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August 2004

I think this update is about school, but I must admit, I can't read.
byline? more like bye, line! oh ho ho ho | Tuesday, 08.31.04
You know what I got for Christmas this year? It was a banner fuckin' year at the old Bender family. I got a carton of cigarettes. The old man grabbed me and said "Hey, smoke up Johnny!"
Sales on pencils and dusty Pokemon folders? Buy one highlighter and get a second highlighter for 50 cents? Free liquid paper with every purchase? Oh shit, that means it's back-to-school season. I was addicted to school for 16 years... late night cram sessions, copying and pasting biographies of Frederick Douglass (who was either our 32nd president or the inventor of margarine) into Word and praying to god it makes sense, feeling my heart leap out of my chest and onto my bathroom floor after snorting that extra study-enhancing eight ball... 16 years, my friends. I finally got that monkey off my back, and I haven't felt school's oppressive vice grip in two years, and I haven't not learned good at the school that I goed at.

I don't know how you people do it. That's right, you people. How do you manage to sit in those lecture halls, taking note after note after note and when the professor sneezes you actually write the word "Achoo" in your notes and then that nerdy bitch in the front row raises her hand and asks, "Is achoo going to be on the final?" and the professor says, "No, I only sneezed; 'achoo' will not be on the final," and the whole class groans because now they all have to dig out some liquid paper and remove the extraneous "achoo" from their notes? During particularly note-intensive classes, I'd look over at the person next to me... they'd be sweating, writing with two hands, highlighting with their toes, sharpening pencils in their ears. I'd look down at my own notes and see misspelled lyrics to the Tears for Fears hit Shout. Oddly enough, when it came time to take a quiz, the person sitting next to me would receive a very high mark while I failed miserably. But hey, Tears for Fears had some really great songs, and school is hard.

Classes with Rachel were the best, because we'd both take the exact same notes, study for the same amount of time and even after I'd copy all of her answers, she'd get an A and I'd fail. And then we'd leave the class and she'd be all, "I can't believe I only got a 92, I'M SO STUPID!" and I'd be all, "Hey yeah that sucks, let's go eat." So while Rachel earned a 3 point something GPA, I gained about 40 pounds because it was more fun to eat and fail than just fail. See, after seventh grade I realized that no one likes you when you're smart and dangerously handsome. God cursed me with these good looks, so I decided to take action and remove the part of my brain that made learning fun; unfortunately, that part of the brain also held important memories of my childhood and the names of family members, and sometimes when I'm driving home from work I park in the living room of my neighbor's house because I forgot how alternate side of the street parking works, but regardless, I'm very handsome, thank you for noticing.

Some people will ask, "John, where are you taking me in this update? I mean, do you try to write the most incomprehensible shit possible while blatantly avoiding the introductory paragraph's topic, or is your talent merely jamming non-sequiturs together like a poor man's Family Guy, wishfully thinking that maybe, just maybe, it will accidentally create an update that one or two people will find funny while the rest of the world quickly closes their browser before they become overwhelmed by the stink of the dead horse you've been beating for the past five years?" Sure, some people will ask that, others will simply ask, "Send me free porno?" which isn't even a question, but they'll put a question mark on the end of it because they've given up on school, just as I have. My friends, aren't we all just wandering through life, cold and alone, looking for the proper forum to express our love of free porno? I think if you look deep within your hearts, you'll find the answer. You'll find the answer.

[Please feel free to paypal me $5 for that awe-inspiring conclusion. Actually, make it $5.50, because paypal taxes like a motherfucker.]

 
So the doctor says, "Rectum? It nearly killed him."
laughing out loud on the world wide web (LOL on the WWW) | Tuesday, 08.24.04
Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Holyshitwhatthefuckisthisthing?
Remember The Doctor's Book of Home Remedies? It was this paperback book that you'd often see being sold in one of those commercials where the guy talks really fast at the end, and the 800 number is written in yellow on a blue background and you can send your check or money order to Richmond, Virginia and can expect 6 - 8 weeks for delivery. This was before computers were invented, when we had to rely on television commercials and 800 numbers for our monthly dose of too-good-to-be-true scams and late-nite porno. Somehow or other, my family got their very own copy of this 896 page medicinal miracle, and just as the commercial probably promised, our doctor bills plummeted. The Doctor's Book of Home Remedies offered thousands of alternative medical treatments, and only a few of them involved sacrificing Jewish virgins under a blood red sky to appease your new lord and black savior, J'Dgingor, the undead god of feeling super through regular bowel movements.

As a troubled teenager, I became obsessed with The Doctor's Book of Home Remedies (or the DBoHR for sickly folks without a moment to spare). It quickly replaced Are You There God? It's Me Margaret as my favorite book that features clumpy vaginal discharge. Slight pain in the ticker? Time to consult the DBoHR! Ah, it says here that sleeping with an unopened box of lasagna noodles will keep those pesky heart attacks at bay. Who would have known?! Oh sure, doctors may perform life-saving surgery on your exploding appendix, but does he or she know about the startling benefits of placing tree bark up your nose to combat ingrown toenails? The DBoHR does, and it even has an easy-to-use index, so finding the cure for your freshly severed arm is as easy as counting to the number A.

I'm sure the author of the DBoHR made several hundred gajillion dollars thanks to countless hypochondriacs, hypoglycemics, and hypopotamuses, all desperate to cure what ails them in two easy payments of $5.99. People will buy anything, and I've got the bullshit writing skills to prove it. Below you'll find some exerpts from my new book, John Lacki's Book of Toxic Ingestibles and Barbaric Procedures That Could Possibly Cure You, If You Consider A Long and Painful Death A Reasonable Cure. Sure, it's a creepy title, but at $10 a pop, you'd be a goddamned retard not to buy 12. And if you are a retard, check out page 458, where you can learn how to cure your own case of Down's Syndrome using 3 jars of black olives, a roll of Pep-O-Mint Life Savers and 57 cups of Tide with Bleach.

Upset Stomach (excerpt from Chapter 3, page 138)
It's a proven fact that all stomach-related illnesses can be traced to stress. Everyone has some level of stress in their lives, from worrying about making this month's car payment after you spent your entire paycheck on expired scratch-off lottery tickets, to wondering if you left the curling iron on after you left the house this morning. You see, stress effects everyone in different... wait a minute... did I leave the curling iron on this morning? I'm pretty sure I unplugged it, but now -- wait, what if the dog is running around the room and he knocks the curling iron off the bureau and lights himself on fire and he runs past the draperies and the whole house is burned to the ground by the time I get home? Shit, now my stomach is in knots, and I have no idea what to do. Writing this book is really stressful, too. I haven't had a solid bowel movement in months, and here I am worrying about a curling iron that I don't use, a dog that I don't have, and a house that I don't live in. Wait a second, am I writing all of this down? Eh, I'm too lazy to check, so I'll just write myself a note to remove all this stuff and replace it with some doctory mumbo-jumbo. (REMOVE ALL THE STUFF ABOUT CURLING IRONS AND FLAMMABLE DOGS AND REPLACE IT WITH DOCTORY MUMBO-JUMBO, YOU SEXY BASTARD, YOU.) I'm a really good author.

Broken Limbs (excerpt from Chapter 27, page 984)
Like an idiot, you fell off of something tall, and now you've gone and broken something important. Maybe it's a leg, or an arm, or two arms and a leg, or two arms, a leg and your neck, or two arms, two legs, a wing and your spine. You're a clumsy good-for-nothing, and can't no one take that away from you. Usually after you break a bone or twelve, one of your buddies will load you into the back of his pick-up among the empty beer cans and landscaping equipment and drive you to the nearest hospital, where you can wait seventeen hours to have a doctor tell you, "Yep, it's broken, all right." Fuck that, I say. That's right, I just used the F-word in a seemingly-legitimate medicinal journal. Doctors will rape you seventeen ways from Sunday with their unnecessary procedures, such as "applying pressure to stop the bleeding" and "stuffing your bones back underneath your skin" and "Oh my god nurse we're losing him, don't you die on me you son-of-a-bitch, it's not your time yet!" and such and such. That's all well and good until you get the bill at the end of the month. $598 for a hospital gurney? $1,012 for gauze pads? $150 for parking my car in a handicapped spot? "What am I, some kind of asshole?" you'll ask yourself. Yes. Yes, you are some kind of asshole, and there's no secret remedy that cures your disease besides a self-inflicted bullet flying out the back of your stupid fucking skull.

Ungood brain things (excerpt from Chapter 15, page 541)
As humans get older, their brain turns to delicious pudding. I call this the "Brain turns to delicious pudding" syndrome. Performing single column addition becomes a week-long affair, the names of your loved ones turns to, "Hey you with the arms," and you often confuse the brake pedal with the "go faster" pedal. Some doctors would have you believe that this is an irreversible process, but I am here to say, "I'm sorry Mr. Doctor with your fancy degrees and lifetime worth of expensive schooling, but you're just plain wrong, so there, nyah." The "Brain turns to delicious pudding" syndrome is very reversible, and it only requires a high powered drill, a funnel and a bottle of Liquid Plumber. For legal purposes, I can't outline the entire procedure, but let's just say that drilling a hole into your head and pouring Liquid Plumber into your brain will probably yield some interesting results, and your case of "Brain turns to delicious pudding" syndrome will disappear faster than your body falls limp on the floor after drilling a hole into your head with a high powered drill. At least, I think it will. I'm a pretty lousy doctor.

 
I'm alienating my audience one fucker at a time.
You stupid bastards never learn. | Saturday, 08.21.04
Sorry I haven't had a chance to update, folks. I've been too busy watching "The Old Man In Disturbing Shorts Show." Here, we see the old man in disturbing shorts (that's him on the right) interviewing another old man about some damn thing... look, I'll be honest, I couldn't pay attention to the interview because my eyes were glued to the old man in disturbing short's crotch. You know there's at least one ball in those shorts that's ready to make its network debut.

 
I put my fist through the door, I hate myself for you.
I love you... love, Black Flag xoxo | Tuesday, 08.10.04
I couldn't find an appropriate picture for this update, so please enjoy this soul-sucking thing.
We all argue with our significant others. It's a great stress reliever, it thins the blood and it gives Rachel and me a chance to call each other fudgepacking cunts. If we didn't argue every once in a while, I'd be plowing into random storefronts around town, pinning store clerks to walls and demanding expired foodstuffs that were taken off the market in the early 70's. Rachel would pull old ladies from their Oldsmobiles and crack their skulls open with a crowbar and then turn their skulls into decorative flower pots that she would sell on e-bay with a reasonable starting bid but an astronomically high reserve because hey, that's some old lady's fucking skull. We argue because we care about the safety of those around us, and we're sick of dumping bodies in the Hudson River only to have them found years later by concerned family members and pesky fishermen.

"But John, I'm not in a relationship because I don't get out much, and one time when I was in sixth grade, I was invited to Becky O'Myers birthday party and I thought it would be a good idea to feed nickels to her hamster and nuke it in the microwave and now I'm 27 and I haven't left my house since then." It's ok. I mean, it's not, like ok ok, but I'm going to tell you it's ok because you don't seem stable enough for someone like me to tell you that it's not ok. Ok? Here's an argument simulator for those of you without a girlfriend / boyfriend / imaginary internet lover from the Ukraine...

Female: Here is a situation in this relationship that I am unhappy with. Your thoughts?
Male: Your feelings are unfounded, and I have my own problems with this relationship that we will discuss henceforth.
Female: This is very typical of your kind; you refuse to face the situation that I have brought forth for discussion, and you retaliate by presenting your own.
Male: I'm only presenting my own case because I feel that it is more important than yours, and furthermore, this relationship is suffocating me.
Female: (throws jar of mustard at male)
Male: (catches jar of mustard, smashes it against the wall)
Female: I can't believe you broke the jar of mustard… that was the first jar of mustard we ever bought as a couple. You are a monster.
Male: Are you excreting blood from your nether regions? Your actions are confusing and erratic and now I'm going to retire to my sleeping quarters on the couch.
Female: You are a fudgepacking cunt, but I still love you, and now the fight is over.

See? Quick, painless, and the lives of innocent bystanders will be spared now that the couples' dirty laundry has been aired out, beaten on a rock down by the creek, thrown into the "clean" pile, etc. Have you ever heard the age-old expression, "Two wrongs don't make a right."? Usually someone will say this after you decide to do something brilliant like staple gun your cat to a wall after it throws up on the carpet. While it may feel good to staple gun your cat to a wall, it's not going to clean the hardening brownish-yellowish stain on the white rug, nor will it make the vomit rejaculate back into your puss' mouth. Why? Because two wrongs don't make a right.

I've learned that one wrong and one stupid doesn't make a right, either. If you're constantly fighting with your girlfriend about the price of milk, feeding live grenades to a cow won't solve anything. Similarly, if your wife refuses to have sex with you, maybe you should go to the source of the problem... oh shit, not that source, dumbshit!

RABAT (Reuters) - A 70-year-old Moroccan cut off his penis in protest at his wife's long refusal to have sex with him, hospital sources said on Saturday.

The unidentified man severed his organ on Monday in the southern town of Ait Ourir and was taken to a hospital in the nearby city of Marrakesh for treatment.
Reuters


I'll show you what happens when you refuse to have sex with me! I'll mutilate a part of my body that you have absolutely no interest in! Ah-ha! Now you see that the tables have turned, my pet. Now we'll... still never have sex. But at least I can't pleasure myself or expel urine from my body! I'm very good at making decisions, and now I'm Morocco's number 1 penisless superstar! Luckily, Dr. Stupid was on call to care for my wang-stump...

"He didn't bring his penis with him. He has left the hospital well, but without his penis," a doctor from the Ibn Toufail hospital told Reuters.
Reuters


The doctor continued, "You see, he left the hospital without his penis because his penis was not attached to his body when he arrived. Furthermore, I had a difficult time reattaching his penis, because as I may have mentioned earlier, he left his penis at home. Maybe it's in the kitchen sink, or perhaps it is sitting on the dining room table next to the mail. Your guess is as good as mine because he didn't bring his penis with him. Nor did he leave with it. Because he cut it off. With a knife. Or a fork. I really can't be sure at this time."

Boys and girls, please learn from the mistakes of the Moroccan wang-stump man, because for about five seconds, cutting off his penis seemed like a completely logical argument-settler. When there's trouble in paradise, sometimes, you just have to talk it out, and talk it out and talk it out some more until you're both throwing expensive glassware and bowling balls at each other. That's normal. Chances are, one or both of you will agree to never speak of the subject ever again, and you can both secretly think you've won the argument. But if you get the urge to do some extreme shit like our sexless Moroccan friend, make sure you send me some before and after pictures, because if there's one thing that generates hits, it's galleries of broken dicks.

 
"OPERATION: Update My Corny Website Every 37 Days"
internet tough guy | Thursday, 08.05.04
Excuse me sailor, do you know where the gym is?
Do they sell biker poison in your town? Preferably in a 20 gallon drum? I went to the local SUPER K-Mart and asked one of the redshirts if they had any biker poison, and he looked at me like I was insane. "Biker poison?" he asked, "I don't think so sir... we have these Spider-Man backpacks and cases of expired Mexican baby formula, but I don't think we sell biker poison." The next stop was Walgreens, which actually had a spot on the shelves for biker poison, but they were sold out. I asked one of the blueshirts when their next shipment of biker poison was coming in, and he said something like, "Las habas cocidas al horno son las rodillas de bee's." I assume that means "Friday." Which is ok I guess, but I really had my heart set on getting some biker poison by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest.

Oh, I'm sorry, I completely forgot to mention why I need a 20 gallon drum of biker poison! I must look like a real idiot, ranting and raving about biker poison without any context clues as to what I plan on doing with said biker poison! My sincerest apologies. I need a 20 gallon drum of biker poison because I'm trying to kill the biker that lives across the street from me. Man, I've tried everything. From leaving hateful post-it notes on his "hawg" to burning a cross on his lawn... the persistent fucker keeps living across the street from me! Therefore, I’ve decided to empty out a 6-pack of Budweiser, fill the bottles with biker poison and leave it on his front porch. "Free beers!" he'll exclaim as he downs bottle after bottle of biker poison, too excited at the notion of free beers to realize that he is, in fact, drinking more than the recommended daily allowance of biker poison.

Why do I want to kill this man? Just to watch him die? Sure, that's a great reason. How about the way he revs his retarded motorcycle engine at 7 o'clock on a Saturday morning? How about having his crackhead girlfriend scream unintelligible things outside his apartment window at 11 o'clock on a Thursday night? How about the way he blasts his "9/11 Never Forget" country music from his hardcore champagne-colored Toyota Camry? These are all great reasons, and I can't wait to watch his body go limp and then explode after ingesting his fifth bottle of biker poison.

I ain't a racist, I hate everybody equally HAW HAW HAW HAW.
On a somewhat related topic, it's summertime, and that means I'm preparing to wage war on the neighbor's children through a little project I cooked up entitled "OPERATION: Random Child Execution." I'm surrounded on all fronts... I've got the ADD children next door to me and the inbred biker across the street. "OPERATION: Random Child Execution" is just a temporarily title that I've been kicking around the war room, so don't get too attached. My secretary of defense decided that "OPERATION: Toddler Dismemberment" and "OPERATION: Jim Henson's Burn-Victim Babies" were too severe, but I'm still pushing for "OPERATION: Pre-pubescent Cluster Fuck." Look, I'm not endorsing the killing of children (like I endorse the killing of bikers), I just want an excuse to wear camouflage and roll around in the backyard with some Vietnam Vets that I found digging through my garbage a week ago. They're really a great group of guys, just try not to accidentally spit on them because they're surprisingly touchy about stuff like that, and their idea of quietly settling an argument involves removing your head from your neck with a rusty shiv.

So while you're sitting on your front lawn under an umbrella sipping iced tea through a crazy straw, listening to Phil Collins with your Mom and cooking wieners with your old man, I'll be scaling the wall of a crappy apartment dressed in brick-colored camouflage, searching for the biker's living room so I can rearrange all his furniture as a part of "OPERATION: Ultimate Biker Furniture Rearrangement." A confused biker is a vulnerable biker, and a vulnerable biker won't notice when I plant a small explosive device inside his neo-nazi biker helmet as a part of -- you guessed it -- "OPERATION: Jump Back, Kiss Myself, Like a Sex Machine."

 

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