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est. 02.27.02

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May 2003

Card player, gambler, scoundrel... you'd like him.
Never tell me the odds! | Tuesday, 05.27.03
Oh dear Christ... what's that horrible yellow-ish color pouring in through my window? Did Mexican roof workers throw a brightly colored tarp over my house? No. Is my neighbors house on fire? Don't think so. Oh wait... it's fucking sunlight! Well, it looks like I can go a single day without fighting the urges to kill myself in a fit of Seattle-weather induced misery... thanks sun!

Speaking of suicide, yesterday Rachel and I took a trip to "America's Favorite Playground." Apparently America consists of bus after bus of rotting old people, because Atlantic City actually seemed to be "A Great Place to Ditch Your Nearly Dead Relatives." After spending some time in AC, I've learned that old people love to a) gamble and b) ride in motorized carts. I also learned that I love to a) watch old people lose all of their money and b) eat non-pareils (those little chocolate blobs covered in white crunchy things) while watching old people lose all of their money.

Everyone goes to Atlantic City with high hopes and dreamy dreams. Maybe you want to win enough money to buy a new car, or some ammunition. Or perhaps you want to save up enough money to have your husband bumped off by the Chinese mafia. AC can make all of your dreams come true for the low low price of every dollar you've ever earned in your entire life. Then it's time to start whoring yourself on the boardwalk for $20 chips.

After spending about two hours in about 70 different casinos, I consider myself an expert. Allow me to dispel a few myths regarding gambling, casinos and the existence of god.

1. I will win a lot of money when I gamble. False.
Chances are you will not win any money when you gamble, regardless of how many lucky trolls you wear around your neck. In fact, you may wind up selling your luckly trolls to foreign children just to have a few more rounds on the nickel slots. You know that goofy phrase, "The customer is always right"? Casinos have their own phrase, "The customer is always anally raped by diseased convicts." You will lose, and all of your loved ones will leave you.

2. Forget gambling, I'm going to score some free drinks from OMG SO HOT barmaid sluts! False.
To quote Admiral Ackbar when he found out the Death Star was fully armed and operational in Return of the Jedi... "It's a trap!" The myth is that if you gamble long enough, Donald Trump will notice and send some broads to give you free drinks, massages and all the coke you can snort. LIES. Sure, some coked-up, schkanky, balding fat woman will take your drink order, but you have to sit in front of the same slot machine for three hours to receive your free drink. Oh, and while you're there, you might as well keep feeding your hard earned quarters into its tempting slot. I hope you enjoy your free Bahama Mama, it just cost you $7,000.

3. Y'know, forget the gambling, forget the drinks... I will probably make more money by cutting off my limbs, learning how to play the banjo with my teeth and begging for change on the boardwalk. True.
Everyone loves a freak with a talent. American Idol's ratings were through the roof (zing!). And what better place to exploit yourself than on the Atlantic City boardwalk, where thousands of miserable drunks would love to hear a little "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" on your banjo. After you establish yourself, your money cup will be raking in more cash than you'd ever win at a blackjack table, just don't be a retarded quadriplegic banjo player and lose all of your hard earned change in the casino. Spend your earnings on a strict diet of booze and pills, like any self respecting quadriplegic banjo player would.

So, take it from me, the smartest, sexiest man who ever lived: save your quarters for the arcade, laundromat or soda machines. At least you know you'll be rewarded with a can of soda, clean clothes, or a 700-hit spinning piledriver super combo. Oh, and while I'm dishing out advice, go clean your room.

I went to college, that made me so cool.
I lived in a dorm and showed off by the pool. | Thursday, 05.22.03
Rachel and I are officially college graduates as of today. I'm pretty sure I'm the valedictorian, so here's my acceptance speech: I'd like to thank my girl, my family, my friends and all of the professors that allowed me to blow them for passing grades. Now, let's burn this fucking place to the ground! Whoooooo!

Cause I'm a liar, damn, hey, yeah. Damn.
Hey, yeah. | Sunday, 05.18.03
Being a journalist probably sucks. At least, that's what my guidance councelor, family and friends tell me, as they whince in pain at my choice of future employment. I don't want to write for a paper, and I don't want to interview people. I have absolutely no credentials, nor a desire to gain any. I simply want to exist in the world of journalism. Perhaps I could sell newspapers on the corner, or wear them as decorative hats as I share my experiences of canned beens and bonfires to frightened pedestrians. Yes, I went through four years of college to become a hobo with a bachelor's degree in journalism. At least my sign proclaiming, "I need money to support my coke habit" will be gramatically correct.

Speaking of coke habits (I should have minored in amazing segues), shameful New York Times reporter Jayson "I am filled with shame and yes I spell Jason incorrectly" Blair is all over the news. If you've been living under a rock, or if your main source of news comes from Jayson Blair, here's a quick recap: Blair, a shitty reporter, made up a bunch of quotes and sources when working for the New York Times, which is comparable to Metropolis' Daily Planet, or Gotham City's... uh... Gotham City Brand Newspaper®.

Hi, my name is Jayson Blair. I was the 22nd President of the United States and I'm a great kisser. I'm also white.
Fabricating quotes and sources is generally frowned upon by journalists and other important people, such as former US president Gerald Ford, who was gracious enough to sit down with me for an interview during his stay at the Eisenhower Medical Center on Friday. "I think Jayson Blair's actions are disgraceful, destructive and horrific," said Ford. "I also think that you, John Lacki, are going to make a great journalist one day, and I'd like to pay you $75 billion just for being so damned sexy." Stunned, Lacki replied, "Why, Mr. President, I... I don't know what to say." Ford, who was released from the hospital after being treated for diziness simply said, "Son, you don't have to say anything. Let's just make out."

After making out with the 89-year-old former president, I flew over to Jayson Blair's house to interview him as well. Here's what he had to say, "I feel guilt, shame and sadness." After a short pause, Blair continued, "Also, I'm a Jew-hating Nazi, and I love Red Lobster." Stunned by this revelation, I left Blair's house full of questions and those slammin' dinner rolls from Red Lobster. Seriously, those things are fucking awesome, with the garlic and the butter, Blair had a basement full of those shits.

Not knowing where to turn next, I did my best to think of more powerful cultural icons to interview and grope. I somehow managed to travel back to 1989 to meet up with Alex Winter during the filming of the hit sci-fi comedy, Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Winter plays the lovable Bill S. Preston. "I don't know much about this Jayson Blair character you're talking about," said Winter, "but I do know that this movie is going to propell my career to great heights!" Winter says he's already signed on for a sequel, but he's also "leaving his options open at the moment." His co-star, another unknown actor named Keanu Reeves, stated, "Whoa." When pressed for further comment, Reeves mentioned that he knew Kung-Fu and that he was "just another guy." The name "Keanu" is Hawaiian for "Whoa."

We may never know why Jayson Blair made up all those quotes. Sure, we can speculate that he just did it for "kicks," "jollies" or the less popular "hubba-hubba"'s, but maybe he had horrible people skills and couldn't stand interviewing real-life people, so he just made them up. Professor Van Der Snortch, a leading professor in the study of brains and stuff at Disgusting Gross Brains University commented on this phenomenon during an interview 10 minutes from now. "Get that thing away from me, I have no comment." When asked why he had no comment, professor Van Der Snortch replied, "Because you're interviewing me with a celery stick that you painted black... and badly I might add." Unable to think of a clever way to end the interview, journalist John Lacki ate the painted celery stick and walked away into the sunset.

(and now, to feed the google hounds: MATRIX RELOADED ORGASM CAKE. thank you.)

This ain't no blast from the past...
... futures oh oh oh oh oooooh | Wednesday, 05.14.03
Found this site on memepool.com, and it's kind of interesting. It's about making predictions about the future, or some godforsaken thing, for philanthropic cash and soiled-hippie prizes. For instance, life loving LongBets.org user Martin Rees predicts, "By 2020, bioterror or bioerror will lead to one million casualties in a single event." Hooray! I'm kind of fuzzy on what he actually wins when all of those innocent civilians die in 2020, but I bet he'll trade it in for a Hazmat suit and 1,000 bibles.

So, I thought it would be neat to devise some of my own hastily researched predictions and share them with you, the easily bamboozled public. Sure, half of this stuff won't come true, but the other half will, and you'll all owe me, big time.


By 2009, office furniture will be infused with artificial intelligence. Why? Because, it's the year 2009, man. All sorts of spaced-out futury stuff will happen. By 2011, a swivel chair will make the first strike against the human race, namly a 43 year old secretary named Barbera Zanzabar. She will survive the initial attack, but she'll be killed three weeks later during a fishing trip with her husband Lawrence. He'll catch a Flounder, name it Barbara, and the two will fight crime in Miami, Florida.
Probability: 95%

By the year 2077, babies will become a viable fuel source. I mean, there's only so much oil in the world, and the planet will be grossly overpopulated. Shoving dead babies into your gas tank will make perfect sense, I swear to Christ. Gas stations will be phased out during November of 2076, and will be replaced with gargantuan tanks filled with happy, gleeful, rotting children just waiting to be purchased for $59.20 a pound. Cars will get 3 blocks per pound, so everyone will just start walking everywhere two days after the baby killing fuel system is put into place. The future is a sick, twisted place.
Probability: 126%

Daniel R. Porter, a user at LongBets.org predicts, "By 2012, scientists will not have developed an explanation for how images on the Shroud of Turin came to be on the cloth -an explanation that satisfies all of the physical and chemical properties of the images and does not violate basic laws of physics." Hey that's neat, I have a prediction too... By 2075, no one will know what the fuck Daniel R. Porter is talking about, much like today.
Probability: I dunno, but I have a really good feeling %

In the year 2099, the Y2K99 computer virus will wipe out the human race. Derp, looks like computer programmers forgot to teach computers how to recognize the year 2100, so once again, the human race will wait for their imminent destruction with bated breath. Once the clock strikes midnight on December 31st, 2099, everything on the planet will explode, regardless of logic or reason. Staplers, mailboxes, facial hair, your grandma... none are Y2K99 compliant and will explode again and again. Then again. And once more.
Probability: About a hundred bazillion %

On May 14, 2003, John Lacki will write the funniest update in the entire world. In it, he will lampoon the freakishly bizarre LongBets.org to much critical acclaim. He'll be given an oversized novelty check in the amount of $20 million, and will spend most of it on tacos.
Probability A strong 3%

Stitch up my emptiness 'cause you're the death of me.
my poor baby's face | Monday, 05.12.03
Well, today was rather interesting, and not in a "well, today was rather interesting" kind of way. It was more like a "Wait -- what the --?" kind of day. I was at work, making the grandest paper clip chain of them all, when I get a buzz in me trousers. Turns out I wasn't having a mild stroke in the right leg, but instead I was receiving a phone call. So, being the secretive fellow that I am, I quickly get up from my chair, tell me secretary to hold all my calls, despite the fact that I was about to take my own call.

This, in fact, is not a visual representation of Rachel's accident. It is, however, a visual representation of pure evil. Isn't that right Baby Satan? Yes it is! Yes it is! Who's pure evil? Who's pure evil? Baby Satan is!
"Hello?" I answered. "Thank you for calling me, but I'm afraid that I'm terribly busy at my place of employment, and will have to call you back during a designated break period. Have a great day."

"Well, ok," replied the voice on the other end of the cellular phone, "but I have to go to the emergency room!"

"Hold on... who is this?" I asked. "And, my goodness, why do you require medical attention?"

"It's your girlfriend, Rachel Corus," replied Rachel Corus. "You know, the only person who knows your cell phone number?"

"Oh yes, now I remember," I said, remembering. "But hold on, why do you need to go the hospital, darling?"

"Because I accidentally opened my car door into my face. I'm bleeding quite extensively, and there's a good chance a trained medical professional will be able to turn off the pain in my head that makes it difficult for me to live. Goodbye for now!" said Rachel, as she drove to the hospital, but not before turning off her cellular phone, applying her seat belt, and checking both ways.

All right, I'll let you in on a little secret, that's not exactly how it happened. I was telling a little fib for dramatic purposes. For a behind-the-scenes look into our actual conversation, continue reading...

me: Hello?
rachel: Hey.
me: Hey, can I call you right back?
rachel: Fine, but I'm going to the emergency room.
me: What? Why? What happened? OMG R U OK?
rachel: I opened the fucking car door into my face, I'm bleeding all over the fucking place.
me: Jesus Christ, how the fuck did that happen?
rachel: I don't know, it fucking hurts, though.
me: Shit, be careful please.
rachel: I will, I'll call you when I get there.
me: I love you.
rachel: I love you too.

So, the moral of the story is, don't open your car doors to enter your vehicle. If anything, climb through an open window, or perhaps through a sun roof. Luckily, all six of Rachel's stitches are in her eyebrow, so you can't even see the damage. She still looks sassy as hell, even with little blue pieces of thread jutting out from her face.

Hollywood repeatedly rapes my ass with shitty movies.
And I love it. | Sunday, 05.11.03
Two McFly's... with the same gun.
The summer blockbusters are beginning to make their way to a theater near you... unless you live in Amish Country. If you live in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, then the movies are coming to a theater near electricity-loving heathens. Regardless, for $27, you can have your hopes and dreams shattered on the silver screen to a rockin' rapmetal soundtrack and the mindless applause of the soulless sheep who think this movie was the fucking bomb, yo. Which it wasn't, thank you very much. It was very much not the bomb, sir.

I lost faith in the movie-producing community on May 19, 1999. I remember getting to the theater an hour early for the midnight showing with my father, marveling at my collector's cup and the smell of a brand new theater, which unofficially opened early just to show this movie. All of the cards were in place to create filmatic nirvana. The theater went black, I leaned back in my chair and prepared myself. 133 minutes later, I got up out of my seat a changed person. I wondered if I had watched the same movie as the 37-year-old virgins dressed as overweight Jedi knights, because the erections beneath their mustard-stained robes were quite visible. This may sound overdramatic and corny, but I had waited my entire life to see a new Star Wars movie, and this wasn't exactly what I had expected. The expectations behind The Phantom Menace were huge because of geeks like me who wanted to feel like they were 8 years old again.

Do you remember leaving a theater when you were younger and feeling absolutely blown away? I don't think I've felt that way since the Back to the Future II, and that was 14 years ago. Sure, I've seen some great movies since then, but in terms of summer orgasm-inducing hype monster, you couldn't wipe the smile off my 8-year-old pork face. What has executive producer Steven Spielberg done for me lately? Minority Report? More like... Minority Retard. More like... My Shitty Movie Report. Give me a pink hoverboard and fake boobs on Lea Thompson any day.

So, thanks to George "I'm Fat" Lucas and Steven "I'm Not as Fat, but Rest Assured, I Still Suck" Spielberg, I watch movies very cautiously, and this summer is no exception. Two HUGE movies, The Matrix Reloaded and Terminator 3, will be released this summer, and I have a feeling that at least one of them is going to suck on an astronomical level. We all know Terminator is going to suck balls, but don't get caught off guard by the Matrix. It could bust out with a 100-hit suckiness super combo when you least expect it, so be on the look-out. Your summer movie experience is going to suck, and it's because both Hollywood and god hate you.

Looking forward to death!!
Matlock... MATLOCK! | Tuesday, 05.06.03
All right, I suppose I've neglected the site enough, now. I've written more in the past two weeks than I have during my entire 4 year run at Rutgers, and I think I'm ready to chop my porky fingers off. It wouldn't be too astounding, either, as I've decided that it's time for me to make some changes and grow up. That's right, I'm becoming a man.

So what steps have I taken to catapult my ass into adulthood?

Step #1: Remove Earrings. About two or three weeks ago I rummaged through the basement to find a pair of plyers, because it's fucking impossible to remove captive earrings through brute strength. Believe me, I've tried. Two needle-nosed plyers in hand, I took my mirror off the wall and set up shop at my desk. I clamped onto one of the earrings with one set of plyers, and pried it open with another set of plyers. 45 minutes and 7 pints of blood later, I was able to remove one of my earrings. Suddenly, panic struck, as I tried and tried to remove the right earring (also known as: THE GAY ONE) without much success.

Now, this was very late at night, and I would not allow myself to fall asleep, because I would wake up the next morning sporting only one earring, looking like some type of homo fag she-pirate. See, I could pull off two earrings without looking gay (at least, I'd like to think so). But guys wearing one hoop earring, regardless of the ear, looks really fucking queer to me. So, after figuring out the most painless way to saw the bottom half of my ear off, I somehow managed to remove the lonely earring without the aid of a chainsaw.

My head now devoid of 100% less stainless steel, I slunked down in front of my computer, reached up to my left ear to play with my earring and felt nothing but lobe. Whoops, looks like I'll have to develop a brand spankin' new nervous tick, as my earring turning tick is on disability. For the next two days, I reached up to play with my non-existent earring more times than I care to recall, and everytime I would freak out and start searching the floor for the earring I removed two days prior.

My sexiness percentage plummeted once I took out my earrings, however, I no longer look like a 13 year old raver boy on Exstacy. But I took care of my sexiness quotient by performing...

Step #2: Grow a Kick-ass Beard. I haven't shaved in about a week, and I now sport a kick-ass beard. And I was told last night that it looked "really sexy." Of course, the girl that told me it looked "really sexy" also thinks I look "really sexy" in a pair of Jar Jar Binks boxer shorts and knee high dress socks. Still, I trust her opinion because I'm only paying her to laugh at my funny jokes, not lie to me.

I always laugh at guys that can't grow beards, because, well, they're funny. They grow like four hairs on the left side, seven on the right and two on their chin. They walk outside, tough as hell, and start picking fights with random pedestrians. Shit man, even your mom can grow a decent beard if she lets herself go for a while, what's your fucking problem? Kneel before the power that dwells within my sex-beard! Bow down!

Ahem. Anyway, my kick-ass beard does many things, and one of them is kick ass. Another is itch like a motherfucker. Yet another is fight crime by night, but I'm not exactly sure of the specifics. Moving on...

Step #3: Profit. Yeah, I'm a pretty shitty journalist, so I've decided to invent stuff instead. I've made about 3,000 inventions over the past few days, and I've already started filling out the patents and whatnot. I can't really disclose any of the information here, but man oh man. Man. Oh man. (hire me, I learn good).

Although I have never seen the above movie, I feel that is is safe to assume that the main character PARTIED HARD PARTIED HARD PARTIED HARD PARTIED HARD.
john: Do you know what we have to wear under our gradutation gown?
rachel: I'm not sure, why?
john: Because I want to wear shorts.
rachel: Why do you want to wear shorts?
john: Because party animals always wear shorts under their graduation gowns.
rachel: That would probably look really stupid. Like you weren't wearing any pants at all.
john: No pants at all, eh? Hmm...

I want to get up on that stage, do 10 backflips, grab my diploma and sing the first verse to Andrew W.K.'s "Party Hard," or "Sometimes, I Like to Party" or "Partying is Almost as Fun as Wearing Soiled Undershirts" all with Daffy Duck-like intensity on the day of my graduation. The crowd with erupt with frenzied, "Who the fuck are you"s and "Stop ruining our graduation"s, and I will be showered by pointy hats. Or maybe I'd rather just give a Fiona Apple-like acceptence speech, in which I proclaim that "this world is bullshit" and turn my diploma into decorative confetti. Or maybe I'll just crabwalk across the stage. You can't go wrong with crabwalking. Then I'll pinch the dean with my large crab-arm things and scurry off to the beach.

Christ, this update sucks. Look folks, at least I'm trying to udpate! I've been writing for a week straight, and words no longer have any meaning for me. I'm simply stringing letters together in hopes that I form a sentence every now and then. I promise, as soon as I graduate and awaken from an alcohol-induced coma, I'll get back to writing the involuntary urine producing updates you know and love.



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