Monday, February 28, 2005

Omg Did You See Hilary Swanks Dress?! Haha Just Playing I'm Not Gay.

Hello reader. Have I ever told you how much I love you? It doesn't get said enough. I love you. Hey, don't head for that door I didn't mean it like that! Sorry I didn't mean to scare you off by dropping the "L" bomb so irresponsibly, and maybe it would help if i put my cock back in my pants as well. Wait, I'm having some trouble zipping up could you help me? Haha just playing, I was gonna whip my cock out again and slap your hand with it for shits and giggles. But back to what I was saying. I meant love as in a sense of fondness and appreciation for your readership. Sure, sometimes I touch myself to certain readers but this love is mostly platonic. For I am a widowed lady, this blog is the sweater I knit, and you are all my wonderful cats. As you sit on my lap I talk to you and raise my freshly knitted sweater for approval, you meow back, and I feel complete. Bless you my felioned companions. Here's some kibbles n bits.

Which is not to say I'm a loser who looks to blogging to boost my ego which has been shat on by normal norMAL NORMAL FUCKING PEOPLE with EVERYTHING EVERYTHING EVERYTHING!!!. I simply acknowledge the power of words. These here words. These thoughts, these concepts, these feelings, these... these... these symbols which I place on tangible, intangible, perhaps even existential things... its all just so magical. Magical i tell you.


Did i tell you how much I love you? I believe I did. Was it a magical moment? It was for me. I felt the magic. I hope you did too. Okay fuck I'm done with all this magical fag talk, I"m gonna check Sex's site for some inspiration.

She's talking about goddamn yogurt. A whole fucking post on yogurt. Damn this lady has style and finesse! Not to mention the fact that imagining her eat yogurt, bananas and muhfuckin' creme to be exact, turns me on immensely. I hope she's using her index finger to consume that delicious culture. If not it doesn't matter, I tossed the spoon out the window in the version playing inside my head right now. But I'll pause that fantasy right there and push play later on tonight when there's some tissue at my disposal.

So its at this point of the post where I acknowledge the fact that I previously equated myself to an lonely grandma with an overabundance of cats, alluded to a late night jerkoff in tribute to Sex eating yogurt with her index finger, and umm... heck I'll throw in the fact that I don't wash my hands after I pee. I don't think I can ever write a believable post about getting pussy, ever, after this one. But I'm feeling the fire this month so yall can suck my hairy nipple. Speaking about pussy, did you know yogurt is supposed to be a good douche?

Friday, February 25, 2005

G Snizzle up in the Hizzle.

If sperm is considered a life form, consider me a ruthless killer. I've suffocated, squashed and drowned families of sperm all in a single swipe. Their deaths brutal and horrific to the human mind. My sperm has been swallowed and dissolved in stomach acid, left to crack and crust on walls, left to dry and die on bedsheets, left as signatures on bathroom stalls, flushed down toilets in latex coffins, shot like canons as I peacefully slept, coalesced to clog up shower drains, left for dead on titties i'll never forget. But do I, Greg Olmeda, lose any sleep? Bitch I jerk myself to sleep.

But putting the ethical dilema of sperm killing aside, I remember being younger and worrying about being a premature ejaculator. This was because wacking off for me was a matter of minutes, heck, sometimes even seconds. If i could bust a nut so quick using my imagination, imagine when a girl was finally playing with my member! Holy Moly I'd bust quicker than I could pee! Luckily as it turns out, its not like that. I forgot to take into account speed and imagination. Turns out when I'd be jerkin the beef (get it? Beef jerkey, jerkin the beef...) my hand was usually pumping quick enough to start a fire, if i so happened to have any flammable material near my dick. And it's impossible to fuck that fast. Secondly, while it was an objective of mine to imagine fine females feeding me grapes and sucking me off in the case of masturbation, I'd think about nymphomaniacle gramdma's fingerbanging each other in a pool of vomit in the case of sexual intercouse. That being said, I could go on for hours if i didn't fucking smoke away my capacity to do strenuous cardiovascular work.

Okay, so I just took a break from writing to visit Sex's site, for some sexual inspiration of course. Imagine my surprise when I read,

"The whole fuckin Blogland is horny or doin' it, apparently.* (Except for Greg - there something you not telling us, honey?)"

I resent that. Listen missy! I go through many phases and that is reflected in my blog, but if ONE thing is permanent it would be my horniness thankyouverymuch. Questioning my horniness... Pfft. Yes sex, I am non-sexual. My penis is reserved for urination purposes only. I look at a beatiful woman and I'm like, "Wow, I'd really like to... paint her". Jerking off takes me hours and gives me serious hand cramps because nothing turns me on. My testicles realized the futility of producing sperm and simply stopped. My nuts are now expendable raisins. There is my Charles Dicken's Tale of Two Cities deep down hidden secret for ya. Happy now?

Geez, no faith in me Sex! No faith!

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Someone hold me. I just need to be held.

There is a consensus among the blogging elite that personal sentiments and diary-like prose are highly unprofessional. I acknowledge this. Feelings are a common day's occurance and to ink them is to drag the unwelcomed monotony of your life onto a helpless monitor. Yet it is often a practice for those who know the rules to break them. So allow me to share with you some of my feelings.

Sometimes I feel like dancing, but for gosh sakes I don't have any rhythm. This is such a burden for me because so often I feel like translating my inner funk into explosive dances moves - but I just can't seem to ignite. For instance, when I'm feeling rather emotionless and numb I'll want to express that with a quick and snappy robot; but my attempts to capture the jagged rhythm of electronic hydrolics pan out to be too smooth to call me "tin". Okay, so not everybody can capture the intricacy of robotic movement, but I'm helpless even at simple tasks. At baseball games when it comes time to do the wave, everybody makes fun of me because they say I look like a garage door opening and closing. I feel so helpless. Will I ever get to cut a rug with my beloved ladybug?

Okay but on a non-facetious note, I once mentioned how my laziness faces the constant doom of unintentional productivity, which is an attempt to make light of my "i don't give a shit" attitude, especially towards school. Well, apparently that's not normal so I took a battery test last week on account of an intuition that I may have ADD. Funny cuz one of the symptoms of having ADD is excellent intuition. The psychologist called me back with the results and as it turns out, I have a fairly severe case of it. Damn this fly buzzing around.

See it's not like that though. Not all pretty birds distract us. I can be very focused but only on things that are very stimulating. If something doesn't quite interest me I won't even bother. Which explains why I only read the finest of blogs. It also explains my consistant D's in math yet A's in english as well as my tendancy to take extreme risks in an attempt to suck delicious milk from the breast of life. It's not all that bad, just a tad bit on the warm side. This may all sound like a good thing at first, but not when your lifestyle gets you beat up by your ex-roomate's brother and not when the law wants to desperately ram their nightsticks up your ass. But apparently there's alot of good to be had from this disorder. Einstein is speculated to have had ADD. As I mentioned before we have excellent intuition, we're adept at thinking "outside the box" and marked by our deviancy from convention. The form of ADD I have also allows me to form excellent "close personal bonds". Sounds like i'm reading from a fucking horoscope.

Anyways, its somewhat nice to be biologically vindicated from the majority of my past wrong-doings but now that I understand the symptoms, I realize my affliction is somewhat burdensome. I think it may be affecting my ability to dance. And that just pains me.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Wow Yor Hair is so Pwetty Can I Pet It? Ooh, Soft Like A Bunny Wabbit.

I've been jerking off since I was in the womb. Sorry wrong post, let me start over. I'm into my second week of school and I'm actually kind of liking it. Maybe its because I'm only taking 6 units (don't ask), or maybe its because I'm amused so thoroughly when i watch a bunch of Cal State/Life-in-general rejects use big, inappropriate vocabulary words in class to try and mask their underlying sense of incompetance and stupidity. And look, I spelled incompetance wrong, I know it. It just looks wrong. But am I gonna look it up at and fix it, so that I may seem like a good speller so yall don't think I"m a dumbass? No. But those assclowns in my class would. It's incompetence btw. It was bugging me.

There was this Texan dude I had in my socio poly class. He was a stubby, pale, bald, I work at Comp USA but I also smoke cigarettes so the "badboy" cancels out the "loser" type of guy who'd use words like supercilious, unmerited, ad hominem, tantamount, etc., when trying to make a point; and I swear, if you really paid attention, he'd even throw in a smidge of a British accent to really take the fucking psuedo-intellectual cake. Now, is using words like supercillious, unmerited, ad hominem, tantamount, etc., really necessary in casual public speaking? Let me answer that for you. No, its not. I could totally see this assnugget screaming at the TV screen when George Bush is giving a state of the union address like, "Widespread terror?! Is that the best you can do George?! You could have said ubiquitous terror George! Ubiquitous terror! Syllables George, syllables!"

But yeah it feels good to be back at school, it gives me something to do. I guess its a good thing that everybody I knew back in High School was a slacker, because it didn't take them long to drop out of college and find a home at good old Harvard by the beach, er, Santa Monica Community College. But today I experienced one of those awkward moments when seeing a familiar face from afar. And I find these particular moments fuckin hilarious because I'm sure everybody knows exactly what i'm talking about, cuz everybody does the same exact thing.

Ya know, when you're just walking along and off in the distance you see someone you know coming towards you. You're like, aww shit, because now you have to look at everything but them because fuck forbid you acknowledge each other's presence before you're close enough to exchange words. That's just, awkward. So you start looking at the cracks in the ground... hey those are some nice cumulus clouds... what a fat pigeon... And then you look out of the corner of your eye, "Shit, (insert name) is still roughly 15 feet away". More looking around. And you know (insert name) saw you too because they're looking at that tree over there which is obviously nothing fucking special and plus, there's only like 4 other people walking around at this particular time. You're thinking what they're thinking and they're thinking what you're thinking but you're not telepathic. They hit the 5 foot mark and your eyes finally meet. "Heeey Mary nice to see you. Wow, you just snuck up on me!"

Ahah, i love that shit. And ladies, here's what i love about you. You're always the first to look away (at the ground in particular) whenever a guy makes eye contact with you. I swear its like you're trained to look away the moment - the fucking nanosecond, a guy looks at you. I just want a girl to fucking staaare back. I'd crawl up in a ball and deficate myself.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Sorry its raining, I'm sad, I had to be serious.

Sex wrote a lovely little post on "facing your demons". I must admit I was pretty giddy after reading the first couple of paragraphs, because Little Sex making a decision to keep herself "in the light" brought back memories of Little Me going through a very similar process.

See, I've never really understood how people could lie to themselves. I remember times as a young altar boy, looking out into the crowd of worshippers and thinking, "how can these people be SO sure?". I guess I didn't understand faith, not many people truly do, and for some odd reason this question really beat me up. It was a thorn in my side until Little Me had a mini revelation. These people simply wanted to believe. Far from profound, but that simple intuitive understanding opened the door to an imaginary classroom in Little Me's head, where the words Life 101 were written across the chalkboard. One of the first lessons I ever learned was to always "unwrap" the candy before I ate it. Little Me was a cute little skeptic!

Now as far as this being a choice of mine, it's hard to distinguish between what is choice and what merely falls on our proverbial plate. But there was never a time that I recall, when I ever made a conscious decision to be in the "know". Instead, I was drawn towards truth, as if it were a motivation in itself. I simply wanted truth over comfort.

So growing up I held in high reverence a long and forgotten skill. The ability to separate logic and emotion. After all, so many times the latter would dictate the former but at least I was now aware. And if i swallowed my pride and held it down long enough, I could look back on my actions and ask myself, "What am I not seeing?", and answer that question before I puked my pride back up and dirtied up the whole ordeal. To me it was simple. As it appeared, the only time anyone was excessively irrational was when they were A) just fucking stupid or B) emotional. Now that I'm older I realized there is a C) Drunk, but lets not go there.

Then I grew even older and realized it wasn't a matter of separating the two, but one of letting them intertwine. It occured to me that many times when I "realized" something, it wasn't that I finally saw something I had never seen before. Yeah I had those moments, but mainly it was a time where I was finally able to see something I had always wanted to see. As if I were able to put some emotional fortitude behind the logic, and in doing so granted myself a newfound clarity. To me this was the difference between merely believing something and knowing it.

And once again, in regards to staying true with myself, I started to understand how sentiment was often the glue that held down what belief lay on wilful grounds, and to sway belief in this sense was not just a task of swaying logic, but one of turning the tides of emotion as well. Telling an alcoholic he was an alcoholic was like trying to knock down a wall with pebbles, even if if presented quite logically in telling, "dude you puked up your spleen last night".

But still my own brain never ceased to amaze me, still hasn't. Specifically its power and my lack of power over it, and especially in its resiliance to the "emotional elements". When people talk of "instincts" and how they relate to us, most tend to think of them as physical survival tactics. We hear a backfire and we jerk our head, we have our fight or flight "mechanism", we get hungry and we eat. I don't believe instinct stops there. I feel as if our brains want to brave the elements and be comfy too. And many times it'll do everything in its power to stay that way, this includes keeping its owner blind. And I think, at least in one respect, that's how people are able to smear their noses in their own crap. Their noggin stays in its comfort zone, builds an emotional dam to keep the harsh realizations at bay, and any opposition in the form of logic is knocked down like King Kong did to all those helicopters. It's a natural reaction. It's a matter of perspective.

But anyways I'm starting to really hate this post. Haha. What a bland piece of ass spew if I've ever written one, I promise I won't post anymore gay lectures as if i knew what i was talking about. But yall catch my drift. I'll go back to my corner now.

Thursday, February 17, 2005


Everyone talks about how black people have rhythm. But most drummers I see are white. I don't know what to think. People shouldn't generalize like that. Life can't be tidied up and placed in a little box. Unless it's a puppy. But I think women have really good rhythm. Most of them are really grace-like and swanfull. I mean gracefull and swan-like. They can move their bodies around like a snake. Well dressed snakes. With more than a mere four teeth. Who don't bite unless you want them too. They love dancing. Loove it. They will go to the club and dance. Just a bunch of girls in a circle. Dancing. Guys dance because the woman is dancing. There will never be a guy who says,

"Hey Bob, lets goto the club tonight. I just... I just wanna dance".

Women treat dancing like its an art to express themselves with. Guys treat dancing like they're finger painting in Kindergarten. But if its the only way to get into little Susie's Osh Kosh Bigosh it must be done.

Dancing reminds me that we're monkies with less hair. Correction, apes. Its instinctual, primal, sexual, all those things that don't involve thinking. Maybe that's why woman love it so much. They're just trying to get in touch with their roots. The most worth-while things we do are animal-like. Sex, eating and sleeping. Sometimes I wish we could take it back. I think apes were happy because they were simple. Female apes didn't have to worry about being sluts, and male apes didn't think, "damn, I wonder how many dicks have been in here before me". Cuz it was all about the feelin. Getting pregnant wasn't a concern, her vagina could be an I-Love-Lucy conveyor belt of baby apes for all was anyones concern. There was no such thing as ape rape because there were no words to say "no" with, and picking off ants and from your mate's ass and eating them was flirting and foreplay all in the same motion. Those were good times. Pure times.

Now we have to deal with all this self-awareness bullshit. I mean, really now. I just wanna dance. I just wanna dance, let myself become one with the music, and forget about it all. And I know there's some ladies out there with ants crawling on on their ass. Daddy's got opposable thumbs.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

This is my soul goddamnit, my soul!

I was tempted to join myspace. I came so very close. The Devil was holding a contract and I was holding a pen, yet when it came time to signing off, I snapped out of my state of entrancement and jabbed my bic right into the devil's mothafuckin eye. I'm not a myspace kind of person. Actually, I might sign up. I'm actually two people rolled up into one.

On one hand there's that side of me who hates myspace and everybody on it. The people there wear far too much makeup, both symbolically and physically. And I'm talking about the guys too, those black eyeliner wearin emo pansy-fucks. They list like 40 bands just to show off, in hopes that "my soon-to-be-soulmate will recognize what excellent taste in underground emo I truly have!". Then you have the girls, who are usually pretty hot, but my type of girl - the one who I see in real life and not just on the internet, isn't there. Go figure. So what's the point?

I'll tell ya what the point is. Flirting with hot dimes across the mothafuckin globe cuz they saw your mug and wanted you to break them off a lil sumthin sumthin nice and proper. And that's where a whole nother side of me kicks in. That vane, superficial, leave-my-brain-at-the-door type of guy who just loves that kind of shit. But at the same time, I'm very posessive of my soul, so I strive to keep my ying and yang balance. That balance between egotism and modesty, intellect and compulsion, sobriety and inebriation, brunettes and blondes, completely shaven and landing strips, yall know how it goes. Balance.

So I dunno. I'm a blogger not a myspacer. But it couldn't hurt. I dunno, shall I post a picture of my cock on myspace?

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

When my mind isn't in the gutter its on the toilet.

I just thought of a funny image. A turd sitting on a toilet, sweating beads as he poops out a human..

The classic switcharoonie.

I'll go back to my corner now...

Sunday, February 13, 2005

There's No Bandaid in the World Big Enough....

Ya know that painful feeling of embarassment you get when someone's brain child turns out to be a still birth? Like when teachers try to put a "funky fresh" spin on educational matters. Instead of coolhouse rock this is coolhouse rap, and your teacher just ripped his coat off and is bustin flows about the economy. The vicarious shards of pain slice deep. Like an empathetic dildo rammed up your fanny. It'll make you want to crawl up in the corner and shield your eyes, as if Micheal Jackson just exposed himself and was now heading towards you. It hurts like watching Kathy Bates sledgehammer that dude's feet in Misery. Odd reactions to say the least, considering its the teacher making an ass of himself, not you.

But we've all had our moments. I know you'd all love to disown them, so you can thank me later for broaching the subject and fishing those gems from the back of your mind. Don't you wish that everyone who saw you died? Maybe you weren't bustin flows about the NASDAQ, and I doubt anyone's tasted the salty ballsweat of embarassment so profoundly as Tanya Harding in 94', but we can't all be The Fonze 365 days of the year. It can be anything from the classic TP Stuck to the Shoe to the unforgetabble I Just Vomitted on You While Having Sex. While I haven't had enough sex for it to coincide with my vomiting, I can personally attest to a handful of haunting memories not quite tragic enough to fully repress. Luckily, I've never peed my pants in public.

Shat them though. Don't act like you don't know. That tippy-toe diarrhea... The kind that sneaks up on you like a theif in the night. As far as you're concerned, you're packing some pretty consolidated turds. You feel some wind building up so you shift your weight to let out a little squeaker, and thats when you get a tad bit more than you bargained for. You tell yourself that wasn't wet you felt, just a hot fart, its easy to confuse the two. But deep down you know what's true. You just creamed yourself, and no, if you sit there long enough it won't just "evaporate" and go away. Maybe if you're lucky you can convince people it's coffee. It happens to the best of us.

Luckily I only fart-shat my pants once - on my hospital bed when I had appendicitis. I stained my polka-dot gown and some bed sheets, no biggie. It's only poop for crying out loud... At least it was in a somewhat appropriate setting. They're no strangers to bodily fluids..

I can remember another precious moment, but unlike shitting my pants, this feat could have only been pulled off by Little Me; Second Grade Me to be exact. School was over and I was loungin around in the After School Care room. As my mind danced nude in patches of dandylions and dewey meadows, my body casually decided to pick a booger from my nose and eat it. Apparently I used to have a nasal fixation to coincide with my oral fixation. Didn't like to see a good booger goto waste neither. This one was a green meanie, which is only like, the most delicious booger ever. I thought nobody was looking. In fact, everybody was looking. Apparently I was quite the spectacle as I sat there scrutinizing the emerald beauty that lay on my finger tip. And when I placed it on my tongue, the anticipation of what I was about to do was released in a rather harmonious, "ewwwwwwww". Shocked, I tried to play it off like I only pretended to eat it, but they were onto me. I was a booger eater. But I'm clean now.

And of course the list goes on. But I'd rather talk about boogers and poop. Needless to say, embarassment is often a lose lose situation. There are no winners, only victims. Nobody wants a poop stain on their pants, and nobody wants to see a poopstain on someone else's pants. Kick me in the nuts and the pain will go away. Pull my pants down so everybody can laugh at my nuts, that hurt will last a lifetime.

Saturday, February 12, 2005

This fortune cookie is not applicable to "colored" folk.

Race is a funny little thing. I'm half Chinese, but since I don't look it, people tend to stare at me funny for eating with chopsticks in the cafeteria (I eat with forks too, but in certain cases I prefer to grab, not stab, my food). My other half is Mexican, but since I don't look it, cops don't pull me over and beat me on the side of the road. But what if I looked the part? Maybe if i looked Mexican, I'd get funny stares for listening to music that didn't have accordians in it. People would just assume I'm Christian and wonder why I didn't have a cross around my neck, or a picture of the Virgin Mary in my wallet with a prayer to the Holy Santos on the back of it. Perhaps if I looked Chinese, people would scrutinize my face to see if I had eyelashes, and they'd tell me shit like, "Hey, I bet i could guess your last name in just 5 tries!". If I appeared Mexican, I'd be able to "represent for my latino heritage", and all that shit. And If I actually appeared to be Chinese, I'd... I dunno, represent with my ballin DDR skillz? Okay, I want nothing to do with Asians.

But you all catch my drift.

How someone looks, as oppposed to what someone truly is, seems to be the card that lets them act in accordance with certain cultural idiosyncracies. For example, the blacker someone is (literally), the louder they can be in public. They're also allowed to say "nigga" more often and wear dew rags more freely. But what about milk chocolate? That nigga be dealin wif the short end of the stick.

As it turns out, race has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with aesthetic. Yet, rightly so - its the same blood across the board, right? But once upon a time there were a bunch of people living in Bumfuck Egypt. The sun was hot and their skin got dark. Simple. Race is just the effect, both internal and external, a certain environment has on a certain group of people. There's a reason chinks have slits for eyes. Then our brain, which is very adept at picking up on patterns and grouping them, picks up on these differences so that everybody who looks a certain way is classified as being a certain race. Yet take the mexican who doesn't quite look the part and all of the sudden a wrench has been thrown in the whole system. Holy shit what do we do? How should he act? We've got another beaner fit for television! It just goes to show how race is a blurred line to begin with. In reality, race doesn't even exist. It cannot be tested for in the lab, and if your ancestors slept around enough you're one adulterated motherfucker to say the very least. And race in its most applicable form is semantics at the very most. In all technically, if more beaners and chinks came together and had enough children, we could be classified as a race. The Mexichink race. And I'd be the president of us all. Of course.

I just don't agree with the way certain people tend to emphasize on race. Race is not something to be proud of, culture is. Being proud of one's own race is like saying, "hey I look different than you, go me!" And race is not to be confused with culture. Race has nothing to do with culture, they just understandably go together many times. As far as someone representing for his or her own culture, well, then it becomes a matter of how long one wants to perpetuate the imaginary lines that divide the human race for the sake of staying true to his or her own heritage. I'm looking at you, black people. Can you please stop accusing people of not being "black enough"? Can you please stop embracing the way you butcher the English language? Can you please stop being so proud of Macaroni and cheese?

I dunno. The world may not be colorblind but it should be. And I don't mean that in some sort of idealistic sense, because I don't like that kind of pansy talk. I mean it in a genetic sense. And I know that all sounds funny coming from someone with as many racist proclivities as me, but its all in the name of fun. I've often felt that many times, people are too quick to turn this planet into poetry; applying symbols to things and stopping at that, when reality rigidly unfolds to far greater depths. Yet its hard to find words to rhyme with "quantum" and "neutrino". Race is just another example of how people all too often stop digging when confronted by symbolism and appearance. And I know that all sounds like some sort of high school rant on appearance vs. reality, but suck on my nipple. Give me back my squeaky voice, gimme back my pimples. We're all humans here!

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

I'm pregnant with calories.

I just ate myself retarded. No literally, I'm retarded right now. My right hand keeps bashing my chest and I'm currently trying to swallow my tongue. Eehhgh, eeeghpffsh. I'm just staring at all these discarded wrappings and crumbs in front of me, thinking about how unhungry I was before I started eating, and how fucking unhungry I am right now. Now i'm currently typing with one hand, because I'm stuffing an oreo down my pathetic piehole.

I used to always to make fun of fish because I couldn't imagine any creature on this planet being so dumb as to have the ability to literally eat itself to death. Now I've learned to not be so judgemental. I feel dead. I've just gluttonized my soul. I feel like I've just puked inside myself. It's times like these where certain people's index fingers have a certain tickle fight with their tonsils. While the prospects are tempting, if only to alleviate this pressure in my gut, I will have none of that. I'm going to pull through this. My intestines will act accordingly. I'm shitting this one out.

Why do we eat? Let me rephrase that, why do we eat so superfluously? Let me answer that. Boredom. But what is it about eating that is so special? I asked myself that very same question once, and of course I figured it was the taste. So I came up with a genius plan. I would stuff my face with the most fattening food I could find, but when it came time to swallowing, I'd spit it all out. That way, I'd get to have my proverbial cake and eat it too. Unless we're speaking literally of course, then it'd all be regurgitated into a hefty trash bag. So I started off on a Mrs. Field's choclate chip cookie. I took one bite out of that bad boy and it was so good I almost started touching myself. Then it came time to swallow, so I spat. I felt like I just spat out part of my soul into the trashcan. Totally UNsatisfying. Apparently, eating is nothing without swallowing. It's like having penis sex (penis sex, what the hell?) without the orgasm. Yeah, for the moment it may be fun, but looking back, aren't you just a tad bit ...angry? And when you get home, aren't you gonna grab a magazine and beat off first things first?

So what's the count? Have I posted a single blog without a reference to masturbation? And you thought you were safe cuz i was talking about food...

Now I'm actually angry at food. I'm staring at all these wrappers and crumbs with eyes of hatred. Because there's nothing quite like passing blame onto inanimate objects. It's like waking up with a hangover and getting mad at all the empty bottles as they innocently lie strewn across your apartment floor. Fuck you wrappers. Fuck you crumbs. Fuck you food. Fuck you all to hell. This middle finger is for you. Cya tomorrow for breakfast.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Hi, my name is Male.

"Excuse me man, would you happen to have a crotch I could invert?"

"Excuse me?"

"Some guts. Do you have some guts I could beat?"

"Are you referring to what I think you are referring to?"

"If by "referring to" you mean me inserting my penis into your vagina and performing the act of copulation then yes, I want to beat your guts and invert your crotch"


Dear me. I am experiencing a tingling sensation in my crotch area. No, my pipes aren't dirty and I'm not on any radical medications. This is the feeling of desire. Nature's insidious curse upon the male race. Yet I would like to believe, in every respect, that this fire burning within me is something to be proud of. Members of the male special sure act proud. Afterall, we are men, filled with testosterone and insatiable desires, driven to conqure curvacious fronts that smell like roses and fresh shampoo. But there is a bleak side to this driving force. A side that only shows its true face when we are naked and beating off in the shower. We're just junkies looking for a fix. When it comes down to it, my mind body and soul owes its undying allegiance to my penis.

And being one who was once fond of inebriants myself, I've come to understand a thing or two about desire. It's fucking distracting yo. So I sought to rid myself from as much of it as possible. I kicked my old habits and forced myself to do things I didn't quite want to do, thinking that the contrast and humility would bring me happiness and contentment. I did small but enjoyable things, like going out for coffee with a good friend, or learning to savor the delight of a good book. Afterall, simple kicks bring great joy, correct? Nope, still wanna motherfuckin poke a bitch.

I am a slave with no Harriet Tubman to offer me her tunnel.

Sunday, February 06, 2005

No comment

Dear Gay people,

What on God's green earth gave you the idea? Was channeling your rebellious ways through tattoos and piercings not enough? Now all of the sudden you have to be sexual desperados? I just can't imaaagine. What ever gave you the idea to become so enticed by, dear me, another mans.. penis? Were your heterosexual roots at birth not enough? Sure, phallic objects have a naturally grace-like structure, I suppose. But to be so amused as to actually want to pleasure yourself to them? Sexually? Or even worse, to be pleasured BY them? I just can't imaagine. Gay people, why must your apples be so rotten?

A Concerned Christian Mother

PS. Stay the fuck away from my kids.

Okay I made the above letter up. I just wanted to poke fun of certain people's beliefs. I"ll be honest though, when it comes to people like the above, it's hard for me to poke fun. The humor gets in the way of another emotion; one that compells me to tie them to the back of my car and drive around the city. I wouldn't care that their friction with the road was adding extra strain, thus extra gas mileage on my car. I'd simply be looking for the most isolated and unkempt dumpster around. And if they're still alive by the time I reached the dumpster, I'd slip a plastic bag over their head and punt them around a couple times. Because I just watched the Superbowl. But if they're too heavy to punt I could always just cut to the chase and put them in the dumpster. I'd rather punt them though.

Now, anyone who knows me well is aware that I have some issues when it comes to anger. Particularly in the sense that, I can't be angered enough. Kick me in the nuts and I'll just look up at you with big tears in my eyes and ask, "why did you do that to me?" It's horrible really. Don't get me wrong, I come with that motherfuckin Bruce Lee shit if need be, but that's neither here nor there. Because when it comes to people who treat logic as if it were a third wheel on their romantic date with their own fucking ideals, I tend to get angered to the point of inarticulation. If I'm dining out and someone says something religiously ignorant, or even just plain ignorant, I typically have to excuse myself to the bathroom so I can pee on that pink urinal tablet and inhale it's soothing vapors. Even as I'm zipping up my fly, I'm zipping it up, furiously.

I guess I'm just amazed at how people who foster supernatural beliefs set themselves up as being more sensible or "in tune" than you and I, when they're really just being intellectually irresponsible. Since when did piecing together ideologies become equivalent to a choose-your-own-adventure novel? Didn't that fad die out already? And isn't basing beliefs on sheer wilfulness a rather egocentric approach to the truth? What's so wrong with saying "no comment"? And not in a politician's sort of way. I mean in a sincere, "How the fuck should I know" sort of way.

And I know there's bigger, better things to be pissed off about. Another person's lack of thoughtfulness isn't my problem, right? Try telling that to my emotions. They get pissed off anyways. Then the next thing you know, my right hand is slapping a hoe. More sex I suppose, right Sex?

Saturday, February 05, 2005

A Public Service Anouncement to the Modern Day Leper.

There's alot of nerds out there in Blogland. By "nerds" I am of course using the conventional definition, which implies both one who is fond of the academic persuit, and also looks like Mr. Potato head. There's alot of those. I can personally attest to a surge in the number of nerds occupying Blogland, which indicates a growing trend among the facially and conversationally challenged to branch out into less revealing cyberspace communities, where helium for shriveled egos comes by the truckload, and commentbox smut talk comes cheap. While websites such as "" continue to grow in popularity for the vane, Blogging owes much of it's business to the facially and socially obtuse. This is because unlike with "" and real life, ugly people can come here to escape the burden of their face, so that they too can be beautiful in their very own ways.

So I would like to take this time out to give some advice on how to find your true "inner beauty". Because while nerds may sometimes feel invisible, this is no reason to hang a head down in shame, for nobody's soul is invisible. That being said, if you fit my above description and are reading these here words, I advise you perk up those ears... Yes my friend, I know. You're ears are big and they have freckles.

Hello my ugly friend! I can't say I've felt your pain, but look on the bright side. Based on pure probability, everyone has at least one beautiful body part. Just because it's not your face doesn't make it any less ravishing, or special. Heck, If I had a foot fetish, what does face matter? I'm breaking a sweat just licking various sauces from between a person's toes, marinating those tender little piggies with my saliva of love. See, there's both external and internal beauty in all of us. Direct your readers attention towards it with your prose. Help us focus on your hidden treasures. Because that's what browsing blogland is all about. Digging for that diamond in the rough. By rough I'm of course implying that spastic stream of diarrhea crapped out by everyone who has yet to find their inner jewels, forcing me to wash whatever diamonds I find with soap and water. Find your inner jewels.

It is also my understanding that, for lack of a better term, nerds not post any pictures. It's smart to keep your audience in mind. By "in mind" I'm of course talking about being aware that they have emotions. Don't make any sudden movements or post any focused self-portraits that may startle your reader's senses. Likely so, mentioning cranial misfortunes in your prose is a definate foupat, pardon my french. It makes the reader feel as if some stranger at the busstop was going off about their mom slipping in the shower and breaking her spine, simply because someone asked him, "How's it going?" for the sake of courtesy. Reality isn't always a good thing. You're a nerd, you've faced enough reality as it is, try cultivating your dreams and catering to the dreams of others. Fantasy is an integral part of capturing your audience's imagination. Don't always give your reader the full enchillada, for it might give them the squirts. Nobody is wearing a UPS uniform here, think about the times when it's best not to deliver the entire package.

In essence, don't be afraid to twist the truth. More importantly, know when to leave the truth behind. Take advantage of your medium. In Blogland, you can be superman if you really set your mind to it. Indulge yourself. Title your blog, "In the Phone Booth with Clark Kent" for all anyone really cares. I don't suggest it, but go ahead. You can be as big as your most detatched illusion of grandeur, or as small as your most undeserved negative thought. What's reality, afterall? There's no logic police in your head. There's nothing stopping you from believing things about yourself on a purely emotional level. Who cares if all the seniors throw their half-eaten yogurt at you during break, keep your head up and let them cover you in Yoplait. Now you're just a motherfucking badass covered in Yoplait.

You're not ugly, you're not a nerd, you're neither a plane nor a bird. You're superman... and you look good in spandex. Now let's see that buldge in your red skivvies. Aww yeah. Now lemme get get a profile on it. Lookin good. You know you can do more than just pee with that thing. Claws up, claws up, lemme see those claws. Grr, that's right. Go get em tiger.

Thursday, February 03, 2005

This is my story and I"m sticking to it.

For a guy, it's bad enough to move into an apartment with a female they don't know. It's even worse if she's a manic depressive train wreck waiting to derail. I moved in with a 24 year old chic diagnosed with bi-polar disease when I was going to Cal State Fullerton. I thought things would be chill at first. She was somewhat cute, good body, relatively silent and she kept to her own. I had the living room, while she had her own bedroom. She chainsmoked in the house like mad, and while I prefered to have a non-smoking premisis, I eventually started to enjoy waking up in the morning, rolling over, and sparking a cig. Or smoking one while I shat. That was nice. But of course as time passed by, her little idiosyncracies came out.

Sometimes I would pack a fresh roll of toilet paper, use a few sheets to cleanse myself, and leave the house. I'd come back late at night and use the bathroom, only to find a hallow brown tube of cardboard staring me in the face. Where did all the TP go? I'd pack a fresh roll. Lo and behold, the very next day it'd be done. Sometimes I'd even find the bathroom floor flooded with water. I put two and two together - she was an over-wiper. Apparently in her world, her ass couldn't be clean enough. One deuce dropping session would prerequisite an entire roll of TP, just to ensure her ass was free from feces.

Another time I had some friends over while she was out. One of my friends said to me, "hey greg, have you ever snooped through her room just for the fuck of it?" I told him no, because I was afraid of what I might find. But we went to her room anways. I glanced around the room, then at the floor, and hit jackpot. A purple thong! There was a notebook covering half of it, so I kicked it over to the side. That's when I almost lost my lunch. Gunk. And I mean GUNK! Is period blood supposed to coagulate like that? The bottom portion of the thong was drenched in this thick, gooey concoction of period blood and other vaginal excretes. To a woman, this may sound like no big deal. But imagine my horror, the last time I saw such cottage cheese was when I watched the Miracle of Life in high school and a friggin baby was popping out of some chic's cooter.

During her manic highs she'd read to me peices of the "novel" she was writing. It read like some "Sound and the Fury" Faulkner shit if he'd wrote the thing in 6th grade. And I sat there and listened politely, while she'd pause briefly from her open mic session to drop such intellectual gems as, "I think people hate other people because they don't understand the other person. Like, do you know what I"m saying Greg?"

"Yeah totally, hate stems from fear and fear stems from ignorance"

"Oh my God Greg. You're so smart you should be a teacher or something"

Then there was the time I came home somewhat early and walked in on her cleaning the kitchen - butt ass naked. She ran into the corner like a frightened child, balled up, and whispered, "um, could you leave for a second?" I thought it was hard looking her in the eye after her thong incident, now I was treatin her like she was a fuckin chainsmokin Medusa. And her titties totally let me down, they sagged and looked like the were trying to wrap around her back and touch each other on the other side.

Things started going downhill from here on. To make a long story short, I was getting sick of her, I couldn't even wack off in the middle of the night without thinkin she'd wake up for a cigarette, like she always did, and catch me getting assweat on her ergonomic chair. And she started getting sick of me because of my lifestyle, and plus I couldn't help to show my annoyance with her. And when I used her towel to mop the floor cuz she flooded the toilet and didn't clean it once again, that was the last straw.

Her mom was over one day and asked to talk to me outside. She said, "Greg, I got a real disturbing letter from someone that knew you at Cal State Fullerton. They wrote to me saying you were planning to drugg up my daughter, and gangbang her with some of your friends". I think the geniune expression of shock on my face spoke for itself, and she seemed to believe me when I said I was planning nothing of the sort. Just a prank.

Three days later I'm coming home in the morning, after a good night of partying. I goto the bathroom to take a shit. As I'm sitting on the toilet, I hear a banging on the bathroom door and a guy's voice yelling, "ARE YOU IN THERE?". The door busts open and a man, late thirties, about 200 pounds walks in on me as I'm taking a shit. I stand up and start to pull my pants up but he throws me against the wall. He screams at me, "You want to rape my sister? You want to rape my sister you fucking pervert?". My dick is hanging out. I go to pick up my pants and that's when he clocks me, hard, right in the face. Fuck the pants I thought. I threw my hands up as he continued to scream and throw punches at me. Finally he stops and started to leave the room. Great, I start to pick up my pants when the door flings open again and knocks me back. Another barrage of punches while my dick's hanging out, and everytime I let my guard down to pick them up, that's when he'd really clock me and I'd throw my hands back up. The beating went on for a few minutes, but he was screaming at me and calling me a pervert more than he was really landing good punches. Although he did beat me nice and proper, I guess it was a good thing that my dick was hanging out. I mean, exactly how bad can you beat a man when his nuts are visibly flailing to the rhythm of the blows?

Finally, during a lull in his temper, I made good on an opportunity to get the fuck out of there. I headed towards the manager's office all bruised and bloodied (with my pants up) and had him call the police. By the time the cops arrived, the dude had left.

So what was all that about? Turns out little miss manic depressive stopped taking her medicine to go on a drinking binge. During one of her lows she devised a plan to get me out of the house. When writing that fake letter to her mom didn't work, she told her bid bad brother that I raped her. So he comes over all hot and heavy and gives poor Greg a you-just-raped-my-sister ass whooping. Maaan, that damn bitch wanted my nuts ever since I moved in. Too bad her nuttiness superceded her relative cuteness or I would have definately given her the in-out and everything would have been a happy ever after fuckfest. But needless to say, I didn't touch that bitch with a 10 ft pole, nor did i touch her with my penis.

I don't know what she told the cops, but they totally thought she was crazy and got on her ass for not taking her meds. I decided not the press charges because after all, the guy thought I raped his sister and all he gave me was a simple ass whoopin? What a pussy. I took it like a man and put it all behind me. I left Cal State Fullerton because it was a peice of shit school and I was done dealing with that place. I moved back home and from there, I type this story for you all.

So there you have it. That's my story, free of all embellishment and about 99% true. What's the moral of the story? Drop your pants if you're getting your ass beat, it may just save you a trip to the hospital.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

It's about to pop off yo, its about to pop off.

So I'm supposed to be seeing a shrink for an ADD screening. Plus I'm nuts. But I won't be telling her about all that. I'm not real big on the whole sanity bit. I think my partial insanity gives me a bit of an edge, it works well with the ladies. Or maybe I'm just so sane I'm insane, hmmm? Kind of like a smart went crazy sort of deal. But anyways, i mention my attention inconsistancy because a pigeon almost got me into an accident today. You'd think I'd get used to seeing rats with wings flying around. You'd think they wouldn't distract me from my driving. But this one was different. He was like a Godfather pigeon. He had a sort of presence to him, a sort of charisma. He was also completely and utterly obese. He demanded my attention as he flapped his fat body across my horizen, and then I slammed on the brakes and came inches from hitting the car in front of me. Damn those charismatic pigeons! I always used to say my first major accident would be my fault, and it would be because some gorgeous chic grabbed my attention and made me forget I was driving. Now I realize all it takes is a fat fucking pigeon.

Zero comments on my last post! I guess calling Britney Spear's little sister hot and letting Micheal Jackson off the hook for touching little boys is going to far. But I didn't even get any anonymous comments telling me what a sick bastard I was. Actually I just realized I had anonymous comments turned off. So I turned them on. Now people can yell at me all they want, anonymously.

I like being yelled at. It lets me know I'm doing a good job at pissing off the world. Yell at me damnit!