so, everyone who is anyone in blog city seems to be taking a breather.
i was out for three fucking days and i hardly saw any changes in the damn scenery when i got back. and three days without blogging, for me, is quite long. like a month. it felt like i was out for a month. so i'll just say that. because that's what it felt. i was out for a month. dang!
why was i out? actually i have a very valid reason.
three days... er.... a month ago, i was out for a walk. nothing special. coffee. cigarettes. and my alone time. enjoying it actually.
then suddenly three guys jumped out from the bushes and ganged up on me. they were asking for money. they were all big. the smallest guy, obviously the ring leader of the circus, was like 6'8". actually he was 5'2", but he did sound like 6'8" so i'll just say that. they also had guns. uzis. glocks. .45 pistols. ak-47s. name it, they have it. there was no chance i'd be able to use my kung fu on them. so decided play along.
"jesus christ! me? money? would you like some lint, because i have a lot those? how about some falling hair? no? look, man. i've got nothing. i'm the cheapest guy alive."
"shut up and hand me over your wallet!"
so i hand over my wallet.
"receipts, bills, ids... what the fuck is this???"
"oh, that's a picture of mr. t. he's my dad. look, we have the same eyebrows."
"bullshit! this fat motherfucker's broke," said the other guy who stands 6'10" and was holding the ak-47. "i say we waste the bitch!"
"no, wait," said the ring leader. "i have an idea. take off your pants fatso."
"what the fuck? is this fuckin' rape? because i could set you up with a couple of bitches i know downtown. they'd gladly do it for free."
"shut up! take off your pants or you die!"
"okay, okay. jeezus."
"good. now squat on this paper bag and take a big dump on it. now!"
"you want me to shit on this bag? what the fuck for?"
"do it!"
thank god i had eight dimsum platters for lunch. so that's what i did. i squat on the bag and began to expel shit from my body so hard i almost had an aneurysm. then the unthinkable happened. the three guys suddenly dropped their pants and started jerking off. on me. while i was taking a dump. fuck!
i couldn't take it anymore. so i passed out. for three days. that felt like a month.
and that's what happened.
that's why i was out.
actually, that's not what happened. work got in the way. life got in the way. but i wanted to do a post about three burly guys getting off on me while i was taking a dump. so, there.
i'm out.
4.28.2005
lemme get this out of the way
i just saw your picture
about fifteen minutes ago
and i suddenly felt
a sharp pain in the middle of my chest
i can't explain the pain
but it does have a name
it's guilt
but i found a way to get this out of me
i'll work out my karma
in the gym
about fifteen minutes ago
and i suddenly felt
a sharp pain in the middle of my chest
i can't explain the pain
but it does have a name
it's guilt
but i found a way to get this out of me
i'll work out my karma
in the gym
4.25.2005
missed me? i guess not.
my wife works for this colossal telecommunications company. colossal. yeah, they hand out colossal remuneration packages to their employees and charge colossal air time rates to their customers. colossal.
what does it have to do with my next post? nothing.
:: people who are not in the library but still insist in using their library voice -- i usually play my wicked mp3 collection or my launchcast radio while at work. it keeps me stable. and i consider myself a pretty considerate guy (really, i'm pretty), so i keep the volume at a fairly manageable level. the only time i turn it a down a notch or two is when the boss drops by every morning to talk about how much his balls were itching the whole night. and how much he enjoys KY jelly with his coffee. sick bastard. anyway, that's what i do. so i expect everyone who drops by my office to speak up with a volume suited for an office conversation. because i won't fucking turn down the volume for them. that being said, i'm still constantly annoyed by people who insist in using their library voice.
"hey A, can you give me last month's KRA monitoring table, because my department needs it to review team members who were able to hit their targets and..."
"i'm sorry, BUT WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?!!"
these people need to be taught a lesson. maybe i'd talk to them first. y'know, be diplomatic and shit. "look, sissy, if you want us to have a good working relationship, please raise the volume of your voice. do it before i kill you. thanks." if that doesn't work, then i'd pick them up by their noses and hang them behind my door for the whole 8 hours. why? because this is not a fucking library, bitch!
can you see a sign that says "silence?" can you see endless rows of bookshelves? can you see a librarian? no, he's not a librarian, he's conan. not conan the librarian, dumbass! he's conan the "who-the-fuck-cares-i-have-muscles-big-enough-to-break-your-face" barbarian. and he has this mighty sword that can cut you in half if you don't raise the volume of your voice to an appropriate level, assmunch!
i know a lot of you have problems with loudmouths. you're annoyed by loudmouths. but at least you can hear 'em.
:: people who hand out resto menus in the street -- well, not just in the street. they're fuckin' everywhere. they're in every corner of the mall. they go inside offices. they double as pee pee room attendants, "good afternoon, sir. here's your towel. and here are today's specials." bullshit!!! who the fuck wants to think about food inside the bathroom? who? tell me. okay, i'll have the ribeye and a bottle of the most expensive "get-your-pathetic-fucking-menu-out-of-my-face-before-i-force-you-to-drink-toilet-water" wine.
here's an idea. why don't you just close shop and move to iraq where the chances of you being shot while handing out menus in the street would be higher.
remember this people, if a place has to have a guy outside handing out menu's, then chances are the place sucks ass!
:: people who always have the inside track -- i hate them. i hate them with passion. they think they know everything about the latest happenings around town. like this guy who once said he had the inside track on the reason why jennifer aniston and brad pitt broke up. yeah. he said his aunt's, cousin's, mother's, nephew's roommate has a godfather who's niece is a friend of someone who now works as a studio custodian in hollywood.
great! you see, horsefucker, what you just did automatically qualifies you to work at access hollywood. yeah, with that queer, billy bush. now, if you could just turn around and walk the other way. please. before i peel all the skin off your body. thank you.
and oh, the reason why jennifer and brad broke up? jen farts too much and brad rarely showers.
i'm out.
what does it have to do with my next post? nothing.
:: people who are not in the library but still insist in using their library voice -- i usually play my wicked mp3 collection or my launchcast radio while at work. it keeps me stable. and i consider myself a pretty considerate guy (really, i'm pretty), so i keep the volume at a fairly manageable level. the only time i turn it a down a notch or two is when the boss drops by every morning to talk about how much his balls were itching the whole night. and how much he enjoys KY jelly with his coffee. sick bastard. anyway, that's what i do. so i expect everyone who drops by my office to speak up with a volume suited for an office conversation. because i won't fucking turn down the volume for them. that being said, i'm still constantly annoyed by people who insist in using their library voice.
"hey A, can you give me last month's KRA monitoring table, because my department needs it to review team members who were able to hit their targets and..."
"i'm sorry, BUT WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?!!"
these people need to be taught a lesson. maybe i'd talk to them first. y'know, be diplomatic and shit. "look, sissy, if you want us to have a good working relationship, please raise the volume of your voice. do it before i kill you. thanks." if that doesn't work, then i'd pick them up by their noses and hang them behind my door for the whole 8 hours. why? because this is not a fucking library, bitch!
can you see a sign that says "silence?" can you see endless rows of bookshelves? can you see a librarian? no, he's not a librarian, he's conan. not conan the librarian, dumbass! he's conan the "who-the-fuck-cares-i-have-muscles-big-enough-to-break-your-face" barbarian. and he has this mighty sword that can cut you in half if you don't raise the volume of your voice to an appropriate level, assmunch!
i know a lot of you have problems with loudmouths. you're annoyed by loudmouths. but at least you can hear 'em.
:: people who hand out resto menus in the street -- well, not just in the street. they're fuckin' everywhere. they're in every corner of the mall. they go inside offices. they double as pee pee room attendants, "good afternoon, sir. here's your towel. and here are today's specials." bullshit!!! who the fuck wants to think about food inside the bathroom? who? tell me. okay, i'll have the ribeye and a bottle of the most expensive "get-your-pathetic-fucking-menu-out-of-my-face-before-i-force-you-to-drink-toilet-water" wine.
here's an idea. why don't you just close shop and move to iraq where the chances of you being shot while handing out menus in the street would be higher.
remember this people, if a place has to have a guy outside handing out menu's, then chances are the place sucks ass!
:: people who always have the inside track -- i hate them. i hate them with passion. they think they know everything about the latest happenings around town. like this guy who once said he had the inside track on the reason why jennifer aniston and brad pitt broke up. yeah. he said his aunt's, cousin's, mother's, nephew's roommate has a godfather who's niece is a friend of someone who now works as a studio custodian in hollywood.
great! you see, horsefucker, what you just did automatically qualifies you to work at access hollywood. yeah, with that queer, billy bush. now, if you could just turn around and walk the other way. please. before i peel all the skin off your body. thank you.
and oh, the reason why jennifer and brad broke up? jen farts too much and brad rarely showers.
i'm out.
4.20.2005
stuff and things
stuff
i've been getting a lot of mails lately. no, not hate mails. and definitely not fan mails. they're mails from, dig this, friendster. ha! now why the fuck would friendster send me emails? it's not like i have a stupid friendster account or anything. holy shit. i just remembered i do have a friendster account. damn, that's lame!
so about the emails. "friends" from my stupid and lame friendster network (yeah, all 14 of them. what can i say? i'm really not that friendly.) have been fielding notices that they've started their own friendster blog.
great.
another blog.
great.
yay fucking yay! let's celebrate shall we? bring out the champagne, drink 'em all up, then shove the bottle up your ass you talentless piece of shit. because the last thing the world needs right now is another blog that talks about nothing but you getting up every morning, skipping class or being late for work, and taking some random test or attending some useless meeting. shut the fuck up! go out and have sex, get drunk, screw your professor, your dog, your officemate, or someone, i don't care. if your life is a 9-5 hell, do something about it, like, i don't know, get fired. but please, mr. talentless fucktard who wants to believe he's a writer, please, stay away from blogging. do other things, just don't blog. hey, i can get up, take a shit, and write about it too. does that mean i should create a blog too? hell no! oh wait. i already did. nevermind.
things
this just in. there's a new pope. joseph ratzinger (did i get that right?) alias pope benedict XVI. and he's german. not catholic. but german. what a stupid joke.
rumor has it that our boy, joe, here was part of hitler's army way back in world war II. the same army that almost annihilated the jews to extinction in the 1940s. what a way to start things off eh?
cardinals at the vatican said the new pope is planning to talk to dirk nowitzki of the dallas mavericks about skipping the basketball hall of fame after 7-foot bavarian retires from playing... to be canonized as saint. i didn't know jesus was such a basketball fan.
stuff
now that there's a new pope, i guess i better change my poll then.
the results:
48 people voted. 42% wanted conan o'brien to be pope, 25% voted for donald trump, while 8% of you fuckers wanted homer simpson to be head of the church. but from the list, i voted for ozzy. imagine him biting a bat's head off everytime he says mass. that'll be just wicked! yeah!
things
is it just me or has anyone noticed that DONALD TRUMP is just an anagram for PORN MALT DUD.
i'm out.
i've been getting a lot of mails lately. no, not hate mails. and definitely not fan mails. they're mails from, dig this, friendster. ha! now why the fuck would friendster send me emails? it's not like i have a stupid friendster account or anything. holy shit. i just remembered i do have a friendster account. damn, that's lame!
so about the emails. "friends" from my stupid and lame friendster network (yeah, all 14 of them. what can i say? i'm really not that friendly.) have been fielding notices that they've started their own friendster blog.
great.
another blog.
great.
yay fucking yay! let's celebrate shall we? bring out the champagne, drink 'em all up, then shove the bottle up your ass you talentless piece of shit. because the last thing the world needs right now is another blog that talks about nothing but you getting up every morning, skipping class or being late for work, and taking some random test or attending some useless meeting. shut the fuck up! go out and have sex, get drunk, screw your professor, your dog, your officemate, or someone, i don't care. if your life is a 9-5 hell, do something about it, like, i don't know, get fired. but please, mr. talentless fucktard who wants to believe he's a writer, please, stay away from blogging. do other things, just don't blog. hey, i can get up, take a shit, and write about it too. does that mean i should create a blog too? hell no! oh wait. i already did. nevermind.
things
this just in. there's a new pope. joseph ratzinger (did i get that right?) alias pope benedict XVI. and he's german. not catholic. but german. what a stupid joke.
rumor has it that our boy, joe, here was part of hitler's army way back in world war II. the same army that almost annihilated the jews to extinction in the 1940s. what a way to start things off eh?
cardinals at the vatican said the new pope is planning to talk to dirk nowitzki of the dallas mavericks about skipping the basketball hall of fame after 7-foot bavarian retires from playing... to be canonized as saint. i didn't know jesus was such a basketball fan.
stuff
now that there's a new pope, i guess i better change my poll then.
the results:
48 people voted. 42% wanted conan o'brien to be pope, 25% voted for donald trump, while 8% of you fuckers wanted homer simpson to be head of the church. but from the list, i voted for ozzy. imagine him biting a bat's head off everytime he says mass. that'll be just wicked! yeah!
things
is it just me or has anyone noticed that DONALD TRUMP is just an anagram for PORN MALT DUD.
i'm out.
4.18.2005
whatever happened to amelia earhart... blah blah blah
there are those who were destined to fly.
and there are those who were cursed to stay grounded and crawl the earth for all eternity.
that is reality, and we must learn to accept that.
in 1903, the wright brothers, with their monstrous creation, conquered the air for 12 seconds. some 60 years later, they recorded smash hits that included "you've lost that loving feeling" and "unchained melody." wait a minute. those were the righteous brothers. shit.
anyway, moving on. in june 1928, amelia earhart became the first woman to fly across the atlantic. incidentally, the boeing company lays off some 20,000 to 30,000 employees 73 years later. talking through a spirit medium, amelia said she wished she was the one who got laid instead.
what is my point here? i don't fucking know. all i know is not all creatures gifted with wings should be flying.
***
pilot: tower, this is flight 232 requesting permission to land, over.
tower: roger that flight 232. the runway's all clear for landing.
pilot: roger that.
(a few milliminutes later)
pilot: tower, this is flight 232. there seems to be a problem with our visual. the runway, is blocked with something grey. it has the word nautica printed on it.
tower: roger that flight 232. abort! abort!
pilot: too late. my landing gears and flaps are already down. will make an emergency landing on a nearby field. wish me luck, tower.
tower: godspeed, flight 232.
***
next thing you know a fat guy's blurting out inaudible expletives, twitching and turning with both of his hands struggling to reach the back of his neck, while his brand spankin' new grey nautica shirt is drenched with a mug of freshly brewed coffee.
the fat guy is me. a cockroach landed on the back of my neck.
i hate roaches. i hate them all. i wish it would rain mothballs for 40 days and 40 nights so every goddamn cockroach would just die! or i wish everyone in china, all 1.3 billion of them, would join fear factor and each of them would have to eat roaches for about a week so they can win $50,000 and a pair of kicks from nike... yeah, the one that says "made in fucking china."
fuck! i hate creepy, crawly cockroaches! and i miss my shirt! argh!!!
i'm out.
and there are those who were cursed to stay grounded and crawl the earth for all eternity.
that is reality, and we must learn to accept that.
in 1903, the wright brothers, with their monstrous creation, conquered the air for 12 seconds. some 60 years later, they recorded smash hits that included "you've lost that loving feeling" and "unchained melody." wait a minute. those were the righteous brothers. shit.
anyway, moving on. in june 1928, amelia earhart became the first woman to fly across the atlantic. incidentally, the boeing company lays off some 20,000 to 30,000 employees 73 years later. talking through a spirit medium, amelia said she wished she was the one who got laid instead.
what is my point here? i don't fucking know. all i know is not all creatures gifted with wings should be flying.
***
pilot: tower, this is flight 232 requesting permission to land, over.
tower: roger that flight 232. the runway's all clear for landing.
pilot: roger that.
(a few milliminutes later)
pilot: tower, this is flight 232. there seems to be a problem with our visual. the runway, is blocked with something grey. it has the word nautica printed on it.
tower: roger that flight 232. abort! abort!
pilot: too late. my landing gears and flaps are already down. will make an emergency landing on a nearby field. wish me luck, tower.
tower: godspeed, flight 232.
***
next thing you know a fat guy's blurting out inaudible expletives, twitching and turning with both of his hands struggling to reach the back of his neck, while his brand spankin' new grey nautica shirt is drenched with a mug of freshly brewed coffee.
the fat guy is me. a cockroach landed on the back of my neck.
i hate roaches. i hate them all. i wish it would rain mothballs for 40 days and 40 nights so every goddamn cockroach would just die! or i wish everyone in china, all 1.3 billion of them, would join fear factor and each of them would have to eat roaches for about a week so they can win $50,000 and a pair of kicks from nike... yeah, the one that says "made in fucking china."
fuck! i hate creepy, crawly cockroaches! and i miss my shirt! argh!!!
i'm out.
4.14.2005
i love my stapler
sometimes when i'm bored i play up these scenarios in my brain. fun, sunshine-y, skippy-dee-doo-da scenarios. for example, i want to buy a whole box of spray paint. then i'd sneak in the office really early, like fucking 5:00 am early, and proceed to spray the words "fuck you" on every goddamn monitor in the office. and for my boss' monitor, i'd spray the words "fuck you! you're an idiot you fucking fag!!!" yeah, that'll be fun. and did i say i'd do it on every monitor? yeah, every single one of them. except for the one co-worker that annoys me the most. because that's where i'll hide the cans once i'm done.
then i'll go home, take a shower, drink coffee, and be at the office on time. then i'll go really nuts like, "who the fuck did this??? answer me! have you no respect for office property? i say we find the motherfucking vandal who did this and cut his dick off!!!" then i and 33 other thugs in the office will do rounds and i'd point to them that fuckface's monitor where i hid all the cans. then we'll take him outside and beat him up real bad. til his black and blue and can no longer speak. then i'd get my boss to fire him in front of everyone. then he'd be crying like a fag and be begging for his job back, but my boss will just kick him in the groin and say: "i'm not a fucking fag you unemployed piece of crap!!!"
that'll be fun.
and as he leaves the office with all his things neatly packed in his stupid box i'd say to him: "hey asshole, next time you wanna borrow my stapler, ask me nicely, okay?"
i'm out.
then i'll go home, take a shower, drink coffee, and be at the office on time. then i'll go really nuts like, "who the fuck did this??? answer me! have you no respect for office property? i say we find the motherfucking vandal who did this and cut his dick off!!!" then i and 33 other thugs in the office will do rounds and i'd point to them that fuckface's monitor where i hid all the cans. then we'll take him outside and beat him up real bad. til his black and blue and can no longer speak. then i'd get my boss to fire him in front of everyone. then he'd be crying like a fag and be begging for his job back, but my boss will just kick him in the groin and say: "i'm not a fucking fag you unemployed piece of crap!!!"
that'll be fun.
and as he leaves the office with all his things neatly packed in his stupid box i'd say to him: "hey asshole, next time you wanna borrow my stapler, ask me nicely, okay?"
i'm out.
lalalalala... lalalalala... lalalalala
bear with me for a while.
my mind's on autopilot and my life's on pause.
why?
because of this video a friend of mine sent me.
i think it fried my brain. thanks a lot arne. that one could possibly be the MOST annoying video that anyone in the free world will ever get to watch. yes, more annoying than a britney spears mtv.
i'm out.
my mind's on autopilot and my life's on pause.
why?
because of this video a friend of mine sent me.
i think it fried my brain. thanks a lot arne. that one could possibly be the MOST annoying video that anyone in the free world will ever get to watch. yes, more annoying than a britney spears mtv.
i'm out.
4.12.2005
my butt hurts... in a very hetero kind of way
i hate plastic!
they're non-biodegradable. they contaminate the air when manufactured. they clog up the drain. and they can choke you in your sleep.
but what can i possibly hate more than plastic? i'll tell you. monoblock plastic chairs!!! i hate them. i hate them with passion! and here's why:
yesterday started out pretty good. i woke up early and helped my wife pack for her trip out of town. she'll be gone for a week. after packing, i took her to the bus station to send her off. a goodbye kiss here, a goodbye kiss there, then off i go to the office.
everything in the office was fine. normal. nothing out of the ordinary or anything like that. then lunch came. and i thought, fuck lunch! why the fuck do i have to prescribe to societal norms and have lunch every time the clock hits 12 noon? i say fuck 12 noon! i'll have lunch whenever i want. so i skipped the 12 noon ritual and went back to work. i'll have a late lunch at around 1:30, no big deal. when i got there, the cafeteria was filled with four warm bodies. ladies. officemates. having a late lunch too. they asked me to join them. but i wasn't that hungry, so i skipped the meal and got me a bag of chips and a bottle of coke instead, then i joined their table, sitting in one of them stupid monoblock plastic chairs.
so it was fun, they were having their meal, i was having my soda and chips, we were debating whether or not this local actor is gay or extremely gay. i was being funny. they were all laughing. i was hugging the conversation and i was being cute and funny and charming and sarcastic and burping all at the same time. then...
BRRRRAAAAKKKKKKZZZZTTTKRAKAKT!!!!!!!
shit! i lost sight of the four ladies i was talking to and was suddenly staring at the space under the table. the fucking chair broke. split in half. and my butt landed hard on the floor. hard! real hard!!! fuck you chair! fuck you you monoblock piece of shit!!! of course everyone laughed. i laughed because i had no other choice. amazing how we can laugh when someone stumbles, falls, crashes to the ground, slips, trips, slides, hit by a running hummer, and has third degree chemical burns. amazing! that's why stupid shows like AFV are still on air. but it's cool. laughing at myself is something i can do with relative ease. so i got up, picked up the chair, picked the chips, and picked up whatever dignity i had left, then i went back to work. but my butt hurts. shit! it really does. until now. like i fractured my tail bone or something. anyway, i called the wife. told her all about my exciting lunch. then listened to her laugh at me for two hours. well, not actually, but it felt like she laughed for two hours.
a few hours of work later, i felt my stomach grumble. i was fucking hungry. i didn't have a real meal. all i had was soda, chips, and a nasty monoblock plastic chair incident. i wanted to go back to the cafeteria, but returning to the scene of the crime would be unwise for someone like me. so i took off and grabbed a bite at brothers' burger. dang! i got me a nasty brothers' pounder with lots of onions. lots of it! then i called up some friends to hit the bar for some good ol' fashioned beer-chuggin'. i needed some comforting.
so we were at the bar. chillin'. chuggin' beer. played some pool. drank more beer. chilled with the band. chugged some more beer. then i told them about my monoblock plastic chair story. they laughed for two hours. then we drank some more beer. to be more accurate, a lot more beer.
by the time i got home, the brother's pounder was working it's magic down in my large intestines. so i got in the bathroom and did my thing. my butt was still sore and my crap had this funny smell. like onions. fuck! i should've stayed away from the onions.
waking up this morning had me thinking about college. yeah, college. no wife by my side, my butt still hurts, i still smell onions, and i have this nasty hangover. yep, definitely college.
and i hate monoblock plastic chairs!
i'm out.
they're non-biodegradable. they contaminate the air when manufactured. they clog up the drain. and they can choke you in your sleep.
but what can i possibly hate more than plastic? i'll tell you. monoblock plastic chairs!!! i hate them. i hate them with passion! and here's why:
yesterday started out pretty good. i woke up early and helped my wife pack for her trip out of town. she'll be gone for a week. after packing, i took her to the bus station to send her off. a goodbye kiss here, a goodbye kiss there, then off i go to the office.
everything in the office was fine. normal. nothing out of the ordinary or anything like that. then lunch came. and i thought, fuck lunch! why the fuck do i have to prescribe to societal norms and have lunch every time the clock hits 12 noon? i say fuck 12 noon! i'll have lunch whenever i want. so i skipped the 12 noon ritual and went back to work. i'll have a late lunch at around 1:30, no big deal. when i got there, the cafeteria was filled with four warm bodies. ladies. officemates. having a late lunch too. they asked me to join them. but i wasn't that hungry, so i skipped the meal and got me a bag of chips and a bottle of coke instead, then i joined their table, sitting in one of them stupid monoblock plastic chairs.
so it was fun, they were having their meal, i was having my soda and chips, we were debating whether or not this local actor is gay or extremely gay. i was being funny. they were all laughing. i was hugging the conversation and i was being cute and funny and charming and sarcastic and burping all at the same time. then...
BRRRRAAAAKKKKKKZZZZTTTKRAKAKT!!!!!!!
shit! i lost sight of the four ladies i was talking to and was suddenly staring at the space under the table. the fucking chair broke. split in half. and my butt landed hard on the floor. hard! real hard!!! fuck you chair! fuck you you monoblock piece of shit!!! of course everyone laughed. i laughed because i had no other choice. amazing how we can laugh when someone stumbles, falls, crashes to the ground, slips, trips, slides, hit by a running hummer, and has third degree chemical burns. amazing! that's why stupid shows like AFV are still on air. but it's cool. laughing at myself is something i can do with relative ease. so i got up, picked up the chair, picked the chips, and picked up whatever dignity i had left, then i went back to work. but my butt hurts. shit! it really does. until now. like i fractured my tail bone or something. anyway, i called the wife. told her all about my exciting lunch. then listened to her laugh at me for two hours. well, not actually, but it felt like she laughed for two hours.
a few hours of work later, i felt my stomach grumble. i was fucking hungry. i didn't have a real meal. all i had was soda, chips, and a nasty monoblock plastic chair incident. i wanted to go back to the cafeteria, but returning to the scene of the crime would be unwise for someone like me. so i took off and grabbed a bite at brothers' burger. dang! i got me a nasty brothers' pounder with lots of onions. lots of it! then i called up some friends to hit the bar for some good ol' fashioned beer-chuggin'. i needed some comforting.
so we were at the bar. chillin'. chuggin' beer. played some pool. drank more beer. chilled with the band. chugged some more beer. then i told them about my monoblock plastic chair story. they laughed for two hours. then we drank some more beer. to be more accurate, a lot more beer.
by the time i got home, the brother's pounder was working it's magic down in my large intestines. so i got in the bathroom and did my thing. my butt was still sore and my crap had this funny smell. like onions. fuck! i should've stayed away from the onions.
waking up this morning had me thinking about college. yeah, college. no wife by my side, my butt still hurts, i still smell onions, and i have this nasty hangover. yep, definitely college.
and i hate monoblock plastic chairs!
i'm out.
4.09.2005
hm... i wander...
i got shitloads of work to do and my mind keeps wandering off into space.
i hate it. totally hate it. it's like i'm sick with A.D.D... yeah i have focus issues. so what? let me tell you something. way back when i was a little kid, i used to go to this place called... oooohhhhh, what's this? it's my stapler! yay!
:: if given a chance, and by "chance" i mean i could do such thing without being put behind bars, i'd like beat up every mime and clown i'd see on the street, in a circus, in a birthday party, in a play, and in the goddamn bathroom!
:: i'd to take the world's timeline in my hands and just rip the whole decade of the 80's off it. yeah! that would be just super! because the 80's sucked! except of course for the cure, and the clash, and elvis costello, and the showtime lakers, and the laker girls (schwing!), and wrestlemania, ... okay, okay. so not everything about the 80's sucked. but most of it did: like the big hair, the hairspray, cindy lopper, glam rock, knight rider, growing pains, moonlighting, the cosby show, acid washed jeans, tele evangelists, spiral notebooks, vanilla ice, milli vanilli, lionel richie, rick ashley, band aid, the whole "we are the world fuckin' fiasco and how much we'd like to feed africa" bullshit, punky brewster, small wonder, the untalented fatass meatloaf, and of course, TONY DANZA. fuck! i hate tony danza! so here's what i'd like to do. i'd like to gather all these fuckers of the 80's and put them all in a garbage bag. then i'd eat all day and take a big dump in the bag in the evening. then i'll tie it up and leave the bag in the middle of the freeway where it can be run over by some sleepy truck driver. ha! that'll be super! WOOT!
:: and i hate the word woot. i'm not sure if it's even a word. and i don't know what it means because i'm a dumbass. and besides, everytime i say woot! i feel like a goddamn owl. or a turkey. depends on the time of the day actually. woot! woot! woot! what the fuck does it mean???
:: sometimes i really have this great idea of blowing up the moon. that'd be great! there'd be no more tides to push us around and no more "moonlight" to turn people into werewolves. what would be our source of light at night? i don't know. use a goddanmn flashlight!!! but then again, a lot of people would disagree because the light from a full moon could be so romantic. ah yes. romance... belch! haven't you been paying attention in your science class when you were a kid? the moon doesn't have light. it just reflects the sun's rays. got it? good. in that case, problem solved. you want romance? you want the sun's rays reflected on the earth at night? then i say we build a gigantic robot replica of michael buble's head and launch it into orbit! that'll do the trick. but that's lame. let's build a giant robot monkey head and call it "spanky" instead. woot!
:: and if i were the ruler of the universe, i'd make AB the pope! and he doesn't even have to be catholic. why? because i said so.
i'm out.
i hate it. totally hate it. it's like i'm sick with A.D.D... yeah i have focus issues. so what? let me tell you something. way back when i was a little kid, i used to go to this place called... oooohhhhh, what's this? it's my stapler! yay!
:: if given a chance, and by "chance" i mean i could do such thing without being put behind bars, i'd like beat up every mime and clown i'd see on the street, in a circus, in a birthday party, in a play, and in the goddamn bathroom!
:: i'd to take the world's timeline in my hands and just rip the whole decade of the 80's off it. yeah! that would be just super! because the 80's sucked! except of course for the cure, and the clash, and elvis costello, and the showtime lakers, and the laker girls (schwing!), and wrestlemania, ... okay, okay. so not everything about the 80's sucked. but most of it did: like the big hair, the hairspray, cindy lopper, glam rock, knight rider, growing pains, moonlighting, the cosby show, acid washed jeans, tele evangelists, spiral notebooks, vanilla ice, milli vanilli, lionel richie, rick ashley, band aid, the whole "we are the world fuckin' fiasco and how much we'd like to feed africa" bullshit, punky brewster, small wonder, the untalented fatass meatloaf, and of course, TONY DANZA. fuck! i hate tony danza! so here's what i'd like to do. i'd like to gather all these fuckers of the 80's and put them all in a garbage bag. then i'd eat all day and take a big dump in the bag in the evening. then i'll tie it up and leave the bag in the middle of the freeway where it can be run over by some sleepy truck driver. ha! that'll be super! WOOT!
:: and i hate the word woot. i'm not sure if it's even a word. and i don't know what it means because i'm a dumbass. and besides, everytime i say woot! i feel like a goddamn owl. or a turkey. depends on the time of the day actually. woot! woot! woot! what the fuck does it mean???
:: sometimes i really have this great idea of blowing up the moon. that'd be great! there'd be no more tides to push us around and no more "moonlight" to turn people into werewolves. what would be our source of light at night? i don't know. use a goddanmn flashlight!!! but then again, a lot of people would disagree because the light from a full moon could be so romantic. ah yes. romance... belch! haven't you been paying attention in your science class when you were a kid? the moon doesn't have light. it just reflects the sun's rays. got it? good. in that case, problem solved. you want romance? you want the sun's rays reflected on the earth at night? then i say we build a gigantic robot replica of michael buble's head and launch it into orbit! that'll do the trick. but that's lame. let's build a giant robot monkey head and call it "spanky" instead. woot!
:: and if i were the ruler of the universe, i'd make AB the pope! and he doesn't even have to be catholic. why? because i said so.
i'm out.
4.06.2005
summer lovin'
summer's here!
and you can feel it too. warm weather slowly creeping up... like that annoying wedgy you got at the prom. remember the prom? oh, you don't? me too. i bet you were some loser back in high school. yeah, loser. fat kid, pimple-faced, couldn't get a date. so you decided to spend the night with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a gallon of coke in the other and watched mr. holland's fucking opus instead while the rest of the school danced the night away, had fun, socialized, and lost their virginity.
that's you.
not me.
why?
because i never went to the prom. nope. not making that up.
legend has it, those holy motherfuckers who run the school i attended way back when i was an awkward teener prayed to god and asked him if our batch, being the little devils that we were, deserved a highschool prom. apparently, god said no. and that's why i never went to a prom, and our principal got 554 death threats the following week. sweet!
but enough about the prom, let's talk about summer.
basically, summer is, um... er... uhm... it's warm weather. and warm weather = sweaty fat guy. and sweaty fat guy = one extremely pissed off foul mouthed dude.
y'know what, let's drop the summer business and talk about something else. let's rant:
:: can i offer you some water? -- can you get the fuck away from me??? i know this has been a growing trend for some time now -- people wanting to be more health-conscious and shit. you know what? i don't care. when i go to someone else's house, i don't want to be offered a 330ml bottle of fresh, sparkling water worth 50 bucks. no sir. because if you go to my house, you'll either get coffee, tea, oj, iced tea, beer, or a shot of gin. not water. and certainly not water in some lame plastic bottle. you want water? open the fucking tap and help yourself you health-conscious whore. don't get me wrong here, i mean, i know we need water because it makes up yada-yada percent of our body. but show me some effort. i'm a guest here. gimme some sprite, or even ovaltine. not water.
:: oh, my soda tastes flat, how can i drink this now? -- aawww, that's too bad. you know why? that's because you forgot to tighten the cap, dumbass! there's a reason most soda caps are of the resealable twist variety you know -- so it won't spill, and it won't lose its fizz. you, on the other hand, have offended and disrespected the efforts of the investors of the resealable twist cap. that's because you're either dumb or lazy. what's wrong with you? is your wrist broken? are you sick? too weak? disturbed? out for revenge? no? then tighten the goddamn bottle cap!!! oh, you want me to do it for you? sure. tell you what, why not turn around, drop your pants, bend over, and prepare to scream "help me mama, i promise to eat my spinach!" because i'm about to stick this bottle up your hairy ass!!!
:: hey dude, do you have a light? -- bullshit! what am i to you eh? right. a total fucking stranger. and what did your mom tell you about strangers? did she tell you to go up to them and ask for a light? no. so what the are you doing here asking me a friggin' light for you fucktard! spare me a minute and let me share something here: i've been smoking since i was 14, and never, not even once, have i asked any living soul for a light. that's because i know that when you decide to be a smoker, you need some sort of fire-making apparatus to light your cigarette. and for that, i ALWAYS have my trusted zippo with me. no, not hippo, ZIPPO. retard! if you're not some poser who only smokes just so you could show off to people "hey, look at me, i'm a tough guy because i smoke marlboro lights" then go buy yourself a fucking lighter. never, i repeat, never approach me for light during one of my precious cigarette breaks. this is my alone time right here. time to reflect about life and ask important questions like, "hmm... i wonder what's for dinner.." so unless i have some stupid sign hanging around my neck that says "i like to meet new friends by lighting cigerettes" then i suggest you go pick up two sticks and rub them together, horsefucker!!!
:: "i wanna run to you.. hoohoooo.... i wanna run to you.. wooohooohooohooo..." -- i have no problem with people who play their walkmans, discmans, iPods, or whatever it is they play and have a their fucking earphones glued to their ears. no problem with that. what fucking irritates me are people who play this shit and sing out loud with them... in public... and the worst thing about is, of course, they can't hear themselves. jesus christ fucking the DJ!!! what the fuck is wrong with you people? can't you see what you're doing here? you're trying to kill everyone within a 10-kilometer radius. you're like a mini atomic bomb with seriously messed up vocal chords. okay, last time i checked your ugly ass wasn't on american idol. when i'm trying to read my book, or having a cigarette break, the last thing i need is a horrendous whitney houston impersonation yelling in my ear. so shut the fuck up, lower the volume, and save the friggin' audition for your shower.
whew! i'm spent. someone please take me to the fucking prom. because i don't like to watch mr. holland's opus, anymore, not for the 38th time.
i'm out.
and you can feel it too. warm weather slowly creeping up... like that annoying wedgy you got at the prom. remember the prom? oh, you don't? me too. i bet you were some loser back in high school. yeah, loser. fat kid, pimple-faced, couldn't get a date. so you decided to spend the night with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a gallon of coke in the other and watched mr. holland's fucking opus instead while the rest of the school danced the night away, had fun, socialized, and lost their virginity.
that's you.
not me.
why?
because i never went to the prom. nope. not making that up.
legend has it, those holy motherfuckers who run the school i attended way back when i was an awkward teener prayed to god and asked him if our batch, being the little devils that we were, deserved a highschool prom. apparently, god said no. and that's why i never went to a prom, and our principal got 554 death threats the following week. sweet!
but enough about the prom, let's talk about summer.
basically, summer is, um... er... uhm... it's warm weather. and warm weather = sweaty fat guy. and sweaty fat guy = one extremely pissed off foul mouthed dude.
y'know what, let's drop the summer business and talk about something else. let's rant:
:: can i offer you some water? -- can you get the fuck away from me??? i know this has been a growing trend for some time now -- people wanting to be more health-conscious and shit. you know what? i don't care. when i go to someone else's house, i don't want to be offered a 330ml bottle of fresh, sparkling water worth 50 bucks. no sir. because if you go to my house, you'll either get coffee, tea, oj, iced tea, beer, or a shot of gin. not water. and certainly not water in some lame plastic bottle. you want water? open the fucking tap and help yourself you health-conscious whore. don't get me wrong here, i mean, i know we need water because it makes up yada-yada percent of our body. but show me some effort. i'm a guest here. gimme some sprite, or even ovaltine. not water.
:: oh, my soda tastes flat, how can i drink this now? -- aawww, that's too bad. you know why? that's because you forgot to tighten the cap, dumbass! there's a reason most soda caps are of the resealable twist variety you know -- so it won't spill, and it won't lose its fizz. you, on the other hand, have offended and disrespected the efforts of the investors of the resealable twist cap. that's because you're either dumb or lazy. what's wrong with you? is your wrist broken? are you sick? too weak? disturbed? out for revenge? no? then tighten the goddamn bottle cap!!! oh, you want me to do it for you? sure. tell you what, why not turn around, drop your pants, bend over, and prepare to scream "help me mama, i promise to eat my spinach!" because i'm about to stick this bottle up your hairy ass!!!
:: hey dude, do you have a light? -- bullshit! what am i to you eh? right. a total fucking stranger. and what did your mom tell you about strangers? did she tell you to go up to them and ask for a light? no. so what the are you doing here asking me a friggin' light for you fucktard! spare me a minute and let me share something here: i've been smoking since i was 14, and never, not even once, have i asked any living soul for a light. that's because i know that when you decide to be a smoker, you need some sort of fire-making apparatus to light your cigarette. and for that, i ALWAYS have my trusted zippo with me. no, not hippo, ZIPPO. retard! if you're not some poser who only smokes just so you could show off to people "hey, look at me, i'm a tough guy because i smoke marlboro lights" then go buy yourself a fucking lighter. never, i repeat, never approach me for light during one of my precious cigarette breaks. this is my alone time right here. time to reflect about life and ask important questions like, "hmm... i wonder what's for dinner.." so unless i have some stupid sign hanging around my neck that says "i like to meet new friends by lighting cigerettes" then i suggest you go pick up two sticks and rub them together, horsefucker!!!
:: "i wanna run to you.. hoohoooo.... i wanna run to you.. wooohooohooohooo..." -- i have no problem with people who play their walkmans, discmans, iPods, or whatever it is they play and have a their fucking earphones glued to their ears. no problem with that. what fucking irritates me are people who play this shit and sing out loud with them... in public... and the worst thing about is, of course, they can't hear themselves. jesus christ fucking the DJ!!! what the fuck is wrong with you people? can't you see what you're doing here? you're trying to kill everyone within a 10-kilometer radius. you're like a mini atomic bomb with seriously messed up vocal chords. okay, last time i checked your ugly ass wasn't on american idol. when i'm trying to read my book, or having a cigarette break, the last thing i need is a horrendous whitney houston impersonation yelling in my ear. so shut the fuck up, lower the volume, and save the friggin' audition for your shower.
whew! i'm spent. someone please take me to the fucking prom. because i don't like to watch mr. holland's opus, anymore, not for the 38th time.
i'm out.
4.05.2005
monday morning spam
so this will be a new segment on this blog.
every monday morning.
and it involves a few selected fan mails from thousands that i get from around the world.
thousands.
everyday.
honest.
okay. that was pathetic. i know.
but i do receive letters and they're all so cool and shit, but i can't answer them all because, let's face it, i need to appear to have some sort of life.
so, every monday morning, i'd take the more inspiring ones to feature and answer them here, right at the middle of the classroom. let's start:
From: xxx_xxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 6, 4:12 PM
Subject : FUCK YOU PIG!
PANINGIT:
You're terrible!!! Why? Tell me why does your blog suck? It sucks so much i can't even read it without vomitting all over my keyboard. And that sucks. So what gives?
Sincerely,
I REALLY HATE YOUR STUPID BLOG.
-------------
REPLY:
dear "i really hate your stupid blog,"
thanks for the email. it really makes me feel good that people are reading this shit. honest. you want to know why my blog sucks? well, one rational reason might be because i'm just not funny. i mean, i try real hard to be funny but no one ever laughs.
these people who think they know what "real" comedy is just ignore me. i have a good feeling people like you click on my blog once in a while just to show someone how pathetic i am. like writers, they go to my blog to raise their spirits and be assured that at least someone is worse than they are. so there's your answer.
oh, and you're an asshole.
-------------
From: xxxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 14, 5:36 PM
Subject : what's with the name?
dear paningit,
what does the name of your blog mean?
emily
-------------
REPLY:
dear emily,
"paningit" means "space filler."
now i know that you know that i'm about to share a very interesting and funny and amusing story how and why i came up with that name. but today's not that day. yes, i'm that lazy.
-------------
From: xxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 18, 9:08 AM
Subject : help!
Dear Paningit,
I know you have a wife. Me too. I've been married for 2 years now. My problem is, my wife doesn't want to have sex with me anymore. Everytime I try to, she always comes up with some excuse, like she has a headache. What can i do? Do you suggest I have sex with prostitutes instead? Help.
Thanking you in advance,
Johnny M
-------------
REPLY:
dear johnny m,
honestly, that is your fucking problem. if you want to go have sex with prostitutes, i have no problem with that. just be sure you don't catch anything.
and everytime your wife doesn't want to shag you, i suggest you get a soap, and a towel, and go have a fucking cold shower.
-------------
From: xxxxx_xx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: February 2, 11:42 AM
Subject :
Dear Paningit,
Most of the time, I don't get your jokes. I'm sure they're all funny, but sometimes i really don't get them. But I visit your blog everyday, even if i don't get it. Are you really just a bad writer?
B. Goldy
-------------
REPLY:
dear b. goldy,
you're absolutely right! why are you still reading it?
-------------
From: xxxxxxxxxxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: February 11, 8:10 PM
Subject : TV show
Dear Paningit,
I think it's really cool you're planning to put up a TV show. If you ever get famous, are you still gonna blog?
Lily C.
-------------
REPLY:
dear lily c.,
no, probably not. i think it would piss me off to all of a sudden have 80 comments on a post about buying a new shirt from a bunch of idiots trying to sound cool, hoping i reply to them so that they can print out my response and jerk off to it.
nah. just kidding.
-------------
do you have a question? need some advice? then email me at paningit@gmail.com, and i just might answer you here on my blog in a really SARCASTIC, UNFUNNY WAY.
i'm out.
every monday morning.
and it involves a few selected fan mails from thousands that i get from around the world.
thousands.
everyday.
honest.
okay. that was pathetic. i know.
but i do receive letters and they're all so cool and shit, but i can't answer them all because, let's face it, i need to appear to have some sort of life.
so, every monday morning, i'd take the more inspiring ones to feature and answer them here, right at the middle of the classroom. let's start:
From: xxx_xxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 6, 4:12 PM
Subject : FUCK YOU PIG!
PANINGIT:
You're terrible!!! Why? Tell me why does your blog suck? It sucks so much i can't even read it without vomitting all over my keyboard. And that sucks. So what gives?
Sincerely,
I REALLY HATE YOUR STUPID BLOG.
-------------
REPLY:
dear "i really hate your stupid blog,"
thanks for the email. it really makes me feel good that people are reading this shit. honest. you want to know why my blog sucks? well, one rational reason might be because i'm just not funny. i mean, i try real hard to be funny but no one ever laughs.
these people who think they know what "real" comedy is just ignore me. i have a good feeling people like you click on my blog once in a while just to show someone how pathetic i am. like writers, they go to my blog to raise their spirits and be assured that at least someone is worse than they are. so there's your answer.
oh, and you're an asshole.
-------------
From: xxxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 14, 5:36 PM
Subject : what's with the name?
dear paningit,
what does the name of your blog mean?
emily
-------------
REPLY:
dear emily,
"paningit" means "space filler."
now i know that you know that i'm about to share a very interesting and funny and amusing story how and why i came up with that name. but today's not that day. yes, i'm that lazy.
-------------
From: xxxxxxxxxx@gmail.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: Jan 18, 9:08 AM
Subject : help!
Dear Paningit,
I know you have a wife. Me too. I've been married for 2 years now. My problem is, my wife doesn't want to have sex with me anymore. Everytime I try to, she always comes up with some excuse, like she has a headache. What can i do? Do you suggest I have sex with prostitutes instead? Help.
Thanking you in advance,
Johnny M
-------------
REPLY:
dear johnny m,
honestly, that is your fucking problem. if you want to go have sex with prostitutes, i have no problem with that. just be sure you don't catch anything.
and everytime your wife doesn't want to shag you, i suggest you get a soap, and a towel, and go have a fucking cold shower.
-------------
From: xxxxx_xx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: February 2, 11:42 AM
Subject :
Dear Paningit,
Most of the time, I don't get your jokes. I'm sure they're all funny, but sometimes i really don't get them. But I visit your blog everyday, even if i don't get it. Are you really just a bad writer?
B. Goldy
-------------
REPLY:
dear b. goldy,
you're absolutely right! why are you still reading it?
-------------
From: xxxxxxxxxxxxx@yahoo.com
To: paningit@gmail.com
Date: February 11, 8:10 PM
Subject : TV show
Dear Paningit,
I think it's really cool you're planning to put up a TV show. If you ever get famous, are you still gonna blog?
Lily C.
-------------
REPLY:
dear lily c.,
no, probably not. i think it would piss me off to all of a sudden have 80 comments on a post about buying a new shirt from a bunch of idiots trying to sound cool, hoping i reply to them so that they can print out my response and jerk off to it.
nah. just kidding.
-------------
do you have a question? need some advice? then email me at paningit@gmail.com, and i just might answer you here on my blog in a really SARCASTIC, UNFUNNY WAY.
i'm out.
4.01.2005
the one where i answer a hermaphrodite "i love you"
rarely do i pull out a comment and decide to dedicate an entire post to it.
but yesterday i received a comment that i found to be both fascinating and interesting, and if you combine both of those words you'd get something like fasciresting.
anyway, someone who goes by the super secret alias of "hermaphrodite" left this comment: "i love you"
well, hermie, if i may call you hermie -- thanks for the comment. honest. i really appreciate it.
but holy fuck to the nth degree! i got to tell you, that felt fucking weird. as weird as wiping my ass clean with a handful of orange rind.
something tells me this shit ain't right. excuse me for a minute. i have to go to the bathroom. real bad.
(three hours of vomitting later)
okay i'm back. well, let's see if we can break this sucker down for our readers at home:
:: first of all, i am homophobic. and i know i'm not suppose to be one. and despite completing a whole semester's worth of "gender and management" studies, i am still homophobic. but i do have gay friends. and they're smart, and funny, and useful. in other words, they're great. as long as they keep their hands away from me, that is. because, DAMNIT!, if ever they try to pull a stunt on me, i swear, i'll break their necks. promise.
:: the only guys who know i am that homophobic (well, aside from all you fuckers now) are my friends. and i thought those motherfuckers are doing a number on me. so yesterday, i conducted a massive witch hunt. i whipped out my phone, got a hold of my contacts, and started dialing their damn numbers.
random friend: helloooo...
me: look motherfucker, drop that shit and answer this: are you hermie?!!
rf: hermie? what the fuck are you talking about?
me: just answer the damn question fuckface, are you hermie? you better tell me now because i'm gonna find out sooner or later and if you really are hermie you ugly wackjob, i'd break your face so hard not even your dog can recognize you!!! you got that?
rf: dude, did you forget to take your medicines again?
me: well.. yeah. so?
rf: who the fuck is hermie? i'm sitting in the bathroom drinking laxatives and trying hard not to pop a vein because i can't get shit out of my ass! and you call me up asking if i'm hermie? what the fuck is wrong with you?
so that was how my witch hunt went. called up all 68 of my closest dearest friends.
:: then it occurred to me, the sonofabitch said "i love you." wait a minute. nobody, and i mean nobody, says "i love you" to me. except, of course, my wife. and i even have to secretly drop a pill or two in her drink just to make her say that.
:: so hermie's not my friends and definitely not my wife.
:: a few hours later, hermie had another comment, this time saying kirsten dunst is one of them. jesus fucking christ! the creature even left a url. hermie's a blogger. and he/she/it could very well be an actual hermaphrodite.
so i was stuck there. at that thought. all morning.
how can i possibly bash and slam someone right in the middle of the classroom if he/she/it is actually a hermaphrodite?
i mean, if hermie was just some random blog prankster, then i could've easily said: "look here you sick cocksucking bastard, i've no time for games and i don't care about your stupid comments!!! you can either leave me now, in peace, while you still can, or else... or else i'm gonna track you down and find out who the fuck you really are. and when i do, i'd come knocking at your door and grab your mom by her apron's knot and proceed to shove her up you stinking little ass!!!"
i could say that. but i won't. i just took my happy pills. and because i took my happy pills, i decided to research more on hermaphrodites.
hm... lemme see... opening google... typing the word "hermaphrodite"... waiting... fucking google is lying says the search took 0.47 seconds (i actually waited a good three ticks)... here we go, hermaphrodite links... uhm, aha, definition... says here: hermaphrodites are persons born with both male and female sex organs.
holy shit. i need to go the bathroom again.
(20 minutes of vomitting later)
bullshit. this is too much for me. a person with both a penis and a vagina. goddamn!!!
you know what hermie, i'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. if you are what you say you are, then that's just fine. you can come in this blog and hang out as you please. but for the love of god, i beg you, please behave yourself. okay? you have to promise that. and the only reason i'm letting you stay is because i pity your condition. but the minute you start talking about your dick here, i'm throwing you out! got that? good.
although i think your condition is actually an advantage... hey, you can double your chances of going out on a saturday night.
one question though, you have a male and a female sex organ... does that mean you can have a hard-on and actually fuck yourself?
just curious. and oh, don't expect me to say "i love you" because i fucking won't say it. not to you, not to anyone with a dong.
i'm out.
but yesterday i received a comment that i found to be both fascinating and interesting, and if you combine both of those words you'd get something like fasciresting.
anyway, someone who goes by the super secret alias of "hermaphrodite" left this comment: "i love you"
well, hermie, if i may call you hermie -- thanks for the comment. honest. i really appreciate it.
but holy fuck to the nth degree! i got to tell you, that felt fucking weird. as weird as wiping my ass clean with a handful of orange rind.
something tells me this shit ain't right. excuse me for a minute. i have to go to the bathroom. real bad.
(three hours of vomitting later)
okay i'm back. well, let's see if we can break this sucker down for our readers at home:
:: first of all, i am homophobic. and i know i'm not suppose to be one. and despite completing a whole semester's worth of "gender and management" studies, i am still homophobic. but i do have gay friends. and they're smart, and funny, and useful. in other words, they're great. as long as they keep their hands away from me, that is. because, DAMNIT!, if ever they try to pull a stunt on me, i swear, i'll break their necks. promise.
:: the only guys who know i am that homophobic (well, aside from all you fuckers now) are my friends. and i thought those motherfuckers are doing a number on me. so yesterday, i conducted a massive witch hunt. i whipped out my phone, got a hold of my contacts, and started dialing their damn numbers.
random friend: helloooo...
me: look motherfucker, drop that shit and answer this: are you hermie?!!
rf: hermie? what the fuck are you talking about?
me: just answer the damn question fuckface, are you hermie? you better tell me now because i'm gonna find out sooner or later and if you really are hermie you ugly wackjob, i'd break your face so hard not even your dog can recognize you!!! you got that?
rf: dude, did you forget to take your medicines again?
me: well.. yeah. so?
rf: who the fuck is hermie? i'm sitting in the bathroom drinking laxatives and trying hard not to pop a vein because i can't get shit out of my ass! and you call me up asking if i'm hermie? what the fuck is wrong with you?
so that was how my witch hunt went. called up all 68 of my closest dearest friends.
:: then it occurred to me, the sonofabitch said "i love you." wait a minute. nobody, and i mean nobody, says "i love you" to me. except, of course, my wife. and i even have to secretly drop a pill or two in her drink just to make her say that.
:: so hermie's not my friends and definitely not my wife.
:: a few hours later, hermie had another comment, this time saying kirsten dunst is one of them. jesus fucking christ! the creature even left a url. hermie's a blogger. and he/she/it could very well be an actual hermaphrodite.
so i was stuck there. at that thought. all morning.
how can i possibly bash and slam someone right in the middle of the classroom if he/she/it is actually a hermaphrodite?
i mean, if hermie was just some random blog prankster, then i could've easily said: "look here you sick cocksucking bastard, i've no time for games and i don't care about your stupid comments!!! you can either leave me now, in peace, while you still can, or else... or else i'm gonna track you down and find out who the fuck you really are. and when i do, i'd come knocking at your door and grab your mom by her apron's knot and proceed to shove her up you stinking little ass!!!"
i could say that. but i won't. i just took my happy pills. and because i took my happy pills, i decided to research more on hermaphrodites.
hm... lemme see... opening google... typing the word "hermaphrodite"... waiting... fucking google is lying says the search took 0.47 seconds (i actually waited a good three ticks)... here we go, hermaphrodite links... uhm, aha, definition... says here: hermaphrodites are persons born with both male and female sex organs.
holy shit. i need to go the bathroom again.
(20 minutes of vomitting later)
bullshit. this is too much for me. a person with both a penis and a vagina. goddamn!!!
you know what hermie, i'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. if you are what you say you are, then that's just fine. you can come in this blog and hang out as you please. but for the love of god, i beg you, please behave yourself. okay? you have to promise that. and the only reason i'm letting you stay is because i pity your condition. but the minute you start talking about your dick here, i'm throwing you out! got that? good.
although i think your condition is actually an advantage... hey, you can double your chances of going out on a saturday night.
one question though, you have a male and a female sex organ... does that mean you can have a hard-on and actually fuck yourself?
just curious. and oh, don't expect me to say "i love you" because i fucking won't say it. not to you, not to anyone with a dong.
i'm out.
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