Thanks for the Memories....and Absence of Light.

If you've ever done something stupid, you're just that much closer to becoming me. I could have fooled myself with a few barbiturates, but to my surprise, I don't take pills, so I guess I have to face the harsh truth on heroine and Frosted Flakes (that's not a street term, I meant actual Frosted Flakes).

Have you ever had a childhood memory of things that you couldn't possibly forget about? For example, when I was in the second grade, I bent over and split my dark blue jeans with the yellow threading (My mother had horrible taste in boys clothing) and exposed my He-Man Underoos to the entire class. It was like one of those "being at school naked" dreams, but this actually happened. I had to call my grandmother to pick me up, so imagine how that just sweetens the pot.
When I was about 10 years old, my yard got so dark at night because it was back in the woods, me and my friends tried to race back where everybody was having a bonfire and I ran right smack into a tree and knocked myself back into the ground. It's things like this that make your memories oh so special and ever so untouchable.... unless of course......you're a tree. Sometimes though, you have one of those memories of someone that just kind of disappears one day and you decide you're going to find said person and initiate some kind of closure in your life. Trust me, you'd be better off watching someone regurgitate their own feet followed by the ankle. You might turn out to seem like that one creepy guy with binoculars around his neck at all times and a sock puppet for a best friend, but the best advice is this: Just live your life and let your memories remain just that. Besides, comic book day is Wednesday......and one of these days I'm getting back at that damn tree.

I Cough When The Air Gets Coulter

Have you ever noticed that grossly obese people pretty much look the same from far away? I've seen plenty of really fat guys off in the distance and said to myself, "self, isn't that a fat guy that I know?" Apparently I didn't, but on the upside Anne Coulter was trapped inside, previously mistaken for a tasteless chicken bone. I really wish she would stay in her coffin, at least until the sun goes down.

I think I've gone through roughly two hundred cough drops and they're only good for the time I have them in my mouth, kind of like Paris Hilton's thoughts. I just can't stop coughing and the only thing that makes me stop is sex, so basically I'm coughing all day. All I can do is sit here, write something completely useless to the rest of the human race, and get used to my wife watching America's Next Top Mindless Airhead. I don't think that name of this show really speaks the truth. What they should do is call it America's Next 25 New Strippers, because that's the jobs the losers get as a door prize. I was told that if you get kicked out of Tyra's show, you are then immediately invited to be on Brett Michael's show, just as soon as your new boobs heal.

Girls, I don't know who you are or who you had to do taxes with to get where you are, but as long as you know Papa Chester's proud of you, then at least you listen to old, creepy stuffed animals.

Tyra Banks Has got to Be On Her Own Friend's List

Sometimes, you may feel like a lawnmower in the face is the best way to get attention, but I assure you, those damn thing are heavy. You may even try to do what I do and open your eyes really, really wide when people glance your way. It doesn't hurt to have a pair of rapist glasses, but you may have to improvise. Many people actually have problems getting attention, but most do fine compared to this blog.

You can look at all of the different network communities and tell right away that the ones that get all of the attention are the most self-centered wastes of oxygen you can imagine, but at least Tom's still my friend. What I'm really tired of seeing though is a 15-year-old girl that takes an overhead picture that accentuates her boobs and adds the comment to the photo, "I hate this one". You know what I do with pictures I really hate? I write an email to Tyra Banks and tell her to talk about herself some more while her camera operator kills himself out of shame.

Myspace recently tried a new look for their bulletins by putting how many times each one has been viewed on there. About a day later, they removed it. I'm kinda glad actually. All I saw on my bulletins were 1, 1, 1, 1...... But after all of the shrapnel was cleared, Tom is still my friend.


and this is just for fun. Enjoy.

The Planet Deserves My Food

I've recently had the idea to yet again confuse and most likely piss off America by opening restaurants all over the US with names that have nothing to do with what's served inside. My first triumphant accomplishment will be a simple Italian Restaurant that serves only salt water taffy, called "Pablo". When that gets people talking, I'm immediately going to open up another one right next door called "Pizza", but this one's going to be extra special. It'll be a huge establishment with no windows. The entire place will be covered with small tables, two chairs each, and one lit candle for ambiance. Right in the middle will be one guy with a snow cone machine. The kicker is that he's blind and he has one arm.

Exactly one month later, I'm going to take the five dollars profit from each new place and start a fast-food chain called "Slow Cooked"; but it will be exclusively take-out orders only, for large parties only, and All we have is melted ice cream and plastic forks. Will I stop there? Not quite.

I figure next I'd appeal to the gay community by serving fudge covered tacos, but the confusion will be completely in the name of this underground bar and grill....."Southern Baptist Buffet".

With all of the love I'll receive from my patrons, I don't think I'll have time to spend that five dollars.

The Best Chicken Idea Money Can Have Sex With

In all of my years contemplating, nay visualizing the intrigue and majestic core ideals of the Gallus Gallus or Gallus Domesticus......... chicken.......I've come upon the biggest market strategy to completely domesticate these feathered little morsels of crispy-fried goodness. Specifically, since the chicken is being bred in greater numbers as the years go by, the male species of the Gallus Domesticus, or cock, is getting lonelier and lonelier. These pitiful and lonely little cocks need some attention and loving kindness that only an 8 piece can satisfy.

So here we are, the human race with our sex related toys and accessories, made for experimenting couples, large....large groups of people with too much money in their bank accounts, large people in general, and last but not least, very lonely, unattractive men with no chance whatsoever of scoring some strange. Are we seeing the connection here?

That's right kiddies, the rubber chicken has been selfishly squandered by the Homo Sapien (and the homo in general) for sick, humorous and frankly tasteless and outdated reasons that, to be honest, escape me at the moment. So what are we do do with these floppy, flacid wind sock chickens? Why, we should give them a little cock.

Our cocks are cheated out of a good lay because we're eating all of the play. We should at least create a sex toy for our cocks; give the damn cock something to stick itself to. Since we already have millions and millions of rubber chickens already, there's virtually no overhead. We can make up for the giant gaping holes by filling them with mashed potatoes. Hey, it goes good with chicken. Just don't get your cock lost in the mashed potatoes.....you might get the love gravy confused with the actual gravy. Besides, your cock may get out of line and if it does, you'll have to grab it firmly and yank your rabid cock right out of that tater filled orgy of imitation Chicken Little that if not filled with some man-chicken love like the sky is falling, would be a total waste of human effort on your part.

I know it's a difficult endevor for you and your cock, but trust me......If done right, you might get to sleep in tomorrow.




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The Daisy Chain is Now a S#%t Stream

I just saw on a commercial this afternoon the brand-spanking (possibly in a literal sense) new reality television show starring Daisy De La Hoya, called Daisy of Love.
Before I go out on a limb here and just blindly assume that I'm going to be forced to watch this show along with all of the other reality shows in the "watch me be a whore" category, I don't even understand the title. Daisy of Love? What the hell does that mean? Maybe if they took all of the Queer Eye guys and called it Daisy Chain of Love, it'd be at least comprehensible what message VH1 was trying to convey.



So without further a due I'm going to use my psychic powers and predict the top ten most memorable catch phrases that'll be coined by all of the men, women, or hermaphrodites featured in this little drunken glaze of events.

10. "I just want to make sure you're here for me."

9. "are you drunk?"

8. "I can't be here anymore."

7. "Did I leave that condom inside you last night?"

6. "That doesn't go there!"

5. "You're interfering with my one-on-one time."

4. "I knew I left that condom inside you last night."

3. "I used to (name shameless sin) for money/smack."

2. "My uncle used to hit me in the boobs."

1. "Can I have that condom back please."



I guess I'll go back to pleading with my wife to change the channel from For the Love of RayJ before I send a letter to VH1 about how this channel is one by far that makes everything hurt. It's almost better than America's Next Top Showcase of Tyra Banks Talking About Herself.

The Revolution Begins at the Changing Station

inside Wal-Mart is a public restroom. The room on the left of the entrance (depending on which way you're facing). This room, despite its horrific pee trails running down the walls from the ceiling corners, toilet paper by the rolls stuffed into every hole that either supports an entrance or exit for water amongst other things, and the brown smears coming in from every direction imaginable, it serves me one purpose in particular that I can honestly say I'm proud of besides the usual dead guy on the floor. Now, even though I'm sharing this information with the utmost confidence and secrecy, I'm also giving the fathers out there taste of how sneaky they can be when visiting the place we go to beat our kids.

Sometimes, the wifey likes to wait until we go to Wal-Mart (coming to or going from) to say, "will you please change her diaper?" Even though I would love to help out and perform the fatherly duties beset to me by God Himself, I use my "get out of crap free" card called:

"......There's no changing station in the men's room honey......."



There really is, but is she really gonna go into the men's room and check?
I'm still ahead of the game......and it feels so good.

Pools are Well Made for Welfare

There's a new catch phrase my wife came up with today. I specifically heard, "you can't re-squish! You never re-squish! What you want is the initial squish."
Just so we're up to speed, this had something to do with the fact that I was driving and I ran over wet road kill in the rain... You're probably doing the math in your head about now. The seriousness and determination in her eyes almost made me laugh to the point of taking a vow of silence in a monastery somewhere in downtown Jersey.

The subject at hand concerning me at this juncture is probably one of the most detrimental issues facing kids today. I'm speaking to you about this issue in particular because of the trauma it may or may not and definitely has caused to children of all ages, somewhere between the poverty and lower class developments, behind the dumpsters at Taco Bell and down by That one guy's house....you know, the one that steps just outside his front door in a wife beater because the underage girl across the street is sitting on the hood of her father's car with her legs out like she's trying to get attention, scratches his nuts, looks around, and walks back inside......that's kind of creepy now that I'm talking about it. But yeah, down that way...

Have you ever been to a public pool? I don't mean walked by one either. I mean a community pool that you have to pay to swim? My nephew-in-law's daughter ( I'm not doing the math on that one) was having a birthday party....and apparently, so was an entire trailer park's worth of inbred, human welfare machines. The part that bothered me wasn't the entire collection of women involved with the birthday party next to us having not one single tooth between all five of them, it was the idea of us being there too for the same reason. I saw more crack smiles than a family of people with butts for faces. I couldn't help but to think about all of the middle class to upper middle class communities possibly having pools for everyday use, while the poverty stricken take their kids to swim for special occasions.

I think maybe for Christmas, I'm going to buy some of that fancy paper those rich folks use in the bathroom.


Jesus Walt, What are you doing? You know you're just gonna get that cat stuck in your ass again. He said, well how else am I gonna get the Gerbil out?

The Watchmen Review About Nothing

I went with my father-in-law to see this movie (and in case you have Alzheimer's and forgot the title of this review it was called Watchmen) , which I've been anticipating since I saw the trailer. I know I'm supposed to say something like "spoiler alert", but instead I'm gonna say, "I'm telling you what this damn movie is about".




To be completely honest, this movie didn't affect me one way or another. I would have been content not seeing it at all. First of all, you figure out before hand, if you're not a complete idiot, that you're going to be sitting there in your seat for almost three hours, so if you're not entertained by the movie, you might end up stabbing someone next to you so you can see some action. The movie content is based on a 12 issue comic series from the late 80's, so don't be surprised if Madonna and Punky Brewster show up somewhere before the credits congratulate you for not falling asleep during this oh so exciting and invigorating movie event.

It starts out with the Comedian getting the funny bone kicked out of him, thrown out the window, and getting his have a nice day pin all messy wessy. Everyone talks about how they're scared of nuclear war for about an hour. (By the way, this movie is about 80% dialog.) You get a little back story on the Comedian (he happily kills pregnant women who carry his babies, he likes to rape his teammates; but not Mr. Blue Wang with Kung Fu grip, and he'll gladly shoot tear gas straight into a dude's nut sack during a riot scene), then people talk to each other for another hour and a half. Some things happen, Blue Wang talks about his origin in some chamber with things happening.....more people talking for two more hours.....The Silk Spectre apparently doesn't like threesomes....more people talking. The only entertaining character in the whole movie is Rorschach, a guy who fights crime even though he's an outlaw. He's also got a mask that can't make up its damn mind.

Then, you'll never guess what happens next! Some people talk about stuff...for about another two hours. Eventually you find out that the gay guy that can make all of them his bitches, decides he's going to replicate Blue Wang's Powers to create a nuclear explosion-sized "oh sh*t ball" in the middle of New York City so that the World powers will start holding each others' hands in the hopes of defeating their new common enemy (Mr. Smurf Shlong) and for some dutch rudders. So Queer Eye Guy and Indigo Winky decide it's best for millions of people to die so that nukes don't go off and kill all of the White Castles and Olive Gardens that we love so much. Most of the good guys go, "eh.....", credits.

For the most part it was boring and drawn out for details we wouldn't care about, leaving us with questions about things we would have cared about. Should you see this movie? I'd say, yeah.... See it, but don't pay money. From what I understand, the economy would rather you buy a mattress and sleep for three hours.

Fresh Baked Brownies

I've just been notified that it is in fact not a sign of masculinity to crap yourself outside of your own apartment complex. That's right, I had the urge to fart as I was putting things in the car; it felt like a code green and suddenly it seeped into a code brown.....right when the apartment manager came home, got out of the car, and proceeded to talk to me. I walked all so calmly back up to my door with my legs tightly closed like I was trying to start a fire with my knee caps. Right after that, my wife was knocking on the door just as I realized I locked the glass door. I mean, what could I do other than scream at her saying, "Pull on it!" "Wiggle it around a little!"? So I'm sitting there on the toilet with wet underwear leaning forward just enough to see my wife standing there at the door, holding the baby and I'm yelling obscenities, it's like Circus Ole, but without the excessive drinking. I think I might have to go to a specialist and have my fertilizer cannon sewn up or something....Don't you just love true stories?

I guess the most I can do today is just read the latest Batman Comics and try to get sex for the fourth time today. It's not like I had a plan or anything.

Party People Mess With Balloons at Church

I'm going to be the first person (If anyone else tries this, I'm suing for at least a plasma tv.) to invent the before-after high school year book. Eventually, you get to see people as they get older, but how many people do you actually get to compare their teenage pictures with a middle-aged version of themselves? You get to view all of the stoners (like me in high school) with maybe half of them next to a blank square that says, "picture not available". You'll have the closet gays then, now adorned with bright colors and eyeliner.....wait, no....those are the emo's.

Hey, it wasn't a bad idea when I scraped it on the side of somebody's car at the bowling alley with a broken bottle. Sometimes I get the idea to invent things and then eventually I wake up and I can't remember my father. I'm not sure why my sphincter's sore every time, but I think there's a tiny clown with black patch disease hiding in my bunghole trying his hand at balloon animals; because there's usually one of them hanging out of the ol' brown eye. I've never seen a balloon with a resevior tip, but you get the idea. That's the last time I try to brain storm at a church lock-in. Those crazy christians...

My wife just had a birthday party this weekend. Her and her friends decided (like they do every year) that the best way to celebrate anything is to get drunk and say "yay" a lot. The word "party" actually translates "let's find an excuse to get plastered". Don't want anyone judging your alcoholism? Tell them you're having a party. They'll understand.....They'll probably even try and join the party.





Then, everyone can find and kill that damn clown.