I just died inside, and want to makes others die outside

I spent the last hour writing what probably amounted to 1000 words about one of the things that has pissed me off more than anything in the world to date, and in the midst of typing, two things happened. 1) I got a phone text message that gave me material enough for about 12 posts, and 2) I flicked the ##^$%&#$ reset switch on my power strip with my toe. With all sincerity, I can say that what I had written up that point was at least one order of magnitude funnier than ANYTHING I have written in my blog thus far. I was inspired. And now, it is lost forever in the world of nothingness. If someone ever finds a way to recover lost data of this manner, they will find the "lost entry", James' shinning moment of an historically brilliant blend of comedy and anger. If someone famous had read what I had written, they would have found a way to make me famous. I am not even exaggerating. I am so upset right now that I will not be able to recreate this post at the moment, even though I doubt that I'll ever be able to write about it as passionately as I did before. I kind of used up my inspiration well in that fantastical effort. I am very sorry for disappointing my patrons. Your attention to my work, it means a lot to me, because I am attention starved. I'll do my best to find the will to repost before school starts. Which is in two days.

Spammers should not be allowed to live anymore

Seriously. Everyone's tired of you. You have no friends. No one is interested in you or searches for you on the internet or talks about you with their friends. No one has a "good" experience with you. Like, if I go to the grocery store, or call a customer service line, and the people on the other end are cool and help me out, I'm gonna be like, "Hey! Thanks dude! That person is awesome for helping their fellow man and making things easier for me because I needed help and wasn't afraid to ask for it, and they were even less afraid to offer what they knew to assist me." But NO ONE. NO ONE. NO ONE has ever said, "Hey, that last spam/virus ridden e-mail I got was really great. It helped further me in a direction I wished to go and I can honestly say that at least in some tiny, insignificant way, my life has improved because of my experience with this form of advertising/aimless malice." You think the person who writes the viruses or sends out the spam feels good about him or herself (ok, itself)? I bet if they hadn't been rendered incapable of human emotion or basic human interaction techniques as a result of years of self-induced solitude by being freaking losers, they would cry themselves to sleep at night realizing that if anyone knew what they did, they wouldn't like them, and in all likelihood, if their mothers found out, she'd probably be the first to kick them in the nuts and thank them for vindicating her reasoning that their birth was a mistake all along. I think Trojan should be sued just because spammers exist. There's no way these guys are genetic realities. The testicles probably see the condom and go, "Oh, it's ok, throw out the ones we screwed up on so we don't have to wait until his next shower." 17 seconds later (I'm just using myself as an example), both reproductive systems scream in horror as the condom tears and millions of mistakes just begging to be given a chance to prove Darwin right are released to unleash their terror upon the world. 20 years later, I have to deal with this SHIT in my blog comment lines when one of these losers gets bored after misplacing his 12-sided die. Don't know what I'm talking about? Read the comments from the last few posts and then come back to this. I'll give you a taste of what I'm talking about right now...

So, here's a line that was posted in my comments; "Hey, you have a great blog here! I'm definitely going to bookmark you! I have a ukrainian brides site. It pretty much covers ukrainian brides related stuff. Come and check it out if you get time :-) " Where do I start? Where do I even start? If you really have such a strong death wish that you feel it is absolutely necessary to spam my BLOG, at least take the time to make it not SUCK. I don't even feel like dissecting this whole thing. How about just this. 'It pretty much covers ukrainian brides related stuff"????? I have a question. How many things are related to ukrainian brides? My guess is two. The ukrainian brides themselves, and then the spammers that post these messages and are in the market to buy a ukrainian bride. I've got bad news for you guys. Even they're not THAT desperate. They probably get to eat one potato a week and chew on a piece of leather as a Russian mafia pimp beats them with a vodka bottle, but they'll stay there before they'll take the $10,000 you'll pay them to coexist with you.

But hold on, it gets better. Here's a message on my next post: "Hey, you have a great blog here! I'm definitely going to bookmark you!I have a ##finasteride ## site/blog. It pretty much covers ##finasteride## related stuff.Come and check it out if you get time :-) " OH GOOD! I've been looking for an all "pound pound finasteride pound pound" website SLASH(????) blog. They can't even tell me what it is. They're just throwing it all out there in case one them might interest me in downloading the virus that gets them off as it infects people's computers. For those of you that don't know, Finasteride is a drug used mainly to reduce prostate swelling in elderly men. I'm not sure what ##finasteride## is exactly, but I'm pretty sure it's the same idea, but with more pound signs. How esoteric is this? They're hoping that just maybe, someone reading the COMMENTS on this personal blog RANT, will be over the age of 50 and have a swollen prostate gland, AND knows what the freaking crap finasteride even is. Sure, they got lucky with this blogger and now I have a virus on my computer, but the point is, I'm sure they could have thought of things that would generally interest the average reader. I'm pretty sure 95% of my readers would have clicked if you saved yourself the trouble and just wrote a link that said "FREE PORN (with and without dolphins)".

I don't wish ill upon everyone, just a narrow majority of the people that exist. But, spammers and virus coders, I have to congratulate you on officially topping the list. I hope you learn what a real virus is when you contract syphillis from your ukrainian prostitue and then contract the "my fist through your esophagus" virus. Please die.

Thanks for the material

Oh. My. God. Those two spam comments on my last blog entry are going to spur the creation of the most irate, outrageously indignant rant I am capable of as soon as I get time. Stay tuned.

New Place, New Peeves

Well, I've officially become independent by moving into my very own apartment and taking that big step into the big world. Note that my understanding of "independent" involves having all boarding and utilities paid for by my parents, as well as educational expenses and pretty much anything I ever purchase because I have no personal income or finances to speak of. I guess a better way to describe my independence is that I am "independent" from most forms of human contact, for now that I live in an apartment instead of a dorm hall, I have walked out the front door maybe 3 times in the last week. The rest of the time is spent on the same living room floor I am lying on right now doing shit on my computer and watching hour after hour of the National Geographic channel, which I now get with my digital cable (thanks mom and dad).

Let me start with that very channel. I want, first, to express that it is probably the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Besides the most fascinating and intelligent content of any other network, it makes me look cool to others when they go, "Oh James! You're watching TV again! You're such a couch potato. Just kidding!" and I can respond, "Shut up." But then, when I get more energy, I can further enlighten them as to the mysteries of SHC (spontaneous human combustion), the probability that ghosts exist, and just who really does have the most extreme job on the planet (which I watch mostly because I'm fascinated by people that have jobs). Then, I can gloat to this annoyingly stagnant lifeform of nosy repetitive waste that I have learned far more than they probably have "interacting" with the world (aka - inserting themselves into the lives of others so that they might build a larger base of people that wish their idiocracy was sharp enough to make a shish-ka-bob out of their forebrain much like I do), and I didn't have to move anywhere to do it. And I probably got to eat a lot more, too. Now, to the thing that really pisses me off. In the 5 days I have been enjoying this lovely network, I have started to see repeats of documentaries and programs, until I have now realized that they have about 11 hours of programming for their 24 hour network. National Geographic, I appreciate what you, but I will give you another 27 hours of firsthand footage on human violence and brutality if you don't make more stuff for me to watch soon. There needs to be an invention where when I need something or want something or just feel like saying something to someone, I can just press and button and it contacts them and makes them talk to me directly and do what I ask. I guess it's kind of like a telephone, but without 10 digit numbers, because that's annoying, and also, the people on the other end are only the ones that I want to talk to, and they aren't all pathetic excuses for a douchebag. There are so many people out there that wish they could even be a full blown douchebag. Also, this "superphone" would always be next to me so I couldn't lose it or lose my will to use it when it was out of my reach. It will also do what I want telepathically, so, a "super telephone" where in this case, tele stands for telepathic. Lastly, no one else has one of these, because that would get out of hand. One more thing, can it be made out of naked chicks or something? Draw up some plans and have them on my desk by wednesday.

One thing I certianly don't miss about living in the college zone, is that people entirely lose their ability to be self aware of the volume with which they are grating their vocal cords to create coherent patterns that piss the crap out of me. I think it has to do with the fact that they become so self aware about everything else in life in a quest to not be a loser in the eyes of the public (however opposite the effect is in the eyes of the intelligent (me). (I'm not sure if you can use parentheses in parentheses like in math, but I think if I'm confident about it, it will fly)). (I AM (CONFI(DENT) ABOUT) MY USAGE OF PARENTHESES). I am not confident in my behavior around females, however. Oh well, fair trade. Anyway, here's the scenario. I've seen people get up from a table while, say, having lunch. They go over to get some condiments, and when they get there, use their cell phone to call the person they're dining with to ask if they want anything while they're up. YET, when walking down some street in a residential neighborhood, they find it easier to yell as loudly as possible to their friend on the 7th story of an apartment complex in hopes that he'll poke his head out the window and say "hi". Then they have a freaking shoutversation (shouting conversation). I like to call it a "please throw a javelin through my chest" exchange. I wonder if their friends would hear their curdling screams of agony. If not, I'll tape it for them.

A program I haven't seen before just came on NG channel, so I'm too distracted to go on. However, in the last set of commercials, they just informed me that program uncovering the mysteries of spontaneous human combustion will be on next. That's the third time today, because I've been watching all day and I know. You'd think I'd change the channel, but the remote is out of reach and my super telepathphone hasn't been invented yet. I think I'm just telepathetic. Maybe I'll yell for help...

Keep pissing me off world. Bring it on.

Told you

In case anyone thinks I'm totally full of shit, I have a quick story. I was driving today, ironically between the hours of 12 and 2 pm, and I pulled up to a stop sign. As I begin to pull into the intersection, I notice a 1985 Ford truck with a camper shell approaching me from about 50 yards away at 45 mph. Slightly put off, I slowed my approach into the intersection, with my car 1/3 to 1/2 of the way into the middle of this FOUR WAY STOP. Needless to say, this trucker hat wearing, mullet sporting, straw chewing yokel crosses the line that one would normally stop at traveling a remarkable, oh, what do you know, 45 mph. How nice! As I saw 2 tons of death approach my driver's side door, I laid on the horn for the first time in my life. This seemed to "wake up" the incestuous goat f&*%er as he slammed quite belatedly on his brakes and swerves to the side, avoiding my motionless and still honking car by probably about 6 inches. As I sat staring in disbelief about how right I am, I saw the idiot continue his slow until he was idling down the street in the opposite direction I was headed. I wish cars really did have exhast pipe missles. I'd show him what coming to a stop really meant. Brake's on the left, dumbass.

Looks like I've got some 'splainin to do...

Ok, I'm gonna give this a shot, but I won't lie, the TV is still on so I don't know how long my motivation will last. Not only that, but I might get overwhelmed and unfocused by all the different topics I have said I was going to write about in the last week or so but that will probably all come out in a subpar jumble in the process of trying to cover them all and remember the little parts that I planned to write about. Oh shit, Cowboy Bebop just came on, and it's pretty much my favorite show in the world, so now it's gonna be really hard to concentrate. In case I haven't said anything about it to you, it's an anime that is kind of famous for its blend of music into exploring complex and tortured characters in the quest to regain their futures by conquering their past. The band that plays all the music is an ecclectic Japanese jazz group called "The Seatbelts". The band ITSELF gives a synopsis of their music as follows: "THE SEATBELTS is a diverse band of talented artists formed in 2048 by the elusive YK. The name of the band derives from how the performers wear seatbelts to be safe from their hardcore jam sessions while they play. During the late 2040s and early 2050s, THE SEATBELTS traveled all over the solar system spreading their music which is the "Digging my POTATO" tour. Leaving their first mark in history, "Tank!" on their first album, "COWBOY BEBOP," ranked in at #1 in the Solar System Music Charts of 2056."

Ok, I'll get back to the task at hand.

I'm getting a fat haricut tomorrow, shorter than I ever have before. Let me give you a list of things that I will kick your ass if you say:
1. Oh, you got your haircut.
2. Did you get a haircut?
3. Oh my God, your hair is short!
4. Is your hair shorter?
5. Please kick my ass.
The point is, don't say shit to me unless it is to tell me that I look even hotter than I used to, as if that's even possible.

At this point I am going to choose to not get into an argument (or, "discussion") about Brian Lum's misguided musical opinions. Perhaps some of us think that things don't have to be hidden to be stimulating, because musicality can be just as challenging and rewarding for the brain. But, hey, if you've woken up at 10:20 am before and think that it warrants an entire song being written about it, and if you hate a guy that can say things in a song that may be direct, but also manage to mean a lot more to me than a time of day, then read why Billy Joel "sucks" here. If you ever care to know what I think, then...well, you'd be the first.

A while ago, I wanted to get pissed off about handicapped people and write about it here, but I've since forgotten most of the reasons why I was pissed off. The only one I can recall is that I feel really badly that they have to park directly in front of the door to wherever they want to go while I park a mile away and use their empty parking space as a more direct route to walk to the store's entrance because handicapped people can't drive, anyway. I think if you get a handicapped placard to put in your car, you should be required to get a retarded placard to put on your back for trying to drive a car even though you don't have legs. That way, I know whose kneecaps to run into with my shopping cart to get back at them for the huge dent they'll leave in my car door as they rumble their Oldsmobile Townscar around a weaving path that could fit eight lanes across it. I think handicapped (aka, over the age of 60) drivers, and all shitty drivers (aka, all women and also most men that aren't me) should be given designated driving hours to stay out of my way. That way from, say, 12 to 2 pm, I can park my car behind a large, protective gate and then grab a bag of popcorn and watch some soccer mom in a 40 foot Yukon Denali never even blink as she runs over some hunched over 94 year old who is riding the brake performing a 78 point U-turn in the middle of an intersection during a red light. Get off my road.

I saw Grizzly Man yesterday. Probably one of the best movies I've ever seen. I don't know what to feel about the guy, and it made me realize some pretty gross things about myself, I dunno, you'll have to see it to know what I'm talking about, but most importantly, I have to know what happens to middle aged/old people that makes them socially retarded or were they always like that. I bring this up now because while watching the movie, there was this freaking lady with her mom, who was probably in her 80's. They both had tremendous problems watching a movie without distracting themselves by trying to find as many opportunities as possible to coax my foot into their asses. I'm not saying I wish murder were legal, but I mean, at least acceptable. Especially if a few people tell me it's ok. Or, if I hear a few of the voices in my head tell me so. Let me explain. I'm crazy. But now, let me explain the two ladies pissing me off. So, the 80 year old is apparently physically incapable of whispering. It started out pretty bad in the first 90 seconds of the movie as she and her daughter commented on what they were seeing so I, one row behind, hear the following: "mummered whisper" "OH YES, THE SCENERY IS INCREDIBLE, BUT HE STAYED WITH BEARS, I THINK HE'S CRAZY." "mummered whisper" "YES I KNOW, HE LIVED WITH THE BEARS. BEARS ARE BIG. I THINK MY OTHER HIP JUST BROKE." Luckily, she calmed down as the movie got underway and her Alzheimer's kicked in so she didn't remember where she was and was too afraid to say anything. Either that or she had a stroke, but in any respect, I shouldn't be so lucky. There was only one other markedly foot insertion provoking moment when the film showed a close up of a big, hairy yellow and black bumble bee on a flower that appeared dead. So, we have a brightly colored, fuzzy, immobile, 25 foot tall insect on the screen, and this geriatric waste of health care goes, "I DON'T SEE IT", followed by a minute of silence and then, "OH, LOOK HONEY, IT'S RIGHT THERE ON THE FLOWER." Holy. Shit. I would have laughed if I weren't so ready to abort her face with my fist. But then. Then there was the daughter, probably about 50 herself. This lady seemed to feel the intense need to express all emotion audibly as if to prove that she felt it to EVREYONE AROUND HER. I am talking every single second, a scoff or loud "yip" noise at something comical or ironic. Except that it never was comical or ironic. Point in case:

Movie Interviewee: "We pulled 4 garbage bags full of body parts from the bear's stomcah."
Lady, trying desperately to get me convicted of (justifiable) 1st degree murder: "Hah! Huh-hmmm..."

Like, what the shit? Is she serious? I soon found out that, yes. She was entirely serious. Her exultations, grunts, and agonizingly idiotic noises lasted the entire movie. For the last half hour, she had the neck of her shirt over her mouth as if in an effort to show an intent to suppress and stifle her oh-so-genuine and heartfelt human reactions to a human story of triumph and torture. Next time I'm going to lace the collar of her shirt with chloroform. Not so she will pass out and shut up, but so that she won't go anywhere during the time it takes to grease up my foot. If she's been this way her whole life, I don't understand how it's possible that no one was as like-minded as me to do the world a favor and sock her larynx so hard that she'd be grateful to have Stephen Hawking's oratory skills to translate for her. And if she's become this way over time, what is it about age that makes people piss me off more? There's no way it's one of those things where she stays the same but societal standards have changed. Society has always been pissed off by women who say things or make noises (that aren't hot enough to get away with it). She's probably just become brain dead by inhaling so much of her own shit over the years. If only it were fatal. If I ever get that dumb, do me the favor of convincing me that breathing is unnecessary...I'm pretty sure it would have worked on this lady. This just goes to show that from now on I should carry a 2 x 4 that has the words "SHUT UP" engraved on it and that I should smack people in the forehead with it when they piss me off. That way, everyone can be warned about the wastes of sperm that walk amongst them when they see those words permanently indented on their face. I wish natural selection still worked.

(Sorry, Brian, I couldn't write about the big topic, yet. I still get too personal with it. Sometime in the near future, I swear.)