The other day, perched precariously atop my orange tractor, anxiously awaiting the flip that will send me into crushed and shredded oblivion, I began thinking about death. Not in the average 'Oh, boo-hoo I'm getting older and everyone dies' kind of way, but the much more bad ass, 'Bad ass ways to kick it' kind of way.
Being a big fan of lists and countdowns (I mean, who isn't?) I thought of a few really bad ass ways to die. Not necessarily making my top ten that I'm about to drop like it's hot, flipping over on a tractor is kind of cool, and since it's my list, gets an honorable mention.
#10 Death by Explosion
Nothing spectacular, but generally speaking, when someone dies in a giant explosion ... well, it's normally pretty cool. I mean, explosions are cool and fire is cool. Loud noises are awesome and any type of death including all three of these things has got to be cool itself. Since explosions are so manly, death by explosion is pretty BAD ASS.
#9 Death by Scurvy
You're only lying to yourself if you don't think scurvy is bad ass. We'll play a bit of word association for a second. I say 'scurvy' and you say ... yeah, I thought so, 'pirates.' I looked up 'pirates' in the dictionary just now (read: no, I didn't) and the second definition was two words: 'bad' and 'ass.' You can't argue with facts.
#8 Death by Gun Fight
If you die in a gun fight, you're a bad ass. You've overcome all of the hurdles needed for full bad-ass-i-tude. The first one is that you have a gun. The second is that you use it. Bad asses use guns. Two words: 'dirty' and 'harry.' These same two words could be used to describe the physical appearance of bad ass dudes, or BADs, as I like to call them. The coincidence is shockingly argument proof.
#7 Death by Robot
Everyone who is anyone knows that the only thing more bad ass than some seriously BADs is some seriously bad ass robots, or BARs, as I like to call them. If a BAR kills a BAD, there is an overload of bad and ass. Every guy knows that you can never get enough ass. Case closed. Try and keep up.
#6 Death by Cobra
No, not the kind that live on planes. Cobra of the GI Joe fame. This is serious. Actually, in hindsight this is way too high up on my list. It shouldn't even be in the top 10 of anything. If you're killed by any of the Cobras, you're kind of an asshole. The GI Joes always managed to kick some Cobra ass, and they melted in the sun. At least when I used a magnifying glass to heat them up after the ants were all dead. Man, Cobras sucked. And that one guy never even showed his face. What a little bitch tit.
#5 Death by Decepticon
Ok, now we've got some serious villains here. These are the BARs I was talking about earlier. They get their own spot on the countdown because they're too much, much too much. Are you fucking kidding me? ROBOTS that turn into CARS and shit! That's just wild. That blows my mind. If a Decepticon kills you ... just, I mean, if you could, just say thank you. It's cool that the Autobots are here to help us out and all, but man, robots give me an erection.
#4 Death by Sacrifice
HEY VIRGINS! Listen up and listen up good. Soldiers are willing to give their lives for their country. Sacrificial deaths are just about as bad ass as can be. Going out to protect America from places like Indonesia and Congo... If you die as a sacrifice for something greater than yourself. That's bad ass. Fuck those commies. Virgins make such a big deal out of being sacrificed, but I don't know why. Every time I sacrifice one they always kick and scream, and damn can those bitches bite.
#3 Death by Snakes
Pythons? Anacondas? Fuck that shit. They're so gay. They want to squeeze you to death? I'll tell you who else tried to squeeze me to death. Tyrone, the large black man that liked me so much when I spent that night in jail a couple months ago. All he wanted to do was hug me and stick his tongue out. Anacondas and pythons are the gayest of snakes in the snake world. They're the gayest of animals in the animal world, besides Sasquatch, of course. Poisonous snakes are too bad ass for their own good. They have fucking poison INSIDE of them. The poison doesn't even bother them. But it can KILL people. Really quick too. They bite you with NATURE'S NEEDLES!!! They have hollow teeth like some damned vampires! Come on, you're retarded and blind if you don't know that death by poisonous snakes is fucking bad ass. If I was bit by a poisonous snake, between my spasms and bloody coughs, I would probably want to hug the little guy for letting me go out like such a man.
#2 Death by Sword
The ancients knew this was a noble way of death. If dishonor were to befall you in some societies long ago, you were to kill yourself with your own blade rather than face the shame of ... whatever. Here's the thing: it didn't matter what it was that made you ashamed! Death by sword was just too bad ass, it overcame everything else. It was like the royal flush of ways to die. NOTHING BEAT IT. If your old man went out and fucked 54 sheep and sucked off a pair of horses while his drunk boyfriend taped the whole thing and then inadvertently showed it at the local town fair while getting caught molesting a small child behind the screen this interspecies erotica was being played on, all he had to do was kill himself on his own blade. All was well with the world again. The end all to problems, the sword ruled.
And now, for the number one way to die. The most bad ass of bad ass-ery, you probably saw it coming, and I don't really need an explanation for it. In fact, I won't give an explanation, because it would insult your intelligence and tax my ability to use the english language to convey such bad ass-ery. The number one, bad ass, most motherfucking awesome way to die...
#1 Death by Snakes on a Plane
Monday, August 14, 2006
Monday, August 7, 2006
with or without you.
This isn't something that I normally dig my hands into, but I'd like to make a brief trip into the realm of sex. That's a funny sentence, seriously, go back and read it again.
Sometimes facts change. I remember back when I was a small child, the cars we drove and the engines that gave off harmful greenhouses gases were ... well, harmful. Turns out that was a load of shit. There was a recent study that proved that the earth is staying the same temperature. When I say 'recent study' I mean I just made that up. Facts change, deal with it.
Here's a fact that will never change: big vaginas are always funny.
Supposedly, there are a few key thoughts that can turn an otherwise virile young man limp again. You know what I'm talking about. When a guy wants to 'go the distance' for his lady friend or his guy friend, if he likes, he's supposed to think of goofy, off-the-wall-shit that will keep the racer in his car for the last lap, so to speak. Lady friend or guy friend works, because we all know that a warm hole is a warm hole. The guy is the one that is supposed to keep it going because that's the cool thing to do, or something. This type of thinking is wrong on so many levels. I'll go over a few if you keep it together. Ha, get it?
Grandmas, dudes, ugly girls, baseball... wait. Baseball? I tried this. Baseball doesn't work. I think baseball is sexy. It turns me on. I often get an erection just from thinking about baseball. I love it. Do you know why I love it? Because I'm an American. I went there, Americans love baseball. Some Americans love baseball more than others because, let's face it, some people are more American than others. I tried thinking about baseball in order to keep going recently. It didn't work.
My initial reaction was one of shock, basically because I had no idea I love baseball so much. Also because I thought about how stupid that was. Why was I trying to go the distance? Rather, why was I trying to push the finish line farther away? If that's not the epitome of counterproductivity, I have no idea what is. I should be trying to finish as fast as possible, because hey, fuck them anyways. Aha. Another joke.
Who am I trying to impress? The only woman in my life that I want to impress is my mom. And she's told me plenty of times now that she doesn't want to hear me talk about that kind of thing. It's similar to the way my dog will go out in the yard and kill something. He then brings that dead thing back to the porch, as if to say 'hey man, check this out, I'm real bad ass'. The equivalent for me would be 'hey mom, check out this gutterslut, I'm a horrible human being. what's for dinner?'.
Let's put this in a different perspective. When I'm home alone, or not alone, or when my dog is watching and I'm whaling away on myself like there's no tomorrow, I'm not worried about my hand's pleasure. Fuck that guy anyways (lol) he leaves me all raw sometimes and never says he's sorry. So why is it, when I'm slumming after a night of drinking, that kind of nonsensical bad joke of a bad idea pops into my head?
Of course, this is all just a prelude to what I've really been trying to get at. And that's to remind you that big vaginas are always, and will always be funny.
Sometimes facts change. I remember back when I was a small child, the cars we drove and the engines that gave off harmful greenhouses gases were ... well, harmful. Turns out that was a load of shit. There was a recent study that proved that the earth is staying the same temperature. When I say 'recent study' I mean I just made that up. Facts change, deal with it.
Here's a fact that will never change: big vaginas are always funny.
Supposedly, there are a few key thoughts that can turn an otherwise virile young man limp again. You know what I'm talking about. When a guy wants to 'go the distance' for his lady friend or his guy friend, if he likes, he's supposed to think of goofy, off-the-wall-shit that will keep the racer in his car for the last lap, so to speak. Lady friend or guy friend works, because we all know that a warm hole is a warm hole. The guy is the one that is supposed to keep it going because that's the cool thing to do, or something. This type of thinking is wrong on so many levels. I'll go over a few if you keep it together. Ha, get it?
Grandmas, dudes, ugly girls, baseball... wait. Baseball? I tried this. Baseball doesn't work. I think baseball is sexy. It turns me on. I often get an erection just from thinking about baseball. I love it. Do you know why I love it? Because I'm an American. I went there, Americans love baseball. Some Americans love baseball more than others because, let's face it, some people are more American than others. I tried thinking about baseball in order to keep going recently. It didn't work.
My initial reaction was one of shock, basically because I had no idea I love baseball so much. Also because I thought about how stupid that was. Why was I trying to go the distance? Rather, why was I trying to push the finish line farther away? If that's not the epitome of counterproductivity, I have no idea what is. I should be trying to finish as fast as possible, because hey, fuck them anyways. Aha. Another joke.
Who am I trying to impress? The only woman in my life that I want to impress is my mom. And she's told me plenty of times now that she doesn't want to hear me talk about that kind of thing. It's similar to the way my dog will go out in the yard and kill something. He then brings that dead thing back to the porch, as if to say 'hey man, check this out, I'm real bad ass'. The equivalent for me would be 'hey mom, check out this gutterslut, I'm a horrible human being. what's for dinner?'.
Let's put this in a different perspective. When I'm home alone, or not alone, or when my dog is watching and I'm whaling away on myself like there's no tomorrow, I'm not worried about my hand's pleasure. Fuck that guy anyways (lol) he leaves me all raw sometimes and never says he's sorry. So why is it, when I'm slumming after a night of drinking, that kind of nonsensical bad joke of a bad idea pops into my head?
Of course, this is all just a prelude to what I've really been trying to get at. And that's to remind you that big vaginas are always, and will always be funny.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
it's not about the butt pleasures.
Every Tuesday, iTunes or Apple or some guy sends me the new music email and I learn that such and such Indie rocker group has a new album out. That this band or that band has their newest release out and why I should buy it, preferably off iTunes. I imagine there is an email that would inform me about all the new, hip movies that come out on whatever day of the week they come out. My question is this: is there an email that would let me know what new, hardcore-blow-your-load-all-over-some-titties, girls-fucking-animals, hot porno?
Sometimes when I drink (read: sometimes, but only when I drink) I get a craving for some Taco Bell. Since the taco gods (no relation to Pussylia, the greek god of vagina) chose to take away the Taco Bell mere miles from my home. My only poor service, "good-to-go", greasy taco action alternative is to drive to the other side of the world. It may not seem that way to some, but to someone who is often more than 'slightly inebriated,' it can make the difference between a stop-off on my way home and a harrowing race down the parkway.
I manage to make it to the Taco Bell every time I set out for Taco Bell, so all is well.
One of the cool things about the Travel Channel is that one show that talks about all the cool, secret, fun things to do in whatever city you're in. Some good places to eat, some sweet adventuring spots or whatever. There's gotta be a lot of money in that kind of advice, I figure there's a piece of that pie that I could get hold of because I have the best piece of advice for anyone ever.
When you go to the Taco Bell, go to the one near the porno shop. I always get drive-thru and eat it in my car as I watch the late night patrons to the local pornery. I find myself asking questions like the first one, about the new releases in the porno industry. Releases as in video tapes, not the other kind, the sexual releases.
Sometimes when I drink (read: sometimes, but only when I drink) I get a craving for some Taco Bell. Since the taco gods (no relation to Pussylia, the greek god of vagina) chose to take away the Taco Bell mere miles from my home. My only poor service, "good-to-go", greasy taco action alternative is to drive to the other side of the world. It may not seem that way to some, but to someone who is often more than 'slightly inebriated,' it can make the difference between a stop-off on my way home and a harrowing race down the parkway.
I manage to make it to the Taco Bell every time I set out for Taco Bell, so all is well.
One of the cool things about the Travel Channel is that one show that talks about all the cool, secret, fun things to do in whatever city you're in. Some good places to eat, some sweet adventuring spots or whatever. There's gotta be a lot of money in that kind of advice, I figure there's a piece of that pie that I could get hold of because I have the best piece of advice for anyone ever.
When you go to the Taco Bell, go to the one near the porno shop. I always get drive-thru and eat it in my car as I watch the late night patrons to the local pornery. I find myself asking questions like the first one, about the new releases in the porno industry. Releases as in video tapes, not the other kind, the sexual releases.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Let's review this for a moment.
There are quite a few things in this world that I dislike. If you're reading this, chances are that you're pretty well versed in this general fact. My distaste for a lot of things is clear as crystal, and in this sense, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I kind of wish there were an organ that was metaphorically linked to hatred, because in actuality it would be this organ, as opposed to my heart, that was worn on my sleeve. Being a smoker, I get the occasional 'your lungs are black' joke or jibe. Maybe since my lungs are black they can be linked to hatred, so we can say that I wear my lungs on my sleeve. Does that make sense? Good.
Few things in this world garner enough of my energy to warrant the term 'hatred.' The fact of the matter is that I just don't care enough about what goes on to say that I 'hate' anything. Either that, or we should replace the aforementioned 'dislike' group and call it the 'hate' group, meaning I hate almost everything. If that were the case, I would be a lot like Jesus. Except the opposite. Where he loves stuff, I would hate it. Since I'm not so full of myself to compare myself to the Christ, I'm going to have to stick with dislike as the majority and hate the minority.
The last three words from the previous sentence are pretty funny when they stand alone.
We've finally reached the point of my argument for today. I'm here to discuss one thing that I absolutely loathe.
We live in a world where text messages and AIM conversations are commonplace. Email has replaced the 'quick call' for many businesses and our lives are in the hands of computers more everyday. I can't say that I like the idea of relying so heavily on machines, I saw A Space Odyssey and I remember the bleak future from The Terminator. My point, however, is that there is much more text being read now when communicating than ever before. Also, machines are evil. Remember The Matrix?
A simple question is 'wat r u up 2?'
This bastardization of the English language is almost unavoidable. I get emails, text messages and instant messages like this everyday. Loosely translated, the above means 'I'm an imbecile, if I could figure out how, I would strangle myself with my mouse cord and end the miserable excuse for a life I now lead.'
I hate that. Is it so difficult to add two extra letters to the word 'you' or 'are' or to type out 'to' instead of just hitting the number key? Why do I need a translator to read English? You're not Chaucer, you can write like a normal instead of a 13 year old girl. By the way, any 13 year old girls who type like this are retarded. I get it, you passed the third grade and figured out what a homophone is. Too, two, to. Perhaps we missed the boat on this one though, the trick to homophones is that they sound alike, but mean different things. They mean different things, as in not the same. Like that time when I went for a walk and caught butterflies. What I really meant was that I got all drunk and had sex with a coked out model. Or when I went and volunteered at the local homeless shelter, I really meant that I cruised around downtown and beat up homeless people.
I digress. I'm not perfect. I make mistakes. The difference is that my mistakes are accidental, like the time I crashed my car into a tree. I didn't mean to fall asleep (or pass out, depending on who you talk to) and kiss that tree, it was an accident. These text mistakes aren't mistakes at all though, they're 'on purposes.' Someone purposefully leaves out the 'y' and the 'o' in the word 'you' and it is my contention that they do it purely to invoke my ire. So next time you think about being lazy and not typing out the entire 3 letters of a 3 letter word, think about the offer your mom made me the other night. She said she'd be up for anything for 50 cents and an apple. Anything. And I swear I'll film it.
Few things in this world garner enough of my energy to warrant the term 'hatred.' The fact of the matter is that I just don't care enough about what goes on to say that I 'hate' anything. Either that, or we should replace the aforementioned 'dislike' group and call it the 'hate' group, meaning I hate almost everything. If that were the case, I would be a lot like Jesus. Except the opposite. Where he loves stuff, I would hate it. Since I'm not so full of myself to compare myself to the Christ, I'm going to have to stick with dislike as the majority and hate the minority.
The last three words from the previous sentence are pretty funny when they stand alone.
We've finally reached the point of my argument for today. I'm here to discuss one thing that I absolutely loathe.
We live in a world where text messages and AIM conversations are commonplace. Email has replaced the 'quick call' for many businesses and our lives are in the hands of computers more everyday. I can't say that I like the idea of relying so heavily on machines, I saw A Space Odyssey and I remember the bleak future from The Terminator. My point, however, is that there is much more text being read now when communicating than ever before. Also, machines are evil. Remember The Matrix?
A simple question is 'wat r u up 2?'
This bastardization of the English language is almost unavoidable. I get emails, text messages and instant messages like this everyday. Loosely translated, the above means 'I'm an imbecile, if I could figure out how, I would strangle myself with my mouse cord and end the miserable excuse for a life I now lead.'
I hate that. Is it so difficult to add two extra letters to the word 'you' or 'are' or to type out 'to' instead of just hitting the number key? Why do I need a translator to read English? You're not Chaucer, you can write like a normal instead of a 13 year old girl. By the way, any 13 year old girls who type like this are retarded. I get it, you passed the third grade and figured out what a homophone is. Too, two, to. Perhaps we missed the boat on this one though, the trick to homophones is that they sound alike, but mean different things. They mean different things, as in not the same. Like that time when I went for a walk and caught butterflies. What I really meant was that I got all drunk and had sex with a coked out model. Or when I went and volunteered at the local homeless shelter, I really meant that I cruised around downtown and beat up homeless people.
I digress. I'm not perfect. I make mistakes. The difference is that my mistakes are accidental, like the time I crashed my car into a tree. I didn't mean to fall asleep (or pass out, depending on who you talk to) and kiss that tree, it was an accident. These text mistakes aren't mistakes at all though, they're 'on purposes.' Someone purposefully leaves out the 'y' and the 'o' in the word 'you' and it is my contention that they do it purely to invoke my ire. So next time you think about being lazy and not typing out the entire 3 letters of a 3 letter word, think about the offer your mom made me the other night. She said she'd be up for anything for 50 cents and an apple. Anything. And I swear I'll film it.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
I hate it when I buy a Cd and I only like the one song.
I work two jobs. It's a really good time, kind of like the good time I'd imagine it would be if I went skydiving sans the parachute. It's the kind of fun you have when you find out that you have cancer and you have to get a ball cut off.
I have no idea why I'm working these nut-cuttingly fun pair of jobs. I have bills, yeah. I like to have a good time, and that requires some money, sure. With the loot I should be making from two jobs, which ought to be double the money I was making from my first job, I should be up to my nose in cheap hookers and dirty cocaine. Ahhha, do you get it? Up to my NOSE? It's funny because you're supposed to put cocaine in your... nevermind. It's probably not funny and someone will already have been offended by the cancer joke.
The problem is that I'm still basically broke. I still don't have any money and I'm not even hosting parties so big I need a warehouse and a personal drug dealer to cater the event. I still have bills that remain unpaid. I'm starting to think there's some sort of conspiracy to keep me perpetually poor. During the school year I figured I was broke because everyone else was broke, plus I didn't really have a job. Things would pick up during the summer and I could save some money so life wouldn't be so meager when I went back to school, I told myself. I guess I lied. I didn't know I was lying to myself at the time, though.
I think there truly is a conspiracy. I've been going to school for three years and 'the man' knows that he can squeeze another year out of me as long as I don't start making loads of money before I go back. That's the point of school, right? Making loads of money is what I want, I mean, I'm thinking about an extra 3 or 4 years of school so that I can make money. Stay with me now, here's the kicker. Most of my friends, myself included, have at least some loans for those years spent in school.
'The man' has all the motivation in the world to keep us in school. He's only going to make MORE money the longer we loan. How much would a magical fairy cost? Because that's how much 'the man' is spending to sneak into my house at night and steal money from me. Ok, ok, so maybe that's a bit far-fetched. But is it really out of the question for 'the man' to hire some midgets to do that kind of job? Now, now you're seeing the picture. 'The man' has hired an army of midgets to sneak into the homes of college students and steal their money to keep them downtrodden.
Does that sound too ridiculous? People think that the moon-landing was staged. People think that Martians landed out west and no one but crack pots and trailer-dwellers have been visited. People think that the government is listening in on all our conversations and that they give the HIV virus to poor people. Those last two are probably true, though, just like this midget-theft conspiracy is. Well I got news for you, I don't care, I'll kill a damned midget. If I catch one of those bastards trying to steal from me, I'll choke the little sonovabitch.
I have no idea why I'm working these nut-cuttingly fun pair of jobs. I have bills, yeah. I like to have a good time, and that requires some money, sure. With the loot I should be making from two jobs, which ought to be double the money I was making from my first job, I should be up to my nose in cheap hookers and dirty cocaine. Ahhha, do you get it? Up to my NOSE? It's funny because you're supposed to put cocaine in your... nevermind. It's probably not funny and someone will already have been offended by the cancer joke.
The problem is that I'm still basically broke. I still don't have any money and I'm not even hosting parties so big I need a warehouse and a personal drug dealer to cater the event. I still have bills that remain unpaid. I'm starting to think there's some sort of conspiracy to keep me perpetually poor. During the school year I figured I was broke because everyone else was broke, plus I didn't really have a job. Things would pick up during the summer and I could save some money so life wouldn't be so meager when I went back to school, I told myself. I guess I lied. I didn't know I was lying to myself at the time, though.
I think there truly is a conspiracy. I've been going to school for three years and 'the man' knows that he can squeeze another year out of me as long as I don't start making loads of money before I go back. That's the point of school, right? Making loads of money is what I want, I mean, I'm thinking about an extra 3 or 4 years of school so that I can make money. Stay with me now, here's the kicker. Most of my friends, myself included, have at least some loans for those years spent in school.
'The man' has all the motivation in the world to keep us in school. He's only going to make MORE money the longer we loan. How much would a magical fairy cost? Because that's how much 'the man' is spending to sneak into my house at night and steal money from me. Ok, ok, so maybe that's a bit far-fetched. But is it really out of the question for 'the man' to hire some midgets to do that kind of job? Now, now you're seeing the picture. 'The man' has hired an army of midgets to sneak into the homes of college students and steal their money to keep them downtrodden.
Does that sound too ridiculous? People think that the moon-landing was staged. People think that Martians landed out west and no one but crack pots and trailer-dwellers have been visited. People think that the government is listening in on all our conversations and that they give the HIV virus to poor people. Those last two are probably true, though, just like this midget-theft conspiracy is. Well I got news for you, I don't care, I'll kill a damned midget. If I catch one of those bastards trying to steal from me, I'll choke the little sonovabitch.
Monday, June 5, 2006
the irony is beautiful
I've been here for the past two hours, give or take an hour or two, trying to complete a test for my online philosophy course. I say I've been 'trying' because I lack the resources to accomplish my task and I have finally given up hope that this test will be completed this evening. It's due at 8AM tomorrow and the book I ordered for the class, which I need, is due in on Tuesday.
This lack of a book got me thinking about how much more I read over the summer than during the school year. In fact, I've read two books so far this summer. You're probably thinking 'two books? big deal!' But factor in the 50+ hour work weeks and the 12 hours a week I spend at class plus my ridiculously extravagant 5-6 hours of sleep per night, I lack the time for reading now that I have the drive to read. At school? Time is all that I have (had) while I was there. Yet, I did no reading. Relatively no reading, I at least read enough to get by where and when I needed to this past year.
Somewhere along this train of thought I happened over the brilliant idea that I should do a book review of some of my highlights. I recently went out to Border's and found the 3-fer deal going on, I got 3 books for the price of the most expensive two. I grabbed a Kurt Vonnegut, a Comparative Religions book and Jimmy Buffett's newest 'A Salty Piece of Land.'
In the vein of creative writing, Buffett starts his tale out at near the end of the book so that the majority of the read is a flashback. A useless nuance that flowed well, but I found myself confused when the transition took place from the flashback to the real part of the story. It's not a large issue since, like I said, the vast majority of the book takes place in the flashback form. Now that the negative is aside, I can get in to why I liked this book.
A Caribbean adventure from cover to cover, you go on a sailing, fishing, and well... adventuring. Buffett never gets too detailed into what could be the boring bits and pieces of sailing, though he does give enough to paint a vivid picture of life on the islands. The slow moving bits of the character's time spent as a fishing-guide were also glazed over, which deserves a tip of the hat to the author. By the end of the book I was ready to pick up and move down south to live my life to the fullest on the beautiful islands and wondrous lifestyle of the sea-going adventurer. I want my own salty piece of land, and I think that anyone reading this book will come away with the same feeling.
Whoa. I feel as if I should be saying "but don't take my word for it..." right now. "Take a look, it's in a book" and all that. Perhaps I should stick to my true to life musings if I'm to continue this endeavor. At any rate, I ought to be able to keep this up this time. Productivity is up. And that's all I have to say right now.
This lack of a book got me thinking about how much more I read over the summer than during the school year. In fact, I've read two books so far this summer. You're probably thinking 'two books? big deal!' But factor in the 50+ hour work weeks and the 12 hours a week I spend at class plus my ridiculously extravagant 5-6 hours of sleep per night, I lack the time for reading now that I have the drive to read. At school? Time is all that I have (had) while I was there. Yet, I did no reading. Relatively no reading, I at least read enough to get by where and when I needed to this past year.
Somewhere along this train of thought I happened over the brilliant idea that I should do a book review of some of my highlights. I recently went out to Border's and found the 3-fer deal going on, I got 3 books for the price of the most expensive two. I grabbed a Kurt Vonnegut, a Comparative Religions book and Jimmy Buffett's newest 'A Salty Piece of Land.'
In the vein of creative writing, Buffett starts his tale out at near the end of the book so that the majority of the read is a flashback. A useless nuance that flowed well, but I found myself confused when the transition took place from the flashback to the real part of the story. It's not a large issue since, like I said, the vast majority of the book takes place in the flashback form. Now that the negative is aside, I can get in to why I liked this book.
A Caribbean adventure from cover to cover, you go on a sailing, fishing, and well... adventuring. Buffett never gets too detailed into what could be the boring bits and pieces of sailing, though he does give enough to paint a vivid picture of life on the islands. The slow moving bits of the character's time spent as a fishing-guide were also glazed over, which deserves a tip of the hat to the author. By the end of the book I was ready to pick up and move down south to live my life to the fullest on the beautiful islands and wondrous lifestyle of the sea-going adventurer. I want my own salty piece of land, and I think that anyone reading this book will come away with the same feeling.
Whoa. I feel as if I should be saying "but don't take my word for it..." right now. "Take a look, it's in a book" and all that. Perhaps I should stick to my true to life musings if I'm to continue this endeavor. At any rate, I ought to be able to keep this up this time. Productivity is up. And that's all I have to say right now.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
lover, you should've come over
Fear grips my heart like a vice. Just as another equally powerful vice cranks down on my temples. Jesus, this shit happens way too often anymore. It seems like what used to happen once a month, twice if I was feeling frisky now sneaks up on me much too much as of late. I, of course, am referring to the hangover.
To use the term "hangover" is an understatement to the tune of the holocaust. Your average, run of the mill, soccer mom drank too much wine while watching must see TV, hangover is like saying that the holocaust never happened. While my benders and binges, on the other hand, would be the full blown apocalyptic onslaught of fire and brimstone that was the calculated destruction of millions of the european Jewry.
Ok, maybe that was a bit over the top, but it certainly feels like a slaughter. The problem is that the headache really pales in comparison with the fear. The headache is nothing. Bad music can give me a headache and everyone knows there is plenty of that to go around. The fear is the thing. I know that I blacked out and I know there could be dead bodies laying somewhere, just waiting for this week's team of crime scene investigators to bust up my hazy facade and cart me off to serve my life imprisonment.
God knows I deserve it. To be honest, I probably only have dumb luck or divine intervention to thank for my continued existence as a free man. But the fear, that's truly how I'm punished for living my life as a lord of debauchery.
Similar to the feeling you get when you've held your breath too long, the very blood in my veins seems to drop a few degrees. This otherworldly fear only fuels the fire, the anxiety. The anxiety coupled with the haze of a night of heavy drinking. Like a wedding in hell, I see to be married to this recurring tragedy. Shakespeare couldn't have made a finer plot twist, I can't move a muscle and yet that is the only thing on my mind. I must get out of there. Wherever there may be.
If there was a wedding in hell, the fear would be the wedding cake. The centerpiece of the hangover. And like any good cake, this one has layers, and maybe even some side dishes of wedding cake accoutrements. Some of these hellish delicacies include the aforementioned blood as it freezes inside of me. But while the blood cools my body to the point of pain, my lungs burn. Because of course I smoked too much last night. Normal people smoke too much at half a pack, maybe a whole pack. I can easily cut through three or four packs of cigarettes on one of my weekly benders.
Waking up, with a dry mouth and burning lungs, a sore throat and the fear. The fear is the killer. Waking up on a sugar high from this satanic cake is becoming far too frequent of an adventure as of late. Far too frequent.
To use the term "hangover" is an understatement to the tune of the holocaust. Your average, run of the mill, soccer mom drank too much wine while watching must see TV, hangover is like saying that the holocaust never happened. While my benders and binges, on the other hand, would be the full blown apocalyptic onslaught of fire and brimstone that was the calculated destruction of millions of the european Jewry.
Ok, maybe that was a bit over the top, but it certainly feels like a slaughter. The problem is that the headache really pales in comparison with the fear. The headache is nothing. Bad music can give me a headache and everyone knows there is plenty of that to go around. The fear is the thing. I know that I blacked out and I know there could be dead bodies laying somewhere, just waiting for this week's team of crime scene investigators to bust up my hazy facade and cart me off to serve my life imprisonment.
God knows I deserve it. To be honest, I probably only have dumb luck or divine intervention to thank for my continued existence as a free man. But the fear, that's truly how I'm punished for living my life as a lord of debauchery.
Similar to the feeling you get when you've held your breath too long, the very blood in my veins seems to drop a few degrees. This otherworldly fear only fuels the fire, the anxiety. The anxiety coupled with the haze of a night of heavy drinking. Like a wedding in hell, I see to be married to this recurring tragedy. Shakespeare couldn't have made a finer plot twist, I can't move a muscle and yet that is the only thing on my mind. I must get out of there. Wherever there may be.
If there was a wedding in hell, the fear would be the wedding cake. The centerpiece of the hangover. And like any good cake, this one has layers, and maybe even some side dishes of wedding cake accoutrements. Some of these hellish delicacies include the aforementioned blood as it freezes inside of me. But while the blood cools my body to the point of pain, my lungs burn. Because of course I smoked too much last night. Normal people smoke too much at half a pack, maybe a whole pack. I can easily cut through three or four packs of cigarettes on one of my weekly benders.
Waking up, with a dry mouth and burning lungs, a sore throat and the fear. The fear is the killer. Waking up on a sugar high from this satanic cake is becoming far too frequent of an adventure as of late. Far too frequent.
Monday, January 23, 2006
lazy friday
"Hey man, how you doing?" It's a typical query. Everytime I use that phrase or some permutation thereof, I want to kick myself in the ass. I just said that exact phrase no more than 10 minutes ago. I don't give a fuck how anyone is doing.
The real shitty part of the whole exchange is the waiting. Wait for the answer long enough and you know you're in trouble. Like lightning across the night sky, my head is filled with flashes of terror. All those horrible thoughts revolve around the small chance that this particular query will end with some sort of forced empathy.
If the wait is too long, how shall I respond? No one has to think about how they are doing. Like today, it's warm, it's not raining and it's Friday. I'm fucking great. Two days ago when it was freezing outside and I had a bunch of classes left this week I was fucking bummed out.
There's about six and a half minutes left of class for the week and I'm riding pretty on this cloud of mine. The only weight holding my high down is the bald man with wire rimmed glasses rambling on about ching chong chang or some shit in my Religions of China class. He's down under 5 minutes left, so I'll let him ramble for now.
One other hurdle I have before I can satiate my desire for the peaceful, the slothlike, the Friday afternoon, is someone, anyone really, I might see on the way home from class. I've resolved to not ask them how they are doing, but I won't wait for them to ask me either, because I'm fucking dandy.
The real shitty part of the whole exchange is the waiting. Wait for the answer long enough and you know you're in trouble. Like lightning across the night sky, my head is filled with flashes of terror. All those horrible thoughts revolve around the small chance that this particular query will end with some sort of forced empathy.
If the wait is too long, how shall I respond? No one has to think about how they are doing. Like today, it's warm, it's not raining and it's Friday. I'm fucking great. Two days ago when it was freezing outside and I had a bunch of classes left this week I was fucking bummed out.
There's about six and a half minutes left of class for the week and I'm riding pretty on this cloud of mine. The only weight holding my high down is the bald man with wire rimmed glasses rambling on about ching chong chang or some shit in my Religions of China class. He's down under 5 minutes left, so I'll let him ramble for now.
One other hurdle I have before I can satiate my desire for the peaceful, the slothlike, the Friday afternoon, is someone, anyone really, I might see on the way home from class. I've resolved to not ask them how they are doing, but I won't wait for them to ask me either, because I'm fucking dandy.
No one is ever up to any good at 3 in the morning.
Cheap vodka is a relative term. In the sense that if you drink enough, it doesn't matter how much the spirit cost, the next morning you're still going to wake up feeling more used than a whore on dollar day.
If only foresight were as clear as it's backward looking counterpart, I would never get myself in the kinds of situations I get myself into. Friday night reared its ugly head and I gave in to temptation. I bought a handle of 100 proof bottom shelf vodka. I splurged and got one step above Vladimir Vodka. Which isn't saying much considering both run at around half the price of the average spirit.
Economics teaches us that we get what we pay for, or at least we hope that we get what we pay for. In terms of "the most bang for your buck," I'm willing to put cheap vodka right up there with anything you can get in the dollar store. That being said, the analogy seems a lot more apt than it first seemed. When I buy something from the dollar store, I always expect it to be half broke or have some weird disfigurement hidden away behind the wrapper. When I unfurl that halfbreed of a whatever it is I buy at the dollar store, I always wince when opening it. Because, I, like most people, fear that which is too easy to come by. And in walks cheap vodka.
That kind of rip-roaring drunk is just way too easy to come by. When I drink cheap vodka, I'm always extra cautious. I stand in the store before I buy it and read and re-read the fine print on the bottle, half expecting there to be a clause about how purchasing the bottle will result in anal rapage. Certainly the last couple times I've done that it FELT like I was raped in the asshole, raw-dog like. No lube. And at the end of my coital adventure I got the old donkey punch. Not that I would know what that feels like, but I have an imagination and a dirty mind. Anal sex and donkey punches about sum up how I feel towards cheap vodka. I could go on to explain why that sums up my feelings, but I feel that it's better left up to the imagination.
Drinking my cheap vodka, mixed with gatorade (in the hopes that this will somehow protect me from the death grip that devil juice will have on me the next morning) I get all intellectual. Like some sort of fucked up world that cheap vodka isn't going to turn me into a baby. Slurring, drooling and shitting all over the place. This time would be different, cheap vodka had no hold on me. The gatorade was acting like a shield, in my mind. It was as if by magic, I was making witty commentary on everything in the 12'x12' world of mine that night. The visitors were impressed with the rapist's wit and the roommates were happy that vomit or any other type of bodily excretions were as yet uninvolved. Life was good.
The next morning, I awoke with nothing more than a dry mouth. Ah, the sweet smell of victory. I beat it. I was better than cheap vodka. I fucked that whore and made the dash for the door while she was passed out and unawares.
This needed to be repeated. Refilling my supply, I picked up another bottle from the local death deal-ery where satan's kool-aid is purchased and found a veritable rainbow of accessories to drink with. From orange juice to gatorade (my friend in arms from the night prior) and I even got one of those coffee drinks with all the gusto that I had found a cheap version of the White Russian.
It certainly was a cheap version of the White Russian. Emphasis on cheap and more like a white russian whore, but it was what it was. This was not the problem. The problem showed up around hour 6 of drinking in the form of a phone call. This phone call necessitated a number of things. First, in order to perform well away from home base (AKA my stash of alcohol) I was going to have to stock up for the trip. Drinking ferociously for a half hour after taking it easy for the past 6 isn't a good idea. In fact, it's fucking stupid. My wits weren't fully about me due to the slight haze I'd developed. I did it though, I drank in one half hour enough to match what I had drank the rest of the night combined. Ever so slowly the drunken stupor creeps up on me.
I stumble around the building for a while, momentarily disoriented. Why did I do that to myself? I could not remember. Just as slowly, the reason comes back to me: the phone call. Well, I've certainly gotten myself into quite a pickle.
At one point, pantsless and in a strange room, it dawns on me that even if I figured out how to get to the final destination of the evening, I had serious doubts about my ability to perform. After all, I was at that point where I would ordinarily just want to sleep. Except for all those cheap white russian whores I had fooled around with earlier, the caffeine involved wanted me to stay up.
Flash forward an hour and I vaguely remember being in a completely different strange room with totally unfamiliar faces. Who would open the door for someone like me? And where are my pants? I thought I put them back on earlier...
Stumbling back into my room, I found my pants and I remember the plan. Gotta do something about that phone call. Only problem is that it's now 4 hours later and all my vodka is gone. Presumably someone else drank the rest of it, because even though there were witnesses telling me I polished off the alcohol, I can't recall that actually happening. They are probably lying like that bitch from the night before. She only tricked me into a false sense of security Friday so that she could put the strap-on on her head and go to town on my asshole like some sort of demonic rhino. Roar! She screamed. And then I curled up in the fetal position and eventually took it, like the little bitch that I am.
It was 3 in the morning by the time I fell, fully clothed and missing my favorite blue lighter, sadly into bed. It was 3 in the morning when the cheap vodka whorebitch took back that fun I owed her from the night prior. As well as any other fun I might have had the chance to accrue over the course of my life. Swearing off alcohol for the rest of my life when I awoke, I toast you now, no more than 12 hours after that alcohol-less pledge with drink in hand.
If only foresight were as clear as it's backward looking counterpart, I would never get myself in the kinds of situations I get myself into. Friday night reared its ugly head and I gave in to temptation. I bought a handle of 100 proof bottom shelf vodka. I splurged and got one step above Vladimir Vodka. Which isn't saying much considering both run at around half the price of the average spirit.
Economics teaches us that we get what we pay for, or at least we hope that we get what we pay for. In terms of "the most bang for your buck," I'm willing to put cheap vodka right up there with anything you can get in the dollar store. That being said, the analogy seems a lot more apt than it first seemed. When I buy something from the dollar store, I always expect it to be half broke or have some weird disfigurement hidden away behind the wrapper. When I unfurl that halfbreed of a whatever it is I buy at the dollar store, I always wince when opening it. Because, I, like most people, fear that which is too easy to come by. And in walks cheap vodka.
That kind of rip-roaring drunk is just way too easy to come by. When I drink cheap vodka, I'm always extra cautious. I stand in the store before I buy it and read and re-read the fine print on the bottle, half expecting there to be a clause about how purchasing the bottle will result in anal rapage. Certainly the last couple times I've done that it FELT like I was raped in the asshole, raw-dog like. No lube. And at the end of my coital adventure I got the old donkey punch. Not that I would know what that feels like, but I have an imagination and a dirty mind. Anal sex and donkey punches about sum up how I feel towards cheap vodka. I could go on to explain why that sums up my feelings, but I feel that it's better left up to the imagination.
Drinking my cheap vodka, mixed with gatorade (in the hopes that this will somehow protect me from the death grip that devil juice will have on me the next morning) I get all intellectual. Like some sort of fucked up world that cheap vodka isn't going to turn me into a baby. Slurring, drooling and shitting all over the place. This time would be different, cheap vodka had no hold on me. The gatorade was acting like a shield, in my mind. It was as if by magic, I was making witty commentary on everything in the 12'x12' world of mine that night. The visitors were impressed with the rapist's wit and the roommates were happy that vomit or any other type of bodily excretions were as yet uninvolved. Life was good.
The next morning, I awoke with nothing more than a dry mouth. Ah, the sweet smell of victory. I beat it. I was better than cheap vodka. I fucked that whore and made the dash for the door while she was passed out and unawares.
This needed to be repeated. Refilling my supply, I picked up another bottle from the local death deal-ery where satan's kool-aid is purchased and found a veritable rainbow of accessories to drink with. From orange juice to gatorade (my friend in arms from the night prior) and I even got one of those coffee drinks with all the gusto that I had found a cheap version of the White Russian.
It certainly was a cheap version of the White Russian. Emphasis on cheap and more like a white russian whore, but it was what it was. This was not the problem. The problem showed up around hour 6 of drinking in the form of a phone call. This phone call necessitated a number of things. First, in order to perform well away from home base (AKA my stash of alcohol) I was going to have to stock up for the trip. Drinking ferociously for a half hour after taking it easy for the past 6 isn't a good idea. In fact, it's fucking stupid. My wits weren't fully about me due to the slight haze I'd developed. I did it though, I drank in one half hour enough to match what I had drank the rest of the night combined. Ever so slowly the drunken stupor creeps up on me.
I stumble around the building for a while, momentarily disoriented. Why did I do that to myself? I could not remember. Just as slowly, the reason comes back to me: the phone call. Well, I've certainly gotten myself into quite a pickle.
At one point, pantsless and in a strange room, it dawns on me that even if I figured out how to get to the final destination of the evening, I had serious doubts about my ability to perform. After all, I was at that point where I would ordinarily just want to sleep. Except for all those cheap white russian whores I had fooled around with earlier, the caffeine involved wanted me to stay up.
Flash forward an hour and I vaguely remember being in a completely different strange room with totally unfamiliar faces. Who would open the door for someone like me? And where are my pants? I thought I put them back on earlier...
Stumbling back into my room, I found my pants and I remember the plan. Gotta do something about that phone call. Only problem is that it's now 4 hours later and all my vodka is gone. Presumably someone else drank the rest of it, because even though there were witnesses telling me I polished off the alcohol, I can't recall that actually happening. They are probably lying like that bitch from the night before. She only tricked me into a false sense of security Friday so that she could put the strap-on on her head and go to town on my asshole like some sort of demonic rhino. Roar! She screamed. And then I curled up in the fetal position and eventually took it, like the little bitch that I am.
It was 3 in the morning by the time I fell, fully clothed and missing my favorite blue lighter, sadly into bed. It was 3 in the morning when the cheap vodka whorebitch took back that fun I owed her from the night prior. As well as any other fun I might have had the chance to accrue over the course of my life. Swearing off alcohol for the rest of my life when I awoke, I toast you now, no more than 12 hours after that alcohol-less pledge with drink in hand.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Cowboy, the techno remix from the frozen tundra.
I just wanna dance, sometimes. And techno remixes make that transition from tactless, uncaring asshole to weebly wobbly and uncoordinated dancing fool all the more easy. Actually, alcohol does that. Lots of it.
On to the explaining: Recent discoveries in the Red Ford Focus department have led me to the life of the MP3 CD. How glorious it is to listen to 150+ songs on one cd. The exuberance felt by fucking over the man and dancing and dancing to my heart's content is so righteous that I might, in fact, be giddy.
Top five reasons I hate Meadville:
Reason #5
While washing my car this morning, the soap froze. It was at one of those put the quarters in the machine and use the pressure washer/big brush deals across town that I decided to set up shop this morning. My car had collected a bit O dirt on the 90+ mile trip I made here yesterday (in little over an hour) and rather than let my car sit and look dirty like the rest of the parking lot, I figured she needed a bath. To keep her confidence up, at the very lest. I went to the aforementioned car-washery and popped in a handful of quarters. Everything was going well until the fucking soap started freezing in little pink globules of frozen I hate this fucking place sized ice cubes adorning my car like a cracked out christmas tree. Meadville sucks, I know this would never have happened in a less frozen tundra-like climate.
Reason #4
I hit on the 16 year old cashier at Burger King last night.
Reason #3
Through some freak streak of luck this morning, as I came back from the shower, about five glass bottles flew off the window sill and onto the floor. After precariously prancing about the room trying to avoid glass in my barefeet, I got glass in my barefeet. Turns out, there was a sudden gust of wind accompanied by the pressure change from my opening of the door that smacked the blinds into the bottles with such force that the shards made a bee-line straight for my middle toe. Later during the clean-up process, the glass shards cut my hands up. I have a tiny shard of malevolence lodged firmly in my ring finger at the moment that refuses to budge. Sneering evilly, that glass and this town can go to hell.
Reason #2
This school sucks and the ugly skanks that live here can all go to hell.
Reason #1
As you can tell from reading this far, this town sucks the creativity and humor out of everything, including me. I'm going to go and try to recharge myself maybe have at this later. Maybe not, maybe I will just curl up in a ball and die. That's what it feels like I should do.
On to the explaining: Recent discoveries in the Red Ford Focus department have led me to the life of the MP3 CD. How glorious it is to listen to 150+ songs on one cd. The exuberance felt by fucking over the man and dancing and dancing to my heart's content is so righteous that I might, in fact, be giddy.
Top five reasons I hate Meadville:
Reason #5
While washing my car this morning, the soap froze. It was at one of those put the quarters in the machine and use the pressure washer/big brush deals across town that I decided to set up shop this morning. My car had collected a bit O dirt on the 90+ mile trip I made here yesterday (in little over an hour) and rather than let my car sit and look dirty like the rest of the parking lot, I figured she needed a bath. To keep her confidence up, at the very lest. I went to the aforementioned car-washery and popped in a handful of quarters. Everything was going well until the fucking soap started freezing in little pink globules of frozen I hate this fucking place sized ice cubes adorning my car like a cracked out christmas tree. Meadville sucks, I know this would never have happened in a less frozen tundra-like climate.
Reason #4
I hit on the 16 year old cashier at Burger King last night.
Reason #3
Through some freak streak of luck this morning, as I came back from the shower, about five glass bottles flew off the window sill and onto the floor. After precariously prancing about the room trying to avoid glass in my barefeet, I got glass in my barefeet. Turns out, there was a sudden gust of wind accompanied by the pressure change from my opening of the door that smacked the blinds into the bottles with such force that the shards made a bee-line straight for my middle toe. Later during the clean-up process, the glass shards cut my hands up. I have a tiny shard of malevolence lodged firmly in my ring finger at the moment that refuses to budge. Sneering evilly, that glass and this town can go to hell.
Reason #2
This school sucks and the ugly skanks that live here can all go to hell.
Reason #1
As you can tell from reading this far, this town sucks the creativity and humor out of everything, including me. I'm going to go and try to recharge myself maybe have at this later. Maybe not, maybe I will just curl up in a ball and die. That's what it feels like I should do.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
I've got a doodle, a noodle, a bottle of aveeno, tube socks and some melted wax.
Top five reasons not to go out on a Thursday night.
Reason #5
Everyone knows about Fox's The O.C. whether they love it or hate, people tend to have an opinion on it. Personally, I think it's one of the best new shows out there. The characters are easy to relate to with their incredible wealth and private schools, I feel like I could fit right in. It's warm where they are in sunny socal, which is what I wish it were here (present circumstances aside) all the time. They've had gun fights and girl fights, fist fights and a fuckin killer soundtrack. The O.C. is on at 9 on Thursday nights and is one hell of a reason to stay in.
Reason #4
Masturbate! Jesus christ, you can't possibly make it all week without gettin' one off. Shootin' one out. [Whatever euphemism you like to use.] Lord knows there is no reason to not take an entire block of 8 hours or so Thursday evening to late night Thursday just punching the old fiddle stick time after time. You rub about 76 out and you'll be sleeping like a baby, ready for the weekend and rested like a champ.
Reason #3
Speaking of rest, what day is better than Thursday to stay in and re-charge for the weekend. The Wednesday hump day is over and the downhill slide is upon you, use Thursday night to stay one step ahead of the game and go into Friday super ready to get smashtaplasteredwastedrunkshithoused all over the place. Thursday night's rest will give you that extra push you need when it's 1AM at the bar and the only prospect for you to get any action is that 700 LB monster tard at the end of the bar. Go ahead, grab a bag of flour and just aim for the wet spot.
Reason #2
You're not going to like me when I'm angry. Or at least that's what this Thursday had to say with The Hulk on USA. I've found that cable channels tend to put better movies on towards the end of the week than they do at the beginning. I guess this is an attempt at seeing a hike in the ratings, but it's better than buying that movie or renting it at blockbuster. I mean, hell, waiting for a movie to come out for sale is just a few months from waiting for it to come out somewhere on cable lately. And for those of you who have digital cable, you can even get some of the movies there before they even come out for sale. Also porn. Rent some softcore porn on a Thursday night and spank it. Go back and read Reason #4 for more info on this subject. It's still a great idea.
Reason #1
I like to go out on Thursday nights. So if I can convince a few people to stay in on Thursday nights and they can convince a few and so on and so forth, I can get some better service at whichever establishment I choose to go to because there will be less loser, like you, mucking up the works. So for my enjoyment and your own good to read more top five lists in the future, stay your ass at home and jerk it or whatever. Double click your mouse, you know, whatever it is kids call it these days.
Reason #5
Everyone knows about Fox's The O.C. whether they love it or hate, people tend to have an opinion on it. Personally, I think it's one of the best new shows out there. The characters are easy to relate to with their incredible wealth and private schools, I feel like I could fit right in. It's warm where they are in sunny socal, which is what I wish it were here (present circumstances aside) all the time. They've had gun fights and girl fights, fist fights and a fuckin killer soundtrack. The O.C. is on at 9 on Thursday nights and is one hell of a reason to stay in.
Reason #4
Masturbate! Jesus christ, you can't possibly make it all week without gettin' one off. Shootin' one out. [Whatever euphemism you like to use.] Lord knows there is no reason to not take an entire block of 8 hours or so Thursday evening to late night Thursday just punching the old fiddle stick time after time. You rub about 76 out and you'll be sleeping like a baby, ready for the weekend and rested like a champ.
Reason #3
Speaking of rest, what day is better than Thursday to stay in and re-charge for the weekend. The Wednesday hump day is over and the downhill slide is upon you, use Thursday night to stay one step ahead of the game and go into Friday super ready to get smashtaplasteredwastedrunkshithoused all over the place. Thursday night's rest will give you that extra push you need when it's 1AM at the bar and the only prospect for you to get any action is that 700 LB monster tard at the end of the bar. Go ahead, grab a bag of flour and just aim for the wet spot.
Reason #2
You're not going to like me when I'm angry. Or at least that's what this Thursday had to say with The Hulk on USA. I've found that cable channels tend to put better movies on towards the end of the week than they do at the beginning. I guess this is an attempt at seeing a hike in the ratings, but it's better than buying that movie or renting it at blockbuster. I mean, hell, waiting for a movie to come out for sale is just a few months from waiting for it to come out somewhere on cable lately. And for those of you who have digital cable, you can even get some of the movies there before they even come out for sale. Also porn. Rent some softcore porn on a Thursday night and spank it. Go back and read Reason #4 for more info on this subject. It's still a great idea.
Reason #1
I like to go out on Thursday nights. So if I can convince a few people to stay in on Thursday nights and they can convince a few and so on and so forth, I can get some better service at whichever establishment I choose to go to because there will be less loser, like you, mucking up the works. So for my enjoyment and your own good to read more top five lists in the future, stay your ass at home and jerk it or whatever. Double click your mouse, you know, whatever it is kids call it these days.
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