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est. 02.27.02

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November 2002

Gobble Gobble Goo, Gobble Gobble GIckle.
I wish turkey only cost a nickle. | Thursday, 11.28.02
Even dikey PETA members loves them some turkeys.

if you got a big elephant, let me search it. | Tuesday, 11.26.02
How many times have I opened an update with the phrase "sorry for the lack of updates"? I'm not sorry. I love it. I'd like to update once a year, and build the anticipation so high that merely typing thismayhurt.com into your browser would force your head to cave in on itself. And you would get one update every year, and it would be three words long, and everyone would bookmark it and send it to their friends in Paraguay, typing in capital letters: "OMG DOOD, HE UPDATED THISMAYHURT! IT'S MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN I IMAGINED!" I'm not lazy, I'm a fucking internet visionary.

So anyway, sorry for the lack of updates lately. I threw a hissy fit the other day when GTA: Vice City ate my 50% completion save, so I've been wandering around the house in my pj's, trying to fill the empty void that GTA filled in my life. I held a service in my backyard, and buried the PS2 memory card in a shoebox with holes in the top so it can breathe underground.

The new System of a Down CD entitled "Steal this Album" should be recalled and retitled "System of a Daron: Starring Daron and No One Else." The guitar player sings in every fucking song, and it made me and Rachel mad. Well, not so much mad as annoyed. Well, not so much annoyed as slightly bothered. Well, actually we love it. Just please don't let Daron sing on every track, Serj. You're much taller and have more facial hair.

Contrary to popular belief, this is actually the greatest update I have ever written.

A barrel of laughs/monkeys/rainwater etc.
This was funny in my head. | Wednesday, 11.20.02
The other day I had the misfortune of picking up my school's ungood-grammar-filled and highly explosive newspaper to find a hilarious 17 page story about, like, OMG, corny pickup lines! Jesus christ, now there's an original and interesting news story that demands the attention of anyone who has eyes to read and lips to sounds out the hard words. So, I decided to follow suit, and offer my own set of bust-a-fucking-gut, laugh-out-fucking-loud, kill-your-fucking-neighbor hilarity in the form of phrases you should scream ad nauseum to potential sexual partners. Enjoy, you fuck.


If I could remake the alphabet, I'd put U and I closer together. Then I'd get rid of all the vowels and shoot your mom.

Is it hot in here, or is it just the steady stream of diarrhea running down my leg?

Do you believe in love at first site? Me neither, on account of my blindness you insensitive prick.

Did it hurt? (D'uh, did what hurt?) Did it hurt when your rotting angel corpse hit the ground with enough velocity to liquify your pixie ass?

Are you tired? (Um... no, why?) Because it looks like you have Myalgic Encephalo myelitis.

Here's my library card, because I'm checking you out! But I never learned how to read, so I'm going to return you to the library and then go to the post office. Because I have to pay my phone bill.

You're so beautiful that you make me forget how much I love gay sex in my butt.

Do you mind if I check the tag on your shirt? (Why, no, not at all!) Just as I thought. It says "50% cotton. Made in Taiwan."

Call the police! (Oh, heavens, why?) Because I'm going to kill you, baby!

I poked a hole in that condom. Now we're meant to be.

Love the way my ass go a-wump-a-wump-wump.
.ti esrever dna ti pilf ,nwod gnaht ym tup i | Monday, 11.18.02
WARNING: Typical e/n "I got drunk and it was so cool, man" post ahead.

Once my birthday was over in September, me and Rachel made bigger and better plans for her birthday, since we would both be 21 by that time. Our plans went a little something, a-like this...

Rachel: What should we do on my birthday?
John: We could sit at my house and watch my pretentious artsy flicks on AMC all night.
Rachel: We do that every night.
John: Fine! We'll do whatever you wanna do on your birthday. Christ, whatever, I hate it.
Rachel: How about we go out to a club and drink so much alcohol that we die?
John: Sold.

And so the plans were set, like those... things that Moses wrote on... yeah. Two months go by, a few of my goldfish die, and all of a sudden, it's November. We made plans for the 15th, one day before Rachel's twenty-first birthday. This little number happened that morning...

Rachel: Clubs suck, and I'm tired, and I hate my birthday.
John: Me too. Let's go pee on my old middle school and film it.
Rachel: Well, I still want to go out and get so drunk that I pull my hair and feed it to you... why don't we go to Cha-Cha's in New York City?
John: You mean the place that gets busted for selling alcohol to toddlers?
Rachel: Yeah that--
John: You mean the place that slips you a vile of crack if you leave a big enough tip?
Rachel: Yes, Joh--
John: You mean, like THE Cha-Cha's?
Rachel: FUCKING CHRIST, YES! Are we going, or not?
John: I don't know. Whatever.

And so, Rachel, her friend from work, her boyfriend and myself went to Cha-Cha's. And we drank. $100 worth (which also included sammiches and a calzone, christ, we're not fucking lushes. Spending $100 on alcohol would be just plain wrong). Then we went to this bar and spent another $100 (which also included... well, nothing. We're fucking lushes).

So $200 later, everyone's having a grand old time, filled with alcohol and coke and those pills we found in the street. But that's when I remembered... I cannot get drunk. I physically cannot do it. I don't get happy, I don't get goofy, I don't get anything besides a consistent urge to pee on everything and everyone. Meanwhile, on the train back home, a man twice my size was spinning around one of the poles and telling his friends, at the top of his lungs, how he was gonna fuck them up and how he was "coo-coo for coco puffs." He was a bit drunk. While I hated him for being such a loud asshole, I secretly wanted to be that asshole. To get so drunk that I leave my stupid inhibitions behind and start humping banisters at the train depot.

Anyway, happy 21st birthday, baboo. At least you got so drunk that you were humping banisters.

It's colder than a piece of dead vagina out here.
Weather, and why it should just stop. | Wednesday, 11.13.02
Greetings, true believers. Well, it's a New Jersey November, which in turn means it gets dark at around 3:30 in the afternoon, and scandelous mobs of junkies and alcoholics roam the streets looking for Springsteen and/or Devils tickets. Yep, just a typical, sickly, depressing-as-fuck November in the garden state.

In about two seconds, this chick will be wiping stringy mucus from the corners of her mouth. Stare at her and shake your head in disbelief.
I never believed all that bullshit that my parent or guardian told me about getting sick from drastic weather changes. Regardless of the temperature, I'm cold. When I leave the house in the morning, it's freezing. Then while I'm in classes, cats melt in the streets from radioactive-like heat, yet all the buildings on campus are cold as fuck. It tops off at like 109 degrees outside, and I'm bundled up at the Robeson campus center, building snowmen out of asbestos and dirt. Then by the time I leave this godforsaken campus at 7:00 at night, the melted cats from before have re-solidified like feline T-1000's, and scamper about the night searching for John Conner and Linda Hamilton.

Where was I? Right... weather. So with all the frequent and inexplicable changes in temperature lately, I've come down with a case of the sniffles. Maybe sucking Rachel's face while she had a case of the sniffles had something to do with it, but whatever, weather sucks. Since I refuse to go the doctor for real medication, I'm forced to take expired Aleve Cold and Sinus pills that my mom pushes on me and trick-or-treaters. Aleve Cold and Sinus work great, if you consider not working and feeling worse than you started signs of greatness. And if you want a case of cottonmouth like Snoop Dogg and look forward to horrificly vivid nightmares about eating your own flesh, then buy the ultra jumbo Aleve combo pack from Costco for $7.00.

I mean, don't get me wrong, being sick is great fun. Running out of tissues at 3 in the morning and blowing my nose on the floor is like fucking Christmas morning for me. It's almost as fun as having every morsel of food taste like my mucus, that is if I could get food down my shards of broken glass-like throat. I'm forced to eat nothing but Ricola throat drop things and Neosporin ointment to soothe the pain. Hooray for weather!

So, much like always, I'm going to boycott weather. "But John," you'll ask, "how are you going to boycott something that exists naturally in nature? What are you, some kind of idiot?" To which I'll reply, "Click this link to see naked crotches and such." And you'll be like, "What the fuck are you talking about?" And I'll be all, "Just click it, stupid."

Just one hit and your life goes wrong.
blah blah blah blah blah | Saturday, 11.09.02
Hey Kids!
Want to link to a site that will most likely never return the favor? Peep out the buttons below and let the hits flow like wine!

Now everybody say... "WE WANT OUR MONEY BACK!"

University Lowers Standards, Allows E/N Webmaster to Teach
I'm striking tomorrow. | Tuesday, 11.05.02
How fucked must Rutgers University be if they allow me, of all people, to teach a seminar? If you're currently attending, once attended, or even driving past any Rutgers associated building, hang your head in shame in knowing that I stood in front of a classroom and passed out a fucking attendance sheet. If hell has not frozen over, I'm not sure what it's going to take. But get your toboggans ready, because I'm teaching another seminar next week.

Listen here you little shits, I don't get paid enough to actually teach you anything, so just run in circles until you pass out or something.
So how did I, Mr. Moody Introvert, fare against a classroom filled (3 people) with Computer Science majors (junkies and alcoholics)? Not bad considering I'm a Journalism major teaching a class about Macintosh computing. How did this educational debauchery come about, you ask? In all honesty, the real seminar host is pregnant and ready to burst children from her loins at any second, and I think the backup host died, or something. So the heads of the Computer Science department threw 15 sheets of paper with my name on them into a hat and chose me, the person with the least amount of interest or experience required to teach a seminar.

So Rachel stood with me outside of my classroom (christ, like I've taught 100 classes, fucking my classroom) and offered to catch the hurl that was rising in my throat and throw it into a nearby garbage can. See, I never do anything. Literally. This is the most work I've done in three and a half years of college, and I was teaching the friggin' class. Extracurricular activities are for fairies and pinkos, and I ain't no pinko fairy, dagnabbit. So Rachel leaves me to go to her class and all my imaginary self-confidence leaves along with her. I think she stowed it in her overhead compartment, or tucked it safely underneath the seat in front of her. Either way, once I was standing in front of the classroom, all I could do was wet myself repeatedly and sob.

But it wasn't all bad. You see, I learned something about myself... I shouldn't be allowed to teach. And my students learned something as well... I shoudln't be allowed to teach. At least we're all on the same page. I'm sure most of their notes consisted of obese caricatures of me, with stink lines coming out of my crotch and a unibrow large and hairy enough to destroy us all. Fucking students. With that glossy look in their eyes, and that inability to stop staring at my ass.

Then, to top it all off, as if an hour and 20 minutes of pure torture wasn't enough, the ungrateful bastards had to fill out a comment card, like I was a some fat greasy momma working tables at a Denny's. Apparently, some of the students had a problem with my asking all the "dumb Mexicans" to stand in the hallway to make room for all the "smart white folk." One bitch actually gave me a low rating because I didn't challenge the students enough. She also didn't like the part where I threatened to kill her kids, and told everyone to point at her and laugh for having dead kids. Whatever. The best part was seeing Rachel's beautiful head pop up outside the door, thereby letting me know that my $7.25 / hour teaching job was over, and I could now go back to sitting on the couch and complaining that my back hurts from sitting on the couch all day.

Anyway, fuck teaching, make like the O and Kill Yer [motherfuckin'] Teacherz.



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