[JUNK DRAWER] Small, bite sized TMH updates with the same great taste you know and love.
[RSS FEED] Subscribe to the feed to stay up-to-date with TMH frontpage and junk drawer headlines. Save the link as a live bookmark with FireFox, or copy the link location to your favorite RSS headline reader.
[ARCHIVE] Think the front page updates suck? See if last month was any better.

site created and maintained by
lacki
thismayhurt is powered by Coranto
est. 02.27.02

tmh superfriends:
spookymeat
richardland
braindent
weirdlinks

May 2002

And now, a message from Chuck T. Plant
this was a great idea in my head. | Friday, 05.31.02


Hi there. Much like the singing bush from The Three Amigos, I, Chuck T. Plant have harnessed the ability to communicate with the outside world, as pictured above. I'm afraid I don't have much time, but I had to issue this warning... The guy who usually writes for this site recently got a digital camera, which may sound great at first, but be forewarned... this site will soon be littered with more useless crap than usual, only now in .jpg form. He kept going on and on about shutter speeds and light sources as he attempted to take the perfect picture of his ass. Luckily I, the ever-crafty Chuck, erased the aforementioned picture, but I fear it will only get worse in time. He'll probably make an online photo album dedicated to the hair on his stomach, and that camera has a 2x digital zoom.

Fuck, I think I hear him coming. Please, I beg of you, shield your eyes!

-- Chuck the Plant

 
I happen to know the laws here in Cananananananada.
My Canadian schooling. | Thursday, 05.30.02
I'd now like to present the most honorable award that I can think of to Chris Yoblonski of Canada, Canada. Now, usually I present awards to myself in front of an audience of sock puppets and Star Wars figures (come to think of it, the award itself is usually a sock puppet or a Star Wars figure) but Chris did something extra-special. He was able to poke holes in my extensively researched thesis for my Canadian degree, which was actually very poorly researched and I'm pretty sure it's impossible to earn a doctorate in the field of "Canada" since it's a country and not a subject.

Nevertheless, here's Chris Yoblonski's letter which schooled my ass as well as the rest of my flabby body. Dear christ I am so homely. Here we go...

Hey cool rant! I havent been to New Jersey before but after reading your post I am really itching to go and see what real urban decay looks like!

Actually, in case you didnt know:
America's Sweetheart, Mary Pickford was Canadian
First Professional baseball game was played in Galt, Ontario
James Naismith from Montreal invented Basketball
A Canadian invented the G-suit for fighter pilots
Avro Arrow ( you'll have to look that up yourself)
The best hockey players are Canadian
Steve Nash of the Dallas Mavericks is from British Columbia
We took our own beach, Juno, 6 June 1944
We DIDNT retreat from the first gas attack in WWI in Ypres. We pissed on
rags and sucked it back like all Canadian Soldiers do when the shit hits the fan
Mike Myers is hilarious
Jim Carrey
Pamela Lee Anderson
Norm MacDonald
Peter Jennings
Hume Cronyn
Yvonne deCarlo
Louis B Mayer
John Roberts
Nellie Furtado
Zbigniew Brzinski - Carter's National Sec advisor emigrated to the US from Montreal
John Kay of Steppenwolf
We had 40,000 Canadians volunteer to fight in Vietman when it started in
1959. 103 are known to have been killed
The Space Shuttle Arm
The list can go on and on but why would I try and one-up a cousin?
...
Cheers
Chris

Now, even though I'm getting my doctorate in "Canada," it seems that this stuff checks out. All right, I didn't look up a word of it, but why would Chris lie? I know it must be devastating to come frrom a country that isn't associated with this man but we're all appreciative of the letter here at tmh.com. Even though I'm the only one here, we're all appreciative. Thanks Chris.

 
Blame Canada! Blame Canada!
They're not even a real country, anyway. | Tuesday, 05.21.02
Well, it turns out my weekend of excitement really took a toll on me, as I felt like throwing myself down a flight of stairs yesterday. Let's begin, shall we?

Although my weekend of fun and adventure began with a viewing of Episode 2, I'll save my review for next time. I liked it, but the love story was fucking gay, and the Death Star plans were three dimensional instead of black and white vector. But, again, more on that stuff later.

Let's see... 35, 36, 37... Yep, this equals about 37 American cents. And don't think you're getting any singles in Canada, you have to settle for gold doubloons.
What I will talk about in great, unintelligible depth is Canada. Sucky, boring Canada. Stupid, ugly Canada. American rip-off Canada. Rachel and I left Jersey at around 9:00 am and drove for seven hours, only to arrive down the shore. No, we weren't driving in the wrong direction: Niagara Falls is Atlantic City without the boardwalk or liveliness. Since the gambling age in Canada is 19, Rach and I had our first casino experience, and it didn't have much in common with the Deniro film of the same name, or even the Beastie Boys' "Sure Shot" video for that matter. In other words, it sucked. Row after row of slot machines. No cards. No roulette. Just fucking elderly Canucks throwing away their life savings, eh? Yes. That's aboot it.

Our hotel room in Niagara was the shit, though. It had a window between the bedroom and the bathroom, so you could watch your girl take a shower, or take a shit, if you're into that sort of thing. Right below the window was a jacuzzi, which would have helped me live out my "Scarface" dream of smoking a stinky cigar and chugging a bottle of cristal in a hot tub, but the pubic hair and unidentifiable brown stains brought me back to reality.

After visiting the falls themselves (which were impressive) it was back to the old Cavalier for another hour long drive to Toronto. Not much to say about Toronto except it was fucking cold and uninteresting. During our drive home from the Blue Jays' game, Rachel looked over at me and said, "I really don't like Canada." It was so nice to hear her put down our bordering country since I was feeling the exact same way. Rachel is always in charge of planning our trips. She spends months preparing everything and generally leaves me out of the planning process, which I couldn't be more grateful for. And to hear her say that this trip basically sucked made everything all right again. I mean, we had a great time together as usual, but the surroundings left a bit to be desired.

Canada is basically America, but cleaner. But it's the stink and filth that makes America so great. Since I'm still riding the Star Wars wave, I'll use it for a cheesy metaphor. America is the original trilogy: everything's all beat up, the galaxy is in ruins, but everyone has great haircuts. Canada is the prequals: everything is nicely polished, well-kept, but missing the heart of Episodes 4 - 6. I mean, the baseball game was all like, "Hey, have a hot dog! Uncle Sam wants you! We love America's past-time!" And yet, no one was drunk and falling over the banisters. No one was even eating at their seats (except for us). Yankee Stadium is fucking intense and would shove a broken bottle of beer into your neck if it could. The Toronto Sky Dome got a pony for its birthday and listens to Puddle of Mudd.

The best part of our trip was supplied by a TV repairman. During our stay at the Toronto hotel (which didn't hold a candle to our P. Diddy ballin' room in Niagara) we were extremely bored, slightly buzzing and in dire need of entertainment. What better way to pass the time than with an overpriced pay-per-view hotel room movie? The remote was being Canadian, so we called the front desk to see what the fuck was up. The repairman came to our room and blew our minds: "The system is down, but it should be up in, oh, aboot 20 minutes, eh?" Fucking Canada. Could you fit the stereotype just a little bit more, you stupid Canuck?

In conclusion, I'd like to say that Jersey rocks the fucking house. Sure, we're the butt of the rest of America's joke, but we'll kick your ass. Do you know what we have that the rest of the world never could? Tony Meola. Yes, that Tony Meola. What does Canada have? Mike Myers. The Kids in the Hall. The new Anakin. That's what I thought. Not a damned thing.

 
(BEGIN SPOILERS!!)Anakin is Luke's father! Leia is Luke's brother!(END SPOILERS!!)
my adventerous weekend | Thursday, 05.16.02
I haven't done anything with my life in the past, oh I don't know, 20 years, but this weekend will be the most eventful 72 hours of my life. Make that 74 hours and 20 minutes, as the weekend officially starts tonight when I see Episode II, then sob meekly in the corner because George Lucas took my only fond childhood memory, stripped it of its dignity, repackaged it and sold it to me for $100 gajillion. All right, maybe I'm overreacting, and if the reviews are any indication, this is the greatest Star Wars flick since Empire, especially the part where (highlight for SPOILER INFO!!!) Anakin gets his hand cut off or Samuel L. Jackson kills Jango Fett and that part where I ruin the entire movie for you, Bruce Willis was dead the whole time! Haw haw haw!.(END SPOILERS)

Then, I'll sleep for 15 minutes, and it's off to Canada for a for a trip to that big place up above us known as... Canada. By my math, Rachel and I only have to bring $3.50, since one American dollar is worth a hundred thousand franks, or euros, or whatever the hell they use to pay for stuff up there. Seriously, I put Blue Jays' tickets on my credit card thinking it would cost $94, but, silly me, I forgot that goods and services in Canada would be in Canadian currency. So, long story short, I bought out the entire stadium for about $11. I think I'm the general manager, too.

Then, I sleep another 15 minutes, and start my new job next Monday at 8:30 a.m. UNIX training? Answering phones? Earning a living? Hooray! I can't stop it, I don't know how it works! G'bye folks!

 
it's too late to think of a snazzy title.
or a byline for that matter. | Wednesday, 05.15.02
It's much too late, but I can't go to sleep since I played Maximo for about an hour, was doing really well, then fell in a molten pit without saving. Flashbacks of Mario level 8-3 bombarded my cranium until I put it to sleep with several blows to the neck. Fucking Maximo. Now I'm so aggravated that I must update until I am bludgeoned by exhaustion.

Anyway, as I finally typed the final period on my final shitty paper, I officially ended my junior year at Rutgers. This was the cushiest semester in human existence. Check it out: I had no friday classes, one optional tuesday class, and I had absolutely NO final exams whatsoever, all papers. No one was more pissed than Rachel, who had 76 final exams, classes every day, walked to school in the snow and rain, and plus, she was the amazing girlfriend who made my schedule for me. That's right, I haven't made my own schedule in three years, and I love it! Somehow they're going to let me graduate despite the fact that I've learned nothing, and I think I'm actually starting to forget some stuff that I learned before I got there. As a full-fledged senior, I think I'm supposed to wear this beer helmet that Rutgers sent to me, along with instructions on how to shove freshmen into lockers. Too bad we have no lockers, and most of the freshman are female, hindu, and bigger than me. Yep, just me, Rachel, and a buncha fat hindu broads.

Speaking of fat broads... click da FOOD!




Can you have a few more milkshakes with your dinner, fatty?

 
Next person who touch-a the food, I swear before god...
... I will make a call. I will have you killed. | Monday, 05.13.02
I have Pizza Hut totally figured out. That's right, me. I eat fast food at least seventeen times a day, and I know all the gimmicks, all the size misconceptions, everything. Here's a typical meeting at the Pizza Hut headquarters, most likely located in either a hollowed out volcano or a spherical space station orbiting the earth...

We like pizza!
Suit #1: All right gentlemen, I've called this meeting to throw around some ideas for Pizza Hut's new menu. Now I know this may sound --
Suit #2: Wait a second, hold on. What's wrong with the old menu?
Suit #1: You want to know what's wrong? Oh, I'll tell you what's wrong. The extra-cheese pizza only has 20 pounds of cheese on it, that's what's wrong you son-of-a-bitch.
Suit #3: But sir, the extra cheese pizza isn't even pizza at all. It's just 20 pounds of baked cheese in a pan! There isn't even a crust.
Suit #1: Exactly. Here is my proposal gentlemen... I want a crust filled with cheese, I want a layer of cheese on top of the existing 20 pounds of cheese, and I want the plates, tables, forks and floors to be constructed out of cheese.
Suit #2: Sir, that's enough cheese to, to -- cause an epidemic of diarrhea across the entire country. I don't think solid poo can exist in a world where so much cheese is centralized into one building. The plunger companies will go out of business! Think of the plumbers! Won't somebody please think of the plumbers!?
Suit #1: Shit-mongers do not concern me admiral. Do you know what I plan to call my newest creation?
Suit #3: Ex-Lax?
Suit #1: No you fool. The extra cheese pizza will now be known as -- "The Big Mac."
Suit #2: Uh, sir? I believe "big mac" is already taken.
Suit #1: Silence! Now where's my cocaine filled briefcase? I have a franchise to run.

Dear Pizza Hut. Eventually you're going to run out of orificies to inject cheese into. Your only other option is to feed the cheese directly to the customer intravenously. While I'm sure most of your staff is familiar with needles, you may not want them searching for the veins of someone's 100 year old grandma. I mean, for god's sake PIzza Hut, it's not even pizza anymore. Look at what you've done! Just get out of my sight. You've simply gone too far...

 
Gonna bring it down gonna bring it down gonna bring it down gonna bring it down, etc.
Peter Parker. Moby. Steve-O. Korn. Oh, and midgets. Lots of midgets. | Sunday, 05.12.02
Since I've taken one Arts Criticism class and did reasonably well in it, I've decided that I know everything there is to know about reviewing stuff. If Luke can become a fully trained Jedi in 3 hours, I can master the art of critique in 5 months. So, without further adieu, the revoos...


Spiderman. movie. The best comic book movie I have ever seen. Way better than X-Men. Up there with Batman. I haven't been this excited to see a comic book movie since I found out there was a movie version of the Punisher starring the guy from Rocky. Needless to say, I became jaded towards comic book movies after that, which was promptly returned to my town's ghetto video store. But anyway, yes, Spiderman was great. And in glorious bootleg DIVX format, the bright colors and CGI effects nearly pulled me into my TV set.

Spiderman gets geeky bonus points for a) being produced by Sam Raimi of the Evil Dead Trilogy, b) featuring Bruce Campbell of the Evil Dead Trilogy and c) featuring the car from the Evil Dead Trilogy. Also, J.K. Simmons had me laughing out loud with his performance as J. Jonah Jameson.

Spiderman loses geeky bonus points for having the boom mic present in EVERY FRAME OF THE ENTIRE MOVIE (at least in the version I saw. The boom mic should have received first billing on the poster: Boom Mic. Maguire. Dunst.) While most reviewers thought the dialogue was flat during the scenes between Peter and M.J., I thought they represented the comic book as faithfully as the action sequences.

Spiderman gets a 9/10. Sam, get rid of the boom mics and I'll gladly give you your extra point.




Moby. his entire career. DIE! Just please, stop doing things. Stop walking around with that "Beck" look in your eyes, like the world is so wonderful, and you're so innocent and unsure of why everyone is making such a big fuss over you. Just please stop.




The Steve-O Video. video/DVD. Steve-O is my least favorite Jackass because he's such a fucking idiot. Granted, Johnny Knoxville and Pontius aren't the brightest flaming piles of poo, but they are smart enough to make Steve-O do the really dangerous stuff. The DVD is split into two sections. The first features regular Jackass type stuff: skating on thin ice, hair on fire, driving a car full of fireworks, etc. But the second half. Dear lord, the second half. The second half is called "The Career Ender," ever though there's more than one stunt. Do you enjoy watching a man having his pubic hair waxed? How about ejaculating onto his boss's keyboard and phone? If that doesn't do it for you, you could watch a midget staple Steve-O's testacles to his leg.

I love Jackass. I kind of liked The Steve-O video. It's great watching him get hurt, but you really get the feeling that he's the scapegoat. He's the kid you knew that would eat anything because he felt so unsure of himself. Rent it. Vom it. Return it.




Korn: Untouchables. album. Heh. Hehheh. Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Whooo! Wow. That was really incredibly terrible. But thanks for playing. We have some lovely parting gifts which include: 28 million unsold Fieldy's Dreams cd's, the home version of "My Next-Door Neighbor Raped Me, but I'll Write a Song Called 'Daddy' in Which I Claim He Raped Me," and a lifetime subscription to "Fatty Necks Monthly."

 
Tell him Steve-Dave.
Red Bank, New Jersey: not just our nation's capitol. | Thursday, 05.09.02
Truth be told, I don't even read comics. Sure, I have piles of Punishers and a bootleg DVD of Spiderman in my possession, but comics just don't really do it for me anymore. Comic book stores, on the other hand, are a great place to pretend that you like comics while in the presence of the Walt Flanagan. Allow me to explain.

Every month or so, Rachel and I make the 45 minute treck to Red Bank, NJ to see what it's like to walk on a main avenue that doesn't have a Mandee. Not only does Broad Street in Red Bank have an unfashionably small amount of hoochie-mama outlet stores, it has some really great stores in their place. The most obvious being the reason we even started going to Red Bank in the first place, Jay and Silent Bob's Secret Stash. Filled to the brim with tons of comics, action figures, and View Askew memorabilia, the Stash always warrents a worthwhile trip. Especially today, as the store was being manned by none other than Walt "Tell him Steve-Dave" Flanagan! The biggest View Askew celebrity next to Affleck!

Almost directly across the street from the Stash is the Funk & Standard Variety Store, which houses the biggest selection of stuff known to man. Just random stuff: bobbing head guys, dirty greeting cards, tons of Paul Frank stuff, etc. It's kinda like Spencers, but without the dildos and an overwhelming sense of shame upon entrance.

You know, some people say Virginia is for lovers. And when someone says that, I shoot them in their stupid fucking face for not realizing that they are so very, very wrong. For Red Bank, New Jersey is where it's at, my friends. Seriously, know what I'm saying? You just take your girl up to Red Bank, know what I'm saying, and you come get your swerve on, you feel me? Even after taking mind-altering drugs (pain killers from her bloody, painful, awful oral surgery) mixed with three syringes of Everclear, Rachel still had a great time on the golden streets of Red Bank. Even I love it there, and I hate everything, everywhere.

 
Don't be fooled. Crude ethnic stereotypes are incredibly hilarious.
My obsession with the cruel bitch goddess that is Street Fighter. | Monday, 05.06.02
Since her stupid boyfriend doesn't start work until the middle of May, Rachel decided to be greatest girlfriend on the planet by picking up a copy of Capcom vs. SNK 2 for me. She knew she was going to get me something from the mall, and she also knew I'd get more out of a game than cologne, because smelling nice cannot compare to executing a 597-hit level 27 Shoryuken death combo.

Street Fighter is great and all, but if you look closely, Ken and Haohmaru are fighting in front of a CVS. A nice looking CVS, but a CVS nonetheless. Anyone care to explain? Japan, I'm looking in your general direction
I've been a huge video game faq since birth, as I had more in common with my sister's Atari than living, breathing people. Now, in my 20's, I hate any kind of game that doesn't offer a quick fix. I can't bare to sit through another role playing game, even though I haven't really tried to pick one up since Final Fantasy VII. It just doesn't do it for me anymore because I realized one day that no matter how many Phoenix Downs I found in some stupid cave or how many times I cast Ifrit, underneath it all was math. Sure, stuff got slashed in half, but only because their hit points ran out... MATH! And yeah, amazingly detailed magic spells could be cast when you had enough Magic Points... MORE MATH! So, screw that, I need something more mindless.

Thus, first-person-shooters and fighting games are all I play, and my brain couldn't be more gooder feeling. While Rachel was sick and asleep, I played Return to Castle Wolfenstein for almost a week straight and not once did I have to think anything more than "Ooh, Nazi, shoot. Breathe in. Eat. Breathe out." And all of this was just an elaborate way to speak about my love of fighting games, namely, anything by Capcom. Sure they've rehashed the same formula for a decade now, but I'll totally go make my girlfriend buy me a copy of a game that rewards me by sending me into epileptic seizures. "A winner is you! 597-hit supah combo! Receive the Blinding Japanese Death Screen!"

Now, Street Fighter is great in the privacy of my own home, where no one can see my humiliating defeats against freakishly strong Japanese pigmes. It's when I venture into the arcade that I lose all dignity and self respect, as a 12 year old girl will walk up to my machine, rotates the joystick counter-clockwise twice, tap "light-punch" and sends my flabby ass fighter into the ski-ball machines.

Me: See, babe. This is the very American Ken, whose brother is the very Japanese Ryu. They both have the same moves, but Ken is better, which is why I always choose him.
Rachel: (yawning) What? Oh, uh, why is Ken better sweetheart?
Me: Heh heh heh, sometimes your girlness is so charming. Ken is better because he's blonde and wears red, silly.
Rachel: Whatever, just play your stupid game so we can go home.
Me: Right. Hey babe, did you see the way I just killed that guy? Y'know, I just executed a 7-hit level 3 super-combo. No big deal.
Rachel: (sigh)
12-year-old girl: Hey mister, can I play this game with you?
Me: Why sure, 12-year-old girl.
12-year-old girl: (rotates the joystick counter-clockwise twice, taps "light-punch," Ken explodes in an orgy of blood and giblets)
Machine: A WINNER IS 12-YEAR-OLD SUPAH GIRL! YOU LOSE! YOU USE KEN VERY BADLY, NOW YOU BECOME FILLED WITH SHAME! VERY DISHONORABLE TO PLAY STREET FIGHTER SO BADLY!
Me:You're right Street Fighter Alpha 3. I have become filled with shame.
Rachel:Good, can we go home now?

Everywhere I look, there's that 12-year-old girl, kicking my ass. Or maybe I'm the 12-year-old girl, yearning to break free from the painful banality that is my life. Jesus Fuck I'm deep.

 
Tough guy, what you got to prove? Moving like an elephant that's your favorite move.
Anti-social History of the Mosh Pit. | Saturday, 05.04.02
As I cooked my patented grilled-to-death-cheese sandwich, I watched MTV's "Social History of the Mosh Pit," which focused on... the social history of the mosh pit. How it started at punk rock shows, was brought into the mainstream by Nirvana and Lollapalooza (Kurt Cobain and Perry Farrel, two names that enter my head when I think about moshing), and then was taken over by jocks. The funniest quote came from MTV "newscaster" Ian Robinson, which went something like this, "Uhh, that's what happens when something cool comes out, corporate American exploits it, blah blah blah, I'm fat, etc." Corporate America? Did I just hear someone on MTV complaining about corporate America? Listen tubby, just because you wear your punk rock t-shirts and have tattoos, don't think you're excluded from MTV's stifling view of what's cool in this country. "Oh god, I hate corporate America. Coming up next: a promotional tool disguised as a 'special' about some movie starring half naked young people, brought to you by some suits who own 78% of MTV."

What do we want?
TO KICK THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER FOR NO APPARENT REASON!
When do we want to do it?
SOON!
OK, we're a little off track, but I think I can swing 'er back around. Mosh Pits! Or, as I so cleverly just thought up: Jock Pits. My first jock pit came at the '99 Family Values tour, when the flab on Jonathan Davis' neck and his forehead gave their first duet performance. It went something like, "I'm fat neck! / And I'm forehead! / Rata tata mata rata tata / My daddy raped me! / Neck! / Head! / Rape! / Dad! / Why?!" Well, that got the crowd going absolutely bonkers, and my flabby ass touched the ground many-a-time that night. But whatever, I was young and naive, and I figured that was the worst it could get.

Not so. The most violent pit that I ever saw in my entire life came during last year's Warped Tour, during, of all things, the Rollins Band. Now, Henry Rollins has always been one of my favorite performers, but I have to admit that his newer music isn't very "mosh friendly." He has this weird 80's rock thing going on that I don't really understand, but whatever, I'm not going to argue with him. Anyway, during his half hour performance, people were seriously killing each other. It wasn't even "running around in a circle" mosh pit, it was the "human windwill" mosh pit, where everyone wildly swings their arms in circles and clobber little children and old ladies. Rollins didn't help the situation, especially when he told one concert-goer to "BREAK THAT MOTHERFUCKER'S NECK." I laughed, but only because I wasn't the motherfucker.

I'm as scared of mosh pits as the next pig-tailed little girl, but I don't make grandiose statements about them like the Beastie Boys or, *shiver* the Smashing Pumpkins. Whatever, if you don't want to get cracked in the face by some asshole, don't stand in front. Tune in next week, when MTV presents "The Social History of Clapping and Standing Ovations."

 
When I was 17, I drank some very good beer.
My name was Brian McGee. I stayed up listening to Queen. When I was 17. | Friday, 05.03.02
"You take one more picture of me junior and I swear to God I'll break your fucking head open. Capice?"
Last night was interesting for a few reasons. First off, I've discovered a weird appreciation for Frank Sinatra within myself. Let me explain: for weeks Rachel and I have been watching the Osbournes. Most of the music within the show is supplied by Frank Sinatra in MTV's clever attempt at "irony." "Get it, he's the fucking prince of fucking darkness, yet we've decided to lambast his rock and roll lifestyle by having Frankie-boy belt out a number here and there. So do you get it? Do you? You had better say yes, dammit!" Ahem. Anyway, every time Sinatra played, Rachel would comment on how soothing it was, while I was more obsessed with figuring out a way to make Jack explode by thinking about it really hard.

Eventually, the connection set it, and I realized that I could be one smooooth motherfucker if I played some Sinatra for my girl, know what I'm sayin? So on our way out to dinner last night (more on that fiasco later) I surprised her with a stolen copy of Frank Sinatra's Greatest Hits, fresh from my father's collection of misfit CD's. And I'll be damned, it was relaxing. And we just looked at each other with this new sense of love, knowing full well that the Chairman of the Board was singing everything that we were thinking. Really classy stuff.

So anyway, the aforementioned dinner. Rachel's insane friend from school and her boyfriend met up with us at the Olive Garden in an attempt to do "couply" things. A few notes on "couply" things: a) they're not all that fun. b) they make me feel really insecure. Upon seeing her friend's boyfriend, I felt 12 years old. He was all dressed up, tucked in, wearing shoes that fit, etc. Here I am in a grey hoody, (which has taken the place of my eternal black hoody) shkanky jeans, a flannel shirt and my boots, which always indicate an attempt to "dress up." From the get-go, everyone was getting along, as I sat there. Rachel, bless her heart, did everything to get me involved, and it worked eventually. It becomes apparent after being close to us for three seconds that I'm the Silent Bob to Rachel's Jay. I just sit there solemnly, do the occassional fake laugh, and then bust out with a racial slur or string of expletives.

Waiter: Alright folks, are we ready to order?
Rachel: Yes, I'll have the chicken parm with a coke.
Rachel's friend: I'll have something Italian with something to drink.
Rachel's friend's boyfriend: Yes, I too will also have something Italian with an appropriate drink.
Waiter: And for you sir?
Me: Let's see, I'll have the -- FUCK I HATE JEWS! Oh fuck, I hope those cheap bastards didn't hear me. Shit, SORRY JEWS! SORRY! Alright, where was I? Oh yes, dinner. I'll have, uh -- MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKER! It feels like my dick is on fire or something! Honey, could you take a look at this? What does a guy have to do to get lotion for his penis around here?

It all turned out alright in the end, but I still left feeling insignificant. I have a hard time keeping the proverbial "ball" up in the air. It takes a good 20 minutes for me to find a place to insert my thoughts into conversation, and it only lasts about 15 seconds. And when I speak, everyone chuckles, waits for me to speak again, look around the room uncomfortably, then go back to eating. Only Rachel understands my inability to function socially, and luckily, she can handle being the relationship spokesperson.

So what have we learned today? Frank Sinatra is a smooth operator, providing countless hours of music to stare affectionately into your significant other's eyes. We've also learned that I cannot function in society unless it is behind a computer or behind a computer, yet for some reason, I have a successful relationship. I'm not sure how it happened, but I'm not going to question it, for fear that the world will implode onto itself. And lastly we've learned that... uh... crime doesn't pay. Goodnight folks.

 
We never talk to him. He never looks quite right.
He laughs at us, we just beat him up, what he sees escapes our sight -- SIGHT! | Thursday, 05.02.02
I seriously love being surprised by people. And I'm not talking "jump out of the closet, you didn't know we were getting you a new soap-box-derby racer for your birthday and here it is now surprise." I'm talking about someone blowing my mind through kindness, generosity, or their ability to be less of an asshole than I expected. Example: I'm on the elevator today, and this older black guy sees me playing with my phone, and he just started talking to me about it. And he wasn't being condescending, there were no tones in his voice, he was just being a friendly guy.

Why do I get off on the random niceness of strangers? Because I walk everywhere with my head down. Because I have no posture. Because I act as if the weight of the world is constantly bearing down on my shoulders, when in actuality, the only thing I'm really worried about is whether the guy at the McDonalds' drive through got my order right. On this campus, I can be anti-social and no one gives a fuck. I could be on fire in a Josie and the Pussycats outfit urinating on random pedestrians, and still no one would give a fuck. And believe me, that's just fine with me. I seriously don't want any attention from anyone here, because I have proven that everyone here is a self-serving motherfucker, including myself.

So when the guy in the elevator talks to me, or the person says "thanks" when I hold the door for them instead of grunting at me, or, heaven forbid, the lady behind the counter tells me to have a nice day, it gives me hope.

Yeah, it's fun to go on here and curse everyone out, but look at all of you. You're like, 25. I know it's naive to assume that everyone who writes for these webpages acts as hard as they sound, but I can see this culture embracing cruelty. And we're all guilty of it, because, "fuck that, I'm not being nice to that guy, did you see the way he just looked at me, fucker." And sometimes, rightfully so. But, my god, we're going to be running the country soon. Some moron my age is going to be president one day. And if the rest of the world is as negative as this fucking place, I'm packing my bags, moving to Amsterdam, smoking a bowl and going to sleep.

 

<< ARCHIVE

Copyright 2005 thismayhurt.com - All rights reserved.