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lacki
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est. 02.27.02

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February 2004

Oh, it's such a perfect day... I'm glad I spent it with you.
Happy Birthday You Glorious Bastard. | Friday, 02.27.04
Since it's thismayhurt.com's birthday, I decided to take it out for tacos and sodas because everyone loves tacos and sodas. Remember when you were a kid, and either yourself or one of your friends would have a birthday party at Burger King? And there would be this long table full of supercool presents, and then one kid would always cry because it wasn't his birthday, and then his mom would have to come and pick him up and she'd call him spoiled and threaten to throw out all of his Star Wars toys? Um... no, neither do I. Anyway, my kid is going to have all of his parties at Taco Bell until he's 28, and yes, I will be having a baby boy because my sperm understands the importance of keeping the Lacki bloodline alive and will impregnate accordingly.

I never enjoyed birthday parties as a kid. All my friends had HUGE families, which meant they'd get triple the amount of presents that I'd get from my motley crue of relatives who deny each others' existence. I remember my friend got that stupid Nintendo PowerGlove for his birthday, and even though deep down I knew that it was a crappy gimmick controller, it didn't stop me from taking frequent attempts at ending my life at the age of 8. It didn't help that my friend was a bastard, and would wear that stupid PowerGlove like he was the commander of a great nerd platoon. I'd come home and tape a regular NES controller to a mitten and attempt to get past the first level of NARC out of spite, but it just wasn't the same. Oh sure, I looked equally ridiculous, and my ghetto rigged controller actually worked, but no parent wants their child to have a Nintendo playdate with a porky child wearing one red mitten.

In first and second grade, you can't discriminate against your unclean, foreign or mentally handicapped classmates, so you're forced to invite all sorts of unsightly characters to your birthday party. Upon their arrival, the bowling alley becomes a melting pot of scummy little bastards who will break your new toys and laugh at the fact that you have parents that love you. I remember inviting a small foreign boy, Octavio, to my superneat first grade bowling party, and that immigrant bastard didn't even have the decency to show up. Do you know how long it took my 6-year-old hand to write "OCTAVIO" on his ALF invitation? So what if he didn't speak a word of English, and had no idea what my name was. I just wanted enough presents that I could trade in for a freakin' PowerGlove, so that I could lead my own squad of geeky mouth-breathers into battle.

So yeah, the site is two years old today. Two years ago, I was sitting at a terminal at Rutgers' spacious and lovely Dana Library, banging out the site's first update. This year, I hope to turn thismayhurt.com into the grandest gardening site on the internet, and through your continued support and contributions, I'll make all my dreams come true. So thanks for stopping by, and tune in next week, when I'll show you how to keep those naughty squirrels out of your begonias for good!

 
The Best Preview of the Passion of the Christ on the Internet in the World
the the the the | Wednesday, 02.25.04
JESUS CHRIST!
I'm looking forward to seeing The Mel the Gibson's "The Passion the of the Christ" because I enjoy watching carpenters turn into raw hamburger after 12 straight hours of whipping and thorny crown-wearing. Seriously, have you seen footage of this movie? Remember that scene in Evil Dead 2, where Ash shoots his disembodied hand through the wall, and then the walls start gushing gallons of blood all over the place? That's like the PG version of "The Passion of the Christ." Can you beat this man some more please, Mr. Gibson, I'm not completely convinved that you've lost your fucking mind, yet. Jesus Christ.

As usual, the world is outraged over this sacriligious monstrosity because Mel Gibson is a Jew killer and he generously supports the Nazi party whenever they hold bake sales and he buys all the Concentration Camp Cookies that the young Aryan Scouts sell during Christmas. Hey, I don't remember Sunday School all that much, but I do know that God wrote the bible, and since Mel Gibson is basing his batshit insane movie off the bible, I think it's safe to assume that God is a Jew hater, and we should all stop supporting Him and all His stupid creations. Mel Gibson does not hate Jewish people, ok? His father hates Jewish people because he's convinced the Holocaust was actually a huge pizza party for Jewish all-stars. Also, he wears a tinfoil hat to block martian mind rays because the FBI is monitoring his heart rate through the television and his hamster, Philip, is a government secret agent from Venus. Just be thankful Papa Gibson can't operate a camera, or else we'd all be watching "The Passion of the Hitler: Jewish Pizza Party Coordinator."

While I'm sure "The Passion" will be, at the very least, a series of pictures shown in quick succession that will trick the eye into perceiving movement, I'm really looking forward to the sequal. I can picture the trailer already...

MARY MAGDALEN!
Announcer: They thought he was dead...
Mary: Nooooooooooo!
Announcer: They thought his reign had ended...
Pontius Pilate: Your reign has ended, Jesus!
Announcer: They thought he'd never come back...
{footage of a bloodied cross}
Announcer: They're about to find out...
Jesus (toting dual uzi's): I'm back, motherfuckers!
Announcer: They were wrong.
{Drowning Pool: Let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies hit the floor...}
Announcer: This summer...
Mary Magdalen: Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead!
Jesus: I came back for you, baby.
Announcer: It's Jesus as you've never seen him before.
Roman Soldier: Stop right there, Jesus. Seize him!
Jesus: (dodges spears and whips in bullet-time)
Announcer: Mel Gibson's...
Pontius Pilate: I want that fruity carpenter dead, you hear me? Dead!
Announcer: The Revenge of the Passion of the Christ
Wacky Teenage Sidekick: Jesus, you're crazy!
Jesus: Give us this day our daily DEAD.

So, when you and your congregation purchase tickets to what promises to be "the ultimate experience if grueling savior-related terror," keep an open mind. Like Alfred Hitchcock, Stanley Kubrick and Spike Lee, Mel Gibson is a director that you can trust. Why, just look at all of his past masterpieces... oh shit. All right, actually folks, I have no idea what to expect from "The Passion of the Christ," but I'm going to be thoroughly disappointed if the theater is out of Junior Mints, because they're awesome and if Jesus ate candy, I'd like to think he ate Junior Mints. Unless it was considered a sin to eat mints. Then, I'd have to assume that Jesus ate Snowcaps when he went to the movies. Or the donkey drive-in.

 
My dreams are a lot like MLK Jr's, only they suck and no one cares.
fuckt up dreamz | Monday, 02.23.04
"Nothing ever happens in your dreams," says Rachel one day when discussing the previous night's fecal brain matter. "I mean, stuff happens, but nothing really happens." She's right. Sometimes she'll explain one of her dreams to me and I'll sit there riveted, a single tear crawling down my face as my brain attempts to decipher the hidden codes that lie deep beneath 12 layers of complexity and Jungian archetypes. Then she'll turn to me, "So what did you dream about last night?"

Someone tried to steal my car stereo. I'm at someone's house, and when I come outside, my driver's side door is gone. Like, completely ripped off. I'm upset by this. I look inside and see that there are scuff marks all around my stereo, as if the thief was trying to pry it out with a crowbar, with minimal success. So, the stereo's still there, but now my sunglasses are gone. "Those were sixty dollar sunglasses!" I tell no one. I look at the stereo again and notice that the faceplate is missing. I tell the indiscernible person standing next to me that the faceplate is missing. The person says, "No it isn't." And then it's back. Oh yeah, my stereo doesn't even have a faceplate. Then I wake up.

It's now 4:30 in the morning, and I have to wake up in 2 and a half hours for work. Although I really want to look out my window to see if my car door is still missing, I fight the urge, throw one of my pillows across the room and go back to sleep. Within seconds, I'm dreaming again...

I'm now back in my room, and it's late. Rachel is sleeping on my couch, and I'm sitting next to her, probably watching TV. Suddenly, I hear an electric drill, like a soft whirring sound. I run to the window and see a gray van double-parked next to my car. I wake up Rachel, "They're trying to steal my stereo again!" I run downstairs and now I'm outside in front of my house. Everything's in slow motion, as I attempt to run against the pressure of those weird dream force-fields that feel like you're running in quicksand. I scream, "DAD!" but it hangs in the air all garbled up, like I was speaking through a broken bullhorn. I guess I wanted him to come outside and help me stop the gray van. I scream again, "Stop, fucker!" but now my car and the gray van are both gone. Then I wake up...

... to my alarm. I reach for my contacts, and try to determine what's real and what isn't. Would my car door be missing if someone was trying to steal my stereo? No, I think it was just a dream. Oh shit, I hope no one stole my sunglasses! Wait, that was part of the dream, too. Faceplate? Dream. Are my legs broken? Dream. What did all of that mean? I'm no dreamologist, but I'd have to say that I have a fear of someone stealing my car stereo again. Why can't I dream of puppy dogs and moonbeams and smiting my enemies with an iron fist of suffering and despair? You know, normal dreams.

 
Step right up, folks... anarchy for sale!
Be sure to rebel in proper style. | Tuesday, 02.17.04
I couldn't agree more.
Clothes play multiple roles in our culture. First off, they hide your shameful naughty bits and keep them warm, because there's nothing more unsettling than frosty shameful naughty bits (and don't even think of stealing that name, because I'm pitching it to the Kellogg's corporation next week). Clothes can be tied together into a makeshift rope, so you can escape from your bedroom when the prowlers break in and murder your entire family when you refuse to give them the combination to the wall-safe, even though there's nothing in the wall-safe besides your father's collection of carded Ewok figures, which he claimed would be worth millions before he was killed by coked-up prowlers. Clothes can even grant magical wishes, providing you buy them from the "Clothes that Grant Magical Wishes" department at Marshalls. Yes, I guarantee that clothes can do all of these things, or I'll eat my hat (did I forget to mention that clothes, such as my aforementioned hat, are also edible?)!

Unfortunately, our culture likes to ignore the above fun facts and instead use clothes for one thing and one thing only, and that one thing and one thing only is determining social status. We're all guilty of it, so don't try and blow up my spot and be all like, "Pssh, I never do that," because I'll put you on blast and be all like, "Shyeah, ok." Rachel and I have turned it into a sport, complete with a complicated tier structure and grading system that only supercool geniuses such as ourselves could comprehend. Basically it involves calling people assholes based on their clothing preferences. A 52-year-old woman wearing leopard-skin legwarmers and a camisole covered in cat vomit? Chances are that person is an asshole. See, I just scored 5 points. If you're keeping score at home, the score is now John: 5, You: 0.

Nowadays, the youths of America are all these weird punk/Salvation Army hybrids, what with their strange retro t-shirts and their greasy Strokes hair. Why, back in my day, these misfits were ridiculed endlessly by the cool kids... now they are the fucking cool kids and now all the girls look like Advil Lavignengne and that pig Kelly Osbourne and I don't care who your father is, you're still a garbage can full of bacony treats. All of a sudden it's cool to be different, and the cheerleaders are comparing their nifty spike bracelets and Jhonen Vasquez underpants and the boys on the football team write poetry and listen to the Cure and cry when they see puppies. How are the real quasi-punker-goth-things supposed to rebel against the Abercrombie-corporate-grease-things?? Do they just pin more Linkin Park patches to their explosives-filled backpacks? Do they smoke cartons of Marlboro reds while all the Abercrombie boys smoke Virginia Slims Ultra Minty Chocolate Menthol Lights? Chances are no one will do anything, because children are lazy and overweight and you should get a damned job instead of listening to your devil music and when you live under this roof you follow my rules or else you'll be out on your fanny, little mister.

Now that I'm an old man, it's difficult for me to express myself through my radical threads. For instance, I can't show up to work in camo pants and a black hooded sweatshirt that reads FUCK YOU underneath a picture of an old woman fellating a horse. Sure, my rugged individualism and blatant disprespect for whitey would shine brighter than 1,000 suns on a hot August's morn, but I'd be fired quicker than you can say, "Here's a large Xerox box. Pack your shit and get the fuck out." Instead, I must express myself in creatively ambiguous ways, such as sitting here quietly and never expressing myself... ever. But I did hang an MSI patch in my cubicle, and I have this cool paperweight that Rachel got me that looks like a crumpled up piece of paper. See guys? I'm still the same, lovable free thinker I never was! I can still stop by and hang out wit yous guys, right? Guys?

 
Happy Valentine's Day (everyday the 14th)
Hold my drink, bitch. | Friday, 02.13.04
An answer to the age-old question: What did the green tentacle sperm thing say to the greenish-blue tentacle sperm thing? Um... "Be My Valentine" apparently.
Valentine's Day is upon us, and you're expecting me to spew forth a typical, anti-Hallmark tyrade that would render corporate America unstable from the hateful bitterness that lives in the dark recesses of the twisted, sinewy ball of valves that was once my heart. I would, but there's something holding me back: my love of delectable chocolate treats in lacy boxes. So I'll be taking the moral high road this time-- oh fuck it. I can be a miserable fuck, and eat my delectable chocolate treats. At least, that's what my sponsors at the Hallmark corporation told me.

People who aren't in relationships hate Valentine's Day because it reminds them that they are fat. While happy couples are out drinking fancy wine out of fancy glasses and throwing lobsters against the wall to gain access to their succulent insides, miserable single people are eating raw packages of Ramen noodles and carving numetal lyrics into their arms with a rusty screwdriver, because in the end, it really doesn't even matter, dude. Soon, passive mopiness turns to drunken drunkiness, as you slow dance with your mom to "Lady in Red" on the front lawn so all the neighbors can see. As the clock strikes midnight, you've successfully endured another Valentine's Day, and you celebrate by going down to the local bar to celebrate with all your friends and oh wait they all have girlfriends so you just eat some Rice Krispies and go to bed.

But that's ok, because...

People who are in relationships hate Valentine's Day because it reminds them that they have to do stuff. This includes remembering your partner's name, interests and sex. Also, you have to bust out those four little words that every woman loves to hear: "Here's your fucking flowers," followed by an overly-audible sigh and eye roll. You should refrain from telling her how much the flowers cost, even though you've gone over the numbers in your head with Rainman-like precision to figure out why the usual $12 bouquet from the gas station suddenly sky-rocketed to $150. They still smell like gas, my friend.

I'm not very romantic. Actually, that word "very" makes it seem that I have some potential for romantic sentiments, so allow me retract the previous statement and replace it with the following: I'm not romantic. Oh, I try. I pick up flowers every now and then. If we go out to dinner, I wear pants. On my legs. I avoid using the word "cocksucker" when conversating with my waiter or waitress. Christ, what else do you want from me? You want my love? Get in line, baby! (i love you i love you i love you omg please don't leave me i swear i'll change)

 
Activate the turbo boost.
a funny byline | Friday, 02.06.04
You may remember your handicapable gym teacher uttering the following phrase three inches from your face, the stench of jock strap and misery leaking from his manhole pores: "Driving is a right, not a privilege." You and your classmates would cast sideways glances to each other, knowing with full confidence that this man still lived with his mother, and hidden away in his closet was a mammoth collection of creepy 8MM pornography. "Barry," his mother would scream from the foot of the stairs, "will you be joining me for dinner?" He'd reply, "Driving is a right, not a privilege, mother!" and return to his copy of Sweaty Dodgeball Enthusiasts Monthly. Late at night, he'd prop up his covers with a yardstick to form a make-shift tent, rock back and forth and repeat the only sentence that brought meaning to his miserable life: "driving is a right not a privilege driving is a right not a privilege driving is a right..."

Yes. This man taught you the basics of automobile safety. A man who earned his living by chasing stray soccer balls around a stinky gymnasium is responsible for the lives of every American commuter, and frankly, I couldn't be more freaked out by this frightening statistic that I just made up without any semblence of research or funding. One day he's standing over you, counting your squat thrusts, the next day he's sending you out to kill with a full tank of gasoline and little-to-no idea of which pedal makes the car stop killing people.

Although I'm not a rebel, I played one in my driver's ed class 7-10 years ago. I'd be sitting there, all hard, and my "driving instructor" would be all like, "John, what does the trunk release lever do?" and I'd be all, "Eeeeyyyyyyy, I don't know, teach," like the Fonze and shit. Then me and Richie Cunningham would go to the Arnold's men's room, and he'd watch me comb my luxurious hair. OK, the preceding scenario never happened, but nevertheless, I couldn't have given a fuck less about driver's ed. I remember one of our assignments was to draw the dashboard of a car. That's it. Don't label anything, don't figure out what any of the pretty buttons do. Just draw it. I think I accidentally drew the dashboard of a very pretty Lego pirate ship, and still managed to get an "A+++++++ WOULD TEACH AGAIN!!!!" from the driving instructor/gym teacher/raging pedophile.

So, I'm going to attempt the impossible: I'm going to undo all the damage that your driver's ed classes did to your weak, squishy skull guts. I've been driving for at least five years now, and I've only been in one life-altering car accident that awakes me night after night in a cold sweat when I dream about that poor family that I killed and then dumped their bodies in the-- oh shit.

Lacki's Laws of the Road for Lawless Road Warriors


1. Mirrors are your friends. Without mirrors, how would I have noticed that I was accidentally driving to work in reverse one morning? Every car has at least three (3) mirrors, one on the driver's side, one on the passenger side and one on the middle side. They are a good tool for highway driving, because it's quite challenging to cut off seven lanes of traffic without checking out the traffic situation in the rearview. However, much like everyone else in your life, mirrors often lie. Why, just this morning, my passenger side mirror was like, "It's safe to switch lanes, now. In fact, you can switch lanes with blatant disregard for your own well-being. Switch now, or forever hold your peace." I switch lanes and -BAM- I caused a forty-seven car pile-up that could only be described as "the closest our country has ever come to a vehicular holocaust." So, though mirrors are your friends, they're like your crackhead friends that steal the fillings from your teeth while you sleep. Instead of relying on your mirrors, hire a jumpy navigator who has no qualms with grabbing the steering wheel from your stupid paws and driving to safety from the passenger seat.

2. P R N D 2 1. I drive an automatic because I'm crampy, bloated woman. I've learned that when I want the car to go, I put it in "D" for "Don't stop, but rather, Go!" When I want the car to stop, I put it in "P" for "People like it when I stop running over their skulls." "R" is for "BackwaRds" and "N" is for "Get out aNd push, bitch." Now, some folks don't know what "1" and "2" is for, but I'm here to tell you so please continue reading to the end of this sentence and continue onto the next one. "1" is a lot like "D," except it adds Increased Speed +1. "2" gets a little more complicated, since putting your car in "2" turns it into a giant robot. So if you're in a situation that doesn't require the aid of a giant, 10-story tall robot, I'd advise keeping as far away from "2" as humanly possible.

3. Turning. "Turning" your vehicle to the left or to the right is an advanced driving technique that requires months of endurance training and test runs, and is vital to the "driving experience." Why, without turning, we'd constantly drive through our neighbor's fences and clotheslines, and there's nothing more embarassing than driving to work with an old woman's fence post and soggy brassiere lodged in your grill-piece. The most important instrument that you must utilize when turning is known as a "turn signal," which gives other drivers a visual representation of your upcoming navigational strategies and also makes a fun "clicky-clicky" sound. When you push the turn signal down, the left side goes "clicky-clicky." When you pull up on the turn signal, the right side goes "clicky-clicky." Although extremely fun, using the left turn signal when turning right and vice versa is generally frowned upon, and should be avoided unless you want to keep that tailgating State Trooper on his toes... err, actually I meant to say wheels intead of toes because cars don't have toes unless you have a car that has toes for wheels. Err. Err.

So those are my holy trinity of driving tips that I leave taped to my windshield for easy accessability. Now, I've passed the savings on to you, my viewers, who are only stopping here to see if any of these words can be clicked on to reveal JANET JACKSON'S MARVELOUS BREAST. So remember, buckle up, watch out for random breast exposures and if you plan on committing vehicular homicide, aim for your old gym teacher, because he's the reason you drive like an asshole.

 
An open letter to that maniac Mel Gibson.
I hate him and I think he stinks like a butt. | Tuesday, 02.03.04

Dr. J. Lacki, III
123 Info Superhighway Lane
InterWeb, NJ 10110




March 2nd, 2004


Dear Mr. Gibson,

Last night I watched our Lord and Savior get the ever-loving piss kicked out of him thanks to your new "blockbuster," "The Passion of the Christ." It was a great movie, if you insert the word "not" between the words "was" and "a" with one of those little caret things, and then cross out the whole sentence and replace it with a bunch of red questions marks, like so: ??????????

For a movie consisting of nothing more than a handsome carpenter being beaten for two hours, it was great. However, I felt the Neosporin product placement was unacceptable. For shame, Mr. "Jew Hater" Gibson! I nearly walked out of the theater when Mary slipped the son of man a package of Band-Aids... was this in the bible Mr. "Hitler Had the Right Idea" Gibson? Because I don't think it was!!! And don't think I didn't notice that all the Jews were wearing Nike's. Just what are you try to prove here, Mr. "I Like my Jews Like I Like My Chicken: Extra Crispy and Delicious" Gibson?

I created a petition, and 450,000 of my constituents signed it, and we're going to run you out of town like those pixie devil children did to Judas before he hung himself by the rotting maggot zombie donkey in your happytime Jesus movie. And furthermore, may I add that I don't like your stupid face? Thanks! Where are all your rich Hollywood buddies now, Mel? Huh? HUH? See you in Hell, Mad Max, because surely, that's where you're headed!

Thank you for taking time out of your important Holocaust-denying schedule to read this letter. I hope you choke on something unpleasant.

Signed,

Dr. J. Lacki, III
President of the 33rd Chapter of Mel Gibson is a Stupid Jerkface who Shouldn't Make Movies About Handsome Carpenters, Unless of Course He Decides to Make a Movie About Bob Vila, Because He Seems Like a Nice Guy and is Quite Handy
(MGIASJWSMMAHC,UOCHDTMAMABV,BHSLANGAIQH)

P.S. I can't wait for Jesus to come back and kick your ass you monster.


 
Irritable (super) Bowel Syndrome
No, I don't like that "bowel" in there. | Monday, 02.02.04
I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but America just finished celebrating one of the most stupendous holidays on the face of the planet. And yes, you can tell it was important because I'm breaking out my $5 words like "stupendous," and in the following sentence, "nescience." Of course I'm talking about SuperBowl Sunday, and while I'm sure nescience is a fun word, I have absolutely no idea what it means. Let's all "surf the internet" over to dictionary.com and learn something together, shall we? Ah... very interesting. And what luck! It was the Word of the Day on May 20, 1999! Hooray for English!

Last night, a very important football game was played, and from what I heard, a nice team was given a shiny trophy that sparkles like an ocean of dreams and broken glass. I'm a ballerina at heart, so to me, football is about as interesting as getting my genitals grinded to dust in a snowplow driven by your favorite football team's third baseman. If I had friends, they'd call me up and say, "Hey John, we're all going out for delicious cakes and hot fudge sundaes, but the only stipulation is that we're going to talk about our love of football and NO GIRLS ARE ALLOWED because they're gross. Will you be joining us?" And sadly, though my major weaknesses in this world are delicious cakes and hot fudge sundaes, I'd have to decline with a heavy heart. And then they'd all call me from the "Delicious Cakes and Hot Fudge Sundaes" store, laughing and enjoying their treats, taunting me with their knowledge of football teams and their accompanying cities while I write this stupid update through a veil of tears.

Canadian rules football.
I know dick about football, but I know plenty about "partying like a motherfucker who's making love to a platoon of beautiful mothers." So I called up my lady-friend and asked if she'd like to join me in throwing the grandest SuperBowl party of them all... and she accepted!. Oh, happy day! My original party vision included a breath-taking pyrotechnic display and seven of the finest chefs on the planet, one from each continent. I'd hire the finest in deceased entertainers, all brought back to life through the power voodoo and prolonged exposure to radioactive goo. Also, guests of the "John Lacki SuperBowl Party Experience" would stay at the finest hotel in New York City... y'know, that one from Home Alone 2? The price tag: $75 billion. Then one of my associates said, "Honey-bunny? Why don't we just order a pizza and watch the game in your bedroom?" It was a crazy idea, but it would be the wisest business decision I made all year, and saved my company a cool $74,999,999,987. Looks like I'll be able to put gas in my car for the next few months after all.

Though I had no idea what the fuck was going on, the SuperBowl was wonderful. Some guy threw the football, and, at times, other guys caught the football with their hands. One time, a bunch of guys tackled another guy who was holding the football, and there was much rejoicing and fanfare. Somehow I managed to lose $30,000 and most of my major organs before half-time due to obsessive bet-placing with local hobos. I'm not sure what Crazy Shoeless Mortimer plans on doing with my kidneys, but I hope he enjoys getting frequent calls from my lawyer on his moldy phone that's shaped like a half-eaten can of beans.

I'm not going to write about Justin Timberlake's fascination with Janet Jackson's 77-year-old breast, nor am I going to write phrases like "JANET JACKSON'S BREAST BOOB XXX HOT IMAGES OF JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE TOUCHING JACKET JACKSON'S BREAST ENLARGE YOUR PENIS SIZE WHILE YOU LOSE FAT WHILE YOU WATCH JANET JACKSON HOT NYMPHO SLUTS WHO CRAVE YOUR FREE NOKIA RINGTONES" to increase my hit returns from Google because that would be wrong. So, you may ask yourself, "John, what are you going to do?" And I'll reply, "I'm going to end this update now, because it's hard to pump blood through my veins when Crazy Shoeless Mortimer won my heart valves when I foolishly bet that the Chatanooga Panthers would beat the spread and win in a triple overtime shootout."

 

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