thursday night last week was weird.
i had this dream. in my dream i was a film critic. or was it film reviewer? what's the difference between a film critic and a film reviewer? oh, one of them critiques the movie while the other reviews it. does it matter? it doesn't, because they're both in the film's payroll anyway.
so, yeah, back to my stupid dream.
supposedly, i was this revered film critic and i'd be on air in 30 seconds as a guest in some lame showbiz talkshow. i was suppose to dish out a review for this new movie, spiderman 2, that'll open sometime june 2004.
shit. don't get me wrong. i love spiderman... in a hetero way of course... and spidey's my favorite comic book character of all time... but i was this revered, respected, critically-acclaimed film critic in my dream. i can't fucking review spiderman 2!!!
so i asked for the show's producer. i told him there is no way i'd do a spiderman 2 review. i said, "look, allan, let me do farenheit 9/11 instead." he said no. "well how about the notebook?" he said no.
i was getting pretty pissed.
then he said, "jimmy, you're going to do a spiderman 2 review whether you like it or not because that movie's hot. besides, sony pictures has already agreed to a 20% added rate of (name of the showbiz talkshow)'s advertising spots for the next three months. don't screw this up, jimmy. either you do spiderman 2 or i'd have to make you review garfield the movie or that new jacky chan starrer.
by now i was really pissed. nobody warned me that my name was going to be jimmy!!! i, the revered film critic, had "jimmy" for a name, in my own fucking dream! argh!!!
so i was up in 5....4....3....2..... this really gay showbiz talkshow host of this really lame showbiz talkshow starts blabbering away with his spiel. two minutes later, he asks me, "so, jimmy, what do you think of the new spiderman movie? toby maguire's hot, don't you agree?"
then i was like...
"uhm... yeah. actually, uhm, i'm sick and tired of seeing shit for spiderman 2! holy fuck, there's no way in hell i want to see this movie now because, just thinking about toby maguire one more time makes me wanna throw up five years of old pizza. there is such a thing as too much marketing. and i like to call it "calm the fuck down on the spiderman 2 shit already!"
and it didn't end there. i got pretty fired up and said other things like...
"okay. i fucking get it okay. people at sony, you made a sequel. whoopidi fucking doo! toby goes crazy and hooks up with a hottie and kicks some ass. great stuff! good luck with it! but for the love of letting me breathe for seven seconds without feeling like there's machete sticking out my groin, please, NO MORE FUCKING SPIDERMAN!!! and oh, about that hottie, mary jane. what's her name again? kirsten dunst. right. wow! that bitch is amazing!!! she was that kid in interview with a vampire, right? wow! man, has she changed. not too long ago she was this annoying kid with fangs, then suddenly she shows up on screen with these plump, juicy breasts and a great body for sex!!! growl!!! excuse me while i fix my underwear to hide my hard-on. dang! oh yeah, my final rating for spiderman 2... go see it for mary jane. if you're not down with kirsten dunst, then go see garfield instead."
after i said my piece, i looked at allan the producer. he was holding this big can of paint thinner and was splashing the whole studio with it. he was about to burn the whole set down.
then i woke up.
weird.
weirder, i turned on the tv, tuned in to hbo, and guess what... spiderman 1 was on.
pretty fucking amazing.
i'm out.
3.31.2005
please don’t leave me home alone… again
a classic case of too much too soon, maybe.
he was just a kid. a spoiled brat. a millionaire. but still, a kid. that kid. what’shisface? oh yeah, macaulay culkin.
come to think of it, his name would've been enough to screw him up. imagine being called "macaulay," a family name of a stupid english historian. imagine yelled at by other kids, "macaulay! would you like to come out and play?" "stop calling me names!!!" "but dude, that is your name." "nooooooo!!!"
i bet he would've preferred to be called kevin or richie instead.
and i think that's the reason why the kid never really wanted to grow up because he wanted to stay that way, as kevin or richie, not as dorky macaulay. poor kid.
another reason why he didn't like to grow up: people around him (agents, scouts, directors, producers, hollywood whores, production assistants) kept saying he was a cute kid. cute kid??? no he's not. he looked like a young version of david spade for chrissakes!
and back in 1996, i think, he went touring with sonic youth. i don't know about this, but in my opinion, hanging out with a band like sonic youth could fuck up your mind pretty well.
but what really made him cross that line from sanity to insanity was in the movie home alone.
haven't you heard? there were scenes that were shot, and the director made culkin believe that the scenes were actually part of the movie. so the kid, being the obedient child star he was, played along.
poor kid never saw what was coming.
so they shot the scenes, and instead of joe pesci and daniel stern acting as idiotic burglars, it was michael jackson who entered the picture. jacko did all sorts of things. horrible things. grabbed the kid's ass, put his hands inside the kid's pants, fiddled the kid's dong, sang smooth criminal, and moonwalked. now, if that won't fuck up your mind, i don't know what will.
then there was the stinkin' sequel which was a flop compared to the original, but they just had to make it. why? because jacko produced it and culkin asked for it.
i know what you're thinking. i don't believe it either. well, not until i spoke with culkin himself yesterday. he said, and i quote: "for a long time i thought majority of my insanity was due to being a child actor, until i realized recently... wait, i fucked michael jackson."
oh you think all i'm saying here is BS eh? well read it yourself.
shit. i'm such an incoherent ass!
i'm out.
he was just a kid. a spoiled brat. a millionaire. but still, a kid. that kid. what’shisface? oh yeah, macaulay culkin.
come to think of it, his name would've been enough to screw him up. imagine being called "macaulay," a family name of a stupid english historian. imagine yelled at by other kids, "macaulay! would you like to come out and play?" "stop calling me names!!!" "but dude, that is your name." "nooooooo!!!"
i bet he would've preferred to be called kevin or richie instead.
and i think that's the reason why the kid never really wanted to grow up because he wanted to stay that way, as kevin or richie, not as dorky macaulay. poor kid.
another reason why he didn't like to grow up: people around him (agents, scouts, directors, producers, hollywood whores, production assistants) kept saying he was a cute kid. cute kid??? no he's not. he looked like a young version of david spade for chrissakes!
and back in 1996, i think, he went touring with sonic youth. i don't know about this, but in my opinion, hanging out with a band like sonic youth could fuck up your mind pretty well.
but what really made him cross that line from sanity to insanity was in the movie home alone.
haven't you heard? there were scenes that were shot, and the director made culkin believe that the scenes were actually part of the movie. so the kid, being the obedient child star he was, played along.
poor kid never saw what was coming.
so they shot the scenes, and instead of joe pesci and daniel stern acting as idiotic burglars, it was michael jackson who entered the picture. jacko did all sorts of things. horrible things. grabbed the kid's ass, put his hands inside the kid's pants, fiddled the kid's dong, sang smooth criminal, and moonwalked. now, if that won't fuck up your mind, i don't know what will.
then there was the stinkin' sequel which was a flop compared to the original, but they just had to make it. why? because jacko produced it and culkin asked for it.
i know what you're thinking. i don't believe it either. well, not until i spoke with culkin himself yesterday. he said, and i quote: "for a long time i thought majority of my insanity was due to being a child actor, until i realized recently... wait, i fucked michael jackson."
oh you think all i'm saying here is BS eh? well read it yourself.
shit. i'm such an incoherent ass!
i'm out.
3.28.2005
it's all about 'em bunnies
oh. it's easter. who gives a shit?
so yesterday was easter sunday (from my side of the moon, yesterday was a sunday, so backoff) and for the catholic fanatics it's suppose to be the time they all scream "sweet-lord-i-finally-finished-highschool!" and jump up and down because jesus rose from the dead and shit... but i think he could've done better you see... i mean, y'know, him being god and all.
anyway, i'm not about to greet you all a happy easter.
fuck.
i just did, didn't i?
but my point is, i'm fucking lazy today, and i practically dragged myself out of bed for work; dragged myself in the board room for a stupid meeting of some lame-ass anniversary party on may (can't you just give us cash and a dayoff?); dragged myself to blog just to tell you guys the the essence of easter.
and the essence of easter is... bunnies!
and i won't elaborate on that shit either.
all i can say is, if i were a bunny, i'd be him. only i'd be 200 pounds heavier. yeah, i'm a fattie. but i'm fucking extreme!!!
and here's something else,
i'm out.
so yesterday was easter sunday (from my side of the moon, yesterday was a sunday, so backoff) and for the catholic fanatics it's suppose to be the time they all scream "sweet-lord-i-finally-finished-highschool!" and jump up and down because jesus rose from the dead and shit... but i think he could've done better you see... i mean, y'know, him being god and all.
anyway, i'm not about to greet you all a happy easter.
fuck.
i just did, didn't i?
but my point is, i'm fucking lazy today, and i practically dragged myself out of bed for work; dragged myself in the board room for a stupid meeting of some lame-ass anniversary party on may (can't you just give us cash and a dayoff?); dragged myself to blog just to tell you guys the the essence of easter.
and the essence of easter is... bunnies!
and i won't elaborate on that shit either.
all i can say is, if i were a bunny, i'd be him. only i'd be 200 pounds heavier. yeah, i'm a fattie. but i'm fucking extreme!!!
and here's something else,
i'm out.
3.23.2005
the day madonna almost killed me
madonna sings
in the background
as i ponder jumping
from the 11th floor of pain
her voice is getting clearer
her lyrics getting louder
as if taunting me
to jump off the ledge
while people below form
a moshpit under a suffering rockstar
they scream and howl and beg
for an encore performance
i will oblige
to the demands of the rabid faithful
so i close my eyes and prepare
for my final stage dive
but maddona fades into silence
so i retreat from the brink of madness
and decide to listen to another
song not sung by her
in the background
as i ponder jumping
from the 11th floor of pain
her voice is getting clearer
her lyrics getting louder
as if taunting me
to jump off the ledge
while people below form
a moshpit under a suffering rockstar
they scream and howl and beg
for an encore performance
i will oblige
to the demands of the rabid faithful
so i close my eyes and prepare
for my final stage dive
but maddona fades into silence
so i retreat from the brink of madness
and decide to listen to another
song not sung by her
3.22.2005
such and such and shit...
such...
first of all, about the fucking layout. some people loved it, some didn't, some had no fucking opinion at all. thanks a lot.
some dude even went the extra mile and asked me (by email) why i changed the damn template. well.. why the fuck not? it's mine. and i was bored with it. i was even planning to administer a complete plastic surgery on the damn blog last night. thing is, i was too lazy. and besides, my html skills, on a scale of 1 to 10, is a fucking -4. i was one of 'em losers who tried to be this angst-ridden, mysterious, dark, "tired-of-the-world-can't-impress-me-with-that-shit-i-can-hack-into-your-deepest-sexual-fantasies" kind of geek way back when being a geek was fashionable. it was the fucking 90s okay. now, i'm just me. a flabby internet loser.
and such...
i really loved the way you people responded to paningit's stupid questions . yeah, the friggin' polls! it got the interactivity level of this blog a notch higher. because of that, now i know you guys actually hate me. just kidding. or am i?
just keep clickin' away on your answers and shit. and keep commenting on my stupid posts, too. if you feel you want to tell me something and you wouldn't want someone else to read it on the comments board, then email me. it's that simple. remember, your opinion and your feedback matters to me... fuck, that sounded like a lame commercial for a bank.
by the way, this week's poll is all about what shit would you like to see more of in this blog. so what are you doin' there scratchin' your balls for? go answer the friggin' question already. jeez!
and shit...
maybe i'm just a weirdo (oh... i am?), but don't you find it strange that we can't stand the smell of other people's shit, but when we go to the bathroom and unload a steaming pile of our own crap, that same smell doesn't faze us at all? i mean, shit is shit is shit. it's foul-smelling, whether it came from your own ass or from someone else's. it just is.
and such again...
five digits! dang!
last night, the site meter registered 10,000 hits. 10,000 hits! ten thousand fucking hits!!! that is fucking insane!!! i can't even count to 10,000. usually i lose count at around... hm... lemme see... 7842, 7843, 7844, 78... see, i lost count.
this stupid blog started 2005 at 1,000 hits. now it's ten times that number. fuckeroo!!!
i can't even fathom 500 people reading the kind of shit i put out. now i have 10,000??? what the fuck gives? anyway, thank you, all of you for stopping by and reading and commenting and i've run out of interesting things to say about this so i'll just go away now before i embarrass myself.
i'm out.
first of all, about the fucking layout. some people loved it, some didn't, some had no fucking opinion at all. thanks a lot.
some dude even went the extra mile and asked me (by email) why i changed the damn template. well.. why the fuck not? it's mine. and i was bored with it. i was even planning to administer a complete plastic surgery on the damn blog last night. thing is, i was too lazy. and besides, my html skills, on a scale of 1 to 10, is a fucking -4. i was one of 'em losers who tried to be this angst-ridden, mysterious, dark, "tired-of-the-world-can't-impress-me-with-that-shit-i-can-hack-into-your-deepest-sexual-fantasies" kind of geek way back when being a geek was fashionable. it was the fucking 90s okay. now, i'm just me. a flabby internet loser.
and such...
i really loved the way you people responded to paningit's stupid questions . yeah, the friggin' polls! it got the interactivity level of this blog a notch higher. because of that, now i know you guys actually hate me. just kidding. or am i?
just keep clickin' away on your answers and shit. and keep commenting on my stupid posts, too. if you feel you want to tell me something and you wouldn't want someone else to read it on the comments board, then email me. it's that simple. remember, your opinion and your feedback matters to me... fuck, that sounded like a lame commercial for a bank.
by the way, this week's poll is all about what shit would you like to see more of in this blog. so what are you doin' there scratchin' your balls for? go answer the friggin' question already. jeez!
and shit...
maybe i'm just a weirdo (oh... i am?), but don't you find it strange that we can't stand the smell of other people's shit, but when we go to the bathroom and unload a steaming pile of our own crap, that same smell doesn't faze us at all? i mean, shit is shit is shit. it's foul-smelling, whether it came from your own ass or from someone else's. it just is.
and such again...
five digits! dang!
last night, the site meter registered 10,000 hits. 10,000 hits! ten thousand fucking hits!!! that is fucking insane!!! i can't even count to 10,000. usually i lose count at around... hm... lemme see... 7842, 7843, 7844, 78... see, i lost count.
this stupid blog started 2005 at 1,000 hits. now it's ten times that number. fuckeroo!!!
i can't even fathom 500 people reading the kind of shit i put out. now i have 10,000??? what the fuck gives? anyway, thank you, all of you for stopping by and reading and commenting and i've run out of interesting things to say about this so i'll just go away now before i embarrass myself.
i'm out.
3.21.2005
job interview
i'll take nothing less than a hundred thousand a month, a 15 percent increase annually, an office with a view on the top floor, a parking space not more than 30 paces from the main entrance of this building, top of the line alienware laptop and desktop computers, food, gas, and clothing allowances, two days off a week, a 30-day paid vacation every year, a comprehensive health plan benefit, and stock options.
arrogant? assertive?
gentlemen, you were the ones who flew me in for this. i was having a perfect time at the beach downing tequila shots, until one of your represntatives approached me and begged for this interview. and the only reason i'm here is because mr. evert is a family friend.
as far as i'm concerned, you need me more than i need you. so that means, gentlemen, that you know what i bring to the table. i don't have to prove anything to you. you know what i can do, and you know how this company can benefit from it.
arrogance. definitely.
those were his thoughts. yes. his arrogance was never articulated. he was a stiff, nervous wreck, sitting on a steel chair four feet across a panel of five grumpy suits.
the suits were all business that day.
judging from their looks, they were all way above 50, and were suffering from either prostate cancer, erectile dysfunction, or a combination of both.
he slowly rubs his sweaty palms on his black slacks. he clears his throat with an occassional "ahem-ahem" from time to time. those were the only sounds that reverberated in that room for five minutes.
five minutes... was like eternity for him. he wished they'd ask more questions. questions that he knew the answers.
what's your favorite color? grey. your favorite food? pizza with lots of cheese and salami. your favorite drink? beer. strong beer. your favorite tv show? conan o'brien. you listen to any music? i think slipknot fucking rules!!!
his eyes were set on the suit in the middle. a very old suit with a face that looked like a rayon shirt. he was the top suit, and he was flipping through his credentials. every now and then he would nod and look at him. he would give a faint smile in reply, as if to say:
what, fucker? what do you want? do you want to hire me? then say so you fucking old fart. hire me. hire me!!!
"have you thought this through mr. ortiz? "
"yes sir." you bet i have you scrotum-faced bastard! why do you think i'm here???
"are you sure you really want to join our team?"
"definitely sir." look dickhead, i need the job okay... i need the friggin' job!!! i'm in the middle of a custody battle and i need the friggin' job!!!
"the job offers twenty thousand a month with 10% annual increases... depending on your performance, of course."
you need me more than i need you fuckers!
"you'll have a six-day work week, with fifteen days each for sick leaves and vacation leaves."
you give me what i want now, or i'll walk out that door!
"all of it if you pass the six-month probationary period. which means you start at fifteen thousand a month. and during your probationary period, we'll require you to render at least two hours of overtime everyday."
bullshit! i'm better than this! i'm not going to sit here and listen to this crap!!!
"mr. ortiz, are you amenable with our conditions?"
"yes sir."
"then welcome to the team."
arrogant? assertive?
gentlemen, you were the ones who flew me in for this. i was having a perfect time at the beach downing tequila shots, until one of your represntatives approached me and begged for this interview. and the only reason i'm here is because mr. evert is a family friend.
as far as i'm concerned, you need me more than i need you. so that means, gentlemen, that you know what i bring to the table. i don't have to prove anything to you. you know what i can do, and you know how this company can benefit from it.
arrogance. definitely.
those were his thoughts. yes. his arrogance was never articulated. he was a stiff, nervous wreck, sitting on a steel chair four feet across a panel of five grumpy suits.
the suits were all business that day.
judging from their looks, they were all way above 50, and were suffering from either prostate cancer, erectile dysfunction, or a combination of both.
he slowly rubs his sweaty palms on his black slacks. he clears his throat with an occassional "ahem-ahem" from time to time. those were the only sounds that reverberated in that room for five minutes.
five minutes... was like eternity for him. he wished they'd ask more questions. questions that he knew the answers.
what's your favorite color? grey. your favorite food? pizza with lots of cheese and salami. your favorite drink? beer. strong beer. your favorite tv show? conan o'brien. you listen to any music? i think slipknot fucking rules!!!
his eyes were set on the suit in the middle. a very old suit with a face that looked like a rayon shirt. he was the top suit, and he was flipping through his credentials. every now and then he would nod and look at him. he would give a faint smile in reply, as if to say:
what, fucker? what do you want? do you want to hire me? then say so you fucking old fart. hire me. hire me!!!
"have you thought this through mr. ortiz? "
"yes sir." you bet i have you scrotum-faced bastard! why do you think i'm here???
"are you sure you really want to join our team?"
"definitely sir." look dickhead, i need the job okay... i need the friggin' job!!! i'm in the middle of a custody battle and i need the friggin' job!!!
"the job offers twenty thousand a month with 10% annual increases... depending on your performance, of course."
you need me more than i need you fuckers!
"you'll have a six-day work week, with fifteen days each for sick leaves and vacation leaves."
you give me what i want now, or i'll walk out that door!
"all of it if you pass the six-month probationary period. which means you start at fifteen thousand a month. and during your probationary period, we'll require you to render at least two hours of overtime everyday."
bullshit! i'm better than this! i'm not going to sit here and listen to this crap!!!
"mr. ortiz, are you amenable with our conditions?"
"yes sir."
"then welcome to the team."
3.18.2005
can you tell me how to get, how to get to...
SESA-FUCKING-ME STREET!
are they still on air? i'm serious. i mean, how many new episodes of sesame street do we really need nowadays? by this time you'd expect people born between 1975 to 1985 can already read and count.
i would like to take this opportunity to bash sesame street and blame them for getting me hooked on the tube! you motherfuckers!!! you destroyed my childhood! i could've read books, lots of books that would've helped my grammar and spelling and shit. books that would've built my patience and raised my emotional quotient. now, thanks to you idoits sitting around there at the children's television workshop with your thumbs up your asses, i have a.d.d. instead!
seriously, i think sesame street is a very dangerous place to be in. i wouldn't live there even if someone bribed me with a million bucks. 1.2 million? i'd give it some thought. but a million bucks? no fucking way. people who live there have serious fucking issues.
you got a 10-foot flightless bird, aptly named big bird, that never lays an egg, lives in a nest, snores like a plumber, and is so fucking annoying. hey dude, make yourself useful and join the nba draft. either that or volunteer to change busted lightbulbs of lamp posts. do us all a fucking favor and move to the sequoia national forest. i'm sure there you'll find a tree big enough to nest you big yellow ass on!
you got a fucking two-ton furry mammoth named snuffy. this guy talks gay and has long curly eyelashes and gives everyone a queer look (i've been told he likes to check out guys' butts). what bugs me is for years people think he's imaginary. gimme a break! how can you miss something as big as a friggin' garbage truck and walks the speed of a geriatric snail??? tell me, how???
you got a creepy day-walker vampire (the count) who likes to count anything and everything he sees and ends every counting session with thunder and lightning. that's fucking freaky!!! and he laughs backwards too with a "ah-ah-ah" instead of a "ha-ha-ha." i say drive a stake through this bloodsucker's chest and burn him. burn him!!!
you got a gluttonous wobbly-eyed blue guy (cookie monster) with furry hands that devours anything in this path - plates, bricks, records, cookie boxes, cookie jars, girl scout cookie girl scouts, buses, trains, tin cans... everything! he talks like a retard too. personally, i think he'd be better off in some mental institution that hang around in sesame street.
then you got two fucking homos that live togther. one is yellow and sports a pathetic fido-dido do (bert), the other one's orange, sports a messed up crop, laughs weird (ish-ish-ish-ish-ish) and loves playing with sex toys and rubber duckies with enormous beaks during bathtime. these guys do nothing but stay in their house and administer blowjobs to each other. when they're not doing that, they run this stupid petition in the internet encouraging everyone that the next president should legalize gay marriages. spare us and just move to massachusettes please!
and it doesn't stop there. you got a frog that desperately tries to be a news reporter and an actor. you wanna be that, kermit?! well, pack your bags now because you can't. why? you're not tom brokaw. and oh, yeah, it ain't easy being green. right. that's because it sucks being you! period!
wait, lemme see... oh yeah, then you have that other green guy who lives in a trashcan and has a bitch who's a former member of the village people that carries him around town. fucking grouchy character that oscar is. he bitches about his life and how he wants everybody to just leave him alone and shit. i've been told he wasn't like this before. only in sesame street everybody's so fucking annoying that nobody wants to leave anybody alone, even just for a fucking minute... even if you stink and you live in a fucking trash can!!!
and there's this incredibly annoying red guy... elmer... shit... elmo. he's the most annoying of them all with a voice like a 55-year old public teacher's nails screeching on a blackboard! shit! he bugs people all day about how he likes to color his fish blue and how he wants to fly a stupid kite and... AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!! and it doesn't stop there. the guy's so fucking narcissistic he likes referring to himself in the third person. elmo this, elmo that, elmo this and that. shut up dipshit! shut the fuck up! nobody wants to tickle your hairy body! nobody!!!
there's more... a purple guy named telly, a blue skinny bald guy named groper.. oops.. grover... and a lot more. only problem is, i can't talk about them anymore without having another stroke.
so please, y'all know the song, sing along will you... tantan-tantanan-tanantan-tantanan / sunny day / who gives a shit!
i'm out.
are they still on air? i'm serious. i mean, how many new episodes of sesame street do we really need nowadays? by this time you'd expect people born between 1975 to 1985 can already read and count.
i would like to take this opportunity to bash sesame street and blame them for getting me hooked on the tube! you motherfuckers!!! you destroyed my childhood! i could've read books, lots of books that would've helped my grammar and spelling and shit. books that would've built my patience and raised my emotional quotient. now, thanks to you idoits sitting around there at the children's television workshop with your thumbs up your asses, i have a.d.d. instead!
seriously, i think sesame street is a very dangerous place to be in. i wouldn't live there even if someone bribed me with a million bucks. 1.2 million? i'd give it some thought. but a million bucks? no fucking way. people who live there have serious fucking issues.
you got a 10-foot flightless bird, aptly named big bird, that never lays an egg, lives in a nest, snores like a plumber, and is so fucking annoying. hey dude, make yourself useful and join the nba draft. either that or volunteer to change busted lightbulbs of lamp posts. do us all a fucking favor and move to the sequoia national forest. i'm sure there you'll find a tree big enough to nest you big yellow ass on!
you got a fucking two-ton furry mammoth named snuffy. this guy talks gay and has long curly eyelashes and gives everyone a queer look (i've been told he likes to check out guys' butts). what bugs me is for years people think he's imaginary. gimme a break! how can you miss something as big as a friggin' garbage truck and walks the speed of a geriatric snail??? tell me, how???
you got a creepy day-walker vampire (the count) who likes to count anything and everything he sees and ends every counting session with thunder and lightning. that's fucking freaky!!! and he laughs backwards too with a "ah-ah-ah" instead of a "ha-ha-ha." i say drive a stake through this bloodsucker's chest and burn him. burn him!!!
you got a gluttonous wobbly-eyed blue guy (cookie monster) with furry hands that devours anything in this path - plates, bricks, records, cookie boxes, cookie jars, girl scout cookie girl scouts, buses, trains, tin cans... everything! he talks like a retard too. personally, i think he'd be better off in some mental institution that hang around in sesame street.
then you got two fucking homos that live togther. one is yellow and sports a pathetic fido-dido do (bert), the other one's orange, sports a messed up crop, laughs weird (ish-ish-ish-ish-ish) and loves playing with sex toys and rubber duckies with enormous beaks during bathtime. these guys do nothing but stay in their house and administer blowjobs to each other. when they're not doing that, they run this stupid petition in the internet encouraging everyone that the next president should legalize gay marriages. spare us and just move to massachusettes please!
and it doesn't stop there. you got a frog that desperately tries to be a news reporter and an actor. you wanna be that, kermit?! well, pack your bags now because you can't. why? you're not tom brokaw. and oh, yeah, it ain't easy being green. right. that's because it sucks being you! period!
wait, lemme see... oh yeah, then you have that other green guy who lives in a trashcan and has a bitch who's a former member of the village people that carries him around town. fucking grouchy character that oscar is. he bitches about his life and how he wants everybody to just leave him alone and shit. i've been told he wasn't like this before. only in sesame street everybody's so fucking annoying that nobody wants to leave anybody alone, even just for a fucking minute... even if you stink and you live in a fucking trash can!!!
and there's this incredibly annoying red guy... elmer... shit... elmo. he's the most annoying of them all with a voice like a 55-year old public teacher's nails screeching on a blackboard! shit! he bugs people all day about how he likes to color his fish blue and how he wants to fly a stupid kite and... AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!! and it doesn't stop there. the guy's so fucking narcissistic he likes referring to himself in the third person. elmo this, elmo that, elmo this and that. shut up dipshit! shut the fuck up! nobody wants to tickle your hairy body! nobody!!!
there's more... a purple guy named telly, a blue skinny bald guy named groper.. oops.. grover... and a lot more. only problem is, i can't talk about them anymore without having another stroke.
so please, y'all know the song, sing along will you... tantan-tantanan-tanantan-tantanan / sunny day / who gives a shit!
i'm out.
3.16.2005
walking HBOs, have a nice day, tourists, and smart people
i'm feeling a bit jolly today. whoa! wait a minute, did i just say "jolly?" does anyone use the word "jolly" anymore? seriously. what kind of a moronic loser would use the word "jolly" in an introduction of a post. a loser... like me.
let's rant.
:: walking HBOs -- don't you just hate it when people take lines from popular movies and inject their thing in there and use it as if it were their own.
fuck you! you didn't write that line. "you had me at hello, even before you entered the door" oh shut the fuck up! the least you could do is acknowledge your source, or buy a friggin' jerry maguire poster.
like i know someone who loves fight club so much. and i mean soooo very much. the guy's practically a walking, breathing, uglier version of tyler durden. anyfuckingway, he love's the movie so much he always makes use of "the first rule of (blank) is..." reference. at first it was cool. "dude, the first rule of playing video games is...", "dude, the first rule in eating in a japanese restaurant is...", "dude the first rule in smoking a cigarette is...", "dude, the first rule in listening to a ramones album is...", dude the first rule this, dude, the first rule that. arghhhh!!!
dude, the first rule of hanging out with you is... not to hang out with you at all. please shut the fuck up or i'll take this really bulky fight club vhs tape and smash it in your head. reality check: you are not brad pitt, you are not tyler durden, you do not make soap, and you're not a charismatic leader of some vigilante group that spreads mayhem and mischief. you are a pimple-faced computer nerd that goes to the movies alone with your popcorn on one hand and your soda on the other.
besides, if you're so fucking clever mr. the-first-rule-to-everything-is, then answer this: what's the second rule?
just as i suspected. ass!
:: people who feels the need to wish everyone to have a nice day -- nothing wrong with wishing someone well, especially in the morning. if you're going to say have a nice day, make sure that that someone indeed has a lot of day ahead of him. don't wish him have a nice day at 9:00 in the evening. where the fuck is your common sense dipshit???
and please be sensitive enough. if you can see a person is really having a rough day, don't say have a nice day just for the heck of it. it really wouldn't sound nice. someone said that to me once: 10:00 in the morning, i'm flooded with a million requests from a million different people, i haven't shaved, i haven't had enough coffee. then this guy comes in and says, "hey, it's a tuesday and i'm feeling super. i hope you do too. have a nice day."
"bullshit! did i win the lotto? grow hair? lose weight? do i have a mansion? can you see super models flashing their breasts in my face? did i save the world? no? then get out of my fucking face!"
why not say, "can i help you with anything," instead? now that'll be better than taunting someone with "have a nice day." jesus christ, if that officemate ever pulls off something like that again, i'll @@$%%#$##$&*^##*^ his ass!!!!
:: people asking for directions -- can't i guy smoke a cigarette on the streets of baguio without dealing with absurd distractions? my only time to get away and rest my puny brain for a few minutes , and now i have some jackass from some far away province asking me how to get to the bus station.
do i look like i have a map tattooed across my chest? here, i'll clue you in - those lines are called stretch marks, buddy. it ain't a step by step guide on how to get around the city. do i look like a tour guide? i don't think so.
listen up. before you leave your tiny over priced hotel room to venture out into this tiny, dirty city of ours - remember to bring your map. because when the next seemingly innocent jerkoff strolls up to me with his dorky video camera out, wearing his "i love baguio city" t-shirt and bonet on... i swear on kris aquino's grave that i will take my cigarette and put it out right where the cow goes moo! fucking tourists!
:: people who think they're just so smart -- like that asshole who when asked what their favorite film is, they mention some random 1950's french drama about a guy who's slowly being manipulated by civilization.
shut the fuck up, einstein!!!
either say godfather 2, or fight club like everyone else or prepare for me to break your long skinny nose.
and oh, how about that sorry excuse for a human being who accidentally learned latin when he was twelve and wave it in your face during every conversation. do i look like i give two shits? hey, i learned how to play with my balls at around the same age - wanna give me a fucking medal? ass!
that's it. i'm spent. have a nice fucking day!
i'm out.
let's rant.
:: walking HBOs -- don't you just hate it when people take lines from popular movies and inject their thing in there and use it as if it were their own.
fuck you! you didn't write that line. "you had me at hello, even before you entered the door" oh shut the fuck up! the least you could do is acknowledge your source, or buy a friggin' jerry maguire poster.
like i know someone who loves fight club so much. and i mean soooo very much. the guy's practically a walking, breathing, uglier version of tyler durden. anyfuckingway, he love's the movie so much he always makes use of "the first rule of (blank) is..." reference. at first it was cool. "dude, the first rule of playing video games is...", "dude, the first rule in eating in a japanese restaurant is...", "dude the first rule in smoking a cigarette is...", "dude, the first rule in listening to a ramones album is...", dude the first rule this, dude, the first rule that. arghhhh!!!
dude, the first rule of hanging out with you is... not to hang out with you at all. please shut the fuck up or i'll take this really bulky fight club vhs tape and smash it in your head. reality check: you are not brad pitt, you are not tyler durden, you do not make soap, and you're not a charismatic leader of some vigilante group that spreads mayhem and mischief. you are a pimple-faced computer nerd that goes to the movies alone with your popcorn on one hand and your soda on the other.
besides, if you're so fucking clever mr. the-first-rule-to-everything-is, then answer this: what's the second rule?
just as i suspected. ass!
:: people who feels the need to wish everyone to have a nice day -- nothing wrong with wishing someone well, especially in the morning. if you're going to say have a nice day, make sure that that someone indeed has a lot of day ahead of him. don't wish him have a nice day at 9:00 in the evening. where the fuck is your common sense dipshit???
and please be sensitive enough. if you can see a person is really having a rough day, don't say have a nice day just for the heck of it. it really wouldn't sound nice. someone said that to me once: 10:00 in the morning, i'm flooded with a million requests from a million different people, i haven't shaved, i haven't had enough coffee. then this guy comes in and says, "hey, it's a tuesday and i'm feeling super. i hope you do too. have a nice day."
"bullshit! did i win the lotto? grow hair? lose weight? do i have a mansion? can you see super models flashing their breasts in my face? did i save the world? no? then get out of my fucking face!"
why not say, "can i help you with anything," instead? now that'll be better than taunting someone with "have a nice day." jesus christ, if that officemate ever pulls off something like that again, i'll @@$%%#$##$&*^##*^ his ass!!!!
:: people asking for directions -- can't i guy smoke a cigarette on the streets of baguio without dealing with absurd distractions? my only time to get away and rest my puny brain for a few minutes , and now i have some jackass from some far away province asking me how to get to the bus station.
do i look like i have a map tattooed across my chest? here, i'll clue you in - those lines are called stretch marks, buddy. it ain't a step by step guide on how to get around the city. do i look like a tour guide? i don't think so.
listen up. before you leave your tiny over priced hotel room to venture out into this tiny, dirty city of ours - remember to bring your map. because when the next seemingly innocent jerkoff strolls up to me with his dorky video camera out, wearing his "i love baguio city" t-shirt and bonet on... i swear on kris aquino's grave that i will take my cigarette and put it out right where the cow goes moo! fucking tourists!
:: people who think they're just so smart -- like that asshole who when asked what their favorite film is, they mention some random 1950's french drama about a guy who's slowly being manipulated by civilization.
shut the fuck up, einstein!!!
either say godfather 2, or fight club like everyone else or prepare for me to break your long skinny nose.
and oh, how about that sorry excuse for a human being who accidentally learned latin when he was twelve and wave it in your face during every conversation. do i look like i give two shits? hey, i learned how to play with my balls at around the same age - wanna give me a fucking medal? ass!
that's it. i'm spent. have a nice fucking day!
i'm out.
3.14.2005
LOL and ROTFLMAO
okay. bear with me for a while.
i've been chatting my way through the internet for quite some time now. but i haven't, for the fraggin' life of me, ever got the hang of using chat lingo. i don't know why. i'm just that kind of retard, i guess.
so i'm a retard and i converse with people through chat and often i see them use terms like LOL (for laughing out loud) and ROTFLMAO (for rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off). at first, i thought "what the fuck are these people saying here?!" i really didn't have a clue... it's like a secret vernacular for this ultra hip secret society that has an eleven-digit password and an ultra cool knock and shit. so being the moron that i am, i pretended to know what LOL and ROTFLMAO meant.
until i got tired and i googled the motherfucking terms. i found it a bit amusing, actually, so i tried making use of them. problem is, i feel twice the idiot that i already am whenever i use shit like BRB, CWYL, and GTG... and i feel i am not being completely honest with the person i'm talking to if i use acronyms like LOL or ROTFLMAO instead of "hehehe" and "hahaha."
for people who use these terms, don't get me wrong, please. i've got nothing against you guys. if that's your thing, then it's fine. it's just that it doesn't work for everyone. certainly not for me. i know this has been the "thing to do" for a while now, but recently i feel its use has been taken too far.
like yesterday, when i was talking to my friend online. same old bullshit. i say i'm tired. he asks why. i say because i got sucked into watching conan o'brien until 1:00 am. he says LOL.
huh? LOL??? let me get this straight. you just laughed out loud because i said i stayed up late to watch tv? it wasn't a fucking joke you ass. and i bet you weren't even laughing. i bet you had nothing of importance to say in return so you just threw in a LOL for the hell of it.
and ROTFLMAO. oh shit this one really gets me. when was the last time you rolled on the floor laughing over something someone said on the internet. to tell you the truth, i never rolled on the floor laughing. the only way you'll ever see me rolling on the floor is if i accidentally light the hair in my ass on fire.
anyway, that's just my fucking opinion.
so going back to my yesterday. yeah that stupid batchmate of mine who kept replying LOL to everything i said... anyway... apparently he's a huge fan of blogs too. thankfully not a fan of my blog (whew!).
he said he noticed the sharp increase in people who comment on my shit. i ask, what the fuck is wrong with that??? he said, oh nothing. a few minutes later, that "oh, nothing" really turns out to be "i think that people should stay away from the things you write because you don't really say anything that has sense."
"who? me? sense? well boo-fucking-hoo! who ever told you that i had sense??? who ever fucking told you that i'd like to complicate things by throwing in my two cents worth of shit about life's meaning and the purpose of existence and the blah fucking blah blah blah of things???"
i should have said that. but no. yesterday was sunday and i didn't feel like busting a nerve in my head... so i said, "well, you know me. hehehe."
i thought that'll shut him up. i was wrong. he went on criticizing every fucking post i had especially the ones about god and about valen-fucking-tine's day. then he gives me the url of one of his favorite blogs. a blog that, he said, is worth posting a comment on.
so i checked out the blog (don't bother asking for the fucking url, i didn't save it) and here's what i read:
:: today i went out for a walk. i like to take walks, especially long ones, because you really get to think and feel part of the outside world. you should take a walk today. get some fresh air. you might enjoy life more. ::
what a fucking loser!!! take a walk today??? what the fuck are you, some kind of a recovering alcoholic who lived in a box for the past three months??? jesus fucking christ in my ass, some fucking post.... bravo!... some fucking post!!!
yeah it pissed me off real good. but what pissed me off even more was that this lame blog written by some talentless limpdick loser had 32 comments under it.
32 fucking comments. 32! are you kidding me? i take a good twenty minutes of my time to write a thoughtful post about how sexy my ass is (which gets 14), while this moron says he likes walks and gets 32 friggin' comments. what's wrong with society? are people simply that boring???
i guess they are. LOL! ROTFLMAO!
i'm out.
i've been chatting my way through the internet for quite some time now. but i haven't, for the fraggin' life of me, ever got the hang of using chat lingo. i don't know why. i'm just that kind of retard, i guess.
so i'm a retard and i converse with people through chat and often i see them use terms like LOL (for laughing out loud) and ROTFLMAO (for rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off). at first, i thought "what the fuck are these people saying here?!" i really didn't have a clue... it's like a secret vernacular for this ultra hip secret society that has an eleven-digit password and an ultra cool knock and shit. so being the moron that i am, i pretended to know what LOL and ROTFLMAO meant.
until i got tired and i googled the motherfucking terms. i found it a bit amusing, actually, so i tried making use of them. problem is, i feel twice the idiot that i already am whenever i use shit like BRB, CWYL, and GTG... and i feel i am not being completely honest with the person i'm talking to if i use acronyms like LOL or ROTFLMAO instead of "hehehe" and "hahaha."
for people who use these terms, don't get me wrong, please. i've got nothing against you guys. if that's your thing, then it's fine. it's just that it doesn't work for everyone. certainly not for me. i know this has been the "thing to do" for a while now, but recently i feel its use has been taken too far.
like yesterday, when i was talking to my friend online. same old bullshit. i say i'm tired. he asks why. i say because i got sucked into watching conan o'brien until 1:00 am. he says LOL.
huh? LOL??? let me get this straight. you just laughed out loud because i said i stayed up late to watch tv? it wasn't a fucking joke you ass. and i bet you weren't even laughing. i bet you had nothing of importance to say in return so you just threw in a LOL for the hell of it.
and ROTFLMAO. oh shit this one really gets me. when was the last time you rolled on the floor laughing over something someone said on the internet. to tell you the truth, i never rolled on the floor laughing. the only way you'll ever see me rolling on the floor is if i accidentally light the hair in my ass on fire.
anyway, that's just my fucking opinion.
so going back to my yesterday. yeah that stupid batchmate of mine who kept replying LOL to everything i said... anyway... apparently he's a huge fan of blogs too. thankfully not a fan of my blog (whew!).
he said he noticed the sharp increase in people who comment on my shit. i ask, what the fuck is wrong with that??? he said, oh nothing. a few minutes later, that "oh, nothing" really turns out to be "i think that people should stay away from the things you write because you don't really say anything that has sense."
"who? me? sense? well boo-fucking-hoo! who ever told you that i had sense??? who ever fucking told you that i'd like to complicate things by throwing in my two cents worth of shit about life's meaning and the purpose of existence and the blah fucking blah blah blah of things???"
i should have said that. but no. yesterday was sunday and i didn't feel like busting a nerve in my head... so i said, "well, you know me. hehehe."
i thought that'll shut him up. i was wrong. he went on criticizing every fucking post i had especially the ones about god and about valen-fucking-tine's day. then he gives me the url of one of his favorite blogs. a blog that, he said, is worth posting a comment on.
so i checked out the blog (don't bother asking for the fucking url, i didn't save it) and here's what i read:
:: today i went out for a walk. i like to take walks, especially long ones, because you really get to think and feel part of the outside world. you should take a walk today. get some fresh air. you might enjoy life more. ::
what a fucking loser!!! take a walk today??? what the fuck are you, some kind of a recovering alcoholic who lived in a box for the past three months??? jesus fucking christ in my ass, some fucking post.... bravo!... some fucking post!!!
yeah it pissed me off real good. but what pissed me off even more was that this lame blog written by some talentless limpdick loser had 32 comments under it.
32 fucking comments. 32! are you kidding me? i take a good twenty minutes of my time to write a thoughtful post about how sexy my ass is (which gets 14), while this moron says he likes walks and gets 32 friggin' comments. what's wrong with society? are people simply that boring???
i guess they are. LOL! ROTFLMAO!
i'm out.
3.11.2005
my ass!
i find it a bit fucking disturbing that some people in hollywood called "actors" actually make a living out of showing their ass in the big screen.
... disturbed because i'm a guy, and personally, i'd rather see, j-lo's, jolie's, cameron diaz' asses sprawled all over the place instead of them actors' asses. most of these actors make use of ass-stunt doubles anyway.
... disturbed because i think my ass is way sexier (though way bigger, too) than that of collin farrell's and i should be making more money and more chances of getting laid on screen than that stupid beer-chuggin', foul-mouthed irish!
... disturbed because i've heard from somewhere that mel gibson wanted to duplicate his lethal weapon 2's "butt-bathing-under-the-moonlit-sky" scene during the shooting of the passion of the christ... yes, at the garden of gethsemane.
... disturbed because there are actually a lot of people who would pay to see this kind of shit. hey people, listen up. these asses are actually pale-white and are treated with cosmetics to make it look perfectly tanned.
... but i am convinced, that though my ass is sexier than most hollywood actors, i think you'd agree that my behind is better heard... not seen... not even kissed.
i'm out.
... disturbed because i'm a guy, and personally, i'd rather see, j-lo's, jolie's, cameron diaz' asses sprawled all over the place instead of them actors' asses. most of these actors make use of ass-stunt doubles anyway.
... disturbed because i think my ass is way sexier (though way bigger, too) than that of collin farrell's and i should be making more money and more chances of getting laid on screen than that stupid beer-chuggin', foul-mouthed irish!
... disturbed because i've heard from somewhere that mel gibson wanted to duplicate his lethal weapon 2's "butt-bathing-under-the-moonlit-sky" scene during the shooting of the passion of the christ... yes, at the garden of gethsemane.
... disturbed because there are actually a lot of people who would pay to see this kind of shit. hey people, listen up. these asses are actually pale-white and are treated with cosmetics to make it look perfectly tanned.
... but i am convinced, that though my ass is sexier than most hollywood actors, i think you'd agree that my behind is better heard... not seen... not even kissed.
i'm out.
3.08.2005
another conversation with god (and jesus)
fucking lightning struck my desk at exactly 6:00 pm. now i got a week's worth of handwritten research burning.
a few nanoseconds later... boom! thunder came roaring from the sky.
me: what the fu...
god: i wouldn't say that if i were you!
me: god! i mean... god... what's up, man, how's it hangin'?
god: haven't you learned anything from 15 years of catholic education? i am not man. i am GOD!
boom!
again, fucking thunder. thank goodness there wasn't any lightning before it. boy, this guy really has a thing for cinematic effects.
me: yeah, right. god. so what brings you to this side of town eh?
god: again, haven't you learned anything from 15 years of catholic education? i am god and therefore i am omnipresent. i am everywhere. i am not exactly, as you put it, at this side of the town. i am god.
boom!
me: okay, why don't we just cut the bullcrap and just tell me what i can do for you. you're holding me up here. i got a lot of work to do. and thanks to your trigger-happy lightning-fingers, i'm looking at a week's worth of setback. so what's up?
god: i've been reading your blog these past few days and...
me: you've been reading my blog? really? wow!
god: silence! (boom!) you shall not interrupt me when i speak!
me: oh, okay. my bad.
god: as i was saying, i've been reading your blog these past few days and i've noticed that you've been using my son's name rather indiscriminately. i demand an explanation! (boom!)
me: what? that? oh i was just having fun with it. besides, i don't think jesus christ has a problem with it.
god: well it has been bothering him. and he's been seeing a shrink because of it. at night he couldn't sleep. and if ever he goes to sleep, he wakes up in the middle of night screaming. he wets his bed. he says he hears all your readers laughing at him everytime they read his name in your blog.
jesus christ: dad! you're embarrassing me.
god: well it's the truth my son.
me: wait a minute. jesus! you mean to say, you asked your father to talk to me all because of this???
jc: well, your excessive name calling has been hurting my feelings. have you any idea how hard it is to schedule a session with dr. phil?
me: then why the fuck did you have to bring your father into this? you could've just talked to me directly. you're like an eight-year-old for heavensake! god, i'm sorry about this. i understand you're pissed because i know you're a busy guy and all... but your kid is acting like a pussy.
jc: hey stop that!
me: pussy!
jc: stupid, overrated blogger.
me: pussy!
jc: asswipe, assmunch, horsefucker!
me: pussy!
jc: ego-maniacal dickhead!
me: pussy!
jc: dad! he won't stop calling me names!
me: i'm sorry, god. but your son here is dickless. he should learn to stand up for himself.
jc: hey! you're talking to someone who rose from the dead here. i don't think you can do that.
me: i don't care, you're still a pu...
god: SILENCE!!! (boom!)
now i'm fanning out flames at the other end of my desk.
god: jesus, my son, i know you're the son of man... but you are still the son of me, GOD! and you better act like it or i'll give you an ass whoopin' that'll hurt so hard you'll be shitting out of your mouth for the next hundred years! (boom!)
jc: okay. here it goes... first of all, i want you to stop calling me names and stop using my name in your blog.
me: i can't promise that.
jc: secondly, i want you to accept me as your personal lord and savior.
me: i can't promise that, too.
jc: and lastly, i want you to stop masturbating in the shower every morning.
me: what???
god: so what do you have to say for yourself, mr. a?
me: okay, first of all i don't masturbate in the shower...
jc: oh, i've got video tapes to prove that. lalala-lalala-ladida.
me: shut up pussy!
jc: dad, there he goes again.
god: ENOUGH! (boom!) you will do what my son has instructed you to do. you will do it or else...
me: or else what?
god: or else i won't grant your prayer.
me: what prayer?
god: the one where you asked me to add an extra three inches to your dick! (boom!)
me: what??? that wasn't me!
jc: oh that was you alright. and i've got a videotape to prove it, too. *wink*
me: okay, whatever dude... i'll see what i can do.
god: you will refer to me as god...or heavenly father, not dude! (boom!)
me: okay, whatever god, heavenly father, sir. i'll see what i can do.
god: good. come along, jesus, let's see what osama and george dubya are up to now.
jc: oohhh goodie. but before that, can i part the red sea, dad. please. can i huh? can i?
god: oh okay, slugger.
so that's how my evening went. pretty fucking surreal if you ask me.
i'm out.
a few nanoseconds later... boom! thunder came roaring from the sky.
me: what the fu...
god: i wouldn't say that if i were you!
me: god! i mean... god... what's up, man, how's it hangin'?
god: haven't you learned anything from 15 years of catholic education? i am not man. i am GOD!
boom!
again, fucking thunder. thank goodness there wasn't any lightning before it. boy, this guy really has a thing for cinematic effects.
me: yeah, right. god. so what brings you to this side of town eh?
god: again, haven't you learned anything from 15 years of catholic education? i am god and therefore i am omnipresent. i am everywhere. i am not exactly, as you put it, at this side of the town. i am god.
boom!
me: okay, why don't we just cut the bullcrap and just tell me what i can do for you. you're holding me up here. i got a lot of work to do. and thanks to your trigger-happy lightning-fingers, i'm looking at a week's worth of setback. so what's up?
god: i've been reading your blog these past few days and...
me: you've been reading my blog? really? wow!
god: silence! (boom!) you shall not interrupt me when i speak!
me: oh, okay. my bad.
god: as i was saying, i've been reading your blog these past few days and i've noticed that you've been using my son's name rather indiscriminately. i demand an explanation! (boom!)
me: what? that? oh i was just having fun with it. besides, i don't think jesus christ has a problem with it.
god: well it has been bothering him. and he's been seeing a shrink because of it. at night he couldn't sleep. and if ever he goes to sleep, he wakes up in the middle of night screaming. he wets his bed. he says he hears all your readers laughing at him everytime they read his name in your blog.
jesus christ: dad! you're embarrassing me.
god: well it's the truth my son.
me: wait a minute. jesus! you mean to say, you asked your father to talk to me all because of this???
jc: well, your excessive name calling has been hurting my feelings. have you any idea how hard it is to schedule a session with dr. phil?
me: then why the fuck did you have to bring your father into this? you could've just talked to me directly. you're like an eight-year-old for heavensake! god, i'm sorry about this. i understand you're pissed because i know you're a busy guy and all... but your kid is acting like a pussy.
jc: hey stop that!
me: pussy!
jc: stupid, overrated blogger.
me: pussy!
jc: asswipe, assmunch, horsefucker!
me: pussy!
jc: ego-maniacal dickhead!
me: pussy!
jc: dad! he won't stop calling me names!
me: i'm sorry, god. but your son here is dickless. he should learn to stand up for himself.
jc: hey! you're talking to someone who rose from the dead here. i don't think you can do that.
me: i don't care, you're still a pu...
god: SILENCE!!! (boom!)
now i'm fanning out flames at the other end of my desk.
god: jesus, my son, i know you're the son of man... but you are still the son of me, GOD! and you better act like it or i'll give you an ass whoopin' that'll hurt so hard you'll be shitting out of your mouth for the next hundred years! (boom!)
jc: okay. here it goes... first of all, i want you to stop calling me names and stop using my name in your blog.
me: i can't promise that.
jc: secondly, i want you to accept me as your personal lord and savior.
me: i can't promise that, too.
jc: and lastly, i want you to stop masturbating in the shower every morning.
me: what???
god: so what do you have to say for yourself, mr. a?
me: okay, first of all i don't masturbate in the shower...
jc: oh, i've got video tapes to prove that. lalala-lalala-ladida.
me: shut up pussy!
jc: dad, there he goes again.
god: ENOUGH! (boom!) you will do what my son has instructed you to do. you will do it or else...
me: or else what?
god: or else i won't grant your prayer.
me: what prayer?
god: the one where you asked me to add an extra three inches to your dick! (boom!)
me: what??? that wasn't me!
jc: oh that was you alright. and i've got a videotape to prove it, too. *wink*
me: okay, whatever dude... i'll see what i can do.
god: you will refer to me as god...or heavenly father, not dude! (boom!)
me: okay, whatever god, heavenly father, sir. i'll see what i can do.
god: good. come along, jesus, let's see what osama and george dubya are up to now.
jc: oohhh goodie. but before that, can i part the red sea, dad. please. can i huh? can i?
god: oh okay, slugger.
so that's how my evening went. pretty fucking surreal if you ask me.
i'm out.
3.07.2005
i'm an insensitive pig, i know
someone made a major blunder the this morning.
a certain she (yes a woman) mistakenly furnished me a copy of a propaganda material disseminated by misguided women. thank god she wasn't a friend, or else i would've immediately hit the fucking reply button to give her a major tounge lashing. but she's not a friend. she's an officemate. and because of that i opened my drawer, took out a fresh roll of toilet paper and bit on it real hard until my rage subsided. twenty minutes and 88 gag reflexes later, i hit the fucking delete button instead.
jesus fucking christ! why did i do that? anyway, hours later, i'm still thinking about that stupid email that said something about 26 things a perfect guy would do for a lady. bullshit!
well, you know me, i'm not one who's going to back down from a perfect opportunity to make fun of people... friend or no friend. so i picked out some of the items i can remember from that stupid email and asked my evil twin brother that lives deep in my ass for his opinion. here it is.
(subtle warning: for those of you can't take a joke or are too fucking hardcore feminists, i suggest you turn away from the computer, or close this window now, or hit the "next blog" button on the upper right hand corner of this page, or visit one of my friends at the "pimpin' ain't easy section." otherwise, you can read on and label me as an insensitive, sexist, male chauvinist pig, and send me a hate mail. it's your choice. do whatever you want, but don't expect me to apologize for anything. this is my blog, afterall.)
a perfect guy would:
:: know how to make you smile when you are down -- what a way to start things off eh? jesus christ! when will women realize that they don't live on the set of a fucking romantic comedy sitcom? hey lady, you're not jennifer aniston. you're not on friends here. you're in the real world. and in the real world, the jennifer anistons and the brad pitts have problems and issues to fucking resolve. so unless making you smile involves me playing video games while you cook me a steak, you're in for a disappointment. don't you think guys ever feel "down" too? the door swings both ways, bitch!
:: try to secretly smell your hair, but you always notice -- what??? why the hell would i want to smell a woman's hair? it smells bad enough with all the sprays and perfume they use. enough with the conditioners, sprays, and cream already; those kinds of shit make my eyes water. what the hell are conditioners for anyway? to fucking condition you to have a great day at work because you have this soft, manageable hair. just an advice, ladies: drop it!
:: give you the remote control during the game -- what game? you mean a basketball game? you mean a baseball game? you mean during superfuckingbowl??? oh shit! this one is inherently stupid. a guy tunes into a game and hands over the rc to his lady? for what? i'd rather be shot in the chest with projectile diarrhea than do that. and another thing i can't comprehend, for the life of me, is why women try their best to fight for fucking attention every time a man watches a game? we were watching the evening news before that and everything was fucking fine. now it's the last two fucking minutes of regulation and you want me to massage your feet? what fucking gives?!
:: play with your hair -- again with the hair? argh!!! women never play with the hair on my back and nipples but you don't see me making a wishlist about it. now why the fucking double standard eh?
:: always hold your hands tenderly -- haven't i written a friggin' post about holding hands already? mary mother of god! how many fucking times do i have to tell you guys that excessive holding hands can be dangerous? in my opinion, excessive holding hands can only be acceptable if you're at a peace vigil. period.
:: be cute when he really wants something -- bullshit! when i want something, i go get it myself. that way i can't blame anyone but me if ever things get screwed. the only time i'd ask for favors is when i'm injured, in that case i'd yell if i want something.
:: offer you plenty of massages -- not unless the guy's a fucking masseur. if not, an offer of plenty massages would only mean he wants to fondle your boobs.
:: dance with you, even if he feels like a dork -- let's face it: there are few things in this world more stupid than dancing. and that includes break dancing, which pirates, lumber jacks, and people who were teenagers during the 80s would agree is awesome. other than that, dancing makes me envy cripples. besides, i'm already a dork even when i'm not dancing. i see no need to rub in my dorkness with feet-shuffling and shit.
:: react so cutely when you hit him and it actually hurts -- see, this is what pisses me off about women: they expect special treatment at their discretion. they want equal rights, equal pay, and equal treatment for everything EXCEPT when it comes to shit like this, then they want you to "react cutely" instead of, say, putting them in a head lock and making them eat ants and/or spiders while you give them carpet burn. why don't women react "cutely" when men hit them for a change? whooops, i forgot, that's considered fucking domestic abuse. right.
:: drive five hours just to see you for one -- any guy who would drive five hours just to see a chick for one is an asshole. if every guy drove around for five hours just to spend one with their girlfriend, we'd fill up the air with so much pollution that we'd all choke on the exhaust, get cancer, and then bake under the sun while our lungs rupture and we slowly die from internal bleeding.
:: stare at you -- i must say you guys really have this thing about seeking attention. would you rather have the guy buy you a mirror instead? because, and i think even ladies agree with me on this, we have more important things to do than just sit around and stare. i tell you, if women ran the world, we'd still be searching for the wheel.
oh man. that's it. i can't go on anymore. it's making me dizzy. i think i'd better go do something less painful than talk about this shit... like sticking my head in the oven or something.
but regardless of what i say about women, i respect them a great deal. honest. i just think it's wrong to make these stupid "perfect this perfect that" lists. because, frankly speaking, this is the reason why you women get disappointed at us men that often. you try to make up these "perfect" scenarios that we both know will never exist in the free world.
another advice to women: please keep in mind that us men are nothing but immature critters with the attention spans of a fucking turtle.
oh shit. i have a feeling my wife's going to kill me for this. hm.. that's weird. i just heard all of you say, "well i hope she fucking does, you pig!"
i'm out.
a certain she (yes a woman) mistakenly furnished me a copy of a propaganda material disseminated by misguided women. thank god she wasn't a friend, or else i would've immediately hit the fucking reply button to give her a major tounge lashing. but she's not a friend. she's an officemate. and because of that i opened my drawer, took out a fresh roll of toilet paper and bit on it real hard until my rage subsided. twenty minutes and 88 gag reflexes later, i hit the fucking delete button instead.
jesus fucking christ! why did i do that? anyway, hours later, i'm still thinking about that stupid email that said something about 26 things a perfect guy would do for a lady. bullshit!
well, you know me, i'm not one who's going to back down from a perfect opportunity to make fun of people... friend or no friend. so i picked out some of the items i can remember from that stupid email and asked my evil twin brother that lives deep in my ass for his opinion. here it is.
(subtle warning: for those of you can't take a joke or are too fucking hardcore feminists, i suggest you turn away from the computer, or close this window now, or hit the "next blog" button on the upper right hand corner of this page, or visit one of my friends at the "pimpin' ain't easy section." otherwise, you can read on and label me as an insensitive, sexist, male chauvinist pig, and send me a hate mail. it's your choice. do whatever you want, but don't expect me to apologize for anything. this is my blog, afterall.)
a perfect guy would:
:: know how to make you smile when you are down -- what a way to start things off eh? jesus christ! when will women realize that they don't live on the set of a fucking romantic comedy sitcom? hey lady, you're not jennifer aniston. you're not on friends here. you're in the real world. and in the real world, the jennifer anistons and the brad pitts have problems and issues to fucking resolve. so unless making you smile involves me playing video games while you cook me a steak, you're in for a disappointment. don't you think guys ever feel "down" too? the door swings both ways, bitch!
:: try to secretly smell your hair, but you always notice -- what??? why the hell would i want to smell a woman's hair? it smells bad enough with all the sprays and perfume they use. enough with the conditioners, sprays, and cream already; those kinds of shit make my eyes water. what the hell are conditioners for anyway? to fucking condition you to have a great day at work because you have this soft, manageable hair. just an advice, ladies: drop it!
:: give you the remote control during the game -- what game? you mean a basketball game? you mean a baseball game? you mean during superfuckingbowl??? oh shit! this one is inherently stupid. a guy tunes into a game and hands over the rc to his lady? for what? i'd rather be shot in the chest with projectile diarrhea than do that. and another thing i can't comprehend, for the life of me, is why women try their best to fight for fucking attention every time a man watches a game? we were watching the evening news before that and everything was fucking fine. now it's the last two fucking minutes of regulation and you want me to massage your feet? what fucking gives?!
:: play with your hair -- again with the hair? argh!!! women never play with the hair on my back and nipples but you don't see me making a wishlist about it. now why the fucking double standard eh?
:: always hold your hands tenderly -- haven't i written a friggin' post about holding hands already? mary mother of god! how many fucking times do i have to tell you guys that excessive holding hands can be dangerous? in my opinion, excessive holding hands can only be acceptable if you're at a peace vigil. period.
:: be cute when he really wants something -- bullshit! when i want something, i go get it myself. that way i can't blame anyone but me if ever things get screwed. the only time i'd ask for favors is when i'm injured, in that case i'd yell if i want something.
:: offer you plenty of massages -- not unless the guy's a fucking masseur. if not, an offer of plenty massages would only mean he wants to fondle your boobs.
:: dance with you, even if he feels like a dork -- let's face it: there are few things in this world more stupid than dancing. and that includes break dancing, which pirates, lumber jacks, and people who were teenagers during the 80s would agree is awesome. other than that, dancing makes me envy cripples. besides, i'm already a dork even when i'm not dancing. i see no need to rub in my dorkness with feet-shuffling and shit.
:: react so cutely when you hit him and it actually hurts -- see, this is what pisses me off about women: they expect special treatment at their discretion. they want equal rights, equal pay, and equal treatment for everything EXCEPT when it comes to shit like this, then they want you to "react cutely" instead of, say, putting them in a head lock and making them eat ants and/or spiders while you give them carpet burn. why don't women react "cutely" when men hit them for a change? whooops, i forgot, that's considered fucking domestic abuse. right.
:: drive five hours just to see you for one -- any guy who would drive five hours just to see a chick for one is an asshole. if every guy drove around for five hours just to spend one with their girlfriend, we'd fill up the air with so much pollution that we'd all choke on the exhaust, get cancer, and then bake under the sun while our lungs rupture and we slowly die from internal bleeding.
:: stare at you -- i must say you guys really have this thing about seeking attention. would you rather have the guy buy you a mirror instead? because, and i think even ladies agree with me on this, we have more important things to do than just sit around and stare. i tell you, if women ran the world, we'd still be searching for the wheel.
oh man. that's it. i can't go on anymore. it's making me dizzy. i think i'd better go do something less painful than talk about this shit... like sticking my head in the oven or something.
but regardless of what i say about women, i respect them a great deal. honest. i just think it's wrong to make these stupid "perfect this perfect that" lists. because, frankly speaking, this is the reason why you women get disappointed at us men that often. you try to make up these "perfect" scenarios that we both know will never exist in the free world.
another advice to women: please keep in mind that us men are nothing but immature critters with the attention spans of a fucking turtle.
oh shit. i have a feeling my wife's going to kill me for this. hm.. that's weird. i just heard all of you say, "well i hope she fucking does, you pig!"
i'm out.
3.05.2005
quit making faces you stupid fuck!
there's this festival happenin' in our beloved city about... yep, you've guessed it... about flowers.
i think it's stupid. but nevermind me. nevermind what i think.
part of the festivities are concerts that sporadically dot the main thoroughfares of the city. did i get that right? "thoroughfares?" shit, nevermind. in fact, fuck thoroughfares!
so back to the stupid topic. the concerts. we got bands performing left and right. bands from the big city. local bands. marching bands. the works. being in a band myself back in the day (back in the day meaning about six years ago. not the fucking beattles era yah numbnuts!), i decided to catch some performances.
here are my observations:
:: bands sound better today than they do six years ago. mainly because sound system companies started sprouting like mushrooms to meet the demand. competition drove their prices to the ground. as a result, concert organizers can now afford them and at the same time can pocket more money exploiting bands. jesus fucking christ in a mohawk! some things never fucking change.
anyway, gone were the days where concert organizers (and concert goers) would just be content stacking 200 50-watt speakers on stage hooked to makeshift amplifiers and shit. everyone didn't care if you sounded like a gnome gargling two gallons of lighter fluid inside a fully tiled bathroom on a rainy afternoon. people were just there to have fun, get drunk, and of course get high. super fucking high. now you see monitors on stage. and you see living, breathing sound engineers tweaking sound mixers and knobs and buttons and shit.
:: concerts now have events organizers. they make sure every band did their soundcheck way ahead their call time; they make sure the flow of the show goes smooth like a well oiled vibrator; and they also make sure people in the audience know they're gay.
there were no events organizers during our time. the closest thing that'll resemble one would be the other band's roadie that'll signal you're up next. and if it so happens that your fucking vocalist or guitarist got so wasted before you even performed... tough luck... the next band gets your spot. it's that fucking simple.
:: nobody does drugs anymore. or so i think. before you'd see people passing around joints and getting high while struggling to sing the lyrics of the songs they're hearing. now what do you see? yeah, fucking college kids in fucking signature clothes drinking fucking tazo tea. hey, people, this is a fucking rock concert, not some rotary club assembly where you can socialize and mingle. here you bang your heads till your necks hurt, not sway your little asses and groove. nobody "grooves" to papa roach songs... you treat those songs with respect by jumping up and down like a monkey in heat inside a real mosh pit. fucking posh, upper middle class crowd!
so far, those were the things i observed.
wait. ah yes. about guitarists. don't you just hate it when guitarists do their solos and start twitching their faces and shit like they're hitting all those impossible notes? i do. fuck!
they're so fucking annoying when they do shit like that. and some of them do it even when they're strumming three chords. three fucking chords like D-A-G! those notes doesn't seem too impossible. i mean, your hand wouldn't even go past the third fret of the guitar to hit them.
it's good to be animated and all during live perfomances. you can get the crowd all fired up with a little jig here and a bit of a head bang there. but the faces. argh! i mean, c'mon, to twitch and deform your face to the point of looking like joan rivers? there's gotta be some other thing you can do to show you're a fucking passionate guitar player. i don't know... breathe out fire, bite a bat's head off, have sex on stage... but don't twitch your face like that!
fucking show off!
i'm out.
i think it's stupid. but nevermind me. nevermind what i think.
part of the festivities are concerts that sporadically dot the main thoroughfares of the city. did i get that right? "thoroughfares?" shit, nevermind. in fact, fuck thoroughfares!
so back to the stupid topic. the concerts. we got bands performing left and right. bands from the big city. local bands. marching bands. the works. being in a band myself back in the day (back in the day meaning about six years ago. not the fucking beattles era yah numbnuts!), i decided to catch some performances.
here are my observations:
:: bands sound better today than they do six years ago. mainly because sound system companies started sprouting like mushrooms to meet the demand. competition drove their prices to the ground. as a result, concert organizers can now afford them and at the same time can pocket more money exploiting bands. jesus fucking christ in a mohawk! some things never fucking change.
anyway, gone were the days where concert organizers (and concert goers) would just be content stacking 200 50-watt speakers on stage hooked to makeshift amplifiers and shit. everyone didn't care if you sounded like a gnome gargling two gallons of lighter fluid inside a fully tiled bathroom on a rainy afternoon. people were just there to have fun, get drunk, and of course get high. super fucking high. now you see monitors on stage. and you see living, breathing sound engineers tweaking sound mixers and knobs and buttons and shit.
:: concerts now have events organizers. they make sure every band did their soundcheck way ahead their call time; they make sure the flow of the show goes smooth like a well oiled vibrator; and they also make sure people in the audience know they're gay.
there were no events organizers during our time. the closest thing that'll resemble one would be the other band's roadie that'll signal you're up next. and if it so happens that your fucking vocalist or guitarist got so wasted before you even performed... tough luck... the next band gets your spot. it's that fucking simple.
:: nobody does drugs anymore. or so i think. before you'd see people passing around joints and getting high while struggling to sing the lyrics of the songs they're hearing. now what do you see? yeah, fucking college kids in fucking signature clothes drinking fucking tazo tea. hey, people, this is a fucking rock concert, not some rotary club assembly where you can socialize and mingle. here you bang your heads till your necks hurt, not sway your little asses and groove. nobody "grooves" to papa roach songs... you treat those songs with respect by jumping up and down like a monkey in heat inside a real mosh pit. fucking posh, upper middle class crowd!
so far, those were the things i observed.
wait. ah yes. about guitarists. don't you just hate it when guitarists do their solos and start twitching their faces and shit like they're hitting all those impossible notes? i do. fuck!
they're so fucking annoying when they do shit like that. and some of them do it even when they're strumming three chords. three fucking chords like D-A-G! those notes doesn't seem too impossible. i mean, your hand wouldn't even go past the third fret of the guitar to hit them.
it's good to be animated and all during live perfomances. you can get the crowd all fired up with a little jig here and a bit of a head bang there. but the faces. argh! i mean, c'mon, to twitch and deform your face to the point of looking like joan rivers? there's gotta be some other thing you can do to show you're a fucking passionate guitar player. i don't know... breathe out fire, bite a bat's head off, have sex on stage... but don't twitch your face like that!
fucking show off!
i'm out.
3.04.2005
hate mail
just recently, a fat guy said to me:
a, i'd probably kill you in your sleep with a butter knife if given the chance.
to which i replied:
in my sleep? with a butter knife? i don't think so.
i bet your enormously fat fingers won't allow you to even hold a stupid butter knife, much less stab anyone with it. you're a loser with thick fingers that makes pigs look like they have opposable thumbs.
i suggest you take your butter knife and cut your dick with it and eat your puny pecker for dinner. i bet your dick would add up to.. say.. 0.03 points, that'll help your weight watching diet a lot.
and oh, you lost four pounds. good for you. congratulations. four pounds of what? hair? air? booger? four pounds, yeah right.. in your fucking dreams frogpussy!
but regardless of what you say to me, fuckface, i'm still your fan. and i love your work. and you make me laugh. and that's that.
stupid fucking hate mail.
i'm out.
a, i'd probably kill you in your sleep with a butter knife if given the chance.
to which i replied:
in my sleep? with a butter knife? i don't think so.
i bet your enormously fat fingers won't allow you to even hold a stupid butter knife, much less stab anyone with it. you're a loser with thick fingers that makes pigs look like they have opposable thumbs.
i suggest you take your butter knife and cut your dick with it and eat your puny pecker for dinner. i bet your dick would add up to.. say.. 0.03 points, that'll help your weight watching diet a lot.
and oh, you lost four pounds. good for you. congratulations. four pounds of what? hair? air? booger? four pounds, yeah right.. in your fucking dreams frogpussy!
but regardless of what you say to me, fuckface, i'm still your fan. and i love your work. and you make me laugh. and that's that.
stupid fucking hate mail.
i'm out.
3.03.2005
chopsuey
:: i wonder why i never get tired listening to jason mraz. the motherfuckin' dork can definitely carry a tune. and his wicked, kickass songs are a joy to listen to; they're like poetry set to music. dang! i just said the word joy! dang!
:: will there ever come a time when blogging becomes a recognized profession like a doctor, or engineer, or one of them cheesy professions? then we can give out business cards that read: mr. so and so... RB. what's RB? registered blogger.
dad: what do you want to be you grow up, junior?
dad's junior: dad, i want to become a blogger. but a different kind of blogger...
dad: how different?
dad's junior: a blogger that would write his own original ideas and not just plaigarize other blogs just to be famous.
dad: good for you, son. it's nice to know you have an ambition... and at such an early age of two.
now here's your pentium 31 alienware laptop... knock yourself out!
:: maybe 360 years from now, intellectual masturbation can become an official event in the olympics.
:: when i finally ate something healthy (two carrot sticks for crying out loud!), my stomach started grumbling and complained, "what you ate could possibly be the most horrific tasting food i've ever tasted in my entire life." i wasnt't surprised my stomach can speak. i was surprised that he watches way too much american idol for him to sound like simon cowell. dang! shut the fuck up, stomach!
:: license and registration? for what? for a fucking lawn mower??? i was doing forty. i was right on doing forty! in what alternate universe are you from?! don't answer that.
:: warm food is good for you, right? but what you're telling me is i can't water the plants with warm water. now why the fuck is that?
:: babies are such darn adorable creatures. but there's just one problem with their programming. apparently they have problem with food... real food. everytime you feed 'em, they will put up a fight. what bothers me, though, is they have no problem eating a "choo-choo" train or a boeing 747 airplane. yep, definitely something wrong with their programming.
i'm out.
:: will there ever come a time when blogging becomes a recognized profession like a doctor, or engineer, or one of them cheesy professions? then we can give out business cards that read: mr. so and so... RB. what's RB? registered blogger.
dad: what do you want to be you grow up, junior?
dad's junior: dad, i want to become a blogger. but a different kind of blogger...
dad: how different?
dad's junior: a blogger that would write his own original ideas and not just plaigarize other blogs just to be famous.
dad: good for you, son. it's nice to know you have an ambition... and at such an early age of two.
now here's your pentium 31 alienware laptop... knock yourself out!
:: maybe 360 years from now, intellectual masturbation can become an official event in the olympics.
:: when i finally ate something healthy (two carrot sticks for crying out loud!), my stomach started grumbling and complained, "what you ate could possibly be the most horrific tasting food i've ever tasted in my entire life." i wasnt't surprised my stomach can speak. i was surprised that he watches way too much american idol for him to sound like simon cowell. dang! shut the fuck up, stomach!
:: license and registration? for what? for a fucking lawn mower??? i was doing forty. i was right on doing forty! in what alternate universe are you from?! don't answer that.
:: warm food is good for you, right? but what you're telling me is i can't water the plants with warm water. now why the fuck is that?
:: babies are such darn adorable creatures. but there's just one problem with their programming. apparently they have problem with food... real food. everytime you feed 'em, they will put up a fight. what bothers me, though, is they have no problem eating a "choo-choo" train or a boeing 747 airplane. yep, definitely something wrong with their programming.
i'm out.
i need to wake up
so i have this minor problem in the morning. no, no, no. not a pedro. nothing like that.
i can't get up early for work. well... i can't wake up early, that's why. and if ever i do wake up early, i just go back to sleep. i have to be at the office by eight in the morning everyday but i wake up at around half past seven. and the ride to the office takes about half an hour.
basically i've been thinking about getting an alarm clock.
i know exactly what you're saying. "fat dumbass! of course get an alarm clock!" i know, i know... an alarm clock could very well be the most civilized manner to wake someone up in the morning. not unless you want to be drenched with boiling water. now, that'll surely wake you up.
but alarm clocks... well... let me put it this way. i'm one of them guys who hit the snooze button forty times before i decide to drag my lazy fatass out of bed. with that kind of behavior, i'd say a normal alarm clock could last a week with me.
hm... what if i get a rooster instead. yeah! a rooster in my room. that way i'd really have to get up and run around the room every morning just to shut up the cock-a-doodle-doo-ing motherfucker. plus i could do my early morning excersice rituals, too.
bah! i don't do exercise.
hm... i wonder if i could fit a cow in my room. but do cows wake up at six in the morning? shoot!
i'm out.
i can't get up early for work. well... i can't wake up early, that's why. and if ever i do wake up early, i just go back to sleep. i have to be at the office by eight in the morning everyday but i wake up at around half past seven. and the ride to the office takes about half an hour.
basically i've been thinking about getting an alarm clock.
i know exactly what you're saying. "fat dumbass! of course get an alarm clock!" i know, i know... an alarm clock could very well be the most civilized manner to wake someone up in the morning. not unless you want to be drenched with boiling water. now, that'll surely wake you up.
but alarm clocks... well... let me put it this way. i'm one of them guys who hit the snooze button forty times before i decide to drag my lazy fatass out of bed. with that kind of behavior, i'd say a normal alarm clock could last a week with me.
hm... what if i get a rooster instead. yeah! a rooster in my room. that way i'd really have to get up and run around the room every morning just to shut up the cock-a-doodle-doo-ing motherfucker. plus i could do my early morning excersice rituals, too.
bah! i don't do exercise.
hm... i wonder if i could fit a cow in my room. but do cows wake up at six in the morning? shoot!
i'm out.
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