Instead of medications and violence, we all should wear collars, 24/7, that spray a little fart scent (ssst!) in your face if you do something bad. Or maybe—JUST MAYBE—it shoots a little luke warm breast milk in your face. Think about it…
Right now I’m drinking coffee. I make my coffee very, very strong. Not this girly bullshit. I drink the shit that puts hair on your chest. Or—depending on your opinion of strong coffee—makes your hair fall out. Also, no milk. The fact is that I’ve had 6-cups of coffee so far today, and have like 2 more still in the pot. I got no sleep—zero, none—last night and feel really weird. And it wasn’t due to anything cool, like a lot of sex or zombies or anything. I just couldn’t sleep.
The night before, though, when I did sleep, I had a weird dream that I still remember because I wrote it down. This is word-for-word what I wrote on a little piece of paper after waking up at 3 am yesterday morning:
Sitting on lounge chairs at a hotel pool with Kristen. It’s clearly summer, but we’re wearing winter coats. Maybe we’re dealing drugs? There’s this Casino Royale-like song in the background with trumpets and shit. Every time the drum beats, another person jumps off the diving board into the pool. But no one comes out. The pool is empty. Still people continue to jump, and disappear.
Kristen asks me, “Where’d they go?” “I don’t know,” I said. We get up and walk to the lobby.
There’s a big parking lot inside the hotel lobby. We get in my car and drive to the beach. We lay on the crowded beach in our winter coats, everyone else is in bathing suits and bikinis. To the left, the diving board is set up at the edge of the beach, and people are jumping off it into the water. Still they disappear. Again, Kristen asks, “Where’d they go?”
Everyone disappears. Then I wake up.
Dreams are interesting. Since there seems to be a disconnect between our brains and how we do things. I figure if I was a robot then I wouldn’t have to worry about such bullshit. “Straight to Hell,” that’s what he always said. He, being the voice inside our steel asshole that begs to be opened in a massive poop of epic proportions…
I wonder if there is a limit of how much Three Stooges a given human can watch before its head implodes with the force of a neutron star. If there is such a limit then my dad is pushing it. Looks like I better order some of those implosion-retardant body suits for the cats, Kristen and myself. The feline suit is a ridiculous $36 more than the human version, so my cats may have to hide under an overturned bathtub and hope for the best. I’m not made of money. Especially not on shit Home Depot pays me.
A swift and decisive action must be done about the slanted telephone pole in front my home. It is currently standing at an 87.991° angle. This, down from the 87.993° angle I had measured at the end of last winter. I fear that if this goes uncorrected within the next 416 years then I may have to tell the neighbors to be cautious and to put their garbage cans on the opposite-side of their driveway in fear of the inevitable collapse. The action regarding the telephone pole can be one of those “I’ll deal with it when it happens” type of things. Sort of like how a small number of guys shit from their penis and pee from their asshole. Even I see little specks of poop when I urinate, but until it’s all poop then why bother changing my whole life around?
Is it weird to have a phobia that a clown will bust-open the door of the bathroom while I’m taking a poop just to sit there and watch? It is? Good, then I’m glad I got over that phobia.
Also, I hope the government never takes away the right to fart in my own car. Go to Sikaiana and you’ll have your asshole plugged on the spot after they question your alien camaraderie. God bless America, you son of a bitch.
There are things we don’t know about gas stations. But what we do know is that every gas station is built on top of an indian burial ground. Prime real estate, but bad mojo. Can you imagine the horrors that the gas attendant sees in his dreams at night? Not to mention the indian guides.
When you need to get to the toilet really badly, slippers are a bad idea. Never wear slippers for a trip to the toilet. In an ideal world one would go barefoot to the shitter, but since this is neither a communist world—or an ideal world—that isn’t an option for discussion. But really, when you think about it… and why would you? But think about it for one second. The fact that barefoot-shitting is so enjoyable ties directly into our something that does something to another something.
I received something in the mail the other day. It was from the college I graduated from. Yeah, I really went to college. If this douchebag can get a degree then there’s hope for any motherfucking dorkus-malorkus out there.
The thing in the mail stated that I could submit some shitty written paper describing how everything’s been all sunshine, rainbows, puppies, and unicorns since graduation. I doubt they want to hear about how I’m working at Home Depot, bitter, and borderline mentally retarded. Maybe I’ll write about how I take my best barefoot shits around 2 am each night. They won’t want to hear about how my growing bitter hatred towards nearly everyone else on this planet is slowly ripping me apart.
And the racism — It’s killing me inside.
Have I mentioned that I feel weird?
But seriously, what do they expect me to write about? Lobsters? …
Us white people—I’m white, thank you—never get the real kind of sushi. We fucking put avocado and mayonnaise and other idiotic shit in our “sushi”. It’s all a prank. Yeah, a prank. The asians are making this confusing for good reason: To steer us toward the lobster. Oh baby. The lobster tank. It’s my opportunity to tell those young minds how those lobsters actually feel in that tank. They don’t look comfortable. They look pretty stressed out.
Here’s my idea: Get rid of the tank. Place the lobsters in a straight line. Dress each lobster as a different U.S. President. Now some snooty guy can simply say, “I’ll take Herbert Hoover, please.” How fucking great is that shit? Fucking assholes and their bright futures.
The world sucks out there. This statement is what must be conveyed in my written assignment. God fucking forbid you think about those lobsters for one fucking second. Try too see it from their point of view. Being ass-to-elbows in a fucking tank. Taken against your will by some faux chef, and thrown into a pot of boiling hot fucking water.
And now, standing before a shitty gymnasium full of hopeful and wide-eyed young people, I will end my presentation by saying:
"Outside those doors is your real life. You’re being taken from the comfort of the tank and tossed into the boiling hot water of real life bullshit — Have a great life, people, you’re going to suck at it."
I felt like I needed to clean house. So this weblog is being taken in a new direction.
What was a blog about any random shit that popped into my brain will now be a weblog with medium-to-longform pieces posted on a weekly basis. With most making no sense, one who reads will have to use an imagination (of sorts) to put the pieces together in a semi-coherent way.