Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Wacko Jacko is no Longer Blacko

We sure moved on from the Micheal Jackson case pretty quick. It seems like only yesterday that my best friend wanted to strangle me for saying, "We should all sympathize for Micheal Jackson, poor guy." And I meant it. Whether he touched little boy berries or not, there's more than one victim here. Micheal is the victim of circumstance. I mean really, who the fuck chooses to be a nutcase pervert freak???

Micheal Jackson is looking for his childhood. Have you seen it?

Maybe I'm just lost in my own crazy metaphysical world because I'm not one to point the finger, or judge, or blame people for the way they are. And I do mean nobody; not even Hitler. (Still don't like the fella and the mustache was soooo metro, but in a bad way because this was pre-Bravo.) And I have my reasons for thinking this. Alot of them. It's not like I want to absolve the crazy motherfucker. Maybe my reasons are wrong. Who knows. What I do know is, I have them. Lots. They make more sense to me than others. And I"m good at making sense of things. That's all I have to offer.

Seems like people care less and less about reasons. Reasons for believing this, reasons for believing that. Me and Sex were having a little convo earlier about the possibilities of a supernatural reality coexisting with this one. She's a, ya know, believer. I'm not. But we both justified our stance and it was a delightful conversation. Delightful I tell you. I wonder how many people can justify their beliefs with such articulation as she did earlier. Or I wonder how many people simply go about picking and choosing beliefs like their outfits - whatever the weather calls for. Whatever looks good. Whatever still doesn't have a jizz stain on it.

But I'll digress. I'm starting to not like that word anymore. What's another word for digress?


People hold on tightly to the thought that their actions, accomplishments, acheivements and so on, are entirely theirs. Yet in a sense, the actor is lucky for having been born with the ability to act, the genius is lucky for having been born with such intelligence, and Micheal Jackson is one unlucky motherfucker. Is this anything new? Where does pride and shame fit in this roll of the die?

I don't want to get too deep into this subject. I bore even myself. It's not like I'm suggesting anything new. I just love talking about this shit because it makes my bejoogles pulsate. I'm lucky to be such a nerd. You may beg to differ. I've said absolutely nothing in this post now that I think of it. Lay off Micheal!

Monday, June 27, 2005

Can't Touch This (Doodoodadoomp)

If your seeing eye dog hasn't indicated to you already, I haven't been posting much as of late. It's not that I don't love you guys, because I do, totally. How many times must we go over this - it's not you, it's me.

I've just been caught up in this whole conundrum of life. Which isn't to say I've been busy. That would imply that Starbucks hired me (I didn't wanna fucking work there anyways). Or maybe you're thinking, since it's me and all, that I'm getting laid alot - and these blasted nude women have pinned me down on satin sheets and insist on feeding me grapes all the time. This is not the case. Shocking, I know. But I'm still playing with myself and avoiding the smell of my own farts as usual.

Aww shit I just ripped one. Damn I blasted that thing off. Ew, smells like lettuce.

This week I'm getting back into the swing of blogging. Let me tell ya though, I've been whoring myself to summer like a hooker in Thailand who gives the best boom boom sucky sucky in town. I loove summer. I love the sun. I love the lack of clothes women wear because of the sun. I love baking under the sun, walking around shirtless, and the feel of tanning oil being rubbed all over my body by a woman other than my mom or grandma. I love it all. So as a result, my keyboard has been getting a bit lonely.

But if you feel sorry for my keyboard you're an idiot verging on insane because keyboards don't have feelings. Let's get that straight right now.

I've been feeling considerably breezy-minded as of late. Usually I'm always wanting to write or talk about higher reality, whether free will exists, the ontological incongruities of an omnipotent, omni-benevolent God in light of the existance of evil, whether or not my sperm have souls, ya know, that sort of thing. Now I just want to talk about getting drunk and rubbing my face in some titties. But that's not a bad thing, right?

But hey, here's an "intelligent" joke for you all.

Q: What did the proton say to the electron?
A: Why do you always have to be so negative?

I made that shit up. Really I did. Isn't it funny? That's a kneeslapper I tell ya what. If you didn't laugh at that I'll fucking cut you.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Hello once again Children.

People tell me I need to eat more, not because I'm skinny or anything but I because treat eating like a chore. Sometimes I'll look at food like its trying to kill me. Or I haven't even started on my plate and I'll be treating it's contents like my girlfriend and she just asked me to eat her out even though I thought we were done with that whole "I'm here to pleasure you" phase of the relationship. And I know what you're thinking too. You're thinking, "Geez Greg cry me a fucking river. I'm a fatass because I can't stop eating and here you are talking about how you eat for substanance as oppose to delight or curing your post-partum depression".

Yeah... so. It's embarrassing being out-eaten by a chic. Or having my friends clown on me because I'm in pain after a jumbo jack and a cup of water. Right now I had half a burrito and I wish I were never born. It is this feeling in my stomach, this very feeling right now, that made me broach this subject. You think you know, but you don't know. As beautifully carved as my body is, you don't want it. Not unless you can remodel my digestive system. It hurts right now.

But moving on from all that negative energy. I thought of a brilliant invention today for public bathrooms all across America. It's a simple, inexpensive device to help put a calm to the overall tension that may arise from some restroom atmospheres. It's purpose is quite simple.

See, bathroom silence is killer. I don't know how many times I've walked into the bathroom along with another man, only to be hanging with our cocks out in a particularly uncomfortable silence while we wait for urine to come out. Sometimes I'll be thinking, "God I hope he doesn't start peeing before me", being that it's me and I've always got to be FIRST FIRST FIRST! But just thinking that gives me performance jitters and sometimes I choke under pressure. It's the silence that sparks these retarded thoughts.

So I've invented the Tinkler. It's basically a mountable mini-foundtain that may be placed on the wall or anywhere in the bathroom to give off a splish-splashy sound. Not only does this splish-splashy sound encourage the urination process but it also helps people urinate in comfort. No longer will bathroom silence make people feel as if they had to talk about the weather or Micheal Jackson, etc.

Or they could always install a radio or something.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Stupid ass crazy motherfuckers!

Romanian priest unrepentant after crucifixion of nun

TANACU, Romania (AFP) - A Romanian Orthodox priest [Father Daniel], is facing charges for ordering the crucifixion of a young nun because she was "possessed by the devil," was unrepentant as he celebrated a funeral ceremony for his alleged victim.

"God has performed a miracle for her, finally Irina is delivered from evil"



Thank God... My sincerest thanks goes out to Father Daniel and everyone involved for doing their duty and keeping the world safe from the malicious grips of evil. One would think that after the Salem witch trials, humanity would come to realize what has been so vividly laid out before our very eyes. Must I spell it out once again that not only does Satan exist, but he is a ubiquitous, multi-agented entity who takes on material and non-material like forms to imbue and control other people's bodies because God does not permit video game consoles in hell?

I am concerned with the matters of devilry because I myself have experienced an occasional brush with pure, unadulterated evil. Why just last week I awoke to find a considerable portion of my carpet covered in a mysterious wetness, despite my having caught eight hours of undisturbed respite. And now, I am thoroughly convinced that the devil has peed my rug. You think I'm simply joking?

- yo people, that'd be funny if some newcomer thought I wasn't huh? Ahah. Seriously, I wish someone would read the above and take me all serious up until now; which would be the point where their stupidity sinks in and the well-deserved road to suicide begins. That'd be a riot. My point being - dumbasses like this do exist.

(But anyone paying attention would've noticed my use of the word "ubiquitous" up above. People who use words like "ubiquitous" are by default, too fuckin smart to believe in fairy tales of devilry and devilish deeds. And that right there, is alliteration. People who point out alliteration are, by default, too fucking smart to believe in Satanic evilry and demonic possesions. I believe in the existance of deviled eggs and even then, I questioned the reality behind the nomenclature.)

Let it be known, to me the devil is about as factual as the notion of a heterosexual Richard Simmons. Deceived be not. He may have alot of thick man hair but it doesn't camoflauge his gayness. People who believe the devil is trying to fuck over the world plain scare me. And these Pabst Blue Ribbon drinking, can't-tan-for-shit wackjobs populate such a considerable portion of America - heck, it's a possibility that at this very moment, your next door neighbor is dressed in a moomoo and doing some really weird shit with duct tape, a potato cannon and Tabasco sauce.

Even if the devil did exist, don't they know the victors write the books? I'd venture to say Hell is where the real party is at. I'll bring the brew, you bring the potato chips? And let me tell you - between you an me - I hear Satan's quite the sucker for Mexican food. But for now drop that taco. Seriously. Satan is the biggest mooch and he will get all up in you.

Friday, June 17, 2005

I don't think i'm qualified

It is hard to convey the laziness that is me through this blog. Sometimes I'll feel an inkling of energy and poop out something productive, but that usually involves dropping $2.50 at my nearest liquor store for a silver and blue can with a picture of a bull on it. I am a Red Bull addict. And unless I want to prostitute my various orafices to maintain this habit, I need to get a job.

So today I went for an interview at Starbucks. We talked for about 10 minutes. It went well but it just felt wrong - me being quizzed by a Starbucks representative and all. ME trying to prove my competance to THEM? That's like being interviewed to be one of those guys who stands on the street corner holding up signs, dressed up as a 6-inch sub or a burrito or something.

"So Pedro... can you stand?"

"Si senior"

"Welcome to Subway my friend"

But this interview was a bit more intensive. They were asking me questions about my previous experiences, about times I made snap decisions in tough spots, situations where I broke convention for the greater good. And I just thought to myself, this is fucking Starbucks. I'm a human and I have workable hands, hire me.

They were asking me all these friggin questions. Maybe I'm mistaken, but I doubt my personal philosophy has anything to do with the flavor of someone's "grande mocha mint cafe latte afagado style warmed precisely to 102 degrees farenheit and please use the lowfat half and half or else the extra fat goes straight to that area right below my eyes and gives me bags. Oh, and hold on I have some pennies I've been meaning to get rid of. May I place my laptop, my palmpilot, my attaché and my GPS navigational system on your counter while in dig into my Gucci purse?"

I'm sucking on Starbucks' corporate nipple in hopes that some milk will come out; which is a metaphore for getting hired. But I'm the shit. If anything I should be interviewing them, to see if they're worthy enough to be graced by my presence. Regardless I hope they call me back. And if not then oh well. I didn't want to work there ANYWAYS. sob..

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Another late night post. Ya know how those go. Tired.

Sex sort of got me thinking about the upside to being an introvert. Now, I don't know how I come off on this site; that is not for the author to inhale. I know I don't come off as a fatass, this is for sure. Maybe I seem a bit outgoing, or confident with modest tendancies - which I hope. Because that is all true in general. I write naturally in hopes that the fun loving sex machine that I am (without the sex) comes off as natural and as real as the very fingers typing this. So I'm frank. Masturbating since the second grade, yada yada. Shame is not mine to have.

But I am an introvert and I do seem to have a particular flaw which may or may not be masked by whatever confident tone my blog may sometimes deliver. Being that, while not intuitively surprising, I was unexpected to hear Sex's flaw ran deep like mine. This flaw being a particular sense of disconnect from others. A sense of alone-ness, without being alone. Feeling separated, without actually being separated. Sometimes I feel that interacting with others is a game I do not want to play, despite having carved a considerable niche for myself among others, and maintaining good close friends.

It is nothing self-deprecating. I relish in the pleasures of solitude. It helps me feel comfortable in my own skin. Yet it all contributes to the itching I feel when interacting with the typical human being and dealing with that lack of awareness - which is the best way I can put it. Some just get "it". "It" being grander than math or physics or even that liberal hippie philosophy shit. And those who get "it", know exactly what "it" means.

I'm lucky that my love for people trumps my disdain for them, otherwise bitterness and adorable kittens await for me at the end of a solitary road. I just find it to be of no coincidence that often, the more extroverted type have a harder time turning their outward energy in on themselves to explore. But even that seems to be their nature, which is why I still love them. There's a reason for every man's blindspots.

And I understand my generalizations there.

Yet Sex spoke for me as well when she said she needed depth. For me in particular, skipping stones in a pond is fun and all but I'd rather hurl them and watch them sink. Or here's another shitty metaphor. Taxi drivers drive and thinkers think and as with both professions, you're stuck with them for life. I can be charimatic and witty like Mr. Ed, but that's a part-time job. I'm wired for more than just grabassing. I grabass to satisfy my split-personality ego and I do it well, which is why I guess I"m here. There's a whole nother side of me waiting to vent.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Beachball Spiderweb

Usually when I drink my ass off the night before, I get a bit more reflective than usual the next morning. I was shitfaced last night so by my very nature, I must ramble on.

I've been thinking alot about concepts. I like concepts. They are like Penthouses for mental masturbation. When I think, I try to think as if words did not exist. People often muttle around with words as entities in and of themselves, ignoring the layers and layers of reality beneath them and being represented by them. As if they were reading poetry for its face value; things get confusing. One starts asking himself, "What the fuck is the deal with that empty, cracked vase?" To me, every single word in this buckyball of a language is a fragment of a poem waiting to be analyzed.

Therein lies the concepts. And I was thinking the other day. Well, ya know how there is a Theory of Everything in science? Because fundamentally it makes sense that complexity is constructed upon simplicity, among other reasons. That all has to do with matter, but I was wondering how this Theory of Everything applies to concepts as well. Which isn't to say that every concept stemmed from one singular concept. That wouldn't make sense. Or maybe it does. It would essentially mean however, that everything is somehow interconnected, or most likely overlapping. Duh, right? Yet what does this do to the concepts of right or wrong? If there are so many ways to view reality.

Being that, it is possible for something to exist in our language yet not exist in an utmost sense. And many times language will set people on the wrong path. Right and wrong are a false dichotomy. It is Dubbyah-Bush-Think. They are lumper words. Someone can be wrong, yet still maintain some rightness. But the concepts themselves nudge people to polarize their view into something tidy. Such as being entirely wrong or entirely right. But that is wrong, am I not right?

Which isn't to say that there is no right or wrong. Bad logic is simply wrong, even if logic has its parameters. I just think this linear train of thinking has to go. Concepts evolve, branch off, one train of thought leads to another, which leads to another, until the two paradigms of thought are unrecognizable to each other; yet the relationship between them still exists. And everything in between them is worthwhile to explore.

But anyways I'm gonna go take a nap because my head is pounding and I drank too much last night. But one last thing. My friend the other day got things confused and called me a nihilist. Far from it. While nihilist say we cannot know, I say that's not the only way to know. The problem is, once we think we know, we stop looking. What ever happened to being like a child?

I woke up and there was this large portion of my carpet that was wet. This blew my mind. It wasn't wet before I went to sleep. I wake up and suddenly a portion of my carpet is wet? What the fuck is going on here. Nobody had come into my room, I had a bottle of water on my nightstand but it was sealed with the cap on. I'm actually starting to think that maybe I woke up in a drunken stupor and peed the carpet. But I wasn't THAT drunk. Some questions will never be answered.

Friday, June 10, 2005

No more school.

School is over, it is summer. Summer is when all the lovemaking unfolds. As always I'll be opening up the love lair, for any ladies who want to layeth on my bed of feathers and commence the love-making. It's a single but we will make the best of room. I love summers in LA. It's just good vibrations all around.

Like today I was driving around. I figured I'd try to have an outer body experience of sorts, if only to feel what a tourist would feel if they were seeing it all for the first time. I think it'd remind them of the show Chips. But besides that, it'd definately be positive vibrations all around. For one thing, the palm trees just do it. Ever see a palm tree in the desert? Well maybe you have, I think they might be habitable there. Either way, they look so much better lined up next to a paved road, all heading towards the ocean.

But what would the ocean, palm trees or my love lair be without the beautiful women? Oh yes the weeeemen. I don't know what it is about a certain place that cranks out a better looking populous than the next, but it happens. LA is the result of some of the genepool's finest work to date. Perhaps its the overall sense of vanity that breeds competition, which in turn cranks out finer people. Although, don't confuse vanity with conceit, yeah there's alot of that too; but I'm vane yet m not conceited. I just give the best dickin and don't stop-a-tickin. That's all.

I love this place and it's times like these where I kick myself for wanting to live in Canada from time to time. Canada is great and all but they're also a bunch of hosers. And the fact that I don't know what a hoser is just reminds me of how big a group of hosers those Canadians are. Yeah I'm chippery just fine down here in LA.

Yall should come visit. I could show you my room. Don't mind the chains on the wall, the video camera and the plate of bread on the floor. And if you hear me hammering it's just because I'm soundproofing the walls. Cmon it'll be fun!

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Rhymes with Prad Bitt

This is for you, ladies.

I headed over to the usual Starbucks in Westwood to study for finals. This particular Starbucks is smack next to the Village theater, which is just swank enough to be home to many a movie premier. To my utter surprise, it was the premier of Mr. And Mrs. Smith. Ya know, that movie with that one dude and that one chic.

So I'm romping around trying to find parking in this godforsaken place – focusing like a Buddhist monk to keep from creaming the car in front of me, as there were many cuties walking about, damn near crawling out of the trees and bushes to see, ya know, that one dude. I park my bitch up and head over to Starbucks, walking as if I didn’t care that with every footstep I took, I was heading closer to an area where molecules coalesced to make a figure known as Bradd Pitt. And with every breath I took, Bradd Pitt was breathing too.

I took a seat outside Starbucks, which is literally 20 feet from the doors to the Village. The only thing separating Starbucks from the theater were some bushes and dudes with walkie talkies and plugs in their ears. The movie was still going on, likely building up to its climax, sort of like me, building up to mine. Because Bradd Pitt was in there, and at times like these I can’t help to feel like a virgin on prom night with Little Miss Public Vagina.

Regardless I was playing it cool with my face in my book, acting like I didn’t care about celebrity or seeing celebrities, while everyone about me soiled their garments and waved their cameras in the air like Japanese schoolgirls. Then they all start to scream. I jump the fuck up on top of my chair where I had a perfect view of the crowd rolling out of the theatre, and then I hear it, “Braaaad”.

It was him, Brad motherfucking Pitt. He was wearing a leather coat, and that’s all I can remember about his clothes because I was too busy looking at his face and thinking to myself, “wow he has a really nice tan for a white guy”. He walked over to his limo, but not before waving to the crowd like a true champion, and that was that.

Among the other people I saw was Bruce Willis and his kids, that guy who played Angel on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Adam a.k.a Seth from the OC. Yeah V, I thought about ya. Here’s a telepathic image. You like? He was wearing a pink collard shirt btw. Very metro. Very in.

But I didn’t see Angelina and her little Chinese baby. I don't know where she was but I was severely pissed. I guess I’ll just have to pleasure myself to Brad Pitt tonight. Kidding…. He was really tan though.

Monday, June 06, 2005

That's not my forte

HIM: She's so fine, she's like the quintessential woman.
ME: Dude, did you just say quintessential?
HIM: Yeah, sorry I know.
ME: You're not writing an essay, you know that right?
HIM: I know, I know. I just wanted to use that word. I'll leave the big words up to you Greg, they're not my forte.
ME: You're forgiven. It's pronounced "fort" by the way.
HIM: No it's "fort-e"
ME: Do you want me to fucking stab you?

So we asked some people walking by if it were pronounced "fort-e" or "fort". I know for certain it was "fort", but I knew everybody would say it was "fort-e". As I expected, everybody said it was "fort-e". I was content that I looked like an idiot in this specific situation, because deep down I knew I had the correct knowledge, and that made my package pulsate.

I"m gonna go around everywhere using the word "forte" and pronounce it correctly, just to get a kick out of the irony of people correcting me. "Don't you mean fort-e?". I could either lift my head up and give a, "well actually" or I could just smile and be like, "yeah that's it (dumbshit)". Knowing damn well I got the secret knowledge of proper pronunciation. I want to be on a talk show and use the word "forte" properly. The host wouldn't have the balls to "correct" me (cuz he'd think it was fort-e too). Millions of people would think I was a dumbass. I swear I think about this all the time.

I find other people thinking I"m an idiot to be exciting. And I say alot of stupid things too, it's not like I give them any reason to think otherwise. I'm the king of pointing out the obvious, under the pretense that I'm saying something profound. Because I'll sort of have this super cool understanding of something, and I'll pysche myself out and be like, wow, that's super deep. But I don't realize at the time that words wouldn't do what I'm thinking any justice. So I'll be all smug, thinking its my time to shine, yet say something like,

"Yeah well... some people just don't like brocolli"

Before you laugh, fucker, if only you knew everything I could not say...

Sunday, June 05, 2005

On the nature of limpness

My nose is all stuffed up for whatever reason. Usually when it's this stuffed, a nasal spray called Afrin works wonders. Right now I turned to my dad to ask if he had any, but instead of asking for Afrin I slipped and said, "Hey pops, do you have any Viagra..." Yeah yeah shutup. I corrected myself on the quickness and assured him I must have seen a picture of Bob Dole somewhere. Shit. Eyewear, receding hairlines and widows peaks may run in the family- but not THAT. Oh no, never that.

It is at this point that I'd like to give a big Fuck You to Freud and his little "slips" theory. My dangly wangly is checking in just fine and dandy thank you. I ran a diagnostic test and everything. And if you don't believe me that's okay. I'll be masturbating on your front doorstep. My shit is sturdy enough to be a towel rack, among other things. Besides it's not like I'm magically hung, it doesn't take all that much blood to fill up the chamber.

Not hung does not imply small, you fucking black and whiter.

Moving on. Today is Sunday and this is my day of rest. Not because I'm religious or anything, it just seemed like a good day to pick for resting. If it is willed it shall be done. I've trained my friends to not call me on certain days by never picking up my phone. Fuck phones they can write me a letter if they want. I can finally sit and veg out while I listen to some Joy Divison and consume Ben and Jerrys like a chic who just got dumped like a dirty diaper. I don't have to worry about a damn thing. I wish I had a beer in front of me. I'd drink it.

One more week of school. Just one more week.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

This is it. Homosexuality.

Lets talk about homosexuality. Yeah, I love homos. Not because I enjoy their mannerisms- sometimes they can be downright obnoxious. Although their lisps amuse me thoroughly and homosexuality in general fascinates the hell out of me. I love them because everybody else hates them for no good reason. Religious fuckers.

Although to side with religion for a moment, many times it's just a bunch of homophobic hicks using religion as an excuse to continue being homophobic hicks. It makes me wonder which came first, religious piety or homophobia. Kind of like the question of, "does religion make people dumbasses or were they dumbasses to begin with?" Most likely they were dumbasses to begin with but the religion couldn't help. *cough* Falwell *cough*. Hold on why am I coughing? Fuck you Jerry.

I digress.

See I'm not gay but sometimes I like to fuck around as if I were, because NOTHING makes people more uncomfortable. And I get off on that. There is this very strict dichotomy we're supposed to adhere to. If you're straight, be FUCKING straight. Don't say words like cute, don't groom so much, watch at least one type of sport, talking about "fucking bitches", drive a big car, don't drink smirnoff ice and for chrissakes don't befriend girls, try to fuck them. Oh yeah, and don't write posts siding with the fags.

I'm not so sure its in my genes to be doing all of that, so I just assume these are things expected of me to do by the Great Whole, and I must abide by the rules of the Great Whole, lest others call me sissy...

But I think things goes even deeper than that. See, I find a little something peculiar. Women are far more likely to have a homosexual experience than men are. Are women just gayer than us men? Or are men not being gay enough? What a funny little concept.

Afterall, there is that whole "yuck" mechanism in our brain. But babies aren't afraid of spiders if you see where I'm going. And I remember being a young kid and telling my best friend, "I'll show your mine if you show me yours". And we showed each other and laughed, then we went and played Hungry Hungry Hippos. It was innocent. Nothing sexual. There are even plenty of indiginous cultures that encourage homosexuality, sodomy, and they enjoy it. And Tyrone in prison, need I say more?

We can enjoy practically anything we allow our brains to enjoy. The difference between a guy's hand, a girl's hand, or my hand is in perception. And that interpretation is surprisingly malleable as far as the reaction it elicits, or so research and life experience has shown. So basically what I am saying is, sexuality is more of a social construct than any of us would like to admit. We could all be gayer if we wanted to. But we don't want to. Duh. But at least to acknowledge this, is something. And I feel so much straighter for doing so. Where's my self-tanner?

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Look he's using the F word

There's been this whole fucking breed of interactive pop-up ads coming out, trying to lure me into playing their little games. Those insidious advertisement folk, trying to suckle me in with a floating picture of Brad Pitt's head, telling me to take his picture and win some random booshiet I'll never actually get, as if I didn't know things came with a catch. Swat this fly Greg, swat this fly! Look, can't you hear it buzzing?? We did that on purpose just to annoy the fuck out of you. Hi we're the advertisement industry, and we're a bunch of dicks.

Although there is that interactive basketball banner that's pretty cool. I like to play a game where I try and see how close I can get the ball to the hoop without it actually going in; otherwise if I make it I'll be taken to their layer, hypnotized by their silver tongued lingo, and socialized into a complete and utter tool. That's just how it goes.

I've always thought people were pretty damn resilient and that with today's advertising becoming obnoxious at almost unparalleled heights, the industry would eventually become self defeating. Funny how companies advertise to trump competition, only to compete on a whole nother front. Next thing ya know, companies will be advertising their advertisements. Okay maybe not, but shit's getting bad. Ya know shit is bad when a commercial tries so goddamn hard to be funny they aren't even paying attention to what they were selling in the first place. Or when all I took away from a commercial is, "That girl had nice titties. Wait what was she selling? I hope her titties". But it's not like I'm complaining.


Hate commercials though.

Fragrance commercials make me feel lonely and suicidal.

Old Navy. Enough said.

And beer commercials are starting to lose direction. The commercial never has anything to do with the product for fucks sake. Put some dudes in a bar. Have something funny happen, usually involving a hot chic and some guy's inability to hit on her in a smooth manner. Then show a beer on a barstool with the slogan above it. Make sure there's condensation on the beer.

Gum commercials. Thank you for making gum exciting... you boring fucks. What ever happened to double the pleasure, double the fun? Now its double the speed in which i change the goddamn channel. Or double my urge to murder.

I wish I had good memory. I'd just sit here and reminisce about the good old days, when commercials were wholesome and original. Now all we're left with is Girls Gone Wild but those are good- if only for the 5 minutes it takes for me to jerk off to them. Where have all the cowboys gone?

Teaching an old dog new jokes

So I updated my little side blog thingy. I'm starting to really like it. Of course the Friction must always and will always come first, but I have a hyperactive brain and one blog definately isn't enough for me. That's like saying one hit of smack will cure my itching. And I have this sort of serious side that seemed so incompatible with a blog called Friction Friction Friction Makes the Babies. I have no middle ground. I'm either talking about penises and nymphomaniacal grandmas, or metaphorically pissing on people and talking about why I want to become a murderer so bad yet know better not to. Nothing's fine I'm torn.

So go check it out if you have the time, although I discourage commenting unless you really want to, or have something to add, or want to argue. If you couldn't tell, I"m being like a woman right now and saying something I don't mean. I love comments. I'm simply saying don't comment because I understand two blogs is alot of words and the LAST thing I want someone to feel is obliged to show they read me because they think I'd become bootyhurt if they didn't. I'd be bootyhurt but I'll get over it. So I'm saying don't comment for your sake, so if you don't comment, I won't accuse you of not reading me and send you a mailbomb via FedEx. Get it? And if you do, well nothing but lollipops and dandeylions can come from that, right gov'nah?

I write so much, I"m surprised none of you have told me to get a fucking life and that I'm straining my eyes constantly being on this here internet. I'm surprised none of you have said, "Jesus Christ Greg you're in college, why aren't you getting tons of snatch and waking up in different beds every morning?" Because I live with my parents jackass. But thank you for not telling me to get a fucking life and indulging me instead. I appreciate it. Really. Wanna fuck?

Can't blame me for trying.