I'm at my threshold's gate. My back still holding the weight of failure while staring at the glossy eyes of defeat. So rigorous and epic is the struggle in the grand scheme of things, I find myself tightrope walking my existence between a pit of melancholy and a cliff of rapture. My quest for the top is as heartbreaking as an American quadriplegic frantically wiggling around on the base of the Aggro Crag in the Wrestlemania of Global Guts, yet the only recognition I receive is a mouth full of glitter and confetti, almost taunting me as I see the Russian holding his gold medal while simultaneously shoving his tongue down Mo's throat.
I've not called upon any crutches, so who are these vermin trying to sell me hell wholesale? I've learned your textbook trades, inhaled your smoggy ideals and relished in your banquet of consumerism for too many sunsets. I've walked your beaten path, encountered an intangible amount of dead horses, psychologists with superior acting resumes treading on nike kicks, and only one forlorn backblock of truth. You've entombed me in a coffin of retrospective plague, my battered and forgetful bones wondering if the father of my past remembered to hammer the nails in my pine box. How have you mousetrapped my fire in such an ironic manner?
The cup being half-full is said to be optimistic, half-empty pessimistic. Being full, it seems, has yet to be explained. Where does the other half linger? My head, stifling but kicking, is cautious of treacherous waters now. My heart and balls run rampant with schizophrenia, too eager to fall back to a contemporary Old Navy and GAP-appareled lifestyle yet too apprehensive to chase a new Affliction-riddled outfit. If only my hands were big enough to flip the switch, to switch the halves of my cup. To an untrained eye, my cup appears full. The magician's tricks always tantalize and jeer until you realize it's all backwards. The bottom half of my cup has remained empty, the top (although wise and competent) is diluted like a gallon of water added to a cup of man dream-cream. Without a stable base, anything up top is bound to plummet. Without your passion and your destiny, the knowledge you possess is figuratively futile. The surface of your cup is sure to collapse. We are all born half-empty. We unearth the roots of knowledge that we can to survive, but many of us never unearth the passion that harbors down deep in our rebellious veins to live. The coffins of the courageous will burn and the dead shall walk the earth. If you're only sipping off of the top of the glass, you are dead and sleeping.
Start a fire. Kill yourself. Phoenix in flight.
ps-I think I basically just said I want to be an Affliction kid with a hard-on for water.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Mom said shoot for the moon...thats why I stay high
When I'm loafing around in my bed reading Bertrand Russell books or having a red eyed, sweaty palmed, Hiroshima-proportioned session of self stimulation, I'm always wondering if I'll ever reach my dream. Will my castle in the air ever mutate itself into reality, complete with a mortgage, a cheating trophy wife, and six mistresses all on the side, all with a divergent ethnic background but the same plastic surgeon? Oh how I hope these strife ridden trails will clear of brush and these thunderstorms are escorted out by halcyon horizons, ushering in a new era of euphoria...and boobs.
The majority of the conversations I find myself in have about as much depth as the little ripples of fat on the spoiled spoils that you scale against the amount of alcohol you've consumed on a given evening. It seems that every one's life around me has been reduced to alcohol, scavenging for the super aids, or riding fixed gear bikes. In the bottom of which bottle must I surveillance to find my brethrens' sense of self? As riveting as it must be to sit in the same bar, tip back the same bottle of beer, kick the same pairs of shoes off of a different fling, and have the same neutral conversations, I am under the impression that my worlds' cast have been reduced to zombies...a land of Filbert Turtles forever hearing, fearing, and languishing their "last call" to the Kerplop-it-goes Island.
Perhaps it is not that we have ceased to dream...but that dreaming has just taken a back seat to our repetitive drunken nights. Whatever the case, the sands in the hourglass don't stop for your toast to getting trashed. The light still turns green even though you may be too drunk to notice the red isn't there. The passion has died, the *com* part only making its introductions as the tequila sunrise trickling down your jaw or the white stuff torpedoing its way to a 9 month surprise. You must start to realize that the cheap thrills and photo-stills that you want to remember your life by are the thoughts that will stick with you in self-condemnation when you murmur the question, "what the fuck have I been doing with myself?"
To me, a dream is something, in spite of the turmoils and hubbub that bombard your life, that still gives your eye a glint. Something, that if a door were to make itself known to you, that you would break down full speed, taking the hinges and all with you. Something to truly give yourself a sense of purpose. Something so near and dear to your idea of nirvana that talking about it with someone else makes you feel the slightest bit absurd and out-of-order. That's what I wish we would toast to once in a while. That would make Jameson go down just a Jimminy Cricket's size smoother.
So what's my dream? Well, you know how they have those VH1 love shows with the asinine challenges that somehow represent the ardor you have for your respective inamorata/Romeo? My goal is to eventually land on one of those shows after an illustrius career as a high paid whoever. The DREAM will be the first challenge. I would like to have each Hustler centerfold vying for my heart to get on their knees in front of me as I hold a bottle of Crystal. The challenge is who can profess their adoration for me while I am seductively spraying the bottle all over their face and/or chesticles. Booyah. Maybe when their kids see that at a sleepover the little hussies will also start to chase their true dream. What a cyclical story of happiness.
real dream? honestly...make the world laugh. Maybe Ill be the first guy dressed up as a clown to jump off the empire state building. who nose. honk honk.
speaking of liquor...Pop Off is tonight at the social. FREE WELLS the first hour. If you're a fixed gear queer, there will be bike parking inside tonight. LETS GET DRUUUUUUUUUUUNK!
The majority of the conversations I find myself in have about as much depth as the little ripples of fat on the spoiled spoils that you scale against the amount of alcohol you've consumed on a given evening. It seems that every one's life around me has been reduced to alcohol, scavenging for the super aids, or riding fixed gear bikes. In the bottom of which bottle must I surveillance to find my brethrens' sense of self? As riveting as it must be to sit in the same bar, tip back the same bottle of beer, kick the same pairs of shoes off of a different fling, and have the same neutral conversations, I am under the impression that my worlds' cast have been reduced to zombies...a land of Filbert Turtles forever hearing, fearing, and languishing their "last call" to the Kerplop-it-goes Island.
Perhaps it is not that we have ceased to dream...but that dreaming has just taken a back seat to our repetitive drunken nights. Whatever the case, the sands in the hourglass don't stop for your toast to getting trashed. The light still turns green even though you may be too drunk to notice the red isn't there. The passion has died, the *com* part only making its introductions as the tequila sunrise trickling down your jaw or the white stuff torpedoing its way to a 9 month surprise. You must start to realize that the cheap thrills and photo-stills that you want to remember your life by are the thoughts that will stick with you in self-condemnation when you murmur the question, "what the fuck have I been doing with myself?"
To me, a dream is something, in spite of the turmoils and hubbub that bombard your life, that still gives your eye a glint. Something, that if a door were to make itself known to you, that you would break down full speed, taking the hinges and all with you. Something to truly give yourself a sense of purpose. Something so near and dear to your idea of nirvana that talking about it with someone else makes you feel the slightest bit absurd and out-of-order. That's what I wish we would toast to once in a while. That would make Jameson go down just a Jimminy Cricket's size smoother.
So what's my dream? Well, you know how they have those VH1 love shows with the asinine challenges that somehow represent the ardor you have for your respective inamorata/Romeo? My goal is to eventually land on one of those shows after an illustrius career as a high paid whoever. The DREAM will be the first challenge. I would like to have each Hustler centerfold vying for my heart to get on their knees in front of me as I hold a bottle of Crystal. The challenge is who can profess their adoration for me while I am seductively spraying the bottle all over their face and/or chesticles. Booyah. Maybe when their kids see that at a sleepover the little hussies will also start to chase their true dream. What a cyclical story of happiness.
real dream? honestly...make the world laugh. Maybe Ill be the first guy dressed up as a clown to jump off the empire state building. who nose. honk honk.
speaking of liquor...Pop Off is tonight at the social. FREE WELLS the first hour. If you're a fixed gear queer, there will be bike parking inside tonight. LETS GET DRUUUUUUUUUUUNK!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
I DONT CARE WHEN THE CHICAGO BEARS' FIRST TEAM TRIP WAS TO DISNEYLAND
Ever feel like the some of the things that you do/say on a daily routine belong on a television show? I know that when I'm steadily cruising the dark demeaned streets of UCF, chucking eggs at runners and kicking over crotch rockets definitely give me the spunk I need to line MTVs pockets with hair gel and spike belt coinage. When you realize that you're not going to suck the liver spotted cock of a mini Ted Turner whose Spartan-like, lionhearted case of Alzheimer's will probably have one of you forget the sexual eruption that occurred in Mr. Cheese's suicide doored Lamborghini behind the Studio C Starbucks, you can finally ground your KB Toys' dreams and bask in the success of nothingness like the rest of us.
The one thing, though, that I cannot get out of my head, are the hordes of buzzards that use my technique of C4'ing the funny bone and write it off as their own humor. These little ferrets have no mind of their own, taking my monkeyshining and making it plankwalk into a pool of rhino shit. I see these little bastardos jock my style from the way I talk to the way I dress (kids really dress as half-baked as me, believe it), to the way I talk shit. If they could watch how I lay the proverbial "pipe" down, they wouldn't hesitate to have their bed partners calling them King Louis either. The way I see it, my humor is somewhat like a unicorn. Mythical, some people don't believe it nor can they believe it when they see it. In this world, there are people who will bring you down and transfuse your qualities into their own broken down, pathetic vessel. These are the individuals who would like to rip the hallowed horn off of my head and plant their Pennzoil smelling member right in its back door...the unicorn, not me. This basket of simpletons carry not one ounce of originality in them. Their idiocy safeguarding and shooing away any speck of on the trigger thinking, as a raincoat shields the bottom rung sleaze queen shooting a bukkake scene for her first breakthrough role right out of junior high.
I know I can't possibly be the only person who has their own fan club of dick riders. They don't even have to jock me...anyone who sees something new and immediately tries to imitate it/take it to the furthest extreme is a goddamn loser in my book. Suppose you listen to a certain artist/watch a certain sport that you are crazy about. The depression dwelling alley cat that we've been discussing is the type of mangy bottomfeeding slime that would, initially, belittle and badger you for even waltzing with the idea of listening to that artist/watching that sport. Pretty soon, when they see that a lot of people are into it, they themselves must cannonball right in the deep end, knowing damn well they forgot their Barney floaties. You know the saying...if you can't swim, then you bound to drizown. All of a sudden, you find yourself in the middle of these conversations with this sack loving sack (get it?), wondering how and why he/she managed to learn every chasm of information about whatever the fuck it is that you like so much within an overtime injected work week.
I don't know what to label this group of people...they bite styles and they have to seem interested in everything that their cohorts consume their time with. They have to feel on the top of the food chain when they wouldn't think twice about a grenade up their ass if I just convinced him/her it was hemorrhoids. The type of hatred I breed for this specified spectrum of seascum can be considered a cause for concern. It's the type of animosity to where I wish I could persuade them into believing loading your mouth with habaneros and not drinking water was the latest rage. The type of abhorrence to where I would go out of my way to toss my cookies by rolling around in the cinnabun encrusted bedsheets with a foodcoholic just to see them follow suit and fuck someone the size of the guy who died on Jerry Springer when they were forklifting his trailer-cache ass to a butcher shop.
If you were to look at this on the other side of the story and say "I don't know what you're so bitter over, they just want to indulge themselves with new life material", you clearly have not encountered one of these vamps of newfangled farce or had your favorite song/sporting event interrupted by facts about the band/team that you really couldn't give less of a shit about...maybe one of those misty rainforest shits...but thats it. Just one, quick poot. Nothing more.
Basically, get your head out of your ass. I have an almanac so I don't need a parrot to boot. Get your own jokes and stop saying nigga like me, I'm the one who's not even white. These people are walking fucking quagmires. Rid your life of them before they drain the sanity out of your feeble bones.
ps...everything I put on here is off the top of my head and most likely written before 11am. if some aspects dont make sense or some words are misspelled, kindly give me a fucking break. There is only one Ben Stein and you all need to worry about winning your own money, nahmsayin?
The one thing, though, that I cannot get out of my head, are the hordes of buzzards that use my technique of C4'ing the funny bone and write it off as their own humor. These little ferrets have no mind of their own, taking my monkeyshining and making it plankwalk into a pool of rhino shit. I see these little bastardos jock my style from the way I talk to the way I dress (kids really dress as half-baked as me, believe it), to the way I talk shit. If they could watch how I lay the proverbial "pipe" down, they wouldn't hesitate to have their bed partners calling them King Louis either. The way I see it, my humor is somewhat like a unicorn. Mythical, some people don't believe it nor can they believe it when they see it. In this world, there are people who will bring you down and transfuse your qualities into their own broken down, pathetic vessel. These are the individuals who would like to rip the hallowed horn off of my head and plant their Pennzoil smelling member right in its back door...the unicorn, not me. This basket of simpletons carry not one ounce of originality in them. Their idiocy safeguarding and shooing away any speck of on the trigger thinking, as a raincoat shields the bottom rung sleaze queen shooting a bukkake scene for her first breakthrough role right out of junior high.
I know I can't possibly be the only person who has their own fan club of dick riders. They don't even have to jock me...anyone who sees something new and immediately tries to imitate it/take it to the furthest extreme is a goddamn loser in my book. Suppose you listen to a certain artist/watch a certain sport that you are crazy about. The depression dwelling alley cat that we've been discussing is the type of mangy bottomfeeding slime that would, initially, belittle and badger you for even waltzing with the idea of listening to that artist/watching that sport. Pretty soon, when they see that a lot of people are into it, they themselves must cannonball right in the deep end, knowing damn well they forgot their Barney floaties. You know the saying...if you can't swim, then you bound to drizown. All of a sudden, you find yourself in the middle of these conversations with this sack loving sack (get it?), wondering how and why he/she managed to learn every chasm of information about whatever the fuck it is that you like so much within an overtime injected work week.
I don't know what to label this group of people...they bite styles and they have to seem interested in everything that their cohorts consume their time with. They have to feel on the top of the food chain when they wouldn't think twice about a grenade up their ass if I just convinced him/her it was hemorrhoids. The type of hatred I breed for this specified spectrum of seascum can be considered a cause for concern. It's the type of animosity to where I wish I could persuade them into believing loading your mouth with habaneros and not drinking water was the latest rage. The type of abhorrence to where I would go out of my way to toss my cookies by rolling around in the cinnabun encrusted bedsheets with a foodcoholic just to see them follow suit and fuck someone the size of the guy who died on Jerry Springer when they were forklifting his trailer-cache ass to a butcher shop.
If you were to look at this on the other side of the story and say "I don't know what you're so bitter over, they just want to indulge themselves with new life material", you clearly have not encountered one of these vamps of newfangled farce or had your favorite song/sporting event interrupted by facts about the band/team that you really couldn't give less of a shit about...maybe one of those misty rainforest shits...but thats it. Just one, quick poot. Nothing more.
Basically, get your head out of your ass. I have an almanac so I don't need a parrot to boot. Get your own jokes and stop saying nigga like me, I'm the one who's not even white. These people are walking fucking quagmires. Rid your life of them before they drain the sanity out of your feeble bones.
ps...everything I put on here is off the top of my head and most likely written before 11am. if some aspects dont make sense or some words are misspelled, kindly give me a fucking break. There is only one Ben Stein and you all need to worry about winning your own money, nahmsayin?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Put that eclair down, son. Nice and easy. Atta boy.
If you were to ask me why I am so bitter about everything, I'd probably tell you to go put a lemon up your ass. For the years that I have been using my words as weapons of your-self destruction, I seldom look back at anything that I say in regret. If the dress you were wearing brought my lunch back up, I'm going to let the world know that you should not have chanced the likelihood of potentially ruining everyone's evening with your hippo in a cat suit garb on a coin toss. That's just the person I am. I sorries.
I don't know what it is that bugs people about individuals who speak their mind. If I have to sit and read your shitty myspace surveys or your one sentence bulletins depicting how your heart is sinking faster than the Titanic because some short skirted strumpet is fucking all of your neighborhood fellows, I should not be bedeviled by you artificial flavored bleeding hearts for the berries of brass tacks that adieu my piehole. For the plethora of ridiculous verbal garbage that I hear everyday, you would think that the lighthearted yet painfully true thoughts that I harbor would be taken in like a breath of fresh air in New Jersey. The idea that everyone is truly ashamed of themselves is becoming more and more tangible to me by the day.
To walk around a half-assed downtown and see the real trash that merrily drifts along without a care in the world really is beginning to take a toll on my evaluation of my own self worth. What is the "real trash", you might ask. Picture (and this is mere coincidence that this was my first example) a morbidly obese woman in her 20s at a college campus. A real foodhound. A woman so infatuated with caloric intake that she and Jared from Subway could have their own segment on the next installment of Beef dvds. Shitbomb could not label this woman correctly. I'm pretty sure the only moniker that you can marshal from the bowels of your upset stomach is a face crossed between sucking a mega sour lemon and having one of those number two catastrophes where your face resembles Terry Shiavo. If you have managed to drum up a visual in your head, we can move on to the problem (aside from her astonishingly appalling yet applaudable weight):the clothes. I don't know what it is about uglies that need to sport duds that read "Hottie" all over your dumpy, flapjacks all day, crisco courting ass. Not only do you look like you killed a cheerleader and took her clothes, but now you've also adopted her stupidity for wearing clothes with misspelled words on them.***read the end, just forget what you think I may be an idiot for.
This is just an instance of self loathing. Why would someone who clearly has an eating conundrum defile her self esteem and her wits with lewd inappropriate clothing...because its "cuuuuute teehehe"??? No. I am about to break down the clogged arteries and syrup induced bloodstreams that is the fat person.
Eating is an addiction, just as bad as your worst drug or your best piece of booty. If bitches aint shit to you, pussy will never have a stronghold over your mind and more importantly, your balls. If you do drugs and don't let drugs do you, the golden wonka ticket that is marijuana will never steer you wrong. Eating is the same way. If you take something and make it out to be bigger than you are, you have set yourself up for failure. Anyone who succeeds in life will tell you that you cannot have a cannot attitude(yeah yeah shutup). Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. The only thing that eats at these dimwitted cattle (apart from the late night thoughts about gastric bypass), is that they cannot overcome their bad habit, so they combat their frustrations and heartache with...duh, FOOD. With every morsel of lip smackingly delectable treats that this menace to the food pyramid sends into his/her parody-like stomach, the chance for turnaround diminishes. The mountain grows higher, the brain still thinking about licking excess frosting off the bowl. Exercising becomes difficult. Jeans get tighter. Looks from the opposite gender turn from intrigue to disgust. You spend your entire life chasing burgers and when its too late you realize that you're never going to be a Big Mac(k). Just a Big Mceater.
In the end, when the only thing that is saving you is hospital tubes and re-runs of Jerry Springer, you have nothing left to understand except that food was your devil and your god. Food was your love and your hate. By making food out to be a larger-than-life concept, the only thing you could do was eat to keep up. As big as food was to the fat person, the fat person must defeat all the food first (at least thats what I think goes on in the hamster wheels of the obese). You'll just get bigger and bigger in a race against food to prove that you are number one...and soon enough, food will outlast you and you'll just be an overweight loser with loads of untapped potential. Some people just cannot see things for what they are. If you truly believe in yourself and believe that you are in control and larger than life, then everything else comes easy. Personality and confidence are a motherfucker, and I can't find that anywhere these days.
See. This is why I hate fat people. And not fat people alone. The fact that only about 3% of the world are probably doing what they would truly love to do is a scary thought and, in my eyes, the reason why we are as fucked up as we are. Our imperfections create our defense mechanisms. Our defense mechanisms will fire at anyone who hints at cracking our deep secrets and our worries. All this does is chain react hatred and breed more ignorance.
I used to weigh over 300 pounds two years ago. Food was my nigga. Chicken wings and marshmallow peeps and hot chocolate ohhh joy! But then I realized that I was ugly as hell and asking my mom to help wash my folds wasn't very mature of me. I used to be mean to everyone...and now that my weight is gone, my entire demeanor has changed for the better. Whatever you have dubbed in your head as "impossible"...its all in your head.
I think I've decided what to do with this blog. Maybe every couple days I'll find a type of person I want to talk about, dog them out, and then relate their problems to my own life. Humor is the only way I know how to convey my thoughts...as harsh as I may be, some of my looney tunes thoughts make a grain of sand's worth of sense.
By the way, my mom never washed my folds. That's just gross.
AND NO...do not think because you are overweight, gay, illegal immigrant, retarded, handicapped, etc that you are a loser. If you only take half of what I say, you're getting the wrong half. My humor is a savior to the wise but an ignorant funny button to the fucking stupid. Please don't be the latter. I hate stupid people.
***IM AN IDIOT***
Hottie is spelled correctly, if that bullshit can even be considered a word on a fat jowled mutant's ass. So I guess I'm not an idiot. I just beat fat people and won one over on the American language. May Shiva bless your days, my hateful little Americans.<--deep
I don't know what it is that bugs people about individuals who speak their mind. If I have to sit and read your shitty myspace surveys or your one sentence bulletins depicting how your heart is sinking faster than the Titanic because some short skirted strumpet is fucking all of your neighborhood fellows, I should not be bedeviled by you artificial flavored bleeding hearts for the berries of brass tacks that adieu my piehole. For the plethora of ridiculous verbal garbage that I hear everyday, you would think that the lighthearted yet painfully true thoughts that I harbor would be taken in like a breath of fresh air in New Jersey. The idea that everyone is truly ashamed of themselves is becoming more and more tangible to me by the day.
To walk around a half-assed downtown and see the real trash that merrily drifts along without a care in the world really is beginning to take a toll on my evaluation of my own self worth. What is the "real trash", you might ask. Picture (and this is mere coincidence that this was my first example) a morbidly obese woman in her 20s at a college campus. A real foodhound. A woman so infatuated with caloric intake that she and Jared from Subway could have their own segment on the next installment of Beef dvds. Shitbomb could not label this woman correctly. I'm pretty sure the only moniker that you can marshal from the bowels of your upset stomach is a face crossed between sucking a mega sour lemon and having one of those number two catastrophes where your face resembles Terry Shiavo. If you have managed to drum up a visual in your head, we can move on to the problem (aside from her astonishingly appalling yet applaudable weight):the clothes. I don't know what it is about uglies that need to sport duds that read "Hottie" all over your dumpy, flapjacks all day, crisco courting ass. Not only do you look like you killed a cheerleader and took her clothes, but now you've also adopted her stupidity for wearing clothes with misspelled words on them.***read the end, just forget what you think I may be an idiot for.
This is just an instance of self loathing. Why would someone who clearly has an eating conundrum defile her self esteem and her wits with lewd inappropriate clothing...because its "cuuuuute teehehe"??? No. I am about to break down the clogged arteries and syrup induced bloodstreams that is the fat person.
Eating is an addiction, just as bad as your worst drug or your best piece of booty. If bitches aint shit to you, pussy will never have a stronghold over your mind and more importantly, your balls. If you do drugs and don't let drugs do you, the golden wonka ticket that is marijuana will never steer you wrong. Eating is the same way. If you take something and make it out to be bigger than you are, you have set yourself up for failure. Anyone who succeeds in life will tell you that you cannot have a cannot attitude(yeah yeah shutup). Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. The only thing that eats at these dimwitted cattle (apart from the late night thoughts about gastric bypass), is that they cannot overcome their bad habit, so they combat their frustrations and heartache with...duh, FOOD. With every morsel of lip smackingly delectable treats that this menace to the food pyramid sends into his/her parody-like stomach, the chance for turnaround diminishes. The mountain grows higher, the brain still thinking about licking excess frosting off the bowl. Exercising becomes difficult. Jeans get tighter. Looks from the opposite gender turn from intrigue to disgust. You spend your entire life chasing burgers and when its too late you realize that you're never going to be a Big Mac(k). Just a Big Mceater.
In the end, when the only thing that is saving you is hospital tubes and re-runs of Jerry Springer, you have nothing left to understand except that food was your devil and your god. Food was your love and your hate. By making food out to be a larger-than-life concept, the only thing you could do was eat to keep up. As big as food was to the fat person, the fat person must defeat all the food first (at least thats what I think goes on in the hamster wheels of the obese). You'll just get bigger and bigger in a race against food to prove that you are number one...and soon enough, food will outlast you and you'll just be an overweight loser with loads of untapped potential. Some people just cannot see things for what they are. If you truly believe in yourself and believe that you are in control and larger than life, then everything else comes easy. Personality and confidence are a motherfucker, and I can't find that anywhere these days.
See. This is why I hate fat people. And not fat people alone. The fact that only about 3% of the world are probably doing what they would truly love to do is a scary thought and, in my eyes, the reason why we are as fucked up as we are. Our imperfections create our defense mechanisms. Our defense mechanisms will fire at anyone who hints at cracking our deep secrets and our worries. All this does is chain react hatred and breed more ignorance.
I used to weigh over 300 pounds two years ago. Food was my nigga. Chicken wings and marshmallow peeps and hot chocolate ohhh joy! But then I realized that I was ugly as hell and asking my mom to help wash my folds wasn't very mature of me. I used to be mean to everyone...and now that my weight is gone, my entire demeanor has changed for the better. Whatever you have dubbed in your head as "impossible"...its all in your head.
I think I've decided what to do with this blog. Maybe every couple days I'll find a type of person I want to talk about, dog them out, and then relate their problems to my own life. Humor is the only way I know how to convey my thoughts...as harsh as I may be, some of my looney tunes thoughts make a grain of sand's worth of sense.
By the way, my mom never washed my folds. That's just gross.
AND NO...do not think because you are overweight, gay, illegal immigrant, retarded, handicapped, etc that you are a loser. If you only take half of what I say, you're getting the wrong half. My humor is a savior to the wise but an ignorant funny button to the fucking stupid. Please don't be the latter. I hate stupid people.
***IM AN IDIOT***
Hottie is spelled correctly, if that bullshit can even be considered a word on a fat jowled mutant's ass. So I guess I'm not an idiot. I just beat fat people and won one over on the American language. May Shiva bless your days, my hateful little Americans.<--deep
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Calm Before the Storm
READ BEFORE YOU GO ON:there is nothing here to make you any wiser to the world. Nothing on this page will breed an intelligent idea out of your Mr. Planters pea-brain. This is a blog dedicated to eradicating the hatred within you and slamdunking that bad boy on your grandmothers glass coffee table, all the while puttin those dirty nikes ON the plastic. This is ignorance at its finest. This is road rage on a PCP binge. Im comin for mothers' heads and stayin high like a knotty dread. This is my outlet so that I don't fill my jawline with buckshot. If anyone's feelings happen to shatter like a bride walking in on her beloved pounding a bridesmaid in a wedding dress, so be it. My fortitude for grounding a hothead is unmatched. My determination for crushing your emotions are parallel by comparison only to a nine year old Asian DDR defending champion. This is chicken shit for the brain when you asked for chicken soup for the soul. Take what you can stand because I'm giving all the hatred that I can. Semper Fi. Hoorahhhhh bro. Hoo fuckin rah.
I've finally broken down. After much rallying by you all, I have decided that I will create a blog. For anyone that is a first time reader or anyone who doesn't know much about me, entertain this writing to be the precursor to your cognition's Apocalypse. Whatever has allowed you to schlep your unproductive never moving always snoozing carcass here, whether it be my god awful reputation, my cherubic yet oddly spot-on opinions on overweight women or bulimic floozies, or just simply because you enjoy seeing me take an Elephant-sized mind dump all over the toilet paper you use to pat off the child potty that is your brain. Welcome to the circus. Welcome to the shittalk. Welcome to the never ending abyss of self esteem squelching assessments and instances of taking you, me, and everything in between down a peg or two...or ten...whatever it takes to make you realize that you are the same steaming pile of shit that my dog delivered to the Earth this frosty morning. Welcome welcome welcome.
Whatever has brought you here, you should be sure to regret, no matter how much it makes you unknowingly toss Doritos down your chompers as you're rocking back and forth simultaneously laughing while contemplating if I am a heartless piece of mother nature's puzzle or if it is you that is the racist, sexist, anti feminist, anti humanist waste that just got a Bosnian lesbian lighting a *wo*man made fire under your ass. If a friend or a work cohort prodded you in my direction, make sure to cast heavy stones at their mothers the next time you see them. If you are just a regular John/Jane Doe that happened to find my site on your child's computer while you were searching for the homosexual erotica he/she may have, I would block this site immediately, for my words of unseen wisdom will be the big Mandingo dick your son has been quivering and aching over for so long/the venomous dagger spitting, black hole vagina that your angelic daughter has been contemplating Sinead'ing her hair out for. Do not expect to receive anything out of my writing except for tenderfoot ideals ignited by lots of marijuana and a short fuse all wrapped up in a brittle, big head little dick syndromed Humpty Dumpty shell that is a funny motherfucker who just doesn't shut his mouth for anything. If you've read this far, in spite of me saying I took a boo boo on your head, proclaimed my hatred for trolls, bleeding hearts, and anyone who makes a myspace survey (and managed to keep a smile on your face), you're probably here to stay. Tell ya friends and ya mammies. Break out the peanut butter and call Rover over, the tomfoolery is only beginning.
I'm doing this because everyone has a dream. Just ask Clark Dense up here.
I've finally broken down. After much rallying by you all, I have decided that I will create a blog. For anyone that is a first time reader or anyone who doesn't know much about me, entertain this writing to be the precursor to your cognition's Apocalypse. Whatever has allowed you to schlep your unproductive never moving always snoozing carcass here, whether it be my god awful reputation, my cherubic yet oddly spot-on opinions on overweight women or bulimic floozies, or just simply because you enjoy seeing me take an Elephant-sized mind dump all over the toilet paper you use to pat off the child potty that is your brain. Welcome to the circus. Welcome to the shittalk. Welcome to the never ending abyss of self esteem squelching assessments and instances of taking you, me, and everything in between down a peg or two...or ten...whatever it takes to make you realize that you are the same steaming pile of shit that my dog delivered to the Earth this frosty morning. Welcome welcome welcome.
Whatever has brought you here, you should be sure to regret, no matter how much it makes you unknowingly toss Doritos down your chompers as you're rocking back and forth simultaneously laughing while contemplating if I am a heartless piece of mother nature's puzzle or if it is you that is the racist, sexist, anti feminist, anti humanist waste that just got a Bosnian lesbian lighting a *wo*man made fire under your ass. If a friend or a work cohort prodded you in my direction, make sure to cast heavy stones at their mothers the next time you see them. If you are just a regular John/Jane Doe that happened to find my site on your child's computer while you were searching for the homosexual erotica he/she may have, I would block this site immediately, for my words of unseen wisdom will be the big Mandingo dick your son has been quivering and aching over for so long/the venomous dagger spitting, black hole vagina that your angelic daughter has been contemplating Sinead'ing her hair out for. Do not expect to receive anything out of my writing except for tenderfoot ideals ignited by lots of marijuana and a short fuse all wrapped up in a brittle, big head little dick syndromed Humpty Dumpty shell that is a funny motherfucker who just doesn't shut his mouth for anything. If you've read this far, in spite of me saying I took a boo boo on your head, proclaimed my hatred for trolls, bleeding hearts, and anyone who makes a myspace survey (and managed to keep a smile on your face), you're probably here to stay. Tell ya friends and ya mammies. Break out the peanut butter and call Rover over, the tomfoolery is only beginning.
I'm doing this because everyone has a dream. Just ask Clark Dense up here.
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