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this was in the junk drawer. i'm not sure why. | Friday, 10.31.03
more halloween-flavored goodness in the gallery.
|Dear Halloween II: Jump up my ass.|
Your pal, me. | Tuesday, 10.28.03
I'm sorry, but Halloween II is not an American Movie Classic. And yet, every Halloween, AMC insists on showing this godawful piece of awfulness and proclaiming to the world, "World, this movie is a classic. Please enjoy its indistinct shots of neverending hosptial hallways! It's a mastery of cinematic excellence." The only thing worse than Halloween II is Halloween III, and that fucking trainwreck is playing tonight on AMC! And what type of asshole is going to watch both of these stupid, stupid movies? Well, me. Because I'm a stupid, stupid asshole.
From 1995 to 1999, like most high school-aged quasi punks, I loved sitting at home everynight with a rusty razor blade to my wrist in an attempt to escape my then bat-shit insane girlfriend, whose soul-crushing antics made everyday of my life an adventure in tolerance and rage suppression. I also loved horror movies! Why, I'd walk to the video store and pick up a fine piece of cinematic craftmanship, such as Halloween II, and wonder when my face would stop manufacturing pork grease from its pores. Then I'd return my copy of Halloween II, listen to one of my 7,000 Nirvana bootlegs and write poetry with lines like, "Darkness is my friend / Darkness is my enemy / I'm 16 years old / And have acne on my balls." What's that? You say you've invented a time machine, and I can relive my high school experience? That's great! Excuse me while I douse myself in a tangy barbecue sauce and let murderous Croatian babies feast on my vital organs!
Halloween II is not a "classic." And after watching it last night, I'm fairly certain that it's not a "movie." Tonight, when everyone's asleep in your house, slowly walk down the darkened hallway outside your room, and repeatedly open and close the linen closet door. Now splice in shots of your dog playing in the snow. Then splice in shots of you eating a sandwich. Now name your film "Halloween II." Hooray! You've graduated from John Carpenter University! You're now an accidental film genuis and I hate your stupid face.
You think I'm kidding about the neverending maze of darkened hospital hallways, don't you? You think I'm just over-exaggerating a small portion of the movie for comedic purposes? Dude, seriously, this movie has more green and tan hospital hallways than a green and tan hospital hallway factory produces in a year. And I swear, it's just the same damn hallway over and over. It's not even like John Carpenter would splurge a bit and pay for two green and tan hallways sets. No wonder Michael Myers walks so fucking slow. Any faster and he'll run out of set.
Why do I find opening and closing a CD tray for three hours more frightening and action-packed than five minutes of Halloween II? Maybe it's Jamie Lee Curtis' stunning performance as the overly drugged Laurie Strode, as she incoherently stands around and lays in bed in one stupid fucking scene after another. Or perhaps it's Donald Pleasance's bald performance as the overly bald Dr. Loomis, as he incoherently screams about Samhain and barks in one stupid scene after another.
|Moderately less scary than a number 2 pencil.|
Dr. Loomis: Michael Myers is rigga fragga evil on two legs! Riggafragga rigga rattafratta!
Laurie Strode: ...
Dr. Loomis: I shot him six times! Rigga fragga... I shot him in the heart! Garble barble ratta fragga.
Laurie Strode: ...
John Carpenter: I like money.
Dr. Loomis: Can I have some money?
John Carpenter: No.
THRILL as washed up actors and actresses stand around and forget that they're starring in the new ACTION-PACKED and definitely not BORING AS FUCK Halloween adventure! Seriously, buying a roll of stamps with exact change is more thrilling than Halloween II. I'd rather take a dump in a tissue box, only to forget an hour later, and then I reach into the tissue box expecting to pull out a tissue for my runny nose, and instead pick up a handful of my own shit. Yes, I'd rather do that than watch Halloween II ever again. And I swear to christ, if one of you fanboys emails me, and attempts to stick up for this, or any other Halloween movie besides the original, I'll reply to your e-mail with a swift kick in the ass.
|Croatian-Cannibal-Zombie Babies from Hell.|
starring: Dustin Diamond | Friday, 10.24.03
There's nothing I love more than a good "Croatian baby gets eaten alive by other violently hungry Croatian babies" story. Every day I scour the local papers, scanning headline after headline for the words "baby," "tiny bites" and "Croatia," only to be left unfulfilled and pouty. Then I usually scan the "funny pages" for my favorite comic strips, only to realize that they haven't been published since the mid 90's. So, to recap: I check the paper daily for Croatian cannibal-baby stories, and instead wind up reading Ziggy or Cathy, both of which are about as funny as a wire coat hanger enema.
But this morning... oh this morning. I hit the fucking jackpot. I found a story which includes:
More than twelve (12+) cannibal babies
One (1) one-year-old baby victim
Thirty (30) tiny bites
And it all happened in a land down under: Croatia
Read on, because even I'm not fucked up enough to make this shit up:
A one-year-old boy has been bitten 30 times by a group of more than a dozen other babies at a nursery in Croatia. Frane Simic was covered in a series of deep bite wounds all over his body, including his face. He was attacked after the class nanny stepped out of the room to change another baby's nappy. Dr Sime Vuckov, head of the hospital in Rijeka which treated the boy, said: "Biting between young children is not uncommon. But I have never seen anything like this."
-- Sky News
Dr. Sime Vuckov (or, Slimey to his friends) also went on to say, "After numerous tests, we discovered that the victim of the attack was actually quite delicious... those cannibal-babies knew what they were doing." He then held a blind taste test, in which reporters were asked to gently nibble on the flesh of Frane Simic, and some other baby they found playing in a Croatian dumpster. The results were startling. 9 out of 10 reporters found that Frane Simic really was a fresh and exciting taste sensation, and he will soon sweep the nation, if Croatia is a nation, and I'm pretty sure it isn't.
One or twelve tiny baby bites is no laughing matter, but for the love of christ, thirty? If I witnessed this horrible site, I would probably say something like, "Them's some hungry babies!" Alternatively, I could say, "That's a spicy meatball!", but I don't think that would be very appropriate. Here's a third option: douse myself in holy water, stock up on shotgun shells and go buck wild on those cannibal / zombie babies! BLAMMO! KABLOOIE! The babies would be all like, "Braaaaaaiiiiinnnnssss," and I'd be all, "Enjoy a generous serving of my boom-stick! It tastes like death!" Granted, I don't have as many Bruce Campbell-esque quips at my disposal, but regardless, I'd kick those babies' stupid fucking zombie asses.
Police have launched an inquiry into the biting frenzy but admit they are clueless as to the babies' reasons for attacking.
-- Sky News
Well geez, it appears the police have done all they can in solving the cannibal-zombie-baby mystery.
Croatian police officer 1: Why are those babies so hungry?
Croatian police officer 2: I do not know.
Croatian police officer 1: This case is closed!
Croatian police officer 2: Hooray!
Croatian police officer 1: We are good at being police officers.
Croatian police officer 2: Yes.
So what do we do now? I guess we just sit around and wait for the cannibal-zombie-slave-babies to eat our brains. What's that? No... no, I couldn't. I mustn't! Oh, all right, I'll go to Croatia and fight the babies. But there's a good change they're all infected, so I'm just going to have to wipe them all out, one by one. Look, I know it's extreme, but who here among us has more experience in zombie-baby holocausts? That's what I thought.
Third day at the new job. Trying to make it sound like I'm busy by writing this update, although, I'm so UNbusy that I have enough time to sit here and bang out an update for you, the uneducated, unemployed and unbelievably poverty-stricken masses. My job description reads, "Technical Writer," although, technically, I haven't written a damn thing yet, current paragraph excluded. While the mindless drones surrounding my cubicle (which isn't exactly mine, since I don't officially get my official cubicle until Monday, officially) slam away at their keyboards, answer their phones and say things like, "This is Employee number 4976B2 speaking, how may I transmit knowledge into your brain-meats?", I quiety play with Adobe FrameMaker and build dinosaurs out of liquid paper and post-it notes. Occassionally, a frighteningly cheerful cubicle-thing will "welcome me aboard," check out my cool office supply pterodactyl and offer me endless cups of coffee.
|Got more suits than Jacoby &Meyers.|
lol sarcasm lol | Wednesday, 10.22.03
Every time I walk past the mirror in the bathroom, I look to my left and exclaim, "My, my, my, who is that handsome devil sharing the men's room with me? I hope he shares the urinal next to mine so that I can sneak a peak at his undoubtedly beautiful penis." Then I realize that it's me, dressed to the fuckin' nines, yo. I had to trade in my Dickies and Cons for Dockers and, uh, whatever type of clonky shoes I'm wearing at the moment. Some call it "selling out," others call it "growing up." I call it nothing, because I'm living in denial and realizing that the Manson goths from my high school were right... I really am a poseur. But that's ok, I still love the punk rock! Whoo! Anarchy! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a very important conference call in 15.
But while the office environment can be slightly intimidating, I'm beginning to understand how things work. First off, everything has a three letter acronym. The following sentence, or slight variation, can be heard on every floor of every building somehow connected to corporate America: "I need the TCR's, RVB's and the QQO's from the VBH we had that KLV about last PLO, and I, the CEO, the COO and the VPZ need them now!" Daunting? You bet. Pretentious? Slightly. Necessary? VMS! (Very much, sir!) Without an ungodly amount of acronyms, how are we, the priveliged white collar class supposed to seperate our own from the slobs that fix our $95,000 cars, trim the hedges on our 5 million acres of property and clean our rose-scented feces from our golden toilets? A world without acronyms is like a blue collar worker without food stamps.
I hope that you, my loyal readers can accept my new way of life with open arms. Most of my updates will now revolve around hilarious office-related anecdotes, such as the time I tried to fax the CFK-97S form over to accounting, but instead faxed the CFK-97Sb form instead! LOL. Bob, Glenn, Carol and I had a good laugh over that one. If, however, you like the old thismayhurt.com better, I can always throw money in your direction until you love me again. See? I'm still the same guy! Just infinitely more rich and powerful, now.
|I'm working at my job, I'm so happy.|
More boring by the day, but they pay me. | Monday, 10.20.03
We all love gangsta rap, don't we folks? And I'm not talking about the fruity rap the kids listen to these days. I'm talking about violent, LA riots-fueled hate anthems of the early 90's, especially from my favorite rapper of all time, Ice Cube. He makes me hate the color of my skin, and that's more than I can say for P. Diddy. So, here's a classic Ice Cube song, translated for the white masses that attempt to keep a brotherman down. Enjoy it, you motherfucking cracker devil.
|Literal gangsta rap translation #1.|
Ice Cube's "When Will They Shoot." | Saturday, 10.18.03
(original lyrics and mp3 can be found here)
When Will They Shoot?
Literal translation by John Lacki
Oh, my goodness! It's another payback with an unexpected outcome!
Some bad people tried to shoot me with their guns, but, fortunately for me, they were unsuccessful.
It appears that I, Ice Cube, am outgunned! What will be the outcome? Could they kill me Malcolm?
Perhaps they want to kill me because I rap differently than others. I'm confident while others run away for miles and miles.
I handle devilish white people with my gun, and when I shoot it, it sounds like this -- BOOM.
The media dislikes me, because I was a gangster before I starred in the movie "Boyz 'N the Hood."
I find it interesting that you can call me a nigga, a biggot and spook, when YOU voted for equally biggoted officials!
I tried to understand what white people were all about, but I kept accidentally killing them.
You could say I sing like a Jaybird, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say the aforementioned "J word."
To African-Americans, Uncle Sam is a lot like Nazi leader Adolf Hitler, only Uncle Sam doesn't burn Jews.
Rich white people are known to buy ghetto areas in Los Angeles, and then force everyone to smoke crack.
White people have been doing this for years, and you still can't comprehend why I enjoy killing them with my AK-47.
Then, to top it all off, you pretend that calling me an "African-American" will make everything all better!
Devilish white person, I'd like for you to understand that I am as black as a TRILLION midnights!
In 1988, Chuck D, lead singer of Public Enemy, was quoted as saying "Don't believe the hype."
And now white people want to have sex with my anus without the use of vaseline for lubrication.
Instead of vaseline, they would like to use gasoline and a match! Good heavens!
White people think today would be a wonderful day for genocide, when all black people were wiped off the planet.
I mean, geez, John F. Kennedy was killed by a white person in 1963, so what do you suppose they'll do to ME?
But that's ok, considering I'm an original gangster, and I can rebound efficiently by shooting you in the face.
Bad people cannot shoot me, curses to white people, especially from the south, and the north as well.
And believe you me, sir, I enjoy the company of O.P.P., yessir.
I once had a lovely dinner with Louis Farrakhan, and now you'd like to know if I'm a five percenter?
I'd have to say "No." However, I go were most other black people go, such as the Compton Mosque, #54.
I made quite a bit of money, and I support my younger sister.
Some people ask, "Gee whiz, has Ice Cube forgotten his roots?" And I heartily reply, "No sir!"
I have a black woman as my manager, she's not my slave or anything like that. So please leave me alone!
Cripes! People are shooting out me, but neither I, nor my friends in Da Lench Mob were injured.
Let me reiterate my hatred of white people, and also the name of this little diddy... "Walking in my big black boots."
You may think the Ku Klux Klan wear white hoods, but instead, some of them are rather sharp dressers!
When unfortunate black people attempt to kill me, I tend to treat them like prostitues.
Now, if I stopped being violent, I wouldn't get any respect. So to hell with that! Let me grab by Tec-9!
And if someone attempts to do me harm, I'll quote Al Pacino's famous line from Scarface: "I'll bury those cockroaches."
Have you heard of my other albums? They're entitled "Kill at Will," "AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted" and "Death Certificate."
Much like the famous basketball player Michael Jordan, I'm at the top of my game!
I dribble funk like he dribbles a basketball, and then I dunk the funk quite impressively, if I do say so myself.
Los Angeles police chief Darryl Gates has surrounded my studio because he doesn't like me or my peers.
The police would enjoy killing all of us, because I appreciate the work of Nat, Huey, Malcolm, and Louis.
Most of those guys were killed by black people! Give a gun to a black person and witness the results.
I have dubbed myself a "negro-assassin." After I kill you, I'm going to dig a hole, and place your dead body inside!
Remember when I said black people were excellent killers? White people made them that way.
When I get upset, do you know who I like to call? My friends the Geto Boys. They wrote a song entitled "My Mind's Playing Tricks on Me."
I will never die! I keep a close watch over my house, as do my friends in F.O.I. That way, I can sleep peacefully.
Look at this! I actually keep a handgun in my Jeep for security purposes.
No one can EVER shoot me with their gun, I stake my entire career on this fact, sir.
Now, finally, I'm relaxed. I'm drinking a beer so that I can impress my female friend.
I'm sitting by the window because it's quite hot in this room, and the white man ensures that I can't afford air conditioning.
And then, I hear a gunshot, and it sounded something like this -- BOOM.
|This day anything goes, burning bodies hanging from poles.|
I remember Halloween. | Friday, 10.17.03
Well, I've officially decorated the site for Halloween, so I suppose I should serve up some Halloween-flavored updates, with extra helpings of pennies and razor blades. Heh, razor blades. I always wondered what type of psychopath would hide a razor blade in an apple, and it suddenly hit me... the type of psychopath who hates lean, healthy children. I was a dangerously morbidly obesely obese child, so if you gave me the choice between a relatively safe package of M&M's and an apple that has the potential of brandishing a box cutter, I'd have to pick the M&M's. 9 out of 10 ugly, suicidal fat kids will agree that apples are for queers, and a razor blade down the throat means at least a week without chocolate chip pancakes, the mana of pork children the world over.
|Ah, it's Halloween. Finally, I can be a furry, Star Trek loving faggot in public.|
As a kid, I can't really remember enjoying Halloween all that much. Sure, my fat ass would get tons of candy, but I also had to walk 4,000 miles and look ridiculous in order to earn my sugary salary. Plus, I think some public service announcement made me afraid of sexual predators, just waiting to lure me into their houses with promises of an even bigger Kit-Kat bar. And believe me, the fear of getting raped by an old man with Twizzler breath is a great way to ruin any holiday for the rest of your life. Even Ramadan.
I realize that in order to create a somewhat normal childhood for myself, I have to go Trick-or-Treating this year. Sure I'm 22 years old, but I'm only 5'8, and many fourth grade girls could easily kick my ass and steal all my candy. It will be just like old times. Unfortunately, I've wasted all my creativity on writing this update, so my costume will most likely be one of those garbage bags with armholes and the cheap mask that you can pick up at K-Mart for $1.49. So look out your windows this October 31st, as I may be stopping by for treats and/or tricks. I'll be the creepy guy wearing this sexy little number.
|Tonsillitis Photo Gallery of the Damned|
preop - postop | Wednesday, 10.01.03
|Pre-operation - 10.01.03|
|This is Avelox. It makes the grinding, broken glass feeling in my throat disappear. It also makes operating heavy machinery extremely dangerous and surprisingly hilarious.||This is a very sexy shot of my throat. Please note the absence of all that is holy and just. Also note that I have no cavities and the most fucked up looking uvula in the history of mankind.||The funky beats of Outkast have been known to cure tonsillitis. At least, that's what my doctor told me. Well, he wasn't much of a doctor, he was more like a guy that worked at Sam Goody.|
|Post-operation - 10.05.03|
|This is the secret decoder bracelet that has granted me many super powers since the surgery. For instance, I now have the ability to choke on air and perpetually bleed from the neck.||As promised, here are the slipper/socks that I stole from the hospital. They looked much more impressive before they entered the washing machine. Doesn't everything?||Here's my throat, minus the evil throat demons. I think that nastyness in the back is my spit reflecting off the camera. For the love of Christ, I hope that's what that is. |
|Post-operation - 10.2.03 - Well the operation was a smashing success, if you replace the words "a smashing success" with the most "the most horrible and painful chain of events since that time I accidentally shoved a pencil into my head when I was 3." Before the operation began, I was given an IV, strapped into the operating table and hooked up to heart monitors. An oxygen mask was placed over the face, and I was out quicker than a 13-year-old girl drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade gets pregnant. The next thing I know, I'm awake in the recovery room, where I nearly drown in my own fluids. When your mouth is filled with phlegm, and you are lacking a receptacle to hock it into, you swallow it right? Sure. Try swallowing 30 gallons of mucus without a throat.|
My doctor comes to my side to see how I'm feeling. I point to my throat and mouth the words "I can't swallow." He gives me a stupid look which says "That's because you just had your fucking tonsils ripped from your skull, stupid," and says, "That's because you just had your tonsils removed," and I'm pretty sure he called me stupid afterwards. Still attempting to stay afloat in my own wading pool of snot, I tell my helpful nurse that my throat is full of phlegm. She quickly springs into action and places an ice pack on my throat, because much like rock beating scissors, ice beats phlegm. Daft cunt.
Later in the next recovery room (which held some pretty comfy recliners) I was given a shot for the pain, which eventually allowed me to swallow my mucus with the aid of a dixie cup full of ice chips, which quickly replaced that time I hit a game-winning double in Little League as the greatest moment of my entire life. Now I'm home, eating bowl after bowl of Jell-O and sherbert, moping around in my underpants and watching Simpsons reruns. It's not so bad... in fact, it's pretty much how I'm livin' everday, minus the Jell-O and sherbert... and underpants.
Once I figure out a way to open my mouth further, I promise you'll have some more horrifying pictures, and I'll also show you the kick-ass slipper/socks I stole from the hospital. Take that American health-care system, you fucks!
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