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est. 02.27.02

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November 2004

I tried to think of a title that drew a parallel between Black Friday and Ice Cube's movie "Friday."
yeah, it didn't quite pan out. | Tuesday, 11.23.04
Boy oh boy, I can't wait to wake up at 3:00 in the morning on Black Friday. It's one of the biggest shopping days of the year, as hordes and hordes of people line up to save tens of dollars. Oh, but I'm not waking up to stand in line at Best Buy with other spendthrifts... no, I'm waking up at 3:30 in the morning to watch the news reports of spendthrifts getting trampled as they attempt to save money faster than the other, less determined spendthrifts. Killing another man in cold blood over a 12-pack of $3 VHS tapes is not just a privilege, it's the right of every budget-conscious American citizen, and I'm pretty sure it's either in the Constitution, or it's one of the commandments that Moses conveniently forgot to mention.

Another Black Friday goes off without a hitch.
Here's a Black Friday tip that may save you even more money than you thought was humanly possible: The $20 Apex DVD player that the filthy welfare momma and the wheelchair-bound veteran are fighting over? It has a chip inside that causes it to detonate five minutes after the 30 day warranty expires. It also can't play DVDs with more than seven chapters, and it makes collect calls to China while you are asleep. The buttons on the remote are actually M&M's, and all of the vowels in the subtitles are replaced with 9's because 9's are cheaper to produce than vowels, so I've heard. It's $20 for a reason, folks, and that reason does not include "Saving our customers money because they are great people that regularly support Unicef." So, if this were to become a numbered list at some point in the future, I'd make Cheap shit is cheap for a reason, you poor, dumb bastard number one on the list.

Sometimes, you actually find a Black Friday deal that makes your wallet sing praises and old motown classics. Maybe you heard a rumor that Target is having a sale on ties for 40 cents a piece, or the bakery around the corner is giving out week old Napoleon pastries for free. Despite your supersleuth cheapskate detective work, always know that someone is more desperate than you. You got on line at 3:00 in the morning? Some other idiot got there at 2:59, and he is going to buy that $5 Encyclopedia Britannica set from 1993 before you, and it was the last one. As you drive home, Encyclopedia Britannica-less, you should find comfort in the fact that you still have a warm bed to go home to, and it's still only 3:30 in the fucking morning. Chances are the guy who got there before you is a lonely drifter that rides a horse with no name, and he only needs Volume F so he can look up "Famous Horse Names." Because, y'know... he needs to name his horse. With no name.

According to The Official Black Friday Deals Site, Costco is offering a KitchenAid 14-piece Heavy-Gauge Aluminum Cookware Set for $119.99. While the heavy price tag may be off-putting for most jobless hobos, Aluminum Cookware sets are your best friend. While everyone else is clamoring for the last $4 PDA, you can calmly locate the aluminum cookware set, remove the frying pan and start cracking skulls like the principal from The Breakfast Club.

Hobo: Wow! Ratt's greatest hits CD is only $10! I must have it!
You: Excuse me, is that Ratt's greatest hits CD, entitled "Ratt & Roll," featuring the smash hit "Round and Round?"
Hobo: Why, yes it is. And it's the last one!
You: Two hits.
Hobo: Excuse me?
You: Two hits. Me hitting you with my heavy gauge aluminum frying pan, and you hitting the floor.
Hobo: OK, I don't want any troub-- (BANG, thump)
You: Anybody else want some? Anyone else have any deals they'd like to share with me and Mr. 25 Pound Aluminum Deal Extractor?

Now that you've saved $5 on a crate of broken doorknobs, and you've safely made it home without accidentally killing a zombie that feasts on low, low prices, you're probably wondering what you should do with yourself. Chances are you didn't really need that crate of broken doorknobs, but shit, for $5 off, you'd have to be a stupid retarded moron to not buy a crate's worth. Now is the time to wrap your stupid Black Friday purchases in festive wrapping paper and give them to the Salvation Army. What homeless orphan wouldn't love a sexy fireman calendar from 2002, or labelmaker labels, or even a crate of broken doorknobs? No homeless orphan wouldn't love them, that's who wouldn't love them. No, I'm serious! Do you know how much fun a kid could have with labelmaker labels, even without the labelmaker? Why, he could pretend he had a labelmaker, and he could pretend that he had some important file folders to label. OK, this is getting too cruel, even for me. Seriously, don't send your stupid Black Friday purchases to homeless orphans, you insensitive prick. It's Thanksgiving for christ's sake.

So, as I said before in the introductory paragraph I wrote seven hours ago, while you're all out stabbing each other over useless Black Friday purchases, I'll be home, blissfully reloading CNN, waiting for the homicide reports to come rolling in. I'll also be eating turkey by the hamfisted handfuls. Have a great holiday weekend, and try not to die.

Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them.
Every single day I got the white man working for me. | Wednesday, 11.17.04
I do this every night. I'm sitting on the couch, watching some riveting piece of televisionary excellence, and within a matter of minutes I'm asleep and breathing loudly through my mouth. When I wake up around 2 in the morning, I panic as I attempt to moisten the inside of my mouth with saliva that evaporated sometime in between the Daily Show and the "GIT 'ER DUN" comedy hour. My contact lenses have fused themselves to my eyeballs like Alien facehuggers that turn blinking, walking in a straight line and not stabbing my eyes with a mechanical pencil impossible. Now, I have to star in my critically acclaimed role of "Valet Parking Attendant" at 2 in the morning, jockeying my car, Rachel's car, the neighbor's car, the idiot from across the street's motorcycle, and other assorted vehicles out of the driveway because my father wakes up around 2:30 in the morning to go to work, uphill, both ways. Please note that I'm jockeying cars without the use of my eyes (the Alien facehuggers have now laid their eggs in my eye caverns), so most times I just leave the cars in the middle of the street with their hazards on, because my parking skills are hazardous to your health. Finally, it's time to go to sleep for reals, but since I'm too tired to remember how to use stairs, I fall asleep in the middle of the living room like a gotdamn dog. If I was a wacky internet writing machine, I'd pen something hilarious here like, "Rinse, repeat," but that is a retarded trend that needs to die ten times, so I'll just end this uncomfortable sentence and look forward to greener pastures in the following paragraph. Join me, won't you?

Placid dream fuel.
I hate when you're in that weird state of dreaming, but not dreaming, but sort of dreaming, but still coherent stage that probably has a complicated psychology text-book name like the "fuzzywillow mindvagina" stage. You'll be having this weird dream where Harry Truman is asking you to hide his bowl of tomatoes, and all of a sudden you're talking a mile a minute and selling front row tickets to your fucked up psyche...

John: No Harry, I can't hide your tomatoes this time, you know we'll get caught...
Rachel: ...
John: Harry, this is a tomato-free school zone... don't tell my local grocer about the tomatoes...
Rachel: Uh, babe?
John: (suddenly awake and defensive) WHAT? I'm not sleeping! WHAT THE FUCK?
Rachel: Were you dreaming about hiding Harry Truman's tomatoes again?
Rachel: Pssh, whatever bitch.
John: *GASP* Grover Cleveland? What are you doing here? No, I'm not hiding any tomatoes, what ever do you mean? RUN HARRY!

I get very defensive when people accuse me of sleeping when I'm sleeping. Especially when I'm incoherently rambling on about the current happenings in the Land of Make-Believe that I visit every night on the Slumber Express. And did you ever say something in your sleep out loud that was just completely insane, so insane that your subconscious mind wasn't even able to comprehend its insanity, and you immediately follow it with, "What?" I do that all the time. Like, I'll be dreaming about something retarded, and all of a sudden I'll say something brilliant like, "And that's when I dropped out of high school and joined the neo Nazi puppy brigade. What?" And then Rachel will be like, "what, what?" And I'll just smile and roll over and continue my retarded dream. What the fuck is that, and why am I such a card?

I think the only course of action that will work (and the only course of action that I usually take) is to ban sleep entirely. No more facehugger contact lenses, no more dreaming of fruit and/or vegetable capers, no more disappointing morning realizations that I didn't die in my sleep. That was very deep and bloggy, I hope you enjoyed it. Why, if I removed sleeping from my packed schedule, I'd have more time to lose match after match of Halo 2 multiplayer, catch up on my Netflix rentals and ignore my hugely popular website. Or I could just stop pouting like a bitch and suffer the consequences of sleep. That sounds good too, but I was really in the mood to ban one of the basic essentials of life... so, fuck you "shelter!"

Hey baby, my name is "Milk," and I'll do your body good. Ooooh shit!
Actually, my name is Conrad. | Wednesday, 11.10.04
No man, they look good. No one can even notice them. Now let's go bang some fuckin' broads.
While searching the internet for a "club / lounge / drinking / smoking / rock-n-roll all night / party every day" locale for Rachel's upcoming birthday, it became very apparent that the majority of people my age that frequent these locales have Down's Syndrome. And that's ok, because people with Down's Syndrome are people too, but these were Down's Syndrome victims with ridiculously maintained eyebrows. And male body glitter. And a hat roguishly tilted to one side. In Jersey, this species is known as: "the guido." He will tell you how much money he makes selling cell phones within 2 minutes of meeting you. If his picture is taken, he's either giving you the finger, or the pointer finger / pinkie finger "I'M GONNA ROCK YOU, DUDE" metal hand salute. Usually, they are surrounded by hot bitches, and by hot bitches, I mean 15-year-old shkanks wearing Bongo the Happy, Goofy Clown make-up.

I don't think I can be lumped into a general category like that. Well, aside from "silent faggot." Usually when we go out, I'm sitting quietly, my hands neatly folded, maybe singing one of my favorite hymnals in my head, attempting to silence my internal demons with beer and complimentary Chex mix. Sometimes I'll bring my own Chex mix if I know the bar skimps out on free snacks, but nevertheless, I love Chex mix. Without warning, the guidos will attack on all fronts. "I make $80,000 a year selling cell phones, you fucker!" one will scream to no one in particular. "Let me get two double bacon cheesebur... OH SHIT I AM SO FUCKED UP, BRO!" says another to the bartender, who is very impressed with the guido's inability to remember where he is. Another cologne-enhanced guido is standing in the corner, mouthing every word to Jay-Z's "99 Problems," despite the fact that the DJ is spinning a song that is definitely not Jay-Z's "99 Problems." Me? I'm already putting a dent in my second tupperware container of Chex mix.

As Rachel and I scanned page after page of horrible, horrible-looking guidos and their glittery sperm receptacles, we both held each other and cried. How much time and money do these guys spend to get their eyebrows to look like that? It would almost be commendable if it wasn't so sad. They're like the uber-metrosexuals, completely primped and ready to "fuckin' kick your ass if you spill your drink on me, bro." I liked it better when white dudes tried to look black, because not only was it pathetic and sad, it was also possible that a real life black person would beat their stupid cracker asses. Now they've evolved into higher beings of macho gayness that's almost hot. Like, if you put any of their clothing and accessories on a woman, the woman wouldn't look that bad, and vice versa. If Rachel and I switched clothes, I'd look like a drag queen with clothing 6 times too small and she'd look like a brute with clothing 6 times too large. I'm not sure where I was going with that, but I'm going to stop so I can get the vision of wearing sexy pink underpants out of my brain forever.

A lot of people are upset that we are stuck with our current master and commander George W. Bush Jr. Sr. the third for four more years. Some of you started packing your bags for Canada until you remembered that you've never packed your own bags before, you don't know where Canada is, and you have a life-altering fear of police officers on horseback. Sure, GWB is a big scary terrorist-eating monster, but do you want to know what keeps me up at night? Someone my age is going to be president some day. Someone that received roughly the same education that I did. Someone that was given all of the same opportunities that I was. In about 30 years, the current president is going to know the Konami code off the top of his head. And do you want to see the chucklefucks that will be running the place?

The fuck you lookin' at?

Hooray! Why would a presidential election be any different from a high school student council election? Still a popularity contest. Still full of mongoloids that you can't stand. Still pointless. Only now, instead of a 17-year-old jock promising "3-hour lunch periods" and "Wacky Hat Fridays," we get 50-year-old curmudgeons promising "no new taxes" and "no new hearts for the vascularly challenged." It's all the same shit, and I guarantee we will see a Secretary of Keggers before we die. So save your complaints about America until we take over, because if there's one thing my generation does well, it's doing absolutely nothing.

I watch the world die on my Sony Trinitron that's switched to channel 5.
It's like Survivor, only watchable. And everyone's dead. | Friday, 11.05.04

Human Corpse to Be Shown Rotting on TV
LONDON (Reuters) - A British television channel is seeking a terminally ill volunteer to donate their body after death so it can be filmed as it decomposes.
Yahoo! News

I really wish that wasn't the opening paragraph of an actual news story, because then it wouldn't have to be the opening paragraph for this story. When I first saw the headline, I figured the show in question was going to be Fear Factor, and that the money hungry contestants would be forced to eat the corpse's genitals in order to move on to round 3. I have a strange beef with Fear Factor, because during last year's Christmas episode, Joe Rogan made the contestants eat "100-year-old eggnog." Yeah right. Some asshole in 1903 decided to save a keg of eggnog for a special occasion, such as making busty women vomit on national television. 100-year-old eggnog my ass, Joe Rogan. Hey, why don't you stop by my house for dinner tonight, we're having AIDS-infected unicorn meat.

Hi there. I'm Bub and I'm here to tell you about Bic disposable razors. Oh, and also: RARRHHGHH BRAINS BRAINS BRAINS...
Now these psychopaths across the pond claim that the show will be for educational purposes, which is fine. But I seem to remember a time when scientists conducted experiments in laboratories amidst bubbling test tubes and beeping machines that spit out equations on long sheets of adding machine paper. Why do we need to watch this on television? I'd be more than happy to read an article in TIME magazine about the findings... well, ok, I'd read most of it. Some of it. Maybe the opening paragraph. OK, fine, why don't you read it and tell me what happens?

Prepare for obvious joke about decomposing bodies that can already be seen on television. In 3, 2, 1...

Look, if I wanted to see a body decompose on TV, I'd watch the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather. Get it? Because he's old, and he's going to die, and... see, it's funny because, there's already a lot of old people on... nevermind. Just what exactly are the scientists going to discover during this experiment that they couldn't figure out by watching other animals rot? "Ok, it seems that the eyeballs deflate after about 20 days, not 18 days like we originally thought. You owe me 5 bucks, Earl. Now who wants to dress the corpse in a frilly negligee!?" I think it's just the television aspect that's bothering me. See, when I was over in Ireland two years ago, they had a friggin' channel devoted to Big Brother. I mean, you could turn the station on at any hour of the day and watch some dude scratching his testicles like he was a contestant on Testicle Scratching Star Search. God only knows how many Rotting Body channels they'll whip up over there in London Land... my guess is three. One channel will be devoted to the right side of the body, another channel will be devoted to the left side of the body, and another channel will be broadcasting live from inside the body's colon. And then every night at around 10:00, all of the channels will show highlights from the previous day's decomposition, with commentators circling rotting skin flaps like demented John Maddens over "Flight of the Bumblebees" or that song they play on Benny Hill when people are running around, being wacky.

Channel 4, which in 2002 broadcast Britain's first public autopsy for 170 years, said the program was being made in association with London's Science Museum and would be a unique experiment.
Yahoo! News

So the very first public autopsy was held in 1832? My, my, it must have been inconvenient watching a body get cut up in the town square amidst the plague victims and draculas and whatever else was roaming the earth in the 1800's. And you probably couldn't get the full effect of the autopsy over radio waves, considering the radio wasn't even invented yet. Luckily, we get to watch bodies decompose with a bag of Doritos in one hand and our johnsons in the other from the comfort of our comfy couches amidst empty beer cans and draculas and whatever else is roaming around our living room. I think I'd rather watch a channel devoted to scientists playing Texas Hold'em, or Connect Four.

I never like ending a piece with the words "in conclusion," so strap yourselves in for my totally original ending thing... POW! A conclusion draws near and cracks you upside the noggin! If scientists want to watch a body rot, that's cool with me. But if I had a choice between watching the Rotty McRotterson show and a three hour block of Full House... all right, I'd probably pick the Rotty McRotterson show. Especially if there were exposed naughty bits involved. Nevertheless, this is a horrible, horrible idea that probably won't ever pan out anyway, or it will reveal itself to be a retarded David Blaine-esque magic trick, wherein after 6 months, the corpse will sit up, yell, "Tada" and become a multi-billion dollar Coca-Cola sponsor. Hold on, I think I just invented the greatest television program ever, let me get my agent on the phone. Actually, let me get an agent first, then let me get him on the phone. Actually, fuck it, I don't even care anymore.

Four More Years! Four More Years! Oh dear god, four more years.
I'll miss you, sweet flip flopper. | Wednesday, 11.03.04
Hooooooooooo doggy.
If you voted for Kerry, now is the time to rip your phone from the wall, hammer wooden planks across your doors and windows, load a single bullet into your pistol and await the armageddon. OK, maybe it's not that bad, but if you're gay, you may want to get a refund on that VFW hall, because chances are you and your partner will not be getting married within the next four years. And if you were waiting for stem cell research to help cure your currently incurable disease, you may want to find alternate healing methods. Oh, and also, if you accidentally knock up your girlfriend, better start straightening those coat hangers, because having a doctor perform an abortion in a safe, sterilized environment doesn't sit right with our president, or his president, the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. That's right, the president actually reports to a higher president who lives on a fluffy white cloud in that great big red state in the sky.

I voted for Kerry, and not just because John Stewart said I should. It's because of the issues mentioned above, along with that pesky Iraq issue that seems to be killing a lot of boys and girls my age. Last night, in between San Andreas killing sprees, I'd switch over to CNN and watch the numbers trickle in, and I was actually surprised at how well Bush was doing. I guess this is because everyone around me was voting for Kerry, which makes sense because he won in Jersey... and New York, and Massachusetts... pretty much all of the east coast. For me, this wasn't like the last election. Last time, I was 19, and my main issue at the time was "Hur hur Bush sounds st00pid when he talks LOLZ!" so I voted for Gore. But this time, I knew the issues, I felt confident with my decision, and above all else, I actually trusted Kerry. That's probably naive of me, since you really can't judge a candidate on their pre-election fluff, but I bought into it because he really seemed like the exact polar opposite of the current cowboy maniac. God, first the Yankees get their asses handed to them by Boston, and now this.

Speaking of Massachusetts, Rachel and I went there last weekend to check out the sights and sounds of Halloween in Salem, the dead witch capital of the world. We also decided to check out the Red Sox parade because we enjoy being miserable on vacation. See, Boston fans were excited because after 752 of nonstop losing, their team somehow managed to sweep the Cardinals and win the World Series. But you would never be able to tell, because all that the fans cared about was how well the Yankees perform fellatio on themselves and each other. "Yankees suck!" they all screamed for hours on end in between setting fire to everything and everyone that appeared slightly flammable. Standing among the Boston fans was like that part in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when Sean Connery was like, "We are pilgrims in an unholy land, junior" because he was surrounded by Nazis or something, I really can't remember because I don't think the Last Crusade was a very good movie IMHO LOL NO TICKET.

We spotted one guy wearing a Yankees jersey at the parade, walking around in a drug-induced stupor. He was also wearing a sign around his neck that read, "Dead Man Walking," which was pretty ironic because a few minutes after we snapped his picture, he was disemboweled by a mob of coked up Red Sox fans and fed to their dogs. Boston fans hate us just like the terr'ists hate freedom and skyscrapers, so supporting the Red Sox is just like supporting the terr'ists that wish to ejaculate terr'r and misery all over our unsuspecting faces and stomachs. Rachel and I played it safe by hiding our Jersey accents and saying things like, "Those Yanks ah wicked awful," and "How do you like 'dem apples, pallie?" and "Matt Damon is a wicked fine actor." It wasn't enough, though, because while driving back to the hotel on I-95, some guy must have noticed my Jersey plates and decided it would be fun to cut me off, slam on his brakes and then speed off into the night. I guess that's how they do it up in Boston, although I'm not exactly sure what "it" is.

So, the Yankees suck, my candidate lost, and I'm hungry. Can life get any worse? The answer is yes, since my tubby ass will probably get drafted in a few months, and I'll be defending our country with a blasť shrug. "Oh, I have to kill those guys? Ok, I guess. Wow guys, this is just like Halo! Oh, nevermind, now I'm dead." Thank you red states, now I can die a miserable, dishonorable death.

This update is about voting and it is horrible.
BROWNIES | Tuesday, 11.02.04
I guess you could argue that I am part of the media. A very teensy weensy tiny part that reigns supreme in my own damn mind, but a part nonetheless. And since you're getting bombarded by messages to STOP EVERYTHING YOU ARE DOING AND VOTE VOTE VOTE, I'll go easy on you, even though, as a part of the great American media machine, it's my job to make sure you STOP EVERYTHING YOU ARE DOING AND VOTE BUY VOTE BUY VOTE.

When I was a kid, I can remember going along with my parents to vote. I'd watch them disappear behind the curtain, catching a small glimpse of what appeared to be thousands of knobs, switches and levers that looked overly complicated and overly fun. Luckily, children at my local voting station got their own voting machine, where they could vote for political heavyweights like Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Goofy... Dog. Every four years I'd vote for my favorite Walt Disney corporate icon, and every four years I'd watch in disbelief as Donald Duck was robbed of the great American throne. "He didn't even get 1% of the vote? This is motherfucking cocksucking assraping bullshit!" I'd scream from inside my giant refrigerator box/GI Joe fort. Was I not voting correctly? Did I forget to push the little red lever on the side? It soon became apparent that my vote didn't matter. I could vote for Donald Duck a thousand times a day, and he still wouldn't be elected, and then we'd all be stuck with a non-duck, pants-wearing president for four more years.

Personally, I'm looking for a presidential candidate that will lower taxes, support stem cell research, spit acid and breakdance on a flaming piece of cardboard. After watching the debates, it has come to my attention that this candidate does not exist, so I'm forced to choose between the maniac cowboy and Herman Munster. I know who I'm voting for, but I'm not here to push my political agenda, I'm here to bore you with political updates that you won't read. For instance, I could insert crappy KMFDM lyrics into my updates and no one would even notice. I declare war on the world | War in outer space | I declare war in a nutshell | War all over the place. See? No one cares and I've fallen asleep fifteen times during the course of the last three paragraphs.

As a reward for surviving this horrible, horrible update, here is a recipe for Easy Fudge Brownies. It's the least I can do. Actually, doing nothing is the least I can do, but just cook the fucking brownies and vote.

Easy Fudge Brownies
1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup cocoa
1 cup packed brown sugar
2 eggs
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1/4 tsp salt

Melt the butter then remove from heat. Stir in the cocoa. Stir in the brown sugar. Beat in the eggs and the vanilla. Next, blend in flour, walnuts and salt. Spread in an 8 inch greased pan. Bake in preheated oven at 350 F. Recipe brownies will bake in 20 to 25 minutes.



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