A Waste of My Time as Much as Yours

And your life is worth?...Shit.

2006-09-12T14:06:00.000-07:00

Commercials on TV: the source of most things that make me happy and piss me off. Today, something entirely ordinary and not new to me at all just struck me in a new light via the enlightening medium of infotainment. It started off with a simple advertisement for some third rate life insurance company (the kind that looks really cheap and attractive until you die and then it turns out you didn't read the clause that says that when you die, they give your family like, a sack of peanuts and then demolish your house...and sleep with your wife...and she likes it). Normally, such an advertisement wouldn't really mean much to me, despite the rampant hints at infidelity and the fact that I don't like peanuts, but suddenly I broke down the term "life insurance" and realized exactly what it is. It's insurance for your LIFE.

Ok, so I just lost half my readers because I sounded like an idiot, but to the 2 of you still left, let me explain. If you really think about the concept of life insurance, is that not the most depressing prospect ever? It got me thinking about all kinds of insurances, also, but more on that in a second. So what the commercial made me realize is that life insurance is a total concession on the hopelessness of humans. In a nutshell (peanut shell?): we're pretty sure you're going to die in X amount of years/days/minutes, your life is worth X amount of dollars/cents/peanuts, so give us that amount of money over time, and we're willing to bet that you will pay us to cough up that money early because chances are, you will fuck up and die before when we guessed and then you hit the jackpot. It's just a big slot machine. Pay us enough money, and you may just get lucky and get three sevens...or get hit by a truck. I want to know when life insurance started. Who was the first person to realize, "Hey, people fuck up so much, that by now, they're probably starting to realize that they are predisposed to fuck up and die, so I'll capitalize on the fact that some of them might beat the odds and live to be as old as they should if they weren't such fuck ups! Then they'll really pay out the ass." And seriously? How dirty must it feel to collect on life insurance policies. I can just imagine the tears streaming at the funeral...as I wipe my eyes with 100 dollar bills. That's bills worth 100 dollars, not 100 single dollar bills. The latter is much less impressive, and I can imagine would be rather unwieldly and conspicuous to wipe one's eyes with at a funeral.

So anyway, in how many aspects of life have we resigned to our own tendency to get fucked so hard that we have to "insure" it. We REQUIRE it for cars. We are so certain that you will blow it hard because you suck at driving like everyone else, so just start paying us for it now and it won't be as bad later. I'm pretty sure that requirement was part of the Equal Rights Amendment. If women get to drive, too, we'll HAVE to insure their dangerous vehicles of death, but we have to make it look like we're charging EVERYONE. Note: I don't know the time period, content, if this amendment ever passed, or if it even existed, but I do know that if I wrote it, it would include the clause: "Women shalt not get pissed when I makest funeth of thoust, because it's funny and they knowst it is partly or mostly true." If I write it like that, they'll have to believe it, and I'll get the church on my side, especially if I tack on mandatory baby implantations into the uteri of all women over the age of 15. God power.

Insurances go further: fire, flood, earthquake, monster, James' flailing limbs. These are slightly less critical of human nature, but are still severly depressing. "We here at Federal Underlings of Catastrophic Klimate Environmental Damages Insurance Company know that your home means a lot to you, and chances are, it's gonna get fucked. So, before it does, protect yourself, get FUCKED." How depressing, and what a gamble. It's like a choose your own adventure book, except instead of an adventure, you're choosing how you think your life will be ruined, and if you guess wrong, you don't get to go back to page 1. If you guess right, you'll probably still be told that the tornado was travelling in a northly direction not insured by the company and that the wind speed was a prime number, so your premium has increased.

Regardless, I think people should start insuring things that REALLY matter. Dick insurance. Can you imagine the questionaire for trying to get dick insurance: How long is it? Does it work? How many of the women you have slept with would you consider "slutty"? That's a lie, you haven't slep with any women at all, have you? Do you have a tendency to put it in places it doesn't belong? Did you ever get "curious" with an animal? You sound sexy, what's your number? I just got depressed realizing that such an insurance probably already exists, because I'm pretty sure they insure body parts.

Ok, how about time insurance. You pay some amount of money per month and then whenever someone wastes your time, you file a claim to get paid for how much your wasted time was worth. (For those of you filing a claim for reading this blog, it falls under the category of "pointless coworker/friend conversation". Just for the record, keep in mind that in all likelihood, your time is worth shit, so expect a steaming pile of it in the mail in 6-8 weeks. Also, I think too many claims have been filed from this webpage and reading my blog is no longer insurable.) See: Title of Blog.

I'm also a proponent of stupid insurance. If you're stupid, you annoy me and give me money and then are shot. I guess that's more like stupid tax and subsequent mass murder. But still, it's a good idea.

Anyway, I'm off to the store for a 12 inch ruler and some Viagra...it's time to defraud some insurance agencies.

I'm back, get a change of pants ready...

2006-08-27T00:31:00.000-07:00

Back by popular demand of my own over inflated self-esteem, it is once again time for me to fill the time you would have spent checking away messages with something that's an even less effective use of your person. A lot has happened in the past majority of a year that I've been AWOL, but you probably given even less of a shit about it than I do, so I'll move on to the reason why I'm here - something has finally caused me to tirade to a sufficiently funny degree that it might be worth me begging for attention by publishing it in the ever-prestigious and content selective e-world known as the e-ternet....or, for those of you that are trendy and use hip modern technology, you're probably more comfortable with the term: i-e-ternet. But I digress.....which to some would seem impossible to do when I didn't establish a topic from which to digress, nor will I ever approach a coherent enough level in this entry to ever be able to claim digression status. Allow me to regress.

Recently, a friend of mine (go to his blog, it's funny and more poignant...doesn't leave you with that chalky, vacuous taste in your mouth like mine does) pointed me toward an article he saw on Yahoo News that he thought to be absurd. As I revel in the absurd, I thought I would give it a shot. Never have my "people dumber than me" sensors responded so heavily. This particular article was in regards to a fine programming piece known as Survivor. After somehow pulling in 600,000,000 viewers per episode for the last 37 consecutive seasons, the edge cutting producers in the Survivor backlot where the show is filmed thought of a whole new way to keep their viewers begging for more. Instead of featuring one gay old guy with a Grizzly Adams complex and a shriveled penis that everyone tunes in to each week to try and get a taste of, they've added a second one. But this one eats scorpions on a dare, is a nanny, is painted black to see what it's like to be African, designs clothes, cooks food, is a D list celebrity, is Paris Hilton (sorry for the redundancy), is an annoying, walking, floppy vagina (again, apologies), is a mole on the inside, lives with a bunch of mismatched college students, sings poorly, can't dance, is a terrible comic, is morbidly obese, wants to marry an idiot on television from a pool of other uber-idiots, is trying to get a thankless lackey "executive" job from a withering billionaire based on looks as much as merit, lives in the Playboy Mansion, can do stupid stunts, runs around America getting lost and being an waste of sperm, is a model, lives in Laguna Beach, and has never watched reality TV in his life. But, all kidding aside (except for the deluge of kidding that is about to follow), in this article, one of the high powered executives behind the scenes of Survivor was explaining the new idea, which entails tribes battling for supremacy, as previous seasons have, but this time, segregated by race, in what they describe as the "next logical step in our social experiment". Now, I have no problem with the inherent debased qualities of this idea of making a black, white, Asian, and Hispanic tribe (although it will obviously be a boring season as the black people will easily win through a combination of superior physical ability and natural intimidating techniques, not to mention unbeatable firepower, as most of the team members' single personal item they bring with them will be a gun). What I did find fascinating, is that this high powered executive producer (who, in all fairness, is a woman, so it's ok, because they're not paying her as much to make such stupid comments, anyway) proceeded to explain that this "social experiment" would not merely be a Darwinesque pitting of the races against each other, but that we would see whole new phenomena, such as, and I quote, "...people doing things like making fire in ways that haven't been done on Survivor". Please take a moment to take a deep breath as I do the same. Ok, let's continue. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? Let me start with the basic oversight in her statement. First, let's assume she is correct, and that 20 people that live in the 21st century in urbanized, industrialized America have different conceptions and notions of how a fire should be created based on their racial distinctions. I think we can all get along with that statement without too much blind faith, right? Well, even so, she is forgetting that these differences will be preempted by the natural order of racial interactions before we even get a chance to witness these novel new creations of flame. What I mean is, it's obvious that the second they step foot on the island, the white people will tell the Mexicans that aren't already gathering food for them to build a fire. With a little industrious ingenuity, and a lot of tequila, this task will be done before too long. Within minutes, however, the Asians will merely see this idea, study it, and then redesign it as more efficient, longer lasting, and hotter burning, and soon, the Mexicans will be out of jobs, and the Americans will quickly kick them out of their camp for being freeloaders. Oh yeah, and then come nightfall, the black people will steal it. So, when all is said and done, everyone's going to have essentially the same fire, but the black people will still have guns. Season over. What else have you got for me, Hollywood?

The worst thing about all the reality TV shows is that I can't even make fun of them adequately. At this point, it would be the perfect time in the flow of my rant to make up a funny idea for a new reality show that is obviously absurd due to the hyperbole that was used to exaggerate and point out the foibles in the present boundaries of today's programs...but after about 5 minutes, I was still unable to come up with an idea that wasn't already done. The only thing I can think of is that they at least need to start catering to public demand (assuming the public likes exactly what I like). For example, have you ever noticed in movies that things hitting guys in the nuts are ALWAYS hilarious, even on repeat? How about a show "Who wants to get kicked in the nuts?". The premise is, they start the counter off with a certain amount of money, and then this big ass dude in front of you wears a huge ass boot. Then, every few seconds, the money amount drops, and the guy puts on a smaller, softer boot. This continues as such until the contestant decides they want to get kicked in the nuts and take the money amount that is displayed, however decreased it may be from the original value. Then, while he prepares for this, the audience calls from home and votes that he gets kicked in the nuts by the big boot, anyway. If you liked that idea, just wait for the spin-offs I've got up my sleeve: "Who wants to get hit in the nuts by a baseball?", "Who wants to punch a chick in the boob?" and the one I'm most excited about, "Who wants to nail themselves in the balls?". In the latter, the harder you hit, the more money you get. This could also be passed off as an educational social experiment by observing how America's dumbest guarantee the destruction of their reproductive potency providing the future of our world with hope...and it would also be funny to see how a guy in a dick cast would spend a million bucks.

Alright, in case you can't tell, I'm grasping at straws now, so in the interest of hopefully getting a positive response on this one and ensuring the continuing publishing of this blog, since I won't do it without the positive reinforcement I so crave, I'm going to end it. I'm also going to pilot the idea of taking suggestions for my next entry. I figure that way I can garner more interest, so if your idea doesn't suck and I can find a way to get pissed about it, leave it in the comments. I might give it a shot.

I gotta go, Deal or No Deal is starting.

Requiem for a Cripple

2005-11-09T22:59:00.000-08:00

So, in an ironic twist of fate that has reduced me to walking with a cane, I finally understand the physically handicapped. If by understand, I mean understand why I like to laugh at them and delight in their misfortune. Being a cripple myself right now, I know what it is like to be disadvantaged in all sorts of daily tasks, and it must be terrible to live like that everyday......knowing that you won't be afforded the pleasant treat of a full recovery like me, suckers. No, but seriously, as funny as it is to watch a guy on crutches open a door or a girl with a neck brace try and turn around to respond to someone calling her name (or to me calling her names), my impaired walking has allowed two new group of idiots to piss me off: people that suck at walking and people that are more disabled than me.

As for the first group, there are a lot of people that can be summed into this category. Not surprisingly, that sum ends up consisting of purely small, asian girls that can name more US presidents than they can speak words of English. Apparently, there is something so awe inspiring about being in the Great West that it involves an in depth study of every object they walk past. Either that, or they are just entirely oblivious that ______(insert ANYTHING here) exists. I swear, it's like, I can compare them to a small child walking in a large forest, except the average small child doesn't walk directly into every tree while looking the opposite direction, and that child ESPECIALLY doesn't cut right in front of the big, angry looking tree with a metal cane. From my experience, there are only two things these girls will notice while walking: the ground directly in front of their toes because they are afraid of looking up and making eye contact with the world, or anything BUT what is in front of them. These two characteristics can most likely be attributed to whether or not they are alone, or are walking in a big, parasitic gelatinous mob of FOB women. The alone ones just have this "I HAVE TO BE AT MY NEXT DESTINATION IMMEDIATELY" syndrome, where they are mortified to be on their own as they walk from one class to the next, and then pace rapidly with a distressed look on their face outside of the classroom they just arrived 1.5 hours early to. Today, this 4'6" asian girl walking perpendicular to my path TOTALLY looked up from the ground just enough to see my tall ass gangly shins and my shinning cane of wrath, and then STILL decided that she could beat me off the line. WRONG. After I kneed her in the ovaries when our paths collided, I tried to take a swipe at her back with my cane to make sure she knew she just cut off a cripple, but I swung over her head. My only hope is that a strong breeze blew her out of my life and out of my country soon after. Then there is the group catastrophe. Their ability to flock in a large formation and turn in every direction simultaneously like one lumbering beast reminds me of the beauty of formation flights of migrating birds, except all the birds are retarded and they don't speak English. And also, the birds point and laugh at who knows what. So far, I have seen groups of these wastes of sexual reproduction be astonished by a tree, a signpost, and me. But while they're doing this, they manage to block off the whole shitting sidewalk and when I try and push through, they just giggle and point and laugh and I smile and nod back with my finger on the speed dial for the INS. Since they like to take up the sidewalk so much, I think I'm going to step on them and pave a new one with their faces. Either that or I'm going to carry around a handful of green index cards and chuck them off into the bushes next to them whenever I'm in a hurry and don't want to have to deal with a snickering horde of pygmies. I'm not saying there isn't anyone else that sucks at walking, because you ALL do, but, I figured I could use this excuse to mask my true motive to just rant about FOBs while only seeming like a rampant rascist instead of a genocidal maniac.

The explanation for being pissed off at people that are more disabled than me is simple. You know that satisfaction that you get in holding the door open for someone in a wheelchair? Don't shit me right now, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You're not holding the door open because you're nice, you're holding it open so you can smile at the cripple like they're a five year old child, and then flex your calf muscles as they pass. Whatever, you know what I'm talking about. Well, get this. Imagine leaning heavily on a cane, and then doing the exact same thing. SO VINDICATING. "Yeah, I'm on a cane here, but hey, nice shiny wheels!" And THEN, after they pass, let the door close and limp past them faster than they are going. Priceless. I guess this doesn't give me any reason to be pissed of at people more disabled than me, but boy am I glad they are there to make me feel good about myself. And in case you're wondering, yes, I do think that having to mildly limp with a cane gives me the right to make fun of handicapped individuals, thank you very much.

One more thing, you know those people that listen to their music in the elevator, but they have those headphones that have such poor sound direction that they essentially broadcast the music to the outside through speakers? The next time I get in an elevator with one of them, I am going to push every button on the elevator, and tell them that stopping at every floor is something that I enjoy doing and that I hope it doesn't bother them at all. Then I'll scream terrible melodies at the top of my lungs. But really, I did it just so I can put their face in the way of the closing doors at each stop. Your music sucks, everyone can hear it, and you're ugly. Go to hell.

I think my biggest motivation to get back on my feet is so I can kick all these peoples asses with BOTH legs, but I'll still only use one on the cripples, because I'd like to think I'm a fair guy.

Time to Whine

2005-10-31T02:46:00.000-08:00

Can I mention how tired I am of never getting anything I want? I don't want to whine or anything. Ok, on closer consideration, I have read what I just titled this post and decided that I do want to whine or something. Not even or something, that's exactly what I want to do. I don't feel like I ever ask for that much, but if the world were Santa Clause, I'd be filling the fireplace with lighter fluid and hiding behind the couch with a match to get back at him for all those years of freaking coal in the stocking of my existence.

First order of business: a pony. I don't feel like I'm being unreasonable here. Ponies are not only adorable, but they are cost effective and hold their value well. Plus, all the work the pony would do around the house would more than pay for it. And I'd walk it everyday.

Ok, got that one out of the way.

Next up, what I so affectionately call "the female catastrophe" (OK, you caught me, this post is entirely a thinly veiled expose on my frustration with women throughout my lonely, lonely existence). Guys, I'll get to you in a second, but for now, girls? Holy crap. I have one point of advice to help you fix everything and to stop pissing me off: Get. Over. Yourselves. The problem with each and every girl is that they simultaneously want to be smarter than everyone else, and then do the stupidest shit imaginable. Just for the record, it doesn't balance out. If you act like you've got the whole world figured out and know what your life is all about, and then spend half your day chasing after some douchebag, who will only notice you when your shirt's off or he's drunk, because you think you can see the real him behind his facade, then do me the favor of never coming into my sight again, because I will "notice" my foot into your larynx. I think what happened is girls got tired of being able to get whatever guy they wanted to, just because guys don't give a crap, and so instead, they started finding guys that they could MAKE reasons up for why they couldn't have him or why he hates THEM in particular as opposed to all the other girls he wouldn't think twice about picking up if they expressed as much interest in him as me in a small child's cries for help as he is attacked by a pack of wolves (hint: very little, with some laughter involved). There's an important step I'm leaving out in all of this though. In the middle of all this making up of things that she can cry about, the female will then seek out someone to lean on for support and reassure her that she's not ugly. Target: everyone she knows. So then, you've got the entire world, minus the sought after sack of crap and the annoying ass clingy girl that wants to obtain this sack of crap, hearing this girl wank her heart out until 1) all the girls realize they want to be more interesting than that bitch by becoming a more tortured individual so they make up even worse crap to feel sorry for themselves about and 2) all the guys do nothing. Guys don't think about anything and they don't give a damn ass. Girls, I'm done berating you, if you're one of my friends and are a girl and are reading this, you're one of the glorious exceptions to the rule for which I am so thankful, and you're also, hopefully, gullible. Consequently, I am very available for you to torture yourself over. If you're not one of my friends and are a girl, reread this paragraph and then go investigate the tailpipe of an idling car. Get in real close, it will answer your questions.

But now on to something MUCH WORSE: guys. Guys, I'm tired of you CAUSING everything I mentioned above. Stop doing nothing and not giving a damn ass, you're only encouraging them. Stop trying to pretend like you're interesting or that you have standards or reservations. You really don't. The male world is divided into two strata. The self proclaimed gurus, and the freaking losers. The losers hate the gurus for always acting like they know everything and managing to pick up all the whores, and the gurus hate the losers, because they have to look at us--er, uh--them. Honestly, if one more guy tells me that "all I need to do is _____", or that such and such will really help me pick up chicks, I'm going to tie their penis to a merry go round for effect, but then just punch them in the throat, instead. I am tired of guys being underhanded, cruel, sadistic, and single-minded, but I'm more tired that I'm not any damn good at being that, too. And girls, stop letting that work! So, guys stop promoting girls to hate themselves, and girls stop promoting guys to be assholes so that you can hate yourselves. In fact, if everyone could just do me the favor of shutting up and getting over yourself, that would be great. You're not that cool. I'm that cool.

I should not have written this because it is really late and I have no idea what I am talking about. I am not even going to read over it because I don't want to end up regretting what I said and deleting it, because, well, that would just be too smart and I'm a much bigger fan of humiliating myself in front of everyone. So, from what I can remember, in conclusion, if you want to start giving me what I want world, I could use the following:

A pony
All males to die
All females to suddenly realize that all males are dead and that "last resort" James just suddenly became the sexy by-default alpha male.
All females to die after I realize that they still don't notice I exist even though I'm the last man on earth.
A pack of wolves to attack a small child

That will be all, world. I'm not a greedy man.

I'm back with even more directionless rage

2005-10-29T21:24:00.000-07:00

Chances are, no one's reading this thing anymore. I mean, it's been a month, and it's not that I haven't found material to write about, it's just that I am a complete piece of ass. I mean that both in the way that I am lazy and shiftless, and also in the way that I am hott. ttt. Needless to say, doing nothing and being unmotivated, and then making up lies about how I spent my lonely nights with countless beautiful women so that I don't admit my pathetic nature to others, and consequently, myself, is a lot of work. And we all know how I feel about work: I feel that it is absolutely vital for underpriveleged and underpaid societal classes to continue doing it thanklessly to enhance the countless conveniences in my life.

You know what the worst thing EVER is? Stupid ass strangers that have to talk to you in public about really lame crap. There is no such thing as awkward silence, just awkward people. And if you're talking to me about the basic facts of situations around an environment we happen to be sharing, you are one of those people, so please do yourself the favor of shutting up and putting a bag on your head, because it is the only way you will ever earn the respect of your peers. Point in case, I'm at Walmart. Don't get me started on Walmart. It has been scientifically proven that every genocide or mass human displacement or famine or disease or catastrophe can be inextricacbly traced back to the existence of this garbage dump of shitty products. It has also been the cause of me crying everytime I go into it, because I can't handle how overwhelmingly absurd its continuing ability to not just be a nightmare is. #1, the greeter? Holy son of a. Are you serious? NOBODY wants some 75 year old man to greet them at the door and say, "Enjoy shopping at WALMART." I don't want to even SEE a 75 year old man, let alone have to interact with him. And do you notice that there's an article in like, every major newspaper just about every other day that reports on some 90 year old geriatric dump that just loves working as the greeter at the local Walmart(s) that she can't find it in herself to quit? Can you find it in yourself to fire their ass for me, Walmart? There's a REASON people die. After the age of like, 50, you look gross. Get over it. Imagine a pile of crap that totes itself around for 50 years. Do you think it would look good? Well, you're made of the same stuff. Now imagine it sitting out there for double that. Does anyone remember stinkymeat.net? Same idea. After about 20 days (analogously), you're moldy as crap, and then a raccoon eats you. If you're utterly confused, the answer to my stinkymeat.net question was "no". See if that site still exists, I'm too lazy to try and hyperlink it.

Oh yeah, that reminds me. Happy 89th birthday, grandma. Congratulations on still being alive. What do you even say to a birthday at that point? "So, do you feel older?" No, of course she doesn't, she's felt as old as shit since she was 70. She's been surpassing the life expectancy since before I was alive. But, it was heartening to know that someone told her today that she didn't look a day older than 75. I'm happy for her and all, but honestly, have you ever seen a rotting pumpkin after like, 7 weeks. Week 8, it's still gonna look the same. Probably will smell worse though. And now you know why old people smell bad.

Anyway, I wish that instead of this old person trying to shake my hand (gross) and wish me a good day, they just had a rack full of cattleprods and sanitary wipes so I could disinfect myself when one of Walmart's disgusting patrons got close to me, and use the cattleprod if the situation gets desperate (or if I'm bored). One MORE thing. Do you see how the greeter's underhanded task is to also make sure no one's trying to steal anything? They choose the most suspicious old losers in the world who are tired of the gubiment taking their money to sit there and force a wrinkled face smile (which ultimately fails, and they just end up looking like a panting bulldog), but meanwhile, they're frisking you with their eyes and looking for stolen second-class linens and discount spoiled food products stuffed in your cavities. I may be used to people looking at my ass, but I'm trying to look out for the common man, here. James Pinney: Voice of the People. This isn't why I started talking about Walmart. I was trying to talk about strangers talking to me. I told you not to rile me up.

The reason I started talking about Walmart was because I went there to buy a poorly constructed set of plastic drawers to hold my clothes. So I'm carrying this thing out to my car, and this (surprise surprise) old lady passing by me in the parking lot shouts out, "Hey! How much that cost!?", to which I responded, "Shut up. You suck at life." Either that, or I said "About 18 bucks. " The look on her face was one of complete shock. If she is so impressed by the marvels of Walmart rolling back the values, I can't wait to see her reaction when someone tells her we've landed on the moon. But THEN. Then she gets a cock-eyed look on her face and proceeds to piss me off, after I've clearly averted eye contact to express my wish that she didn't exist, and asks me, "What you gonna use it for? Holding clothes?", as if she was confused as to what its purpose could possibly be. I was blown away. I looked down at this dresser drawer with the large label showing it stuffed full of shirts and pants, and looked back at her to wait for her to laugh. I even started to smile myself, but then I saw that she was awaiting my response. At that point, I started to cry inside. "Yes. I am going to hold my clothes in it." One might expect that to be the end of the conversation. I might expect this not to even be a valid conversation at all. But she had to get in the last word: "That's what I'm talking about!" You're right. That's exactly what you were talking about. And, unfortunately, you were talking to me about it. What if I had said no? What if I told her instead that it would hold various office supplies? What if I just tried to freak her out and told her nonchalantly it would hold my human limb collection? I couldn't bear to grant her any sort of emotional or tangible response, so I turned around and walked away. This is exactly why I'm not a religious person. If there's such a powerful God, why do I run into so many of His (or Her, BLASPHEMY) mistakes all the time? God must be the retarded kid in the class that doesn't get help from his parents or something. You know, like the kid that did the baking soda volcano diorama science project every year well into the 8th grade. And then, everyone feels bad, so they don't have the guts to tell the kid that that shit sucks. "Hey God, those humans! Looking pretty gooooood. I can tell you didn't have any help....great effort!" Someone just tell him the truth and put my mold back in the oven. Ahhh, atheistical heresy with simultaneous self indulgence. Frankly, it feels good.

If you still think I'm being ridiculous, consider this text message that I received one month ago (on that fateful night my blogging spirit was crushed). "Fwd: Today is national I LOVE U DAY. If u get this ur loved. Send this to 10 people in the next 143 min. Then check ur INBOX." I can't believe this was real. Guess who it was from? NO ONE IN MY PHONEBOOK. Just some random loser trying desperately to punch in 10 phone numbers so he feels loved by a phone company text message scam. Furthermore, I received this at 11:03 pm. What happens 143 minutes from 11:03? 1:26 am??? Oh man, I better hurry, before, uh, that happens. I hope the message that comes back to your INBOX is: "You're a waste of life you douchebag. No one likes you." I mean seriously. If u get this ur loved???!?!?!?! I wish it said like, "If u don't get this ur not loved," in case there was any confusion. Who starts this stuff??? I wonder if the first person to write it sat there waiting to get something in their Inbox. Like, "Maybe if I send this to enough people, someone will write back! I can spread love all over the world!" I'll write back. "Die. Slowly." And then, I'll spread my fist all over your face. Scientists need to find a way to increase idiot human mortality rates, because I just simply can't do this all by myself. Unbelievable.

Goodness, this one's getting pretty long, I've covered old people sucking (again), offeneded the existence of my own grandmother, reveled in non-me human stupidity (like always), and made entirely unacceptable religous comments, but I guess I owed it to you guys, if you even care to check this anymore. I can't guarantee my posts will be that frequent, but I'll try to make it faster than a month next time. Hope you have as crappy a day as I always have. Later.

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

2005-09-27T23:26:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-22T22:46:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-19T23:06:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-19T18:36:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-02T02:03:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-09-01T01:28:00.000-07:00

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.)

I'm Moving at the Speed of Technology

2005-08-27T02:16:00.000-07:00

I'm working on something. I'm slow. I know. I'm not really sorry, so I won't say I am. These things take time, but more importantly, they take me caring for enough time in one sitting to stop watching tv and dedicate myself to writing something. Rare moment.

To tide you over, I'll tell a quick story of something that just pissed the crap out of me in lieu of the big one that will be coming in the next few days. I just ate a peach, and with that peach, I secured a paper towel on which to carry it. There are four things I can see written on the inked-in decorative designs on this paper towel. They read as follows: "Reach for the Stars", "Live. Love. Laugh.", "Live life to its Fullest", and "Follow Your Heart and Your Dreams Will come True". Next time I need to feel better about myself, I'll ask the Brawny Man. I want to see the douchebag that thinks they're making a difference in the world with self-affirmations on a damn paper towel sheet, and then castrate her. Yeah, I said it, don't worry about it. If you'll excuse me, I have to go self-affirm my ass with some paper towels.

Quicker pick up this, bitch.

WHO THE SHIT WAS THAT?

2005-08-24T00:57:00.000-07:00

Comment. Who's comment? Show yourself. I know you're reading this. I will ruin this internet with my anger, and I'm huuuuungry!

Find out if you're pissing me off here:

2005-08-23T20:01:00.000-07:00

Scenario: I'm returning a DVD to Hollywood Video. I thought I might take advantage of the conveniently placed drive-by drop box in the parking lot so as to avoid using my legs. Much to my dismay, not so much for the fact that I had to walk, but for the fact that it made me hate everyone but myself even more than I already do, there was a piece of paper taped over the slot where one might find it suitable to deposit an item of borrowed media to return it to its owner. This piece of paper said: "Drop Box is out of order. Sorry for the inconvenience!" You know what? No. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you have to wake up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror and then STILL decide that your toothbrush belongs in your mouth more than it belongs inserted 7 inches into your brain through your eye socket. It's a box. The box has a slit in it. The box also has a door from which to remove items that have been placed inside of it. I would love to know which part of that is "Out of Order". I think the part that is out of order are the two fatass movie-store clerk legs that ache and burn after walking back from the microwave with popcorn as if they just participated in the Chuck Norris workout infomercial they were watching. It must be difficult to walk those 20 yards to pick up the 13 small, jewel cases from the Drop Box twice a day, but I'm glad that in doing so, you've managed to inconvenience me tremendously on my one and ONLY venture into the outside world today. Now it will probably be a week before I get the motivation to go outside again. Not to mention, think of the Earthly resources you're wasting by making countless people park their own cars and walk their own asses up to the drop box attached to the wall of the store (which was, remarkably, in full working condition). Petroleum reserves are exhausted as I am forced to stop and restart my engine, wasting precious gasoline. Depleting food stores are further challenged by the calories wasted by me walking a cumulative FORTY yards, as well as standing up and sitting down. And, lastly, baby seals are killed because I get so frustrated by the whole ordeal I have to go club one to death at the aquarium to relieve my stress.

When I walked to the window to drop my movie in the non-drive-through box, I decided to go inside and look for things to buy, as a way of demonstrating my outrage with the establishment's Broken Drop-Box Policies. I hate myself.

By the way, I wanted to talk about something that pisses me off. Oh, wait...well, I wanted to talk about more things. Health nuts. Shut. Up. I'm glad you've found a diet that works for you, despite the fact that it is ultimately unsatisfying and leaves you chewing on your pillow as you fall asleep wistfully dreaming about flavor or having enough nutrients to effectively run all of your vital organs instead of just your loudmouth lungs and your colon that is inexplicably connected to your vocal cords. I'm even happier that the years of misery you live in as you subject yourself to carefully executed starvation will allow you to live an extra 127 days more than me as you dodge the looming threat of a cholesterol and chemical induced heart attack at the age of 74 cause by the lifelong consumption of processed foods, only to fall victim to a fatal kick in the nuts from me at the ripe old age of 74 and 127 days for pissing me off all the time. Most of all, however, I'm happy that you will probably spend those last 127 days whining about how much you are upset with the world and the current state of affairs and how depressing life is (not to mention how hungry you are), just like you did for the 27,028 days you were alive before that. If life is really as bad as you say it is, then stop trying to prolong it by adding to your "suffering". I'm glad you're doing us all the favor of keeping yourself alive for that little extra, but we don't want to impose on you, so we give you permission to stop trying to breathe. I know you're probably saying, "Hey, James! But you're complaining about the world, too! You're a hypocrite!" The difference is, I'm complaining about the world with a Twinkie in my mouth, a Ding Dong close in line to go down the hatch, and, I'm washing it down with a steak (actually, just bacon fat), all the while unable to care less if I woke up dead tomorrow. Sure, life's great, but making it longer isn't what makes it fun. If you want to make my life better, guess how much I would care if YOU woke up dead tomorrow with a rice cake lodged in your esophagus. I'll give you a hint: the answer starts with "not" and rhymes with "lot bat fall". Ok, fine, here's another hint: the answer is "not at all".

I was going to finish off with making fun of vegetarians, but it's not nice to pick on retarded people.

Warning: Entering Incoherent Rant

2005-08-23T02:42:00.000-07:00

Today's menu contains one item and one item only. That item is potpourri. However, that particular item happens to inherently consist of many items, but the point is, it's just a bunch of random shit I feel like writing right now. But, I will try to string them all together with one very important connection: this is all stuff that pisses the crap out of me. Please, take heart in the tortured emotional and self-induced physical pain stressing out about these annoyances affords me, and enjoy!

Ok, what the shit. If you applied for a job, then you wanted to get a job. No one "made" you, no one forced you. You got an application and you applied and then you even accepted. You made several conscious decisions to end up where you are, so if you can't handle performing your job without complaining about it, then quit. And if you can't do that, quit talking to me about it. I've got a solution for you: shut the crap up. You know why you're getting paid 7 bucks an hour to do it? Because whoever hired your reject ass did it out of the kindness of his or her (ok, his) heart and disappointed one very ready and eager half-trained chimpanzee that probably would have done the job with less complaining, greater efficieny, less demands or benefits, and probably less feces throwing. The point is, you're probably not doing skilled labor, and there are a lot of 6 year olds in Uganda that have a lot more right to complain about having to do bitch work than you. Lucky for me, kids are meant to be seen, not heard. Furthermore, I also think they should be laughed at and subsequently punted, and not seen. But I digress. The point is, I don't like kids, and shut up. Money doesn't make you better than me, just happier, richer, and more useful to society. By the way, here's a quick test to determine if your job is skilled labor and therefore considered useful to me. Please answer yes or no: 1) Are you paid less than $20 an hour? 2) Does the other person your dad hired to do the same job as you get paid 75% of what you do? Scoring: If you answered yes to the above questions, you would be more valuable to society as a traffic cone. The kind you run over.

Here's something that pisses me off, cause I know you want to hear it. You're going to hear it...if you speak the following paragraph out loud. Otherwise you'll just scroll past it because it's way too long to "waste" your time on. After all, you've got important NOTHING to do on the internet that you do every damn day anyway. I wouldn't want to get in the way of that. Holy crap, just thinking about how angry this topic makes me has caused me to not want to write any more tonight. It was about people saying certain drugs or substances are OK to use because they're "natural", as in, found in nature. The next time I hear this reasoning, I'm going to tell the guilty party to go make out with an "all natural" King Cobra because his or her (ok, her) ignorance manages to ruin my life on a regular basis by causing me to be markedly disappointed that I am associated with modern society through the loose affiliation of sharing the same base genetic make up. On second thought, I don't feel angry or frustrated, I just feel like complete shit right now. I need to go watch TV. Sorry, I'll try to be funny tomorrow, I just lost my muse, along with my will to live. Thanks a lot, society. Pucker up.

This probably won't last

2005-08-18T13:13:00.000-07:00

Let's get a round of applause for Brian Lum. He told me this was a good idea. But, now that I'm actually doing it, I still don't agree. The fact of the matter is, I am bored and lonely at the moment, so I will have to live with debasing myself to the point of blogging.

I would like to set a precedent for this particular blog. I think each day (or perhaps several times a day depending on how excited I am that other people care about what I don't really think, but pretend like I think so I'll sound cool and thus post it on a blog because people will think I'm deep and provocative and have a hidden tortured or brilliant mind behind the dumbassery of my everyday self). Wait, I was in the middle of a sentence. Ok, rewind. I think each day I will post what I think about global politics and express my discontent or admiration of several 24-hour news station commentary programs.

Immediately following this, I will tell you to like my music.

After that, I will erroneously decide a one or two word description that bears no place in describing human emotions and use it to depict my current mood, despite the fact that my mood will probably be the same as it was before I started the blog, which can be easily described by the following words: happy, sad, or pissed off at you.

Following this deep plunge into my psyche to give all those that know me (and some that don't! I heart the internet!) a close view into the REAL me, I will tell you to like different music than previously mentioned, but this music I will have never heard myself, but rather saw in a public forum and decided it would make me seem revolutionary or edgy if I did listen to it, so I'll pretend like I listened to them before they were popular, if selling 4 albums at a Berkeley EMOshop can be called popular. I will, however, assure you that despite their imminent sell-out, they still make my soul feel better.

On an entirely different note, what the shit is an LP anyway? I'm tired of people saying they heard the LP. It's a CD. Get over yourself. (Editor's note: I won't ask that question everyday. That particular thought was out of the context of my "Blog Precedent" piece) . (Writer's note: I am the editor, so I guess the previous parenthetical statement would have been more appropriately labeled as a "Writer's note", as well). (James' note: I find parenthese to be one of the most useful tools of the English language. Not any other language. Just English. Other languages are too direct). P.S. - ( )

I think to top off the (multi)daily blog post, I will proceed to tell you how the lyrics of my music affects my political beliefs and why insert shitty EMO/INDIE band name here that consists of an obsolete noun with an unrelated adjective somehow attached gives me a profound right, nay, OBLIGATION, to tell you all what I feel and think.

After all this, I will put a little quote at the bottom that is in no way related to anything I have said in the above post but that I hope will provoke as much thought in you as I pretended like it did for me when I typed "philosophical quote" in Google and clicked the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button.

By the way, every third word in my average blog post will be linked to some website I find poignant, but since I don't know that many websites, and not one of them is poignant, many of them will probably just be porn because I am dubious that anyone could possibly care enough to click on ALL of my hyperlinks.

At this point, I'm sure you all wish as much as myself that I had just typed "RAMBLING SARCASM" in size 72 font in place of the above paragraphs and saved us all a lot of time. Unfortunately, my choices for font size are "huge, large, normal size, small, and tiny", the latter two of which I am all too familiar, and the first two of which I am longingly frightful of, so I just stuck with normal font. As for why I wrote all the stuff instead of just writing "RAMBLING SARCASM" in normal font, well, I can't answer that. The point is, I just made a suggestive penis joke, so that means I should probably end this.

At this somewhat slightly later point, I should probably admit that although my sarcasm and facetious patronism of blogs sounds like an expert speaking, but the truth is, I haven't ever really read many blogs. I just described them like I did above so I could have good reason to hate them. But I can't be THAT far off, can I?

Thanks for tuning in, I hope you had a goodtime. I'll leave you with a tally I've kept:
Number of times I made myself laugh while writing this: 9
Number of times you laughed while reading this: 1 (unrelated to my blog)
Amount of pathetic I am by writing a blog that makes fun of how dumb blogs are: A lot.
Number of minutes I spent writing this: 20
Number of minutes I got sidetracked while writing this because I was reading about a guy's recount of his experiences having sex with dolphins: 15 (I was trying to find a funny hyperlink, not my fault...and fascinating besides)
Number of people who will read this (hopefully): 0
Number of future entries I will probably make due to my extreme levels of dedication: 0, maybe 1
Number of these tally count jokes I should have made before stopping: 1

Until next time.