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This Kickstarter project thing has gotten out of hand. Not because it’s a scam or it’s stupid– no, not at all. This Kickstarter thing has gotten out of hand because I’m not participating. Yet.
Some may say I’m late to the game but the people who are saying that can’t actually talk because they all have duct tapes over their mouths. And they’re in my trunk. And that trunk is at the bottom of a small pond. It’s actually more of a swamp but that’s not the point.
It’s going to be a coffee-table book filled with lesbians. All sorts of lesbians in various states of (un)dress. Variety will be appreciated. It’s going to be called “Women Sitting on Women’s Faces”. Because that’s the whole book– women will sit on other women’s faces.
Seriously, variety isn’t just appreciated; variety is endorsed. I want all kinds of women sitting on all kinds of womens’ faces. Whether it be blacks on whites, Asians on Mexicans, or a bunch of dirty crack-whores sharing all their dirty crack with me. I want it.
That includes those conjoined twins, Brittany and Abigail. I want to see two women sitting on one of their faces. Hell, I want to see one woman sitting on both of their faces. That would be impressive. That would be Kickstarter-worthy.
Because this is Kickstarter, we have to think about the donation levels. Luckily for you, my dear reader, I’ve given this plenty of thought. Let’s proceed:
Level 1 Donation (10.00 USD): You get a PDF file of the book and I’ll email you some pussy shots from my personal collection. Unless you’re my ex-girlfriends. If you’re my ex-girlfriends then those pictures were deleted a long time ago just like I said they were.
Level 2 Donation (25.00 USD): You get the PDF, the emails, and I’ll thank you in person– you pick the time and place and I’ll be there. With a gun. We’re going to rob a convenience store in broad daylight.
Level 3 Donation (50.00 USD): PDF, emails, and a copy of the book– hardcover and all that shit. Plus, I’ll throw in signatures from all the little chinese kids who put it together, too.
Level 4 Donation (75.00 USD): PDF, emails, signed sweatshop edition, and you get to design a page. But we get to pick the women.
She didn’t actually say that. Not because I didn’t tell her about Women Sitting On Womens’ Faces but because she’s dead. I keep her ashes in a Diet Dr. Pepper can next to my bed.
I’d been driving around for at least an hour– and this place was only supposed to be 20 minutes away. Where was this girl? What was her name again? God, how could I forget, this was only yesterday.
First left after Figeuroa. Second right after Thomas St. Go to the end of the road and make a left, “My place is on the left”.
That’s what she said. But there’s no home to be found. Why don’t…why haven’t I called her again? My phone was sitting in the passenger seat with two frozen Hot Pockets and four boxes of Top Ramen. Radio reception was bad down here so I had long since given up on listening to any music– that’s right, there wasn’t a CD to be found in the car. These were terrible times.
Oh, yes– now I remember: I know why I don’t have her phone number. It’s because I’m a pussy. That definitely makes sense.
Ever since the end of the musical, Melissa and I made friends online. Her myspace had her AIM screenname on it, so I figured it was fair game to message her on my account. Of course, it had been a while since I had been on the account. Opening the ancient program proved to be a trip down memory lane: it was a treasure trove of disaster-like conversations I had had with the various women I never ever dated.
At some point, you know, you have have to assume that if your favorite place to talk to your future girlfriend is in a cemetery filled with all your other future girlfriends, you’re doing something wrong.
Finally I refuse to pull over but I still grab my phone off the passenger seat and sign on to AIM and message my friend Jay. “Can you do me a favor? Sign onto my AIM account. Here’s the password:” I told him what to do off the bat because if you want to get somebody to do something for you you just tell them what to do instead of just asking them to do a favor without giving them the first step. So Jay never had to choose whether or not he wanted to do me a favor– the first step was the hook that got him in.
So I text Jay and he says he’s in my AIM account. I text him again: “MSG the sn Doublemey and ask her to give me her address one more time because I can’t find the place. Thank her when she does it”. This whole dialogue took nearly 3 messages to get out because I think I swore more than I have presented for you here today.
And, as calculated, Jay did it for me. What a bro, right? He sent me the address: 1161 King Ct. Shit, man, I must have passed that 15 times by now. I was coming up again on King Court so I thanked Jay again (without pulling over) and prepared myself for something I’d failed to notice. Failing to notice things is a big thing for me: literally. One time I didn’t know that my ex-girlfriend had a penis. Longest relationship I’ve been in, too.
Pulling up I saw what I’d seen time and time before: A couple of trailers, some mailboxes, and trash everywhere. So I drove to the end of the block, seeing the same picture time and time again: All of it just a bunch of trailers, mailboxes, and trash. And then it hit me: Melissa lived– lives– in a trailer.
I pulled over back at her place and we had some good times– ate a couple Hot Pockets, talked shit on people we knew, and went on a walk. But she lives in a trailer. There won’t be a second date.
Could I ask her to marry me? Of course I could– I’m sure of it. I don’t know how sober I would have to be. But still, should I even be asking that question? Maybe there’s a better one, like “Why are we together?” or “What do you like about me?” or “Have you put on weight?”
Convincing her to stay is out of the question; Maddie’s always been a free spirit and I’m not down for messing with free spirits. I don’t have anything clever to say about that because I really don’t want to get hurt. Of course, I want her to stay but I also want to be buried alive on Easter Island when I’m 37. Basically: I’ve learned that if I want something then it’s probably not good for me.
“I heard you the first time,” I said. I slammed the rest of my beer down and continued, “but it’s out of the question.”
We both got up and squeezed our way out of the crowded shit-hole. T-Club is the kind of bar you go to when you want to get drunk and not get bothered by anyone asking you if you’re driving home. Plus the beer is cheap; it’s great.
“Check this out: Maddie moves out of town in two and a half months. I get to stay. And nobody gets broken up with.”
“Sure it does. But nobody has to get broken up with. Nobody has to do the actual breaking up. Two and a half months and the relationship is over.”
“Oh I don’t care.” Drew turned around and cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, I do care but if you think of it like a crashing airplane…you know what I mean?”
“When the plane’s going down and they drop the oxygen masks,” I said, “you put yours on first. And then maybe help the little kid next to you.”
I got home fine. All the lights were out which is good because that’s how I left them. My parents still weren’t– aren’t– back from their three month long vacation. Good, I thought. I’ll be really surprised if they stay gone for the whole three months.
So that’s where I sat with my original opening to the next blog. Or maybe that’s where I sit with it. My Girlfriend Is Out of Town is like a pie to me and my next project is also a pie but it’s a better pie. Sure, some of it is going to taste similar but goddamn it just go with me on this pie simile.
There was this yoga class I took the other day and the instructor asked us to sit on the ground. That shit was fucking bananas because the teacher tricked us into doing yoga from the start.
That was where I sat (or is it “sit”?) with the second opening of my next blog. My last few paragraphs have been kind of like a pie– kind of like my next project which is kind of like another pie. But better. Yeah, I know: some of the ingredients are the same but goddamn it I’m doing the pie thing again
What you previously read was the third opening of my next blog. Any and all instances of sitting have been entirely eliminated from the first sentence of this paragraph and its quality shows. This is a paragraph that is also entirely void of the word “pie” except for this instance that shows you just how strong-willed I am.
“Is this a date?” she said. And I wasn’t prepared for this question. I’ve got no lies in the chamber, ready to fire. So I told her the truth.
“Okay,” she— the Angel— said. That’s all she said: Okay. She looked at her wasabi as if it would have given her another talking point or at least some sort of out.
That was a lie, but it made me comfortable having told a lie; I smoked crack cocaine out of an apple once. It was a one time thing— the apple part, I mean. I used to have a crack pipe. Stilldo, actually.
My thoughts of crack-smoking filled the silence currently enveloping our little table. The Angel must have gotten over it when she asked me what I was thinking about.
“Yeah but…that still means you had 15 years of men before that. The statistics are still in my favor.”
“No. I want you to give me my first chance.” Back to silence and wasabi-staring. Great. After about a minute, the Angel started again.
The Angel sat back down and gave me a hard look. “Here’s the deal,” she said, “you tell me my name and I’ll pay for my half. Hell, I’ll pay for the whole meal.”
She really got me there. Would she think it’s cute if I called her “the Angel”— like how you got to know her? I wracked my brain for the most popular female names I knew. All I could remember from the list I found on the internet in 2009 were the numbers 863 and 997— Keith and Robert, respectively.
“Robert?” she raised her voice. People were now staring. “You don’t actually think my name is Robert, come on Charlie.” Okay, time to think fast: You’ve got this, Charlie.
“No fucking way,” she said. “You actually don’t know my name?” She got back up and headed for the door, but not without stopping to look back at me and say one more thing.
“One more thing,” she called out, “You’ve got some serious self-esteem issues. I wouldn’t doubt for a second that you are gay, Charlie Brown.”
“I think you are, and honestly, I think that’s the only thing we have in common.” And with that final stab, she left the sushi place. People were clapping and cheering. Somebody was waving a foam finger that said “Number 1”.
The neighbors are getting suspicious of me. I probably had it coming though, building a huge watch tower in my backyard and everything. Well, that my constant playing of my “Halloween Sounds and Frights” playlist.
I mean, they have every reason to be suspicious but they shouldn’t be staring at me in the backyard. It’s downright creepy. A guy should be able to perform his ritualistic sacrifices in peace sometimes. My cult friends and I were filming a simple gladiator match to send to Johnny Knoxville for the next season of Jackass the other day and the neighbors called the cops on us for being too loud. Um, I’m sorry, but I can’t control my friends’ screams of pain.
Don’t blame all of them though…Dave was really loud. He was the loudest, actually; he kept screaming, “SHOOT IT! JUST SHOOT THE FUCKING LION!”. Dave must have forgotten that guns would have been anachronistic in a Gladiator-like setting and would have been out of place and it would have been louder than his screams of pain and anguish. Maybe if I had a silencer…but those cost money… eh. Maybe next time.
The fireworks must be pissing them off too, but I don’t know why. Fireworks are beautiful. The police said that my neighbors had little children, but wouldn’t that just be a benefit to me? Kids love fireworks. Except deaf kids. But in respect to that, nobody loves deaf kids; they never listen.
Sometimes I’ll sit up in the tower and watch my neighbors– who are watching me. They think they’re getting the last laugh, but they aren’t: I have cameras monitoring their house. So even when the neighbors are watching me I’m watching them– in person and on my 40 inch monitor. That’s like watching them twice as much as they watch me.
Maybe I should call the cops on them. That’d be a treat. I’ll just say they’re invading my privacy by constantly watching me.
Hm. Forty inches… Brb, I think I know what kind of movie looks really good on a 40 inch screen and sounds like four guys anally penetrating Jessica Drake.
This is the first thing I ever wrote. I was kicked out of my house for writing it. I regret everything.
The scratching on my window was growing louder. It had woken me up, but I didn’t think twice about it. Maybe it was just a bird doing stupid bird things. But the scratching was becoming irritating. It became clear to me: something had to be done about the bird.
The girl that I had been sleeping with. I had just noticed her. Her name escapes me even today, but she was beautiful. Luscious breasts, long, blond hair, tall, silky smooth skin. She was the perfect specimen of beauty. A creation of some other being than God– she was too beautiful to be created by Him. With her head on my chest, sleeping soundly, I knew I had done my job last night– I had obviously banged the living shit out of her.
Whispering in her ear, “Honey, can I take care of that bird?” elicited no response from her. So I poked her. No movement. She wasn’t dead or anything like that but the night hadn’t treated her body too well, apparently. Neither had I. I sat up and looked out the window to get a look at my irksome avian friend.
A man was scratching my window. The man was sickly pale, sporting stringy and long black hair, with bags under his eyes. He was wearing a ripped t-shirt, and there was a lot of blood staining through the chest area. His arms seemed to be bulging with veins– crossing every which way, making him look as if he had colored his veins on his skin with purple marker. They eyes were bloodshot. Everything immediately became clear:
I was on an awesome LSD trip. Or this guy was. Either way, one of us was totally fucked up. I had never taken LSD before and probably didn’t even mean to but the box social I had attended the evening before was a bit of a mess; everyone was buttfucking each other and taking pills.
The man stopped scratching. He howled into the sky, spitting blood up. He paused. I took a second to breathe. This is some good shit, I thought.
Suddenly the window exploded inward into my room, covering the rug surrounding my bed with shards of glass. The man had bashed the window in with his head and was now lying three feet away from me, howling in pain. He stood up, scrambling to find his balance, still screeching something horrible. There was glass in his eye. But he didn’t pull it out. It became apparent to me that I wasn’t on LSD. That man might have, but I definitely wasn’t, because I’m pretty sure regular household objects like chairs and lamps try to eat you when you’re on LSD and not other people who are on LSD.
The zombie– this waste of human flesh– jumped at me, mouth agape He was trying to bite me. In one swift movement I hopped out of bed and pushed the girl towards him.She could buy me some time to get to my closet, I thought. Her head met his and he was knocked to the floor again, with her almost lifeless and naked body pinning him down. I rushed to the closet. Slamming the door open, I looked to the ground– no shotgun. Where had I put it?
I remembered what my mother had told me the day before she was taken from me by the gestapo. “Charlie, I left the shotgun in your sock drawer”. Those words always haunted me, but they now made sense: the bitch moved my fucking gun. Within three seconds my sock drawer was open and my shotgun had been procured.
Cocking the gun, I ran over to the girl and zombie and pushed her off of him. “I’ll show you,” I said, cocking my gun, “to wake me up at eleven in the morning you dirty chicken rapist.” I jammed my foot deep into the zombie’s chest. My foot sank deep into his chest cavity. He let out a painful howl. I cocked my gun and aimed at his head.
“Die, cunt!”. I pulled the trigger. The blast destroyed his head completely. Blood was everywhere. My ears were ringing. I was still naked.
The girl was sprawled on the floor near my bed. She was starting to awaken. Something told me that the shotgun blast was her alarm clock for the day. She got on her knees and tried getting up. While she was in this position I was starting to get some deja vu. The girl had been on her knees in my presence before. It took nearly a minute for her to get up without my help.
She turned to me as she sat up, but still slouching. Her eyes wandered to my penis, then to my six-pack. I was getting eye-fucked. She looked into my gorgeous eyes and stammered out, “How did I get here?”
I told her that it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that we get the fuck out of there. She seemed unhappy with the answer I gave her, so I pointed at the zombie.
“It doesn’t, but it’ll do for an answer I guess. Hi, my name is Jessica,” she said, going for a handshake. I wanted to tell her that a handshake wasn’t the proper reward for saving a life– a hand job was. But in an amazing moment of clarity, I just bit my tongue instead.
“Hi, my name is Charlie,” I responded, walking over to my closet. “Would you like some clothes?” I picked a bra and some jeans from my closet and tossed it to her.
“Nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said. She started to dress in front of me. I put on the t-shirt and jeans I had been wearing the night before. I knew they were from the night before because of the vomit stains on the shirt and the ketchup stains on the crotch part of the jeans. Don’t ask.
After we dressed, we stared at the headless body lying near the window. “What should we do with it?” she asked.
“Something tells me we should take it outside, but could you do me a favor and turn on the news?” She fumbled with the remote sitting on my night stand.
“Yeah that’s fine but you still need to change inputs on the TV on and then hit INPUT so it switches to that input.”
“You may be gorgeous but I have a gun. You have tits. One of these things can save us from zombies and one of these things can get in the way of lifting heavy objects. I’d like you to take a guess and shut the fuck up.”
She was silent. I had won the battle. The truth was that I trusted CNN just as much as Fox, but Fox was closer to Cinemax, so I watched it more often.
The television showed me what I feared most: total chaos. Talk of satellites, disease, and secret government experiments littered the screen. They all pointed to the same thing: zombies.Undead, they called them. We were warned to stay inside, not attempt to contact loved ones. I laughed. My cell phone provider was Verizon; I couldn’t contact my family even if I had wanted to. Or loved them.
I heard sirens in the neighborhood. “We’re staying in, Amanda,” I said. I struck on one of my pecs and lit a cig. “It’s going to be a long weekend, Jane. Strap in and get ready for the ride of your life.” I think the line was from a movie. That’s why I said it. I don’t even smoke, but I knew I looked really cool when I did it.
I am currently in a closet with a laptop writing this. I shall write to you tomorrow and update you on what happened the rest of the day. Possibly even what happens tomorrow as well, if I survive.
I’m downstairs in the kitchen in a pool of my own blood. I know it’s my own blood because it tastes like type AB. Janessa, the girl I woke up to yesterday, is gone. Where she went is anyone’s guess.
We used tables, chairs, anything to block off the windows and doors yesterday. Luckily, I had a seemingly infinite supply of nails and screws to take care of all of it. And power tools. Don’t remember buying those, but then again, who cares. This is my zombie experience.
We went to sleep very late. After nailing things to walls, killing a zombie, and losing the remote, Shawnee knew I was a man. We slept together, but we didn’t have sex. I didn’t have a condom, and the only reason I didn’t use one the night before was because it was her first time and everyone knows you can’t get pregnant the first time.
We both awakened in the afternoon. The sun was shining through my blinds. An actual bird woke me up this time. The first thought that went through my head was that everything had been a dream. But I turned the television on and saw even more wanton destruction. It seemed that the zombies’ numbers were growing. My area was relatively safe, but if the zombies ever broke into a jog instead of that pussy little limp dragging shit that they do, my whole entire community was going to be screwed.
“I enjoy sandwiches too, Cheryl,” I said. It seemed like a subtle tip-off: If she wanted to be with me, she was going to have to make delicious sandwiches for me. In return, I would show mild interest in her. Maybe make some fleeting eye contact. She hopped out of bed and I gave her a little pat on the butt, “Chop chop”.
Ten minutes later, I heard a scream. “She better bring it to me in bed,” I muttered. But it soon became apparent that the screaming wasn’t a beckoning call to the downstairs table, but a call for help.
I cocked my shotgun. I hurried down the stairs, yelling for her to shut the fuck up. If she kept screaming, well, it would then confirm that she wasn’t just being a total bitch. Of course, she kept screaming. I cocked the gun.
“Freeze!” I yelled. There Christina was, butter knife in hand, going face to face with a zombie. I cocked my gun and started to scream and yell at the zombie. This did nothing for Jane’s case, however, as the zombie seemed to have hearing problems. Cocking my gun, I charged at him. “I said shut the fuck up!” I yelled, hitting the zombie over the head with my shotgun. The butt of the gun lodged in his brain. “Throw me the knife!” I called to the buxom blond beauty.
She tossed me the butter knife. I attempted to catch it, but her breasts must have thrown her off because I didn’t catch the knife. Don’t give me shit about that being my fault.
This terrible throw only put me in even more rage. In one swift movement, I balled my right hand into a fist and thrust it towards the zombie’s head. My fist penetrated the zombie’s forehead. I opened my hand and ripped its brain out. The zombie went limp but I, but I kept my hand in its head, held high above the ground. I kicked the zombie in the stomach and the gun became dislodged as the zombie fell Single-handed, I cocked the gun, flipped it around, and shot it in the head. Blood sprayed everywhere, creating a mess that my housekeeper was going to have “mucho funno” cleaning on Monday.
I bellowed a battle-cry, “Weeee!” and tore a piece of brain with my mouth, swallowing only to take another bite. Avery was slack-jawed. She wasn’t used to this shit.
“You’re not used to this shit, eh Melinda?” I inquired. I already knew the answer before she even said it.
I started to go dizzy. “You just ate my father’s fucking brains,” she said, “you just killed him.” Everything was getting darker. No way this was happening. “I was screaming in joy,” she said. How could this happen? How could this girl just back-talk to me like that?
And here I am now, Day 2 of this zombie invasion not even over. Reader, I hope you get this before it’s too late and send help. I’m hearing scratching and moaning, and my parents are on vacation so it surely can’t be them. The television is still blaring upstairs. Sirens grow louder. There’s only so much more of this shit I can take.
The shooting has stopped. The bombs have finished falling. The Sun is coming out again. I mean, the Sun was never really gone. It goes away at night, but that’s a given. Zombies had nothing to do with the Sun being gone for an extended period of time is what I meant to say.
When I woke up this morning I was in the hospital. I wasn’t in a room however– I mean– Christ. Fucking semantics.
Okay, I was in the bathroom. I don’t fucking know why I was but I was. There was an I.V. connected to my right arm, and somebody (or maybe something) had placed a blue wool blanket on me. There was cold pee on the blanket. I know it was pee.
Crawling up a full-sized mirror, I looked at myself. Here I was, using a pee-covered blanket to keep warm in a hospital bathroom. Zombies have killed everyone. I would never met another human-being again. This was it. I looked in the mirror.
I looked like shit. My left eye was swollen, a cut on my forehead looked too real– too clean– to be fake. No bite marks though, that’s what matters.
It’s now dawned on me that nobody in the entire world will experience the joy of being tickled ever again.
Wish a clean swing of my right fist, the dirty mirror I was standing before shattered. Glass skittered everywhere. Some of it stayed in my knuckle.
The entire hospital was empty, much like a movie set. But in the interest of ending this, I heard a noise coming from the 24th floor. It must have been a television. I ran to the room I assumed the television was in. A television was on. It was a rerun of Lizzie McGuire. At this point, I lost all semblance of sanity. I had screamed for help, but it was useless. There was nobody around for miles that didn’t want to taste my dirty-as-fuck sunburned flesh. And then a way out of finishing this story appeared.
A nurse came rushing in. She was good-looking, no doubt about it, but she also seemed to be worn down. Her hair was a blond and stringy mess. Her lipstick smeared on her face.
I ripped the I.V. out of my arm, because I never mentioned taking it out earlier. Blood fountained everywhere. The nurse charged at me. Thinking fast, I jumped over a hospital bed to a nearby window and sprayed it with blood. The zombie nurse sprang forward over the bed… and out the window. Shattered glass littered the inside of the room as I heard her final call, “Preciousssssssss!” These things are like fucking animals, I swear.
Another nurse came in. This one wasn’t an Undead Warrior, I could tell. Don’t really know why I had a hard time telling with the other nurse, but whatever. My story, not yours. Anyways, she walked in laughing to herself.
“You think that was fucking funny?” I yelled, “Do you know how much of this zombie bullshit I’ve dealt with in the past, what is it, four days?” The nurse kept laughing. “I’m not afraid to kill you,” I screamed, “I’ll push your ass out of this goddamn window just like that zombie!”
The nurse stopped laughing. She was still smiling as she said, “That bitch was some retard from the mental ward! We let her dress up as a nurse! HA HA HA!”
We both laughed together. The music started to kick in and the lights dimmed. We were still laughing as I poured the two of us glasses of some bubbly. She began to undress.
She unbuttoned her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so every button was just another step closer to glory. Six buttons and her shirt was open. Her breasts were full, definitely size D’s. She pulled off her skirt. She wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“How do you like my shaved pussy?” she asked. I nodded my head. Words weren’t needed for this. The nurse walked over to me and started to rub me. “You’re hard,” she said. No shit, this was fucking awesome, I thought.
She started to kiss me, all tongue. Before I knew it, all of my clothes were off. She jumped in the hospital bed. her legs were wide open, her mouth gaping.
Just as I was about to jump on top of the nurse, the music stopped. We both heard a small bump. Then a large one. A zombie burst through the middle of the bed, its body ripping through the nurse’s torso. One hand was up as he held her heart like some prized trophy.The other hand was holding part of her spinal cord, torn from a formerly fine piece of ass.
A little girl was crying in the seat behind me. Oh no. I had fallen asleep as a Teacher’s Assistant at the local preschool.
One kid was repeatedly hitting his head against the desk. “Why is he doing this to us?” cried the child. “What did we do wrong?”
I walked out of the room, out of the school, into my car. Everything was fine. It was all a dream. Sure, I was going to get charged with sexual harassment, but it’s better than being eaten by a zombie.
Don’t you like it when people say “lets be honest”, “I’m being honest here”, and “honestly”? I do. I do so very, very much. What it does is let me know that everything the person was saying before they say the phrase was complete and utter dog shit. You think you’re getting on a more personal level with somebody when you say that? It just pushes us smart people away. We smart people know better than to trust somebody that ever uses the word “honest” in reference to what they are saying.
I love that too, the Seriously Thing. It’s [usually] a pointless reaffirmation of something that was being taken seriously in the first place.
-[While I’m on it, we need to get rid of second place. Second place has always been considered the first loser and this kind of negativity in America can only serve to hurt our childrens’ and athletes’ morals. And it’s a fucking downer. You always feel bad for second place because theyalmost made it. Third place came in last by at least 10 points and never stood a chance. Not to mention they get bronze, which is really just a darker, dirtier gold. For more information on our society’s deplorable use of second place, see the phenomenon of sloppy seconds.]
“Seriously” is always said before something that should be taken seriously in the first place. It’s always something like “Seriously, the cancer is spreading to my asshole” or “Seriously, I can’t believe he hasn’t even gotten to the point of this blog thing yet” which are two Seriously Things that I’ve recently heard. I’ve yet to hear it before something that actually warrants a “seriously”, however. It’s never “Seriously, a clown finger-bangs me in my sleep” or “Seriously, fix the cankles you fat sack of shit”. These are great examples of proper “seriously” use and should be used as a reference from this point forward.
We’re all adults here, so we’ve all dealt with this: The guy whose last name is “Wiener”. Somewhere around the time we stopped calling our collective wiener a wiener, we stopped remembering that people with the last name “Wiener” have given all of us a gift: the gift of laughter. Wiener is the funniest word in the dictionary, bar-none. Find me a word funnier than wiener and I’ll show you my—never mind. Forget it. Point is, people like example-guy Joseph Wiener have been receiving our kindness and sensitivity towards his last name for far too long. Joe Wiener goes to bed at night knowing that people aren’t going to make fun of his last name because that isn’t what adults do, apparently. Adults don’t make fun of other peoples’ last names, but why?
Your last name is euphemism for a dong, and it’s the funniest thing in the world, Joe Wiener. You need to be reminded of this each and every day because it is one of the few givens in the world that could make any person smile. This name holds you back from everything you want to be, Joe, and you know it. Joe, when you ask your girlfriend “Who’s your daddy?” in bed, does she scream “JOE WIENER. JOE WIENER IS MY DADDY”. No, because you don’t ask questions like that in the sack because your last name is Wiener. Joe Wiener can’t google his name at work because he runs the risk of getting fired. Joe Wiener would like to become a CEO at some point but can’t because he will run the risk of getting the job and then getting “Mr. Wiener” engraved on his door. So very formal. Really, the only last name that could be funnier than “Wiener” is “Poop”. So this one’s to you, James Poop, wherever you are. Everybody might be adult enough about the last name Wiener, but your last name is Poop, and that’s hilarious.
Anybody who knows me knows that my favorite thing in the world is the movie Crank. And anybody who knows me also knows that my second favorite thing in the world is its sequel, Crank: High Voltage. When Jason Statham brought his most believable hitman to screen back in 2006 I was blown away, partly because I hadn’t seen a Transporter movie and partly because I thought Jason Statham made being a hitman believable. The other part? Probably some pent up homosexuality that my therapist neglected to inform me about.
Nonetheless, since 2009’s Crank: High Voltage, we’ve heard nought of another sequel. I’ve since given up on directors Neveldine/Taylor bringing Chev Chelios back to life on the silver-screen. But I haven’t given up on that dream. Then again, I still think Amanda Bynes is going to live to see the New Year, so maybe you should go back to reading something else on the internet.
The next movie in the series should be called Crank 3: Burn Notice, and that’s because, well, Chev Chelios lit himself on fire at the end of the second movie. I can’t really remember why he lit himself on fire but it was simulatenously equal parts badass and awfully badass. Anyways, the Crank movies all involve Chev Chelios needs to continually abuse his body. In the first movie he only has a day to live because he has been injected with “Chinese synthetic shit” that will slow his heart down to a complete stop. So what he does to surive is he drinks a bunch of red bull and does coke in a whore-house. And then he then kills the motherfucker who poisoned him whilst falling to his death from a helicopter. In the second movie, Chev is still alive and has to continually electrically shock himself because his heart has been replaced by an, uh, artificial one. This is elegant story-telling.
So in the third movie, Chev needs to keep setting himself on fire. Take that concept and throw in Jason Statham gratiuitously calling everybody a cunt and everybody else screaming “Fucking Chelios” and you’ve got yourself this summer’s next blockbuster because it’s only August 16th and these movies can be shot and edited on a cellphone in a matter of minutes. Oh, and it’s going to be in 3D. Crank 3D.
But then that leaves the question of yet another sequel. Where do we go from there? The answer is Crank 4: Son of Crank (although the marketing guys will call it Cr4nk because they are paid good money). That movie ends with Jason Statham riding the El Niño, howling to the moon, “Release the Cranken!” before killing the moon. Screen fades to black. I haven’t figured out a gimmick for keeping Chev alive in this movie just yet, but rest-be-assured that Jason Statham will be getting too old to be in movies by the time of its release so maybe mediocre CGI will be the thing keeping him from at least looking like he’s on the brink of death.
Then we have The Bride of Crankenstein. Chev Chelios has disappeared but his girlfriend Eve– now played by Michelle Rodriguez– must follow his footsteps. She dies soon and everybody gets to go home early.
There won’t be a Crank 6 because we already said what we needed to say with the first five Crank movies. That won’t stop us from making Crank 7, which will be a reboot. The marketing guys are throwing around The Dark Crank Rises and Crank Almighty, in which Jason Statham becomes God and relies on antiquated beliefs to remain immortal and call everybody a cunt.
Of course, what good is a series of movies without spin-off TV shows and obtusely related tie-in products? Don’t worry: a partnership with Pepsi-Cola will bring movie-goers the chance to get hyped up on Mountain Crank and Diet Mountain Crank while waiting in line at Wal-Mart to get the direct-to-DVD holiday movie It’s A Wonderful Crank. Pepsi-Cola took a pass on sponsoring the spin-off Million Dollar Crank, however, mostly because it is a porno and not about boxing on drugs.
Finally, we want to bring Crank to television audiences weekly. And we’ll do it in two flavors. First, we’ll have history’s first spin-off of a tv show that is also a combined spin-off of a movie. That dream will be realized as Crank & Order. The premise: in the criminal justice system, the worst criminal offenders are pursued not by members of an elite squad but by Jason Statham hopped up on Red Bull and coke. These are their stories.
And then we’ll have an educational show for children. I haven’t thought about what we’ll call it yet (we have an excellent marketing team, yet we don’t have lawyers that can help us get away with Sesame Crank) but it needs to have the feeling of a Crank movie whilst carrying a positive message for kids. Here is an example script:
Hey buddy, how’s it going? Honestly, I don’t care, so shut the fuck up. This isn’t one of those ‘o mi gosh i want a pony’ letters. No. I already wrote that letter. Last year in fact. And what did you get me? Honestly, you didn’t seem to care, so shut the fuck up.
There I am, Christmas morning. My mom’s out of work, my father still dead after getting caught in the chimney last year trying to impersonate you. This was supposed to be a great Christmas, since it was the last one I was going to spend with my mother who was dying with cancer at the time (thanks a lot, jackass. She asked for new earrings, not acute t-cell carcinoma). I go downstairs to open my gifts from you and what’s there:
“Did Santa give you what you wanted this year, honey?” she said, coughing. This was one of her long coughs. We always grew tense when these coughs happened.
“I guess Santa,” she paused to cough, “accidentally messed up this year. I’m sorry.” She started to cry.
“Don’t be sorry mom,” I said, “It’s that fat asshole’s fault. Don’t take it out on yourself. Santa’s just a mean old cock sucker for thinking I wanted Axxon. I hope he dies in his sleep.”
There was another box, which I assumed to be an Playstation 3. But was it an Playstation 3? No. It was clothes. Clothes, St. Prick. I wanted to immerse myself in the world of games, but instead I’m getting immersed in itchy cotton and onesies.
What the hell were you thinking? You ruined my last Christmas with mother. You are such an asshole, man. All I wanted was Takutaunuva and a Playstation 3. That would have made me happy. My mom didn’t have enough money to buy me a Playstation 3, so I assumed you would have. You should have. But you didn’t. Nope. My mom spent Christmas crying because I didn’t get the toys I wanted.
“I did so much for you and yet you just turned around and called me an asshole and you wanted me to die in my sleep…after all I did?”
So not only did my mom do a whole lot of things for you, but you turn around and give me utter shit for Christmas? Blow me, Santa Claus. Blow me hard.
You guys are doing this facebook status thing wrong. I know it sounds like I’m accusing all of you again for minor discrepancies, but minor discrepancies lead to things like occupational dermatitis, and God knows you don’t know what job can lead to occupational dermatitis. You may already have it.
Don’t update your status about an earthquake when one has just happened. Everybody on your friends list is probably in the same geographical region as you, so they’ll already know an earthquake has happened. They don’t need to be reminded when they go online because it’s hard to forget the world as you know it suddenly shaking back and forth between your very eyes as if you were in an earthquake.
As for the friends outside of your geographical area: They don’t need to know about earthquakes unless you want to share a horrifying experience like that with them via a private telephone conversation. If the quake is major they’ll hear about it from the news so you still don’t even have to update your status. If you’re in an affected area they’ll already assume you weren’t trying to update your status during a 9.7 magnitude earthquake in a computer lab in the basement of your community college. They’ll assume everything is alright and you’re not trapped under fourteen Dells and the entire library.
That E.E. Cummings quote about laughing being good for your soul or some gay shit like that? There’s a time and a place for that quote and the fact of the matter is I don’t even know the time and the place for it. Wedding vows maybe, I don’t know. But keep it away from the internet. This place is a filthy nightmare and there’s something wrong about having such an insightful piece on the healthiness of laughter next to midgets banging hairless donkeys. Whatever’s good left inside you will die the day that happens. On accident. Again.
What if your status is now God’s Final Judgement? You’ve already made it this far, hear me out for only two more thrusts: You get to the gates of Heaven and Peter’s there and there’s a line and shit but it’s Heaven so like, whatever. I guess, you know? It’s only a couple more minutes. Theme parks were training for this bullshit.
And you get to the front of the line to get into Heaven and Peter’s all tripping balls in your fucking face and goes “Tell me what your last facebook status was.” Shit, and now you’re all pissed because Peter’s an asshole but then you remember that life’s entirety was training for this bullshit. So like, screw this cake fucker. Slap him down with some knowledge.
You give him your answer: “The most wasted of all days is one without laughter. It’s an E.E. Cummings quote.”
Peter gazes down at his magical book of life information. His eyes dart back and forth, searching for information about your life. You don’t say anything because it’s probably been a while since you’ve seen a book. Useless objects, you think. So glad President Obama called for The Burning in 2013. That was so cool, a nation united together, purging themselves of their most inefficient vessels of information while simultaneously giving the finger to the Ozone. Man, and who even knew Delaware was a state anyway—your mind drifts off. Peter has been looking at the book for an undetermined amount of time. His lips curl.
Is that irony or a coincidence, you’ll think, but “What was I laughing at?” is what will escape your mouth. “I’d think I’d remember how I died.”
“You were reading one of Jenna Rash’s status updates on facebook.” Your mouth hangs agape. You feel a sudden burning sensation in your heart. A little bit of you has died again. Peter just rolls his eyes.
The reviews on Amazon inspire one to ask: Has anybody listened to “R______” after spending their hard-earned money on it? Or is everybody here because R______ asked them to review his album on his blog?
Kanye- sorry, I mean- R______ claims to be a “driving force” in underground hip hop in Orange County and claims to have been so for the last 8 years. Maybe R______ is confusing himself with people who actually record music that isn’t filled with references to the movies, tv shows, and comic books he consumes in his free time.
I almost wanted to make a reference about how this album sounds like a lazy man’s version of “Illmatic” , an old NAS album that anybody who enjoys hip hop should know by now. Well, one of those anybodys is R______, who’s homage to that brilliant record comes in the form of “Golden State of Mind”. Everything in here begs one to ask: does Kan- sorry, how could I forget – R______ come up with any original ideas of his own?
The album is also over-produced. Nary a second goes by when R______’s voice isn’t slathered with effects that only serve to remind the listener that R______ doesn’t actually have any vocal talent. Half the time it sounds like he recorded his vocals underwater, which is a feat in and of itself because the sound of a person drowning is usually quieter.
I know that rapping doesn’t always have to rhyme. Everybody knows that. And R______ knows it so well that he eschews every opportunity he has to rhyme by NOT rhyming. Example lyrics (from “Submarine”): “since you like drinking to break the tension /”i love you” /is your favorite sentence”. If I didn’t know better I would say this would have been LFO’s greatest record, but Rich Cronin is dead and we’re here to listen to his greatest impersonator that nobody asked for.
The opening track is probably the funniest thing I have ever heard in my life, though. A disembodied, booming voice (probably R______) claims that R______ was betrayed by those he loved and that he soon became apathetic to the things around him. “And consumed by depression”. The booming voice then declares that everybody has been waiting for him to “once again, light our darkest hour”. R______ then proceeds to metaphorically turn off every light in your house for the next 30 minutes.
What was I expecting? This is a guy that hands out free razor scooters and backpacks with his logo (with his name) plastered all over. This is a guy who writes his own Amazon reviews when he can’t get his friends to do it for him. Enjoy buying your reviews, R______, because I definitely didn’t enjoy buying your record.
The moderately wealthy enjoy installing pools into their backyards. Well, when I’m filthy rich I want to install a pull and a jacuzzi in my backyard.
Obviously the go to is pudding (a mix of tapioka and chocolate) but I think a pool filled with the fresh dough they use to make bread/pizza would feel good all over my body, too.
It’s going to take a pretty expensive filtering system and, also, a long time to ever actually happen. Today, I bring you what would be the fruitions of a person focused on making money– not friends.
Having a pool really stews my creative juices. I’ve found that I do my best writing underwater. So a pool will help me actualize a workplace where I can focus. Writing underwater is great too because whenever people try to talk to me underwater they sound like like they’re drowning– and that’s as close as I’ll ever get to true nirvana.
Most people suggest not drinking pool water. Don’t drink from Diet Coke pool, either; you can taste the schizophrenia.
A pool filled with glue means a pool’s worth of horses died. It may not be fun to swim in every day but the real fun is the journey, not the destination. Although, metaphorically, I think all the dead horses make a great destination.
I spent every formative year of my life going to church every Sunday. I was baptized, had my first communion, did my first confession, was confirmed (still do not know what that was about), and attended CCD classes every Saturday morning or Sunday night.
I studied the bible, could recite the Books in order, and understood every single commandment. My father was a lector. I was sermonized, proselytized, preached to for 18 years of my life. And for the last 8 of those years, I was mentally calling bullshit on a WHOLE LOT. But being 10 when my apparent "age of reason" started to kick in, I still had to go. That was a nonnegotiable in my house. Behind closed doors my sister and I would talk about the hypocrisy we witnessed, the restrictions that were obviously man made not heaven ordained.
My discontent had wholly to do with having an open mind that refused to close to allow in only one view, one set of tenets, one way of thinking, praying, being. That is why I stopped going to church when I went to college - I finally had a choice, and my choice was to immerse, not continue segregating myself.
Yet, for all my years of discontent and boredom in the pews, my ultimate separation from the church never had to do with murder being preached from the pulpit.
Three years ago today, in a church in Arizona, Steve Anderson, an abomination before the Lord, decent people, animals, even raw sewage, stood before his congregation and said these words:
He is apparently back at it again this year promising we could have an AIDS Free Christmas if they could all be executed by Christmas Day.
CHRISTMAS. Correct me if I'm wrong, but what happened to "peace on earth, goodwill to men," "Joy To The World," love and hope and glad tidings?
OK, look, this assbag has been in the press before, most notably for praying at his pulpit for President Obama's death, celebrating the Pulse Nightclub massacre, and for being banned from the United Kingdom, and many countries in Africa for his heinous, extremist views. The Southern Poverty Law Center lists his church as a hate group - today's feelings about gay people not exactly making history in his strip mall "church".
But, you know, before I unpack his suitcase of idiocy and hate, I want you to invest two minutes and watch him say the above words. Not because I think you won't believe me, but because I want you to listen to the reactions of his flock.
These pig fuckers are laughing. Yes, pig fuckers. Anyone who would sit in a pew and not only listen to this call for murder, but laugh and Amen it? PIG. FUCKERS.
The ignorance he preaches from is a deep well. Does he not understand that AIDS is an equal opportunity disease?. That HIV does not discriminate, or is he still preaching from the 80s when even our own government laughed at the disease that was killing thousands of its citizens.
His slur of "homos" is sickening. And as he slings it, he is being cheered on by a bunch of self righteous, equally stupid, holier than thou CHRISTIANS.
Do not even attempt to rebut that important piece of the puzzle. I don't want to hear the tired, "Oh, they're not REAL Christians" bullshit. Those mouthbreathers, just like the intellect deficient Westboro clowns, would stand up and shout that YOU are not REAL CHRISTIANS.
This "church" - Faithful Word Baptist Church - is just as legitimate as yours. They are tax exempt, just like yours. They sing hymns, just like yours. They use the Bible, just like yours. They quote from it just like yours. And they deign to hold the keys to salvation - JUST LIKE YOURS.
Yes, that particular sermon caught on video was three years ago, but what Christianity has been slowly devolving into is simply sickening. It is being turned into some foul, sinister, mental illness that seeks to strike out at everything and everyone they do not understand, all the while hiding behind the robes of Jesus - a Jewish SOCIALIST if there ever was one. Seriously, Jesus would never make it past the threshold of many a church in this world, so warped and vile and self serving are the tenets. Jesus would be cast out for having darker skin. That hippie length hair he sports in all the paintings just would not do. Where's his Rolex? Private jet? Designer suit? Fancy robes? Jaunty hat? And his jabbering on about loving one another would get him labeled a bleeding heart libtard in a heartbeat.
That this kind of dangerous sermon was being delivered three weeks before Christmas, and is being trumpeted by him again? How in holy hell can this be defended on any level? Why aren't ALL decent Christians loudly calling this out? Is there not one soul in this strip mall messiah's flock that has the bravery, the heart, the HUMANITY to call him out?
How many "decent people" sit in pews every week and listen to their ministers, priests, preachers, imams, rabbis speak with flowery or fiery contempt for other humans? How many of you disagree with things being preached but ignore it because you like your church family? How many excuses do you buy for your church?
Now, I want you to look back at how I started this piece. How I spoke of being trapped in having to go for 8 years beyond my being done with it. Now, think about the hundreds of thousands of LGBTQIA kids, in this nation alone, who are trapped in pews where this kind of poison is freely spewed, where the congregation chants back the Amens, the Praise, Jesus!, the laughter.
It happens in your churches. You know it does. It may be subtle, but it happens in more churches than not. That self hate is ingrained by the spiritual leaders, that the feeling of hopelessness experienced so acutely by so many young teens is taken and turned up to eleven.
Calling for the execution of all gay people by Christmas Day. If ever the words "and Jesus wept" were apt, this is it.
I don't know what I believe in these days. I know I do not believe in looking up for answers to problems we have created ourselves. I do not believe in having anyone's chosen set of stories dictating the governance of our nation. I do not believe that Jesus would sanction the bile spewed by Anderson today. And each day, I find it harder and harder to believe in people.
Because make no mistake - politicians have co-opted religion as some sort of litmus test of worthiness, and preachers like Franklin Graham, Jim Bakker, Joel Osteen, Pat Robertson, and on and on, are slowly ratcheting up the rhetoric, little by little letting their followers know it is OK to hate, OK to view others as lesser, not worthy, damned. And they are led by the least Christian cretin of all - a self admitted sack of shit named Donald Trump.
And the people populating the pews are getting the message, buying the bile they are selling. Turning garden variety ignorance, racism, bigotry into aggressive, dangerous thoughts that can easily become actions. Whether it is a parent continuing the torment of their gay child at home because the preacher said so, or easily flung slurs in the grocery line because the latest sermon was some MAGAT infested screed about Real Americans, or some parishioner who just needed permission from the pulpit to start murdering gay people - the shift is happening.
The boiling frog is a parable about how if you put a frog in tepid water, slowly increasing the temperature one degree at a time, it will not perceive the danger and will be cooked to death.
This is what is happening. One degree at a time, norms are being redefined, words are getting more aggressive, actions getting bolder. And far too many in society are that frog in the tepid water not understanding, or refusing to acknowledge that something bad is happening.
People have even become inured to the reminder of the Holocaust. I get it, it is difficult to wrap your mind around something that massive, that horrific possibly taking place in the 21st century, but here's the thing - that did not start with a BANG. It started with a whimper of sorts. A very slow, methodical erosion of civility; a repeated chorus of us vs them, them being blamed for all us's ills. Add in some grotesque form of "patriotism" and a push for a stronger land. Repeat the part of them being responsible, broken, corrupting. And then slowly begin attacking those people, cleansing the land of those people.
My son is transgender. Many people are gay, bi, asexual, and on and on. You know what any of that truly means? Or do you just listen to what you're told by your pastor, your favorite politician, your chosen TV pundit? Far too many already do not even consider my son human. I assure you he is. Crawl out from behind your Bible, your MAGA hat, that flag you profess to hold so dear, grab some of your personal agency back to think for yourself, and look at him. He is just the same as you and me - happy, sad, loves a good movie, puppies, crescent rolls. He wants what you want - what I want - to just live in safety, peace, pursue his ambitions, enjoy his life. He is you. He is me. Just like every other person who does not happen to fall on the spectrum where you do.
He is different. They are different. Because they endure the Hell on earth other people create for them. Because they have to live in a world where preachers call for their murders, where people laugh and want them dead for the mere sin of simply trying to live.
There ARE good churches that don't condone this sort of preaching or believing but they rarely make the headlines. These guys give church a bad name. They believe God's mercy is for only a select few. They only focus on the verses that meet their world view. If you listen to these kooks they rarely actually quote Christ because he preached tolerance. Face it, he was kind of a homeless guy who hung out with beggars and hookers and only owned one pair of shoes. That truth does not fit into their vision of Jesus with light hair and blue eyes, ya know? They actually create a God as they wish God to be, vengeful. When according to Jesus, hey, there's room for everybody in the Kingdom of Heaven. If there is an afterlife, some of these "Christians" are going to be in for a real shock. But this is a first for me too. Inever once heard even the most conservative priest I knew preach about actually killing someone. Where do these guys come from?