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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