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est. 02.27.02

tmh superfriends:

March 2004

I swear, I will never lie to you again. Please... just give me one more chance.
I will never tell a lie, no. | Wednesday, 03.31.04
Haw haw haw haw... oh ho ho ho... sucka! Sucka! Damn, hey, yeah!
I knew this guy who refused to drink Coca-Cola because he heard that if you left a tooth in a glass of the stuff overnight, the tooth would rot away into nothingness. But just Coca-Cola... all other sodas must have some sort of chemical additive that promotes healthy gums and fights tartar. Unfortunately, I didn't have enough time or funding to create my own soft-drink testing environment, but Snopes did, and they discovered that this was absolute bullshit. Snopes also discovered that the last sentence I just wrote was also absolute bullshit... I have more than enough time to create my own soft-drink testing environment.

I've been assaulted by this type of propoganda for at least 22 years, now. Do you remember how easy it was to spread lies as a kid? Convince one girl on the playground that rubbing an Excitebike Nintendo cartridge on her chest would increase breast growth, and by the end of the day you'd see countless little girls and a few confused little boys rolling around in heaping piles of Excitebike cartridges, all because you're a heartless bastard and because kids are dumb. I remember this one kid, Jorge, claimed his cousin did everything. "My cousin pitches for the Yankees and he's the best but I forgot his name and he's not pitching for them anymore because he had his arm ripped off by a bear and now he has a robotic arm like the Terminator." I swear to god, this kid tried to convince everyone in the class that there was an international bridge that spanned the Atlantic Ocean, and that his cousin not only drove across it, but also invented the fucking thing. Invented it!

Now, myself and other fourth graders were skeptical of Jorge's claims that his cousin invented the international bridge, but he stayed back like 4 times and was easily 6 feet tall, so we all just let him spread his lies from a safe distance. Only now do I realize the ill-effects of our passivity. Jorge probably started that fucking Coca-Cola rumor years ago! "My cousin is a scientist and he took a baby's tooth and let it sit in a can of Coca-Cola and then the tooth exploded and then the baby's head fell off so my cousin built him a new head and now the baby has a robotic head like the Terminator."

Information is a powerful tool. Jorge knew this back in fourth grade, and now I'm finally beginning to understand. Why, if I could get the public to embrace one of my lies below, I'd be superfamous... even more superfamous than I am now! So please, read my superbly constructed lies below and pass them around to your easily bamboozled friends... my fame and recognition depend on it!

1. The exclamation point wasn't a recognized punctuation mark until November 16th, 1981. Before this, unauthorized useage of the exclamation mark was a punishable offence in most states. The ban was lifted following a lengthy court case in which a mother in Bethesda, MD attempted to name her daughter "!" and was thrown in jail. It turns out that during the witch trials of the 1600's, the puritans found the exclamation mark to be "the punctuation of the tainted," and a law was passed to ban its usage. Thousands of "offensive punctuation-using demons in disguise" were burned alive for their herecy, and it took nearly 400 years for the ban to be lifted.

2. The very first Altoids flavor was named "Angry Flaming Bees Dipped in Gasoline, Peppermint and Tobasco Sauce." After disappointing sales, the name was shortened to simply "Peppermint." Some say you can still taste the angry flaming bees dipped in gasoline, peppermint and tobasco sauce if you eat 12 peppermint Altoids at once. Others say eating 12 peppermint Altoids at once is comparable to injecting a small dose of heroin into every available taste bud. Regardless, those tins are a great place to hide your stash, man.

3. All albinos can see through walls and underpants. Just try and prove me wrong. But be sure to wear iron underpants, because you know one of those white-haired freaks is going to sneak a peak at your johnson. I can't believe I actually typed the word "johnson." I've never referred to my own penis as "my johnson," usually I just call it "my penis." I think albinos also have the ability to inject their naughty penis slang into your vocabulary without notice. They're a strange bunch, those albinos.

Thank you Jorge... for you were the inspiration behind one of my greatest updates ever! Now that you've served your purpose, I hope you and your cousin enjoy your trip to Portugal via the international bridge even though I'm fairly certain that it doesn't exist. Right? Anyone? I would have heard about this at some point, right?

I'm just a person, and I've got a new plague.
I've got what? | Friday, 03.26.04
It looks like I won't be able to start constructing that orphanage this weekend like I planned. Oh well, those starving children can wait a few more days. It's not like they have legs to run away or anything.

So, I went to the doctor today, and the results were not good. There are more virii running through my body than a Rutgers New Brunswick dorm room, and they've all decided that my body makes a great host. It seems they've formed some sort of SUPER VIRUS that is leaving the top scientists baffled. They're calling it... Lacki's Disease.

However, there is a cure for Lacki's Disease. I did some of my own research, and I realized that I started getting sick once these damned stickers showed up at my door last week. Perhaps I'm allergic to the ink, or someone at the printers dipped the stickers in a vat of flu juice, but regardless, I need to get rid of these stickers STAT (that's doctor talk for QUICKLY)!

For just $1.25 each (or 5 for $5), you can help me remember what it was like to breathe through my nose and open my mouth without vomiting all over everything. I promise, I'll wear surgical gloves when preparing your sticker package, and I'll wipe off most of the flu juice. Please... - cough cough - save me...

sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick
fuckt up dreamz | Wednesday, 03.24.04
Ugh, I'm getting fucking sick. Every inch of my body hurts and I have this mass of sickness in the back of my throat that's forcing me to go "mm... achem... mm" every thirty seconds. Random people walk past my desk and say, "Bless you" and I have to stop them and explain that I'm not sneezing, it's the 24 pound booger that has moved into my esophagus and it's making me go "mm... achem... mm." "Oh," they reply and briskly walk away before they catch scurvy.

I must sneeze weird because people within earshot always ask, "Was that a cough or a sneeze?" I'd like to reply, "Neither, that's just the sound I make before I vomit on people," and then vomit on them. Instead I play into their little games and give them the lowdown on my choice of germ-sharing.

Ah... ahh... ahhh... chooooooo.
Me: Ah... ahh... ahhh... chooooooo.
You: Was that a cough, or a sneeze?
Me: That was a sneeze.
You: Well then God Bless You, good sir!
Me: (wiping snot from my nose and mouth) Ehhh... thank you.


Me: Mm... achem... mm.
You: Was that a cough, or a sneeze?
Me: That was just a cough.
You: Well then burn in Hell, heretic snot boy.
Me: Ok. Mm... achem... mm.

Remember when you were a kid, and you'd get really really sick, and you'd get to stay home from school and play Super Metroid for hours and hours and hours and then your mom would be like, "I'm going out to the store, do you need anything?" and you'd be like, "No, I'm good," and then you'd try and cook macaroni and cheese on the stove and burn the house to the ground? God I miss those days. Now I have to wait until I get home from work to burn the house to the ground, and I've already beaten Super Metroid like 7,000 times. It's just not the same. Oh sure, I could work from home, but my commie pinko Powerbook doesn't get along with my company's VPN, so I'm forced to come here and infect the hell out of everyone with polyps or whatever the fuck I have.

I really can't complain, though (although I wouldn't have much of a website if I didn't). Removing the rotting tonsils from the back of my skull really seemed to make a difference in my ability to function during the dawg days of winter. I think there were more germs camping out in those little dead flaps of skin than in all the public urinals in all the bus stops in all the world, and they just kept filling my ears, nose and throat with goo. So if you want to fight off those nasty germs and enjoy losing gallons upon gallons of blood from a leaky hole in your head, get those tonsils removed! Hell, stop on by and I'll do it for you. Contrary to popular belief, I'm actually an awesome doctor, and I'm also the first doctor in the world who accepts PayPal. That's some classy shit.

Now I'll be forced to cook up some of my own home remedies that are fueled more by OCD than actual medical evidence. For instance, washing my hands until they're nothing but bloody stumps is a great way to keep those hand germs at bay, as well as dipping all my controllers, keyboards and eating utensils in bleach. Falling asleep facing the wall and making sure that my last thought before drifting off into slumberland is "Please God, don't let me be sick anymore. I'll go to church on Sunday if you make my throat feel better" hasn't worked for me yet... but if I do it for 13 days straight and tap all my doorknobs 48 times before I leave the house, I should be cured by June. Also, I find that when I avoid using nickels for the duration of my cold, I don't cough as much. Damned if I can explain it.

Frank's Pickle Barrel Ass.
Can I slip you a pickle? | Monday, 03.22.04
At work, the phone rings...

This alien device delivers a steady dose of pain and confusion to my brains. I remember this one time-- oh god... it's ringing... what the fuck do I do now?!!
Me: John Lacki.
Caller: Hello?
Me: Hello.
Caller: Who is is?
Me: Uh... John Lacki?
Caller: Oh, did I just call you?
Me: Um, my phone rang, so I guess so.
Caller: Hmm. You know what probably happened? You were calling me, and I picked up the phone to call someone else at the exact same time.
Me: Oh, ok.
Caller: So, can I help you?
Me: Um, you called me.
Caller: Wow, I must have really messed up. Sorry about that.
Me: No problem.
Caller: Goodbye.
Me: Bye.

It's situations like this that make my head fucking explode. My mind just shuts off. "Maybe I did call her," I think to myself, knowing with utmost certainty that a) I don't know who this person is, b) that my phone did in fact just ring, and c) I didn't call this person. I'm not gullible, I'm just too lazy to give a fuck about the great phone caper that's developing right in front of my very eyes. I should have done this...

Me: John Lacki.
Caller: Hello?
Me: Hello.
Caller: Who is is?
Me: Uh... John Lacki?
Caller: Oh, did I just call you?
Me: Um, my phone rang, so I guess so.
Caller: Hmm. You know what probably happened? You were calling me, and I picked up the phone to call someone else at the exact same time.
Me: Oh, ok.
Caller: So, can I help you?
Me: Yeah, let me get one plain, one with sausage and extra cheese.
Caller: But, I don't work at a--
Me: No, it's ok, just send it over to my cubicle, I'll be here.
Caller: But--
Me: Allright thanks, I gotta go. Hello?
Caller: ...
Me: OK. 30 minutes or it's free. Thanks, goodbye.

Tic tic tic tic tic tic
BOOM | Wednesday, 03.17.04
In your travels, you may have heard an unshaven, decrepit old man spout out this heartwarming sentiment in between random organ failures and beating his wife with a 2x4: "I don't gotta do nothin' 'cept pay my goddamn taxes and DIE." Then, in a striking explosion of irony, his heart frees itself from his chest and lands on the floor. "You sonofabitch heart!" he gasps, "I just waxed these fucking floors! Get back in my chest you good-for-nothin' organ..." After mopping the blood stains from the linoleum and smoking a pack of Marlboro reds, he begrudgingly decides to die, fulfilling his aforementioned prophecy. He didn't have to do nothin' 'cept pay his goddamn taxes and die.

That fictional character that I constructed for comedic purposes was wrong. Humans have to do much more than pay taxes and die. For instance, I have to bite my nails. And the skin surrounding the nails. And strange dogs. But mostly just my nails and the skin surrounding my nails. See, if I don't satisfy my oral fixation by ripping tiny chunks of flesh from my fingers, I'll be forced to satisfy my oral fixation through other means, such as fellatio or flute lessons.

I have countless tics and twitches that keep me alive. Some people smoke cigarettes, others grind their teeth. I take off my socks at precisely 10 pm every night and fling them across the room with my feet. Rachel can't begin to comprehend the levels of orangutan-like dexterity that I house in my feet, yet she's learned to accept my special talent with open arms after I showed her that I can unscrew a child's head using only my ankles. I'm beginning to realize that I'm actually part gorilla, as I've been writing most of these updates with my toes, and I fling more poo before noon than some people do all day. Like Peter Parker, Super Mario and that marine chick from Aliens, I will use my monkey powers to shoot webbing from my wrists, break bricks with my head and intimidate others with my blatant dykiness.

Some of my nervous tics were so overpowering that I was forced to challenge them to a kill-or-be-killed survival weekend in the forests of New Jersey. I always came out victorious, since my tics are lazy bums and can't be bothered to get off their asses and go to the sporting goods store to buy camouflage pants. One of the tics that I'm currently silencing is my patented "repeatedly check the rear-view mirror for oncoming death adventures" tic. See, after having my last car destroyed by a retarded motorist tag team sandwich (I was the delicious meat filling), I decided it would be fun to avoid life-threatening accidents for the next few years. My technique? Check the rear-view mirror every 1-2 seconds. It worked for a few months, until I realized that oncoming death adventures were awaiting in front of me, as well. I was faced with a serious conundrum... keep the tic and die or lose the tic and eat pudding. After weighing my options carefully, I decided on the latter and treated myself to a six-pack of Jell-O pudding cups... a single tear crawled down my face as I realized... the pudding tasted like victory. Chocolate-filled victory. In a cup. A victory-filled chocolate pudding cup... Oh, who am I kidding, the pudding tasted like fucking pudding. Jesus. And I still check my rearview more than I should, so in the end, I just treated myself to pudding for no discernible reason.

So, uh... remember that guy from the opening paragraph? He was wrong. We have to do more than pay taxes like chumps and die like dogs. Why, we have to bite our nails like savages, and fling our socks like monkeys, and avoid oncoming traffic by the skin of our teeth! Nervous tics that rule my every waking moment with an iron fist -- I salute you!

Crass Commercialism
$$$ BUY $$$ | Sunday, 03.14.04
Have your credit cards ready and click my meaty face to begin your shopping adventure!

Hi folks, John Lacki, founder and co-founder of thismayhurt.com. We here at the thismayhurt family feel that it is time to dive into the exciting and highly profitable world of e-commerce, wherein you exchange digital money in exchange for techno goods and services over the internet wonder-turnpike (BUY SOME STICKERS) We are aware that other sites have attempted to "sell products" over the "internet" for a "profit," but many of those "companies" were run by "inexperienced 12 year old girls" and have since gone "toe up." (I'LL RELEASE YOUR FAMILY ONCE I RECEIVE PAYMENT) Fear not, web shoppers, as we have a highly trained staff waiting 24 hours a day, 7 days a week to ensure that your thismayhurt shopping experience is as pleasant as possible (IT'S JUST ME IN MY UNDERWEAR, ROLLING AROUND IN YOUR MONEY)

So please, take a moment to stop by our brand new THISMAYHURT SUPER STORE, which is filled to the brim with the type of thismayhurt products that YOU deserve! (IT'S JUST STICKERS, BUT THEY LOOK FABULOUS) We have the lowest prices around on thismayhurt merchandise, and all of our products are made in the USA, just as God himself intended. We thank you for shopping with thismayhurt, and have a wonderful day!

Thank you,
John "$$$$" Lacki

Mac and Me? More like Grind my Genitals to Dust: The Movie.
death to communism | Tuesday, 03.09.04
Sometimes you hear a conversation that makes you rethink this whole "living on a planet with a bunch of fucking nincompoops" thing. Last night I heard this conversation... at an Applebee's of all places. I know! Usually chain restaurants with little-to-know regard for fire safety codes are devoid of retarded conversations, but when I heard this mind-numbing sentence leave the hostess' mouth, I quickly scanned the electrified waiting corral for the closest twelve story window to plunge face-first from.

Hostess: Oh my god... tell me you've seen the movie Mac and Me.

Sea Monkey. Happy Boy. They're cops.
Now, it's impossible for me to construct a sentence about the movie Mac and Me without using the following words: what, the, fuck, abortion, AIDS, Jesus, celery, Christ, and crotch failure. As I heard these words and began to decipher the ramifications behind using such words, I waited with baited breath to hear where this conversation was headed. In the split second before impact, however, I devised my own possible conversation path structure, and labeled said paths A and B.

Path A: The hostess, an award-winning NY Times film critic by day, was forced to watch Mac and Me to save the president's daughter from a group of nazi terrorists, hell-bent on torturing American civilians through horribly crafted E.T. ripoff films. Now, the hostess will retell her horrid tale to her equally knowledgable waitress friends, who work at Applebees to pay off their Harvard loans.

Path B: The hostess and her cat, Mr. Muffinbutt, spent the previous night talking about boys and watching movies, including their all-time super neato favorite, Mac and Me. They especially love the part where the alien goes to McDonald's, and everyone's handicapped and gay. Now, she will explain her undying love for the movie to her dumbfuck waitress friends, all of whom are named "Candii."

Please, human race. Please don't let me down, here. Please don't give me more fuel for my hateful website that is already filled to the brim with lava-hot disdain for the morons that make it difficult for me to live. Oh god, the waitress' eyes are lighting up with recognition... oh Jesus here it comes... here comes the second half of the most retarded conversation ever to be heard with human ears...

Waitress: :gasp: Oh my god, I love that movie!

ABORT! ABORT! We have major hull damage, I don't know how much more she can take, captain! One more direct hit of pure, unfiltered stupidity and we're done for! Our only hope is the hostess, who could quickly turn this whole thing around... c'mon, just slap the waitress across the face and say, "What, are you shitting me? That was the most god-awful mess of a motion picture I've seen since that made-for-TV ALF thing where he's in the military or some shit." C'mon, hostess... you're our only hope...

Hostess: I know! Wasn't it awesome?

Mission control, we have just lost communication with the human race, permission to cut life support? Jeez. Y'know, everyone's entitled to their own opinion. That's what seperates us from the pinko commies that we faught in some war a hundred years ago. However, no one should be allowed to enjoy, or even say the words "Mac and Me" unless they have a note from their doctor. Just flipping past the TBS network when they're showing Mac and Me at 4 in the morning should be a punishable offence, and I urge you to write your congressman a million times a day and explain my fool proof plan of eliminating this film from existence. Just leave my name off it.

Martha Stewart will swarm on any muthafucka in a blue uniform.
[LOLLERZ]it's a good thing[/LOLLERZ] | Friday, 03.05.04


oh wait, i don't care about this breaking news story
because there's more important shit to worry about.



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