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est. 02.27.02

tmh superfriends:

February 2003

This is beginning to hurt / This is beginning to get serious.
one year and counting, you son of a bitch. | Thursday, 02.27.03
It's the thismayhurt.com Birfday Extravaganza! That's right, your favorite website is now one year old, and it's already cussing and spitting at a fourth grade level. Come join me on a magical adventure through time, as I look back upon some of this site's greatest moments. It will be like one of those sitcom clip shows, where the commercial states "catch an all new Perfect Strangers tonight at 8:30," but in reality it's just Balki and Cousin Larry sitting around, flashing back to some of their previous adventures, like that time Cousin Larry wanted to get involved in a shady money-making scheme, Balki said something unintelligable and everyone had a great time.

Actually, now that I think of it, creating a flashback sitcom episode requires milling through al of the old footage, selecting some clips and slapping them together. Sounds like a lot of work to me, quite frankly. And since I have neither the time nor the patience to read all of my old updates and cut and paste the three funny things I've said all year into this update, I'd much rather show you some "behind-the-scenes" OMG-so-private pictures of some site related stuff. Yes, it's most likely going to be pictures of me typing and scraching myself. Fuck off, I'm throwing a party for some lines of code, I've clearly lost my mind.

Suspect considered dangerous on the mic, yo.
My town is chock full of educated police officers. | Tuesday, 02.25.03
Run for your lives! It's the Eminem® Bandit!
Holy shit, my town is in the news! And not just as the recipient of the "Most Asbestos in One School District" award (although we're still hoping to beat out our rivals in Asbestos Creek, AL). No ladies and gentlemen, it seems there's a bank robber among us. And not just any bank robber... a bank robber with a knit hat. And since he's white and wearing a hat that those darned colored folks always seem to wear, he is being referred to as "The Eminem® Bank Robber."

Video stills, captured by various bank surveillance cameras, show the suspect wearing several different oversized ski caps that cover his ears, much like rapper Eminem® wears. One of the caps is grey, another is black, and a third features a New York Yankees logo.
-- A news source that's "in the know."

Let's see, so that narrows it down to... everyone who has ever been cold while withdrawing money from a bank. Are you fucking kidding me? A guy wears a hat and robs a bank, and all of a sudden he's the Eminem® Bank Robber? Witnesses also say the suspect was wearing pants, thereby earning him the nickname "That Bank Robber Who Wears Pants."

Run for your lives! This is also the Eminem® Bandit!
Y'know, one day this guy who looked like a penguin started robbing banks. He would hatch these crazy schemes to overthrow Gotham city, he had all these cooky henchmen, and eventually this penguin-looking man started being referred to as "The Penguin." Do you want to know why he was referred to as "The Penguin?" BECAUSE HE LOOKED LIKE A FUCKING PENGUIN! He walked all funny, and he carried an umbrella, and, so help me god, the man ate raw cod! That is an example of excellent nickname association. Not the, "OMG that dude has a beard, he's like, the Obi Wan Kenobi bank robber, OMGLOL!!!!!!!!!11" system we have set up here in Kearny.

Now I know what racial profiling is all about. It's kind of like when they draw up police sketches of rapists and killers, and the sketch looks like every black male who has ever lived. The next time I go to the bank, I have to make sure I leave my hat in the car so I'm not shot on site, asked for my Eminem autograph and shot some more. Come to think of it, I'm probably public enemy #1, since I rarely leave my house without wearing a knit hat. Oh, and I blew up that bus full of orphans while wearing a knit hat, too. Christ, just call me the "Eminem Orphan Bus Destroyer" or some shit.

But who I am to judge? Maybe the dude seriously does look like America's favorite Grammy nominated homophobic rapper. Imagine trying to be a legitimate bank robber, mindsing your own, barking out bank robbery orders like, "Get down on the floor bitch!" and "Stop calling the police or I will shoot you in the face, sir!" All of a sudden Carson Daly shows up with a rag-tag group of 13 year olds begging for you to slap them in the face and call them "bitches." You don't need that shit. You're not the Eminem® Bank Robber. Eminem® is the Bank Robbing Rapper. I feel you, bank robber. Big ups to Detroit, yo.

That's my song!
No it's not. | Thursday, 02.20.03
You know what I can't stand? People proclaiming that a song is "theirs." Maybe it's only because I don't have a song to call my own, but when I hear someone say, "That's my song, yo," I instinctively want to plunge something sharp into their face. "Oooh, turn that shit up! That, right there, is my song!"

And you know, it's one thing to say that you like a song so much that it's yours. Fine. But these people usually have about 17 songs that they claim as their own. I mean, now you're just being greedy. An example...

Thug: Oh snap, you heard that new Fitty Cent joint? That's my song right there, yo!
me: No I haven't, but I'm certain that it is most likely, ahem, banging.
Thug: True. True. Yo, you heard Get At Me Dog, nigga? Yo, that's my --
me: Let me guess. Would that also be your song?
Thug: Why am I talkin' to you again?
me: I was about to ask you the same thing.

I hate all music besides what's in my CD changer right now. Sometimes, I even hate that CD, too. But this whole "that's my song" thing has got to stop. It's not your song. It's not even Fitty Cent's song, since I can almost guarantee that he had nothing to do with its creation. Do you want to know whose song it is? The Lord God's. It must be, because that's who Fitty Cent will thank when he wins 700 Grammies.

Your Tauntaun will freeze before you reach the first marker.
Then I'll see you in Hell, hyah! | Sunday, 02.16.03
This just in from the thismayhurt.com weather service... DON'T FORGET TO WEAR YOUR MITTENS! Also, if you have to return a video to Blockbuster tomorrow, and you live on the east coast, be sure to kiss everyone you love, because you will most likely die a horribly chilly death. This has been a special weather service announcement from thismayhurt.com. We now return you to Three's Company, already in progress.

I'm a 8th grade intarweb hax0r.
DOOM unt PORN. | Friday, 02.14.03
Remember when you were a kid, and you begged your parents to buy a computer? And eventually they'd agree, as long as it was deemed "The Family Computer," and was placed in a common area. I can remember watching my father use a word processor, and practically jumping out of my skin with excitement. A fucking word processor. Like, a typewriter with a 2 inch LCD screen. I'm surgically attached to my mom's leg, begging, "Please, please! I'm 10! I have important documents to type up!" And she was like, "What are you, fucking retarded? You're better off getting a computer, because you can do more than just type with it. Stupid. You can't even read yet, can you?"

In 1992, you would have killed for this computer, with its 2.7k of hard drive space and enough memory to barely play Prince of Persia in black and white. Isn't that green and black grid background thing cool? I made that. It's supposed to look like, y'know, all futury and stuff. I'm great.
So, months and/or years go by, and finally, the Lacki family breaks down and buys a computer. An extremely affordable $500,000 Macintosh LCII, complete with: a 4" color screen, and vowel keys! I play with it for five minutes, get scared because it talks, and promptly forget that I ever wanted it in the first place. See, I had a big problem with talking electronics as a child. Maybe because digitized voices back in the day sounded like they were coming out of a butt half the time, but regardless, speaking appliances put me off my food.

Years later, I discover two ingredients that would make any 8th grader fall in love with a personal computer: DOOM and porn. Now, since this was considered the "family computer," it sat smack dab in the corner of the dining room, which was (and still is, as a matter of fact) attached to the kitchen and the living room. No problem for a quick game of DOOM. Big problem for a quick game of "download as much porn as possible, save the images to a floppy disk, retain the images for later use, and destroy the evidence off the hard drive."
(BTW: this was before the World Wide Web was frequented by people other than HAM radio operators and NASA. This was before AOL charged a fixed rate. I'm an old man.)

Of course, about a year later we just put the computer in my room, thereby destroying any challenge I presented for myself, and turning my ninja-like skills into a pile of flabby goo. Porn is no fun if it's easily accesible. If your dad was like, "Hey son, I talked it over with your mom, and she said it would be ok if I gave you my stack of pornographic novellas," you'd be excited at first, sure. But where's the sense of pride? Where's the love? It's good to have goals as a child. Especially when the goals involve floppy disks full of creepy porn.

Now, as an adult, I wish my parents never bought that stupid computer. When I go to work at the helpdesk, I work on a computer. When I go to my internship, I work on a computer. Granted, it's sitting on a pile of cinderblocks in a janitor's closet, but it's a computer nonetheless. Two of my classes are held in computer labs. And what do I do when I go home at night? Sit in front of the fucking computer! When does it end? I've beaten the shareware version of DOOM many, many times, and I refuse to download porn unless it involves participating in some kind of obstacle course in order to view it.

Kill your God. Kill your PC.

And hey, how about that nutty Star Wars bar?
Can you forget all those creatures in there? | Monday, 02.10.03
Often times, people ask me, "John, what bar or eatery from a motion picture most accurately depicts the culture and/or the social interactivity of the students at Rutgers Newark?" And often times, without even thinking, I reply, "the fucking cantina, man!" It is at this point that I usually receive a blank stare, to which I guffaw, "You know, the cantina! Fuckin' Mos Eisley space port? Greedo shooting first? 'Your droids, they'll have to wait outside'? The muthafuckin' cantina, man!" The other person then replies, "Oh yeah, I love Star Trek!" After curb stomping their uncultured face into the cement, I compose myself and write this update.

Yes, Rutgers Newark is a lot like the cantina from Star Wars, episode 4. And here's why...

1) Funky Music. The Star Wars cantina had some memorable music. Well, they had that one song. And that other song that wasn't that one song. I'm sure all those geeky-assed nerd geeks from the 70's used to hum those catchy numbers while they sat in their basement, playing Pitfall and waiting for their X-Ray specs and Sea Monkeys to arrive in the mail. Well, just like the Star Wars cantina, Rutgers Newark is full of funky jingles as well! Just walking around campus, you hear all types of music. Sometimes, it's the newest Fitty Cent single, assaulting everyone within ear shot with the help of a Panasuanic or Magnavoox ghetto blaster. Or sometimes, there's a festival on our grand lawn, promoting diversity and racial understanding with the help of a DJ from Hot 97, blasting the newest Fitty Cent single. Other times, it's the sound of a young woman begging for her life, then being shot execution style in the back of the head over the $3 she has in her pocket. Regardless, there's a full-on aural assault upon stepping foot on the campus, much like the cantina, which... played... that one song.

2) Aliens Aliens Aliens! (aliens). In Star Wars lore, if you were a weird looking alien, and you didn't have at least one drink at the Mos Eisley cantina, you sucked. It's like, the place to go and get "rowdy rowdy." Similarly, if you're from a foreign country, and you don't attend Rutgers Newark, they send your ass packin' back to the desert, swamp or island overflowing with shrunken monkey heads from whence you came. It's nothing personal, it's just the law. So, this guarantees that no one can understand each other without the help of effeminate interpreter droids like C-3PO. But, last time I checked, Rutgers could barely afford to buy desks with legs, let alone faggy golden robots for everyone to haul around. Therefore, we here at the Newark campus are reduced to dirty looks and grunting. Hooray for cultural acceptance! Che?

3) What? Random shootings? Yes, please!. In the original Star Wars, Han shot Greedo first because he was a fucking badass with a black vest. In the much hated "Special Edition," Greedo shot at Han first, thereby prompting Han to shoot Greedo second, thereby removing any sac that George Lucas allowed Harrison Ford to harness. If Rutgers Newark had a "Special Edition," we would not only receive more hard-to-understand students through the help of CGI and ILM, we'd have everyone shooting each other first. As it is, we have about 4,000 homicides per semester, some of which are unsolved and some of which were my fault, by accident. I'm sorry, but if I can't find a parking spot, I'm going to make my own on the fourth floor of Hill Hall. If you would like to live, allow me to park whereever I want and stop holding classes in my makeshift parking lot, ok? The homicides that aren't my fault usually involve a .22, a bottle of Courvoisier, and a thugged out Civic. "Sorry about the mess." LOL! Han Solo said that in the cantina! OMGLOL! <^.^>

4) Bounty Hunters, Smugglers, and Intergalactic Space Sluts. The cantina was rich with three things: bounty hunters, smugglers, and intergalactic space sluts. And if you've read the first three entries in this update, you know where number four is headed. If I needed to have someone rubbed out for a fee, I could find someone at Rutgers Newark to do it for me. If I needed to have some illegal substances smuggled into Uruguay, I could find someone at Rutgers Newark to do it for me. And don't even let me get started on the sluts, thank you very much. Tons of 'em. They live in the walls, I believe. As an incoming freshman girl, you're given thigh-high hooker boots, a five gallon drum of eyeliner and four year's supply of back fat and rolls. My god, the rolls.

So there you have it. Not only are we at Rutgers Newark similar to the Mos Eisley cantina, we're exactly the fucking same as the Mos Eisley cantina. All that's missing is the pleasant atmosphere, some lightsabers and Sir Alec Guiness. But I'm working on it.

I'm like Jerry Seinfeld, only infinitely more attractive.
The above was a joke. I'm not like Jerry Seinfeld at all. | Sunday, 02.09.03
Did you know that I'm a college student / cubicle creature by day and a stand-up comedian by night? Neither did I until I realized that it's really easy to be a stand-up comedian, so what better time to start than now? I'm still working on my act, but I think I've got some fresh and inventive material. Here, let me see what you think...

My Stand-Up Comedy Routine

Hello (insert city here)! Wow, it's really great to be here. Did you ever notice how people are like, really stupid? Like, you see a guy, and he's standing on the street, looking at stuff, and he's all, "Duh, I'm stupid." Right? Have you seen these people? Wow! It makes me want to shoot people in the face with a gun. And then sometimes, you see a girl, and she's at the mall with her friends, and she's all like, "I love shopping and I hate men!" Right? Fellows, you know what I'm talking about! Yeah!

Girls are crazy, man. One time I saw this girl at the store, and she was buying adult diapers and some Skittles. And I was like, "Gee, I wish I was hanging out with you tonight!" What a stupid bitch! Am I right, fellows? I mean, I assumed she was buying the adult diapers for an older person that she was taking care of, and perhaps she was going to eat the Skittles on the way home from the store, but, whatever man, chicks are fucking nuts, bro.

Guys will do anything to make a chick notice them, too. Awww yeah, guys! You know what I'm talking about! My buddy calls me up the other day, and he was like, "I'm going out to meet some chick tonight, so I'm going to take a shower and clean the grit out from underneath my fingernails." And I'm like, "Dude, you're so whipped!" Right guys? What a fucking pussy! "Duh, I like girls, I'm going to clean myself and look nice!" Fag! Yeah, they got married a few weeks ago. The reception was nice, but I had an allergic reaction to the penne pasta. That kind of sucked.

And what about people with their penne pasta, huh? Aren't those people crazy? They're all like, "Hey, you should come over and have some penne pasta with me and my father!" And I'm like, "Dude, I thought your father was dead, you dirty jew!" Am I right? Isn't my friend who doesn't exist a dirty jew with a dead father? Crazy stuff, man.

Have you folks seen the news lately? There's some crazy stuff going on out there, man. How come the weatherman is always wrong? He's all like, "It's going to be cold out tomorrow, so wear a jacket." And I'm like, don't fucking tell me what to do, you piece of shit. And then he's like, "I'll do what I want, I'm a weatherman!" And I'm like, "Whatever man. You suck." Am I right? The guys in here know what I'm talking about. Yeah!

Well, it looks like I've run out of time. (Insert city here), you were great! Thank you, goodnight!

If that myth was true, my sperm would be water.
Mountain Dew: LiveWire review | Thursday, 02.06.03
Before hooking up wit my girlee, I never indulged in the carbonated pleasures of "The Dew." It was just another beverage, along with Dr. Pepper, Shasta and Lemon Lime Elephant Urine that never appeared on my liquid radar. A glance in her fridge revealed gallons upon gallons of Mountain Dew, and my ass was floored by its sickly sweet carbonated... acity.

Soon afterwards, I began working at CVS, and the Dew became my official drink of choice. Also, 2 for 1 Hostess cakes became my official dinner of choice, and as a result, my ass and mantits have never fully recovered. Nevertheless, the point of these first two paragraphs are to enunciate my undying worship of all things Mountain Dew. Are we up to speed, now? Can we move on, people? Great.

Before I move on to the real meat of this update, I'd like to mention another Dew related anecdote if I may. One day, at a small convenience store, I got a hankering for my drink of choice. So I grab a can of Dew and wait in line to pay my $.75. The young man ahead also attended the Church of Latter Day Dew, as he had a can as well. The girl he was with could not fully comprehend the awe-inspiring powers of Dew, as exemplified in the following conversation...

guy: Gee, I really like Mountain Dew.
girl: LOL mountain dew lowers your spermz count LOLLERZ!!
guy: Hur hur, I know, but I still like it.

WRONG ANSWER! You are now officially excommunicated from the Church of the Latter Day Dew! Drinking Mountain Dew does not lower your sperm count. Listening to dumb, Dew-hating bitches, however, does.

I fell hard for Code Red, the top-secret-sounding red-flavored cousin of Classic Dew as well upon first taste. I say "red-flavored" because it doesn't really taste like cherry, or strawberry, or even a strange mix of cherry and strawberry. It simply tastes "red." However, I think my tolerance for the Red is diminishing, as one slurp of the stuff sends me into a sugar-induced coma. The shit is fucking sweet. You could probably revive a corpse by injecting half a syringe of Code Red into its rotting arm. But again, I still occasionally enjoy the Red, and wish to subscribe to its fan club.

A recreation of me staring down into my ALF cup asking why, why must Mountain Dew LiveWire taste like a citrus flavorered asshole.
Now, here's the entire reason I wrote this stupid update in the first place: Mountain Dew LiveWire. Just think of the possibilities... a Dew that tastes like orange (not the fruit, the color). It's the taste sensation that's sweeping the nation, and I was determined to go on a quest to find a bottle. I quickly gave up on the quest when I realized it would most likely involve leaving my room and interacting with a cashier that would take great interest in the potency of my ejaculate. Rachel's mom understood the signifigance behind my quest, and picked up a 2 liter; her daughter would deliver the soon-to-be holy grail of beverages to my house that evening.

I prepared myself, ALF cup shaking in hand like a junkie trying to find a vein in his pinky toe. I cracked open the cap, inhaling the LiveWire fumes that wafted through the air. I poured a healthy serving into my ALF cup and drank... what the shit? This... this sucks. It tastes like rust and bird droppings with a hint of Pledge! Bad! Bad LiveWire!

I calmed myself down. Perhaps my body was simply rejecting the grog. Maybe my taste buds couldn't comprehend the pure genius behind citrus Dew. I cautiously sipped again... nope... still crap. Thanks LiveWire, my entire life is ruined, now. Mountain Dew bottlers, you should stick to the classic green flavor, unless you figure out a way to make a) Chocolate Dew b) Alcoholic Dew or c) Dew that tastes like Jesus.

Charismatic icon animal man.
Damn! Hey! Yeah! Damn! | Wednesday, 02.05.03

:: henry rollins spoken word ::
tonight @ town hall, nyc.
4th spoken word show for me (first for rachel).
i'm gay for henry rollins.

This just in: Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead.
I'm a great writer. | Sunday, 02.02.03
I can't stand televised news. Actually, scratch that. I can't stand televised news when stuff is actually happening. With my cable plan I get CNN, MSNBC, Fox News and something else. So yesterday morning, I load up the drudge report and read the horrifying headlines about Columbia's failed reentry. This was at around 10:00 a.m., EST. At this point, not much was known about... well anything, really. Drudge was on top of things as usual, but if your only source of information came from cable news channels, you'd be fucked.

See, 24 hour news channels are a great thing, in theory. But when shit goes down, it seems like the newsrooms fall apart. The "journalists" know nothing besides what's being scrolled across their teleprompter. The "reporters" who are covering the story are interviewing any fucking yahoo they can get their mic and camera near. And the viewers at home are given the same information told 7,000 different ways until the station decides it's ok to cover more important, viewer-friendly stories, like the box office earnings for CGI kangaroo movies.

At 10:00 am, every cable news station knew three things: NASA lost contact with the Columbia shuttle, people in Texas heard "sonic boom" noises often associated with reentry, and that touching the debris that fell from the sky was a punishable offence. The stations also had two pieces of media to accompany their newscast: a five to ten second clip of the shuttle entering the atmosphere with a trail of smoke behind it, and a still shot of the crew. I thought that fucking shuttle was dropping for about 10 minutes, since they kept showing the same footage over and over.

By 11:00 am, I stopped watching television all-together. No one knew anything, and no one was allowed to say that all the crew members were dead until they received an official statement. I agree that this was important story that needed to be covered, but how many times can you warn the viewers at home to stay away from the charred remains of an Israeli astronaut, since they might be toxic? "This just in, the shuttle still hasn't landed, you can still get arrested for touching smoldering shuttle parts and/or crew members, and... uh... we have some amateur footage to hold you over until we get some real gruesome shots. Jane, back to you."

Dear cable news channels: When tragedy strikes, you're allowed to cover other stories. Remember Iraq? Yeah, it doesn't just fall of the face of the earth when something big happens. I bet Gary Condit shit his pants in excitement once the first tower went down on September 11th, since his story wasn't just put on the back burner, it was put back in the freezer. Yes, we're Americans, we're fucking lazy and we love our CGI kangaroo movies. But it's up to the news organizations to cover everything, not just the stories with the cool sound bites and rehashed footage.



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