Friction Friction Friction Makes the Babies

good times

2007-03-22T16:23:00.001-07:00

It's been a while since I've written anything. Bite me I've been busy. I started to write something about my birthday last month but didn't get to finish, and when I could I felt it had been too long. I didn't want people to think I was a douchebag writing about my birthday three weeks later as if it happened the day before. And if I edited it, I would have had to change tenses and that would have led to all sorts of grammatical incorrecteses that I can't have because I respect grammar far, far, far to much. Far to much.

But to be brief I was super smashed on my birthday. Thank you to everybody who came out and had a good time. Even bigger thanks to everyone who bought me a drink. Which was practically everyone. I apologize now if you bought me a drink and I didn't thank you at the time. I don't remember anything after riding the bull so there's the possibility I snatched the drink out of your hand and pounded it saying, "Greggie drunk" then patted you on the head. I honestly don't know.

For people who weren't there, which are the ones who read me anyways, we went barhopping at the universal studios city walk. It's a cool place to hop and I've never done it there before. We stopped by a spot called the Sattle Ranch at the end of the night where they have an electronic bull. I named him Timothy because he didn't frighten me. Now, I had never actually ridden a bull - metaphorically and physically -but just like, hang on u know? Wtf?

Yet it was that simple i wouldn't have been hanging on the side of the bull 2-3 seconds later flailing around with my socks showing. And goddamnit, if I had known my socks would be showing I would have worn my gold toes. In my defense, I did bet the switch guy 5 bucks I wouldn't fall off so he really let me have it... and I was using one hand... So the bull's name is still fucking Timothy.

Good times apparently. And I got a job at this place called Bubba Gump's Shrimphouse on the Santa Monica pier. So I'm happy to be back on the force. Like an A-dult. Right now I'm a host but hopefully by the time summer comes around they'll make me a server. I can't wait to spit on people's food. The amount power I have at a resturaunt turns me on immensely. I've got to boss people around at my last job, that was whatever. I'd rather spit in people's food, so guests better treat me with respect. That's why they're called guests and not customers. They're in my house. And I'm an asthma victim. I know how to hawk a loogie. It may feel like there nothing's in my throat, but oh I can always find something. I got time and patience. I'll jerk off in it. I'll put some extra calories in someone's food.

Don't need to work at El Pollo Loco
To be Loco
I'll choke the chicken on your chicken
Then sip on some SoCo

-Greg

The only catch is that as a server you have to lead a happy birthday song. Not THE happy birthday song but A happy birthday song. Bubba Gump Shrimphouse's birthday song. It goes like this:

This is your birthday song
This is your birthday song
I don't know what I've been told
Someone here is getting old
I don't know what has been said
Someone's face is getting red

And all the servers echo the lines. Then they do some corny soundoff that I forget and everybody leaves. The point is, I contain about as much pep as black tar heroin. And don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm dull or lack energy. Pep to me is different. It is Panglossian. It is the happiness of the unrelenting optimist. Pep to me is what people who love Jesus a little bit too much have. And I have a hard time being that person. For example, I would have no problem singing something like, "This is your birthday song" then holding up a raisin and being like, "now this is your dong", but without the loving insults to balance things out it feels so OC (Out of Character).

Trader Joes would always get on my case for not being peppy enough. But that's my complaint for now and its not a really big one. All my co-workers are pretty chill and I don't think my managers are going to hate me this time around. Yes, I dare say I sense some like with them. This is rare for me to say because I'm lazy like a plague.

Other than that, things are normal. Nothing spectacular to report. I'm going to coachella in a week and a half and I couldn't be more excited. Coachella, if you haven't heard, well... Look it up. It's going to be amazing. It is a concert. And it will be the awesomeness. I can't wait to see the Arcade Fire after a pot brownie and a couple beers. As long as I pace myself with drinking, and carry a little canister to urinate in so I don't lose my spot in the crowd, it will be good times. Good times. Like sex. If sex played loud music for large crowds to rock out to.

A lesson learned

2007-03-06T16:44:00.001-08:00

I've been desperate for a job for roughly a month and a half now. I quit my last job at bath and body works because they weren't giving me enough hours. Plus the place was starting to suck my life away. I worked as a runner so I never really sold stuff and affirm my quite possibly absurd notion that I'm a good salesman, and when I did, I found out way too many old women shopped there. They would come in and stock up on anti-aging lotions, and I'd be in the background pointing at stuff saying, "yeah that's good... my mom uses it". This is got boring quick.

And I've loved the time off. Most of it at least. Mainly the week after I got my last check. All the weeks after that have sucked. Cuz I blew all my money, if you didn't catch that.

Which is the worst feeling in the world to me, being broke. It's one of the top things I hate, right next to taking the bus, waking up, and some might even say movement in general (most of my laziness is motor laziness. I have ambitious thoughts though). It occured to that I'd make a good living as a waiter. I think I have a good waiter look. This of course, could just be another one of my positive delusions, but I'd like to believe of have a certain aura of zen-like patience.

Now in reality, I'm not patient. But I've had enough customer service experience to know that I can at least deal. Quite well actually. I'd argue I need at least 10 more years of customer service experience to take a gun to work (even then I'd only shoot the men). And thats if I laid off smoking marijuana. Which probably won't happen. So I guess I can make that 15 years. I'll be successful by then, and the only human I'll have to deal with will be my manager. And I won't be selling him shit. So I'll be set.

I went for an interview at Islands down by the marina. I really wanted to work by the beach, and there was definate potential there for drinking on the job. They made me take this quiz on all the burgers there, which i actually studied for, and they hired me. The guy who hired me told me to come in that Saturday at 8:00 for orientation. He told me to buy black shoes, which mean I was set.

Friday 2:00am: I am still drinking. Anyone who knows me would have forecasted this. The only thing unpredictable would be me getting up in the morning, but I was feeling pretty confident I would pull it off. After 4 hours of sleep I figured I'd still be drunk and wake up gracefully without a hangover, which would ultimately come later but at least I got through the hard part.

What followed was roughly 20 minutes playing with the snooze button and roughly 30 minutes of presumably deep sleep while my buzzer blared right next to my eardrum. When i finally woke up to shut it off, it was 8:20, and there was no way I could make it on time. I called later that day, asking if I could make an orientation some other time, and they told me my position had been "refilled".

So I learned a valuable lesson. Besides not trusting myself to wake up drunk, I learned I could still sleep soundly even if what sounded like a an oscar meyer weiner whistled went off repeatedly by my head. I do not know how long I will remember this lesson. Luckily they can't fire me if they never hired me. Right?

Fat people

2007-03-01T16:11:00.000-08:00

It's always painful seeing something you can't laugh at. A fat girl just tried to sit down in front of me but missed the chair. Half her ass planted and the rest of her body toppled over and hit the floor like a large steak being thrown on the ground by someone really angry. I wanted to laugh with everything I had, but instead I sat here and acted concerned. For the floor. Just kidding. Maybe some of you would have laughed and that just makes you an asshole. You should really work on your manners.

And I know its a sensitive topic, fat people are hard to tackle (get it? But really, you'd think they're top heavy but they go down like tequila made by a guy named Hector). Obesity kills and philosophically speaking, her fatness isn't even entirely relevant. What does it matter that she was fat? Her fatness doesn't MAKE her. Why couldn't I just say "a chic tried to sit down but missed the chair"? Deep below all the fat she's skinny too. So u know, why I gotta be like dat?

And the answer is: because I'm not fat and I don't believe in Jesus. Although I shouldn't be too proud. I am lucky to have a good set of genes. Everyone agrees that a large part of obesity is genetic. Everyone's metabolism is different and if you're going to blame people for being overweight go ahead and blame skinny people for being skinny. Because we all know at least one person who eats like a lawnmower and still manages to look like a heroine addict. They can't help it either. But then there are fat people who just gave up. And I think they're fair game.

Even though they apparently had to be a bit on the big side to give up in the first place. And then you know, the whole vicious cycle starts. Where they eat because they're fat, blah blah blah. But leading up to that there are precautionary measures to take. Like,

1. Not eating so much.
2. Eating less
3. Lowering caloric intake
4. Lessening eating
5. Eating not so much
6. Not so much, the eating
7. Exercise

And thats about it. With those simple measures, a profound portion of the obese population could be much healthier and better looking. Or at least good enough for above the shoulder photography. Eating well really isn't that hard.

I've trained myself to eat well and its pretty easy. I like it. For starters it keeps me feeling good and secondly it helps me shit. When I eat crappy food my shit reeks and it wants to come out at the most inopportune times. Then I have to shit in public restrooms because I'm hardly ever home, and wipe my ass with abrasive toilet paper that never makes me feel "clean" enough. And nothing disturbs me more than thinking I have an unclean asshole. It scares me of sweating because I feel like any sweat down there might mix in with shit, and trickle down my leg or something. So I eat well and drop one all-encompassing shit in the morning where I can wipe well and go about my day.

So I really don't see what the big deal is. I'm not going to give the whole "if I can do it you can do it" argument, but we only get one body and if you're going to destroy it, and least do it by something a bit more fun than eating like doing drugs. Food is the dumbest thing someone could screw up their body over. It doesn't enhance music, it doesn't make you more sociable, it doesn't give better orgasms or make you want to suck of a pacifier. It's food, it serves a purpose. Get enough of it in your body and go throughout the day.

That being said I still eat like a fatass all the time. What did you think I was some health freak or something? Hey If I don't chew my food does it become time released? Should I just stop chewing, like snakes? Is that how they're so skinny? I dunno, whatever.

So anyways, if you're getting fat. Eat less. Unless it's because of birth control and I direct that towards the ladies. If it is, keep taking it - it shows your man you care. And if you don't have a man then I don't why you're on it, unless you like to play a game called "I'll let you go just the tip. Oops you fell. Repeatedly".

My first short story (rough)

2007-02-22T18:39:00.001-08:00

The grocery scanner beeps twice, indicating a double charge. I don't so much notice. A woman with big breasts just entered the store. I trace her movement with my head and shove groceries across the scanner like Stevie Wonder at an autograph signing. She's curvy and nubile, like the perfect high school teacher. Or the perfect World War II nurse. I watch her white sun dress dance like curtains around tan silky legs; I throw her telepathic vibes, telling her come to register six when she was done shopping.

It's a busy afternoon in the market. I'm feeling horny and hungover. I tend to get exceptionally horny when I'm hungover, something about a night's worth of vodka leaking from my pours. Don't ask me what it is. She leans over to study the chocolate rack. Her breasts cling to her body for survival. I start imagining ways to lure her into the meatbox for some prime cut-

"Excuse me", a voice of gravel kicks in. "I think you double-charged me."

I look up at my customer for the first time. She's ancient, with hair that looks like it was cut by a parakeet.

"I think you double charged me on the prune juice" she goes on. "You see, I bought ten bottles but I count eleven on this screen..."

She points at the screen.

"I apologize ma'am. Let me take that off "

"And could you make sure my bags aren't too heavy? Here let me show you.... This will be one bag right hereee."

She scoots a bottle of prune juice over to a pack of gum.

"Anything for you ma'am..."

She nods then returns to reading a magazine she props against my register. One of the captions reads "Sixty is the new Fifty". Now Courtney is coming over. Courtney is a new hire, which means she still smiles.

"Courtney, could you come here real quick?"

She smiles and hops towards me like a posterchild for ritalin.

"Yes Mike?"

"I'm gonna piss, do you know how to work the register?"

"Well I've watched a few-"

"It's easy, you'll be fine."

I walk away. I don't need to pee to be honest but I'll be damned if stood bagging ten bottles of prune just for some weathered old tree when I could be working my youthful charm on a beautiful woman. Because of course, my supermarket encourages all its employess to give only the finest customer service.

I've been working at this grocery store, Overpriced Healthy Shit, for about four years now. I know all our little secrets. For instance, I know our trademark protein powder actually substitutes portions of higher quality whey protein with less effective casein proteins, passing it off as being more effective, when it's really like mixing beer with champagne. I also know if a customer's cherries end up on our backroom floor they'll go right back on the shelf, because only dumbasses don't wash their fruit.

I follow my afternoon cupcake into the cooking aisle. I stalk casually behind her and watch as she pauses to browse our selection of syrups. She scratches her leg and her dress rides up a little. I watch her pluck a bottle of chocolate syrup off the shelf and place it into her cart. What a kinky little kitten... I knew where I could pour that syrup and it didn't involve mil-

"Excuse me", a voice breaks in, "do you work here?"

I turn around to face a considerably large African American male.

"I was wondering if you had any blueberry preserves" he says. "I always get them here but I don't see any today."

This was a question I could easily handle.

"The blueberry preserves are temporarily out of stock sir. Something was wrong with the crop. We should have them back within the next two weeks".

In philosophy and science there are holy grails of things. The holy grails of logic, the holy grail of the universe - simple pieces of brevity that hold everything together and spell things out for us. In a grocery store this is a holy grail of an answer. Answers like these are what scientists get when they split atoms.

"Well maybe then you could explain to me," he goes on, "how you could carry blueberries in your produce section, frozen blueberries in your frozen section, but have no blueberry jam in your preservative section, if the crop so bad this year, or so you say".

I look past the man towards my chocolate feline as she moves towards the produce. I see her eyeing the bananas. In my head I'm bending her over them.

"Sir", I respond, "The blueberries used for the preservatives come from Mexico. I don't know what the Mexicans are doing, or how the weather is over there, but they haven't sent us any jam".

"So you're telling me you guys are out."

"Yes"

"You have no more blueberry preserve"

"That is correct"

"Could you check the back for me?"

"There's nothing back there"

"You can't be sure of that if you haven't checked"

"I'm sure of it sir, I was just back there"

"If you were just back there then how come I saw you on the register when I wal-"

"Hey look at this!" I say pointing at the shelf. "We have raspberry and strawberry jam sir. They're from the berry family."

At this point my afternoon cupcake picks up two cantaloupes and holds them both in each hand. She jiggles them up and down, trying to guess which is the ripest one. I could take it no longer.

"Did I ask for those?"

"No sir... But I know what we could do."

"What?"

"Pray"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want to pray with me sir? Because I was thinking, maybe if we just held hands and prayed hard enough, God will hear us and send us your blueberry jam.... on the back of goddamn unicorn."

He looks at me in disbelief.

"Son do you know who I am?"

"Noo", I reply.

"Mr. Abbot?" a voice calls out.

It was the voice of the lady I pursued. The man turns around.

"Mr. Abbot, oh my God it is you! I thought I recognized your voice. Do you remember me? You taught me freshman year!"

"Monica? Monica! My God Monica look at how you've bloomed! And what did I tell you about calling me Mr. Abbot? It's George."

"Monica, as I now knew her by, looks at the cantelopes she held in each hand.

"Well what are you waiting for sweetheart, give me a hug. But you better put those down before you hurt somebody."

Monica laughs.

"Oh, I was just trying to figure out which was the riper one."

"Oh I could tell you that" Mr Abbot says. "It's whichever one is the softest. Here, let me take a look at those..."

Mr. Abbot looks at me one last time.

"Forget about the jam", he says.

***

Back at the cash register I stare at the grainy peices of dry skin that hang from the elbows of the lady in front of me. I shove bags of dried fruit to Courtney on my right, who was now helping me bag.

"Young lady, do you think you could help me to the car with my bags?"

"Anything you want miss!" Courtney replies.

"No Courtney" I interject, "allow me." I toss a wink at the old lady.

We trade places again and Courtney gives me an odd stare.

"Oh my, I wish all the cashiers here were as polite and as handsome as you, young man." the old lady says.

I smile brightly.

"You flatter me ma'am. I'm afraid if you inflate my ego anymore, I may just float into the ceiling!"

We all laugh.

In the parking lot I finish loading the last grocery bag into the old lady's car.

"You know young man, you would make an excellent construction worker. You have that... look"

"I work out", I reply.

"That you do young man"

"Please ma'am". I point up at the ceiling.

She smiles.

I open her door and help her climb into the car, shutting it behind her. She rolls down the window.

"Young man, my eyes are a bit weak. What does your name-tag say? Ike... Tyke...?"

"It's Mike ma'am."

"Mike, you have just made my day. I will remember you."

Backing out she looks at me one last time through her rearview mirror. She waves. I smile, waving back. Her beige cadillac spits exhaust as it hovels forward, out of the parking lot and into the street. And with that, the old hag was gone.

Re: To All Gay Men

2007-02-08T16:54:00.001-08:00

The first time I was ever hit on by a gay man, I was flattered. It was a pack of gay men, to be exact. They were standing outside church smoking their Marlboro light 100’s. My face was freshly shaved; my baby soft skin probably spoke of a tight anus. As I passed by, one of them whistled at me and said, “hey”. Actually, it was more of an elongated “hey”. More like a “heeey”.

Since then I have been hit on by many gay men. Women not so much. But gay men, much.

Well, yesterday things hit a new low. As many of you know, I work out. I know gay men like to work out, but I don’t do it because I’m gay. I work out to compensate for my very small penis. Anyways, I’m in the locker room at the gym when I see a dude standing there in his tighty whiteys. I recognize his face. He was the same guy who, just the day before, would not take his eyes off me while I worked out. At the time my first thought was that he was comparing himself to me. (Men at the gym do this to each other all the time; it’s actually a very non-gay thing to do. If men aren’t comparing their muscles to yours at the gym, you have a very long road ahead of you. Hopefully this road has a few cows along the way that you can stop and eat.) But then I realized there was a little bit more going on with his eyes. He was looking at me with gay eyes. I know this, not because I have a “gaydar”, but because I have good intuition. Get it straight. Literally.

Yesterday, as he sees me walking by, he immediately reaches down to adjust his boxers. Now, when men adjust their boxers, we do one of two things. Some reach down with one hand, grab their penis and shove it to the most comfortable side, ie, the left or right leg – or, we simply thumb the edges of our boxers and shake a little. Sometimes we combine these two motions for ultimate comfort. These are simple, common sense procedures, quite possibly genetic.

Instead of doing any of these two things, this guy (who was gay) grabs the elastic of his tighty whiteys, pulls it all the way out, downwards so that his cock flops out into my field of vision, back up again and snaps the elastic back into place – and the entire time he was looking at me.

Now, I don’t mind gay men. I really don’t. But everybody knows the rule that gay people mustn’t impose their gayness on straight people in a way that will make them feel uncomfortable. To this very moment I feel uncomfortable. Now I’m wondering what subtle things exist within me that would have made this guy conclude I’d actually enjoy seeing his cock rocket. Do I need to smoke more so that my voice lowers? Stop shaving? Carry a machete? Grab my cock every now and then and shout, “Feeding time bitches”?

So gay people, I know that I may have small hands…and yes the E channel is set as a favorite on my remote control. But not Bravo. And besides, I have a g-i-r-l-f-r-i-e-n-d. And she has boobs. And I like them. A lot. And I like explosions. And kung-fu. So please, step away from my little boy butt.

Cmon baby... just the tip

2006-11-30T02:56:00.000-08:00

After a good 1 1/2 month long hiatus from working I've finally got a job. This time I'm doing something completely different from my supermarket gig, which turned out to be too hectic. They always wanted me on time and shit. So I went to Nordstroms to pick up an application. I figured I'd use my boyish charm and charismatic sales approach to sell large amounts of shoes to women who were preferably very very hot and soaking like maple covered pancakes in the nubility of their sexual prime. I really wanted that.

HOT WOMAN: Excuse me sir... you... the strapping young lad with the large pectorial muscles and arms - would you happen to have these in a size 8?
ME: Anything for you my dear. I shall return quickly...
(Returns quickly)
ME: I'm sorry my beautiful, beautiful cherryblossom of muse-like inspiration and bliss, but we do not have that shoe in a size eight.
HOT WOMAN: Oh, you charming young prospect of sexual desire and late night masturbation, the way you walked into that backroom turned me on so much, I nearly forgot about the shoes... Take me, take me young stallion, let me jump upon your harness and take me to a place where I will forget about my husband and four children. I want your horse cock inside me.

I felt I'd be a shoe-in for the job. (Look left, look right, OOH but it hits you anyways...)

So like, I walk into Nordstroms and I'm immediately turned off by the whole vibe. Everything feels so "proper" in a department store. White walls, silver racks, black cashiers with long press-on fingernails that makes it hard for them to pick up my change off the counter, where is my diversity? Where is my color? People tend to work well when surrounded by lots of color. I know I sure do. Most people don't know this but in kindergarten I actually translated the entire Bible from English to Latin, then I did some progressive work on the unification of gravity and electromagnetism. On the contrary, college professors don't decorate their rooms much, and this is why I suck at college.

So I leave and I'm walking by Bath and Body Works when a chic outside asks me if I needed a job. I tell her as a matter of factly I did. I fill out an application, take my interview, and get hired on the spot. Yeah... Bath and Body Works people. Can I get a hell fucking yeah for fragranced lotions?

The sweet part is, I've only been working there for a week and already everybody loves me. I work with a bunch of black and mexican girls, and my management loves me. They treat me like I’m indispensable, and in part I am. It's always good to have a couple straight guys around in a chic store. You never want to be that store where the boyfriend hangs outside while the girl goes in. It's bad for business. Straight guys make other straight guys feel welcome in chic stores.

But all that straight talk aside, I gotta say, my hands and lips have never felt this soft. I think the only time they were this soft, is when I popped out of my mother's womb, because nothing moisturizes better than amniotic fluid. Other than that, I've never felt this soft. My favorite product so far is the C.O Bigelow Mentha Lip Buffer, which has little beads in a cream that you rub between your lips to get rid of dead skin, then you wipe it off and I swear, your lips will never feel softer. I usually follow this up with a Propolene chapstick. I'm still experimenting with my hands.

So the verdict is that I like B&BW way better than Trader Joes. They respect the good work that I do, they pay me 50 cents more, and all I really do is stand around with and smile and make sure everything is stocked. And the one obligatory gay guy that works there turns out to be my and he's really cool. He's one of those happy gays. But not in a queer way, more like a happy way. He must get alot of butt-sex and I say more power to him. I'm all about people having sex.

Wait, I totally just thought of something... Without sex, none of us would be here... Wooah... Wooooah.... Have seeex... Haaave seeeex...

Put it in her buuuttt...

hopped on the bull

2006-11-17T12:11:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while I like to get super hopped up on energy drinks for no reason whatsoever. Maybe it's because I'm c-c-c-razy, I'm not one to tell. The point is, this is what I do.

I figured today I'd get all hopped up. It'd been a while and I totally deserved it because I haven't touched any drugs in a while. Like days. And while I'm currently doubting how much journalistic substance there is in writing about getting hopped up on the bull, I'll write about it anyways, because I'm hopped up on the bull.

Which is, by the way, the one and only. Monster is pretty damn good and so is Rockstar, but nothing says "drink two of me and I'll give you awesome erections" quite like the Red Bull. Two is, by the way, all I need to be considered fully "hopped up". Drank roughly 1 hour apart. I pee neon and it dissolves porcelin but the buzz is totally worth it.

I drank my first Red Bull at around 5:00 pm Pacific Central Time. I downed it quickly and smoked. I love doing this, it feels awesome. As a matter of fact, it feels so awesome there should be street terminology for doing this. I'd call it "smoking the bull" but that sounds like a double entendre for something very very wrong and homosexual. So I'll leave you all to think of something.

One hour later I was feeling awake and abnormally randy. I attribute this to the red bull. Usually by 6:00 pm I'm either sleepy or horny, but never both. Before six I can be both, but by six I'm low on fuel and my body tells me I can only feel one thing at a time. What I actually feel depends on how many dead animal parts I've eaten throughout the course of the day. Red Bull is like dead animal parts in a can, so needless to say by this point I'm feeling pretty good, and thinking about lesbians.

I decide to drink my second Red Bull at about this time. I smoke again. I jizz a little. But I have to admit, after smoking the bull (no homo) the second time around I could literally feel the limits of my heart being tested.

I have a bit of a sensitive heart, you see. I can only have caffeine on days where I feel my heart is "up to it". When I used to run track, it was common that I threw up after I did my 100 yard sprint, because it was such a load on my body. I mean, I guess that's what happens when god takes the speed of a cheetah and injects it into two very lean and muscular legs, then calls their owner "Greg", but I'm basically like a fat guy in a healthy body who doesn't smell or have sweat stains wherever his clothes touch his body.

Ten minutes after my second Red Bull I felt like a sweaty fat chic was sitting on top of my heart and bouncing at an irregular pace. I was regretting what I did. It wasn't even that I couldn't sit still. That I could do, easily. I felt fucked up. Like I didn't want to get up. I sat in front of the library at school and drank water. Lots of water. And I could feel it go straight to my bladder almost immediately. Water almost never gets digested that quickly. Usually it takes on a bit of color before it decides to bail ship. Not this water. I think it came out exactly the same.

Two hours later and its about 8:00 pm Pacific Central Time. I find myself sitting at an open mic poetry recital with the rest of my creative writing class (hence the random poem, sorry about that) with my heart still spazzing violently. I watched as some old mexican lady talked about violence in Oaxaca. Pronounced "Waa-Haa-Kaa" - I know its so unexpected - sort of like how Jorge is pronounced "Hor-Hay". What's next from those crazy Mexicans, birth control*? While I thought about how little I cared about any violence that takes place outside a 25 mile radius from my house, I started to experience a tingling sensation all throughout my body.

Then I fell asleep.

Which is utter bullshit. Red Bull shouldn't make me fall asleep like that. How am I supposed to shake that sleepiness? Drink another Red Bull? Insidiously genius and perhaps intentional, or maybe its just my body. I knocked out hard though. And I think I might have snored because when I woke up some people were looking at me, and I have the tendancy to wake myself up with my own snoring and not even know it, especially when I go from wide fucking awake to REM in seconds, as I did today. So that was probably embarassing.

Sometimes I'll wake up to the tail end of one of my snores. It's really rare but it happens. Where I'll actually wake myself up with a snore, and still hear the end of that snore. It's trippy, almost spiritual.

Anyways, after the old mexican lady left the stage, I left too and went home. Since my spontaneous power nap I haven't felt tired in the slightest. It's 3:00 in the morning right now and I still feel the effects of the red bull. I just cleaned up my desktop and I sort of feel like dancing. But that's about it to report. This thing was really long. So that's it for my chronicle. I am going to attempt sleep. If I can't, I'll be dailing around for phone sex. Please pickup.

*To all my mexicans out there, don't be offended. I'm half Mexican, I can say that. George Lopez would do it. Besides, I'm totally down with you guys. I love your strawberries. For la raza, simon.

A place where murder is born

2006-10-23T23:02:00.001-07:00

Yeah the picture is from Disneyland. The happiest place on earth. For retards and children. That's the ride "Small World" in the background. It goes about 1 mph and is for retards and children. I think if you play the song "Its a small world" backwards, the voices tell you to go molest little jew boys. I don't know thats just what I've made up.

Let me tell you something Mr. Disney. If you think i'll subscribe to your notion of happiness by letting my ears be violated by shitty jingles you have another thing coming. Because trust me, some day a man just like me but with more violent proclivities will step on that ride, and he will hear the song "It's a Small World", and he will be pushed to murder. He will murder every soul on that boat. Because for some people, Mr. Disney, obnoxious happiness in the face of a cynical world is maddening, not infectious. Fuck you Mr. Disney. Fuck you and your theme park. You're lucky I got in for free, otherwise I'd unfreeze your corpse and skull fuck you myself.

Actually I would never do such a thing. I'm not so into skull-fucking. Call me a-sexual. But moving on. I was fired from my job. They fired me on monday. The reason for this was my habitual lateness, which I'll attest to. I'm always fucking late. I'm late for everything. It runs in the bloodstream. No literally there's this sign that says "late" and it has legs and it jogs laps inside my actual bloodstream. He's real fit, real skinny.

They pulled me aside because on Sunday I called sick a half an hour before my shift started. Hahahaha isn't that shit funny? I was so hungover from the night before. I woke up feeling great, too. It wasn't till I got out of bed and nearly fell over that I realized I felt great because I was still drunk, so as soon as that wore off I was pretty much in hell. I nearly vomited about 10 different times that day. Ironically if I had just gotten drunker to the point of actually vomitting, i would have felt a shitload better. Did I mention that's ironically?

So now I'm jobless. And I don't know where I want to work. Whenever I ask, everybody always says the same thing. Starbucks. Which is totally an unoriginal answer not to mention shitty job. I refuse to serve people their coffee, they get way too specific with it. Plus they're bound to fire me because I'm peeing in someone's drink, it's just a question of who the lucky asshole will be that was mean to Greg when he was hungover. It's bound to happen I have a very small weiner and I can pee very quickly. I've had enough with customer service.

Speaking of which I will have the second part to my short story up soon. It's not due until the end of my semester so I've been slacking on it. And I've been tagged a few times too. Eh, I fucking hate tag.

First Short Story (rough)

2006-10-09T15:14:00.000-07:00

“Excuse me", a voice of gravel kicks in. "I think you double-charged me.”

I look up at my customer for the first time. She's ancient, with hair that looks like it was cut by a parakeet.

“I think you double charged me on the prune juice" she goes on. "You see, I bought ten bottles but I count eleven on this screen..."

She points at the screen.

"I apologize ma'am. Let me take that off "

"And could you make sure my bags aren't too heavy? Here let me show you.... This will be one bag right hereee."

She scoots a bottle of prune juice over to a pack of gum.

"Anything for you ma'am..."

She nods then returns to reading a magazine she props against my register. One of the captions reads "Sixty is the new Fifty". Now Courtney is coming over. Courtney is a new hire, which means she still smiles.

“Courtney, could you come here real quick?”

She smiles and hops towards me like a posterchild for ritalin.

“Yes Mike?”

“I'm gonna piss, do you know how to work the register?”

"Well I've watched a few-"

"It's easy, you'll be fine."

I walk away. I don't need to pee at all to be honest, I'll just be damned if stood bagging ten bottles of prune just for some weathered old tree when I could be working my youthful charm on a beautiful woman. Because of course, my supermarket encourages all its employess to give only the finest customer service.

I've been working at this grocery store, Overpriced Healthy Shit, for about four years now. I know all our little secrets. For instance, I know our trademark protein powder actually substitutes portions of higher quality whey protein with less effective casein proteins, passing it off as being more effective, when it’s really like mixing beer with champagne. I also know if a customer's cherries end up on our backroom floor they'll go right back on the shelf, because only dumbasses don't wash their fruit.

I follow my afternoon cupcake into the cooking aisle. I stalk casually behind. She pauses at our selection of syrups. She scratches her leg and her dress rides up a little. I sweat. I watch her pluck a bottle of chocolate syrup off the shelf and place it into her cart. What a kinky little kitten. I knew where I could pour that syrup and it didn't involve mil-

"Excuse me", a voice breaks in, "do you work here?"

I turn around to face a considerably large African American male.

"I was wondering if you had any blueberry preserves" he says. "I always get them here but I don't see any today."

"The blueberry preserves are temporarily out of stock sir. Something was wrong with the crop. We should have them back within the next two weeks".

In philosophy and science there are holy grails of things. The holy grails of logic, the holy grail of the universe - simple pieces of brevity that hold everything together and spell things out for us. In a grocery store this is a holy grail of an answer. Answers like these are what scientists get when they split atoms.

"Well maybe then you could explain to me," he goes on, "how you could carry blueberries in your produce section, frozen blueberries in your frozen section, but have no blueberry jam in your preservative section, if the crop so bad this year, or so you say".

I look past the man towards my chocolate feline, as she moves towards the produce. I see her eyeing the bananas. In my head I'm bending her over them.

"Sir", I respond, "The blueberries used for the preservatives come from Mexico. I don't know what the Mexicans are doing, or how the weather is over there, but they haven't sent us any jam".

"So you're telling me you guys are out."

"Yes"

"You have no more blueberry preserve"

"That is correct"

"Could you check the back for me?"

"There's nothing back there"

"You can't be sure of that if you haven't checked"

"I'm sure of it sir, I was just back there"

"If you were just back there then how come I saw you on the register when I wal-"

"Look at this" I say pointing at the shelf. "We have raspberry and strawberry jam sir. They're from the berry family."

At this point my afternoon cupcake picks up two cantaloupes and holds them both in each hand. She jiggles them up and down, trying to guess which is the ripest one.

"Are you trying to joke with me?"

"Do you want to pray with me sir?”

"What?"

“Do you want to pray with me? Because I was thinking that maybe if we held hands and prayed hard enough, God will hear us and send us your blueberry jam.... on the back of goddamn unicorn."

He looks at me in disbelief.

"That's it kid" he says, finally raising his voice. "I'm telling your manager about you. I'm a teacher and never in my 15 years of teaching have I ever been so disrepected by someone so young. You need to learn some mann-"

"Mr. Abbot?" a voice calls out.

The man turns around.

"Mr. Abbot, oh my God it is you! I could never forget your voice"

"Cynthia! My God Cynthia look at how you've bloomed! And what did I tell you about calling me Mr. Abbot. You can call me George."

"

Cynthia, as I now knew her by, looks at the cantelopes she held in each hand.

"Mr. Abbot... I mean George, do you know how to pick a ripe cantelope?"

"Of course I do dear. Whichever one is the softest. Let me take a look at those..."

The man looks at me one last time.

"Forget about the jam"

***

Back at the cash register I stare at the grainy peices of dry skin that hang from the elbows of the lady in front of me. I shove bags of dried fruit to Courtney on my right. I convinced her to stay at my register to help bag.

"Young lady, do you think you could help me to the car with my bags?"

"Yes of course I will!" Courtney replies.

"No Courtney", I interject. "Allow me." I wink at the old lady.

Courtney and I trade places.

"Oh my, I wish all the cashiers here were as polite and as handsome as you, young man."

"You flatter me ma'am. I'm afraid if you inflate my ego anymore, I just may float into the ceiling!"

We all laugh.

At the lady's car I finish loading the last grocery bag into her trunk. She smiles at me and tells me I would make an excellent construction worker. I tell her I worked out. I open her door and help her climb into her car, shutting it behind her. She rolls down the window.

"Young man, my eyes are a bit weak. What is your name? Ike... Tyke...?"

"It's Mike ma'am."

"Mike, you have just made my day. I will remember you."

She starts her engine and backs up, almost hitting another parked car. She straightens up and looks at me in her rearview mirror. I look back. She smiles and waves. I wink again, slowly waving my hand at her. And with that, the old hag was off.

kids say the dumbest things

2006-09-26T17:03:00.000-07:00

Children are not all that cute. I know this because I have eyes, and they work. Parents of non-cute children do not know this, because if the marriage of Liza Minnelli and David Gest has taught us anything, its that visualizing them actually cures all forms of premature ejaculation. It also taught us that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I work in a grocery store, where children run rampant. I see all types of children - everything from newborns, to the terrible twos, to preschoolers, to fully grown men who wear children-sized clothing with their nipples popping out. It's very much like a zoo.

The reason children are not cute is simple. They are not. Okay, maybe simplicity isn't the best approach. Let me break it down. Have you ever seen a male child pick his butt and smell his hand? Because I have. Have you ever seen a toddler barf on his mom's boobs? I have.

And they were really nice boobs too. The kind that, if you listen closely enough, actually talk to you. This particular pair was in the process of whispering sweet nothings in my ear before their speech became gargled by the massive influx of intestinal backwash that flooded down upon them. I did not masturbate once that day.

Secondly, children are by the very nature, stupid. I can only imagine what goes on in a child's mind when they see something hard, unscented, inedible and think, "hmm maybe I'll try this". Perhaps you can blame the parents for never teaching them that keys have no nutritional value, I blame the kids who find inanimate objects bigger than their esophagus appetizing. I may have eaten leaves when I was little, but that was when I was young and impressionable. I have never done any harder foods, and I swear it.

checking in

2006-09-07T15:46:00.000-07:00

For the past three days my body has been fucking with me by playing one of those "you're about to get sick, but sloooowly" games. On Tuesday I woke up with a feeling in the back of my throat that says I've either been smoking like a hag bag, or i'm about to be sick. On wednesday those symptoms manifested themselves into that exact same feeling, only slightly worse, with a few stomach gurgles and bad breath - and today I'm feeling all those things about the same, a bit worse, but not really, yet at the same time really, and its pretty annoying, especially the bad breath part.

The weekend is coming up and it'd be nice if my body gave me a verdict whether I'll be sick or not. Aside from someone vomiting in my mouth, being sick on the weekend is probably one of my worst fears. Ten years down the line I'll probably have different, more responsible fears, but for now those are two of my biggest. Its the prospect of sitting at home on a Saturday night, pale as an Irish Baby's ass, while my drunk friends call me asking where I'm at, although I would've already told them I was sick, but they forgot that information because they're drunk, and I'm not, thus the feelings of depression and fear. Rip off my head and poop down my neck while you're at it Geez.

Speaking of pooping down my neck, I'm taking a creative writing class at SMC. I sorta like it. My teacher is a black male with dreadlocks, and not to stereotype, but I don't find it surprising he wants the majority of the class to focus on poetry. (Just kidding to the African Americans out there. Not all black males with dreadlocks are into poetry. Most of them are homeless, anyways.) Which means I'll be exploring the depths of my emotion and the salty vicissitude of my male PMS, and probably posting whatever crap I come up with here. Cuz I rarely get serious and I haven't written or posted poetry in a while. The last poem I wrote was actually in december. It was called "Christmas". Actually, I'll post it for your pleasure.

"CHRISTMAS" By Greg Olmeda

Oh Christmas
Christmas
How could you do this to me?
Oh Christmas
You're supposed to be fun but you bring me pain
Oh Christmas
Instead of presents you bring me pain
Oh Christmas
The ferns of the Christmas tree tear into my soul
Oh Christmas
Like fragrant needles of destruction
Oh Christmas
Ripping at my soul

Oh Christmas (x4)

I'm becoming a Jew.
-Christmas

That is some raw, ill shit. I didn't write that, it wrote itself. Moving on. Some of you may have noticed the status change. Yes its true, I'm no longer single. A pinto bean has taken me captive and she makes me happy. But she likes to snoop around my page so I will say no more, other than to send all cyber-sex requests to my inbox, rather than posting them in my comment section where they are clearly visible. I'd appreciate that.

Now I'm off to pop an airborne and sleep. Just kidding, I'm really gonna jerk it. Hopefully I'll be well by tomorrow, goodnight.

gluttony

2006-08-15T02:09:00.000-07:00

I gluttoned myself yesterday. I cracked. And I farted smelly, smelly poo-gas all day as a result. But that's neither here nor there. I'm not on any sort of diet, btw.

But I do eat healthy. Very healthy. I'm a bit of a health freak, actually. Not in a wierd way. I don't drink any new age antioxidant drinks that will make me shit out organs, but I do read the nutrition facts of just about everything I'm about to consume. And I actually take them into account. I count my protein, carb, and saturated fat intake.

Ever since I started doing this, I haven't lost a single pound. My penis doesn't hang looser like I hoped it would neither. Naturally I've began to have my doubts. I don't feel any "happier". I just want some fucking pancakes, really. I haven't touched fast food, except for El Pollo Loco ("the crazy chicken" you crackers) in about 4 months, and now I just want a big mac.

I was beginning to think about food more than I thought about sex. I was even combining the two, and eating while having sex. In my fantasies, while my lean stomach and blood-filled nether regions pounded against some young asian schoolgirl's vagina, I'd be stuffing an eggroll in my mouth. Or if she was italian, some pizza. Or if she was mexican, a taco. So on and so fourth.

Yeah... so the other day I couldn't take it anymore. The whole eating healthy shit. It's for the birds. I didn't want my customers faces transmorphing into giant hamburgers and shit. I've seen the movies. I know what desire can do. So when I walked into the break room and saw an entire sleeve of cinnamon rolls sitting on the counter, I made quick with my opportunity to eat... oh i don't know, the whole motherfucking thing. To give you an idea of how many calories I consumed at the moment - wait I calculated it - it was 850.

Before you call me a metrosexual, or a sissy-gay-boy, that's alot. The daily recommended amount of calories you need a day is 2,000. I had just eaten almost half that. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that bread takes a long time to digest, so I felt full and sick for hours. And I farted smelly poo-gas all day. My farts didn't even smell like cinnamon roll. They smelled like poo-gas. The kind that people explode from if you light a match. I've seen the movies. I know what poo-gas can do. This blog could have never been made.

But today I'm gonna hop right back into eating healthy. The only reason I gluttoned myself was because I hadn't hit the gym in a while, and when that happens, my so called diet starts to slip. Which is why its so important that alcoholics attend all of their AA meetings. It's also important for them to stop drinking. But the meetings are important too. But yeah, I'm off to the gym. Don't do drugs.

Alone... alone...alone... so alone

2006-07-31T00:11:00.000-07:00

I'm too bored to even rub one out. Yeah, it's like that tonight. So on with the revealing topic...

Sometimes I wonder why I'm single. People even ask me all the time, "Greg, why are you single?" Which is an interesting question if you think about it, being complimentary in that it implies I shouldn't be single, but sorta not in pointing out that I'm single. Whenever people ask me this I just stare blankly off into space, like a dog after you've thrown his tennis ball too far and he doesn't know where to run.

I wish I had something to say to them. Something cool and vindicating, like that I play in a band, have alot of groupies, and wouldn't want to give anyone I actually cared about my zoo-like case of crabs. But I have nothing cool like that.

I've actually been told the answer before. As if i wanted to hear it... Apparently it has less to do with wanting to be single and more to do with the fact that I'm a full blown "wierdo". And not in a smart-went-crazy sort of way. More like in a, "did they remove his frontal lobes?" sort of way. Or a, "dude, his wife will be missing limbs for sure", sort of way.

Not nice, not nice! I don't mind being wierd, but how am I supposed to lay my mack down when I'm apparently about 20 years away from being some dude... on a park bench... with a pair of binoculars... a pocket full of candy.... and a hard-on.

Which is why, as of tonight, I wish I were a girl. Girls don't have to do shit. They just sit there, look pretty, and get hit on every fuckin day. Everyday women get hit on, simply for being. That's it. Exist. Get hit on. I wish I could do that. But noooo. I have to have a good personality. Fuck that shit.

I'm usually that drunk guy at the bar who sees hot women pass by and slurrs out, "HEY LADI-..... lesbiansss".

Because I'm slightly crazy and women can sense that. But I shouldn't have to do shit. If I stand at a certain angle in dim light, I have a six pack. I'm a fucking commodity. It should be a priviledge to suck my cock, yet alone be my bitch. And yeah I said it. I said the word bitch. Cuz apparently women have that thing for assholes, which I'll never understand. But I'll play your game, you filthy little whores. Don't talk to me while I'm drinking my beer. Don't make me say that shit again. Make me food. TiVO Lost for me. Slut.

Okay well maybe the women I like don't play that game. But still. There was a point to this blog, and let me spill it out to you. I'm not your typical oblivious guy. If my come ons (creepy as they may be) don't get reciprocated by the female in an obvious manner, I'm moving on. Most likely to a corner. Where I will cry. But I can also be a cocky arrogant son-of-a-bitch. So, I don't know.

Okay that was entertaining. Time to rub one out.

I'm normal, unlike everybody else.

2006-07-06T00:02:00.000-07:00

This chic tagged me. What the fuck. I don't want no fucking tag, get that shit out of my face. I ain't here to take no orders from nobody. I write the things I want to write, when I want to write them. That being said, tonight I've decided to write 6 random/wierd things about myself. Because I felt like it. Not cause I was tagged. Fuck you. Correlation isn't causation.

Reading

1. I don't read [much at all]. I envy people who say stuff like "I devour books", even though that's a fruity expression. I'm too stupid for things such as reading, and comprehending. ADD, helloooo? The last book I read was Tolkien, one of his fuckin books, in the 7th grade. I don't study either. That involves reading. If a book needs to be read, it'll come to me. I ain't nobody's bitch.

Talking

2. I'm one of those people who will stop talking mid sentence. People will be like, "were you going to finish what you were saying?" and I'll be like "nah...". I'll often become bored with what i'm saying and assume the listener is bored too, so I'll simply stop speaking under the pretense that nobody will notice. They usually notice though - I guess its hard to ignore sound.

Feeling

3. I am about as moody as a goth chic on her period. People will get different first impressions of me depending on when we meet and what part of my ovulation cycle I'm on. Some people think i'm shy, others think I'm an outgoing talker. Almost everyone thinks I'm an party-boy alcoholic. The reality is, I suffer from mild anxiety and depression. It's not uncommon that I'll be completely depressed for days at a time, for no reason at all. I'm assuming my Man-pms is reflected in my blogs?

Sex

4. Give me a hotel shower, and I will masturbate in it. I love masturbating in showers that aren't mine. Which isn't to say I don't like masturbating in my own shower. It's a man thing. Gotta mark my territory.

5. When I'm tired, I go to sleep.

werd.

2006-06-30T04:23:00.000-07:00

This is my 3rd and far from last drunken thursday night post. Yeah,I'm sensing a trend here. I like drunken thursday night posts - the implications being that I'm totally drunk, and you shallow minded hicks just can't help to find it amusing when I'm smashed - reveling in the fact that I could give two corn infested poops and a and piss about proper spelling and grammer. Like watching a speech from George W Bushm, I just want yall to feel gooder abour yourselves and your grammactical prowess, you anal English Nazis.

But yall can suck on my unleven matzahs, I can complete a rubix cube in 3 minutes flat. And when I say I can complete a rubix cube, I mean I can make it look beautiful, post-modern, and colorfully diverse, unlike those crazy asaisns who insist on making every color the same on each side. No wonder they're so racist. Segregation, segregation segregation.

But it was a good night at the bar. I drank alot. And um.... I drank alot. Okay maybe there's not much to talk about. Whatever. Most people can turn their nights of drinking into some epic story of unseen proportions. Not me. I drank and that is that. I didn't get naked and dance on the bar, slapping my shit around like some fleshy hellicopter. I didn't bone a hooker. I drank, got drunk, and that was that.

Embellishments were never my thing.

However. It has come to my attention that i posted my most redicously shallow-minded and retarded blog ever the other night and everybody seemingly responded to it. Listen you little turds, I may be a bit of an attention whore but thats just redonky donk. I am a man of substance, okay? I may seem like a floozy mind but in reality, I'm one smart motherfucker. And i don't appreciate it when my retarded rambling is appreciated over my intellectual insights. Thanks all I got to say about that.

So anwyas, i'm goingto bed. Ps. north korea. back the fuck up. NObody drops bombs like me. I push ryhymes like weigh. Holler.

Masturbation, yeah I said it.

2006-06-23T03:07:00.000-07:00

As a form of self-expression, I think self-pleasure is one of the most frequently practiced forms of gratification, yet one of the most disowned human tendancies we've ever known. They say 34 percent of all statistics are made up on the spot ( get it? I just made that up), yet i'd venture to guess that 99 percent of all guys jerk off at least twice a week. And that's me being generous. Masturbation is something of it's own.

The common outlook is that masturbation is a replacement for a lack of sex. This is all so very wrong. Masturbation is a replacement for nothing. Masturbation is an entity in and of itself, and we're lucky for this. I can't tickle my own self, but I can rub one off. Dose that not say something? I bring it up to prove a point - suppose three Swedish women were turned on by my white boy charm an decided to take turns riding on my happy stick. I just banged three swedish chics in one night and I'm super happy. Do you know what this means? This means that when I get home, I'm rubbing yet another one out, just for very good measure.

My point being, masturbation is not something for the sexually deprived. You all probably know this, but I think its such an important point to drive home because it goes to show that self-pleasure is something so natural that our conventional concept of "cause and effect" goes out the window. Masturbation needs no external stimulus.

Masturbation is not for the lonely, it is for humans. And I find it completely hilarious. We live in a world filled with homophobes, yet when it comes to our own junk, we'll stare at it in the mirror, slap it around like a helicopter, and if that shit isn't gay, I don't know what is. I'm sorry, I dare any dude to come out and say they haven't stared at their bejoogles in the mirror and slapped that shit around like it was silly putty. My penis is like Whitney Housten, it takes a beating yet it still gives respect - call that co-dependant, I call it being human.

There is an underlying truth to all this. Our penises are us. Ladies, your vaginas are you. Aside from the organs that keep you alive and working, name one organ that is more important than your reproductive ones? Yeah, I thought so. There is none. So masturbate without guilt or any of the sort.

Just make sure if you're using a dildo, that it isn't the size of a full grown anaconda. Because lets just say that I can't follow that up, so I for damn sure hope you love me for who I am, otherwise we're making babies in a petri dish, because your vagina is just too big girl. Just too big.

just be a burrito

2006-06-20T17:58:00.000-07:00

There are two very important guidelines as far as writing a good blog goes. The first is to be liked, because anything anyone writes is good (even crap) as long as people like you. The second rule is to be diverse, because people here have ADD.

I've always felt the need to be as diverse as possible. Although its a hard thing to manage. But I can do it because I believe in myself and I've read the Little Engine that Could. So to prove how diverse I can really be, I've decided to write little snippets featuring different attempts at creative writing, followed by a brief explaination of why they are brilliant. I hope you enjoy them. These are the things I can be...

1) I can be a Fiction Writer! - "The Bear" by Gregorio, Senior

"...The man thought he heard a noise but he also thought he did not. He was somewhere deep in the meadow. He took another step but paused, as if paralyzed by some incisive intution that somewhere, hidden betwixt the bushes and roiling clouds of fog, there rest a bear, scratching its ballsack against the treebark..."

(Isn't that shit marvelous? The juxtaposition between the man's fright and the "humanizing" effect of the bear scratching his innocent balls against the treebark leads us to question our conventional outlook towards our furry friends. Are they to be so hated? Do they not scratch their balls too? BOOM, there goes your paradigm.)

2) I can be a Weight Loss Motivator! - "Get up off that Badonkey Dunk and Get into the Funk" by Senior "The Extreme" Gregorio.

"...I won't lie. I too have wished it rained burritoes. Reality check - it rains rain. Get up off that badonkey dunk and get into the funk... When the doctors first told me I was genetically obese, I went home, ate two cans of cookie dough and slashed my wrists open with the lid. I should have died, but the cookie dough slowed my heart rate down just enough to where I didn't bleed that much. If I can have second chances, so can you. Get up off that badonkey dunk and get into the funk..."

(Nothing is more motivational that an "I understand" approach followed by a life example. Wait, I just thought of something more motivational. A catch phrase that uses hip lingo and rhymes, and this is why I'm great.)

3) I can be an ancient philosopher! - "Does?" by Anonymous (Me)

"Does beauty exist, if beauty doth be perceived, inneth our head? Does the bird chirpeth, for thy lover, or for thine own happiness? Does the sphere revolveth around the sun, or do thine sun revolveth around the sphere? Doesn't the word "does" start to looketh funny if one writes it enough?"

(After posing some mindbending inquiries, the author [me] decides to dumb things down by positing something everyone can relate to. "Does" does start to look sorta funny after a while, and that is why this guy [me] is a heavyweight intellectual who also got ancient pussy.)

Okay thats all I got. So as you can see, I'm about as diverse as a burrito with alot of stuff in.... it. Not very good at analogies. But diverse. Spread the word - stop writing shitty blogs and be burritoes.

I know why the gregory sings

2006-06-15T16:08:00.000-07:00

(this one was posted on myspace. You need some backstory. I crashed my car in a parking lot at my work. I ran into a parked car. Okay there you go)

One of my problems is that I tend to think other people are better than me. The logic I base this assumption on is irrational half the time and I know it. Like, I could literally see someone and think, "wow that guy has a Sonicare toothbrush, he is better than me." I guess I give people too much credit. I think everybody's blogs are better than mine too. And if you feel inclined to contest this, just shut the hell up. You're actually not reading this right now, you don't read crap, you think its for hillbillies and lowbrows. Instead, you choose to read Dan, The Universal Heartthrob.

I don't know why I think these things, I guess it feels so good to feel so bad. Yeeeah it feels so goood to feel so baaaad, yeeeah... But I did realise the other day that I tend to self-handicap myself. Self-handicapping is when you set yourself up for failure so you don't have to deal with the prospect of failing, having actually tried. It makes the failure hurt less basically, and the less I hurt, the less drugs I do. Yeeeah, the less I huurrt, the less druuuugs I doooooo, woaaah, yeeeaah (x2)

I don't know, does this make me a pussy? I'm just such a spaceball and I have issues with growing up. I feel so incompetant sometimes. Like this whole crashing my car deal. I dropped a taquito okay??? I dropped a taquito, I go down to pick it up and when I look up, I crash into the back of a fucking car. THATS HOW IT HAPPENED. YOU HAPPY NOW? First of all, fuck taquitos. Second of all, its just like... ya know?

I got my estimate back from the shop. Six grand to fix. I don't have six grand. So I'm going to get my insurance to pay it. But I don't even have enough money to pay my premium. Because did I mention my work pays me in Jolly Ranchers? Yeah its delicious but totally not handy at times like these. 8.50 an hour is what I really get paid. I'm worth SO much more than that, but do they realize that? No. Do they see this little light of mine shine? No. But I take the damn near abusive pay rate because I'm too lazy to switch jobs and I like to be spanked in new, sometimes metaphorical ways.

One of these days I'm going to open up something. It's gonna be real big and have a bunch of shops inside, complete with multiple stories, elevators, escalators, fountains and benches. I'm going to call it a "mall" and I'm going to make millions. That'll show my work what creativity I'm truly capable of, and they'll be fucking sorry they didn't pay me at least 9 an hour. And if any of your fuckers jack that idea I'll bleed your for your sangre.

So in conclusion, I suck. But please, don't take this as one of those, "Oh say nice things because I'm feeling needy tonight" posts cuz its totally not. You could say nice things if you want, like "Greg, spank me, grab me, pull my hair" or "I want both your penis and balls inside of me" but its totally not required. I'm actually in a good mood tonight but I felt a little sincerity was due. This is one of my demons, this makes me feel pain inside. Feeel paaain insiiiiide, woooooooaaah, like needles in my heaaart, paaaain, how many of us have iiiit...

A conversation with greg's liver

2006-05-12T20:41:00.000-07:00

A conversation with Greg's liver, as conducted by the legendary lesbian news anchor Katie Courick.

KC: Good evening folks, I'm here this evening with Greg's liver. Greg's liver, how are you doing this morning?
GL: Oh Katie, I'm doing just wonderful, thank you for asking! I'm sorry, did that come off as sounding sarcastic? Because I really didn't mean to sound sarcastic. I'm wonderful, really, come to think about it, I don't think I've ever felt this FUCKING dandy in a while. As a matter of fact, I feel like skipping through a FUCKING wheat field right now.
KC: My that was quite the outburst, can we use profanity?
(Producer:) Yes its okay, nobody reads Greg anyways.
KC: Okay then. Well, Greg's liver, I see you woke up on the wrong side of the body today. But moving along, how old are you?
GL: I'm 42 years old.
KC: Now I find that really interesting, because isn't Greg only 21 years old?
GL: That is correct.
KC: Uhuh. Um, Greg's liver- is there anything else I can call you other than Greg's liver?
GL: Well me personally, I don't have a name. I'm just a liver. But Greg gave me a nick name a while ago. He calls me The Destroyer 2000.
KC: And why did he giv-
GL: See I don't think Greg fucking understands how this shit works. I'm not here to work fucking miracles, I'm here to gradually purify toxins as they come, but last time I checked, I didn't see a fucking "Britta" sticker posted on my back.
KC: So are you sa-
GL: I'm saying Greg is a fucking retard who is hellbent on destroying me and my very existance.
KC: That is quite the profound accusation.
GL: No, no its not. A profound accusation would be calling the Pope a baby killer. This is just the truth.
KC: Wow, strong words from a strong liver.
GL: My entire body looks like Michael Gorbichov's head.
KC: Oh my, I thought those were birth marks.
GL: And that's why you're a dumb bitch. Could I get a cigarette?
KC: Greg's liver, excuse me! There is no need to get personal and no, there is no smoking in the studio.
GL: You're in Greg's living room. Now excuse me, you smell like a lesbian and Greg's drinking a redbull and vodka again. I'm heading back to work.

Why I'm marrying a sweatshop worker.

2006-05-09T16:35:00.000-07:00

I was grabbing some paper towels from the top of a customer's cart at the market the other day when unfortunately, because this lady had the foresight of an amoeba, a glass bottle of blueberry juice displaced itself, falling through one of the holes of the child's seat and shattering on the floor. It wasn't my fault, because you're not supposed to leave glass bottles that I can't see near holes big enough to accomodate the legs of a 4 year old sumo wrestler.

Because of physics, some blueberry juice, responsible for many-a-stain, flew onto a young lady's purse behind my counter. The juice promptly became one with her purse, despite my attempts to get it off with some rubbing alcohol and elbow grease. The purse, having been constructed out Princess Diana's flesh by a skilled autistic artisan, ran her 3000 dollars, or so she said. And now, according to her, it was "fucking ruined".

And this is now where I say, I hate rich bitches. Ironically, I plan to marry one so I can continue drinking, popping pills and masturbating, necessarily in that order, for the rest of my life, but until that moment of adjustment comes, they can take their gold plated dildos and shove them in their eyes. It's not that all rich women are bitches and into superficial things, but most of them are, and that money could have really been used for better things.

This is now where I state my love for the movie Pretty Woman. Not only was Julia Roberts my [late night material] boyhood crush at the time, but I also connected with everything she stood for in that movie. She was like Jennifer Lopez in Maid in Manhatten. Pretty, down on her luck and looking for both a Gentleman and a Scholar to pull her from the depths of enslavement and perhaps slip her some alliteration in the form of a passionate penis. Maybe a nice sushi dinner or two, some saki, yeah, that sort of deal.

Women (I fucking think) just want to feel like someone loves them for who they are, as opposed to what they can provide (blowjobs). Then there are rich bitches, who don't know who they are, who define themselves by 3000 dollar purses, who will happily provide blowjobs as long as you slap them around a bit and occasionally say, "Who am I? That's right, I'm daddy."

Mentally unstable me and a down to earth girl who's perhaps a bit down on her luck, that's the paradigm of a co-dependant relationship, aka true love. Call it the Mother Theresa in me but I'll feed her, I get paid 8.50 an hour and yes, I still think money grows on trees. So bring it on.

the place where all the meatheads go

2006-05-03T18:39:00.000-07:00

So I've been going to the gym because, you know, my day isn't complete unless I've smelled at least two good hours worth of fermented ass sweat and rubber.

Besides that, I get a kick out of watching people lift. See, gym rats basically fall into two camps. In the first camp, you have the dudes who want to tone up and look good for the summer, like me. Then comes my favorite camp, which would be dudes who were raped by gravity when they were young. Now, I know what you're thinking, and no, I don't exactly know how that happens, or if its even possible, but considering how these people lift all day long, it makes Freudian sense. They're spiting gravity for raping them. And of course, the more you spite gravity at the gym, the more you forego your ability to reach certain parts of your body. Which is what I see all the time.

I saw a guy with veins popping out of his ass through spandex shorts. At such a decadent display of ass bulgery, I had to question the point of all of this. Is strength even necessary these days? Here let me answer that for you: no. Is having ass cheeks that could crush a full grown gerbil to death really necessary? Let me answer that too: double no.

This is why I've never understood body building competitions. Unless they plan to juggle cars, nobody is gonna need that much strength. They look disgusting. And never have I woke up and thought to myself, "Gee ya know what, I think I'm gonna see how disproportionate I can make my penis look in comparison to the rest of my body. And while I'm at it, I'm going to smear myself with vasoline, so when I turn around in circles, I can look like a discoball".

I'm gonna start up my own competition. I'm going to get a bunch of dudes to stand on a stage holding up pictures of bears weaving baskets and eating sushi, and when people ask me what the point to this competition is, I'm going to be like, I don't have a fucking clue, and immediately these people will realize my event was a brilliant metaphore for body building competitions. Because never have I seen something so pointless.

Me personally, I don't know what women find attractive in a body. I'm just going to find some middle ground, not too big, not too skinny. I'd heard plenty of women say they prefer a man who is skinny. I do not understand this. Who is to spear lions and carry them home for supper? Skinny man cannot provide for family. But yall don't start looking at me like I'm gonna become some kind of meathead. As soon as I start to show signs of sweat, I'm out of there. Water seeping through my pores is not good. What if the stuff gets in my eye huh? It burns man, it fucking burns.

Greg, Urine Trouble Now!

2006-04-20T17:34:00.000-07:00

I helped an old man take a piss the other day at work. It was thoroughly traumatizing, presumably to both parties.

It happened as I was leaving the bathroom at work. There was an old guy in a wheelchair with his assistant, right outside the door. Being the good gent that I am, I held the door open for him while his assistant wheeled him into the bathroom, thinking this would be the extent of my responsibilities. Turns out I was wrong, because afterwards the lady tells him she couldn't go in there with him, and if you didn't know already, I am a male.

Funny how traumatizing events happen so quickly, because next thing I know the door is shutting behind me and I'm standing in the bathroom with an old man. He asks me to help him up so he could walk to the toilet, so I do, thinking this would be the extent of my responsibilities. But here's the kicker, and oh, what a fine kicker it is - the guy could hardly stand - hence the wheelchair. Which meant the only way this guy could take a piss is if I propped him up.

Did I mention how funny it is that traumatizing events happen so quickly? Because next thing you know, I'm propping this guy up by the toilet while he starts to extrapolate his weiner from his pants. Then comes the groans. Oh the groans. Maybe it was a kidney stone, maybe it was old age, maybe it was both, but this guy would let out a little squirt, followed by a long groan, followed by another little squirt, followed by an even louder groan, followed by another little squirt, you get the fucking picture. He was shaking, groaning, yelling out "fuck, fuck, fuck" I'm not making this up.

Finally he was done so I led him back to his wheelchair, and this is when I ask him, "Sir, is it okay if you don't wash your hands?". Because I'll be fucking damned, right? He replies, "Nah, fuck washing my hands, get me out of here". And that's that.

The way I seez it

2006-04-18T01:06:00.000-07:00

People tend to notice things first and foremost if they correlate to the things they think about, and it is very common for the things people think about to fascinate them. It is also common for people to assume the things that fascinate them are the same things that fascinate others, which in turn leads people to believe that others notice the same things they do. Follow? So what you're left with, for example, is a blonde who can't understand why I didn't notice her new shoes, and keep in mind, all of this is done while we simulatenously uphold the belief that our individual thoughts are special, and unthought of by others.

See, I'm obsessed with various people's thinking, because in general they're just so... bad at it. It's easy to make mistakes because we tend to form opinions based on reactions, as opposed to, ooh I don't know, thinking first them forming conclusions later? For example, this is what always gets me. We live in a world where if I so happened to sport a bumper sticker that read "Peace", some redneck driving down the road would think to himself, "Oh look at this fucking hippie". As if there were a single argument out there against peace! But this is what we do, we make sweeping generalizings about the things people stand for to make things nice and tidy, then hate that thing, if only for the sake of turning this game of truth into a war.

Like one of the biggest wars of all: red states versus blue states! It's the coastal cities versus middle America people! Statistics suggest that if you really had to color code America, we'd be varying shades of purple. Which is precisely to say that yes, liberals do live among rednecks, and rednecks do live among liberals. But screw that right? We gotta keep ourselves distracted with false wars, and purple is a color for those gays - red states and blue states!

The truth of the matter is, this isn't a war. We all just think differently. Liberals have a different way of thinking than conservatives, and even though conservatives are all idiots, they still have some valid things to say. But it's so much more soothing to the ego to think that our intellectual strengths define what intelligence is, while others are just good in certain areas. This is actually quite um, profound, I guess you could say, because we all think this and it's precisely what keeps us from appreciating others.

I, for example, can't stand business talk. I hate finances. And it's very tempting for me to think, "Oh those asians, they're just good with numbers, but look at me man. I break shit down, I put things together, I see the big picture". But if we didn't have Asians who were good with math and engineering, where would our cellphones that played Lil Wayne ringtones be? Exactly, we'd be trying to dance to a pac-bell ringtone, and that my friends, has no beat.

I just think it's damn important to appreciate the intelligences of others, especially when they are nothing like our own, but it's exactly the opposite. When it comes to displaying our intellectual prowess, everyone wants to go into into their little specialty corners and talk there. "No don't talk about that, talk about this!" Because we tend to believe our interests share more relevance than the interests of others. I'm two cents short from being a philosopher, I'll be damned if I'm appreciating what a lawyer has to say. Unless he's getting me out of prison.

It's only natural, though, to want to hear things that fall within the context of our pre-existing base of knowledge. We like to deal with the fringe of what is known and unknown. If I pointed out that the sky is blue, nobody would care, because everyone knows that. If I started reading from Einstein's journal of mathematical equations, nobody would care, because none of it would make sense. The only way for me to get anyone's pulse going, is to speak on the fringe of what is known and unknown, to expand the parameters of what people know.

But people think they know alot so its hard to find someone willing to hear it. I think it's a beautiful thing, if I may be gay for a moment, when you find two people who are completely willing to learn from each other. Pretentiousness is a bitch though, ain't it? Once you think you have all the answers ya stop looking for them. I guess its only natural that we tend to believe our personal experiences make us wiser, while the experiences of others make them bias.

I'll wrap things up though. It's a naive reality we live in, when three-fourths of our thoughts are wasted on meaningless trivial things, and the other one-fourth wasted on telling ourselves how smart we are - you really gotta wonder if what we tell ourselves is true. If you ask me, we're just good at what we're good at. Smart is too broad of a word. But lets all go ahead and keep thinking we're geniuses. Afterall, we are the ones who dictate the reality of our own thoughts, and who wants to question the thoughts that make us feel better?

So hell yeah we're biased. About as lopsided as a fat kid on a see-saw.

Back from mexico

2006-04-11T01:37:00.000-07:00

I just flew in from Cabo today, and boy are my arms are tired. Anyone, anyone? I'll just throw this out there in case you were wondering: no I didn't get arrested, no I didn't bang a hooker, and yes this is a new shirt, thank you for noticing.

One thing I love about Mexico is that the Mexicans all seem to care about everything just a tad bit less as compared to us Americans. They're all so friendly and they never give a shit about the time as long as it's happy hour. And if they don't understand a word you say, they'll still smile and nod and make you feel real good about yourself. It sorta makes you reflect on the sticks up all our asses and ponder why we leave it there despite the noticeable discomfort.

I'll admit though it wasn't a wild and crazy time. I spent the larger portion of my days deep in secluded prayer, and when I wasn't worshipping God the Almighty I was driving the roads looking for impoverished children I could feed loaves of bread to.

But really, it was just a good old time. Unfortunately though, the spring breakers were no longer in town, however there were a lot of grandmas and small children lounging around the poolside, so when I wasn't busy feeling like a pervert, I was busy feeling like a douchebag for thinking granny's tan accentuated the whiteness of her dentures quite nicely.

And since I'm quite the one to take warm baths in fragrant depression and moisturizing self-hate, let me tell you about all the times I got shot down in Cabo. Granted I had no back-up because I was with my bro and his girlfriend most of the time, but regardless these are the reasons why I want to chop my face off.

So I go up to this girl at the bar who was with some friends but looking pretty bored. I flip the charm switch on and say, "Hey, you're pretty cute, let me buy you a drink". She tells me "no" with the most sober face possible, clamining she was at her limit, but remarks that her friend probably wanted one. She pointed at her friend who was unapologetically beaten by the ugly stick, but my horniness was inclining me towards the notion that tonight wouldn't be a night to descriminate. So I tell Medusa I'll buy her a drink, she says, "Okay sure. Wait no, we're about to leave".

I go back to my spot at the bar and watch the girls buy drinks for another 20 minutes. So now not only do girls not want to talk to me, they don't even want free drinks from me. You know you're a scumbag when people won't even take free shit from you, that's like saying, "No thank you, I'll take free mints and spritzes of fragrance from the cross-eyed albino guy in the bathroom, but you're just SCAARY".

Waa, I don't want to talk about my shortcomings anymore. There's plenty more where that came from, and that's why I'll never get married, never talk to a girl again, becoming a failed alcoholic author, and I'm shaving my eyebrows. Because at least with all that self-handicapping, I have an excuse for being alone and miserable. And when people ask me why I'm so alone and miserable, I can say, "I have no fucking eyebrows", and I"ll be wearing a turtle neck sweater, and the pieces would all come together.

Slightly

2006-03-29T21:55:00.000-08:00

When I say I hate people and support terrorism, it's not that I actually hate people and support terrorism. As usual, I'm being sarcastic and hyperbolizing the truth. Truth be told, I only hate people slightly, and the same can be said for my support for terrorism. Nothing like sarcasm to distort my well founded worldly views.

And I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed neither. I'm more of your plastic butterknife among a hodgepodge of ginzu steak-knives and cutleries. Al-Quaeda couldn't hijack a plane with me if Allah was on their side. I spread, margarine preferably, because I'm stupid and dull.

I suck at math. I didn't learn my times tables until the sixth grade, a good 2 years too late. Even then I struggled with my multiplication tables, and it took a good 2 months of studying them, whenever I sat down on the shitter, to finally get them down. I have now forgotten all of them except for the 2's, 5's, and 10's.

I forget almost everything I hear. Tell me something and I will forget it like a bad childhood beating, I promise you. I don't know my mom's birthday, I only know Christmas falls in December, and if little douchebags didn't show up at my doorstep begging for candy every year, I'd probably forget when halloween was too.

I'm bad with details, I hardly read, the majority of all my teachers have hated me, and on occasion I won't wear deodorant. Yet take all my faults, add them up, and- fuckit dude I'm a genius compared to the average human being.

Which is saying far too much. Today at work someone asked for plastic in paper. But that's nothing. Einstein once said, "Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the the universe."

Take Bush for example. No nevermind, I'm going to sleep.

Meaningless banter

2006-03-26T21:49:00.000-08:00

When you're really familiar with something, tiny differences render exponential results. Because there is something about routine that makes life feel completely pointless. It's like carrying around a brick of shit tied to a leash everywhere you go. It can't walk, you gotta drag it, it smells bad, sometimes you back up and step on it, and at the end of the day you look at your piece of shit and think, "Why am I carrying this around?". There is no point. And so do I feel with routine.

If I lived everyday the same as the last, I am excited by nothing. Surprised by nothing. I'm merely living for the variables, the details that change from day to day, which are fleeting and equal nothing in the grande scheme of things.

But then it occured to me that I had it wrong, or mostly wrong. What does the grande scheme of things matter?

People in general are terrible at seeing the big picture. We live in a linear society, where the average person moves from detail to detail in order to see any peice of this infinite puzzle. Yet when it comes to finding meaning, people want the big picture. So we dream of big electrons in the sky and dudes with beards sitting on clouds playing chess, and I wonder, were the details not enough?

I guess few truly know what it means to stop and smell the roses. Fuckit, feel them too. Take a pedal, stick it in your mouth and chew on it. Rub them on your nipples. It's something different. My point is, finding meaning in life is hard, it takes skill to be happy.

My first step towards a hint of personal serentiy was to admit that life was ultimately meaningless. How's that for irony. I've always wondered why people asked what the meaning of life was, as if there was one singular meaning stamped into the sky for all of us to read. It's common for people to think their subjective opinions stand for all, and some people will go crazy trying to amend their own personal philosophies with a cold and uncaring universe.

An ultimately meaningless life is scary for most, to me its like reading a choose your own adventure novel. With no objective meaning I get to create my own. It's alot harder, maybe I could read a 2000 year old book and take on someone else's, but for now I'll do it by myself.

It's all in the details.

God vs. American Engineering

2006-03-16T15:58:00.000-08:00

There's an old-as-dinosaur-piss argument that goes about to say, everything in creation must have been intelligently designed. I'm not here to open that can of mashed potaters, but I would like to point something out.

See, us humans have the tendancy to primarily recognize positive occurances. Which is to say that it's much easier to notice things that happen as opposed to things that don't. So when it comes to intelligent design, we tend to only notice the "intelligent" things about our structure, while overlooking all the things that could be better, or make our design dumb as shit. Like a Ford.

For example, if we were truly intelligently designed,

1) Women's farts would smell like roses. Fuck it, men's farts would smell like roses too. That's a hell of a lot more "intelligent" than feeling like I'm being strangled everytime some fat guy rips one in line at the DMV. Farts can often be traumatizing, as on occasion I will wake up in the middle of the night sweating, because someone farted in my own goddamn dream.

2) There would be no fat people, only people who are "well-insulated". There is nothing "intelligent" about people who need to be crane lifted out of their own bedrooms.

3) Babies wouldn't be so dumb, and this whole "cognitive development" phase wouldn't need to exist. I would've popped out of the womb, sparked up a cigarrette, and walked around slapping doctors with my umbilical cord sayin, "Yo, which one of you nurse bitches wanna spank me?" Cuz that's just how Baby G-rizzle would do.

4) Alcoholism wouldn't cause liver problems. Instead, copious amounts alcohol consumption would result in increased articulation, better motor skills, sudden tight-rope walking abilities and clearer skin. Extreme cases of alcoholism would result in an overwhelming urge to read the Bible and find Jesus.

5) There would be no such things as car accidents. I mean, you've never seen two birds fly head on into each other, have you? Also, asian drivers would drive faster, make sharper turns, see over their steering wheel, decide which lane they wanted to stay in and remember to flip off their turn signals.

6) Dinosaurs would have never gone extinct. Instead, we'd be the dinosaurs and it'd be like that show they had on television with the pudgey little dinosaur baby. If I were a T-rex, I wouldn't have to worry about shit, I mean, I'm a T-rex bitch, what you got on me? I'll smack you with my stumpy little hands. And my girlfriend would be a taradactil, because I'd dig chics that fly.

7) White men would be able to dance. There is nothing "intelligent" about white people dancing like Doogie Howser meets Al Gore everytime they throw back one too many at wedding receptions. And this caucasion wallflower association at clubs isn't cutting it, either. God, you suck man, I just want to dance.

8) Eating Spaghettios would grant superhuman powers. Okay, maybe that's pushing it.

But you all catch my point. For every "intelligent" thing about us, there is something that only a dumbshit or American engineer could make. And there are a million unfathomable ways in which we could be better. Just something to think about. Now excuse me, I'm gonna go punt babies.

The anticlamatic celebration of 21 years of humanness

2006-03-12T23:09:00.000-08:00

As of now, I will be 21 in 20 minutes. Do you know what that means? I am 20 minutes away from doing absolutely nothing.

Perhaps I will engage in a bit of scratching, perhaps some light sobbing, maybe I'll make myself some crackers with a light garlic cheese spread, but nothingness will most likely be the prevelent ontological state.

I feel slightly depressed right now because 21 years ago, when I was a wee fetus, I imagined that on midnight, 21 years down the road, I'd be sucking tequila off a stripper's well-moisturized toe, surrounded by close, encouraging friends. The reality, as it turns out to be, is that I'm sucking nacho cheese off my finger tips, because I just devoured half a bag of cheetoes, and now I'm migrating towards the Ben and Jerry's. And if I were a chic, this is where I'd say something gay like, "I have a spoon, and I know to use it!!!" But I'm not a chic, so I won't fucking say that shit.

But it's way to early to get depressed about the anti-climatic arrival of my 21st. Tomorrow is another day. I plan to make it a very drunk one. Gimme some salt, baby.

L-O-V-E

2006-03-05T21:37:00.000-08:00

So I found who I want to marry. No really, check it out: My future wife

Her name is Evgenia Podoplelova and she is a mail order bride from Russia. As far as the price of humans go, she is cheap, and for only 299 dollars more, I can buy her English lessons with books included. I just figure this whole "dating" thing might take too long, and nothing is garaunteed, so I might as well buy myself a bride.

Because the problem is, girls down here have too much freedom. And by that I mean, they're not bound to me by a state-recognized contract or sense of obligation. They may leave me at any time without facing any legal or financial consequences, and this is a problem for me because when I'm not busy standing outside women's bathroom windows, I'm busy scaring them off.

Yet I should just keep on trying. I can't set myself up for failure because that's called self-handicapping. I suck. I have to keep a positive mental attitude and reach for the stars. My legs are too hairy. Even if I I'm like that clown who makes little babies cry but nevertheless insists on shoving more and more balloon animals in their faces hoping they'll shutup or at least start sucking on an animal part, I must go on.

A little smile here. A little smile there. Hey baby, wuts up, I see you looking. Yeah. Cocky. Get cocky Greg. You're the shit.

Before I go make toasted bagels in my bathtub, I'd like to leave you all with this message: Lust... that's just a fleeting chemical high, but love... love, my friends, will pull you from the depths of despair, from the bottom of the deepest well, or from selling yourself in the redlight district in Russia. I'm telling you guys this chic is a c-u-t-i-e. I'm gonna go gather my pennies.

my first newpaper article

2006-03-04T02:01:00.000-08:00

(this is my first newpaper article that i wrote for the santa monica corsair. Hopefully, they will publish it)

We here at the Corsair have a hypothetical question.

As everyone should know by now, Los Angeles rests near the ocean. The ocean produces waves. Sometimes these waves are big. REALLY big! So imagine if, on one bright unsuspecting day, some REALLY big waves washed over the city of Los Angeles, swallowing this place whole and turning our grand old city into a real life Waterworld. Our question here at the Santa Monica Corsair is: what would Kevin Costner do?

No really, what we want to know is, how would FEMA and the world respond? Being that we all saw what happened in New Orleans, and it sure wasn't pretty.

People accused FEMA and the Bush administration of slacking off in New Orleans because, in the words of Kanye West, "George Bush doesn't like black people". Wait just a second there Kanye, you don't know that for sure. George Bush is a good man, cough. A colorblind man, cough, cough. I'm sure he loves every race equally, cough, cough, cough- wait my spleen just popped out.

But I'd like to debunk this whole "racial" thing right now. While race may have played a factor in New Orleans, it seems social status was the bigger issue. Because after all, if it were a bunch of proverbial Caucasian “honkies” rowing around in dilapidated canoes, we wouldn’t have exactly sprinted to the scene. More like taken a nice, brisk jog.

On a side note however, the biggest issue turns out to be the apathy of George Bush and Micheal Brown, who were reportedly engaged in a passionate game of online Connect Four during the hurricane's most crucial hours. Bush lost, claiming later in his defense that, "I'm colorblind, and I didn't know those were four black ones."

As many of you already know, a large portion of Katrina victims were underprivileged, and as I stated before, people don't exactly jump off their couches to go help the underprivileged. Especially over-privileged people with that names rhyme with mush. And even if they do get off the couch, they do it as reluctantly as possible, by gradually leaning their body weight forward until they either collapse in a jello-like heap to the floor, or successfully stand using both legs. Many never reach the bipedal stage, if you catch my metaphor.

So with human nature in mind, I think its reasonable to assume that social status did indeed play a role in the Katrina response effort. Because let's face it, gerbils are cute. Wait, wrong argument. Let's face it America, we're constantly placing "value" judgments on human life based on silly things, arbitrary things, and social status is just one of those things, right alongside which D class celebrity does the best tango, and people who sort of resemble Gary Busey.

So, what have we learned so far? We've learned that I've taken the liberty to completely ignore my initial question because I'd rather make fun of Bush instead. But hey, that's my journey, right?

But if there's one point I'd like to make, it's that America, FEMA, and the Caucasian powers that be would react quite differently to a Katrina sized disaster if one ever struck LA. Because we have movie stars. Including the cast of the OC.

And we'd watch as helpless people stood atop their million dollar mansions waving for help, and we'd scream, "Oh my gosh! Those poor, poor people! Imagine their upholstry! Those poor, poor people and their poor, damaged upholstery! Wait a second, isn't that Adrian Brody from the OC?"

The horror. It would be a disaster of unparalleled proportions.

The joy of insanity

2006-02-28T11:36:00.000-08:00

Some non-fictional stories have a good premise but lack in interesting details, so embellishments are needed here and there. That won't be necessary here. This story, won't do the details justice.

I had my first encounter with a crazy customer at the register the other day. Granted, many of the Trader Joe's customers are a bit off their rockers. They buy A LOT of cat food. A lot of cat food equals a lot of cats. A lot of cats equals a lot of lonliness. A lot lonliness equals something we like to call insanity. Hence, many of our customers are insane.

However, this lady's insanity had little to do with lonliness and everything to do with a curious disorder called paranoid schizophrenia. Yes, I've taken abnormal psychology and I managed a B bitch, I'm pretty sure about this one. My first hint this lady may have been beaten by the crazy stick was when she started asking other customers for donations. She was in line and kept saying, "Donations? Donations? Donations? Donations? Donations? Donations? Donations?..."

She arrvies at my register, after receiving no donations, and I proceed to check her out. I say, "Hi how's it going?" and I get no response. Instead, she just stares at me with these eyes that penetrate my soul. As I look into them, I shit you not, I could see a bunch of smurfs in the background stuffing things into boxes labeled "Craziness". There was also a husky smurf standing with a whip, pointing to a sign that read: "Tuesday - 602,568 units of crazy produced. Good job guys keep it coming." So that's how it's made.

The first words out of her mouth were, "Do you have a small box of grapes?". I send someone to go get her some grapes, he comes back with our smallest container, but she says there's too many. She takes a plastic bag, opens the container and places about 15 grapes into the plastic bag, then hands me back the container and says, "I don't want those". I tell her I can't ring her up her plastic bag so I'd have to charge her for the full box. She doesn't respond. So I charge her for the box.

At about this point I could see the smurfs were really putting on a sweat. They sweat gatorade, by the way. I tell her the total is $18.20. She hands me two dollars and proceeds to stare at the counter. I say, "ma'am, your total is $18.20. You handed me two dollars... Ma'am? Ma'am? Excuse me, Ma'am?...". The counter had taken her hostage.

By this point, the customers in line are getting impatient and start telling her she needs to pay me. She snaps out of her staring contest with the counter and pulls out a... Bible. I am not making this shit up. By now, the last thing I need is a fucking lesson in salvation. But as she opens it up, stuck in between the pages was money. She hands me a ten and a five, which brings our total to $17.00. $1.20 short.

She is now reading her Bible. I'm about to choke the bitch, because resting underneath that ten and five dollar bill was a twenty. I say, "Hey, there you go. Here I'll give you this seventeen dollars back and you give me that twenty." What came next proved to me, and the customers next to her, that we were dealing with craziness on an unforseen level. She looks and me and says, "No," and here it comes, "That twenty is for Jesus."

Shall I go on? I think not. What can top hording twenty dollar bills for Jesus? Nothing, that's what. But if you're curious as to what happened next, the lady next to her was kind enough to pay the $1.20 remainder. So the bitch was done, but not quite. She stood at the end of my register for about another 5 minutes, reminding everybody that walked in or out of the store that, "Jesus loves you".

You wonderful little smurfs! Oh man, keep it coming guys. Good work, keep hitting that quota.

Where's my juicebox?

2006-02-21T12:52:00.000-08:00

I got some action the other day at work. And by "got some action" I mean an old lady started touching my shoulder. And by "touching my shoulder" I mean she tapped me and asked where the canned olives were. And so this is life, utterly stagnant and actionless.

My mom thinks I'm an alcoholic. Being Chinese, her definition of alcoholism differs greatly from that of our western conception, in which I'd be considered a "fucking pussy" with a "working liver". In China they have this phenomena called second-hand drinking. It's when a sober asian accidentally catches a whiff of a drunk person's breath and becomes intoxicated, and this is why, in case you were wondering, they all wear those silly little masks. (So if you've been drinking, you need to especially stay away from any pregnant asians, as the health of their unborn child rests in your gastral intestinal tract.)

I checked my horoscope today on yahoo. It read,

"A blabbermouth might let your big secret slip today. Take preventative measures."

Oh no. Since I'm at school all day, I don't know what ever shall I do. So as a preventative measure I will say this: listen you fucking blabbermouth, if you ever let my big secret slip, I'll chop off all your fucking toes on one foot, so for the rest of your entire life, you will have to buy two differently sized pairs of shoes everytime you go shopping. It will hurt both physically and financially, trust me.

Of course, people who actually believe in crystal balls, horoscopes, fortune tellers, astrology and Miss Cleo's accent, have brains the size of raisinets, because believe me when I say, I have no big secret waiting to be spilled. I spill all my own secrets, and I will prove it by doing so now.

Big secret #1 - I had a twin brother at birth.
Big secret #2 - We were siamese twins.
Big secret #3 - We were the first ever to be adjoined at the testicle.
Big secret #4 - We were successfully separated, and after winning a best two out of three game of rock/paper/scissors, I was able to keep the larger half of the contested testicle. Him, still bitter about the loss, now lives in Thailand.
Big secret #5 - He is now suing me for another round of rock/paper/scissors, citing that, and I quote, "You just so happened to have your hand open while I was making a fist. That was unfair. We were babies, we didn't even know how to play."
Big secret #6 - I was a smart baby.
Big secret #7 - Our deformity was the result of second-hand drinking, which was not as well researched at the time.

you think you're horny?

2006-02-14T18:55:00.000-08:00

The other day I witnessed something not uncommon of men to do. I'll get into it later, but it's something we've all seen, and its a reason why I love men. I mean, not men specifically, I meant I love certain things men do... Wow that sounds even gayer, I mean, not like sexual things but certain-

fuck it...

See, us men are a naive bunch. We're dragged by a particular emotion - it's the reason why women think we're assholes, why we pleasure ourselves daily, and why we hang towels over our boners when we get out of the shower. I'm talking about horniness; jenkin it, feelin the juice, lookin to spread the butter on a warm english muffin. And before you ladies say, "Like ohmigod, as if I didn't feel that too" I say to you NOT AS MUCH! NOT AS OFTEN AS US! AND OF COURSE YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU'D HAVE TO BE THERE!

Because women can't, they really can't. I'm convinced that women in general (childhood issue stipulation) aren't anywhere near as horny as us, even though many would claim they are. Yeah right, they may have the potential to be as horny, if not hornier, than us, but they fail on consistency ratings. And before you disagree, let me prove my point. Where are your dildos?

If women were anywhere near as horny as men were, they'd carry dildos around everywhere they went. What woman wouldn't? They'd have dildos hung at their side like lightsabers, they'd stir their coffees with them, there'd be dildo vending machines in the ladies rooms, and personally if i were a chic, I'd use my own pocket rocket to please myself during class. If anybody asked what that noise was I'd claim it was my cell phone going off.

And it makes scientific sense because of a process Tom Cruise probably knows nothing about. A process that has its roots deep inside our ancestery, sort of like how our ancestery had its roots deep inside our anscestery... Get it? It was discovered by a man who's name rhymes with "Narwin" and it has alot to do with monkies. That's right, I'm talking about all five Rocky films.

No really, I'm talking about evolution. It all makes perfect sense. Us men are lazy specimens, and if we didn't have such a strong constant sex drive, you probably wouldn't be reading this right now, and your soul would be in the shape of an amoeba. Okay maybe I'm being overdramatic, but where would our species be if men could actually be "too tired" for sex? Exactly, we'd all be well-rested amoebas. Women on the other hand, need to be more selective with whom they get horny with, because they can't just have any man's babies. They need a man who exerts power, one who displays outwardly that his seed will bode well. A man like Rocky.

We need to get our jamba juice out there, so to what I was getting to earlier, sometimes this overwhelming urge to have sex has us ignoring our own physical or mental shortcomings, as was the case in the cafeteria the other day, where I saw a nerd of epic proportions make talk talk with hot lady. And she was hot, let me tell you. And he was ugly, let me tell you, with a face only God could love. He didn't care to notice the chic was obviously busy and not diggin him, so he went on, probably trying to impress her with his nerd knowledge, "... so you do know what bipedal locomotion means? It's just a fancy way to say "walking", HAHA?". This guy would NOT stop talking to this girl, after a while she started to look disgusted, but reading facial expressions ain't our thing.

Which is why I find certain men funny. Because some men are just so oblivious to signals it's entertaining to watch, unlike women, who will actually inject Ben and Jerries into their veins for days on end if a guy so much as scratches his nose with them. We've evolved into clueless bags of horny juice that can't take hints very well. A drink to the face, a hearty slap, pepper spray, a gunshot wound; hints generally need to be of this magnitude in order for us to fully acknowledge their presence. The road to a man's ego is paved by desperation and cognitive dissonance. It's in our very nature. Now if only I could be less realistic and more irrational... I'm gonna go shoot up some Ben and Jerries.

It's a pity party and your'e all invited

2006-02-12T22:40:00.000-08:00

I started working at Trader Joes. A decision that was substantiated upon the fact that 1) hot females like health food and 2) the store had alot of colors. This is my first job that involves working with customers, which means i'll have alot of stories about humans doing and asking stupid shit. I don't have any just yet.

Instead they threw me into the fridge all weekend. I am that guy you can hardly see, shoving yogurt and cartons of milk forward, making sure customers get everything from A-Z that comes from a cow's utter. To the outside world, I am just a hand. The temperature is frigid and dries out my skin. My nose leaks, my sweater is thin, I am cold, alone, and surrounded by dairy. I stare at women's breasts through the slots in the shelves to keep myself warm and content.

On saturday I woke up at 5:45am to start a 6:30 shift. The next day I had a 7:00am shift. I have the same schedule next week. I can't party like I used to and wake up that early. I feel my weekends drifting away from me. I feel that I'm becoming more responsible and it scares me. I'm used to waking up at 3 in the evening, checking my sheets to make sure I didn't vomit or urinate in my sleep, then debating whether I should go back to bed to hasten the arrival of night, so I can repeat the process over again.

But I like my job and I like the people I work with. They are all friendly and treat me well. I want to end my life. Sorry I didn't mean that it just came out. I think I should slice my wrists open with my box cutter. I didn't mean that either. I like my new job, I really do. Even though customers can be assholes. Yesterday I helped a lady load a box of water into her car, I asked her if that was all and she said "yeah". I nod, expecting a thank you, and tell her to have a wonderful day. She just gets in her car and drives off. I stood there, in a pool of my own teardrops.

I can deal with assholes, however. Someone else's bad day, or bad life, or bad case of anal warts, isn't my problem for the taking. I just want to be able to party. It's why I got the job in the first place. I turn 21 in 1 month to the day and I'll be damned if I did't save up money towards the Greg's a Lush fund. It's a non-profit organization, all proceeds go directly towards supplying Greg with booze money so he may continue to suppress the demons and placate his tormented soul. He likes the detatchment from reality, hence the talking in third person.

Plus I signed up to write for the school newspaper because I get credits for it. I'm going to be so busy, why the fuck did I do that? Why? Because all the writers on the school newspaper suck, that's why. So I'm gonna walk into that office and take shit over. Cheers, here is to a busy year. Pity fuck, anyone? Ok fine, just touch it then? Please? Fuck you I didn't want you anyways.

How to argue

2006-02-08T18:58:00.000-08:00

As my remaining friends may tell you, I know how to argue. I win them all. People will even ignore me at parties, which is understandable, because people like feeling smart, which isn't possible when I'm around. I take their avoidance as a gesture of both admiration and fear. If you want to argue anything like me, listen to these tips.

Drink Liquor

You will notice that when people argue, their voices often become loud, their actions rambunctious. If you are not drinking you may feel timid, too timid perhaps to cut into the conversation. Or maybe you just don't care. Drink up. Once that sweet ether hits your lips you will be amazed at how strongly you suddenly feel about the subject matter at hand. Next thing you know, you will be doing things like spouting off about the stock market even though you failed your economics class, and later that night when you're hugging at the toilet seat to stay conscious, at least you will know you stood up for what you believe.

Listening is a waste of mental space

You may think that in order to argue well, you must also listen well. This is a myth. Listening takes up mental space that may otherwise be used for generating a Mike Tyson super-knockout punch argument of your own. Instead of listening closely to what your opponent is saying, instead listen sporadically and selectively, the key here is to pick up on something to use against them. For example, if your opponent is expounding on the impact of Abraham Lincoln's emancipation of slaves on the U.S. economy, ask,

"Excuse me, do you even know what type of gun Abraham Lincoln was shot with?".

Most likely he will not know and say, "I don't know"

To which you reply, "You don't know huh? What a surprise. You don't know..."

After that, if you really want to seduce the audience with your argumentative wizardry, pretend you're a lawyer and say something like, "Let the record show, he doesn't know."

Make stuff up

Suppose your opponent flips the previous question around and asks if you know what gun Abraham Lincoln was shot with. You'll be damned if you knew and you only have a vague memory of some show you saw on the History Channel that asked the very same thing in a trivia question before commercial break. Make something up. Say, "Abraham Lincoln was murdered with a single shot Winchester .22 pistol fired approximately 2 inches above his left ear. There were no exit wounds." Say it in a dramatic voice, especially the last part, and no one will question the truthiness of your claim.

Create a bank of snappy, irrelevant comebacks

Suppose your opponent happens to score a valid point, you need a wealth of snappy, irrelevant phrases to fire back at him. Here are some good ones:

You're barking up the wrong tree
Stop getting defensive
You're comparing apples to oranges
Under what pretense?
Baboons could write Shakespearian sonnets if they had the time

Here's how they work.

Him: "The Winchester manufacturer wasn't even around during Abraham Lincoln's time."
You: "I'm sorry, a Winston I mean."
Him: "That's a brand of cigarettes."
You: "You're barking up the wrong tree"

or,

You: "The Great Stock Market crash of 1939 led-"
Him: "The stock market crashed in 1929"
You: "You're comparing apples to oranges"

Your opponent will attempt to wrap his head around the irrelevance of what you just said, thus allowing an opportunity for you to either vindicate yourself, or sock your opponent in the face.

Don't be afraid to sock your opponent in the face

As always, the key to any argument is to win. So maybe you're losing, don't worry about it, you may have lost the battle but you haven't lost the war. Go ahead and cut your losses by socking your opponent in the face. Hey, arguments get heated, emotions get involved, people understand that. Just try harder with the whole talking part next time. And with that I leave you to go out into the world and argue. Just remember, if you lose any friends for being too "argumentative", this is basically their way of saying "I resent you for your intelligence". Take it as a compliment.

*thanks to dave barry for the topic

Awight Awready

2006-02-02T11:36:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here in the library at school. Before I sat down I had about an hour to kill, so I went to the librarian to ask how I would go about procuring some books written by Bertrand Russel, cuz ya know I'm like really really intelligent... She whispers something to me completely unintelligable. So I say, "excuse me?". Once again she mutters something in wookie talk, so I pause and politely say, "I'm sorry I'm having trouble hearing you". She gets this impatient, offended look on her face and finally says, "PAPERBACK OR HARDCOVER?". I'd go on about the rest of our conversation but its really not necessary.

Instead, I'm gonna say here what I really wanted to say to her face at that moment. Look ya feline-hording, man-hating, dildo-collecting, post-menopausal, leather-faced bag of douche: if I can't understand you, WHO'S PROBLEM IS THAT? Why would you ever get mad at me? How is it my fault that I can't understand you because putting together syllables and consonants is some kind hurdle of olympic proportions?

Maybe if I was hard of hearing I could share some responsibility. But I'm young, nubile, and healthy of the ears. I could hear two flies fucking in my sleep.

This is seriously an issue of mine. Don't you hate it when someone mumbles something, so you ask them to repeat it, and they mumble it again, so you ask them to repeat it, then they get furious and fucking scream it at you. As if their careless mumbling was your problem. It happens to me all the time and it makes me want to burn down a nursury.

And this is all coming from someone who mumbles profusely. My laziness extends far beyond my unwillingness to do shit that requires walking or heavy breathing. I'm too lazy to pronounce. When I was little I had a BB gun, and I would call it a "Wed Wider" instead of a "Red Rider". But at least I'm aware of this so if someone can't hear me, I accept responsibility and repeat myself in a more articulate manner. And if they still can't understand me, I'll just mumble super loud and hope they're privy enough to get general idea of what I'm trying to say. But I would never get angry at the fuckin person.

Don't do this people. If someone can't hear you, it's your fault. Unless they're your grandparents or something. Then it's probably their fault. Ar-tic-u-late. Stupid Wibrarian.

The pragmatism of insanity

2006-01-30T11:34:00.000-08:00

So I'm taking abnormal psychology for winter break and I think the new seasonal fad should be sporting mental disorders. They say one out of every three Americans has a psychological disorder. That's not good enough. I've dealt with plenty of folk who have perhaps "missed the dartboard entirely", and I must say, keep them coming Genes/Environment. Crazy people are the spice to this bland hunk of meatloaf I call a life. They are the oregano in my Bonduelle Potato Au Gratin, the pesto sauce on my tender veal cutlet. Bam! Delicious.

I'm not talking about anything severe. Just a complete and utter detatchment from reality every now and then. Imagine if you were at a party and some guy started screaming, "Oh my God I can't find my body. Hey, who here watches Star Trek? Oh my God fucking John Denver just stole my beer. Why do I keep hearing the Black Eyed Peas? Someone give me a stick of butter, quick!". And then he gets naked and starts jerkin it to a plant. I could talk to absolutely any girl with that conversational ammunition. You see where I'm coming from?

I think I need more psychological disorders. So far on the checklist is um, ADD. That's about it. And what a pussy disorder at that. I could use some more dillusions. Positive ones. I'm talking along the lines of fat black girl ones. Complete with the "Oh no you di'int!", "I'm the shit" and wavy fingers. Mmhmm. Imagine how interesting I would be, people would love me. At parties I'd be loud and talk about how people "ain't got nuttin' on me" and girls would be drawn towards my cocky indifference.

Positive dellusions - making positive impacts on people's lives. I mean, we spend so much time thinking ourselves and life is so much shittier than it really is, we might as well flip that around and take the upper hand. If only I thought I was better than everybody else, maybe I wouldn't want to sleep all day with the blinds closed because sunlight = happy. Postive dellusions. Now excuse me while I take my clothes off and run out the fire escpape.

shut the fuck up

2006-01-09T20:06:00.000-08:00

Here is an example of a legitimate question:

"Greg, why do you hate people?"

The answer is plain and simple - I don't hate people, I just hate things about them. Shame on me if I threw away the entire loaf of bread because one peice of it was moldy. I think I'm willing to accept and overlook certain aspects in people that drive me towards an early menopause because I am a kind, tolerant and loving individual. My eyes glisten with the compassion of Jesus. My hands eminate with the warmth of Mother Theresa. I am a rock. Love. Steadfast love.

But there is one girl in my speech class that I absolutely loathe. Everytime she opens her mouth people start to look at each other, sort of like how beauty pageant queens look at each other before they're about to get their results, except none of us are smiling and we'd all rather hang ourselves. She's one of those types that always jumps into the middle of a conversation to give her opinion, totally disruptive, and she ends everything with, "you know what I'm saying?". And what I've typically found about people who say that is that they don't know what they fuck they are saying.

This girl went completely emo today. We were talking about using euphamisms and abstractions in everyday speech. I was talking about how I personally find it necessary to coat certain harsh topics with sugary terms because while I'm not a sensitive person when it comes to language, other people are and they should be respected. Little Miss Piggy chimes in from the corner like, "Yo yo, nuh uh. You see with me, I'm blunt, I don't beat around the bush like that. I say whatever is on my mind." While we were all looking at each other wishing we had a dirty sock to shove in her grill she finally adds, "Life is too fucking short for that shit, know what I'm saying?"

The bitch dropped the F bomb in speech class while we were talking about appropriate and inappropriate speech. Who the fuck does that? I cuss like a sailor but I know when, this girl is just fucking nuts.

But that's not even the point of my story. The point I was trying to make is that I can't stand people who feel the need to give their opinion on every goddamn subject on the planet. What I've learned over the years is to bite my tongue. Giving an opinion here and there is fine, but eventually if you give too much the Micheal Moore effect will kick in, and all the sudden you're that little squeaky fat man who won't shut the fuck up. So in my opinion, lets all get together and drink a large glass of shut the fuck up.

On the bus again

2006-01-03T17:00:00.000-08:00

Fords can lick my buttery balls, my car broke down on the way to Mountain High last week. So I'm left to take public transit which isn't my bag. Not for a clean cut pseudo-caucasion gentleman as myself. Last time i took the bus I had to sit in the back with a bunch of black people who were holding 40's in brown bags and freestyling. It was as if Rosa Park's karma rose from the grave and decided to fuck with my life. I feel self-conscious around black people. As I was leaving the bus one of the black people looked at me and asked him to throw his 40 ounce away. So what'd I do? I took it and said, "yessah mastah" and didn't look him in the eye. No I didn't but that would have been funny I probably would have been shot or stabbed.

I love black people though. I just think it'd be cool if like, instead of walking in on a bunch of them freestyling I could rather walk in on a bunch of them reciting poetry. Freestyle poetry. And instead of them rapping about chicken-heads eatin their meat and blowing loads in some bitch's eye they'd talk about how some girl's hair glistens nicely in the moonlight. Or instead of rapping about killing cops and selling cocaine, they'd drop some narrative verse about a poor farmer who stole bread to feed his family because the crop wasn't good that year but the government didn't provide subsidaries. Something a bit more down to earth. And I know rapping is poetry too but don't give me that, you know what i mean.

Hopefully today was the only day I had to take the bus to school. I miss my car. My poor 94 explorer is sitting out in the boonies near Wrightwood freezing it's ass off because It'd cost too much to tow over here. I fear if I keep taking the bus, I will lose my life..

Christmas is coming, my inner child is crying

2005-12-15T03:09:00.000-08:00

We have no Christmas tree. I miss my childhood. I'm scared please someone hold me. Every Christmas from now on is going to be a reminder of how I'm no longer a kid and the magic is gone. Santa isn't real. Decorating a tree isn't fun. The magic is gone.

I went to Toys R Us the other day and bawled in a fetal position. I latched onto an stuffed Garfield and cried for innocence lost. The best days of our lives are gone, if only we were wise enough to know it back then. Funny how it works when you're young.

Now everything is get a job this, goto school that, stop sleeping with stuffed animals. Nothing is as it was and the nostalgia creeps in. Ironically during the most joyful time of the year, because nothing can hold the eggnog to the way it was when we were young. Back when happiness wasn't so fleeting and I didn't want to sock people who whistled in the face.

So as Christmas draws near I wrote a little poem to describe my feelings:

Oh Christmas
Christmas
How could you do this to me?
Oh Christmas
You're supposed to be fun but you bring me pain
Oh Christmas
Instead of presents you bring me pain
Oh Christmas
The ferns of the Christmas tree tear into my soul
Oh Christmas
Like fragrant needles of destruction
Oh Christmas
Ripping at my soul

Oh Christmas (x4)

I'm becoming a Jew.
- Christmas

Where'd you get that preposterous hypothesis?

2005-12-11T02:41:00.000-08:00

" go fuck urself"

-Anonymous

So apparently my suicide post wasn't the greatest of hits. It's okay, i wasn't shooting for the stars. I've just always thought that sometimes the best way to point out the absurdity of something is to joke about it. Okay, maybe joking about suicide is a bit taboo. Taboo is a pretty faggish word anyways. Taboo. Taboooo. If the word personified itself it'd be wearing leather chaps and hanging out at Rage in West Hollywood.

West Hollywood is where all the gays hang out, for those of you who are LA clueless.

I'm drunk right now. I was just thinking earlier about how desperate I've been to get laid I've been contemplating scoring a fat chic. For the record, I can hold my own so the thought of doing a fat chic never really crossed my mind. I have a fast metabolism so I'm pretty fit myself. But sometimes we all have to take the easy route. Sometimes we all have to do what is tried and true. There isn't a fat chic on this planet who would reject me. So why not. Really tho. Why not.

As long as she doesn't wake up next to me with her cankles all rubbin up against my legs. Or worse yet, I wake up and she's downstairs cooking me bacon and eggs and calling me sweetie. Oh god I'd shoot myself.

I went to this party right smack in the ghetto today and I was really wondering, why is it that poor people are typically ugly but rich people are hot? There is an undeniable correlation. I don't get it. If I'm driving towards the ghetto I'm not expecting to see a bunch of hot people walking the sidewalk but if I'm going to Beverly Hills I do. But what the fuck is the difference? Location and social status I suppose, but what do those two things have to do with someone's good looks? Why are poor people typically ugly? It can't just be because they work harder than most. If you really think about it, it's just mindblowingly arbitrary.

My best explaination is that good looks are indicative of good genes, so rich people aren't good looking because they're rich but rather because they have better genes and are most likely smarter. But then again there's alot of stupid hot people and genius ugly people so I guess you could call my hypothesis preposterous. I think I'm on the right track though.

Anyways, I'm gonna goto bed. Hopefully I don't pee anything special. Goodnight.

Death Kills

2005-12-05T19:06:00.000-08:00

Suicide is an innate human right. But with all the ways to kill oneself, it may be hard knowing which to choose. So I've compiled a cursory little list of popular ways to die, because its fun to think about sometimes.

The Good Ole' Fashioned Noose - I've often wondered why people choose this method. Anyone who's dove too deep under water, or been forcefully strangled during sex will know that suffocation is an utterly intolerable feeling. It's up there with being engulfed in flames. However, this option still contends for being so convenient, as most individuals carry rope in their homes or live close to a Home Depot. Regardless, the process of asphyxiation makes this suicide option none too ideal. Unless you like that kind of shit ya kinky freak.

The Super-powerless Superman - Anyone who's gone skydiving before will tell you - boy oh boy, flying through the air is exhilarating! The powerless superman method is ideal for anyone who's dreamt of being able to fly when they were young but were wise enough to know they couldn't. The quick and painless death, combined with the last few seconds of adrenaline pumping descent makes this option a true contestant with its dukes up. The downfall, no pun intended, would have to be the posthumous and all too public mess. But what does it matter when you're dead. Right?

This Gilette Ain't for Shavin' - Cut your life line, so to speak, this is a fairly tranquil way to die. The victim loses consciousness then slowly passes away. Sitting in a tub of warm water may also help facilitate the blood loss. However, there have been multiple reports of failed attempts using this method so it earns a low consistency rating. Also, if you are a male and attempting this method in a tub, I suggest wearing some sort of garment, as bloodloss and death may shrink the penis.

The Itchy Trigger Finger - Straight for the brain, another pragmatic way to die. Fast, easy, and relatively clean. Unfortunately, not everybody owns a gun, and obtaining one can take some time. By the time one is finally obtained, the suicidal individual may no longer be suicidal, so this would be nothing to his cause. There must be some sleeping pills nearby...

Sleeping Pills? More like Sleeping Kills! - I've eaten bad Sushi before. This method sucks.

So there you have it. A cursory examination of popular ways to kill yourself. I'd like to state now that the author does not condone suicide, nor has he ever been suicidal himself. He loves life and encourages you all to do the same. So ladies, if you're ever feeling down and out, just give me a call, I'm here for you, and I will clean your pipes. And to the fellas... eat some carrots and drink some ginseng or something. You'll get over it.

Why do the Mexicans get to be called Jesus?

2005-11-14T18:43:00.000-08:00

I dunno about you guys but I'd never blow myself up for God. It just seems so, I don't know... Amibitious and opposed to my slackerdom? Even if I felt suicidal and planned to end myself anyways, I think I'd prefer a good old fashioned rope and choke over this blowing my shit to pieces bit. Call me timid. And I don't know, call me skeptical, but I can't help to think of the slight possibility that maybe there aren't 72 virgins waiting to fuck my disfragmented brains out in some afterlife. It does sound sorta too good to be true.

If someone came up to me and was like, "Hey Greg, there are 5 hot chics waiting in your room to fuck you", I'd be like, "Hahaha shutup you silly goose. Now lemme get a bite of your sandwich". Wouldn't believe it for a second. But tell Habib with some clear-your-fukin-throat last name that there's 72 VIRGINS tailor fitted to his tallywack and he's like, "fuck where do I sign up?". Might there be some gullibility issues?

And I know I've bitched about this stuff before. Never fails to astound me though - how someone can listen to some other guy just like them say something, and then think to themselves yes that is true. Just like that. Oh yeah, then they blow their shit up. Imagine that.

Nobody knows what happens when we die. Nobody knows whether or not God exists. It's all bullshit. We're all just guessing. Nobody fucking knows. It's what bugs me about religion. Catholicism for example. They claim to know. And the whole organization is set up to give their figures the false illusion of authority.

The Pope is the same person he was before he was the Pope. He didn't change, his status in life did. He's some dude. And at Church there's that guy who stands in front of the crowd, dressed up in doilys and robes and whatnot... Yeah, he's just some dude. He's not some super duper holy figure, he may know some Latin jibber jabber but he jerks off and eats tacos like the rest of us. And you know those wafers they feed ya in the middle of mass? They're just fucking wafers. They may talk about the transmutation, how its the body of Christ, blah blah blah. It looks like a wafer. It smells like a wafer. It tastes like a wafer. Its a wafer. They sell them in jugs you can buy them at Costco.

People invest way too much into symbolism when it's exactly that. Symbolism. It just stands for something but it isn't that something. Yeah sure, symbolism is a wonderful artistic and creative instrument but there are times when we just need to skip the clutter and get to the butter. Ya know? Like, wouldn't it be nice for once if the priest came out and said,

"Do you love Jesus?"

And the audience replied, "Yes"

And the priest replied, "Great. Give a bum a dollar. I"m gonna go smoke a cigarette"

So brilliantly fucking simple it makes me smile. That's all it takes. And priests need to get paid more. Jesus, they gave up sex for this shit.

Ignore the Titans

2005-10-10T18:22:00.000-07:00

Damn Sex. Damn Sex for luring me back onto the page with her blatant metaphysics and philosophical talk. It's like watching two girls mud wrestle and I just had to get naked and jump in. Oh no I slipped. Oh no I touched a nipple. Ya know?

It's funny. We spend so much time focusing on the things that make us different and set us apart, but in the end we all just want to be part of the gang. Some gang, any gang. If that ain't wanting to have our cake and eat it too then I don't know what is. Actually I do know what is - having my penis and balls licked at the same time by two chics. But the latter descrepancy fits the description as well.

I mention this little "paradox", as it might be called, because I take pride in my beliefs. I've spent alot of time figuring the things I believe. I've drank alot of coffee and smoked alot of cigarettes in my head while talking to some imaginary friend from some opposing view. And they'll tell me that I'm stupid and ignorant for thinking what I think, and I'll pour out all the reasons why I'm not. Then viola, I've justified myself. I do this alot. Because I'm lonely.

But I've always been fascinated by how easily we can justify certain beliefs to ourselves. Everybody's standards for justification are different. It was said that when one of the Nazi generals at a concentration camp was asked why he allowed such atrocities on humanity to be take place, he was incapable of uttering a single sentence that was not a cliche. Cliche's are deceptive. A clever arrangment of words can be moving enough to give something the illusion of being true. But truth can't simply be what moves us, can it?

For some it is. When I was younger I believed in whatever moved me. Whatever concepts I liked or spoke to me. Now I'm older and I find myself compelled to believe in many things; ugly things, lonely things, beautiful things, whatever things I've deemed to be true based on merit. But at the end of the day there is nothing to assure me I've done a correct job. Don't get me wrong, I'm very likely to be right and all, but there are no thought police in my head, nor anyone else's head to give a slap on the wrist when faulty reasoning is being used. That's our job. But tear away at any belief long enough and it's like playing Jenga, soon enough everything crumbles. At the very core of every belief is uncertainty. Just hold it up into the light of the greatest uncertainty of all - this, all of this.

Sometimes our biggest hubris is in thinking that for every question, there is an answer simple enough to be understood.

People sometimes mistake me for being narrow-minded because I have my convictions. Which is to get things all terribly wrong. Convictions are perfectly compatible with open-mindedness. Open-mindedness is merely a willingness to let go of assumptions. It is a willingness to examine something just as a good judge would, without bias, but eventually the verdict must come in. Otherwise, you're an idiot.

I am animal

2005-09-19T23:46:00.000-07:00

Meat. Fucking lots of it. All up on my plate. Cook a cow in his own blood and hand me the proper utensils. I will grub that shit like he just ate my entire family and shat them on my lawn. I eat with savagery. I am animal.

I don't know what to think about animal rights. Animals feel pain, that is for sure. And when I think about it, from a purely secular standpoint, I could be a cow right now. Why am I a human? Beats the shit out of me. I could be a cow. Right now I could have some farmer's crusty ass hands on my dilapidated udder, tuggin on my shit like I'd squirt out tomorrows winning lottery numbers or something. Two days later he'd string my feet up to the pulley and cut my stomach open, letting my entrails spill to the floor as I went "mooooooooooooooo, fuck that hurts".

Animals feel pain man, I tell ya. Okay, chop a chicken's head off and he won't feel the pain, and then I guess its a matter of whether a goddamn chicken has a right to his own life. Not around me, but I still feel like a hipocrit sometimes. Sentience is a pretty morally relevant concept, and a chicken would be more sentient than, lets say, Terry Shiavo, post cardiac arrest of course, so I suppose I could argue that a chicken's life is fundamentally more valuable than a braindead bulemic - notwithstanding the family ties. There are chimps out there smarter than some humans, granted they'd be super retarded humans, but I wonder who's life would be worth more. Seems a bit arbitrary to say human life is always most important, "just because".

And if a chic got pregnant by a dog and had some dog-baby, would that mean the value of her baby's life is worth less than a humans? Like, a 1/4th less or some shit?

It all gets so random sometimes. Cuter animals are worth more, but what about the ugly ones? We eat them. What about fat women? What about those non-symetrical things out there that need out love too? Distinctions, distinctions, distinctions. I just said "distinctions" three times in a row.

But give me a plate full of meat and I will dig on that shit like my name was Harriet Tubman. Cept, when it comes out on the other side, it won't be facing freedom.

Just act as if we never slept with each other.

2005-09-13T00:29:00.000-07:00

This is new and improved. Friction Friction Friction Makes the Babies is back and better than ever. In what ways, you ask? Well, now that my delightful but all too short summer respite has ended, I plan to write more often. I wouldn't wish to render my hands idle lest they become thy servants of Satan. Yes? It feels good to blog like this again, just you and me, my dear reader. Is this not pleasing? Is this not new and improved? Look at how well I write: And somewhere deep in the meadow he paused, as if paralyzed by some incisive intution that somewhere, hidden betwixt the bushes and roiling clouds of fog, there rest a bear, scratching its ballsack against the treebark.

If I hadn't mentioned before, I'm back in school, which I enjoy. My fifth grade teacher used to always say the brain is like a muscle, the more we exercise it, the better it gets. She also smoked alot and had the voice of a hag bag. But there is alot of truth to her statement, if I'm not learning I start to feel stupid and it aggravates me. I mean, how am I supposed to unify the concepts gravity and electromagnetism into one reductive theorem if i'm off getting drunk and shootin jizzbombs into napkins? Something had to change and I'm glad to be back.

Not many cute girls in my classes though. When it comes to figuring a general ratio between, ahem, dateable prospects and discardable ones, school is an depressingly accurate demographic. So much so that I realize, during my people watching rituals, that there are some real ugly, ugly people out there. I mean ugly. Ya know those babies that are so ugly, they're cute? Yeah well these babies were just ugly. Not to sound mean though, we're all ugly in our own separate ways. Just some ways more physical than others.

Mistake me not for being cruel, I for one, need a girl with a good personality. Personality can definately mask certain aesthetic flaws. For instance, make me waffles in the morning, and maybe I'll see past those buck teeth. Make me blueberry waffles, and I might just forgive the enormous bunjie jumping clit. In other words, beauty is both malleable and mutable. Sometimes I'll look at those 14th century paintings with naked chics - their saggy titties and fladooky rolls all hangin around their hips - it never ceases to amaze me how quickly what is considered beautiful can change.

You mean crimped hair back in the 80's got guys sprung? Maybe after a couple lines of coke.

But back to what I was saying, I'm back to routine. Feel free comment on my site as if summer never existed and I never abandoned you guys. We're gonna act normal, like nothing ever happened. K?

Slap all the Katrinas you know.

2005-09-07T01:22:00.000-07:00

First of all, I am not a slacker. I've been feeling incompetant lately, like everything I try to write sucks. I feel lethargic, tired, bloated, unfresh. I need someone I know to die so I can get some inspiration, ya know?

And Katrina. What a slut, she totally fucked all of New Orleans. Did you see Kanye West on that telethon? He said George Bush doesn't care about black people. I'm sure George Bush cares about black people, but not in big groups. It's a funny little phenomena. A couple of black people in the mall is fine. When black people take over the mall, we leave. But I could totally hang in a mall in, lets say, China town or Little Italy. Why are black people so intimidating. Is black a naturally intimidating color?

Either way though I love black people and this Katrina thing has me pissed because I know for a fact that race was an issue. It's definately not the only issue, this isn't strictly a black thing, it's also a poor thing, and an "Oh my fucking God look at all that damage what the fuck are we gonna do?" thing, and a too little police out there patrolling thing. But in the end, aesthetic means so much and these people are black. It would be rather ignorant to say race had nothing to do with anything.

900 Iraqis were stampeded to death and my initial reaction was, "how the fuck do 900 people die in a stampede?!". By all means of reasoning what happened was beyond tragic, but it didn't really strike a chord. It was a reminder that aesthetics and emotion will always be inextricably tied, nothing new, as long as I am human I will make distinctions based on arbitrary grounds. If it happens over there it's not as bad as if it happened over here. And if it happens to black people its not as bad as if it happened to us. Can we escape it?

Firewalking

2005-08-25T00:46:00.000-07:00

So you know how I like to drink alot? I think I should maybe, I dunno I'm just throwing this out there, chill out a bit? I know, it's crazy, I can't believe I just said that. Who are you and what have you done to Greg? Really though, I keep a close monitor on the way I feel, I'm very privy to the delicate balance my body maintains, and lately I've just been fuuucked up. I feel slower. Like there's some ongoing joke out there and I'm the last one to laugh. Okay fuck the bullshit, I'll admit it. I'm getting a beer belly.

But whatever, that's a touchy subject and I don't want to talk about it. Kidding. I just think its slightly torturous to watch my abs and consolidated carbs battle it out on my goddamn belly. Beer may lose a battle but it has never lost a war, ya dig?

I did some firewalking last night. Sounded like a good idea at the time. There were the smoldering hot remnants of a bonfire in front of me and 10 bucks waiting at the end if I could pull it off. It was a small pit, two steps at the max. Sounded like a good idea at the time. 10 bux? Hells yes. I'm drunk. Watch me.

Seen it on TV, this ain't shit.

The moment I put a single foot onto those goddamn embers I yelped like a beaten puppy and jumped onto the sand, pouring beer all over my foot. A vein popped out in my forhead, I shed a tear, the pain was intense. Fire hurts man. I was afraid my foot would look something like cottage cheese. It didn't. Fuckin felt it though.

It didn't occur to me at the time that there's a difference between walking on coals and walking on embers. Embers break open when you step on them, exposing their fiery cores to my precious feet. Coals don't. My foot hurt all night. It's better now though, only first degree burns. I shoulda fucking meditated before I stepped on those embers. I shoulda levitated myself over them or some shit. That would have been more impressive.

I'm still proud of myself though. I think my balls finally dropped last night. Puberty, where have you been all this time? That was some manly shit to do if you ask me. Stupid, but manly. Who wants some dick?

What debate?

2005-08-14T23:33:00.000-07:00

So about the whole evolution versus creationism thing, I just gotta put this out there because I find it funny how people are still arguing over this. Since when did it become a choice to believe in evolution?

That's like someone saying, "Yeah bro, it makes so much more sense that the world is flat. Screw spheres man, I'm not down with spheres. I'm a flat surface man myself. Don't even like big breasts..."

But as always, people will have their agenda and focus only on the missing pieces of the puzzle. Ya have the silly Creationists. Explaining evolution to them is like playing Wheel of Fortune with someone who insists on spelling out the entire word, even if they could have easily guessed it. Point being, sometimes it isn't necessary to have all the details to know what the big picture is. Evolution is the big picture.

I see the sucker everywhere. Even when I close my eyes, I see those little worm thingies evolving, morphing, adapting to their ominous black environment. It's everywhere man. Shut your fucking doors.

I'm not a depressive pessimist so often people want to know why I don't believe in free will. Evolution is one of the reasons why I don't. Not only are we one with the animal kingdom, but evolution applies to the mind as well. Many tend to think in terms of physical evolution, but the mind does what it must do to survive, to be comfortable its environment. Cry, stab, masturbate. I look at humans and see correlations and predictability; as if I were looking at different species of minds. Give us these biological features and this habitat, and what you have in an adapted mind. It becomes harder and harder to blame. Even Micheal Jackson.

The evolution of concepts, the evolution of ourselves, language, music, clouds, my erections, so fourth and so on. It's like a law that things will evolve, like a truth without a premise, it just must be so.

Which brings me to what Maug said earlier today. His quote was,

"...We use our intelligence to observe order...that is what science is all about. Kinda wierd huh? That we use intelligence to note design as a fundamental scientific approach, then say there is no intelligent design?"

On his site he sort of went into how this is not a black and white topic. He suggested there could be intelligent design without God. I disagree though. My response would be that without an intelligent creator there can be no intelligent design, just design. Why not call it good design? Lucky design? It seems like nothing but semantics to claim Intelligent Design when there is no intelligence in the design other than the appearance of being so, and appearance certainly isn't merit for the title. The Blind Watchmaker, right?

But I digress.

It's funny. There are millions of people out there who refuse to bite the bullet and believe we came from apes. As if that were tough to swallow. Imagine their disbelief if faced with an even more fascinating truth - we evolved from stardust. The very atoms that make up the molecules that make up the cells that make up the organs that make up our bodies were forged in the violent furnaces of stars, billions of years ago. Our bodies are as old as the universe. Somehow shit just worked out. It's a beautiful thing.

This harmony was a long time in the making.

My car got keyed.

2005-08-09T23:26:00.000-07:00

Someone keyed my car. Someone keyed my fucking car! My poor 95 explorer has been keyed. On the drivers side is a gigantic scribble, and written all big on my passenger door is PUAB, whatever the fuck that means.

I don't think this dude realized what I'm capable of doing when I get angry. I'm very coolheaded, but because I'm so coolheaded, it takes alot to make me snap, meaning that when I finally do, I SNAP.

I know who did it too. I was heading to my night class at SMC and I found a narrow spot between an X5 and a beat up Toyota, so I park there. The driver was still in the X5, talking on his phone. Some ugly Persian motherfucker who I hated as soon as I laid eyes on. I get out of the car making sure not to his gay X5 that mommy must have bought and I reach to the passenger side to grab my backpack, but as I sling it over my shoulder, the little plastic clasp-on things at the end swing back and tap his car. Not hard or anything, they certainly didn't scratch it. The just made a tapping sound.

3 hours later I come back and my car is fully keyed. Words can't even describe how badly I want to knock this guy's teeth out, and I will if I see him. The problem is that memory is mutable and I can never be sure I am knocking the right guy's teeth out. And even if i see the guy coming out of the X5 and I'm justifiably certain, I can never know 100% it was him that keyed my car. So alas nothing will be done and that frustrates me to kill.

But whatever, there is nothing I can do but let go and move on. I just hate the thought of driving around with a keyed up car. People are gonna look at me and think I'm a scumbag, and assume I did something to deserve getting keyed. When I'm just a loveable human being. Shit, I'm so loveable if a grizzly bear saw me in the woods he'd just want to cuddle. Fuck the haters man... Fuck the haters.

The Conversation

2005-08-04T23:14:00.000-07:00

I used to be one of those people who never had anything to talk about. Conversation wasn't exactly what I'd call a free flowing river. More like trying to pee with herpes. In the dark. Not that I'm a social dunce, I'm just a bit "spacey" as one might point out, and I'm constantly surrenduring my attention to shit like fat pigeons, or anything for that matter. So I set out on a journey to figure the essence of stimulating conversation, so I could make like an existentialist pigeon and fly, fly past the elements.

I think my first realization was that I needed to pay attention, but at the same time I couldn't come off as being too "aware". It's hard to seem cool when you're too aware of what you're doing. That's the opposite of being natural, instinctual, a sex machine. Asian drivers blow double-fold because since they can't drive, they become extra conscious of the fact that they are driving, to the point where become uptight and suck even more. The best drivers act as if they're half-asleep. Shutting off my mind is one of the best things I can do when talking to someone.

And I figure that most of conversation is based on selfishness. As in, the conversation is great until someone else starts talking. It's okay to admit it. You love the sound of your own voice, even if you don't actually like sound of your voice. Unless you mean to say you truly care about what - lets name him Bob - has to say over by the water cooler.

Bob: Yeah I went to Home Depot the other day. Got some new patio furnature.
Me: Got new patio furniture you say? How about I stab you in the fucking face?

It's sort of an overgeneralized rule - people want to talk about the sort of things they think about. Sports, music, politics, what cream is good for curing vaginal dryness. But Bob here is talkin about goddamn patio furniture. So listen folks, (not that you'd ever do this) while it may be tempting to talk about how you did not one, but TWO loads of laundry on Sunday, or how you bought new place mats from IKEA, don't make already inattentive saps like me have to brainstorm potential replies to your nitwitted statements about your life which I already care nothing about. Besides, everybody knows I have a fake smile and know how to use it. This branch of conversation evolved backwards.

Ya gotta move forward. But it's funny because sometimes I'll evesdrop on other people and listen as two more or less freshly introduced people talk. You can tell they're not fully comfortable, and there is a sense of self-awareness to their actions that creates an awkwardness that neither of them try to show. And they'd be talking about things like, why they wish cars could fly because traffic sucks. But they're really just trying to get to know each other, so why the hell are they talking about flying cars? Their conversation isn't moving, it's caught in the doldrums.

They missed each other's clue-ins. My over-generalized rule was that people talk about the things they think about, but then there are the things they think about, but know better than to bring up. I love psychology but I’m not going up to people like, “So… howabout that neo cortex?”. Instead, I'll drop suttle clues, words that hint at my inner passions, hoping that the other person will notice them and follow. We all do this, usually unwittingly. I'll casually say something like, “I wanna spank Freud in the ass”. I’ll get a twinkle in my eyes and that's someone's cue to entertain my inklings. Point being, we're beat-around-the-bushers and sometimes it takes a bit of attention and intuition to sniff out our eager ideas from the occasionally uninspired drone of small talk.

Because small talk isn't all bad. There's so much going on during small talk, way more than the name implies. It a common thought that during any conversation runs a discreet, often unnoticed internal dialogue that runs parallel to everything you say. It is that voice of your inner self and he would like to represent you but it's hard. He's often afraid. Two strangers talking about nothing is a way for their internal voices to say, "what can I talk about with you, how comfortable can I be?" They're just trying to figure a way to share their inner world.

But there will always be a gap between any two people. And within every individual him or herself lay a similar disconnect, from what is a true representation to what is represented. The truth about communication is, there will always be a certain disconnect. Sometimes it even seems as if we're merely talking to each other's shadows, because nothing is more true and pure than our inner voice, yet nothing is more deceiving than human communication. It seems as if our best bonds are formed when our internal voices align and speak to each other, without our ever knowing. And that's nothing spiritual, metaphysical or poetic, it's simply true.

Sometimes we're like that dumb kid sitting in a class who understands nothing written on the board, yet is utterly fascinated by the concept of chalk and erasers. We find meaning in the medium, not always in the details. They say God is in the details, but I never knew what that meant. A flower may be made of atoms but at the end of the day, it's still a flower. Right?

I want a dog

2005-07-30T13:12:00.000-07:00

That's it. I want a fucking puppy. I need a little puppy that can share with me in my lonliness. And I want one that looks like he's sad all the time. This is very crucial. I don't know what it is about sadness but girls are hot when they cry and puppies are friggin adorable when they look sad. Fucking adorable. Like two babies hugging. Or Jonbenet Ramsey. But of course he'd be a happy dog. He wouldn't actually be sad, he'd just look sad because his face would be kinda chubby ya know? So he'd be like some old guy at IHOP who looks like he's frowning but he's not, he's just reading the paper but his cheekfat pulls the sides of his lips down.

I'd feed him Pedigree, only the best, and if he was really good I'd give him a strip or two of bacon. Don't worry I'd cook it first. You fucking germ-o-phobe.

My dad doesn't want me getting a dog though. He says all I'll wanna do is play with it but when it comes to cleaning up shit n piss I'll disown it. He's right. Fuckin a man. They invented seedless watermelons but they still can't invent a dog that doesn't shit and piss. Worthless peons.

Dickshunary. Get it? Cuz it's suppose to be dictionary but i spelled it... fuckoff

2005-07-27T00:09:00.000-07:00

I've been coming up with these new terms lately. Trying to at least. Lots of them suck but I figure if I keep trying at least one of them will stick and become part of everybody in the continental USA's vernacular. Today I described a beautiful woman as being "edible". That one sucks, gah I suck at this game. That one was more for me though, I've been caught up in this whole fruit/women phase.

I want to be quoted because I may die tomorrow. This is a fact. Yeah you may be living right now but at any given time you may die, and that's just a cold hard fact of life and no heater of yours will ever make it warmer. Have you contemplated your mortality motherfucker?

My way of staring death in the face is to be quoted. Maybe I'll contribute a single word to our vernacular, maybe an etire phrase. I'm hoping on an entire quote, one that is simple in phrasing but large in concept, like a fat woman with a skinny soul. I haven't really thought of anything yet. I have some pretty simple ones like "eat a dick" or "shut your fucking face you king-sized cunt" but those are a bit low-brow in comparison to what I'm shooting for.

Yet I believe that nobody can ever "shoot" for being quoted. Ya can't just go out searching for profundity, it is not a hooker, it does not beckon at a moment's whim; rather it comes with the territory. I personally feel that our most creative moments or glorious insights are sparked, brought fourth on the back of a moment's feather. They are not insipidly contrived like the mad scientist to the Frankenstein, against the grain of nature's flow. Fuck that shit.

I thought of a word to describe when I'm feeling horny. Now, whenever I'm feeling horny as shit I say I'm "puppied" up. I find it fitting because it's a "cuter" way of saying I'm horny, yet at the same time I am nothing more than a hump-happy dog, minus the red dick, so the word is really killing two pigeons with one bbgun. The word is yours though, you can have it. Load it up in your opium pipe and smoke it, dream on it, I don't care.

I have a few more I could give you guys but to be honest, I'd rather go masturbate. No really. I'm gonna go masturbate.

Sex is in the air.

2005-07-20T19:36:00.000-07:00

I love women. Women women women. Oh god, you women and your beautiful, well-moisturized muffs. I would... I would eat you girls alive if that expression didn't turn out to be so damn disgusting if actually tried. You're all like delicious plums. Delicious, juicy, plums... all of you. I want to be the one to remove your little stickers.

Where is this talk of women suddenly coming from? And aren't I supposed to be gay? I don't know, and I don't know, I"m just puppied up and horny as shit after reading Sex's blog and I need to express myself. Usually on this blog I keep the sex talk to a minumum because 1) I am about as emblematic of sex as the Pope and therefore 2) I stick to my area of expertise. I could tell you all about masturbation though.

When I was at Fullerton College I shared a bathroom with 2 other dudes. Both were fairly hairy and looked like chronic masturbaters. I can just tell. To make a long story short, the shower drain was clogged after a mere two weeks. What's worse than an amalgamation of hair and semen for shower drains? A stop plug. That's about it..

Masturbation was my first sexual experience ever. I started off pretty young, second grade to be exact. I'm not embarrased, as a matter of fact, I am going to give my kids pornography around the age of 13 and turn a blind eye to what they do with it. For every minute they lock themselves inside the bathroom, I'll have the security of knowing they're not out there impregnating women. Granted, my bloodline has some pretty good seed to spread but paying child support just isn't worth it man, it just ain't worth it.

And I know what you're thinking ladies. You're thinking, "Oh Greg, you poor little chronic masturbator, pity-fucking poor young chronic masturbators is my exact specialty". Okay, I might just let you have me. Will you cook me breakfast? Look, if you don't cook me breakfast it's a no go. I'm very peculiar about these sort of thing.

I prefer corn beef hash over sausage. Thanks sunshine. Oh that reminds me, eggs sunny side up yeah?

Oh god please someone hold me.

On the nature of freaks and bums.

2005-07-12T23:08:00.000-07:00

The world is a crazy place.

Correction: People inhabiting the world are crazy, the world itself isn't actually crazy

Correction: There should be a period after "crazy".

I say this because I went to Venice beach on Sunday. For those of you who are unaware, venice beach is to freaks as West Hollywood is to homosexuals. Which is to say, it is their natural environment. The freaks are left alone to roam, smoke pot, drink beer, play with themselves - one guy walks around begging for change to help him "get drunk" - and this is all appreciated behavior. Anything else would be civilized.

Oh fuck me I did not just seriously use a play on words. Just keep going Greg, keep going.

There was this one guy who looked like he was shipped in straight from Kenya. Skinny as bones, dressed up in imitation leopard loins and holding a plastic spear. There was a sign in front of him that read I AM A BUSHMAN. Occasionally he'd hop up and down and yell, "I can only do what I am, I am a bushman!". To which another bum/freak holding a beer in his hand responded, "How can you be a bushman if there aren't any bushes? You're at the beach man, you're dillusional". But the harsh words bounced off the bushman's impervious skin.

This is the kind of shit I live for. I love watching people who's brains aren't quite up to par. When the lights are on but nobody's home. Love it. Especially when it comes to bums. Bums have a special way of adapting to life - it's called insanity and its fun for the whole family.

Westwood has some good bums but they can sometimes be obnoxious. Inversely, they can also be downright friendly and hospitable. One time a bum came up to me and a friend for a cigarette. Conversation followed and we naturally drifted on to the topic of hookers and crack. The bum - what a champ he was - insisted that we come back to his alley and, being that he claimed to have a well-imbedded repoire with the local prostitutes, assured me that I could take a stab at any one of his usual gals, on the house. Then he asked me for five dollars on a pack of cigarettes.

I didn't give him any money but I almost always do spare whatever I can to bums because they need it. Although there was one time at the promenade where I realized my purpose for giving money to bums was purely selfish. I was with a chick (titties yay girls!) who felt particularly sorry for this blind lady in a wheelchair holding an offering's cup. I felt bad for this poor old sap as well. My allowance was fresh so I pulled out a whopping two dollars and placed it in the lady's foam cup. But she was blind. She had no idea a loving transaction had just occured. There was no thank you, no acknowledgement, nothing.

So why the fuck bother, right? I took my two dollars back out of the cup and bought a pretzel with it. Purely selfish, I tell ya.

I'm not jealous.

2005-07-11T21:36:00.000-07:00

There is this girl in my counseling class who is always happy. She's, ya know, one of those type. Always walking around with a big smile on her face, always laughing and joking, filled with the vibrancy of life. I want to murder her and stick her in the back of my trunk. Okay I'm just kidding, I don't have a trunk, I drive an SUV.

My point still stands. I don't hate Richard Simmons because he's gay, I hate him because he's happy. Too happy. And his curly hair looks like you could build a bird's nest in it. He's an unfashionable happy peppy fuck.

But who can put their finger on precisely what it is that wakens my urge to kill when confronted by these type. Maybe with this particular girl, it's that she has no reason to be that happy. She's not hot, she obviously ate one too many burrito, and unlike the luckier ones, her personality does not make up for her unequivocal lack of aesthetic. She is like my metaphorical Shaqueeta - fat, black and proud; what a faith based emotion.

But if she had every reason to be happy I'd hate her even more. I just hate happiness and pep mixed together for long periods of time. Happiness and pep are good in small doses, sort of like malt-o-meal or oatmeal with a bit of cinnamon in it, but after a while you just get fucking sick of it. Now bacon, that is something I could never get sick of. I could eat bacon night and day. Bacon is like mellow people. Always good to have around. I could even eat bacon with ice cream, yeah... fuck yeah.

You'd think depressive saps would be the scum of the earth but no, it is the exact opposite. Depressive saps are bad, but they're already too busy trying to kill themselves to make me want to complete the process. Instead, these happy peppy people feel the need to rub their high seretonin levels in my face. I want to burn down their houses to see them cry. This isn't jealousy talking, it's my sense of humanity.

I just want to show them pictures of starving kids in Somolia. And be like, "Listen to me you happy fuck. Everytime you laugh, a child will die of starvation." That'll get them.

Starflyer

2005-07-08T00:22:00.000-07:00

Today I went to the beach and read a book. Not something I'm usually prone to do but I've been feeling a bit... free spirited as of late. And reading books on the beach is fucking wild. So I sat there reading my piece of non-fiction and proceeded to have my mind somewhat blown. And it was nice. I read about the universe and the issues with infinity, the problems of correlating math to natural existance, Zeno's paradox*, among many other things.

I wanted to tell someone about the things I was learning. These things that most people wouldn't necessarily think about or hear about in everyday life, but would be fascinated with nonetheless. About the history of Einstein, his simple blunders despite his legendary brilliance, Cantor and his obsession with figuring out infinity, how some infinities are bigger than others, how Newton may have been a closet homo; but who the hell wants to hear it? Although the thought of an apple chomping homo is of natural interest, there's a time and a place for that sort of talk.

I'm not playing the victim here though. As if I were lonely. I'm a sex magnet, ya see.

But I do sometimes feel isolated. Isolated by my own ideas. Everybody feels this isolation in some form or another. We see the world a certain way and we just can't convey it to those who adamantly oppose us, or fail to put it in words moving enough to shift the tides of emotion, and likewise whatever thoughts are glued down by such overstrung convictions. It is entirely disconcerting to know that, despite our seeing certain things with undeniable clarity, others won't understand, won't want to understand, or can't. That is isolation.

It makes me think of times when I'll have a revelation, one that is profound. Something that was never known to me before that is suddenly made known, and it trickles it's way into my viewing of the world, and stays with me for days to come. I'll dwell on it until I've wrung the idea for all it has to offer, until the oxygen is gone and the fire goes out, and suddenly it is no longer profound. It's emotional impact is lost as it becomes accepted; a stepping stone to higher knowledge. It has integrated itself into my web of beliefs so seamlessly that I merely accept it as one of the things I now know to be true. What was once profound is now common sense. Imagine that. Imagine that...

I wonder what Einstein felt like when Special Relativity became his common sense idea. Isolation, probably. Sure he had his colleagues, but what I guess I'm getting at is... for chrissakes, find someone to share your world with. This message brought to you by It's 4:08 in the Morning and I"m Calling it a Goddamn Night.

_______

* (Zeno's paradox went as follows: Just as there is an infinite amount of decimals between two numbers, there is an infinite amount of points between two spaces, even if only the width of a hair - infinately large works in reverse as well - so then, as we walk we are actually crossing an infinite number of points, so we must be moving infinitely fast. How is it that we're not, yet moving nonetheless? The answer probably lies in the fact that matter equates to nondivisble quantum particles in its most minute form, so in particles, infinity does not exist. Interesting paradox nonetheless)

Wacko Jacko is no Longer Blacko

2005-06-29T23:05:00.000-07:00

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?

Digressing...

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!

Can't Touch This (Doodoodadoomp)

2005-06-27T17:26:00.000-07:00

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.

Hello once again Children.

2005-06-23T22:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Stupid ass crazy motherfuckers!

2005-06-19T02:08:00.000-07:00

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"

Source

***

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.

I don't think i'm qualified

2005-06-17T00:11:00.000-07:00

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..

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

2005-06-14T01:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Beachball Spiderweb

2005-06-12T14:26:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-06-12T12:28:00.000-07:00

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.

No more school.

2005-06-10T01:57:00.000-07:00

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!

Rhymes with Prad Bitt

2005-06-07T23:03:00.000-07:00

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.

That's not my forte

2005-06-06T18:18:00.000-07:00

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...

On the nature of limpness

2005-06-05T13:34:00.000-07:00

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.

This is it. Homosexuality.

2005-06-02T21:41:00.000-07:00

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?

Look he's using the F word

2005-06-01T16:42:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-01T00:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Tengo Tired.

2005-05-30T21:43:00.000-07:00

I'm so excited right now. I checked my e-mail and I just found out I'm eligible for a free Dell PC. Also, TheSportStore@cooperativestudios.net sent me an e-mail notifying me about a potential 500 dollar shopping spree at my nearest Foot Locker. Mariah just sent me an e-mail saying she heard from her friend Stephanie that I was a cutie and wanted to strip for me on her webcam.

I'm not making this up people!

If you haven't figured already, that's fucking sarcasm. I don't understand what these spam mail geniuses are thinking. People kind of have this tendancy to not buy or look into products being sold by people they hate. And last time I checked I wasn't e-mailing these jackasses back saying, "Hey thanks for the heads up. I love Foot Locker".

Horrible strategy. Fuck spam mail.

Speaking about advertising, I went to Fox Hills Mall today to take advantage of these ONE DAY ONLY!!! memorial day sales. I needed a new pair of swimtrunks. Now Fox Hills Mall is one of those malls I used to go to as a child, and I have fond memories of the stores there. There was the Misses Field's cookies and Orange Juliuses, the KB Toy Store and that pet shop with the cute little bunny rabbits in the window. Then the black people came and took the mall over, pushing us white folks north.

So looking around in Macy's for trunks I could not believe they only had two of them in the entire store. Then it hit me - black people don't goto the beach. Macy had their demographic down, and stocked accordingly.

Nobody even know what the fuck I was talking about when I asked where the board shorts were. And I had a frightening conversation with a gay guy at the perfume counter.

"Excuse me sir, where do you carry board shorts?"

"Board shorts?"

"Yeah um, like swimwear"

"Are you looking for the latest bikini tops?" (Cups his man tits with his hands and gives me a "fresh" smile)

Hit on by another homosexual-wishing-I-were-gay. Yeah I know I should be flattered but really the line must be drawn somewhere. I don't take it personally every time a dog decides to hump my leg instead of the next man's. The issue is however, I don't want my leg being humped by non-females, its just that simple.

It's gotta be the tan.

My answer

2005-05-26T23:59:00.000-07:00

After posting my last entry, it occured to me that there's just been too much penis on this site lately. Not that anyone would ever get tired of penis, but I like to be diverse, and it seems that the only diversity this site has experienced is the diversity of different penises, with a post about music in the middle. So you may read my last post about bum penis if you'd like, it's short, slightly comical, and will serve you well if you haven't gotten your fill of penis for today...

Otherwise I have come up with the answer to the question I posed a few days ago. Would you rather be smoking hot or genius? My answer: smoking hot.

Sex kind of helped me figure this out with her most recent, thoughtful post. I figure that if money were the quintessential end and genius or beauty were the means, they're both suitable ways to acheive it. If I were beautiful I could model, not only that but beautiful people in general are more likely to be favored in the job market, or if all else fails i can marry a rich woman. If I were a genius, well, I don't have to say much there as far as money goes... So money isn't a problem either way.

If happiness were the end, as I believe it is, then I suppose neither beauty nor brilliance garauntees it. Wisdom and prudence, ya know all that buddha shit, are paths to happiness in my book. Neither are garaunteed by general intelligence, as they are intelligences in themselves - smart people commit suicide, case and point. Beauty does not garauntee happiness either as it's pretty stupid to think someone telling me, "you're hot" will make me one self-actualized motherfucker.

But "you're hot" does make me feel pretty damn pimp. And what about when the genius gets told, "you're smart"? They're a fucking genius, they'd probably be sitting there thinking, "yeah I know, i'm a fucking genius. If you only knew the half of it bitch, but in the end these brains aren't gonna make you wanna give me head so get out of my sight". And it's that whole prisoner of their own brain thing I'm weary about.

If i saw the world on some completely different level, and thought about crevaces of life that people didn't even know existed, what fun is that without anybody to share it with? Nobody would understand wtf you're talking about. That's some prison shit, especially considering how most geniuses are literally incapable of or averse to thinking about the simple things, or chattin it up with small talk. Sure there are other geniuses to exchange information with. But they're no fucking party.

And most people look up to geniuses and think, "oh that must be so fascinating to be in their brain". Well yeah if you were taking a fucking tour. Otherwise the genius knows one thing - how it is to be a genius, and from their perspective its all rather ordinary. And as they say, it takes one to know one, so the only people who would recognize your true genius is another genius, but you'd most likely be in competition with him so he's not there to suck your dick and buff your ego, he's trying to outsmart you.

I saw screw all the competition. Just make me hot, keep it simple, and fathers, bring me your daughters.

Oh the horror.

2005-05-26T19:57:00.000-07:00

Things done/seen in the last two days.

1. Started up my sideproject blog.

2. Saw a bum with his penis dangling out of his pants.

3. Sped past a cop going 60 in a 35 zone. He didn't even bother to turn around and pull me over.

As you can tell my life is very simple and void of excitement - if these are highlights. With the exception of number 2, I suppose? Here let me expand on that one.

I was driving home from school and off on the sidewalk I see a bum doing what looked like football jukes at a tree. I suppose the tree really was trying to tackle him, who am I to assume. Regardless, I'm driving closer to him and he's still juking the tree with these sort of jazz hands waving about in front of him, ya know, trying to distract it. But as I pass parallel to him i notice a skin toned third entity, a long snout looking object, that just so happened to be hanging where his penis should be. Me being the intelligent individual I am deduced that this may actually be his penis hanging out of his pants and gave a quick turn of the head to see if this were true. Then I shouted, "Holy shit that dude's dick is hanging out!"

It was very long and hopefully the cleanest part of his body. Wretched bum those inches are going to waste, give them to me!

"Dude let me have it"

"No man its mine"

"Dude but you're a bum all you do is masturbate"

"So man, its mine and I don't want yours"

"I'll let you keep your testicles"

"What part of no don't you understand? Now go away this tree is trying to tackle me"

Can you feel my mojo?

2005-05-24T23:37:00.000-07:00

So as some of you may know my internet was fucked for a rough total of 1 1/2 days - just long enough to allow me to realize how pathetic I am. I am Whitney Housten and this here internet is Bobby Brown. Co-dependant, if you hadn't caught that already. Possibly a crackhead, if this bullshit keeps up. But most likely I'll leave the torch and the crackpipe alone, cuz I fixed the muhfucker myself and it ain't about to break.

Well I exchanged the modem. Wasn't that hard. Regardless, I fixed the fuck out of this thing.

Say it with me though, a big fuck you to Comcast troubleshooting hotline. I don't care if they're 24/7, the dude on the phone was stuttering at me like my deep brassy voice made him nervous, and at every turn he'd pass the buck to me as if it were MY fault my internet wasn't working.

HIM: Uuum I suggest you run Norton Utilities it sounds like you h-h-have a virus
ME: But my computers are networked and they're both being affected, how would a virus on one computer affect both?
HIM: Well, v-v-viruses have the tendancy to be very potent.
(Potent? We're not talking about my farts here buddy)
ME: Okay I'll run Norton.

So I ran Norton on both my dad's computer and mine. I personally came up with 5 at risk files, my dad came up with SIXTY-FIVE! And I thought I downloaded alot of porn from shady websites. But in case you are wondering, no it doesn't disturb me to think of my dad downloading loads of filthy, slutty, hardcore bucking pornography. We're all adults here. My parents having sex on the other hand. Fuck it hurts just to type.

But they don't do it anymore. Never did, never will. Before you ask - I was bred in a petri dish, duuuh.

I one the other hand, will fuck my wife every night when I"m older, and I don't care if my baby, child, adolescent, young adult, college borne children hear. Fucking is a natural part of life, and I'll be damned if me and my future wife, A.K.A Natalie Portman, act as if we have something to hide. Apes aren't afraid of fucking in the vacinity of their children, and lest we forget out roots....?

But I'll try to keep the whole, "Oh my fucking lord i'm gonna cum all over your titties" to a suitable volume. At least until they're in high school. I'm no psychologist but I figure its best for all. Right?

pretty stupid

2005-05-23T23:49:00.000-07:00

If you had a choice to either be a genius, or utterly beautiful, what would it be? Me, I'm sorta torn on this question and of course, I need more details. So for the sake of simplicity I'll whittle it down - if you were a genius you'd be of moderate looks and if you were utterly beautiful you'd be able to add, subtract, read, all that, probably a bit more but its not like any of that matters you beautiful motherfuck I'll smash your fucking face in. So what would it be?

Ever since I was little I wanted to be beautiful. I remember being young and always wearing my mom's makeup, her stalkings, her high heels - I just wanted to be beautiful, and it wasn't until my mother informed me I was heading down the wrong path that I decided to change my ways. I'll always remember that concerned look on her face when I walked into the kitchen that one night. She wiped her brow as she told me about teams, batting, the correct way to swing. I wondered why she was so worried about baseball. She finally told me she wanted her things back, so I took off my panty hose, gave her back her mascera and never wore them again.

Instead I resolved to become better at little league baseball by knocking balls at the batting cages and correcting my swing.

But the longings never ceased...

I recall watching Beakman's World and Bill Nye the Science guy, secure with my looks but now insecure with my knowledge. I wanted to be smarter, a well of knowledge, like Bruce Willis in Die Hard who always just knew what to do, or Dustin Hoffman in Rainman but without the speech impediment. I wanted to be brilliant. I started reading books, or at least attempting to, only to realize that after a couple of minutes I was no longer comprehending what I was reading. I'd read the same sentence over and over and over, and if I overcame that sentence I'd soon be tripped up by another. Frustrated, I concluded I was an idiot and gave up reading all together.

(True story, so Sex, this is why I can't do your book survey, because to be quite honest I've never finished a book in my entire life. I recall reading parts of Catcher In the Rye and The Great Gatsby for high school though, boy that Ryan Caufield, what a fucking psycho eh? Where do all the fish go, grrr I wanna murder them all! What a cuck (c-oo-k), huh???)

I later realized that being dumb required a bit more than slow comprehension skills, and I still had a chance. Delighted, I became extremely pretentious and suffered from occasional illusions of grandeur. I was also hella high and self-assured that my thoughts were better than everybody else's - but aren't we all? Just nod.

Now I'm all fucking scared of the idea of offending someone's intelligence by telling them something they may already know, to the point where communication sometimes seems pointless to me unless some sort of new information is being relayed, and when the fuck does that happen? Where the fuck is this post going, hold on...

(Artificial segway)

In conclusion, what would you rather be. Genius or smoking hot?

Blog Homework

2005-05-22T20:41:00.000-07:00

Amber passed me a baton so I'm obliged to answer five questions about music. But I suppose, since I try to avoid this topic at all costs, I'll take this opportunity expose myself for what I truly am - a pirate and a music fanatic. Yes, screw you reader, I am no longer sparing you. Me and Music have been going steady for a good long while, and I'm gonna talk about us.

First things first, it's time for a lesson in the history of mp3s, from my point of view. I hopped onto the mp3 scene a good 3 years before it really started getting attention, back in 7th grade, before Little Dick Lars started crying about Napster. Back then the trade was mainly for kids who knew how to work IRC, which stands for Internet Relay Chat. Basically you'd go into IRC chatrooms - turned file sharing havens - and download music off scripted personas called "bots". There was no search engine, the selection wasn't all that great, it wasn't user friendly at all, and if you needed help nobody gave a shit because they were too busy being "leet" to bother with helping "noobs".

Around this time the mp3 scene actually started to become organized. Not too unlike the software pirates, mp3 groups started to form, ripping quality mp3 albums, tagging them with their group name, and ensuring the shit got around. Which is why you may sometimes see something like this "50_Cent-The_Massacre-2005-RNS". Whenever an album leaks before its store date, 99 percent of the time these groups on IRC are responsible. I was actually part of one of these groups freshman through junior year, and as a result I had access to hundreds of albums released on any given day by all the various groups on the IRC network. Those were the days...

My claim to fame on the piracy network was when I released Linkin Park's first album, Hybrid Theory, weeks before it came out in stores. Pre-releases are golden on the mp3 scene, I got plenty of perks and nerd props for that one. In total I released 35 albums and eps. Go me.

Napster of course popularized the fruits and labor of this "hidden" piracy network, and about 2 year ago the FBI had enough information to make a huge bust on the mp3 piracy scene, arresting the most well known distributors and crippling the main channels. But IRC is public domain so it wasn't hard for the groups to scatter and find new channels, new passwords, and new servers. I left after the first major bust because I figured I didn't want anybody showing up at my door and jacking my hard drive.

As far as being a music fanatic goes, I have roughly 170 gigs of music on my computer right now. Fucking buttnuggets, I gotta throw away albums everyday in order to download new ones, I'm down to 200 megs of space on a 210 gig harddrive. I'm a pirate, I don't buy music at all unless I"m at an indie store. The last cd I bought was Yield by Pearl Jam, because I had a gift certificate.

03. Song playing right now:

Constantines - Young Lions

04. Five songs I listen to a lot or that mean a lot to me(in no particular order):

1. Jeff Buckley - Grace (At the end he holds a note longer than I though humanly possible while his band goes nuts, it just kills me everytime)

2. Radiohead - Street Spirit (It just sounds like one of those divine songs that wrote itself)

3. Interpol - Untitled (I love arpeggios and these guys really know how to show restraint in their song writing)

4. Smog - I Feel Like the Mother of the World (He tackles the subject of religious violence, especially in the Middle East, says so much in so little words "Oh do I feel like the mother of the world with two children fighting".)

5. The Beach Boys - Wouldn't it be Nice (Just one of the greatest songs ever composed, even though I love The Beatles more)

6. Elliot Smith - Alameda (Forgot about this one. Just... Listen.)

05. Which 5 people are you passing this baton to, and why?

I'm holding on to this one, unless someone wants it?

Wet

2005-05-18T22:57:00.000-07:00

Right now I got my hair down all shaggy covering my eyes, and I'm taking shots of Hansen's Natural Mandarin Lime flavored soda. I'm pretending ths soda is alcohol and that I'm washing my pain away. I even wince after every shot. Because of the carbonation though. Then I slam my cup down and pour another shot from my can, while I look despondantly at my computer screen. I just let out a long sigh right now. I'm drinking my pain away people.

What pain, you motherfucking ask? I had to wake up at 7, after going to bed at 3 the night before. That's like um... 4 hours of sleep. Then I had to write five pages of pure utter crap on the Aztec Indians, as if I didn't fucking learn about them in 5th grade, goto school, then tutor. That's like 3 things to do in one day, each of them clawing and taking chunks off of Greg's energy meter. Okay, I understand that some of you out there are moms and in one day you do ten times the work I just did. Here's a goddamn cookie. I'm spent people.

If you all haven't caught on, this is my attempt at a post with nothing to say, in hopes that it turns you all on. Is it turning you on? Are you "wet", as they say? I'll keep going.

Maybe I should stop directing my posts towards women and write for guys. What's up fellas? Beer. Cars. Tools. I'm scratching my balls right now. Fuck. Shit. Testosterone. What a delicious piece of ass. If you could only see the motherfucking titties on her. I'd fucking fuck the fucking shit out of her - okay I think I suck at this guy talk.

I've never been a guy talker, I have bros and shit, but I"m definately not a guy talker. I could talk about pornography and various porn stars for days, that's about it. Tawny Roberts, Taylor Rain, Monica Sweetheart, Amber Lynn, uum who else. AHAHAHA, just playing Amber, but I'm sure i'm not the first to tell you - you have a beautiful porn star name. I'd sell the rights to it on ebay, I'm sure an up and cummer would love to buy it.

HI my name is Greg this is my ramble albiet one with a point and highly entertaining as per usual

2005-05-17T19:15:00.000-07:00

The porn industry needs me (as a director, not an actor, I'm asian remember?), but they don't know it yet. See, I'm a revolutionary. I have what some would call the midas touch - I turn shit to gold. And I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "Greg you touch shit?". But if you're gonna bust my fucking balls about it then I guess no shit ornament for you. The porn industry needs me because they are an industry with no vision, infamously rehashing tried and true methods simply because the business is so lucrative in the first place, why risk anything?

What we're stuck with then, is the same old porno, over and over again. The same old:

"Oh no, the pizza man is here yet I have just stepped out of the shower. Let me go answer it in my towel".

"Hi ma'am, I have your pizza".

"Oh no pizza boy, you forgot my sausage".

"No ma'am I didn't forget your sausage. It's right here".

Sometimes pornos get so corny there's chunks of it left in my stool. Am I the only guy left on this planet that demands realism? Or maybe I'm just one of those fucking high-brows. All I know is, everytime I watch a porno I can't help to think, "Damn I could do better". And it tantalizes me to think of what'd it be like to jerk off to my own pornography. Me spanking it to my own realized vision. It would be a beautiful moment followed by an even more beautiful feeling. Followed by a mess.

I'd go on about the various aspects of my pornographic vision, and how I'd create the perfect porno, but I don't feel like it. I'm just trying to figure how to make some damn money. I suck with business and finances, I'm dyslexic when it comes to numbers, I'm slow to comprehend words, I have the attention span of a shit flinging monkey, yet everytime I hear people talk I can't help to think of how stupid everybody is in comparison to me. Okay that came off as being horribly pretentious, I should show some classy humility. Oooh noo look at me I'm so young and have so much to learn, all I know is I know nothing, please someone teach me something, blah blah blah...

Although occasionally I'll pick up a book on astrophysics, just to know what it feels like to be stupid. Then I tell myself it's the astrophysicists that are stupid because they don't know how to make the perfect porno. Then I tell myself I should stop reading on astrophysics because this is probably why I don't have a girlfriend.

Most women don't want a smart guy, they'll act like they do. Yet statistically speaking, guys who have the hardest time finding a girlfriend are either smart or gay. I stole that concept from a quote I read somewhere. It's true though. So in an attempt to flirt I've been trying to get in touch with my idiot side. Like the other day I was talking to this girl, and all the sudden I was like, "Oh my gosh look at that pwetty pigeon. AHAHA HEY PWETTY PIGEUN, AWAHAHA!!". She took me behind the bushes and gave me a blowjob on the spot.

Oingo Boingo anyone?

2005-05-15T21:07:00.000-07:00

I'm such a dumbass, I wore brand new white shoes to a concert on Saturday. I know - there's alot of feet at concerts, I'm not a dumbass. I wanted to go out afterwards so I dressed nice, figuring I'd preserve my freshness by standing with the other inanimate hipsters in the back. Besides it was a free ticket for Taking Back Sunday and Jimmy Eat World - catchy bands but I'm too pretentious to take that music serious enough to get my bounce on.

But the energy just got to me yo. I couldn't help myself. Next thing I know I'm on the bars with my hands up screaming, "JIIIMMY I WANT YOUR BABIES" like a fucking 14 year old. I had the stank of a million bodies soaked into my shirt, the mark of a billion soles stamped onto my shoes, and crowd surfing turds kept landing on my head like their entire M.O was to fuck up my hair. I sweat all the gel out of my hair too so I couldn't fix it back into place. My hair was unfixable. My entire being was unfixable. I was a wreck. A wreck I tell you! Marsha Marsha Marsha!!! Afterwards I stood looking at myself in the mirror and cried, then I started slitting my wrists.

So I called it a night a bit early. No drinky poo for me. I had other peoples sweat on my own goddamn body. That's just repugnant to me. I showered, washed in between my balls and my ass real good, and slept like a baby. It was still a very good night. Just a bit pissed about the shoes. I'll clean them but I know some permanent damage has been done. Marsha...

And talk about feeling like a damn pervert at that show. Taking Back Sunday brought in pounds and pounds of fresh meat, if you know what i mean. That Oingo Boingo song (see Sandy I know wuts up) kept playing in my head, "IIIII love little girls they make me feel so good..." I obviously couldn't tell if they had grass on the field as the saying goes, so my motto just sorta went like, if they have tits, um, look. Don't call me a pervert though, only I can call myself that. And before anyone gets judgmental up in this bitch, I was looking at older women too. I just knew they'd be harder to get into bed.

2005-05-13T18:49:00.001-07:00

Hey where'd he go? heeehee.

Things are gonna change.

2005-05-12T21:33:00.000-07:00

To all my readers, I love you very much, but I cannot go on like this. Up until this point I've blogged under the pretense that we were all adults here. This was my say-anything vehicle. It was a place for me to be me, unrestricted, unrefined, uncensored and just 100% Greg. I'm afraid those days are over folks. I've been read by a 13 year old. F--k.

Her name is Lyndsey, and she is the quintessance of innocence. She appeared in my last commentbox and left her indelible mark:

"YOU HAVE BREASTS?!??!?!?!?!?!?!? OMG you are SOOOO Perverted."

Okay fuck what I said above, I just got dissed by a 13 year old. AHAH! I bet you this little turd isn't coming back and if she does, I'm gonna do everything in my power to make this bitch cry. Okay sorry that was very mean of me, she's 13, she doesn't know any better. But the little shitbag called me a fucking pervert. Ugh, I'm SOOOOO not perverted. And her blog makes me want to vomit.

Check out a poem she wrote for her super hot crush, Jonah!!

J for just so hott!
O for one I have crushed on since beginning of the season!
N for no other crushes on anyone else.
A for an awesome time with you this season and
H for hottie!!!

My favorite line is, "one I have crushed on since beginning of the season!". Sheer brilliance, let's all give little miss needy a round of applause. I'm sure Jonah hates her guts. I can just imagine her slipping him this poem in class tomorrow, written all cute on Hello Kitty stationary, flowers and hearts adorning the sides. Then my boy Jonah shows it to all his homies at recess and is like, "ahaha yo guys look at what this dumb bitch wrote to me". Then they all clown on her and throw things at her head.

YOU"RE NOT WELCOME HERE BITCH! And don't worry TG, I won't be hitting on her anymore. I"ve come to my good senses.

Keep him away from children...

2005-05-11T23:16:00.000-07:00

Since I'm such a wonderful person, and since a fairly large part of my philosophy grade demands it, I volunteered to tutor an 8th grader for a few weeks at my old school. I have no problem with this though, be it that I'm a kind, warm, gentle individual; I care about people, I'm not your HMO. I share my college knowledge with this young girl and give her the tools of the trade so she may feed herself with fish for many a day to come. I like thinking about that potential impact. We have lifeguards, lifesavers, well what about life-impactors? That's me, I'm a life impactor. I'll leave a crater in your child's life.

She's a charming, obediant student too. Quite smart, I think I"m helping her realize her potential. She reminds me very much of myself in 8th grade; doesn't give a shit about learning, highly distractable, just starting to grow breasts, but brimming with a very unconventional basket of smarts.

Or maybe I'm just a basketcase with smarts. Either way I had to learn her some capitalization skills and as it turns out, the English language is trying to deceive me. Did you know months and weekdays are capitalized? It's not "monday" it is "Monday", yet seasons are lowercase as I can write "summer", but not "Summer". This distinction was purchased at Arbitrary Assholes R' Us. And prepositions can go up, towards, over, in, onto - Hell. I was getting tired of plugging every word into the sentence, "The plane flew _____ the clouds". Fuck grammar.

I'm a bit of a word struggler too. When trying to explain certain things my cornocopia of mental imagery likes to avoid being summarized. Words are so restricting, they're like leotards, I'd rather use flagrant hand signals and make throat sounds like "eeehhh mmmsliiiiiike uuuuuuhhh sssnnyuuunoooo" to weave my tapestry of meaning. Who wouldn't understand that? Afterall they say something like 80% of meaning is in the body language. I think I"m really getting through to her.

I am so glad she is not stupid, or, without "mental restriction" for all you PC fucks. Teaching idiots is a lesson in futility, it is like teaching communists how to love or me how to appreciate a well shaped mullet outside of its comic appeal. There is no room for negotiation. I was teaching a Kindergardener once how to spell her name. Her name was Karen: one, two, three, four, five letters, how fucking hard is that? I give her the crayon. Okay cutie pie show me what you got.

...starts off with a backwards "K", thats not dislexic one bit... Yeah I see the pigeon too now what's the next goddamn letter... I suppose that object could pass for an "a"... your "R" looks like a stick figure porn star and while your at it Ron Jeremy should be lower-case... I've formally repressed what the letters "e" and "n" looked like in my head.

It was like trying to potty train a child. You just want to say, "but its all so fucking eeeasy." Pop a squat and let one drop, if you feel like you're going to fall in spread your legs more and if you don't wipe your ass properly the devil will visit you in your sleep. Young impressionable minds are so easy to mold, sometimes you just have to shift the tactics into 6th gear. I'd make an excellent president.

A-I-Y-A

2005-05-09T20:15:00.000-07:00

Everybody has their kinks they can't seem to help. We all have that friend who's laugh sounds like two goats fucking, or that buddy who cries and talks about existentialism every time he gets drunk. Those kinks bug me, but what makes me laugh are the sounds people make when startled. Like, if I suddenly threw a bunch of noodles at your head, what queer sound would you make? Would it be a "Waaaaa!"? How about a "Yiiii!"? A "Fuck"? Or perhaps an "Oh no I'm suddenly covered in noodles", if you're the non-reactive type. For the most part though, these sounds just fly out.

But here's some ginchy humor for you all. Whenever something startling happens to Asians, I swear to god the funniest sound comes out. It goes like this: "AIIIYAAAAAAA". Ahaha, isn't that shit FUNNY?? If you've heard this before, you're laughing. If you haven't, imagine a "HIYA" before a karate chop, but remove the "HI" part from the "YA" and replace it with an "AI" or e-y-e sort of sound. Then draw it out - eeyyyaaaaaaaa. And of course add the Asian accent. Its way funny.

I could seriously go up to any of my cousins and be like, "Hey there's a roach on the ground."

"AAIIIYAAAAA!........ quick, kill it for me!"

The "AAIIYAAA" comes out so fast, the ensuing words just trail behind all slow like Helen Keller standing in line at the DMV. I'm telling you, its the funniest reflex and it cannot be helped. Which is a bit disconcerting to me because today I spilled some soy sauce and well, I let out a little "AIIII!". It was little folks, trust me. And don't worry there was no "YAAA" afterwards. I suppose since I'm half Asian I only squeak out a half "AIYA". Makes sense.

Shit I just realized the irony of yelping like a Chinese man after spilling soy sauce. I didn't pick up on that. Kikoman is just so natural to me. I was eating with chopsticks too, fuckoff people.

But to clarify to those of you that may not know, I am half Chinese half Mexican, which basically means I'm smart, I wear glasses, and I tan well. I just want to make it clear that I"m not pure Asian. Not that I'm ashamed of my culture, I'd just rather not be associated with those people.

And I don't make fun of Mexicans cuz they may kill me.

Am I crazy?

2005-05-07T23:55:00.000-07:00

"I tried to have an imaginary friend when i was younger but I just couldn't fool myself, damnit. I tried very hard, I named him Max, but deep down i always knew he wasn't there."
~Greg

"Max was there, babe, you just weren't looking in the right places."
~Sex

What a sweet response, huh?

Brushing the insider metaphors aside though, I don't see myself embarking on a spiritual "journey" anytime soon. I'm what most would call "spiritually blind" or "spiritually stunted", if alliteration toots your horn. There is of course a certain part of me that would think it nice to believe death is only the middle - rush me to my grave, an eternal waterpark of slippery good fun awaits my morally unflinching soul. But what now... snap my fingers and believe?

I don't suppose I can. I don't suppose I'd want to. More importantly, I don't suppose I need to.

Whether God does or does not exist has no bearing on my life or emotions. I suppose one could ask how I could even know that, but I was indeed a believer at one point, and I know all too well the difference between a belief and an outlook, the latter being far more important. In a sense I do not care. Although I on one hand I do, because I love thinking about the possibility of God and higher reality, but its not a push and pull in the sense that most would think, where I want to believe but can't. Although people like that do exist and its an everyday struggle, I suggest they take up Tai-bo or something.

I like to let people be with their beliefs, despite all the flak I've gotten for my own, because to be quite honest I think I see certain things most people just do not see. I suppose a believer could say the same towards me, and this is probably where I'd get a bit pretentious and say, "trust me, I'm good at this shit". And I'm always willing to explain myself.

But what I don't enjoy is how people tend to play Freud. This angers me a bit. How people have their parsimonies, their projections, their hasty character analysis. It all somehow explains, quite tidily to themselves, why I haven't taken on their beliefs. And I don't like having my motives questioned! I've been called fearful, overly proud, ignorant, blind, a fucking idiot, the list goes on. But this all hurts me as much as it hurts Brad Pitt to be called ugly. It doesn't.

Regardless though, it's frustrating that I can't win because my intentions are constantly misconstrued. I'm "too young", or if I say "I don't care" people think I haven't given enough thought. If I say I've given it plenty of thought, people think I'm thinking too much. If I bring science into it, they say science isn't everything. If I say "blow me", they won't blow me because I"m an atheist. I can't win.

It's the fact that I can't convey my sincerity that disturbs me because like I said, I like to be understood, and I don't like to be misunderstood as one who misunderstands, because I am a very understanding individual. I understand the dangers of observer bias, ad hominem attacks, dichotomous thinking, which is why I'm nonpartisan - so I don't give a shit enough to be tempted to be fallacious in the first place. My approach to truth isn't to take sides and partake in the shit flinging but instead, to listen to both sides and think, "I could do better".

I was at the Ghetty museum with a friend, examining a painting by a man who's name I can't care to remember. We were discussing it. While he pondered the details, I imagined the guy with his brush clasped between his fingers, stroking his chin, pondering how he could make every stroke somehow relate to his genius vision. Or maybe he was simply going by feel. What was it? I looked to my friend and asked, "What does it mean?".

Later we were outside in the garden and I saw an curious looking flower. We stood there looking at it, taking it in not for its beauty but for something... everything else. Once again I turn to my friend and ask, "But yes, what does it mean?".

Being one of religion he smiled, but I was just humoring him. I guess I have my own private fascination with knowing that, perhaps some questions aren't there to be asked.

It's Chill Don't Even Trip

2005-05-04T19:02:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I get made fun of for using non-whiteboy lingo, but it's so natural to me I don't even notice. Like today I was tutoring this 8th grade girl at my old elementary school, coincidentally helping her with English, and I said quite naturally, "Oh that's chill don't even trip". She looks at me all inquisitive-like and says, "Damn are you ghetto or something?". Hahaha. I suppose I am... I suppose I am. Then I made her do 500 standards for giving me lip.

Actually I'm far from ghetto, I may drink the occasional 40 ounce and smoke an occasional blunt, but that's just how we muhfuckin' do it down here.

On the contrary, I also get lip every once in a while for using words that are too big. Fuck, get off me people. I don't even use big words, everybody else just uses dinky ones. I'm aware that large words are unecessary in day to day conversation, so using them would be considered pretentious, unless they were spoken with a British accent, because then that would just seem rather fucking cool and intellectual. But what some don't seem to understand is that I use whatever word comes quickest to me, and if that word just so happens to suggest that I am a vocabulary baller, so be it. I'll try to finder a smaller word, just so I don't come off the wrong way, but that takes a bit of time to think about. Then I gotta think, "What Would Honkie Say".

So thus the duality of Greg's vocabulary emerges. Somewhat indicative of the duality of Greg himself. I can fit in with many a crowd. For example, I was talking to a black person today. A black person! Haha I joke I've known many-a-black person, I live in LA for fuck's sake. I know Mexicans too. It's just bound to happen if you live down here. I mean, if I lived in India I'd know alot of Indians and I'd eat alot of rice. If I lived in China I'd eat with chopsticks and lose my girlfriend in crowds of people. Cuz they all look the same and shit.

It's just in the cards... It's just in the cards.

Honkie Talk

2005-05-03T19:37:00.000-07:00

This whole Honkie epidemic in America is starting to bug me. I hate honkies. Sure, they've always been around so its really the media's fault for making it seem like the honkiness has grown when its really just honkie coverage that's rising. But I'm not here to make amends. Screw ignorant honkies.

Earlier today I was thinking what it would be like to be ignorant. I'm curious to this subject because ignorance is so elusive to me. I tried to capture its essence by asking myself shit like, "What Would Honkie Do?". I'm not quite sure how to answer that. Would I drink my Pabst Blue Ribbon and beat my wife? Ask my sister to pop the whitehead on my back cuz, "It's prime time baby and they don't come that juicy everyday". Or maybe I would just scratch my balls and smell my hand. I dunno... It's a daunting question. What is it like to be an ignorant honkie?

I felt I should first ponder the antithesis to ignorance; awareness and understanding. Comedian Lenny Bruce once said something I liked, it was revolutionary thinking for his time in the 50's. He said,

"Now, I wonder about that other point of view. I figure that the reason I could lose perspective, is perhaps that I think a certain way, so naturally I don't get people to come [to my show] who think a different way. No art form ever attracts an opposite, so maybe there's a whole group of people that think this way, so its not correct thinking, its just a group thinking". He later went to talk about how he pissed in the sink.

Hell yeah Lenny you tell them. I wonder what the honkies would have thought. Time for another oxycontin? Fuckit I'm too tired to talk about how much I hate honkies. Plus its not like I can blame them too much, especially by my own philosophy, because if they had the ability to think non-honkie shit, they would. Stupid is as stupid does. I wonder how the world would be different if Buddhism was the predominant religion in the south. Probably alot less honked out. Or maybe Buddhism is too much to grasp for these crackers. Let the gay people marry for Chrissakes. Damn honkies.

On that note, click here. But don't forget to leave a comment on how much you hate honkies first. The old partner in crime, Hiro, started blogging again. He needs some readers. Goodnight children.

Oh no he's getting all "chic" on us

2005-05-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

I suppose everybody's biggest fear would be dying alone, as if dying weren't bad enough. Just a little recognition would be nice. A little mourning. I don't think I'm the first one to imagine what my own funeral would be like. I'd be watching in from above, listening to what kind words people have to say about me, everyone weeping uncontrollably, even the little babies would be crying, or maybe they just wanted their pacifier.

But I wonder how many of those people in the crowd would have truly understood me. It is such a liberating form of recognition; to be understood. To know another sees more than just a part, is drawn in by more than just some appealling mannerisms, or looks, and that they can take in the whole even if they can't relate to it or understand the whys. It was a good weekend, an excellent weekend, but interspersed between my moments of pointless flirting and drunken unintelligability was a thought. Just give me a nice setting, a cigarette, some coffee, and a beautiful woman with a beautiful brain sitting across from me.

We wouldn't need to be talking about profound things, by all means flirt a little, leave your brain at the door and don't look back. But I love the feeling I get when in the presence of someone I see eye to eye with. There is so much unspoken understanding and mutual acknowledgement. I'll crack a smile when carefully selected words hint at some grand understanding, as if precisely behind these symbols, tangled in some abstract mess where words serve no justice, a beautiful connection between two people lies.

I'm starting to hate this post because I'm basically saying, in the most roundabout way possible, that despite all my friends and all the fun I have, there's a part of me that just wants someone to connect with, and even more, to call my own. That sounds like such a chic thing to say, I do hope nobody I know reads this. I'm just ready, I suppose. Maybe I'm just trying to find some closure to my past. From all the repugnant shit I used to put into my body, and from all the loved ones I hurt by breaking their trust, over and over, the finances down the drain, the false friendships, the not giving a shit about anyone but myself. Fuck all that.

I want someone to tell me to quit smoking too, damnit.

Neener neener!

2005-04-30T18:07:00.000-07:00

Samantha tagged me. I'm tagging Sex, TG, and Amber. Holler!

If I were a scientist...

I'd put the mack on honies, scientifically. I'd be fly, if I wore a lab coat I'd pop my collar. They got mad scientists, well I'd be the cool scientist. I'd be bringing ladies into the lab, I'd kick everybody out and tell them to give me a minute while I performed various experiments on various pleasure zones on the female body. I'd fuck around alot. I'd say to other scientists, "Yo homie, you're never going to figure that shit out, give up. Lets go play with baking soda and vinegar".

If I could be a chef...

I'd cook Top Raman and dish it out as gourmet soup, 12.50 a bowl. Stupid pretentious twits would never know the difference.

If I could be a writer...

I'd write children's novels because I figure I don't have to be very profound, or good. I'd just draw mouths and eyes on vegetables, give them names like Corkey the Carrot, Pablo the Potato (teaches ethnic diversity), and have them go on a magical fucking adventure. I'd sprinkle in very suttle sexual references, just to keep the parents entertained as well. This is how I'd make a fortune.

If I could be a musician...

I'd write horrible music, and when people spoke poorly about my art, I'd say, "fuck you, you just can't comprehend its majesty" and storm out the room. People would think perhaps I'm just some misunderstood genius, and scrutinize my work in an attempt to find some sort of method behind it. They'd realize nope, its just pure shit.

Okay I'm spent people.

If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a circus clown....(by Greg)
If I could be a llama-rider...(by Ogre)
If I could be a bonnie pirate...(By Teach)
If I could be a servicemember...(By Jeremy)
If I could be a business owner...(By Blue944)
If I could be an actor... (By Blue944)
If I could be a rich girl... (By V)
If I could be a witch...
If I could be a racer...

Small and Insignificant. (Me, not the post)

2005-04-27T16:22:00.000-07:00

If I tell you guys something do you promise not to tell anyone? Okay I"ll let you in on a little secret. I have a bashful bladder. It doesn't like letting go of fluids under certain conditions. He gets... nervous. If I'm in a public restoom and someone is standing next to me with no divider between us, I have a real hard time getting something to flow. Especially if its just me and him in the restroom. I just want to be like, "Yo bro, there's an open toilet stall over there, is it really necessary for you to piss right next to me you're invading my personal bubble here pal". I just can't pee under those conditions.

I have to bring out the jedi mind tricks. There is nobody standing next to you Greg. You are in a forest, there is a stream trickling nearby, inhale, take a breathe of that fresh air, you will be done in no time. Sometimes these mental exercises work, sometimes they don't. If they don't, I just pretend to pee, then I wait for the gay mofo who stood next to me to leave, then I hit the urinal once again to pee on my own terms. But if I'm drunk, I can pee with total confidence, anytime, anywhere. This all changed last night, however.

I was quite tips and at Dodger stadium. The bathrooms at the stadium have horse urinals, which for those of you that don't know, look like a long horse trough that everybody pees in. A good ole community pisser, it is the closest thing you can find to communism here in the United States. I figure I was drunk enough to pee hip to hip without suffering from BBS (bashful bladder syndrome). I find an open spot and I get ready to go. Before I could get a squirt out, a black man pulls next to me, and whips his.... this... it was...

Don't get me wrong, I keep my eyes straight when I pee but I still have something known as peripheral vision. Normally people's wangs aren't big enough for my PV to pick up on, but this guy's was like boooooooooooom. Shockwaves rang out and reverberated off the walls, the ground shook. I just stood there, staring at my twig while a big black monster unleashed itself on the outer rims of my vision. I couldn't get a squirt out.

How could I? I felt so small. I felt like hadn't even hit puberty yet. I felt like I were 10 years old. Slap a fucking Mattel sticker on my shit, I was working with plastic, a keychain, if my shit were a food item on a fastfood menu it'd be part of the 99 cent value meal, this guy was working with a Carl's Jr. 6 dollar burger. Fuck me... fuck me..

It never dies!

2005-04-27T00:41:00.000-07:00

Wraaaa, why must my head pound every time i consume alcohol? I am the most inefficient drinker on the planet. Geez it feels like chipmunks are humping in my dome. I hate it when chipmunks hump in my dome. And my face is all red, cuz I'm half asian, so I'm a dead give away. I went to a dodger game earlier, so of course i'm gonna consume some spirits and get down with my boys in blue. I come home like 5 hours later and my face is still bright red. My mom is all tripping. "Greg, you've been DRINKING!". No mah, I'm just sunburned don't worry about it. I'm all trying to talk to the ground so she don't smell my breathe that would fucking ignite if i held a match to it.

"Put some LOTION on your face, you're so sunburned"

"yes mah, I"ll put some lotion on my face"

"You want me to do it for you?"

"No mah, I can put lotion on my own face"

"Okay, make sure you put some lotion on"

"Yes mah, I'll put some lotion on"

So yeah, my boys lost. But I'm not trippin, I'm not even a big sports fan. I just went to this game so I could get hammered, besides, what else am I gonna do on a school night? Study? Fuck that reminds me, I got work to do. Eh, it can wait till tomorrow. So how yall folks doing? Feeling good? Great.

Where my grandmas at? Woot woot. Gah I'm such a dumbass. Okay, time for beddy bed, sorry to all the rest of you folk who's blogs i completely ignored tonight. I leave delightful comments with you all tomorrow, but for now, its time for me to have pleasent dreams about nympho grandmas... The labido never dies.

Strangers aren't so strange!

2005-04-24T17:42:00.000-07:00

I like to smile at strangers. I'd like to think little deeds such as this rekindle people's lost hope in humanity. Especially in LA, where on the same sidewalk a crackhead can walk past twitching like a rabid mutt, but wait - here comes a young lad and he's smiling at me. Humankind is beautiful! It can really brighten up someone's day. And today was just one of those days.

I was driving down Venice coming home from the beach. The sun was burning bright, I had the dreamy melodies of Starflyer 59 on my stereo, and to top it all off I was representin' with my funked out aviator sunglasses. No complaints. I was stopped at a red light and a car with 3 attractive, albeit not-yet-legal, ladies pulled up next to me. But what the hell, right? I give them all a glance and their window came down. "You're cuuuuute" they shout, giggle, giggle, yall know how it goes. I gave them each their own individually wrapped smile, thanked them, and was on my way.

Now this isn't a remarkable sort of occurance, but it made me feel good, and I mention it because I saw something of unspeakable beauty at the intersection of Venice and Sepulveda, and the little incident prior gave me the thought to do a little paying it forward, so to speak.

I pulled up next to a cadillac, the type your grandparents drive, so no surprise when I glimpsed two old people at the helm. It was two old ladies, which is a bit uncommon, but good to know two old madams can go cruisin on a Sunday evening. The passenger side window was down; hold on, old people driving with their window down? Peculiar. I was blasting my music so naturally, the grandma on the passenger side turns at me to see what all the ruckus was about. I glance over expecting to get a repremanding stare but instead, I get a smi- HOLY SHIT grandma you are fucking fine!

Really folks, this grandma was about as fine as they could possibly be, without breaking any laws of nature. I figured I should pay it forward. I turn off the radio, look to her and say, "Excuse me, I just wanted to say you look, amazing". She got so giddy, she started fanning herself and turning to her friend (who wasn't hot) for approval. She started showing me some Japanese anti-wrinkle cream she uses that was like, a billion dollars a bottle, and telling me how she exercises everyday. She was just so excited. Okay greenlight, bye bye granny.

It seemed as if i really really made her day. And that makes my day. And to think, all she ever wanted was someone to make her feel young again. I wonder if she still has sex...?

Dooo Yoooou Reealiiiize? (i like that song)

2005-04-21T21:32:00.000-07:00

I tried to follow my dreams, but none of them were coming true. Maybe I should stop asking my 8th grade teacher to juice oranges with me in the back of a station wagon. My dreams are a tad bit unrealistic you say? Well I'm not here to debate the philosophical nature of "reality", get the fuck off me. I'm here to be sincere, bare-boned and without any fronts.

And of course I joke about my dreams. I guess my non-literal dream, my future vision, is too blurry to even outline. But I do know two things for certain when it comes to my future. The first thing is, I will be happy no matter what. The second thing is, me and my wife will never fall victim to Fogey Talk.

What is Fogey Talk, and how does it come about you ask? Fogey Talk is bred by disgusting familiarity. When all has been said, when all mystery has been revealed, when you can damn near read each other's minds, words tend to become a bit superfluous. So Fogey Talk is grasping for verbal straws. It is the ground to tread on, after the entire ground has been tread on. To illustrate Fogey Talk, I give you an example:

Bob and Margeret are sitting at the table, drinking coffee, each reading a section of the Paper. Margeret says,

"It says here JC Penny is having a sale on sweaters"

Bob replies, "Yeah?"

"Yeah"

End of convo. This is Fogey Talk, and I hope it never infiltrates my life. Is this so much to ask?

And then there is my second certainty - I will be happy no matter what. Unless I turn out to be a defeated old man, a Fogey Talker, in which case I'll be eating butter by the stick to speed me towards what bliss eagerly awaits me six feet underground. But last week I gave myself a little interview, er, Diane Sawyer interviewed me. I was just throwing random shit out there, but I started talking about happiness; it's unpredictability, its elusiveness, its high, and how the mere act of looking for it makes it harder to find. Ever since then I've been thinking alot about this matter.

Then yesterday I was in my ethics class, and the teacher wrote a quote from Viktor Frankl on the board. "It is the very persuit of happiness that thwarts happiness". It is called the "hedonist paradox". Since everybody has been "thinking" lately, I'll capitalize. What do you all make of this matter?

DredgtonE: oh god MUONS baby MUONS
Serferghrl: im trembling RIGHT NOW
Serferghrl: more, talk nerdy to me
DredgtonE: oooh god you're trembling like a wave collapse function baby
DredgtonE: let me add some certainty to your heisenburg principle, if you know what i mean...
Serferghrl: AHHHHHHHH
DredgtonE: ooh god i'm gonna split your legs like an atom and release more energy than two gold ions colliding
Serferghrl: oh god greg

Subway-sexual

2005-04-20T01:18:00.000-07:00

My dad is so funny. He has this habit of making up words, without knowing he made them up, and passing them off without batting an eye. He was just on the phone and I caught him saying (in regards to retirement or something), "Yeah you've got to really guard them. You've got to be really guardive of those years". Guardive. What a useful adjective. Too bad it doesn't exist. Silly pops, he's a sharp tool but not the type one would want to use when cutting thick objects. I called him on his blunder and he said, "Hey man don't sweat it, I'm so sharp it blows your mind". "Okay dad, if you're so sharp then go cut the tags off my new clothes". Har Har!! Cuz I got new clothes. Hell yeah.

I love new clothes, because I'm a guy, and never get them. Girls buy clothes every goddamn weekend. And they buy new shoes like, everyday. I get new clothes about once a year, so when I finally get some new threads, some pimped out kicks, some bangin fabric, I can't help to feel so fresh and so muhfuckin clean.

I was actually contemplating a pink shirt, then I slapped myself for even thinking it. I'd probably look good in a pink shirt, but no one can just casually wear a pink shirt, there's always a motive. Usually the guy wants to say, "Hey look at me, I'm secure with my sexuality!" and even then, its not as if gay people wear pink. Homosexuals prefer to express their flamboyancy with purple or rainbow colored fabrics, not pink. So mainly the dude is just trying to gain brownie points from girls, but that isn't my bag. I'm not trying to illustrate my feminine side by playing DJ Switch-It-Up on the tables and blurring the lines of what is expected as far as gender specific colors go. If I wanted to brown-nose, I'd wear a shirt that said, "I Like To Cuddle" instead.

Yeah I like to embrace after I hump, is that a problem?

I like to tan as well, is this a chic thing to do? Sex called tanning a "metrosexual" act but I beg to differ, my love. Male or female, brown just makes people look better, so I'm gonna take advantage of this sexy pigment. And most guys will too. We're low key about it, we're not calling each other up like, "Yo bro lets goto the beach and tan... Lets fucking tan!". But what guy doesn't want a tan? Unless he's really fucking Irish or dark. Black people for example, aren't too crazy bout the beach. I've never seen a black dude laying out on a towel. NEVER. When black people come to the beach, they come fully clothed, smoke a blunt by the shore, look around at chics, then go home. That's it. That's all the business black people have at the beach.

White boy me is sprawled out on a towel with my board shorts pulled down to the outer rim of my pubes, reapplying tanning lotion every 30 minutes. Gotta get that tan. Pasty white is like, totally winter.

I am, Batman

2005-04-19T00:22:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago I joined Myspace. Yeah, I sold my soul to the devil but everybody else was doing it. At first I didn't post a photo of myself because I thought that was a loserish thing to do. I posted my New Kids On the Block (hollah) album cover and added all my friends that were patiently waiting for my arrival. And so things went. For about a week. Then I started questioning why I was holding back on a photo. People on myspace who hold back their own photos are either ugly or artsy pansy fucks, and I am neither. So alas up a photo went.

But my face is like a diamond, it shimmers from all angles, and just one photo wouldn't do this multifaceted mug any justice. So i upped two more photos so people would get a nice representation of my "essence". Next thing I know, I'm rummaging through my parent's fucking photo collection, looking for the hottest picture of myself I could possibly find. I didn't find anything that met the standards I set, but do you see what happens when you sell your soul to the devil? The will doesn't break, its chisled away.

And I was thinking, its kind of funny how quickly people own up thier good photos but disown the bad ones. Whenever someone sees a good photo of themselves, even if they look better than they actually do, they're like, "Wow that is so me. Dude that is, that is like the fucking ESSENCE of me. If I were blind and that entire photo were in braille, I would know thats my face just because it would feel so very beautiful." Then a bad photo comes along and it was a "fluke". "Dude who the fuck is that? That's not me. What's up with your camera man it looks liked I dipped my face in bacon grease and suddenly caught a lazy eye."

Needless to say, I didn't find that picture of me in which I looked like George Clooney. George Clooney, now there's a handsome chap.

George Clooney played the first Batman with nipples on his suit. But I wonder, does Batman's nipples really need the extra room? I can't imagine a situation in which Batman's nipples would get so stiff as to cause him extreme discomfort because they ran out of fucking room. Take my nipples for example. My nipples just go with the flow, they're not very demanding as far as spacial requirements go. But I don't know, this is me, and that is Batman. All I know is, I feel sorry for him when he gets an erection. Now THAT requires some muhfuckin room, if he's anything like me... Ya dig?

Raw, Uncut, and Smell Like The Sushi.

2005-04-16T02:16:00.000-07:00

I feel like its been a while since I've written something meaningful. Which isn't to say what I've said before wasn't meaningful, everything out of my gracious mouth is meaningful. But I like to touch on higher meaning every once in a while. I'd like to think an objective of good writing is to give your reader's brain a handjob, which is within the vein of mental masturbation, but with someone else's hand, it just feels better. The writer has the opportunity to tell other people things they're stupid to think of themselves, and as long as he doesn't sound condescending about it, they will be gracious.

I wish I could do that. What do I know, I'm just a 20 year old sitting here with a box of Nilla wafers and no milk. But fuckit, I want to blog something productive. So I'm going to do something I've always wanted to do. I'm gonna interview myself. So here it is, this is the raw, 100% truth from the horse himself. I will be playing both the part of Diane Sawyer, and myself.

Diane Sawyer: You're still living at home with your parents. How do you feel about this?
GREG: I'll get over it.
Diane Sawyer: So I take it you're not too crazy about living at home.
GREG: Of course I'd rather be by myself, I love being by myself, but I'm content here at home. Perhaps not entirely happy, but happiness is fleeting anyways.
Diane Sawyer: What do you mean by that?
GREG: Happiness is a chemical high, its a natural drug, and we're not built to feel it all the time. People seem to forget that and turn the quest for happiness into a constant journey, always looking for it. I always find my keys when I stop looking for them. But people will look to the point where they forget to simply be content, which is blissful in itself. Contentment is more neutral. It's a mindset, an outlook, a disposition which most don't seem to reside in simply because they are sad that they are not happy. But there's a whole middleground. I try to focus on being content, because what will make me happy is so unpredictable. Its amazing how often we're wrong when we try to predict our emotions, as if we had any say.
Diane Sawyer: So would you say you are content?
GREG: More or less, as long as I focus on what I have as opposed to don't have. Which is a total cliche, but it's true. There's a guy living in Hawaii right now who wishes he lived in LA, and there's a man living in LA right now who wishes he lived in Hawaii. Paradise is always over there, so as long as I'm here, I'll suffice with knowing that I'm living someone else's over-generalized dream.
Diane Sawyer: Living with your parents?
GREG: Living with my goddamn parents. But lets move on. Why don't you ask me how my show is doing on the WB?
Diane Sawyer: How is your show doing on the WB?
GREG: I don't have a show on the WB.
Diane Sawyer: Then why did you... I'm sorry, who are you?
GREG: My name is Greg. Keep the questions coming sweetcheeks.
Diane Sawyer: Okay, Greg. You say you've been to prison before, how did that change your life, if at all?
GREG: Here's some irony for you, the most vivid memory I have of prison is a dream I had in it. I was at Dairy Queen, trying to choose between a maple or chocolate donut. That was such a wonderful dream. I hardly ever remember my dreams, but in prison, I did.
Diane Sawyer: I take it was a rough time.
GREG: It wasn't physically rough, except for the shitting on a steel toilet. I was constipated, I hadn't shat in 5 days because I wanted stalls. When I finally sat down on that steel, I felt like my ass had frostbite. But prison sucked mentally, especially for precious little me. They try to do everything they can to strip you of hope, and they try to make life as routine as possible. I guess you could call it negative inspiration. Instead of inspiring inmates by giving them hope, they inspire them by taking it away. Which isn't very rehabilitating if you think about it.
Diane Sawyer: So how do you feel about the whole prison system?
GREG: It's not doing its job. Are we trying to turn these inmates into better people, or are we trying to punish them? The whole concept of punishment can get pretty rediculous if you ask me. It's like saying, "Hey fuck you Mr. Product of Your Environment and Genetics, we're gonna punish you and make you even more resentful". Now there's something to dig into.
Diane Saywer: What? The whole nature vs. nurture argument?
GREG: Yeah, it's totally gotten twisted. I mean, why is it that on one hand, most would agree that somewhere between Nature and Nurture lies the mold which shapes an individual and his actions; yet, when it comes time to hold people accountable for what they did, we throw all that out the window and blame them 100 percent? We go around blaming people so much for the way they are, as if they chose to be that way.
Diane Sawyer: Well haven't you chosen who you are at this moment?
GREG: Not so much so. Defining choice is a fine line to walk and an even finer line to distinguish. Certain "choices" I've made were so influenced by factors I didn't choose, it would be an overstatement to call them a choice. And most of the time, its not so much that we choose to be one way, but that we don't choose to be another. And by not making that choice, people say we therefore choose to be the way we are now. I'm not too sure about all that. All I know is, I like placing my nuts near my dog's tongue after I give him peanut butter.
Diane Sawyer: Excuse me?
GREG: Sorry this interview was getting rather bland.
Diane Sawyer: You seemed to be getting pretty intense there.
GREG: Which is why it was getting bland.
Diane Sawyer: You had me intruiged.
GREG: Are you going to ask me questions or are you just gonna suck my dick all day?
Diane Sawyer: My gosh, I find you truly offensive. Here's a question Greg, why are you so offensive?
GREG: Because I feel like it. Isn't that always the answer? Why did Marv Albert bite that lady's ass? Because he felt like it. Why am I offensive? Because I feel like it. I could always come up with a reason after the fact, but I'd be mistaken to actually believe it. I could say, "well I like to keep people on their toes" or, "I like to see people's reactions when I offend them" These aren't reasons, that's just me trying to put the words to my emotions. That's called rationalizing and I hate it because people so often convince themselves that some sort of logic came prior to their actions, when they really just did something they felt like doing.
Diane Sawyer: Aren't there times when we actually think before we do?
GREG: Yeah and those are the times when we actually think before we do. Good luck trying to distinguish between the two. Wanna smell my shoe? Then we'll go sniff some glue.
Diane Sawyer: Thanks for the offer but I'm quite alright.
GREG: Well I have some Kraz-e-glue and a sharpie waiting for me in the car. I'm gonna go get twisted. This interview is over.
Diane Sawyer: Wait Greg one last question.
GREG: What?
Diane Sawyer: Which way do you hang your cock?
GREG: To the left... Always to the left.

Ethnic spices

2005-04-15T17:30:00.000-07:00

Santa Cruz was a nice little town, but nobody was joking when they said UCSC is a hippie's headquarters. Now, I like peace, nature, individuality and vivid colors just as much as the next man, but I can't say I'm down with that whole hippie scene - as "liberal" minded as I may seem. I'm not big on wearing clothing made out of hemp and I actually enjoy taking showers and keeping my shit fresh. So when I'm able to point out at least 4 different dudes with dreadlocks down to their ass within a very small proximity, I can't help to think maybe I won't fit in, and maybe UCSC isn't the school for me.

But Santa Barbera...

Now that's a fucking school for me. I usually don't regret anything, because I like to learn from my mistakes rather than grieve over the fact that I made them, but I did indeed feel some regret when I walked around Del Playa street in Santa Barbera. I regretted not going there when I could have easily gotten in if I actually applied myself in high school. But the girls, the girls... The girls... Oh give me some lotion and a tissue, the girls...

They were all so hot. Riding around on their bicycles in their spandexy tops (I love spandexy tops) and pajama pants, looking like they just got out of bed. I'll take them right back to bed those beautiful, beautiful women. And let me tell ya something about the guys there. They're all tools. They are your typical white boy/surfer dude schmuck. And that gets old quick. So basically I belong at SB, because I know these women are seeking some ethnic flavors and spices, and here I am. Beans and Rice to save the day. Get the fuck away from that steak, have some beans and rice instead. Steak is good, but there's a reason people eat it with A1 sauce. I taste delicious plain, and I mix well with other foods. Baby.

Speaking about my rice and beans, what would any vacation of mine be without getting hit on by a hooker? This time it was a transvestite hooker. I was walking downstairs at the motel 6, and he/she/it was walking up. I was a bit stoned and mentally slow at the time, so I think I staaared, quite unpolitely, at the figure walking towards me, trying to make sense of what my eyes were seeing. It was sporting gigantic hoop earings and hairy arms, that's all I can remember. I think this stare was interpreted the wrong way however, because as it walked by me it said in a deep voice, "I'll be in 205".

I kid you not.

My brain is asleep but my fingers keep moving

2005-04-14T19:25:00.000-07:00

You people are crazy, I swear. After four days on the road I come back thinking I'll read 20 or so comments wishing me a fair trip but instead, I get a bunch of children using my commentbox to talk out of their collective anuses. How I love you guys. Roughly 400 comments. There are three things I missed far too much on my trip. The first thing was soap, the second one was sleep, but the third thing was you guys. So don't think for a second I was too busy getting wasted to care about yall because the entire time I felt like an egg without a sperm, a sperm without a nut, a nut without a squirrel, a squirrel without any legs, in other words, incomplete.

Hot damn so let me recap. Annalisa is slitting her wrists, some haiku action, TG dedicated some Dave to me, Sex is wondering what I like on my triscuits, Christel ate some stale apple jacks, Jesus says hi, Jake is now officially hooked on crack, Jack isn't holding up any fingers because he was using them to type "Greg how many fingers am I holding up?", Pete is trying to hit on MILFS, Amber doesn't like melted cheese in eggs (as don't I), Annalisa wants to know my favorite curse word (FUCK) and went on about taking a shower, Sandy likes getting high off OTC medicine, is Luke a jew, TG likes pickles, and me and Sex have some serious sexual catching up to do.

That's about 1/40 of it. You crazy kooks.

So we came back a day early. It was unanimous, we were dead fucking tired. We were roughin it so much, taking *Mexican showers in gas station bathrooms, eating flaming hot cheetoes and drinking water for breakfast, sleeping in the car outside a motel 6 to save money, trying to light matches off my grissel cuz there was nowhere to shave. I can only be dirty and "rugged" for so long. If I feel dirty I feel ugly, and I hate being ugly! I don't care if a transvestite hooker scoped me out (that's a story for later), if I don't feel clean I can't feel pretty.

But I knew I would have to rough it out. It was a road trip after all. The plan was to hit a bunch of colleges and stay with people we knew. First we stopped off at Fresno state, then we headed up to Santa Cruz and smoked alot of pot, then we headed to San Francisco, then to Oakland, then to our final destination - Santa Barbera, which deserves a post of its own. Alot of drinking dispersed in between sentences.

I'm too tired to write about anything right now. But as far as the women went, they sure love us boys from LA. I caught a bitching tan and I saw alot of pretty trees. I like trees alot more now than I used to. Okay, off to bed folks.

* A mexican shower is when you only wash your face and armpits.

2005-04-11T14:37:00.000-07:00

Hello children, I shall be going on a roadtrip until friday. Good ole spring break. Please show large amounts of sadness in light of my absence. Thank you.