Happy Birthday to Me

Happy birthday to me. Hell yeah. On this day 22 years ago I was born. With a full head of hair, a beard, and I was holding a trident. Shortly thereafter I impaled the male nurse who tried to slap me.

My point is this: Everyone should take a moment today to reflect upon the good I bring to the world. I make fun of crackheads. I speak almost exclusively in vulgarities. And I say inappropriate but amusing things. Yes, I am a modern Jesus Christ.

Praise be to me!

Not Quite Dead

I'm still alive. For now. It is possible, however, that with all the snow we have been getting in southeastern WI that I may very well be buried alive in a drift. Let's hope not.

In closing, I would simply like to say: I hope this cold snap kills all of the crackheads in the area. They are really starting to piss me off again. I'm serious. The next time one of you assholes asks me for money while I'm pumping my gas I will remove the nozzle, douse you with 88 octane, and light you on fucking fire.

Stupid crack bums.

Maybe You Should Go On A Diet

If I die today, I will have died a happy man. An hour ago I saw the greatest and funniest spectacle I have ever witnessed.

There is a lady who works across the hall from me. She is large. Rotund, even. 300+ lbs. Shaped very much like Homer Simpson.

Today, she sat down in at her desk and her chair basically exploded beneath the weight of her enormous ass. It didn't kind of break. It didn't crack a little bit. It fucking exploded. And I was five feet away. I couldn't help myself. I laughed my ass off and didn't even try to contain it.

That made my week. Fuck, that made my entire year. I am laughing as I write this. I wish I had video.

Fucking wonderful.

Observations, Commentary, and Gunshots Pt. II

I'm bringing back my friends Guy 1 and Guy 2 for some more observations and commentary. Enjoy.

Guy 1. "Holy fucking balls! Is he sucking that guy off mid-dive?"

Guy 2: "I thought the dude was facing the other way."

Guy 1: "Is that something coming out of his ass?"

Guy 2: "Please tell me...."

Guy 1: "Awww shit, man. He's giving birth to a chocolate submarine in the middle of free-fall."

Guy 2: "Shit. I'm gonna be sick."

Guy 1: "At least he's not... Fuck. Nevermind, he just did."

Guy 2: "That can't be healthy. Oh. Fuck. Me. Is he really going to lick his finger now?"

Guy 1: "Why are we still watching this shit?"

Guy 2: "Hahahaha. Check out his parachute. It's all twisted. How are they going to...?

*THUD*

Guy1: "I don't think they are."

Guy 2: "Fuck it. Let's go buy new man-purses. I need something made out of leather to ease my stomach."

Me: "Hey douche bags. Time for me to kill you. I thought I did this last week."

*BANG BANG*

Me: *Laughing uncontrollably* "Hahahaha, I really am a sick bastard. Oh, sweet, a parachuting accident. Maybe they were carrying their wallets with them."

God help me.

I Did What? Hell No. Are You Serious? No Way. Really? Aww Fuck

I woke up this morning on the couch in my living room.

No big deal, except I have no clue how I got there. I don't remember leaving Water St. I don't remember getting in a cab. I don't remember anything after midnight.

Here are some highlights of what I do remember:

- First drinks I ordered at Scooters, the bar featuring dollar shots: 10 shots of Jack and 4 whiskey and cokes. Cost: $25. Hell. Yeah. I love drinking top shelf booze for next to nothing.

- Second drinks: I pointed to my drink and then put my other finger on the bar about two feet away. I instructed the (very friendly) bartender to line up shots of Jack from my drink to my finger. Apparently that was 21 shots. Cost: $21. At this point I was beginning to think that I might be doing severe bodily harm by imbibing an unholy amount of booze. Whatever.

- Friend Tom's lovely girlfriend is a bartender. I had always thought that bartenders were endowed with the gift of drink. Apparently I was wrong. Why? Because Friend Tom's lovely girlfriend tossed it. In the bar. Not "she discretely went to the bathroom and heaved." It was more like "she leaned over and yakked while ponied up to the bar." All over Friend Tom, no less. High comedy.

- I have a huge gash in the lower part of my right hand. Obviously, I took a spill last night. I have no recollection of falling.

- My chest is bruised. I'm beginning to think I got punched last night. I wouldn't know, though. As far as I know I could have cured cancer last night.

Tonight will be more of the same. Hopefully I don't wake up wondering how I got where I am.

The best part about all of this: No. Hangover.

Hell yeah.

Tonight I Will Die Or Light A Building On Fire

Tonight is Friend Tom's 24th birthday. We shall be making a visit to Water St. There is a good possibility that one or both of us will be dead by morning. If that is the case, please do not mourn my passing. Instead, help yourself to any of my shit. Except my bread. 'Cause even when I'm dead I'll still be making sandwiches.

Friend Tom probably couldn't have timed his birthday any better. Wednesday night is easily the best night to go to Water. Especially if you are a financially strapped young lad like myself. Why is this?

Dollar. Shots.

This isn't "dollar shots of rail whiskey or warm piss." This is "I'll have 8 Third Reich's, 10 shots of Jack, and 10 SoCo and limes for 28 dollars" dollar shots. And, of course, tonight is dollar High Life night at Brothers. Somebody kick me in the nuts. No one should be this excited about fucking booze.

One more completely unrelated thing: A few days ago I ate a Baconator from Wendy's. It was orgasmic. Seriously, I ate the sandwich and shot a wad in my pants. I am no longer an atheist. The Baconator is now my god. I'm not kidding. I even pray to it.

I fucking love the Baconator.

I haven't written anything thing dodgy and rambling for a while, so I think I should just wrap this shit up here before I hurt myself. I'll end with some sage advice I was recently given:

Don't stick your hand down the sink when the disposal is on.

Wiser words were never spoken.

Praise to thee, Baconator.

Observations, Commentary, and Gunshots

Guy 1: "Yeah, he's definitely about to drop a deuce."

Guy 2: "Fuck me running. That's pretty fucked up."

Guy 1: "You think he smuggled crack across the border?"

Guy 2: "What, like in his ass?"

Guy 1: "Just a thought."

Guy 2: "Actually, you are probably right."

Guy 1: "Holy fucking donkey dick! He just pinched one off on that other guy's shoe!"

Guy 2: "What do you think that third guy is looking at? I'll bet it's a bird."

Guy 1: "Nah, I think a beer truck just drove by."

Guy 2: "What do you think it smells like over there?"

Guy 1: "I would think it's something along the lines of an old diaper mixed with rotting flesh and a coyote turd."

Guy 2: "I think I just died a little bit inside."

Guy 1: "I can't watch this shit anymore. Let's go to the tailor and get new suits."

Guy 2: "I love being a wealthy prick!"

Guy 1: "And later we can play polo at our estates in the Hamptons! Cheers to that."

Me: *Gunshot*

Guys 1 and 2: *Dying* "Oh....fuck..."

Me: *Skips away cheerfully to go shoot the crackheads*

This Is The Greatest Thing Ever

Anyone that has read through this site can discern that I rely heavily upon a few topics for whatever comedic value I may provide. Quite obviously, I make fun of crackheads and homeless people a great deal. Ann Coulter has been a target of mine several times. I often make jokes about beating hookers, and occasionally I rip born-again Christians and Jesus. Reading through this little weblog, one might also discern a perticularly strange interest I have - Sandwiches. Hell yes. I fucking love sandwiches. I love the name. I love the bread. I love the shit that goes between the bread. And for this reason I was fucking ecstatic to learn that August Is National Sandwich Month!

Fuck. Me. Running. I always knew that there should be an entire month dedicated to the greatest of culinary delights. Now I know that there is. God bless the genius that created and organized this most holy of months. Ramadan doesn't have shit on N.S.M.

Oh shit. This is making me fucking hungry. I'm going to go make a sandwich right now. God I fucking love sandwiches!

Rock on sandwich.

I Feel A Hate Crime Coming On

A while back I was reading through some of the things I have written about here and I came upon my Racists and Assorted Dumbasses post. I have always liked that, and rereading it I felt even better than I did when I told that stupid little racist to cram it. Because of this, I was slightly confused after a series of events occurred at the Milwaukee County Courthouse. I wasn't even going to write about this because it is fucking stupid, but whatever, I get to choose what I write about.

This week I was sent to the Milwaukee County Courthouse to make copies of various permits and other documents that some of the attornies in my office needed. I happily obliged because it means I get to leave the office and I get to pretend I'm important for an hour. So I went to the courthouse and copied the documents. As I was leaving, however, I was stopped by a fat black lady who was standing in front of the courthouse. (Note: The front of the courthouse is prime crackhead real estate. Panhandling in the area is insane and it is always crawling with people looking for lawyers to get their kids out of jail or shit like that). This lady explained to me that she was there because she had several outstanding fines and tickets in her name and was in need of legal representation. She asked if I would be her lawyer. This wasn't the first time someone has asked me to act as their legal representative and usually when I explain that I am not a lawyer they realize that this means I cannot represent them. Not this lady. After I told her that I am not a lawyer and could not represent her she continued to ask for legal advice. I explained that in addition to being unable to legally represent her I could not dispense legal advice, and that it is, in fact, illegal to do so if one is not a licensed attorney.

Her response to all of this: "Man, fuck you. You a racist muthafucka."

Excuse me? Look, I am pretty crude, I swear a lot, I drink far too much, I generally harbor contempt for most people, hell, I even scratch my nuts in public if I feel the need, but I cannot remember ever doing or saying anything that would make anyone think that I am truly a racist. This woman, though, apparently thought that my inability to help her was indicative of an incredible level racism. I wondered: Is she an angry cunt or simply retarded?

My response: "Yeah, I can see what you mean. But you are a fat lowlife and I don't spend my time in front of the courthouse begging for a lawyer."

Maybe I should have just called her a nigger. (Side note: I'm kidding. Or am I? No, I am)

I don't even know what to make of this. That porked-out oyster ditch really thought I was a racist. Functionally retarded does not even begin to describe that tubby fuck.

So I guess I'm a racist now. Jesus Christ, I wonder what it makes me if I decide not switch phone providers. Am I a serial killer then?

I should have just ran her over with my car. I'm glad I didn't, though. I can only imagine the size of the dent she would have put in the hood.

I guess I'm moving to the South and waving a Confederate flag.

Praise the Lord and pass the ammo!

Stupid bitch.

If You Have a Mowhawk I'm Going To Set You On Fire

The Vans Warped Tour is in Milwaukee this week. How do I know this? And why do I care? Certainly I wouldn't if I didn't come into direct contact with one of the wastes of human life that frequent the music festival. Allow me to explain... The Vans Warped Tour showcases various punk and alternative rock bands on a nationwide tour every summer. Some of the bands are actually worth listening to. Hell, when I was 15 I actually attended the festival at its stop in Chicago. You may be asking yourself: What do you have against the Warped Tour if you attended it yourself at one point in your life? Obviously, it is the fucking douchebags that go to the shows. Look, these bands may put out some good music but the people who follow them around the country are about useful as a dick that's been plunged into a blender set on puree. Marilyn Manson has actually made music that I enjoy (side note: I know, I know. I swear I never thought I would say that. Honestly, but I've never been one to lie and some of the shit he has produced is pretty good. He just looks like a fucking nightmare.) That, however, doesn't mean that the pale faced little goth shitheads that worship him shouldn't all be caged and gassed Auschwitz style.

But back to my original idea. I have to trek across Milwaukee to pay rent on my house because apparently Carnihan Enterprises does not believe in convenience or customer satisfaction. As I was driving through downtown Milwaukee during the middle of the fucking lunch hour I had the pleasure of sitting in traffic for almost a goddamn hour. Why was this? Naturally, one of the cock mongers attending the show decided it was a good idea for his fucking car to break down in the middle of one of Milwaukee's construction clogged streets. Just off the offramp I took to exit the freeway. So I sat. And waited. And watched. And, of course, I laughed my ass off at the mowhawked dildo screaming at his smoking car. The whole time I prayed for his car to explode and take with it the three dipshits sitting inside of it. Alas, it did not.

What came of this, though, is a thought that I know is not original, and one that I've had before, but it was again brought to my attention. I've done my research (note: my research involved scratching my balls and drinking bourbon straight from the bottle) and I have concluded that reason these little douches dress the way they do is to be nonconformist. Which seems really fucking funny to me because in refusing to conform they ALL LOOK THE FUCKING SAME! Fuck you, asshole, you are not Sid Vicious. And stop trying to channel Joey Ramone. He would fucking weep if he saw you wearing your Blitzkrieg Bop t-shirt that you bought for $30 at Hot Topic. And why is it necessary to spend $50 on fucking hair products? If it takes more than $200 to dress as a nonconformist you are getting raped in the ass AND you are a fucking moron.

In response to the influx of punk rock kids spreading their wanton filth in my formerly pristine city, I propose the building of the world's largest fire pit. After construction of the pit we will light a fire inside of it and simply throw those little cum rags into it. Simple. Effective. Fun. Shit, we can even sell raffle tickets and auction off a chance to be the first to throw someone in the fire. Imagine how much of the city's budget problems we could solve. People would be lining up by the thousands to have a chance to torch a retard in a Misfits shirt.

Look, all of you. Go away. You are approaching territory formerly reserved only for Cubs fans and the fucking dipshit who works at the 24 hour McDonalds that fucked up my order and put the fries in the bag upside down. Needless to say, you are treading dangerous water. Leave peacefully, or I will do to you what prisoners in maximum security jails do to each other. No, you sick fuck. Not the rape. I was talking about the shanks and beatings with tube socks filled with bars of soap.

God you are fucking sick. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Jesus Christ.

Back On Track

After enduring a week of pure misery I often find that it is cathartic to cut loose and send myself into an alcohol-induced coma that lasts the duration of the weekend. So what did I do this weekend? Yep - Absolutely nothing. And it was great. I sat on my ass in my living room and watched DVD's and television for an entire sloth-y weekend of laziness. Granted, I did have my good friends bourbon and vodka with me, but I never left the house for anything except to kick the wigger next door in the face. God that felt good. I think I will do it more often.

Anyway, about halfway through watching Cast Away, starring the greatest actor of all time - Mr. Tom Hanks - I realized that I don't ever want to be stranded on a fucking island. I know, I know. Quite the revelation. Just bear with me. I love that movie because it doesn't romanticize the idea of being completely secluded from the rest of the world, but it also serves to show how isolation provides a vastly different perspective of the world. I don't really know what else it should or does mean to me, but I found the movie in my collection at a seemingly very appropriate time. Seriously, Tom Hanks, is there anything you can't do? I would fellate you on command...

Now, just to show that I am back to usual, jovial self, I am going to set up my dream scenario which involves former US Senator and current Democratic Presidential candidate Mike Gravel and my favorite black hole of rationality, Ann Coulter.

Ann: "SENATOR GRAVEL, YOU ARE A LIBERAL!!! LIBERALS ARE BAD!!!"

Sen. Gravel: "Shut the fuck up Ann, I've eaten people more important than you."

Ann: "LIBERALS ARE RUINING THE COUNTRY!!! AHHH!!!"

Sen. Gravel: *Punches Ann Coulter in the mouth* "And my fist ruined your face. Your next completely pointless assertation, please?"

Ann: *Mumbling words as blood drips from her mouth* (But, obviously, it's really loud)

Sen. Gravel: "What's that Ann? Did I punch you too hard? Maybe this will help" *Pulls a baseball bat out of his overcoat and hits Ann Coulter in the face*

Ann: *Slowly dies in front of newly crowned American Hero Senator Mike Gravel*

Sen. Gravel: "Damn, that was fun. I think I'll make a sandwich."

Problem solved.

Please do this Senator Gravel, and I will vote for you in the primary. Fuck it, I will vote twice. Fraud's never been a deterent for me.

*Cue Ann Coulter twitching violently in a bloody heap on the ground.*

Stupid bitch.

Seven Days I Can Never Get Back

Have you ever had on of those weeks where everything and anything that could go wrong did? Of course you have, because the world sucks and everyone has weeks like that. I just had one of those weeks that makes me want to go and kick a puppy. No matter what good things were happening there were always five fucked up circumstances to offset the good shit. Not that anyone cares or should because I'm venting on a goddamn weblog that no one reads. That's cool, though. I'm writing this thing so I can choose what I write about.

So, here's the deal. If you piss me off in the next 72 hours, I'm going to punch you in the mouth. Nothing major. I'm just going to knock several teeth down your throat. I'm serious. I'm not going to get into the specifics about why I'm so pissed, but they are compelling enough for me to punch someone in the mouth. Suffice it to say, I am angry.

I usually try to be funny with my threats when I write here, but I am so far beyond humorous that when I read other things I have written here I feel like punching the screen of my laptop. I am going to fucking twist off and ruin someone's face.

I am going to go club a crackhead with a baseball bat.

Shit

Jesus Christ on a stick. I was really hoping that I would never have to write this post. Unbelievable. Unlike some people, I am somewhat fond of both of my parents. You could go so far as to say that I like them and that they have grown on me. For this reason I was slightly more than horrified when I received a phone call this past weekend and my mother informed me that she had "read my website" and that she had "never seen so many F-words in all [her] life."

Oh. Fuck.

Obviously I make up lots and lots of stuff that I write about here. But how do you explain to the woman that bore and raised you that you were just kidding around when you write about chaining a fat hooker to a pole or say that you would rather watch a kitten being raped than go to work?

Shit. Shit. Shit. Goddamn. Shit.

There was a reason that I made sure they didn't read this site. Mostly because it's depraved and disgusting. Now they know what I have written. Not that I'm going to stop or anything because I still think this shit is funny. But goddamn.

Here is the rundown of the phone call I received:
*Phone rings*
Me: "Hello"
Mother: "Hello, Michael, are you an angry man?"
Me: "No, not really."
Mother: "Oh, because I read your website and it seems like you are."
Me: *Raising a gun to my temple*
Me: Silence
Mother: "Are you still there?"
Me: "Oh shit..."

This is worse than getting caught rubbing one out to a snuff film. I could club a harp seal and not feel nearly as bad as I do now. I don't think I'm ever going to be invited to Thanksgiving dinner again. Son of a bitch.

*Still raising the gun to my temple*

Fuck me.

Better Than The Rest

This is called mailing it in. Well, it would be if anyone actually read or gave a shit about this little weblog. But I've been reading through my previous posts and I decided to make a compilation of what I think are the funniest things I've written, as well as make a short list of my favorite posts. Why do I get to decide? Because I do. Read and enjoy. Or don't. Whatever.

My favorite lines, in order from the oldest to newest posts:

About crackheads: The fact remains, though, that I really do love these guys (and occasionally women, though they often resemble men) and if they are honest about what they intend to do with the money they ask from me (i.e. buy crack, a hooker, booze, a colo-rectal screening) I will usually give them something. Even if I can only give a quarter I will do so because I feel a certain connection with the crackhead community. Except that I don't smoke crack. Or suck dicks for crack. Or kill other crackheads for crack. Or live on the street. Or ask strange people for money. Other than that, though, I am just like these noble, modern urban nomads. Such a proud and industrious people.

About giraffes: In all seriousness, this is the most worthless animal in existence. What does it do? Anyone? Anyone have an answer? Hmmmmm. What a complete waste of space. By default the world is a dumber and more inefficient place as a result of the existence of the giraffe. Does it even provide food for a more deserving animal? No. It probably tastes like shit to lions and bears and vampire bats anyway. Stupid fucking giraffe. I want them out of the species race. Gone.

Regarding the Jesus freaks at Marquette University: Ultimately, I don't give a flying fuck what anyone chooses to believe. I am a big believer in people coming to conclusion on their own terms. That means thinking things through and making your OWN decision. If you believe in god, great. I don't. You are certainly not going to change my mind by threatening me with eternal damnation. I already live in Wisconsin, I guarantee I've seen worse. So please, both of you numbnuts, just leave me alone when I'm walking on campus. I don't want to deal with you. So far I've been pretty nice, but I am rapidly approaching the point where I either push you in front of a bus or impale you with a broken cross. Either way, god isn't going to help you when I kick your ass back to the Holy Land. Fuck. Now I'm pissed. And it was such a good day. Stupid Jesus.

About my good friend Rush Limbaugh: Rush Limbaugh - that dirty scrote-sniffing, puppy-raping, hillbilly-heroin eating, cock monger Rush Limbaugh

What I would do if I bought a fat hooker on National Ave: Wouldn't it be cool if, for just one day, it was legal to buy a hooker and then keep her chained to a pole outside of a good friend's house? I would get the fattest, most disgusting cum-dumpster I could find on 20th and National and then handcuff her fat ass to a stop sign outside of someone's home. How long do you think she would struggle to climb up and over the sign before she gave up and just sat down and moaned quietly like an injured animal? Rereading that entire thought, I can understand why many of my religious friends tell me I will end up in the third or fourth ring of hell.

My entire conversation with a pedophile and a born again Christian

As well as my disertation on Ann Coulter

A clip from the Maury Povich show: The show started with some bullshit off-stage interviews where both act like they are infallible and talk in pseudo-rhyme trying to "diss" the other wretched piece of fuck. "You know you a slut. You know that shit whack, 'cause the baby ain't mine, he ain't even black!" Or some shit like that. It goes on like that.

An angry message to the husband of the runaway bride: GODDAMNIT WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM MAN?!?!?! SHE GAVE YOU THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY TO NOT GET MARRIED!!! CAN YOU NOT SEE HOW BADLY YOU FUCKED UP? HER EYES ARE TOO BIG AND YOUR COGNITIVE ABILITY IS TOO NONEXISTENT. ON BEHALF OF MEN EVERYWHERE I DEMAND YOU RETURN YOUR TESTICLES IMMEDIATELY AND BEGIN ESTROGEN TREATMENT. GODDAMNIT, SOMETHING THAT GREAT HAPPENS TO A MAN ONCE OR TWICE IN A LIFETIME. . .

My calculation of how many eight-year-olds I could kill

The winner of my "Who Can I Hate For No Reason Contest": Goths - Bingo. I had to go to the mall this weekend. (I hate the mall. And the people who frequent the mall.) Goths, everywhere. Goths to the left. Goths to the right. Downtrodden, forlorn teenagers who write angsty poetry and pretend to be serious when talking about slitting their wrists and ending it all. Well, I'm waiting.... You are from suburban Milwaukee, a city located in, last time I checked, fucking AMERICA!! What the fuck do you have to be so sad about. Your fucking parents are required to care and provide for you and you live in the most comfortable and safe nation in the entire fucking world!!! Fuck you!! BUT THE BIRDS ARE DYING AND LIFE IS SO SAD!!! Yeah? Fuck you. Get a job. Stop wasting your parents' money buying black nail polish and $75 jeans from Hot Topic in an attempt to separate yourself from the "harsh, cruel, callous world." (That's a direct quote from a goth, by the way) Just. Die. Now.We have a winner. From this point forward I will harbor and intense hatred of all people of the "goth"persuasion. They suck. I don't need a reason to hate them. I think it's obvious why I do. Black nail polish? You're a dude. Get fucked.

Why I want to blow up Planned Parenthood. It's funny because I'm pro-choice: After I get my free condoms. And STD test. And some RU486. Then that fucking place is gone. I live quite literally 400 feet from a Planned Parenthood building. And I've seen the crackheads and other people that seem to be drawn to it like moths to bright light. I'm not saying that I have to blow up every Planned Parenthood in the country, just the one by my apartment. Eric Rudolph already tried that. He only got 2. I've done my research and found that there are 117 Planned Parenthood clinics in America. That means that he only got 1.7% of the clinics in the country. Pathetic. Obviously, there is a reason for this. My friend told me it was the police or something like that, but, you know.... I mean, my friend is kind of a dipshit, but it probably was the cops, you know. Whatever. Anyway, if that fucking place isn't sterilizing their patients then it is doing no good. It's inefficient and losing money, and if Planned Parenthood is about anything, it's the bottom line! So in fact, I'm doing Planned Parenthood a favor by blowing up this one little building on Wisconsin Ave. in Milwaukee. Nobody will even notice. If nothing else panhandling in the area will almost cease. Why is this? You guessed it. I'm putting all of the crackheads in the building before I blow it up. How am I going to do this? Yep, that's right. Magic. I do it all the time. I stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom and chant the magic words I'd fuck me while pretending to be Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs. And then I have a tea party with my stuffed animals. Girls think I'm sexy!!

The time I caught my boss taking the nastiest shit in the long history of shits

The time a real website linked to mine

My new dilemma since I moved into my new house: I'm not really sure what is worse - walking down the street each day knowing that I might have to fight off and kill Dipshit McCrackpipe or driving down WestGrand Lane knowing that I might have to soon remove an eight year old from the space between my license plate holder and the front bumper. I have long advocated the construction of a fence surrounding one of the Hawaiian islands so that children between the ages of 10 and 16 can be sent there away from people like me who have sense enough not to chase a fucking soccer ball into oncoming traffic. I'm going to make that a reality one day. I'm starting with all of the kids on my block....

Cubs fans: Cubs fans. I don't believe in any god, but every night I hit my knees and pray that a higher being redirects a meteor and sends it headlong into Wrigley Field. This season my beloved Brewers are somehow managing to stay in first place convincingly. I realize that, like every year, they will break my heart, but until then I am riding the wave. So here's the deal. Cubs fans, all of you, any of you, each of you - shut the fuck up now. Don't talk to me about baseball. Or the Cubs. Or the Brewers. You haven't won dick shit for 99 years. I don't want all of your bad fucking karma rubbing off on my great city. We need this. Don't fuck it up.

Regarding the douche bag that stares at me through my office window: I don't get it, but at least four times today I have turned around and Cockbite McOveralls is standing there on his scaffolding laughing like a retard on an ether binge.

My list of better things to do than work

Here are my favorite posts:
Crackhead Fever
Dear Crackhead That Always Asks Me For Money, I Got A Job Today, Did You?
A Beautiful Conversation (with a Born-Again-Christian and a Pedophile)
I Am Going To Beat Ann Coulter With A Large Sausage
A Day In The Life
Shut The Fuck Up
The Day of Reckoning
How To Make Vehicular Manslaughter Even More Fun

and, of course, my favorite: Ode To A Crackhead, which I have reprinted below.

Ode to a Crackhead

Crackheads abound, with them streets are filled
Minus a couple, for crack they were killed
Pleasant and friendly, they're always polite
Except when they're cracked out and roaming at night
Looking for quarters, or small animals to be eaten
Only some white rocks their deal could sweeten
But Lou's not around, that worthless crack slinger
He's banging his third wife, a low-rent lounge singer
And the only dealer around at this ridiculous hour
Cuts his shit with Drano, Ajax and flour
What must a man do to find him some rocks
Must he resort to slobbing on cocks
On the gay side of town to feed his desire
To put crack in a pipe and to touch it with fire
To fry up his brain as smoke curls in his mouth
Oh Shit! Muthafucka! He knows some dude on South
Where the street intersects at an awkward degree
Bitch, he gettin' his rocks, but shit they ain't free
Looks like another bag paid for on his knees
Don't look for a moral because there ain't one
Just another dumb crackhead whose mission is done

I hope in the future I write more posts that I think contain things that are worthy of being posted here. In the meantime, I'm going to get fuckin' loaded and maybe beat a hooker or two.

Lookout whores, I'm on the warpath!

Do You Really Have To Do That?

I am at the end of my fucking rope. Every weekend there is some douchebag who rides his miniature crotch rocket up and down the alley behind my house. As if there isn't a street or parking lot or perhaps a fucking freeway he could ride on. This stupid piece of fuck has to ride a tiny motorcycle up and down the alley at 8am while I am trying to sleep off the unholy amounts of alcohol I consumed the previous night. During the week I wouldn't give a shit because I am awake and leaving for work at this hour. Obviously this dildo doesn't realize this, so I have written a letter to him detailing my grievances and what I expect of him. I hope he heeds my advice.

Dear Asshole,

Get fucked you panda-raping ass-ranger. I hope you run your pygmy motorcycle into a telephone pole and die. Is there a reason that you cannot postpone your insanely stupid recreation until at least 11am? I cannot understand why you have to be a fucking cock monger and interrupt me while I am taking advantage of the only true free time I have during the week. I fucking hate you with the fire of a thousand suns. Hitler was not as hated by the Polish Jews as much as I loathe you. If I had my choice between killing you and saving a village of refugees in Darfur, those skinny shits in Africa would be long gone. Please know that if it were legal I would have already detonated the bomb I made specially for you. Please also know that I work for a law firm and am currently drafting legislation to make the aforementioned action legal and even encouraged at the state level. I'm fucking serious. You are hereby ordered to stop. If you do not stop I will start planting nails face-up in the alley. If that does not deter you I will start sitting on my roof with a rifle and take shots at you as you pass by. Please know that I am a crack shot. I don't miss. I hope you understand how seriously I take my drunken slumber. Do not fuck with it. Or I will eat your soul.

Fuck you cockslap.

Love, Michael

For his sake I hope he takes me seriously. I am a man of my word and I really would hate to have to go to the hardware store and buy thousands of nails to plant in the alley. But I am willing to go that far.

That fucking cumstain better listen to me.

Fuck.

I've Got Better Shit To Do

I've been sitting in my office for almost two hours now, and already it feels like my temporal lobe is going to pop. I can feel a vein in my temple trying to force its way out of my head. Hopefully that will be good enough to kill me because I cannot sit at this desk for the rest of the day. Maybe I'll go on a little homicide spree. Anyway, to pass the time I wrote a list of things I would rather do than be at work. Enjoy.

If I had my choice, instead of working I would rather:

Have sex with a morbidly obese woman with a mustache
Watch a puppy die
Masturbate to images of Rosie O'Donnell
Walk through the middle of Red Square in 1961 holding a sign that says Capitalists are Sexy
Listen to Ann Coulter pleasuring herself and then scream at her dildo for being "a fucking pussy liberal"
Fondle Ron Jeremy's hairy Jewish balls
Piss myself during the prom
Be the most recent guy to bone Paris Hilton
Contract syphillis
Piss off OJ
Circumcise myself with a fork
Take a shovel to the nuts
Eat mayonnaise
Snort lines of broken glass
Finger-bang Babwa Wawters
Attempt a rational conversation with our numb nuts president
Repeatedly hit myself in the head with a tack hammer
Get raped by a manatee
Take a job as a fluffer for a porn movie
Be cellmates with a 7 ft. tall black man nicknamed Rapey
Stare blankly at a white wall for 8 hours. Strike that, I already spend my entire day doing this.
Fellate a hot curling iron
Set fire to my nuts
Spend a weekend in Buffalo Bill's torture pit
Shit myself in a bar
Drink Steel Reserve
Anything involving beastiality
Huff gasoline
Watch a Chicago Bears game
Live on Milwaukee's North Side
Go hamster shopping with Richard Gere
Watch reruns of American Idol
Go down on my fat shit neighbor
Skin myself alive
Listen to that fucking Avril Lavigne "Girlfriend" song
Stab myelf repeatedly with a ballpoint pen
Fuck with an already pissed off gorilla
Listen to elevator music
Sit in traffic
Get hit by a car
Get beaten up by my friend's gay uncle
Take a crackhead to dinner
Drag my dick across a bed of nails
Kick a stripper
Brush my teeth with paint thinner
Ride the It's a Small World ride at Disney World
Anything involving nudity and scorpions
Drink Mountain Dew
Bite Mike Tyson's ear off
Rub one out with sandpaper
Get pegged
Step on a kitten
Make a long list
Wrap dental floss around my finger until it turns black and falls off
Punch my sister
Break my television
Eat a piece of tree bark
Fuck Anna Nicole Smith. In her current state.
Create a ridiculously long list of shit I'd rather do than work.
Write for this weblog.
Get fired.

As you can see, I'm not a big fan of work. I hope I conveyed my general dislike of all things work-related. If you can't tell, then I hate to say this, but scientists would describe you, in all their sciency terms, as a "fucking retard." It's true. I read it in a book.

Fuck work.

Can I Help You Dickhead?

The office building I work in is having repairs and remodeling work done on the exterior. As such, there are several men working at any given time. I have nothing mean to say about manual laborers, as I was one for a few years. Having said that, there is one guy working here who is really creeping the fuck out of me. My desk faces away from the window in my office, so I am not always looking outside, but on several occasions I have turned around to see this lazy-eyed bastard staring in at me with a shit-eating grin on his face. What in the entire motherfucking world could be so goddamn funny? Am I growing a dick out of the back of my head that I am not aware of? Did he just remember a funny joke? I don't get it, but at least four times today I have turned around and Cockbite McOveralls is standing there on his scaffolding laughing like a retard on an ether binge. He must be inhaling fumes from the paint he is applying to the side of the building. There is no other explanation. There is nothing remotely amusing about my office. There are four white walls, a desk, and my laptop. Oh, and my framed picture of Milwaukee County Stadium. That must be it. This floppy cock must be laughing at a black and white picture of a now-defunct stadium. Ah the laughter!

I've got to do something about this cock-gobbling peeping tom. And since I can't just turn around and shoot him (I would break the window and I'm not paying for a new one) I will have to devise an alternative method for ridding myself of this fucking pervert. I have made a list of what I can do to prevent this pickle-licker from watching me while I work:

1. Punch him in the face. Simple. Effective. Gets the job done. And it's fun!

2. Run my car into the base of the scaffolding. He'll fall to his death. I'll have a good laugh. In the end, we'll both come out on top. Except for him. He won't.

3. Gasoline, fire, a lot of kindling. I'm going to roast him like a motherfucking marshmallow.

4. Build a cage around the base of the scaffolding. Fill the cage with hungry lions and rapid squirrels. Wait for him to die. Rinse. Repeat.

5. Go back to my old neighborhood. Bring back several of my old crackhead acquaintances. In a cage, of course, they're not real people. Let them loose in the parking lot. Tell them that Googly-Eye O'Dickslap has a pocketful of quarters and a bag of crack in his shoe. He's as good as dead.

6. Train a falcon to fly up and attack him. Also train him to steal that asshole's wallet. He owes
me that.

7. Failing all else, take sledge hammer to the window. Step out onto scaffolding. Inquire about his motives for watching me in my place of business. Ask him how he would prefer to die. Ignore his request and bludgeon him with a flashlight.

I have many options, but whatever I choose, this guy needs to go. Fast. He's creeping me the hell out and I can't concentrate on not working. It's been about an hour now since he last looked at me and...... HEY! QUIT LOOKING AT ME YOU KITTEN-RAPING CACTUS FELLATOR! I'M GOING TEAR YOUR EYES OUT! GO THE FUCK AWAY!

Asshole.

How to Make Vehicular Manslaughter Even More Interesting

About a month ago I moved out of the ghetto and into a new house in West Milwaukee. When I left my old apartment at 24th and Wisconsin I left behind all of my crackhead friends, as well. But moving into my new place presented an entirely new challenge. Now instead of blowing off bums asking me for money I have to dodge shit eating little children as I drive down Westgrand Lane to my house. Needless to say, there have been a few casualties. My experiences mowing down kids with my car have, obviously, been enjoyable. Who doesn't like to pretend the eight year old next door is a speed bump? But I thought of something that can make the experience even better. I have assigned a points-system to my vehicular manslaughter activities. Here it is:

5 Points for hitting any kid. Period.

+1 if the kid is on a bike.

+2 if the kid is on a skateboard.

+5 if you have to swerve to kit the kid. Effort should be rewarded.

+1 if the kid is wearing a baseball hat and you knock it off.

+5 if the kid rolls up the hood of the car and onto the roof.

+10 if the kidd rolls up the hood of the car and all the way over the roof.

-10 if you swerve and miss.

+5 if the kid is a fucking wigger. Like my neighbor.

+5 if you make eye-contact before car contact.

+.1 points for every broken bone. Fingers and toes do not count, and you can only count up to 10 vertebrae.

+4 if you break both femurs.

+10 if the kids parents are present.

+5 if the kid starts running and you chase him/her down.

+2 if you are eating any kind of sandwich while performing your child-crushing duty.

+15 if you kit two or more kids at once.

+20 if you avoid serving any jail time.

This is still a work in progress and I will come up with more ways to score point in the future. In the meantime get in your car and go hunting. First one to 100 points wins.

Eat my bumper you snotty little shitbags.

So You Want to Piss Me Off

I'm trying hard to write new things for this little weblog, but I always seem to be preoccupied with other shit. Mostly booze and running kids over with my car. However I do have two subjects I would like to tackle.

First, I present the (nearly) comprehensive list of action you could take should you desire to piss me the fuck off. Read it and be warned:

1. Be a FIB. And bring thousands of your FIB friends to Milwaukee when the Cubs play the Brewers. I live one mile from the fucking stadium. When the Cubs are in town traffic on I94 is akin to the congestion one would expect from a mass evacuation due to an impending alien invasion. Just stay the fuck out. It's not my fault you can't get tickets at Wrigley. But it is your fault that it takes me a fucking hour to drive the ten miles from my office to my house. Fuck you FIBS.

2. Leave me a voicemail. Unless you're telling me how much you hate me before you eat a gun, I don't need you to leave a fucking message. There is a reason that my phone shows missed calls. And who they are from. And the fucking number. And the number of missed calls. Need I go on? If you call me and I don't answer the phone, I will call you back. Seriously, even if I took the time to listen to your fucking message when I call you back you are still going to have to explain whatever it is that you want. Save you and me some time and just don't leave a goddamn voicemail, or else I will kick you in the dick. Think I'm kidding? Try it.

3. Be Rod Stewart. This only applies to one of you, but I hate you so much that I thought it warranted a mention. Do I like your body? No, you're a fucking wrinkly old fuckstick with stupid hair and a voice that makes me want to throw myself into traffic. Do I think you're sexy? How dare you ask me that you decrepit piece of dog shit. If I ever hear you say that again I will find you and feed your eyeballs to you. Please die Rod Stewart. It's for the good of all mankind. And if you don't do it for them, then at least bite it for me. I really hate you.

4. Be the fat girl in the office who pawns her work off on me. No, I don't want to drop off legal documents on the east side. Why ask such a stupid question? Oh, because you're a lazy fuck and the thought of moving your fat ass more than the twenty feet from your desk to the break room causes you to perspire? Stupid bitch.

5. Eat Nacho Cheese Doritos. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Watching someone eat chips that I can actually smell is about as disgusting as walking in on a circle jerk in the basement of the library. Those things taste like shit. Does the Frito-Lay corporation think its funny producing such a fucking horrific product? Shoot me.

6. Be Johnny Estrada, Rickie Weeks, or Derrick Turnbow. These three are, respectively, the starting catcher, the starting second baseman, and the former (mindfucked) closer and now setupman for my beloved Milwaukee Brewers. Estrada is easily the worst .280 hitter I've ever seen. How the fuck is it possible to hit almost .300 and have exactly one clutch hit (which was basically negated because after it happened Damien Mueller, our 90 year old backup catcher who should be playing more often, went yard to pad the lead)? At least he doesn't strike out as much as Weeks, though. Barely, but its still not as much. Rickie Weeks is a goddamn creative genius when it comes to striking out. A fucking artist. If that worthless fuck was to strikeout and somehow end up with the fat end of the bat lodged firmly in his asshole I wouldn't be surprised. As for Derrick Turnbow...his nickname is Turnblow. He couldn't face the bottom of the order for the Little Douchebags of the Wilson Park Little League without issuing six walks. Need I say more?

7. Write me an email/message/anything with text using poor grammar. I cannot overstate how much of a grammar nazi I am, and I am very proud of this. So when I receive a written message filled with "LOL" and the number "2" in place of "to" I die a little bit inside. And then I feel the urge to kill.

8. Replace the Diet Coke in the break room with Diet Pepsi. If you do this I will hire a Haitian witch doctor to cast a voodoo curse on your soul. Michael's Law states that you must replace what you take with an equal or better product. If you can't replace the Diet Coke with more Diet Coke then you have to replace it with packages of ephedrine or real coke. I need to stay the fuck awake at work and this Diet Pepsi shit isn't doing the goddamn job.

9. Tell me that I am tall. I'm 6'5" for Christ's sake, I'm well fucking aware of this fact. This, however, doesn't deter the legions of douchebags who find it necessary to point it out. How about you just shut the fuck up and assume that I know, is that cool? Good. Otherwise I'm going to break the wooden handle off of a rake and impale you with it.

10. Eat at your desk/work-station while I am talking to you. Mother of fucking Christ this pisses me off. Is it really necessary for you to fit in those mouthfuls of whatever nasty shit you are shoveling down your throat while I'm trying to talk to you? Is it really? People at the Milwaukee County Courthouse are the worst when it comes to this shit. I don't even go down there between the hours of 11am and 1pm anymore just because I can't deal with some dipshit who has to eat fried chicken while feably attempting to look up whatever records or documents I need. How hard is it to take a goddamn lunch break? Obviously very hard. Fucking cretins.


Contrary to what I said at the beginning of this post this list is not nearly comprehensive. If you have read any of this blog at all you will realize that pretty much everything pisses me off. Yet I am still a very happy person. I have no clue how I pull it off. I am a walking conundrum. And too lazy to finish the list.

I want to address one more thing before I end this - Cubs fans. I don't believe in any god, but every night I hit my knees and pray that a higher being redirects a meteor and sends it headlong into Wrigley Field. This season my beloved Brewers are somehow managing to stay in first place convincingly. I realize that, like every year, they will break my heart, but until then I am riding the wave. So here's the deal. Cubs fans, all of you, any of you, each of you - shut the fuck up now. Don't talk to me about baseball. Or the Cubs. Or the Brewers. You haven't won dick shit for 99 years. I don't want all of your bad fucking karma rubbing off on my great city. We need this. Don't fuck it up.

Well, I'm off to run down small children with my car. Next time I write I will introduce all three of you to the children-killing-points-system that I have devised. It makes vehicular manslaughter a game! Hooray!

Fucking kids.

Newsflash: I'm Not Dead Yet

It's been awhile....... I know, goddamn. Almost 3 months since I wrote anything in this little slice of internet heaven. Since it's been so long I'll update the three of you who read this and fill you in on the happenings in my life. If you give a shit. Which you almost certainly don't. If that's the case then get fucked. Anyway.....

On the first of June I moved into a new house. It is, to say the very least, much better than my previous residence. Why is this? There are no fucking crackheads, of course. Nope, now instead of wading through a sea of toothless rock-smokers who smell like something my dog might try to eat I get to drive through a sea of shit-eating little children who like to run around the fucking street and ride their bikes in front of my car as I'm coming back from work. I'm not really sure what is worse - walking down the street each day knowing that I might have to fight off and kill Dipshit McCrackpipe or driving down WestGrand Lane knowing that I might have to soon remove an eight year old from the space between my license plate holder and the front bumper. I have long advocated the construction of a fence surrounding one of the Hawaiian islands so that children between the ages of 10 and 16 can be sent there away from people like me who have sense enough not to chase a fucking soccer ball into oncoming traffic. I'm going to make that a reality one day. I'm starting with all of the kids on my block....

Also, as if it matters to anyone, I still work for a local law firm. The best part about all of it? No one has found out about the shit that I write here and fired because of it. Also, the free coffee is nice. Actually, the best part is the coffee, fuck that other thing.

One more note about my new house, and then I'll finish this shit off with a letter I wrote to all of my former friends on 24th St. The ones without any teeth. Or deodorant. Anyway, one of my neighbors is a 36 year old weed smoking former metalhead who almost certainly forgot his brain in the 80's. Fortunately for me, since he provides the kind of unintentional comedy that I love so very much, he does not have access to a time machine to go back and get his brain. This guy is high 8 days a week and works for a telemarketing company that his roommate runs out of their house. I wish I could describe him better. Just imagine what a washed-up burned-out metalhead looks and acts like and I guarantee you will be spot on.

Finally, I'll wrap this up by sharing with you a letter I have written to all of my crackhead brethren...

Dear Pipe Smokers,

Before I go any farther I would first like you all to know that I enjoyed my time living amongst you. Sure, I was inside of a building while you were sleeping next to the carwash or in dumpsters, but that did nothing to diminish the closeness I came to feel to all of you. I am going to miss the toothless grins and the many times you berated me for only giving you a quarter, and I will never forget the looks on your faces when I would fish around my pockets for change, knowing full well I had none, before telling you to get fucked. So full of hope. Such anticipation before I crushed your dreams of procuring white rocks. How can I thank you enough for offering to pump my gas for me after I had given you a dollar? The handles on those things are difficult to operate, and the automatic pump mechanism is very tricky. I'm just glad I had experts on hand to help me through such a trying ordeal. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. I cannot believe our time together has come to an end. I will miss each and every one of you.

If there is only one thing I can say to you it is this: If any of you come near me again I will fucking run you over with my car. I'm serious. Fuck all of you filthy, mangy pieces of shit. If you follow me to my new house I will douse you with gasoline and set you on fire using a magnifying glass and sunlight. If it is cloudy, I will use a Bic lighter. I'm not fucking around anymore. I hate all of you. Please die.

Love,
Michael



I don't feel so angry anymore......

This Is Stupid

I am sitting at work right now, thinking of ways to leave early without being noticed. In the meantime I have been dicking around with Google and searching whatever comes to mind. I was curious so I entered the word (I think it's a word) "starmeeting151" and was, naturally, met with entries for my own site. I found something else, though. Some Identity Theft Protection Website that sells fucking mailboxes linked to my site because in a previous post about nearly being robbed I used the words "identity" and "thief." I was perplexed, but I also thought it was really funny since I managed to get the word "fucking" posted twice on their site and "shit" is on there once. Is it childish to be happy that your website was unknowingly linked to and in the process several curse words showed up on a (possibly, I have no idea, though) reputable commercial website? Yes, it is, but fuck that. Who cares? I am almost giddy because I got ripped off but still managed to swear. The best part, though: My post had NOTHING to do with identity theft. In fact, I state explicitely This guy was not trying to steal my identity. I wish I had found out about this sooner......damn.

Fucking fucking shit. Hahahahaha, never gets old.....

Sure I'll Give You My Banking Information

I got one of those Nigerian Oil Heir emails the other day. I took a minute to compose a response:

This offer sounds wonderful. I would be more than happy to help you with this transaction, however, I would first like to ask how you found me of all people?!? I could not believe my good fortune when I read your email! It is my hope that we can begin as soon as possible.

Here is my information:
Name: Nathan W. Churchill
Company: Campbell's Soup - Tomato Bisque and Clam Chowder Division, Assistant to the Regional Soup Manager and Secretary of Tastiness
Bank Info: I am able to open an acount at any financial institution within a 40 mile radius. Anything outside of that, unfortunately, is not possible as I ride a bicycle for transportation and I am afraid I simply cannot peddle any farther. Please respond with your directions for opening such an account and I will be most happy to move forward with our transaction.
Telephone No.: (507) 867-5309

If there is any other information you require please do not hesitate to ask. I am very excited about this. I cannot tell you how much those millions of dollars are going to help with my Save the Retarded Pandas foundation, and I can now afford to buy the malaria medication for my illegitimate daughter! How Fortuna has smiled upon me! Please respond soon. Thank you.

Nathan W. Churchill
(507) 867-5309

Nothing outrageous, but I would love to get a response about this. If there is any way at all that I could fuck with whoever sent this email I would shit myself......

You've Got to be Kidding Me

Let me tell you about the most harrowing and terrifying moment of my day......

I'm telling anyway.

I took a break from pretending to be busy so that I could wander aimlessly around the office in hopes of finding something to occupy my time. In doing so I musta drank me 15 Dr. Peppers (I sincerely hope someone got the Forrest Gump reference) and realized that a stop at the restroom was in short order. I made my way down the hallway and into the men's room and upon opening the door I was nearly physically knocked down by the most powerful, nose-exploding stench I had ever experienced. Naturally, this was fucking hilarious to me, but what made it all better was that the guy who took the rhinocerous dump that managed to leave a tinted cloud throughout the bathroom was still in the shitter. Of course, I laughed. Somewhat loudly. Loud enough that he heard me.

And then, before I could exit the bathroom and continue my procrastination......

Yep.

My boss.
Walks.
Out.
Of.
The.
Stall.

My fucking boss, the man at whom I had just laughed, was the gastronomic wizard that produced a turd that could have gassed half of Auschwitz.

So now what do I do? He definitely saw me as he exited the stall. He knows I was the one who let out the laugh as I walked in. He knows that I know that he took a shit that could have been used to bomb Hiroshima. This is what I'm dealing with.....

That fucking guy better have washed his hands...............

What Happened to the Crackheads?

Is the world coming to a fucking end? Am I losing my shit? Is that a Pringle on the floor? Hmmmmm, maybe the last question doesn't apply, but seriously, where the hell have all the crack bums gone? I realize that we are in the middle of January, but it has been unseasonably warm here in Milwaukee so they haven't frozen, and even if they did I'm sure I would have seen a few bodies laying around the street. I don't think they hibernate. Crack has a tendency to make them all jittery and keep them awake forever, so there is no way that they have been sleeping since November. So what the fuck?

You are probably wondering why, Michael, do you give a flying fuck about the toothless vagrants that wander your neighborhood and ask you for money? Wait, you're not? Are you sure? Really? Oh, no, that's cool. Not a problem. I'm going to tell you anyway, though.

Crackheads are nature's way of saying "it could be so much worse." I mean, everytime I am asked for "bus money" I smile a little bit inside before telling the bum to get fucked. I'm actually starting to get crackhead withdrawals, which leads me to the next logical conclusion: Crackheads function as a form of crack for me. I need to see these walking piles of worthless to reaffirm my validity. Or something like that. Well not really, because crackheads don't validate my life, but goddamnit I miss seeing the toothless grins and smelling the diseased bastards from blocks away. I miss them, and to show how much I want them back I have written a letter to all of the crackheads in the neighborhood or 24th and Wisconsin in Milwaukee.

Dear Crackheads,

First of all, I would just like to let you all know that your presence has been greatly missed over the last 2 months. Where have you all gone? I know for a fact that the homeless shelter has not taken on more degenerates like yourselves, and even if it did you have to leave during the day. Where oh where have you all run off to? Is there a shortage of crack in Milwaukee that has forced you to seek your fix elsewhere? If that is the case, please, let me help you to procure your white rocks. I'm sure we can work something out. You guys have become like brothers to me. Brothers that I would never admit to having. And who I would disown. And probably beat with a stick. But brothers, nonetheless. So, my cracked out brothers, please come back. I'll give you all of the change in the ashtray of my car. I'll even give you a dollar. A whole fucking dollar! Can't you see what you are all fucking doing to me?!?! I am so torn up inside, I cry myself to sleep at night thinking about the times we had when you would stagger up to me and demand money and I would reach around in my pockets telling you to wait before smiling and saying "nope, now get lost asshole." Can't we return to the days when you would sit outside my apartment and wait for me to leave for work? How I long for the times when I would be walking home from class and I would see eight of you within a ten block stretch. Please, crackheads, come home to me. I need you. You complete me.

-Michael

If that letter doesn't bring them back then I don't know what will. I'm all out of ideas here. I've tried nothing and I can't think of anything else to do. What a truly tragic life I lead. All of my crackhead friends have deserted me.

Come back crackheads. Please?

Life Sentence

Note: This was written right after the recent elections and I had forgotten about it until now. I think it's fairly decent and pretty different than most of the other stuff I write. So, enjoy. Or don't. See if I give a shit.

The election is over and there are a lot of things I want to say but cannot verbalize without this post devolving into another of my swear-laden tirades, but having said that I feel I need get a few things off of my chest like how I swear-to-fucking-Christ my state is populated with idiots who claim to desire change and come oh-so-fucking-close but still manage to come up short on the truly progressive issues, but hey, what does it matter if we only discriminate against a small percentage of our state's population, they will never matter anyway, or how it is that we re-elected a crooked governor and never batted an eye when he picked up right where he was and continued to make Wisconsin a larger welfare state in the hope of projecting an image of equality and the irony of this is that voters who put that chode in office to create this fucking utopia of free money and rampant discrimination forgot to vote no on a small little amendment to the fucking state constitution which now paves the way for our truly progressive and open-minded state to legally prevent homosexuals from ever marrying here, which is fine because fags should die in a fire and God and country and Don't Tread on Me and these colors don't run and Jee-sus won't this state be a fucking great place to live five years from now when nobody can fucking afford to stay here because of our shit-eating fuckstick government charging property taxes on everything I own up to and including my nutsack, but I'm not bitter because being bitter would imply that I am resigned to the fact that this shit will continue when in reality I'm still fucking pissed and not resigned to a single fucking thing and now I need to know one fucking thing that would make my fucking day: What the hell is going on here?

Damn.