Aw, she thinks the TV is her dad...
I'm about to notify Blogger about objectionable content up in heah! What the hell is up with that? That button in the upper right? Does that mean you can alert Blogger to anyblogger's objectionable content? Like, if you don't like bananas and then there's a picture of not only two bananas but two bananas with cartoon faces having sex, that you can notify Blogger?
Whatever.
These issues really do not concern me.
Obviously.
It was recently pointed out to me that we all talk like gangstas a lot. This gangster speak includes phrases such as
"Fizzuck."
"Bizitch slap!"
"Whiziskey."
And of course:
"Fo shizzle."
And the pointer outer thought we were cooler than this, for this was the in thing years ago, and the people who were doing said in thing were not even all that in themselves; rather, they wanted to be. They wanted to cap each other but all they were armed with were rubber bands.
But we're cool . . . right? Don't we do these stupid things ironically? And mockingly? Like saying ballllllls? Or did the novelty wear away after the first four utterances, and beneath its slick shiny surface our corroded, stupid innards were exposed?
This concerns me a bit more than the Blogger notification, but not that much more.
Not so much more that you should be concerned.
But hey: the point of this post: the point: the reason I began writing right now, immediately upon my return from lunch:
I can not remember right now, so I will say this: Andy, if you get this before you collect me today, know that Amish may be late. "If we're late it's my fault," he said, and in that phrase I immediately teleported to him, saw his surroundings, and knew that he was probably barricaded in his bunker of a bedroom, surrounded by porn mags that have been suspended from the ceiling, furiously masturbating, with an audio recording of car noise playing in the background. That son of a bitch.
That lying
son
of
a
bitch.
At least he's not the son of a whore.
I swear there's a point to this. Hmm. Have you ever noticed how different bathroom lighting can completely change the way you look? How in some lighting you look washed out and undead and bloated, and then you go to a different bathroom and this time you're lit from above and the side and suddenly you want to throw down that handsoap and reach for yourself and start making out with yourself right there on the sink, stripping clothes, ripping teeth from zippers, biting necks, kicking hot water faucets.
Someone asked what I thought of my appearance the other day and I came up with this: 30% of the time I feel dog ugly, 15% I feel godly hot, and the rest of the time is somewhere in between. As I always look dog ugly in photos, I assume that this fluctuation is a natural sort of pattern inherent in all people. Or maybe it's affected by your personality; maybe if you actually believe you're more attractive, you feel more attractive more often, regardless of nastiness. Ideas?
Yesterday would have been Carol's and my anniversary, and I wonder if she noticed.
Halloween will be the anniversary of Halloween, which is the greatest and best of holidays. Because I have forgotten the point of this post, and because it has dragged on far too long, ink dripping down the screen like jizzum and blood from Amish's rectum after he tried to solicit that frat house for UNICEF, I will close with this:
Why I Hate Some Popular Holidays that are Not Halloween
1) Because you have to go home for them, unless you're me, and then you try your damnedest to get entangled in as many conflicting holiday plans as possible.
2) Because you have to gorge yourself at a table with too many people to hold a decent conversation, and afterward there's a mass retiring to the living room for old copies of Trivial Pursuit and, one year, freakin' Mastermind.
3) Because the stores are ALWAYS closed. Me and Dave, after watching It's a Wonderful Life at The House: we try to go to a store but what's open? Casey's. I believe that Bigger drove us. God bless you, Bigger, wherever you are.
Whatever.
These issues really do not concern me.
Obviously.
It was recently pointed out to me that we all talk like gangstas a lot. This gangster speak includes phrases such as
"Fizzuck."
"Bizitch slap!"
"Whiziskey."
And of course:
"Fo shizzle."
And the pointer outer thought we were cooler than this, for this was the in thing years ago, and the people who were doing said in thing were not even all that in themselves; rather, they wanted to be. They wanted to cap each other but all they were armed with were rubber bands.
But we're cool . . . right? Don't we do these stupid things ironically? And mockingly? Like saying ballllllls? Or did the novelty wear away after the first four utterances, and beneath its slick shiny surface our corroded, stupid innards were exposed?
This concerns me a bit more than the Blogger notification, but not that much more.
Not so much more that you should be concerned.
But hey: the point of this post: the point: the reason I began writing right now, immediately upon my return from lunch:
I can not remember right now, so I will say this: Andy, if you get this before you collect me today, know that Amish may be late. "If we're late it's my fault," he said, and in that phrase I immediately teleported to him, saw his surroundings, and knew that he was probably barricaded in his bunker of a bedroom, surrounded by porn mags that have been suspended from the ceiling, furiously masturbating, with an audio recording of car noise playing in the background. That son of a bitch.
That lying
son
of
a
bitch.
At least he's not the son of a whore.
I swear there's a point to this. Hmm. Have you ever noticed how different bathroom lighting can completely change the way you look? How in some lighting you look washed out and undead and bloated, and then you go to a different bathroom and this time you're lit from above and the side and suddenly you want to throw down that handsoap and reach for yourself and start making out with yourself right there on the sink, stripping clothes, ripping teeth from zippers, biting necks, kicking hot water faucets.
Someone asked what I thought of my appearance the other day and I came up with this: 30% of the time I feel dog ugly, 15% I feel godly hot, and the rest of the time is somewhere in between. As I always look dog ugly in photos, I assume that this fluctuation is a natural sort of pattern inherent in all people. Or maybe it's affected by your personality; maybe if you actually believe you're more attractive, you feel more attractive more often, regardless of nastiness. Ideas?
Yesterday would have been Carol's and my anniversary, and I wonder if she noticed.
Halloween will be the anniversary of Halloween, which is the greatest and best of holidays. Because I have forgotten the point of this post, and because it has dragged on far too long, ink dripping down the screen like jizzum and blood from Amish's rectum after he tried to solicit that frat house for UNICEF, I will close with this:
Why I Hate Some Popular Holidays that are Not Halloween
1) Because you have to go home for them, unless you're me, and then you try your damnedest to get entangled in as many conflicting holiday plans as possible.
2) Because you have to gorge yourself at a table with too many people to hold a decent conversation, and afterward there's a mass retiring to the living room for old copies of Trivial Pursuit and, one year, freakin' Mastermind.
3) Because the stores are ALWAYS closed. Me and Dave, after watching It's a Wonderful Life at The House: we try to go to a store but what's open? Casey's. I believe that Bigger drove us. God bless you, Bigger, wherever you are.
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