sense that the common (a.k.a relatively stupid) person can grasp, and likewise the only sense of intellect that they can ever take pride in having. To these dumb motherfuckers, common sense is intelligence in and of itself, sacred wisdom if you will. And shit on my nipples do they take pride in having it. They're like, "woooo! i have common sense! I can think of doing such simple tasks as turning off the lights before i leave the house, or adding more sugar to my coffee because there's not enough sugar in my coffee". I fucking swear, everytime i see a "Shaqueeta" on TV criticizing someone for not having "common sense" - and its probably just because the other person's mind was probably too busy thinking about smart, uncommon shit rather than common shit - I can't help to think, "damn "shaqueeta", you're fucking stupid". Because only stupid people really talk or care about common sense. Smart people are too busy being proud of their uncommon sense to really give a fuck about common sense, yet alone hold a person in contempt for lacking it. So remember, if you ever catch yourself blaming someone else for not having common sense, chances are, you're fucking stupid... you think you're smart, but you're just too stupid to realize you're stupid.

This post sucks.

Terrets syndrome in church. Wouldn't that be funny? "Body of Christ". "fuck! shit! cunt wapoo blrrrweepo!"

So its settled, turkey is my new sleeping pill. I ate so much damn turkey and i passed sooo the fuck out. This was an interesting Thanksgiving too, because my dad didn't drink. A certain aunt wasn't there, otherwise known as my dad's Chinese drinking buddy. But my dad was still funny as shit regardless - the booze usually just helps his humor be a bit more traumatizingly offensive to all the conservative asian relatives in the room. Its a funny picture to imagine, an abrasively raunchy mexican sitting amid a bunch of short Asians. Me and my cousin were watching a video of Tara Reid's titty popping out, and my dad kept complaining out loud how the video quality wasn't good enough to get a distinct view of the nipple. He summed up his dissapointment as following, "awww maaan i wanted to see some niiipple". Like a child. He then went on talking about that lady who chopped off her kids arms, during the main course of the meal. He has a knact for getting into the details too. It's just funny, he's so far off in his own world. I know this because so am I.

I'm so far off in my own world its amazing. And I'm not saying this as if i were in some world of genius, untappable to the common mind. I"m just one wierd motherfucker. But I like that. Besides my ADD doesn't help either my spacing out into my own little world. I took a test the other day just to see if maybe my inclination that i had a fucked up case of ADD was true. Does your gpa suck? Check. Do you like drugs? Check. Apparently i have one fucked up case of ADD. Holy shit i'm the spokesperson for Attention Defeceit Disorder. I don't even know what the fuck i'm talking about anymore. I want to goto sleep. Okay maybe its not that bad, but fuck, some medicine would do me good.

Friday, November 26, 2004

The Day After Thanksgiving: Everybody is shitting

Imagine the size of the average turd this morning, as it floated its way through the sewer systems of America. It must have been monsterous, afterall, it is the day after thanksgiving - and what goes in must come out. Today, America will shit more than any other day of the year. The magnitude of the average November 26 turd will blow all other turds out of the water, so to speak. Although, perhaps it can be said that this day after Thanksgiving turd is challanged by the day after Christmas turd, but I'll put my money on the day after thanksgiving turd. Afterall, this is a holiday that celebrates not togertherness with one's family, but stuffing one's pudgy little face till they pass out from excessive doses of triptofen running through their bloodstream. So cherish that abrasive grind of yesternight's meal as it struggles through your puckered bowels folks, this is an experience reserved for one day of the year.

And just imagine, it's about 3:17 pm, so i'm sure there are alot of people reading this who have already fullfilled their obligations towards letting one sink, but there are also people out there that ate 10x more than you, and likewise shat a brick 10x bigger than yours. That's really big. Those are the kind of bricks that don't even need to be flushed. You look between your thighs and your turd isn't even there, because it "flushed" itself down by means of it's very own weight and inertia. That big daddy fatty is going, going, gone. But excuse me for now, i feel a slight pressure building up, and i think its time for round two.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Your roses smell like poopoopoo

Okay its official, i hate writing. I have about 15 pages to write on Free Will vs. Determinism, and guess what? I've spent about six fucking hours on the opening paragraph alone. Why? Because i'm an obsessive perfectionist freak who doesn't even write well enough to be an obsessive perfectionist freak in the first place. And my opening paragraph still sucks. Why? Cuz i spent so much fucking time on it that i can't even tell what sounds good or bad. So now i'm changing words here and there, then looking on the shit i changed 5 minutes later and changing it back, because it sounded better in the first place. So then I'm like, hmmm maybe i should just move on and just start the paper. But i don't know where to start, cuz its 15 pages worth of shit for chrissakes so i best as fuck start at the beginning, but i don't even know where the beginning would be because this is a pretty metafuckingphysical concept, so i just go back to fixing my fucked up first paragraph.

Okay i'm done bitching.

Hello people, how goes it? For me, it goes well. Lovely day. A bit on the chilly side, but lovely nonetheless. See this is me with absofuckinglutely nothing to say, so i'm gonna break my cardinal rule and post some lyrics to a song i like. BUT, before you stop reading, you little turd, i say you should read it, because it reads so utterly pessimistic, i love it.


Everyone's afraid of their own life.
If you could be anything you want, I bet you'd be disappointed. Am I right?
No one really knows the ones they love.
If you knew everything they thought, I bet you'd just wish they'd just shutup.
Well you were the dull sound of sharp math when you were alive.
Not ones gonna play the harp when you die.
And if I had a nickel for every damn dime I'd have half the time, do you mind?
It's hard to remember to live before you die.
It's hard to remember.
My mom's god is a woman and my mom she is a witch.
I fought this.
My hell comes from inside comes from inside myself.
Why fight this.
Everyone's afraid of their own life.
If you could be anything you want I bet you'd be disappointed.
am I right?

-Modest mouse, your life.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Its official boys and girls....

I used to rock. I used to rock alot. But I think my brain is a bit tired of all the shitty rock I used to impose on it, because its official: I no longer rock. I would say I no longer "roll" as well, but nobody really rolled anyways. I don't even know where the term "roll" came from, because everybody rocks out, nobody rolls out. Unless you're a gangster and the phrase "roll out" is part of your idiosyncratic jargon, and in such a case it is understood that the thug life and the rock life are mutually exclusive. So its official, i no longer rock.

But what is rock, really? Because if you're talking about the Beatles, then you better believe my panties belong to them. And if you're talking about Led Zeppelin, then praise be to your momma cuz I get down like Charlie Brown. So I think its safe to say I still "rock" when it comes to the good shit. It's this stuff I hear today that just doesn't rock out enough. And no, I promise you this will not be a rant sessions where I criticize the music industry for preferring the "entertainer" over the "artist". Because sometimes, I don't want to think, I just wanna be entertained, and rock.

Because rock music moves me. It makes me take my fists and connect them to my head in a viscious manner. As I'm repeatedly socking myself in the head, it also gives me the proclivity to let my mouth hang open, so flecks of spit fly everywhere. And iff this weren't enough, rock also makes me want to violently flail my body around, so that my constant spastic convulsions make it that much harder for my fists to find their mark on my face, which is now covered with bruises and saliva. Cuz rock music fucks with my neurons like that. But the only emotions I feel when i listen to modern day rock music is pity and sympathy. Pity on the band because they suck so much, and sympathy for all the dead rock stars rolling over in their graves in light of the current state of rock.

Because rock just doesn't fuck with my neurons anymore. My neurons usually just sit there with their little dendrites crossed, tapping their synaptic glands as they patiently wait for some rockin musical arrangement to come and get their chemical contents of sodium and potassium to dance the fuck out. And that never happens anymore, because my neurons are washed up and jaded critics. They're sitting there smokin cigarettes and sipping coffee, discussing whether or not grunge was the death of rock n roll, or the last stronghold of rock n roll. Personally I wasn't too big into grunge, so i prefer to refrain from such erudite conversations. I just like to listen. And now, I'm gonna fuck with my neurons by singing some Celine Dion. Eeeevery night in my dreams, i see you, i feeeel yooou. That is how I know you go ooon....

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Support your local lowlife

Everybody is always complaining about the homeless. Either they're complaining about them, or they're complaining for them, but its all complaining nonetheless. But bums are a lost cause. They're all kicking it up in the alley, flippin Maslow's heirarchy of needs on its head as they think, "Hmm, food or fix, food or fix, food or fix... Fuckit, trashcans will always be around but this high grade Afghanie smack won't. Hey Larry, could you do me a favor and pull the needle from my arm if pass out again after I blow off? Appreciate it" Because when you're up shits creek without a paddle, you try to paddle around with syringes filled with smack, and that'll get you nowhere. And ya know, we have a whole day dedicated to fucking shrubbery, but no day for the homeless. So I proclaim today, November 17th, the official "Support your Local Lowlife Day". Everyone should join. Walk up to your local drifter and make him richer. Don't be greedy, give to the needy. Isn't it fun, when you give to a bum? Think about it, if everyone pitched in to help their local lowlife, then maybe his life won't be so low afterall. Just one day out of the year. Because I understand how it is people - nobody wants to be bothered by smelly mounds of hairy flesh. And I sympathize for their plight, i really do, but if they're gonna try to score some jingle out of Numero Uno just like the rest, then "Lo siento my compadre, these centavos aren't for tu. Your plea may be neverending but my bank account is, so step away from this transaction and take your B.O along with you." Now thats a fucking kneeslapper. But thats how it goes. I like prettier things.

But what if bums weren't ugly and didn't stink. What if a clean-shaven Downey-fresh bum came up to you and was like, "Pardon me sir/ma'am, but could i trouble you for some spare pocket ruffle? I'm terribly parched and I'm afraid my stomach has once again emitted a rather unpleasant growl", and he said it in an accent that was all British and fuckin sweet. I'd be like "Yeeah man sure, here's a dollar. So... Going for a bite to eat you say... want some company?" Cuz the thought of a clean bum is just that fuckin cool to me. Not to mention rare. I've probably never seen one, but there must be fresh faces entering the bumlife all the time. The wife just divorced them, their job just fired them, the IRS just sodomized them, and now they're up in the alley playing with their bejoogles near a trash can.

But what a rarity it would be to see a newly hatched bum in his own habitat. I have yet to encounter the beggings of a bum fresh off the boat of life, nor have i seen a bird fall dead from the sky, but such spectacles of life are destined to occur, and to anyone fortunate enough to see such a thing - rejoice, I say unto you, for you have just bore witness to the glory of nature's miraculous, hidden bounty. Now kick some dirt over that bird or for fucks sake give the bum a dollar. Actually, don't be a jew, give him two. Ahead of him lay a long dark desolate road, and I have feeling he'll run out of gas before he hits the residentials, if you know what i mean.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

Thats the way it goes and goes and goes

So i'm in one of those moods again where i don't wanna be bothered by people or the things people do, like talking to each other. I swear I"m such a hermit sometimes. But i'm a mood swinger, what can i do? Maybe I'll grow up and have 50 cats running around my house, pooping all over the place. I'll be a bitter bitter old man as i sit contemplating my lack of human contact, and while I'm engaged in self-depricating thought, I'll be staring at a brown ceiling through the tinted rump of bottle poised upwards, as I therapeutically "crack one back" and suck my liquid recluse down. I'll wipe my mouth and let out a sigh, then sit in silence as I feel the burn in my stomach, flaring up besides the pitter patter of a lonely heart. Okay i just sound like a fag now, it won't be THAT bad - i've never liked alcohol much. But hey, i could always become a monk.

But don't get me wrong, because i'm not a depressed motherfucker. I'm not chemically imbalanced in this sense, so if i were depressed, that would mean I'm the one making myself depressed, as opposed to my brain making me depressed. And i don't do that to myself, for the most part, because that's for pussies. The way I see it, if your seretonine is clocking in all fine and dandy, yet you wanna tie your dick to a rope and jump off a cliff, you're just a pussy. A pussy who needs to spin a cacoon and hibernate, so that after a few months or so, hopefully, you can finally emerge as a full fledged and bustling penis. Because we all know, penises don't get depressed. Of course, they have their ups and downs, but if you're a healthy penis, it's not that hard to get up.

But back to whiney little me, I just don't like small talk. Which kind of sucks because that's the majority of the talk that goes on. But at the same time, talking about deeper shit gets boring and after a while. Eventually you're just gonna wanna talk about humping shit, and why humping shit is fun. So then you start talking about humping shit, but it turns into a whole "i hump more shit than you" kind of conversation. But not exactly in those words, because everybody starts trying to top off each other's stories, in essence, trying to prove they're the masters of the hump, and that nobody - not Humpty Dumpty nor Humphrey Bogart, humps more than them. So everybody is like, "oh yeah i hump like a lion on viagra, here, let me show you my cock. This cock is big, and has humped many a thing". The bravado just bugs me.

So I talk to myself in my head alot, and i mean alot.

I'm running out of shit to say to myself though. I already asked myself, "so hows the weather?", like a million times. And I've already replied, "a bit overcast, but at least it isn't too chilly", about a million times as well. Then there's usually this awkward silence. So I'll stare up at the sky, pretending to take in the weather as indicated by the expired conversation, but i'm really just trying to think of something to say. Then I give up and shut up completely, because i don't even feel like talking to myself anymore for fucks sake. It's vicious i tell you!

Thursday, November 11, 2004

Please, bury me with it - and other stupid shit.

Sorry, i've been slacking off lately. I haven't had shit to talk about. I guess i'm just a dumb breezy ho with no substance or depth. I'm gonna start talking about shit now.

- Please, bury me with it

I'm way too young to be worrying about where i'm gonna be buried when I'm dead, knock on wood. But let me state for the record, I don't give a shit about where I'm buried when i'm dead. Why does anybody care where they're buried when they're dead? You're dead idiot. Shit, chop up my corpse, mix it in some corn beef hash and feed it to George W. Bush for all i fucking care. What kind of supernatural bullshit is this? You're just gonna decay and smell like rotten puke anyways.

And preserving yourself with embalming fluids? Yeah its a fucking party 6 feet under, better hope you shaved before you croak. And whats this about burying someone with all of their jewlery on? There's some wrinkled people in Uganda stripping people's corpses bare that could use that sort of stuff. Or why don't you pawn that jewlery off, you dumb fucking hemmorhoid. It'll help you pay for the funeral you shouldn't be worrying so goddamn much in the first place. Plus, cemetaries waste so much land. We could be using that land to build malls on. Turn up all the bodies, put a match to them and lets see something productive.

- And other stupid shit

Do we really need ten commandments? Why not nine? Why not eleven? I'll tell you why we have ten commandments. Ten sounds like it means something. Every list is top ten this, top ten that. Its not the "top 9 best dressed people", or "top 13 hottest females below the age of 18". So a long long time ago a bunch of dudes wearing sandals and bedsheets came together and thought, "hmm, we need a way to control these crazy motherfuckers. Lets create some commandments".

Timmothy was like, "hey I came up with 6 commandments!"

George was like, "six commandments? Are you crazy? Who the fuck is gonna listen to that?"

So they had to come up with some more. And some were utter bullshit. And you can totally tell what commandments are just filler:

- In other words, sit around at home on Sundays and drink beer. Maybe tap two off instead of the usual one. All of this after you come back from church, of course. Those lazy motherfuckers just wanted an excuse to drink their wine and play helicopter with their dicks. Mmmm, helicopter.

- What about if someone's parents don't deserved to be honored? Some parents beat their children. Some parents don't give their kids milk. Other parents live vicariously through their children by dressing them up in tutu's and forcing them to do ballet, or by sending their kids off to play sports before they can even fucking walk. That's just meanie. That's not deserving of honor. Some parents deserve oversized dildo's shoved up their tightly puckered assholes. Not honor.


- Hey idiots, these are practically the same two things. I mean, why else would you covet your neighbor's wife unless you wanted to adulterate the fuck out of her? Oh I'm sorry, did you need a female counterpart to take long walks on the beach with you? "Sorry ma'am, my penis is reserved for urination purposes only." Cmon, You gotta be fucking kidding me with these.


-Since when is stealing from your neighbor and stealing two different things? Oh i'm sorry, it's not stealing it's coveting. Fuckoff... Way to run out of shit to say. And likewise, way to make up for it by manipulating the english language. You guys are the fucking Maguivers of vocabulary. Happy face on you. But you guys still fucking suck at writing commandments. Hey heres a commandment, stop sucking at writing commandments.

Sunday, November 07, 2004

Black people, i love you but...

So lets face it, black people are loud. Everywhere they go they bring their loudness with them. They are the antithesis to soft-spokenness. Never will you catch anybody saying to a black person, "exuse me, what was that again? I didn't catch ya". No black person will ever need to repeat himself. Now this isn't necessarily a bad thing, unless they're chillin outside of starbucks, being loud when a bunch of white people are trying to study - including me. And I swear, they were being loud just to spite us. Like, awww shit look at all these crackas trying to learn and solidify their future, lets bust some shitty flows and distract them. So this group of black dudes are sitting behind me, busting out the rap equivalent of bad teenage poetry at the listening expense of us crackers. One of them was really struggling with his "prolific" flows, so in a last minute attempt to save face, he busted out with this: "Yo yo, i hit that switch, I FUCKED YO BITCH". He said it loud enough for the whole area to hear him. He them comes up to me to ask for a cigarette, but here's the twist. He was a crackah. I had my back turned to their table the entire time, so i just assumed they were all black people. But no, the loudest one of them all was a crackah. Has nature suddenly gone awry?

It makes sense though. If you're white, you're gonna have to do some crazy ass shit to gain the respect of black people. He had it down in the clothes department. He was postin up with an XL large jersey draped down to his knees, with an extra baggy pair of jeans peeking out from underneath, overlapping his Err Force Ones. Now all he had to do, was be utterly laquacious in public and keep it gangstah. Which he was doing, or at least attempting to do. But his presence among his African American peers brought up an interesting philosphical question in my mind. What is better: being the white-boy odd man out, constantly struggling to fit in and earn the respect of black people whom he admired? Or, being the cool white-boy with with g'd up flavah, leading a pack of wiggered out crackers and earning the respect of his "lesser-thans"? In the former situation, the respect from black people is more meaningful, but at least in the latter, you're a leader. Shit i dunno what i'd do. I'm kind of content in my crackerness. OKAY fuck, you got me, i'm not a cracker. But for the sake of simplicity just pop me in the oven and call me a saltine because i'm white compared to black... If that makes any fucking sense.

So for the record, i'm not racist. I judge people on their actions and not their color. Yes yes, I know, the oppresive foot of the white man has forced black people to develop a sub-culture marked by a hedonistic glorification of the spoils and overexcessive pride. And with all that entails their obnoxious behavior in public. Now i can understand not being able to make rent because that shiny black escallade drained the bank account, but shit. Tone it down in public. The entire world doesn't need to hear you talk about beatin dem bitches guts and laying the pipe on that breezy white slut with jungle fever and gettin dome on the back of the bus. Sound-waves are a beautiful thing. They travel. Let me do my cracker tasks in peace. At least i have one thing in common with black people. I too, have a big cock. I kid I kid!

Friday, November 05, 2004

If the egg came before the chicken, that was some awfully ambitious yolk

What's the deal with all this blogpraying i've been seeing around? People are actually praying through their blogs. "Please god, help me find the strength to stop being such a pussy, etc etc." This is hilarious. I guess they realized that praying by themselves is a tad bit ineffective and took to experimenting with different mediums. But I'm sure God just looves surfing blogs. Yep, I'm so sure Big G-dizzle in the skizzle is staring down on these geniuses right now, dishing out the remedy to their blogged out cries for help like candy - like he always does... Yes I'm being sarcastic. It's funny though, my priest once said that God answers all prayers, sometimes the answer is just NO. Hahaha, i thought that was a clever little way to have their cake and eat it too. God's sittin up there all like "Okay kid, i'll bargain with ya. No, sorry, your daddy isn't recovering from the heart attack, but here's that A you asked for on your exam!"

Yeah yeah i know, I bitch about religion too much. But i've been obsessed with religion ever since i was little. I think the most fascinating ability we have is our ability to slurp up and believe our own bullshit. And conservative religious belief epitamizes such slurping. Shit they'll believe any nittwitted rationalization they create, as long as it sounds good enough to serve as "logical" support for some absurd, unfounded belief that all of reality objects to. I call this Say Anything Syndrome, or SAS. When reality objects to your fantasies - say anything. It doesn't have to be a good lie, it just has to makes sense... somefuckinghow.

So back to praying to God for help. Stop being such a pussy. Why don't you find strength in yourself to change, instead of bitching to God all the time about how much of a pussy you are? "Hey God, it's me pussy, again. Yeah I know, I just can't seem to stop being such a pussy! It's like, I try to grow some balls and help myself, but then i'm like, oh no wait, i can't i'm a pussy!" Look, I've gone through plenty of shit in my life, and I took it with a smile. Okay, maybe i wasn't smiling, but i sure wasn't sitting there thinking, "Oh god, why must your benevolent chunks of shit rain down upon my dreary little world? Was it because I wacked off to Kate Olsen before she turned 18? You must be punishing me for that. Its okay God, punish away, I deserve it all. I'm a filthy sinner waaaaah, I wack off, waaaah... forgiiiive meeeee". You little pussy. Suck it up, shit happens.

This is all we need. People believing invisible shit in the sky will magically help them change them instead of believing in themselves. Pussies. God isn't gonna help you change, you are. I've always been a humanist. I believe in the beauty of humanity. I love people, I may talk alot of shit about them, but thats because we still have alot of weak sperms in the bunch. Regardless, i believe we have alot of potential - but we're never gonna meet it if half the world believes we're worthless sinners who need the salvation of Jesus Christ. If you believe you're a worthless pussy, you are a worthless pussy. So stop praying like a little pussy. Shed that vulva and step into reality. Pussy.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Originality 0, Predictable Bullshit 1

Okay fuck me, you got me. I'm a hipocrit. Here I am, about to complain about unoriginality, but I'm really just being a victim to my own master plan by being unoriginal in bitching about everybody else's blogs and how unoriginal they are. Because lets face it, everybody disses everybody else's blogs... unless your blog is so shitty that you actually hold the miserable teenage angst of "Whispers of a desperate soul" - or all those other cliche wastes of netspace, in high reverance. So I'm unoriginal, you can bite my nipples if you don't like it. I'm not gonna go all out of my way to be all fresh and original. I'm not gonna brush my teeth with aquafresh just because everybody else uses crest. I'm not gonna wipe my ass with tree bark cuz everybody else uses soft TP. I hate those bastards that go all out of their way to be fresh and original. Like artsy fartsy tea-baggin pansy motherfuckers who think they're too "free spirited" to do conventional shit like take showers and get haircuts. Those beret wearing sissy men who claim to not only think out of the box, but proclaim "there is no box". Ooooh, way to switch it up DJ fresh.

It's kinda funny though, thinking about the shit that must go through these people's heads as they sit there with such assurance that their failed attempts encapsulate life were utterly brilliant and insightful; but really they were just the last of the herd to get a fuckin clue. They're probably sitting there thinkin shit like "Wraa look at me, I'm the all-encompasing dictator of objective truths, watch me sum up the meaning of life in this little blog passage entitled "The meaning of life" so you the reader can go home and tell your parents and friends about your cathartic experience that had you crying in the bathroom for two hours straight - because yes, i'm that fuckin smart. Every word out of mouth is profound, every thought i think has never been thought before. Shit hold on, where's my thesaurus? There's not enough syllables in this one."

And I hate how everybody tries to show off their writing skills, as if they're destined to be the next Scott Fitzgerald or some shit. Only alcoholics and opium addicts can pull off such brilliance. So unless your taking a break between writing to fire up that pipe, or unless you're shootin back shots of cheap of Staters Brother's rum as you blog, you're really heading nowhere in life as far as writing goes. Yeah it's a hard thing to accept. Being a good writer but just not being good enough. But I moved on, so can you. You're not a good writer, everybody else just sucks. So please, stop with the shitty fiction narratives and bad teenage poetry. I can assure you, there will be no letters in the mail from publishers asking you to cut a deal with them. Just stop sucking... It can't be THAT hard.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

I'm not gay, I'm just well dressed.

So my accomplice over at http://hiroland.blogspot.com/ wrote a little diddy about getting hit on by a gay guys at the gym. I too, have been hit on by gay men. The most flattering homosexual assault that i have ever been victim to occured at church, where I was hit on by not one, not two, but three, homosexuals.

So i'm looking all fly with my collard baby blue shirt and snazzy pair of jeans when these three obvious homosexuals spot me from the pews and give me the down, up. No, i'm not gay, i'm just well dressed. Now I don't know what gave them the idea, but they're sitting there fixated on me as if this were France where you could do that type of shit, only with women, and guys who weren't gay. I don't know what set their gaydar off. Maybe my fly boyish charm made them think what they wanted to think - that i was a super silly sass boy who just LOVED watching the Bravo channel. Whatever the case was here i have three guys with homosexuality exuding from their pores, all trying to me ensnare me with their gay vibes and capture me as a 4th member for their little love trio.

And I"ll fucking admit it. I was flattered. Gay people thinking you're attractive still counts right? I mean, when was the last time you heard a gay guy say "That brad pitt just doesn't do it for me, his ass is too flat". My guess is, hotness remains more or less intact across the board. In that case, we should be thanking gay guys. At least gay guys have the balls (ironic huh?) to be obvious when they have sin in their eyes, and as long as you don't visualize anything, you're fine. I remember their stares made me feel so uncomfortable. I kept looking at the ground, as if i were a chic. Girls seem to do that all the time, like it were some sort of fight or flight reaction shit. When you're all walking past them on campus: you look at them, they catch your glance, then they look down as if the ground suddenly all the something held something new in stores besides its usual groundness.

Later on I'm in the bathroom taking a piss. Lo and behold, The Three Homosketeers come in behind me. Oh no. Please don't sodomize me. They started talkin about how the priest didn't seem too friendly to them. TALKING SHIT ABOUT MY PRIEST?? I was kinda heated. So I zip up, turn around, and say, "hey guys father T. is real cool, don't worry about it, he's real cool", then i left. Well, apparently they thought i was saying he was cool because I was gay and knew Father T didn't discriminate. Which supports my hypothesis - my impeccable boyish charm led them to misconstrue what i said because they wanted me to be gay, and I know this because well... As i was leaving, they were outside smoking cigarettes, and well...One of them... he fucking whistles at me as i walked by. Wtf, we're outside of church for chrissake. This isn't some homosexual catering Church where all the pews squeak cuz the patrons wear too much leather... Then, one of the gayer ones of the bunch runs up to me and hands me his number written on a church pamphlet. What a slut. Please don't do this to me. I would have told him i wasn't gay but that would have broke his little heart. And besides i probably wouldn't have been able to tell him anyways because he ran away right after like a little giggling schoolgirl. Teehee. I hope he's not still waiting by the phone.