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|Here in my car, I feel safest of all.|
I can... something something something... in cars. | Friday, 01.31.03
Recently I've come into the company of those who can drive stick, and what a fucking badass bunch they are. Their left foot and right hand perform a masculine balet comparable only to playing football while watching football on a tiny monitor implanted in the helmet. Yes, it's that masculine. And while Rachel and I have our heads implanted into our friend's backseat (since those who drive stick like to go really fast), I can see the sense of longing in her eyes. A longing which says, "Why did I pick the only guy in my circle of friends who drives an automatic? And why does he always smell like produce? It's not like he eats produce. Jesus Christ, why have I thrown my life away?"
|I am very good at "driving the stick shift."|
See, I use a lot of cuss words and foul pussy talk to cover up the fact that I am a huge fag in real life. I pluck my unibrow, I cry uncontrollably when a bug lands on me, and I drive my automatic car slowly and carefully. I'm a sensitive poet warrior, marooned on an island that is myself, and I wear a coconut bra to support my milk-producing breasts.
So every once in a while, I proclaim to anyone within ear shot that I need to learn how to drive stick. And since Rachel is usually the only person within ear shot, she fervently agrees.
me: Y'know what, I'm sick of sitting down while I pee. From this moment on, I'm going to drive stick!
rachel: Really? Great! That's the best idea you've had all year. I'll go buy you a car that you can practice with and a year's supply of creatine.
me: Well, now that I think about it, I think I'd rather just sit here on the floor and hum quietly. Nevermind.
And as I returned home from Best Buy after purchasing my new "no frills" optical mouse, I realized that there is no way in hell that I could drive stick. I barely have enough concentration to change the CD, drink my Big Gulp, change the CD again, do my daily crossword puzzle, accidentally light my seat on fire, extinguish the fire with the Big Gulp, change the CD again, and think about butterflies while I drive now. Adding the whole clutch/shift business into this routine would only yield catastrophe and three more pedestrian kills a week for me. And as much as I love hearing that satisfying "thud" when I accidentally run someone over, back up, then accidentally run them over some more, my insurance costs about $20,000 a month. So, if you need me, I'll be in the slow lane, watching my stories and politely inviting other drivers to "please eat my dust."
My school's newspaper has this gay-ass column entitled "Virgin and Vixen," in which a prude and a slut answer your OMG so hot questions about sex and vaginas and such. But since no one at my school actually reads the school paper, there's no way in hell anyone would actually ask real OMG so hot questions. Thus, both the Virgin and the Vixen most likely make up the questions and give out second rate information ala Dr. Phil and Jesus Christ. So, fuck that, I'ma start dishin' out advice, since I've got as much credibility as Dr. Phil (not a real doctor) and Jesus Christ (not real) combined.
|Virgin and Vixen|
Ha ha ha ha ha ha no. | Tuesday, 01.28.03
Virgin & Vixen
thismayhurt nigga fo' real style
This week's question comes from Melvin Fleebish, a 7th year senior at Rutgers Newark.
Hi. I can't believe I'm actually writing this, but the other day the weirdest thing happened. I was in the shower, washing my naughty bits, and I heard a knock at the door. It was my dad and he wanted to use the toilet. I stop washing my naughty bits long enough to say, "Sure thing, Pop!" Then for some reason, he pulled back the shower curtain and urinated all over my face and genitals. He patted me on the head and called me his "little toilet" and then left. So there I was, standing in the shower, drenched in the stink of my father's urine (which smelled like yams for some reason) with a furious erection. This is normal, right? Please don't call the police.
Hello Melvin! First off, I just wanted to thank you for your letter. You have such neat handwriting! Now, about your question. It's totally normal to experiment with your father, cousins and clergymen! These people love you, and when someone loves you, then you should blindly accept whatever they do and say as law, just like Moses and his 10 Commandments. For instance, my father told me to give my older brother's fraternity buddies backrubs whenever I see them. I don't question why, I just do it because I love my father and I love Jesus and sex is A-OK when you love someone forever and ever and ever and ever. And ever. So, let your father urinate on your face and naughty bits frequently, if not constantly. Thank you.
That was a very sexy letter you wrote, Melvin. The thought of you... standing in the shower... OMG... so hot. I can just picture the stink lines coming off of your frail, diseased flesh. It reminds me of my prom, only my prom had more poo and vomit involved. Anyway, you wanted to know if this was normal, and for once, I have to agree with my Virgin counterpart. You're still at a young age, and you need to see what gets your motor going, if you know what I mean. You have to see what gets your engine started, if you know what I mean. You have to see what gets your penis engorged with blood, if you know what I mean. I'm talkin' about sex! That's what I mean! I love sex, if I could mix sex with wheat, corn and rice, I'd pour milk on it and eat it for breakfast. Or I'd put it in some tupperware and have a light lunch. But regardless, I'd eat sex.
|Be honest with me. Do I look gay in this outfit?|
Oh, thank god, I thought I looked like a faggot. | Saturday, 01.25.03
|I think the scene from Half Baked in which Kenny is crossing out the naked man's crotch with a Sharpee best sums up my feelings about the above screen capture. "No. NO. NO! Naughty! Devil man! Devil, 666, the mark of the beast! Naughty, jungle of love!"|
This is the greatest and best sound clip in the world... click here! NOW!
|It's your mom, dude!|
Talkin' time travel. | Friday, 01.24.03
Why did those creepy future guys make their time machine look like a phonebooth? You remember those creepy guys, right? There was the black dude with the blue lips, and... those other guys. And George Carlin! They have the technology to fuck up the fabric of time and space just to make sure Ted doesn't get sent to Oates' Military Academy, and how do they disguise their ingenious invention? They encase it into a fucking phone booth with a ratty umbrella on top. Oh yeah, the future is looking mighty bright.
|Fortified with your recommended daily allowance of Vitamin A, rat droppings and horribly innacurate time travel technology. But mostly rat droppings.|
I mean, let's just try and wrap our heads around the logic here. The creepy future guys knew that Bill and Ted would be traveling through countless time periods to gather a dozen or so historical figures. They had to know, because they're from the future and they had the scrote to wear fruity-looking Ray Bans decades after they ceased being cool. Did they put any thought into keeping their space-age disco technology under wraps? What follows is just an example of the damage that could be caused by inadvertantly using a phone booth-shaped time machine.
Some guy: Man, I really need to make a phone call. Well, what luck! Here's a phone booth right in the middle of the street! Let's see, I'll just drop a quarter or twelve into the slot and...
[travels through time]
Some guy: Well, I really needed to call the fire department so that they could extinguish my burning house and children, but it seems like I'm back in the old west!
Some cowboy: Howdy partner!
Some guy: Well, howdy yourself! This is great! But, my house and children really need to stop burning, so I'll just kick this patch of dirt and return home in my time machine.
[travels through time, again]
Some guy: Hooray! I'm back in the present! But it seems that kicking that patch of dirt in the old west has somehow caused an apocalyptic disaster that erased all of existence. IF ONLY THOSE FOOLS HADN'T CREATED A TIME MACHINE THAT LOOKED LIKE A PHONE BOOTH! Perhaps then, only my children would be dead instead of the entire human race. Bummer.
See? At least when you're the Terminator you get sent back through time in a big egg-looking thing ala Mork from Ork. No one accidentally climbs into a giant egg. Except for that one time you were drunk and broke into the giant egg factory, and they found you the next morning soaked in yolk (Need a kick ass band name? I'll sell you Soaked in Yolk® for a reasonable fee). And although you had gallons of unformed chicken fetus dripping off you, there was absolutely no way you could disrupt that space-time continuum thing that Doc Brown kept crying about.
So, creepy Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure future guys, listen up: You obviously have a wealth of information and technology at your disposal. The music created by the Wyld Stallions has somehow created world peace and a general sense of merriment. Why not make a time machine that doesn't look like it could be inhabited by a hobo and his collection of African American Cabbage Patch doll heads?
MTV has this new monstrosity of a program entitled "Made," the show that forces children to achieve their dreams through squat thrusts and a rockin', socially acceptable soundtrack. During tonight's episode, the unthinkable happened: MTV turned a beanbag chair into a real-live cheerleader! The beanbag chair (who everyone kept referring to as Diane for some reason) and her story resembled about a thousand teen summer flicks I had to sit through when I was a teen and it was the summer, and flicks were all the rage.
|Beat em up, beat em up, rah rah rah!|
Snap those spinal cords, ha ha ha! | Wednesday, 01.15.03
Narrator: Coming this summer... in a world, where a beanbag chair was picked last...
|Pauly Shore, Carson Daly®, and a beanbag chair.|
Beanbag chair: I'm always picked last! [throws her face into a vat of a pudding]
Narrator: Where girls that are fat and lumpy like beanbag chairs... aren't cool...
Sarah Michelle Gellar: Like, I so hate beanbag people.
Narrator: This beanbag chair girl wanted one thing... [RECORD SCRATCH] to become a cheerleader.
Sarah Michelle Gellar: We are the number one cheerleading squad in the world, I will not allow beanbag chairs on my team!
Narrator: This summer...
Beanbag chair: I can't do it!
Sarah Michelle Gellar: You're going down, bitch!
Beanbag chair: Ready? OK! [jumps backwards and falls into a bowl of punch at the big spring dance]
Narrator: Diane McLumpy is...
Beanbag Chair: I like pie!
Just throw in some phat cameos, like Carrot Top, or Betty White and you'll sell more tickets than Mallrats ever could. Anyway, the girl started out all fat and trashy, and by the end of the show she was still trashy and two pounds lighter, but (of course) she makes the cheerleading team. You didn't think MTV was going to waste all that time filming some beanbag chair if she was going to get cut from the team at the last minute, do you? Why, that would piss off the advertisers! Not to mention Carson!
Y'know, an obese girl was on my high school cheerleading squad as well. She was the captain for christ's sake. And did she need MTV waking her ass up at the crack of dawn to do jumping jacks? No, her mom just happened to be the coach. And she was too fat to fit in the mascot uniform, so they just took four cheerleading outfits and sewed them into one gigantic skirt / sweater ensemble. If I ever talked to her, she would have said something like, "Oh my god, my breasts are so large," because that's what fat girls always say to cover up the fact that they like hoagies so much. That bitch had some rolls, and she didn't work at no bakery, if you know what I'm sayin'.
|Animal Crossing is... (wait for it) ... faaaaaaaaaabulous!|
It's like Pac Man, only it makes you want to kill yourself. | Wednesday, 01.08.03
Have you ever dreamed of living in a world in which you do small favors for funny looking animals in exchange for furniture? All the time, right? Well, thankfully, Nintendo created a videogame just for you. It's called Animal Crossing, and it's gayer than the gay guy from Will and Grace (you know, the gay one). Its Japanese, big-eyed cutesiness makes Americans feel really insecure and wonder what the feck is going on overseas. We like our videogames like we like our automobiles: ugly, unreliable and more bland than a whitebread and bran sandwich. And here comes Animal Crossing, where your first objective is to plant pretty flowers outside of a raccoon's store in exchange for a pink rug. No hulking American male can justify his reasoning for playing this game in front of his buddies, unless they're addicted to AC themselves. If that's the case, then they're exchanging codes for new potted plants and drapery patterns. Oh, and they're also fucking each other in the ass. But most likely, you're the only one who gets enjoyment out of this fruity crap, and your friends will beat your ass once they find out what you do with your spare time...
|Just like in the real world! Buy terrible clothing from bitter porcupines and felate members of the same sex while you're at it!|
Friend #1: Dude, I finally beat that mission in Vice City where you have to break into the police headquarters and slaughter all those cops! It was fucking awesome!
Friend #2: No man, nothing beats the DOOM 3 demo that got leaked. When you walk into that bathroom, and there's blood smeared all over the tiles and shit? I nearly fucking nut myself!
You: Yeah, that's cool guys. But I finally saved up enough money to buy this purple armoire in Animal Crossing, it's super cute!
Friend #1: What the--
You: Uh... uh -- I mean, fuck I love Tomb Raider! Grrr! Oh curses, that reminds me, I have to visit Tybalt the Tiger's house to have tea tonight at 7:00! I musn't be late, or he won't loan me that frilly gown I so dearly desire!
Friend #2: Do you even have a penis anymore?
So, Animal Crossing is like this big Gigapet / Pokemon orgy thing, in which pixels fill you with shame when you forget to run errands for them, or, god forbid, write them a letter every twenty seconds. I don't even write letters to fucking family members, yet here I am, telling Kiki the Kitten how lovely her furniture is, and how I would crucify myself if she decided to move out of our virtual town. To be quite honest, I could give a fuck less where Kiki moves; I'm only keeping her around to hopefully score some lamps. When you move into your virtual techno town, you get a "house" (although it looks more like a nuclear fallout shelter) that you have to fill with furniture and good kharma for cash and prizes. Here's a hint... the cash will be used to buy more furniture, and the prizes will be more furniture. It's a neverending cycle of wanting furniture and acquiring new furniture. I mean, what kind of shithead world is this? One for stupid shitheads, that's what.
|But I need a ruby studded ping-pong table to increase my super happy japanese kharma points!|
I haven't been able to play Animal Crossing in three days, because pesky real world prerogatives (relationship, job, having a moment to myself without worrying about what animal needs its fucking asshole wiped in exchange for a pink stapler) required my attention. Now I'm afraid to go back. I mean, it's been three whole days! There's probably been some sort of fascist uprising, thereby giving Hitler-like authority to Moo Moo the Happy Cow. Whatever happens, I just know there's going to be a burning cross on my virtual lawn, and that so doesn't go with my pastel weather vane.
What a crazy disco future world we live in. I mean, have you ever looked around and realized how fucking crazy everything is? It's like, you get out of bed in the morning, you walk downstairs to heat up a muffin for breakfast, and something crazy crosses your path, and you're all like, "Dude, that's fucking crazy."
|Insane crazy, driving Miss Daisy out her fucking mind...|
... now I got mine, I'm Swayze. | Sunday, 01.05.03
Here's some crazy shit. Rachel bought me chapstick at a 24 hour Walgreen's tonight. Hold on, that's not the crazy part. The totally wacked out crazy-fest struck me when I realized that the chapstick was -- for men. That's right. That's the kind of world we live in. I mean, jesus christ, doesn't that strike you as a bit, oh I don't know, crazy? The fact that I could walk into a store and ask the saleswoman where the men's chapstick was, and she would actually have a definitive response to my query? The world's gone bananas! Do you think your dad ever had his own personal chapstick that your mom wasn't aloud to spread all over her nasty lips? I don't even think they had chapstick back then, you just jammed your lips into a jar of Vicks and wept.
|Here's a picture of Hugh Grant taking out the trash after having his way with my ass. Not gay.|
More craziness? Besides picking up some chapstick for her dry-lipped boyfriend, Rachel also bought a brand new car yesterday. We just walked into the Ford dealership, pointed at a car and drove it home. That's fucking nuts. It's a lovely 2003 Ford Focus, and it's hers. Just like that. And when she was signing the papers that make the car officially hers, I look over at her and ask, "Babe, is this crazy?" And she was all, "Fuckin-A, right -- this is crazy." And I just nodded my head, because I had to agree with her. And the trunk? It has a glow-in-the-dark release lever to pull in case you're a dead body and you're trapped in the trunk. Maybe Rachel mistook you for luggage, or new furniture from IKEA and loaded you into the trunk by accident. Well, now you have your own lever to escape. Survey Says -- CRAZY!
All right, one more small nugget of insanity. I saw this movie with Hugh Grant in it, which is crazy enough in its own right, but stay with me for a moment. By the end of the movie, much like the chick from Speed, I was in love with Hugh Grant. And I didn't just want him to pound me in the ass. He's just so fucking suave that I want him to buy me a steak and tell me stories about how dapper he is. Then he can take me home and pound me in the ass. At first, I thought to myself, "Dude, that's pretty fucking crazy." But then I leaned over to this guy sitting next to me, and explained my conundrum, and he was all, "Man, it's cool. It's fucking Hugh Grant. He's an unstoppable, debonaire fuck machine." And that's what I was thinking, like, with my head, y'know? I felt better, but still a wee bit crazy.
The world is a crazy place. Why just yesterday, I had nothing besides the shirt on my back and some tokens to an arcade that burned down years ago. Now, I have a girlfriend with a brand new car, some sexist chapstick, and I'm in love with a man twice my age from the UK. And I still can't hear out of my left ear! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! That's the sound of the crazy bird, and he's coming home to roost, y'all.
Well, my lord and savior, Dave Brockie, or Oderus Urungus of GWAR in human disguise, has responded to Corey Taylor's remarks, and he even made some of the same points I did. Thus proving that I should, at the very least, be appointed official spokesman for GWAR. And now, in its entirety, Dave's response...
|This deli tray is UNACCEPTABLE!|
A response to that stupid letter from before. | Thursday, 01.02.03
Well, Corey, if I may retort, I feel you would be better served keeping your whining trap shut. Everytime I read anything you say it is some piss-assed sulky BULLSHIT about how somebody had a fake laminate or how hot your overalls are or how you almost went blind over your band, didn't talk to each other for years or whatever. WAAAAAHHH! Grow up you big baby! We don't care about your rock 'n' roll soap opera, and your self-indulgent hissy-fits dilute and distract from the alleged potency of "the Knot". Take a page from Devo or GWAR and stick with the characters and the image they create. They are much more interesting than you are (which isn't saying much). But how could I doubt someone who has created "two of the best albums of all time". I guess you are also the guy who decides who makes the best cheesesteaks or serves the "greatest slice in town". My point is that self-annointed praise is bullshit! You are always going on about how great you are--cut it out! Do you think you're Muhammed Ali or what? I can just imagine your embarrassed bandmates eyes rolling behind their masks, as you launch into yet another long-winded and ultimately asinine tirade, the delivery of which has unfortunately become your trademark. No wonder they don't talk to you. And please stop saying "the Knot", it sounds stupid, like "the Nuge", or "the Maiden". And as far as relevance is concerned, I have one word for you--GWAR. The mere fact that you would link relevance with a word that means nothing underscores your moronic observations as actually being retarded. If you don't believe me, look up GWAR in the dictionary. Cultural events have relevance far longer than their actual occurrence, which means that even your crummy band will have relevance long after you break up, which will hopefully be soon. And GWAR will still be there, leading the insulting reverie, a festering stool on the doorstep of the music industry, unmarred and eternally stinky. It delights me to no end that you think GWAR sucks. Maybe you can whine about it some more and we can get some free publicity. You are just too funny. A ninny placed on a podium is a ninny nonetheless. It's too bad that your band is "eating itself". You should eat a bowl of dick, maybe that would help. Long after "the Knot" has been reduced to a series of protracted legal battles, GWAR will remain an indelible blot on the fabric of our lives, and I will remain a dedicated, obscure, and in my own manner, relevent artist. People will eternally remember you as the scary clowns who and had the lead-singer that whined like a little bitch everytime he got in print. Maybe you'll think GWAR is relevent when Oderus rams his scaly cock up your ass, that is if you can stop orgasming for five seconds.
|Sunder your forms with my withering hacks,|
Mash up your face with my gauntled smacks.
Now bring me dead babies, let there be no lack!
I've got a bunch of them here in my sack.
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