Taking over Tim's random Posting Position Today as he recovers from Anal Crabs

I just...I just dont know. I really just dont know. Its from Fanart Fucks, a livejournal group that ridicules horrid fanart. But...I just dont know what to say.

hmm

I've either done something brilliant or stupid. Time will tell. More info pending.

Rich Ass Fuck

I found a $100 last nite in a grocery store parking lot.

This is how people with jobs feel.

Oh elephant parts!

If you've ever wanted to know what happens to the monkeys in the zoo after they've expired. Here you go!

geemus shirts

I haven't posted here forever. But I am going to try to wander back I think. Anyway. A first order of business. I intend to order geemus t-shirts. They will probably have white lettering, so you should probably choose a dark color. But I can probably hook up black lettering on light colors too.

Anyway, if you want one. email me. Any email that hits geemus.com will get to me, but I think you can probably figure out the actual one. I need to know the color and size you would like. I don't know if I will hand deliver them or mail them to people, depends on their location. But they will be about $10 a piece all told. And thats not to make me rich or anything, its to make me non-poor.

I just thought I would throw this out there, as several people have told me they wanted them. But I can't remember who, or sizes, or colors for that matter. So just email me and I'll order them in a week or two...

He's just passing out Hot Dickings!!!

Dr. Tran blows my mind away so f'ing much. If you havent seen this yet you are SO FUCKING WRONG. So. Fucking. Wrong. And this video you have to watch? So. Fucking. Right.

WATCH IT NOW!

Some people who live in our house--plus some other people

Plus Mr. Pants:




...and Wesley:




...and Billy:



...and Megan:

The Clue Party! and Le Chateau

Our favorite room.









Ms. Scarlet, Ms. Peacock, and Mr. Belvedouche.








Hell yes! Let's take turns on Amish!

The adventures of Timmy Underpants

At lunch, when I was standing at the register waiting to pay for my food, I noticed that there was a large piece of white paper covering the table next to the register. There was a bunch of scribbling covering the paper and I scanned over it uninterestedly.

Then, to my great surprise, my eyes fell upon the words "Timmy Underpants was here."

My first thought was that this must be the signature of a Tim I know, because he has got to be the only Tim in Des Moines crazy enough to call himself Timmy Underpants. But then I realized that it was unlikely and probably impossible that Tim had eaten at Azteca, since it exists in a part of the skywalk he's probably never been and would have to walk very far to get to.

So now I fear we may have to hunt down and destroy this imposter Timmy Underpants. He is trying to rival the true Timmy Underpants, and that cannot be tolerated.

Toober: the spherical organ that is responciable for all that fancy fantasy shit

This is to DESTROY Tim's childhood.

There goes the weekend.

Watch out, Amish.

Molesto!

It was Amish with the Flatulence in Goathead's Bedroom

Let me just . . . take the liberty of

INVITING YOU TO THE CLUE PARTY

hinted at in earlier postings.

This is a production of my girlfriend creatively, and of me and a bunch of ink and paper practically. And of the rest of my roommates, in allowing you to enter our home.

I will be going as Colonel Bastard, in a monocle and a safari jacket.

Weaponry includes, but is not limited to: a cursed typewriter, and alcohol poisoning.

Rooms include, but are not limited to: the shower room, and the Transformers Pavilion (these are real rooms in our house, I'm afraid—I gave up my room so that the Transformers might live).

The matter of how to transmutate dice rolls into actual walking through the house has yet to be determined.

Characters include, but are not limited to: myself, Spooky Wignall, Ms. Peacock, and Ms. White.

If you're without a character or costume, you may borrow the noble livery of a Pizza Hut Driver.

This business will happen Saturday night. Unless it doesn't happen, which seems at least equally as likely, if significant numbers of the party are 1) lured away by women, 2) lured away by bars, or 3) somehow physically unable to stop playing Halo.

And of course this will be a wet event.

I'd rather be rich than stupid

In college, I saw this on a bulletin board, and for some reason thought it was the funniest thing written, ever (it's from SNL, like these, which I just found):

He was a cowboy, mister, and he loved the land. He loved it so much he made a woman out of dirt and married her. But when he kissed her, she disintegrated. Later, at the funeral, when the preacher said: Dust to dust, some people laughed, and the cowboy shot them. At his hanging, he told the others: I'll be waiting for you in heaven - with a gun.

and there's

I'd have to say that my favorite uncle was Uncle Caveman. We called him Uncle Caveman because he lived in a cave and occasionally he'd eat one of us. Later, we found out he was a bear.

and for Dave:

If I ever get real rich, I hope I'm not real mean to poor people, like I am now.

If trees could scream, would we be so cavalier about cutting them down? We might, if they screamed all the time, for no good reason.

And also for Wells, I don't know why--but it reminds me of him:

It's easy to sit there and say you'd like to have more money. And I guess that's what I like about it. It's easy. Just sitting there, rocking back and forth, wanting that money.

Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly, it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.

When you die, if you get a choice between going to regular heaven or pie heaven, choose pie heaven. It might be a trick, but if it's not, hmmm, boy.

Toys

I may have spent too much time studying the Eames. If you've seen the movie that their grandson made when they closed down the studio, there was a musical toy that had a metal ball shoot up to the top of a wooden tower. It would then roll it's way down hitting metal and wooden planks put in it's way. Depending how you arranged the planks, the decent made a song.

What's this have to do with this post?

One word: Electroplankton.

This little program draws the line between game and toy. There's no point, but it's so crafted that I don't mind. The concept is the same with the toy I mentioned earlier. These toys are exploritory. They don't work if you don't play with them. Silly to say, any toy is like that, but it's the curiousity and creative component that make these toys stand out. In either case we have here toys that entertain asthetically, but only if you take the time to really play with them.

Last night Amish told me he likes to carress the bottoms of naked boys.

You know what I say to Kirspy Kreme? F you, Krispy Kreme! 69 centavos for a damned donut?! That donut better be frosted with gold powder! It better be stuffed with precious jewels! Some self-important rock star better have ejaculated his sweet, potent load into your fluffy inner cavern!

Does it strike anyone else as odd that Mr. Boddy's mansion (in Clue) is only built on one level? I'm looking for room dimensions all over the internet, but no luck.

I am eating a donut. It’s chocolate frosted. But what’s that atop the chocolate? A generous dusting of powdered sugar. You bite into its crisp, yet soft, body, and find a hidden aquifer of cold vanilla pudding.

Well--well! This weekend: will be excelelnt. This is the first weekend at the Chateau that won't involve a ballsload of moving. Yep. You should probably come by. Or we will come to your home and destroy you.

That's right, Apt. 8.

I'm talking to you.

We got a coffee machine here at work

and now, 64 ounces later, dog's definitely gonna puke.

In other news, I'm gonna get a cat and name him Alkie.

This pretty much describes my office life, except mine has a lot more sex

Today's McSweeney's is awesome.

I am a mean old troll who bakes little girls and boils them in pies. -- a recipe

I just overheard a bitter old woman: "No. Fans make me sick."

Okay, back to the recipe!

First off, I commend you for your decision to boil a little girl down into pie filling. The best dishes in my native land utilize little girl pie filling as a main ingredient, and the world's sharpest chefs are starting to catch on. If this post is your first exposure to the idea, then I welcome you wholeheartedly. Feel free to email me with your location and I'll send you a list of good local restaurants that offer a variety of desserts based on my favorite recipe.

First you'll want to find a source for your main ingredient. In culinary cirlces, this is called the "honeypot," or, sometimes, "the supply," "the grocery store," or, simply, "the preschool." Be sure that your honeypot is well-stocked, and well away from any police stations.

Any good honeypot will draw not just your attention, but also that of local parents, concerned citizens, teachers, perverts, etc. For this reason, the best way to replenish your pantry is to invest in a good, child-friendly costume. Dressed in your bear suit, you should be able to saunter onto any Merry-go-round and have your pick of the freshest ingredients.

(If tactical approaches aren't your thing, you can also invest in a variety of "berry pickers." I've seen blow guns, bolos, stun grenades. In Africa, I actually used a bottle of pheromones to rout a herd of zebra toward the local village, scaring a handful of children into my net. My buddy Goathead used to drive a '77 Mustang with a kid-catcher strapped to the hood. Now he just uses a rifle and a healthy dose of elephant tranquilizer. Can you imagine how quick a 55-pound 7-year old drops with a tranq dart sticking out between her pig tails?)

Once you finish shopping for groceries, you'll want to get back home. Quick. Now, I'm not gonna use this space to argue over the prudence of keeping a backstock of ingredients in your basement—you'll do what you want. But I suggest whipping up a batch of pie as soon as you get home. If you've got the ingredients, why not enjoy?

The best way to boil down a little girl always has been, and always will be, the traditional cauldron. You're going to need about 2-300 pounds of charcoal, or a comparable pile of wood. Also, water: you make a couple pies a month and your water bill's gonna go through the roof. But I tell you, my hungry brother, it is worth it.

While your filling's on the boil, it's best to start the crust. You're gonna want a bathtub or some other hard, large depression in which to bake (years ago, I partook in a "combo run"—we grabbed a girl out of her plastic pool and then took the pool as well, thinking we were saving time—only to have the boiling filling melt straight through the plastic. We spent the rest of the day cleaning that up.). By the time you finish stirring and laying the crust, your filling should be ready. Pour and allow to cool; the heat from the filling will bake the crust. Once you're finished, enjoy! (Just watch out for shoelaces . . . and entrails. Balls damned entrails.)

Rob Schneider is...a storyboard!

1) No. I am NOT going to make a cartoon about monkeys living under an old woman's porch
2) No. I will NOT think about making a webcomic at this time no matter what fuckin' great idea it is. Not right now.
3) No. I will NOT make out with you

Boom, bitch!

I just got asked to write a job description for a client who wants to be an "explosive worker."

Amish needs only a billion more dollars and a passport

Here's a fudged up NYT article about billionaires buying brides in China.

Let's go handle us some snakes!

This article lists some snake-handling churches in the US! Let's go!

Supposedly the Mediacom guy is coming today

so I set up the Mediacom box and my ibook on the coffee table in the living room. And I was just thinking—last night we should have dressed up Goathead in a polo work shirt, like a Mediacom guy, and strapped a toolbelt around his waist, and taken him down to the Garden. No, wait—and had him kneel in front of the coffee table and fiddle with the computer, as if setting up the internet. And I would stand behind him, with a big jagged axe lifted for the kill. And we would have photographed it and left it as the desktop on my computer, optionally with the caption

LOOK BEHIND YOU!!!!

But I can't remember ANY of it.

Man, I loved this show as a kid.

Sometimes I like my RA position...

They tell me to make ads for the event that I have to have in my room. Now they will pay. DEARLY!!!

Added thanks

I would also like to thank all of the people who helped us, even the ones who aren't able to read the blog. We had a potential disaster of a move on our hands and it was averted by the kindness of our many, many good friends.

Also, I think a few outstanding acheivement awards are probably in order:

I couldn't believe how early John showed up. He got to our apartment and helped me load two cars before the trailer even arrived. He stayed the entire time, fueled only by water, a hamburger from Wendy's and his intense love for my cock. John even skipped out on some party in Ames so he could help us finish up the move. John wins a prize for endurance.

Amish was tossing furniture around, juggling sofas, balancing a dresser on his chin . . . Amish wins a prize for strength, nuff said. That man is a cold, calculating, furniture-moving machine!

Kevin helped me in my hopeless effort of getting the futon into the attic. We tried to push, squeeze and twist the futon around the corner without tearing up the walls, breaking the light, or putting the futon through the window. When we finally declared that task impossible, Kevin pulled the futon back down the stairs, dismantled it, carried it piece-by-piece back up the stairs and put it back together. I don't know what the fuck to name that prize, but Kevin gets it all the same.

Kevin and John both win prizes for being the only guys smart enough to bring tools. Our beds and my futon would all be in pieces if it weren't for you two.

Thank you everyone, and you're all invited to come visit Spooky Wignall's Pondside Tap, the only bar in Des Moines where you WON'T see Ryan naked.

Now that we've moved

The weekend has come and gone, and man, it was a bitch. And not just your standard bitch, either—this weekend was a dirty blonde lady who throws a can of delicious Progresso tomato bisque at Dahl's, smacking you in the teeth and bloodying your lip, only to then launch her cart at your junk and then fling a jar of her childrens' uring at your hair, and then, upon your slow, pointless retaliation, turns and flees, catching "her" wig on a box of whole wheat pasta, and who then turns and decides that in order to cover "her" crossdressing secret, you must die.

My favorite parts of this weekend were:

Dumping my bookshelf at Ankeny for lack of space, then finding that none of the Goodwills in Des Moines stocked any (despite my seeing at least four last December), then driving to Ankeny, then cruising past the Ankeny dumpster, then trying to go back to Des Moines then east to East Des Moines, getting lost (Sarah: there it is! This is Euclid! Me: No it's not, this is Douglas. Road: Ha hyuck, ah changed names!), and realizing that the Slav Nation Army doesn't operate on Sunday.

Dropping the newly assembled bookshelf onto my toe, then later de-shoeing myself to find my sock soaked in blood and a few triangular chunks of flesh missing from my foot.

Learning that because I put my car's battery in Sarah's car, acid might eat through her floor boards.

But my real favorite parts were:

Putting little Amish to bed in what was, for a night, my bedroom, hoping he didn't realize that for some reason the mattress was damp.

Having a quadrillion visitors in the house, and realizing that there was still more room!

Going to bed behind a fucking bedroom door.

And I have mixed feelings about:

Realizing that the circular holes in Amish's jeans were caused by battery acid.

If the other residents of Le Chateau (de Flop) feel like me, then they are eternally (or, at least, for a few more days) grateful to everyone who helped us move. Transferring Bunny's entire apartment (and Bunny has a lot of nice [see: heavy] furniture) was a hard enough job for me, Goathead, Bunny, and two relatives; moving Bunny's apartment plus Ryan's and Andy's apartment would have killed Andy, Sarah, Bunny and me. John, Kevin, and Amish in particular win special achievement awards. You will always be welcome to come pass out in our beds or eat our cereal or juggle our Transformers.

Kevin's special achievement was helping haul a futon up a narrow staircase, then backing it down into the dining room, disassembling it, and bringing it back up. Amish was just a good little mover. John: did everything.

We'll have pictures (especially of Spooky Wignall's Pondside Tap) up once we get that newfangled Interweb hooked up. Right now, without Mediacom and without our cell chargers, communications in Le Chateau are circa-1902 level. (If anyone knows how to hook up a telegraph, we may want to speak to you.)

Role models for the next generation

I'm getting involved in a group project for a class. One that might require some acting to make this project a vivid reality. If you're interested in acting and doing some experiencial design for a DVD, I'll give you more details.

Does this make any fucking sence to anyone?

1) Soda is sitting out in a box. Several people retrieve sodas from box.
2) I aquire second soda "without asking"
3) 2 hours pass
4) I get the riot act on how someone doesn't appreciate me not asking for something
5) I dont argue, seeing this arguement is not valid
6) Guilt trip recieved for, as I percieve it, "not being considerate of other's property."

The NOT FUCKING FARE light is going off and on.













SERIOUSLY: I HATE MY FUCKING LIFE.

This picture arouses me to the fuckin' bitter ends of the earth.

Denver just got the bejezus snowed out of it.

And guess who had to drive people in it? Me.

I applied to work at a gas station. And Ill prolly get it cuz of my management skillz. Or my bo staff skills. Either/or.

OH! And I need to get Josh's address. I owe him a copy of Advent Children. The rest of you can fuck off. Literally. Only Josh gets the sap of Yggdrasil, which has manifested in the form of a bootleg dvd.

Also: as soon as I can, I'll scan some pics and put em up here.

Also Also: Telemarketers need to learn how to pronounce names. Case in point:
Pharah Jean. pronounced like Pharaoh. Simple? No. Bhalliwood, India Mike pronounces it Fhararah Gien. Fucking idiots.

Something about the plum jelly belly makes me wildly happy.

It's just a comforting color for a jelly bean.

Not that I'll play anything with you, but...

Gamertag: Novowels

I'd love to help out Saturday, but I'm going to be busy picking someone up at the airport.

Yeah, I know, this is just a step above outright begging John--but I'm a mean sign designer myself...BEYATCHES!

Now that we have a house with a real bar in the basement, we need someone to design a sign:

Spooky Wignall's
Pondside Tap

!

The winning designer wins one free night of drinks in Spooky's Tap!

Banana spiders!

They goan eatcha!

While in Swimwear

Well, balls!

We're moving this weekend! Yes! That's right: we're leaving the flophouse. We're killing the fucking flophouse. Andy's going to distract it by running around in scuba gear, and just when it looks away I'll run up out of nowhere and jam an electrified rod straight through it's stinky, vermin-infested heart . . . which is hopefully somewhere in the garbage disposal.

Moving is Saturday starting early and ending, hopefully, around dinner. If you're available, are a massochist/have a death wish, you are of course . . . welcome to join. But if you can't/are smart, the requisite afterparty will be open to you anyway. As long as you're willing to take off your clothes.

These are just a sample of the moving assignments:

Me: bedding, pillows, books, toiletries.

Goathead: Cleaning supplies, shirts.

Amish: Shoes.

Kevin(?): Loose paper, candy bars.

Sarah & Bunny: Get Ryan's TV downstairs, then Andy's dresser, Bunny's bed, the couch and the futon, then the bookshelves, dining room table, Ryan's bed, Andy's bed, as well as refreshments for us men. (Also, you need to take care of this while in swimwear.)

JOB OPPORTUNITY!!! URGENT NEED!

MORGAN or anyone else with a BA and some res. ass. experience:

The Art Institute of Colorado is currently looking to fill a position for Resident Life Coordinator. Task involves councilling, organizing group events, and being a leader in community. Also requires a portion of making the Monster, ie The Pretty Machine ie Headquarters' Ass. FREE RENT AND PLEASING PAY, PLUS HEALTH BENEFITS.

Also: You can be around young, artsy fartsy people. Especially the ones that role play religously.

That Was Absolutely Dreadful

The Idol is back peeps. Am I the only fan on this blog though?

Did anyone check out HOSTEL? Man that was messed up, but very cool. I've never left this country and because of that movie I never will. Thanks Tarentino (sorry spelled wrong I think)

Tim is a lazy bitch for not looking for a good werewolf picture

The beast of the French countryside is SOOO weak. Its not even really a werewolf. Silly.

So last week, I cranked out all fifteen of the players in the cartoon. And today, we took it into the guy who's "sponsoring" our "internship." We walked away with our asses hurting. They were reemed. HORRIBLY.

"characters look like a 12 year old drew them"
"No dicipline"
"Stupid"
"amateur"

Fuck, man! I drew them "maturely" cuz I was nervous! So its back to the boards. Blow it to hell.

----------------------

Me? Yep. Still a virgin. I am now the last of my kind in the Denver group. I hate my life. Seriously, I hate it. I could go have sex...but itd be with a fuckin' orca of a person. I cant deal with that. Its tattooed on my back, next to this:

It clearly reads NO FAT CHICKS.I don't care. Its a very strict regulation.

Blet.

Some fucking darklord forwarded a bunch of the transcriptionists and other lackeys a flash video or something set to Celine Dion music – and so everybody in the cubicles surrounding me is playing it at full length on their computers, starting at different times, and sighing to themselves, and I'm going to either puke or go on a frenzy.

And the lady to my left enjoyed it so much she's watching it again!

Helpful advice for you undersexed people, from Slate:

Having a TV in your bedroom means you get only half as much sex. A study of 523 Italian couples found that those with a TV had sex four times a month; those without a TV had sex eight times a month. Among people older than 50, TV reduced the average frequency of sex from seven times a month to 1.5. The study did not make clear whether 1) putting a TV in your bedroom makes you have less sex or 2) having less sex makes you put a TV in your bedroom.

Male Strippers

It's Werewolf Day!

Yep. Today is dedicated to the celebration of werewolvism. Let the hair sprout from your skin, and let your bones twist into new lupine shapes. Then use your powerful new mandables to tear the throats out of your coworkers, and to feast upon the entrails of loved ones.

Last night not only did Bunny's purse get stolen, but it got stolen at a bar full of male strippers. Thankfully, we did not have to venture inside the bar. I certainly would have reverted to werewolvism prematurely and torn apart the performers, accidentally ingesting an unhealthy amount of vaseline and other body oils.

Over the weekend my phone seemed to experience an inability to receive incoming calls and messages. Ryan has explained this using black magic and chicken blood, but as he can't read or communicate in writing, I have no idea what he's saying. But if you called or messaged over the past weekend or week (?) I didn't even get a message.

Anybody else with US Cellular have this? I know Goathead might have.

David! Any new developments in Denver?

Nick: Florida?

In my reality, Amish's grandma doesn't have all those damn diseases

(This is from an essay by Philip K. Dick)

My first story had to do with a dog who imagined that the garbagemen who came every Friday morning were stealing valuable food which the family had carefully stored away in a safe metal container. Every day, members of the family carried out paper sacks of nice ripe food, stuffed them into the metal container, shut the lid tightly -- and when the container was full, these dreadful-looking creatures came and stole everything but the can.

Finally, in the story, the dog begins to imagine that someday the garbagemen will eat the people in the house, as well as stealing their food. Of course, the dog is wrong about this. We all know that garbagemen do not eat people. But the dog's extrapolation was in a sense logical -- given the facts at his disposal. The story was about a real dog, and I used to watch him and try to get inside his head and imagine how he saw the world. Certainly, I decided, that dog sees the world quite differently than I do, or any humans do. And then I began to think, Maybe each human being lives in a unique world, a private world, a world different from those inhabited and experienced by all other humans. And that led me wonder, If reality differs from person to person, can we speak of reality singular, or shouldn't we really be talking about plural realities? And if there are plural realities, are some more true (more real) than others? What about the world of a schizophrenic? Maybe, it's as real as our world. Maybe we cannot say that we are in touch with reality and he is not, but should instead say, His reality is so different from ours that he can't explain his to us, and we can't explain ours to him. The problem, then, is that if subjective worlds are experienced too diffrently, there occurs a breakdown of communication... and there is the real illness.

I once wrote a story about a man who was injured and taken to a hospital. When they began surgery on him, they discovered that he was an android, not a human, but that he did not know it. They had to break the news to him. Almost at once, Mr. Garson Poole discovered that his reality consisted of punched tape passing from reel to reel in his chest. Fascinated, he began to fill in some of the punched holes and add new ones. Immediately, his world changed. A flock of ducks flew through the room when he punched one new hole in the tape. Finally he cut the tape entirely, whereupon the world disappeared. However, it also disappeared for the other characters in the story... which makes no sense, if you think about it. Unless the other characters were figments of his punched-tape fantasy. Which I guess is what they were.

Now that's spooky

I was going to whip out a brilliant post but then . . . the weirdest social interaction just happened . . . involving some middle-aged lady mutely stopping outside my cubicle, gingerly holding with two fingers a long strip of napkin or toilet paper or something. It trailed down and fluttered at her waist. She just held it there until I took it from her and threw it away. I had no idea what to say, except "…………thanks……….?"

Who knows anything about Spooky Wignall? These are the facts (or rumors) I know:

1) He may or may not have killed somebody.

2) The police dredged his pond.

3) He paid Garrett $50 for a ride to the Red Garter Parlor, in Oscumwa.

I called Garrett two days ago for information. It basically went like this:

"What's Spooky Wignall's first name?"

"You called me for the first time in . . . six months to ask about Spooky Wignall?"

Cats + Stuff = Awesome!!!

Stuff On My Cat (dot com!)

Not to destroy Sarah's dream

Chuck Norris' statement about his truths being leaked out on the internet. I know for a fact he's already hunted down the people who found his weakness and crushed them in between his thighs.

Shoplifters will be embalmed

Go Jim Dandy, Go

Jim Dandy to the rescue.

Disgusting Holidays

Holidays Goathead came up with over lunch or, in some instances, last night:

Masturbation Marathon Monday
Touch Yourself Tuesday
Wack it Till it Bleeds Wednesday
----------------------------
Friction Blister Friday(x)
Salve-saturated Saturday(x)
Skin Flaying Sunday(x)

(x) may have been the creation of a non-Goathead entity
----------------- I can't f'in remember
Also, Wednesday has been slightly altered due to my faltering memory

Kevin, what are you doing tonight? This is what I'm doing: I have no idea!

No idea!

Coffee, Kung-fu and a big goat penis.

Here at work we have a crappy Maxwell House coffee dispenser that dispenses various coffess and watered-down cappacino’s (and wow I don’t know how to spell that word) all of which really suck so far as taste go, but if you need a quick jolt to wake yourself up after proofreading a 16-page 10pt-font document, then the ‘strong’ coffee does the trick.

Here’s something strange though: There are two main levels of coffee, decaffeinated and regular, just like you’d see in any Kum and Go. But this machine takes it a few steps further. Under both headings there are three sublevels of strength: mild, regular and strong. I’ve found that the strong caffinated coffee is pretty strong and I have no idea why anyone would fiddle around with its weaker brothers. It all tastes like crap and the only real reason to drink it is to get that sweet caffine high, so what is the point of anything weaker?

And the decaffinated stuff just really boggles my mind. It’s like non-alcoholic beer (or more aptly, non-alcoholic whiskey!), it doesn’t make sense. Who the fuck would drink the sludge if it didn’t wake you up?

Stranger still is the three sub-levels of decaffinated coffee. Are there subtle levels of non-caffination or did they just flavor the decaf so that it tastes like strong coffee but is actually just really shitty tasting muck?

Someone with comic-making skills needs to create a martial arts comic with characters based on Amish, Tim, Wes, Kevin, myself...ect.

This idea came to me when I realized that, if Amish were a Kung-Fu master, he would be known as The Bearded Dragon. And the comic needs to feature Amish as The Bearded Dragon. He is the baddest beard around.

Supporting characters could include Kevin, also known as The Whipping Mongoose, who would shake his head ferociously when attacked and his strands of hair would lash out like whips, cutting his enemies’ fucking heads off.

Tim would have the devastating head butt and gato-punch combo, along with maybe some Mountain Dew nunchuckus. Or, hell, just rage. That’s the only weapon Tim needs. And he should also be able to do that naked man maneuver from Marvel vs. Capcom 2.

I would probably be a master of a Celtic martial art known as Fu-khu. It would involve a lot of head butting and biting. It would probably be a more vicious version of drunken boxing with a lot more nut shots.

My battle cry would be, "I am just a goat, just a little goat, just a little teeny-tiny little goat with a big goat penis!"

I would say that just before I whipped my thing out and smacked my opponent in the face with it.

Bwah!

There you go.

I have an addiction here at work, and that addiction is the google image search. I'll be sitting here signing into gmail for the 57th time in a row, and suddenly I'll be like

Whoa! I wonder if I could find a picture with the search phrase "exploding face"!

So: it's off to google images, which alternately provides the prosaic and the shocking. The weirdest thing is when you type in a generic word like "blue" and get a nude or near-nude woman. With blue, for example, you get a picture of scantily-clad whatserface . . . paris hilton. "Typist" . . . well, you don't want to know.

Oh god it's the weekend oh god oh god.

I didn't want to tell you this, but . . .

I have cancer.

Wait! That's not what I wanted to tell you! That's not even true!

I have Monday off.

Yep.

So everyone who doesn't get whatever the hell that day is off (MLK?) can look forward to a very smarmy and self-satisfied post, written from the plush confines of the Flophouse's living room bed, where I may or may not be warmly nestled in a woman's arms, where I may or may not warmly nestle a big mug of coffee, where I may or may not be playing video games.

What happened to my long, long, ridiculous bullshit blog entries? Surely you ask yourself this question nightly. You lie in your little beddy bed, in your bedroom (how precious a commodity, and you don't even realize it!), covers drawn to your chin, pile of crusty pornography magazines only slightly uncomfortable beneath the fluff of your pillow, and you wonder: what happened to Tim? The answer is that Tim does not have a home. Wait, no: that is not the answer. The answer is surely: the answer: the answer is: fuck.

Some of us would like to come see you maybe Saturday, John. Some of us would like to drive up to Ames and accelerate all the while, so that while we rammed through pedestrians outside the school we moved faster, and while we charged up Stange we moved ever faster, until finally the car hurdled the curb and shot through the wall and crashed through some innocent renter's apartment, through your kitchen wall, over your sink and onto the linoleum and then onto the carpet and we would leap out, all of us, and scream and tackle you. And then . . . I don't know. Eat a pita.

Again, things I overheard at work today

Sometimes I just need to stop, calm down, and say, "I'm not going to get myself into a big toot."

(beligerant) My skin is white!

Dyje if .wgakesm gyg>

Bass cat.

Weirdly enough, there's a guy here today whose disability apparently makes him sound like that muppet eagle.

How ironically fortunate

Well, balls. Balls. Today I finished applying to five schools:

Iowa State

Minnesota

Madison

Syracuse

Amherst

Man, how handy is this: a lady from Syracuse just asked why they'd never got my transcripts, and could they have gotten lost in the shuffle at UNI?

My handy excuse.

Its a fight to the finish! Yeah, I guess that seems like a good place to stop.

If I organized a fight between Amish and five midgets do you think you would put your money on Amish or the five midgets?

For me it all depends on the five midgets. If these are pudgy midgets who waddle around and sing songs about the wicked witch being dead then I think my money would be on Amish. But if these are the types of midgets you'd see being shot out of a cannon at the circus or bouncing around a wrestling ring then maybe I'd go with the midgets. maybe.

Maybe if they were all like that midget from the movie Elf, then I would put my money on the midgets.

I'll just have regular eggs with that.

I guess we'll have to change the story. Bet Dr. Seuss didn't see this coming.

Kraken!

Here's an interesting (if goofy) article on the giant squid. Sort of in the In Search of vein of investigation.

This one is for Tim

Sad face :(

Big. But funny. And not gay.

It's cute in a way.

Remember Bayou Day? -:- OR -:- Best of June 2005

Last night it came to our attention that zombies should never also be ninjas. They just wouldn't work out. Instead of being quiet they would always be making some kind of noise. Instead of dropping down cat-like from rafters they would just fall like bricks. They'd be the worst ninjas ever... but maybe pretty badass zombies.

. . .

On this day in history: Nick left the copy of “Oh my Goddess” in the car of our intensely fundamental Baptist preacher. Because it actually belonged to the Wells clan, Dave was immediately hanged from the gnarled willow at the edge of the old swamp. His body remains there to this day: green flesh now as taut and hard as a drum skin, eyes long since pecked out, toes eaten by swampfolk. Some of the innocent swampfolk have made a religious figure out of his corpse, and if you approach the swamp on misty nights you can hear their quaint music rattling on the breeze.

. . .

So considering all of the stuff that Ryan had over at his other place, you can imagine what my apartment looks like right now. It's like Megan's family is living there; boxes and junk all over the place.

. . .

It isn’t our inability to understand one another, though, it’s that she’s fucking stupid.

. . .

Mostly I’m concerned about Wes’s ability to fellate said truckers. . .

. . .

Don't taunt a desperate hobo when you're lost on the side of a freeway. He will stab you with a dull knife and try to take your bike.

. . .

An old man riding a flayed, hoofless headless horse.

. . .

Everywhere an unsentimental view of human weakness, with beautiful consequences. Mrs. May? Gored. Lucynell Crater the younger? Left sleeping at a diner. The fool and his turkey? Soon parted. The grandmother? Which grandmother? Doesn’t matter, doomed.

. . .

“You two don’t need to be wallerin around on that bed in there!”

Which was probably supposed to be a quiet instruction to her daughter, but was not.

. . .

And then we’d say “well, what if it was 14 percent milk?” And she’d say “Ugh.” And then “what if it was 30%!” “That’s disgusting.” “Tim, did you memorize that bass line yet?” “BUT WHAT IF IT WAS 50 PERCENT?! WHAT IF HALF THE MILK WERE FAT?” “I’m feeling sick…” “Tim?” “60! 60 PERCENT!” “Can he hear me?” (Andy, charging in from offstage, leaps into my arms) “Hey, beyatch!” “75 PERCENT! THREE QUARTERS MILK! IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD FEEL LIKE GOING DOWN!” “ugh…” “Tim, let’s hear measure 7.” “90 PERCENT!” “I’ll be…*gurgle* right back…” “100 PERCENT! 100 PERCENT MILKFAT!”

. . .

I dont care cuz they feed me rum and take pictures and touch me in places Im not supposed to tell about cuz I took a promise upon Baby Jesus not to tell any adults, not even my parents.

. . .

Sometimes I fill the bathtub with mascara. And I soak.

. . .

“…Good god, man! Do you have any idea what’s in your colon? Where do you think I got this little plastic lemur toy?…”

. . .

It's colonex or the garden hose, your choice.

. . .

By "inside the ball return" I mean literally inside the damn thing. The thing that pops the balls out was pulled away, revealing a hole in the floor and a track on which the balls should normally return. I was inside this hole, underneath the floor, poking a stick at bowling balls.

. . .

Dave is about, but his presence is as unpredictable as that of sasquatch.

. . .

I have decided to quit drinking. These past couple weeks it was gotten a little out of control, I have turned into a person that I don't want to be. The reason that I am writing this because if any of you sees me drinking this post grants you the right to beat the crap out of me.)

. . .

Im torn between my love of driving home or drinking rum.

. . .


And let me tell you, if you order the black bean burger with pepperjack cheese, you will think they have accidentally dropped the bean patty and cheese and put a 22 year-old redheaded goth in fishnets between the buns. Because it’s that damn good.

. . .

SHE'S BECOME TOM CRUISE'S ZOMBIE LOVE SLAVE!

. . .

But would you rather swim in cheese...OR COTTAGE CHEESE?!

. . .

Has anyone heard of Hostess Choc-O-Diles? It sounds pornoriffic, but its seriously a Twinkie with Ding-dong chocolate coating every inch of its 3". ...yeah.

. . .

…like if Ronald McDonald and the Burger King show up on your doorstep some morning holding revolvers and threatening to blow your brains out if you don’t choose one of their namesakes as the place where you eat your breakfast dinner…

. . .

We will strip him of hair using Bondo.

Excellence in a Multiperson Sex Scene

I just had a long, somewhat detailed conversation about pornography in the hospital cafeteria, which I cut short only after noticing a middle-aged woman in a doctor's outfit not 12 inches behind my head, trying to eat a lunch of fish and rice while we discussed the notorious "slap my face" incident, the physical perils of overwork (overloving) in the pornography industry, and the dubious honor of being awarded for "excellence in a multiperson sex scene."

From now on, I want everyone to refer to me as the Duke of Whales. I'm in the process of aquiring a Duke outfit. You know: spotted fur, long red coat, pimp cane, platform boots, giant f'ing fedora.

And you will all RESPECT the Duke of Whales less you want to get a cane up yo'ass.

Soup of the Day:

Chicken Enchilada.

Goat: Have ordered the case for your hard drive. It's in the mail as we speak, chilling with mail order pets, someone's grandpa, and a unique single-use toilet in the back of some UPS truck somewhere.

Odd: I was getting lunch in the design cafe, waiting for my soup, trying to tune out the tv (It's usually turned off at 11). When on the tony danza show announces that they have chuck norris as a guest! CHUCK F'in NORRIS! I hope like hell that he round house kicked Tony.

Outright Strange: Why the hell would I have put a symphony orchestra in the periodical section of the Parks library? (dream)

favorite chicken: El Pollo Diablo

Ending: Yes.

Actual things I overheard today at the office

"Stay away from me! I've got my own religion . . ."

"Maybe I should shave the whole thing."

"I left a frozen pot pie in my office over the weekend, and now there's . . . gravy all over my papers."

*hangs up phone* "Liar!"

"You'd think there'd be some . . . brains . . . somewhere."

"And that's just the Nature Boy's."

"I'd watch out for that yogurt." "Why?" "Oh, you'll know why."

"Would you say—" "He's entered a psychotic state."

"Don't pack your toothbrush."

. . .

Bonus!

The historical basis for the movie Brotherhood of the Wolf, the Beast of Gevaudan.

Books bound in human skin.

Korea got eaten by Manchurian bears just because it is SO STUPID. THE. END!

They never cease to look retarded.

It's almost 4:30 in the morning, still up...
I have nothing that even comes close to being a normal sleep pattern any more.
Which isn't going to be so much fun when class starts tomorrow.

Yeah!! Who's Next!!

Goldberg is back on the Silver Television Screen. This movie is a Must Rent!! Its called "Santa's Slay" and tis the funniest scariest shit I've ever seen.

Happy belated new years to you all. Sorry I haven't posted in a while. Sorry I missed everybody visiting from out of town and such. If your ever trapped in Albia just look me up. We will try to find an escape route past the giant robots and lazer traps together. Anyways Happy New Years and talks to you later.

And Remember...He's making a list, pray your not on it!

F!

Anyone who was feeling like helping us move is off the hook until the twenty-fucking-first.

You fucking losers!

"Typically all I see these days are 19 year old losers who dress like thugs, drive like maniacs, can't utter a complete sentence that doesn't include the "F" word, and have no goals, other than impregnating as many 16 year old drop-outs as possible."

Casey's just isn't going to work.

Here's a conversation I just overheard, from one of the counselors' cubicles:

"Well, how about meeting at the library? . . . Well, the meeting usually takes about 1 ½ to 2 hours, so the library would probably work better than Casey's . . . no, I know where the Casey's is, but I don't think it's the best place for a 2-hour meeting . . . I really think the library . . . no . . . Casey's just isn't going to work . . ."

We have a new disabled employee here. Her disability is that when she talks, she always sounds like she's crying. Just like she's sobbing. But it's something with her lungs. She's not actually crying. Do you have any idea how fucking disturbing it is to have someone crying all day, four cubicles down?

On the Savanna, a Cheetah will TEAR YOUR THROAT OUT BEFORE IT EVEN HITS THE GROUND

Whoa! Hey!

*chainsaws*

Last night I dreamt that I woke in a feather bed in an expansive, sunlit bedroom. The air was warm, and outside the open balcony doors waves splashed against beach rocks. A bowl of Fruity Pebbles sat on the end table, at the ready. I rolled over and slipped a hand around the chest of the love of my life: Ryan McDonough. He snuglged his tiny chipmunky body against mine, but before we could commence to love each other the doorbell rang. It was David! David came into the bedroom and not only was his goiter gone, but so were his pants—

I wanted something scary to write, and that's about the scariest paragraph I could have come up with or ever will come up with, so . . . there you go.

The only thing I hate worse than Christmas is Christmas movies. Or maybe inspirational sports movies. I'm not sure which I hate more.

Today:

the day!

The drunken triumverate of me, Bunny, and Bloathead will be meeting a house owner at high noon to negotiate for a place to live. This should work out fine, and so we will recruit you for tireless backbreaking labor if you have a truck. But since none of you have a truck, I guess you're all safe. But if you know how to install secret passages, trap doors, and cauldrons of bubbling marmelade, your services may be requested.

It was 14 men, in Amish's rectum, without a condom.

Today's McSweeney's is Clue-related.

It was 14 men, in Amish's rectum, without a condom.

Today's McSweeney's is Clue-related.

Fuck!

Does anyone here understand the need for transcriptionists? We have a whole pool of them here who do nothing but type out reports that counselors dictate. So the counselor spends 10 minutes slowly laboring out a report into a microphone, so that a tranny can spend 15 going over it, rewinding, finishing sentences, then hands it in to someone who checks it, points out the 55th fucking error of the day, returns it for correction, corrects it again, etc etc etc.

Wouldn't it be easier and faster for the lazy fucking bastards to type their own reports?

And with 12 people doing transcription at $10 an hour for 8 hours a day, that's about $960 my division spends on transcription each day.

Kittens! Kittens! Kittens!!!

Anyone in need of a desktop computer? I'm wanting to get rid of mine because the mobility of a laptop for working on projects away from my desk is becomming necessary. It's a good computer, nothing wrong with it, and 2 years old; I just need a laptop, and will need one this summer for work. Any help would be awesome, and much thanks are given.

Dead.

Read about the great molasses disaster!

You feel like dancing? Neither do I

I mades it back to Denver. Whoot? No one seems to be posting. So lets post something fun and enjoyable. Like pictures from Amish's grandmother's gangbang. Or when we wrote all those hateful things on Ryan's walls and he couldnt read what we put and thought they were very slanderous statements...even though they were all positive messages. The fucker he was that day!