Bloken Blogic

FIVE QUESTIONS WITH KAM!

2005-06-04T17:34:00.000-07:00

I was tagged with questions. So I answered them.

1. Do you want to be my baby daddy? Who else besides Natalie "I-went-to-the-same-acting-school-as-Jennifer-Love-Hewitt" Portman would you like to be your baby mama?

I actually want to bear your children. Because my boyish hips will not allow for this, I suppose the next best thing would be to impregnate you. I have a few reservations which include (but are by no means limited to):
a)People always say that if you are thinking about being with a woman forever,you should take a good long look at her mom first. While I have taken a few very long, very hard looks at your mother and enjoyed them, the thought that her psychosis lives deep inside of you gives me erectile dysfunction.
b)There was a kid that used to live on my street who tortured animals and beat people up. He had no social skills and ate grass. It is my belief that this behavior was directly caused my his non-cleaning, non-cooking mother. I don't want my child torturing animals...only insurgents. USA! USA! USA!

I can not think of any other woman on the planet who I would like to have a child with. The thought of Natalie getting fat and moody makes me cry.

2. Why do you insist on making up your own annoying lyrics to that Sixpence None The Richer song from the Ortho Tricyclen commercials? Please share them with the Internet so that they might be equally as annoyed as I.

Once a song is used in a contraceptive and/or herpe medicine commercial it belongs to the public domain. It is my dream that one day, the songs in said commercials will actually be about said pharmaceuticals. When I change the lyrics I am working towards the manifestation of said dream. "There she goes, having rough sex with virile strangers." and so forth.

3. Did your college girlfriend really have DD-sized breasts? Do you have pictures to prove it?

She did. I don't know if I have pictures of her gals, I may have a few of her face.

4. How is it that some days you insist on taking 45 minute showers and on others you are perfectly content to take a "sink shower"? And what the hell IS a sink shower, anyway?

First of all, I am never "content" with a sink shower, but have no time for a more thorough washing. You know why I take so long to shower. It is a 2-part phenomenon. First, I simply love showering.
Hot water + good smells + my naked body = A Great Fucking Idea!

Second, I am a bit OCD about how I wash myself. I prepare by standing under the showerhead for approx. 6 minutes with my eyes closed before I proceed. Next, I lather and rinse my entire body three times. I wash my hair once with a liberal amount of shampoo, and after rinsing, give the sides and back a touch-up wash with a dime-sized amount. I do not see the need to explain how this routine changes when conditioning, exfoliating, or body hair removal is involved. A sink shower is really just a shave, teethbrushin', facewash, and smell check, followed by a thorough saturation and towel drying of the hair.

5. Your Uncle Peter is a creepy pervert. Can you please tell him to stop staring at my flotation devices?

Uncle Peter had a brain tumor, this means that nobody is ever going to tell him to stop being creepy ever again (calling out people who had bad things happen to them is just not socially acceptable). It's more productive to feel sorry for his children and wife than it is to pay attention to him. But it really does creep my out the way he sits next to you at family functions so he can look at your lap.

I'll need to see a photo I.D., and also your cock please.

2005-06-01T15:21:00.000-07:00

Some things just have to be Blogged.
I work for a Business Equipment company and spend alot of time meeting strange people on their turf. I deal mostly with sales and management matters, but occasionally I will be in the field to handle a repair. Last week I went out to a very large software company to work on a copier and try to make a contact. This place is a fortress (to protect against corporate espionage) and is the size of a school campus. 12 buildings, all with laser doors and robot turnstiles, bells and alarms and hologram badges. In the middle of the lobby, at the security desk, sat a portly dark-haired gentleman. While I was waiting for my contact to come stamp me with a barcode so that I could access the copy room, the security captain struck up a bit of a conversation with me. He mentioned that he does some print work for local clubs, and I thought I might be able to sell him a printer. He expressed faux interest and wrangled my e-mail. After he had it he quickly changed the tone of the conversation, expressing to me how hansome he thought I was, and how perfect I would be for modeling. Today, he sent me the following e-mail.

Well Hello just wanted to touch base with you on modeling? I also ventured out and started a Video Production company and Escort service if you felt like being a bit more adventurous! The money is awesome in that industry! I have escorts bringing home 1500 on up a night! Just something to think about! I know your handsome and would make a killing!! Let me know either way if you would be interested in any of the offers!

-Thanks Kris

Never give a stranger your e-mail, because he might just ask you to be a fucking hooker.

My Poetic Contribuition

2005-05-05T06:09:00.000-07:00

Turd in a punchbowl
With a lovely dish of Brie
Turd in a punchbowl
Spiked with royal wee (the editorial)

Clutch City

2005-04-27T08:13:00.000-07:00

Kameron, 5' 11, 160lbs

I have LOVED sports my entire life. I am by no means athletically gifted, but I played everything as a kid. I wasn't the "last kid picked" in any of the sports I enjoyed playing and I wasn't an awkward kid, I was just INCREDIBLY small. I followed Pro Teams religiously, and not because I wished I could be "like that", but simply because I am fascinated by sport.

Some of the most vivid memories in my life were built around watching TV. That's what sport can do to me, and I make no bones about it. My Grandfather and I were talking a few months ago about the time we spent watching the PGA on Sunday monings when I was VERY young. Anyone in my family would be hard pressed to remember a quiet moment with me, but those mornings were still and intense, and remain clear in my mind.

I remember the first heartbreak I ever experienced as a sports fan, Jan. 3, 1992, when my Houston Oilers were at the short end of the Greatest Comeback in NFL Playoff History. It was Oilers v. Bills and I watched it on a 10 ft. projector screen that I always begged to setup during the Playoffs. Even worse, I watched it with Justin Starr, my best friend growing up, who was originally from Buffalo, and a HUUUUGE Bills fan.

I remember shaving my head SKIN BALD and wearing a Clutch City SANDWICH BOARD to school when the Rockets got past the Suns in 1994, eventually going on to win the NBA Championship. I looked like a REALLY sick child who was given front row seats by Make A Wish, but I didn't give a shit, because I am a fan.

I remember the stunned and muddled look of my best friend, a Sox fan, in the bar where we watched the impossible happen last year.

I am writing this because Saturday was THE day. Draft Day, Astros v. Cards, and Game 1 of what is shaping up to be an incredible Lone Star series. Monday night saw clutch shots from the Mavs and the Rockets, and showed that T-Mac is a bad bad mothah, sent to our planet to make the jumpshot look too damn pretty. I'm starting to get the feeling people. If you're reading this, and you are my girlfriend, I have plans tomorrow and Saturday that include a giant sweaty Chinaman and his partner Lazy Eyes.

War Rockets in 5
War Texans making a run at the Playoffs next season
War Roger Clemens keeping his ERA under 1 (It's nasty, nasty stuff)

I am out.

Live at 5, with extra jive!

2005-04-14T12:55:00.000-07:00

Last night, several Houstonians were stranded at a Conoco Station on the North side. They had filled up with Gasoline that was contaminated with large amounts of water. The local news stations scrambled to the scene, looking for a knowledgeable witness to shed light on the incident...

This is what they found.

NewsMan: "Tell us what heppened when you tried to start your car."

Busted Crackhead Woman: "I had turnt on tha key, and it said...krunk."

NewsMan: (look of concern) It "krunked"?

Busted Crackhead Woman: "Uh huh, an I said naw, thaddon't soun right."

NewsMan: "So what DID you do?"

Busted Crackhead Woman: "I turnt it again, and it KRUNKED again!"

NewsMan: "As you can see, the situation here is tense. People missed work today, and some were stranded for up to FIVE hours.

Editors Note: If this crackhead has a job, it's at the DPS, Post Office, or as a Tech Support Rep. for Hewlett Packard. Either way, nobody missed her.

Breakfast: The Most Important Drink of the Day

2005-04-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

Goood Morning! Monday was my first day back from vacation, and there are stories aplenty to keep my reader interested. I do not have the time to indulge you right now though, as I have a pretty serious stack of real-world garbage in front of me. I would like to share an incident from breakfast on Sunday, an incident that provided me with some of the wisest words I have ever heard.

First, a little exposition...

The second, and final leg of my vacation brought me to the cabin of a dear friend in the San Bernardino Mountains. The camp that he oversees is operated by an Armenian group, and visited by different groups of teachers, students, etc. Having been friends with Serge (Armenian) and his sister for some time, I have realized that Armenians are a very PROUD people, and given the way the women look and the men drink, they have plenty to be proud of. Needless to say, many of them don't care to mix with mutts the likes of myself. When I found out that a group would be coming up while I was in town, it was implied that I should stay low, avoid spooking the guests, and stay away from the hot daughters at ALL costs. When they arrived however, they proved themselves to be far more liberal than was expected, and more welcoming than Serge or myself thought possible. We were graciously invited to all meals, including breakfast on Sunday morning.

We were at breakfast, chowing on "Ful" (Lebanese Bean Brekfast Matter), when a friendly older man who looked remarkably like Donald Sutherland sat across from us.
He asked Serge a question in Armenian, to which Serge replied "Something in Armenian". The man seemed angry and confused. He stood up and said in a VERY firm tone, "SOMETHING IN ARMENIAN!". He reached swiftly for the vodka, which naturally was next to the muffins and malto-meal (They dont call it malto meal, they put string cheese in it and have some fancy ethnic name for the stuff), and poured us half glasses. He poured himself and raised it high, we did the same, and proceeded to choke down breakfast vodka at 9:00 in the morning.

This interaction left me VERY confused. The men had been pouring Johnny W. Black down our throats since they had arrived, which is why we had not made it to breakfast the previous 2 days, and thus had not experienced morning vodka. This is how Serge recapped it for me, to clear my ugly American head.

Donald Sutherlandian: "Would you like some Vodka?"
Serge: "No"
Donald Sutherlandian: "WHAT?! HOW CAN YOU EAT BREAKFAST WITHOUT VODKA?!"
Serge: "Uh, I..."

The man could see that Serge did not have a good reason. Come to think of it, neither did I. I have yet to make any real sense of this interaction, but I have decided to drink Vodka for breakfast every day for the rest of my life.

T-Minus 4.5 Days Until Lift-Off!

2005-03-30T14:16:00.003-08:00

Let me begin by saying that I have not had a vacation since my 21st birthday. I am ALMOST 23!!! Well, it feels like a long time, so don't bust my horns about being spoiled. Anyway, unless you count waking up in strange places with vomit shirt and missing pants, I have not had a vacation in almost 2 years. I am excited and "stoked" to announce that I will be getting on a plane for Las Vegas, "The Tackiest Place on Earth" at 1:30pm CST, Mon. April 4th. I will spend 3 days in The Vegas before traveling to SoCal for some quality time with nature in the LA National Forest.

My last visit to LV coincided with the National Swingers Convention, and many of these old pickle buckets and knee-sock ninjas were staying at the same hotel as myself. On any given night, while traversing the magic carpet of the Aladdin, I would find myself engulfed in a crippling tangle of lace and wrinkled skin, left disoriented in an acrid cloud of ben-gay and semen flavored air. On one particular night, I stepped into the elevator with my younger brother, right into the eager embrace of the AARP's most notorious sluts. We were quite drunk, headed in fact, down to the gift shop for more Jägermeister and Red Bull, and the ladies could smell our weakness.

I stood quietly, trying desperately to mask my pheromonal emissions with power-farts. I used to volunteer at a nursing home, and I saw enough old lady tit to learn valuable evasive maneuvers. My little brother did not recieve similar training, and was thrust into this confrontation ignorant to the powers of geezer lust. They closed on Dillon before he could react, pinning him against the back wall and descending on his proverbial shaft. When the elevator reached the lobby level, I was able to slither out unnoticed. I looked back to see my poor brother, too young to be drunk, and too old to block out a molestation, staring desperately into my eyes. I laughed, HARD, and waited. Several minutes later the elevator returned (no longer under seige by Norah Jones listeners) and my brother trickled out of its doors.

We got very drunk that night, and Dill never told me what happened after I got off the elevator. Las Vegas proved itself to be a place of mystery and decadance, and secured a place in my heart. I am so happy to be going back, not just because I have a gambling problem, but because I really don't think there is any place quite like the Vegas.

Dillon still can't look Gamma in the eyes.

My very first SPD!

2005-03-24T08:36:00.000-08:00

I have worked hard for three years to get where I am. Believe it or not, my first office was just an endtable and a stool in a dim closet where the custodial staff lived. I learned some Spanish, but customers don't warm up to salesmen who smell like lysol and chicharrones. Now, because of my hard work and dedication, I have marble walls, comfortable seating, and drinkable water...ALL IN MY OFFICE!

And here I am, HARD AT WORK!

Gang Bang Book Tag!

2005-03-23T10:10:00.000-08:00

I go through phases where I don't read much, and then I go through times where I stay up too late trying to finish books and show up late for work. Right now I am in an unusual (and very fulfilling) place. I have close contact (by which I mean humping) with a lovely nerd who has quite an extensive library, so I have been mixing quality literature with novelty stuff and have found it to be quite satisfying. Here are my answers.

1. What book would I like to be?
THE ELEGANT UNIVERSE By Brian Greene
You can be stupid about everything else, but if you can speak eloquently about String Theory and Hidden Dimensions, chances are you'll get laid.

2. Have I ever had a crush on a fictional character?
HERMIONE. Just as the Olson Twin wait ended, a frizzy haired witch with sparkling wit and punk-rock flavored school clothes skipped into my life.

3. What is the last book I bought?
SIDEWAYS by Rex Pickett, VILLA INCOGNITO by Tom Robbins, PLAY POKER LIKE THE PROS by Phil Hellmuth

4. What is the last book I read?
THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF KAVALIER & CLAY by Michael Chabon
The first 1/4th of ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE by Gabriel Garcia Marquez :)

5. What book am I currently reading?
THE READER by Bernhard Schlink
PLAY POKER LIKE THE PROS by Phil Hellmuth

6. What 5 books would I take with me if I were stranded on a desert island?

THE OFFICIAL SCRABBLE DICTIONARY

LATITUDE HOOKS AND AZIMUTH RINGS:HOW TO BUILD AND USE 18 TRADITIONAL NAVIGATIONAL INSTRUMENTS by Dennis Fisher

BUILDING CLASSIC SMALL CRAFT:COMPLETE PLANS AND INSTRUCTIONS FOR 47 BOATS
by John Gardner

THE JOY OF SELF-PLEASURING:WHY FEEL GUILTY ABOUT FEELING GOOD?
by Edward L. Rowan

US ARMY SURVIVAL MANUAL: FM 21-76
by Department of Defense

Sure, I could bring beautifully written crappy-crap and waste away my days as Oprah would have me. But I would rather hone my formidable Scrabble Skills and rediscover my primal sexuality while planning a way to GET THE FUCK OFF THE ISLAND.

Seacrest...Out.

Mountain Manifesto

2005-03-21T16:06:00.000-08:00

Reason it out if you feel you must
Mountains are only chunks of crust
Heaved from the depths in primal stress
Owning no power to curse or bless
Yet something about this patterned gift
Of timbered mountains gives a lift
Unto the soul who sees in them
Nature's holy diadem.
Unto the peaks so near His skies,
I shall ever lift mine eyes!

Pirouette my Pants

2005-03-21T08:10:00.000-08:00

First thing, I have always been a supporter of the arts. I was in theatre for seven of my twenty-two years, and I have the utmost respect for people who choose a life of performance and poverty. I enjoy theatre, opera, live music...hell I've even been to poetry readings that left me satisfied. I'm lucky enough to be in love with a certain woman who enjoys performance as well. For the most part, our interests are mutual, with a few terrible exceptions. The most notable of these exceptions (besides Avril Levine) is the elitist and torturous art form known as ballet.

I have seen dancer's feet up close, in all their calloused, bloody, monkey clawed glory, which is probably what turned me off of ballet. The skill involved in perfecting such strict and demanding technique is certainly admirable, and I love watching what these people can do with their bodies. What I hate is the way it is all put together, the way classic tales are used as vehicles to give the dance some purpose. These people are dancers, and damn good ones, but at these prices they have no right to minimize the leaps and spins and cartwheels in order to tell a story. If you're not going to speak or sing, don't use half assed ballet gestures to tell me how much you love Romeo, or that there is a Ginger Bread House down the lane. I think that a ballet dancer should have to spend 60% of his/her stage time in the air, just as I have to spend 60% of MY day doing actual work.

Speaking of which, I should be working.

Seacrest, Out.

The Madness of March

2005-03-17T15:15:00.000-08:00

Today is my favorite kind of day. A day that is marked not by one special occasion, but by two. Today is the first REAL day of March Madness, as well as a celebration of Irish Madness. Somewhere before the mullatos, arabs, and rednecks, the foliage on my family's tree was distinctly Irish. Mattingly was the name, and goat humping and famine were our games. So on this day, I celebrate my heritage by getting drunk, like a real Irishman. The kids will go and drink their green Bud Light, and talk with Scottish accents. They will embrace and sing, chase tail and fight, while I sit brooding over a pint of the black stuff, intensely focused on the College Hoops action before me. A few hours in and I've already lost a game on my bracket...fekkin good for nothin' Bama. The brackets don't matter though, just the basketball, which is always the best of the year.

Man, talk about fragmented....I'm Out.
GO MINERS!!! Oh, what? UTEP lost?

GO HORNS!!!

Can it be? iPod cases for the Fabulous!?

2005-03-14T06:05:00.000-08:00

I am not rich. The way I spend money I probably never will be. I buy without thinking, and often end up with crap I will never use. Last time I went to the Galleria to get a haircut, I left with an iPod and some new Kenneth Cole Mocs. These behaviors and my weakness for brand names, are what led me to the pictures below. I am sick with desire for both of these iPod cases.
(The LV for most days, the Dior for dress up).

Never you mind that my darling lady's birthday is just around the corner, and I'm saving for a fast-approaching vacation, and I'm getting ready to go back to school. What kind of man takes his girl out on the town for her birthday, hits the Vegas Strip, or attends class without a dope iPod case? I'll tell you. The same kind of man that beats up puppies and robs liquor stores. Now, I probably won't be able to buy either of these cases. I will giddily point them out to the lass, who will undoubtedly do what she does best, put me in my place with any number of sexually insensitive remarks. She will bring up how many belts I own, how many shoes I own, the animal shaped banana hammocks that litter my bedroom. She will no doubt mention my love for foreign film, and that Nike commercial where they wear all those hot masks. If I do not seem to be responding in a submissive enough fashion, she will beat me with a shoe (Payless or Target). I need a bubble bath and a pint of Haagen Dazs Coffee Ice Cream.

Black Black, Black Black, Gimme Fitty Feet
Dior "Black Tie" iPod Case

Louis Vuitton iPod Case
(There's also one with the print, but that shit is tacky)

Have You Kissed a Mountain Man Today?

2005-03-10T13:40:00.000-08:00

Two days ago I was sitting at my desk, reading blogs and making phone calls, trying to push through another day at the orfice. The giant lazy woman-folk who inhabit the lower region of the office (also called the lobby) were eating lunch no. 2 and ignoring the ringing phones when someone walked in. When this happens, instead of standing up, the ladies use the intercom to alert everyone to the presence of a customer. On this day, it was my name which was called, notifying me that I indeed did have a guest.

I closed windows (some pornographic, some not) and went to the stairs to meet my guest. Coming up the stairs was a tall skinny fellow with MAD facial shrubbery and shoulder length black hair. I wasn't scared, but I was certainly curious, and tilted my head "doggy style" to observe this man. After looking into his eyes, I realized that this mystery man was no mystery at all, but my very best friend, partner in crime, and comrade, Serge. Serge left houston several months ago to live on a mountain in SoCal. A nagging sense of unrest had been bothering Serge for a while, and when offered the position of Caretaker at a camp in a national forest, high atop a secluded protuberance, we all knew it was a beautiful opportunity and sent our little guy on his way.

I spoke with Serge last weekend, at which point he made no mention of a visit. We have been trying to plan a meet-up in Vegas followed by a trip to the mountain since his first week up there, because there are just some people in this world that one can't do without. The point is, I was delighted to see my old friend, right here in Houston, by surprise. We had planned to hang out yesterday afternoon, but the half day I had planned for turned into an hour of overtime and no lunch. But last night, just like old times, all of us guys went to a loud bar and got fucking twisted. Nostalgia does good business for the breweries, distilleries, and wineries of the world, and today I am living proof. A few filthy ass martinis, a few shots of the brown stuff, and we were set...stumbling through the streets of Houston with burger on our shirts and barfloor sticky on our shoes, lapping up the cool drink of friendship.

I'm not writing this at the office. I'm at the coffee shop down the street drinking green tea and recovering. Serge is at home packing (he could only stay for a few days). I know there is nothing funny about this story, it is unbecoming mush-mush that will no doubt be considered faggy, but I DON'T CARE. You only get a couple of real "boys" in your life, guys who will always back you, and guys that make you more comfortable wherever you are. It's beautiful in Houston today, I skipped work, and I got to see my very best friend. Cheers!

I'd Like a 6-Month Lease with a side of Dirty Exhibitionist

2005-03-03T06:45:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, my apartment complex is NOT safe. I have been exposed to more crackheads, prostitutes, thiefs, and "ethnics" than I saw in 4 years at a GHETTO ASS high school. The rent is fair, however, and the place is only 5 minutes away from work (I'm still late EVERY DAY). I moved closer to the interior of the complex when my last lease expired, thinking I would be less accessible to the bastards that were breaking into cars near the entrance gate at a rate of 2 per week. Since I've been hunkered down inbetween the office and the tennis court (two places RARELY visited by the kind of people I am afraid of), my existence has been relatively peaceful. Several dog owners have recently moved in around me, encroaching on my quiet corner of the hood, but I have not been robbed or begged at for "jus' a dolla, all i need issa dolla'".

On the 2nd of this month, full of grape soda and out of options, I agreed to signing a new lease for another 6 months. I wanted to move into a part of town with a little more culture and a little less rape, but my search for a roomate (much like the search for someone who will let me put it in the butt) came up empty.

Fast forward to the next day...I returned home from work to find a sheet of paper clipped to my doorframe. This is a popular tactic used by Papa John's, Hunan Garden, and Juan Carlos' Trash Pickup Sevice, to gain my attention before I have taken out the trash or started fixing dinner. But today's note was OFFICIAL, and it read as follows:

--------------------------
ATTENTION RESIDENT

It has been reported that a large african-american man has been exposing and pleasuring himself in the parking lot. This gentleman is reported as being over six-feet tall, with closely shaved hair, and glasses.
---------------------------

THe letter continued on to say that we, the residents, should be on the lookout for the horsecock and it's handler, but be cautious and refrain from walking alone at night. I take issue with two aspects of the letter.

1. They called him a GENTLEMAN. Gentlemen don't beat it in parking lots.
2. They called him African-American, but Tavis Smiley and the good folks at NPR and Pacifica Radio tell me that the preferred term is now Black-American. All I know is that he is an Icky American. With monkey habits. Who lives in my apartment complex.

I Loooove My Dog!!!

2005-02-28T17:04:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I had an especially long day at work, and returned home wanting nothing more than to take a nap. The apartment complex I live in is NOT safe, so I always keep a lookout for new neighbors, strange behavior, crack smoke, and easy rucas. That day, (while being stealth and observant) I noticed a new dog on the balcony adjacent to my own, and thought to myself "Dog's are great". He's a little nappy white fucker with the big confused eyes of a meth addict and the hopeful yap yap of a smitten virgin. I didn't think too much of the little guy as i stepped into my apartment, and I certainly didn't consider that he would soon become half of an obnoxious duo that would keep me awake for hours.
Napping is not something I do well, as I have always been hyperactive and manic. I can only sleep well in pitch black conditions with ZERO noise, but I was so tired on this day that I knew my body would make an exception. Just as I wrapped myself in Downy softness, fixed a pillow snugly between my legs, and closed my eyes...something went terribly wrong.
The little dog barked a greeting to his owner who it seems had just stepped out onto the balcony, and thus began the most disturbing duet I have ever heard. The little boy who had joined the dog began to do something I can only describe as Screamsinging. Anyone who spends time with attention deprived children knows what this is...Based on the idea of singing (as it has a discernable melody and rythm), but more heavily influenced by SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS.
The first verse went something like this:

Boy: "I LOOOOOOVE MY DOG!!!, I LOVE MY DOOOOOOG, I LOVE HIIIIIM!!!"
Dog: "YAP! YAP! I LOVE YOU TOO YA DUMB SHIT! YAP YAP!!!"
Boy: "I LOOOOOOOVE MY DOOOOG!!! HE'S A GOOOOOOOOD DOG!!!"
Dog: "YAP! YAP! YAP!"

I thought to myself "Ok, he just got home, he loves his dog....this will soon end". And then came verse two.

Boy: I'M HAPPY!!! IIIIIIII'M HAPPY!!! I GOT A GOOOOOD DOG!!!
Dog: YAP!! YAP!! FEED ME YOU FUCKING MIDGET!!!

Anyway, this went on for approximately half an hour, and with every verse came a shining testament to just how much this kid loved his life, his dog, and his house. I did not get a wink of sleep, and I came closer than I am comfortable admitting to opening my door and screaming a slew of racially motivated insults to him and his cracker-ass dog. Is this story pointless? Yes. Do I hate children? Absolutely

Freshen Up

2005-02-25T14:37:00.000-08:00

Earlier this month I decided that I would get in on the blog craze. I figured, "Shit, everyone else is doing it". I have lost the girl of my dreams to the promise of an easily maintained cookie-cutter website. My love has found a place where she can get the things I can't give her. Unlimited access to perverts and lesbians, a virtual soapbox from which to share all of the stories and antecdotes that I have conditioned my brain to tune out. My role in her life has been reduced to that for which men are built. Hunting, gathering, and cuddling are what i'm good for now. These developments have opened up large windows of time in my days with which I have nothing to fill. I do have full time employment and several self-improvement projects which i intend to start (tomorrow, or after my nap), but I think that applying some time and energy to the maintenance of a virtual diary could do me some good.

So with that, let's get this thing started.

Basics

2005-02-25T14:22:00.000-08:00

A few things about me:

Astrological Sign:
Cancer

In my CD Player Right Now:
Wilco-A Ghost is Born

In my DVD Player Right Now:
Richard Pryor-Here and Now

Book(s) I'm Reading:
Michael Chabon-The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
Gabriel Garcia Marquez-One Hundred Years of Solitude

Hmmm, so I know that this information might not be relevant to ANYONE, but personally i judge people based on the music they listen to, the movies they watch, and whether or not they are ugly. I hope that there are others like me, and if so, that I have provided sufficient information on which to base a judgement.