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.

A Small Part of Me

Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make. It is with great pride and the sincerest feelings of honor and humility (I can do that, I swear) that I would like to share with you this piece of groundbreaking and life-altering information: I have a massive and truly impressive penis and a pair of tremendous testicles that would make Jesus Christ himself shiver with envy. Let me elaborate.....

I first realized that my man-stick was, in fact, a monument to humanity when I was a young boy. Living life in possession of a daunting piece of pants-meat, though, was not always easy. Many a time did I find myself turning around too swiftly in the small classrooms of those days and nearly putting out the eyes of classmates with my enormous cock, or forgetting to fully reel in my gigantic phallus after relieving myself and slamming it in the bathroom door as it dragged behind me.

Do not, however, allow me to lead you to the conclusion that my summer-sausage sized trouser snake has been anything but a blessing. Oh, quite on the contrary! How I cherish the sound of stupid whores gasping in both terror and delight as my rippling flesh rocket and softball sized nuts are revealed in their full glory. How could one put a price on the look on the face of some tight-snatched harlot as she catches her first glimspe of the splendor that is my pork steeple?

How large, however, is my meaty flesh stick and pair of perfectly circular and delectable balls? Allow me to explain... Should my junk be compared with your average space shuttle, one would notice that my hammer-headed butter slinger dwarfs even the most impressive of NASA's space vehicles. Ladies and gentlemen, it is that big. Oh yes, it is that big.

And where would I be without the industrial-strength sack that I have in which to carry my rotund and girthy meatballs? Nowhere, you can bet the kids' college fund on that. My pink nut satchel is the Robin to the Batman that is comprised collectively of my left and right testicular wonders. In conjunction with my jeans-tube, it creates the most impressive and truly awe-inspiring combo of meaty round delight and giant-cigar shaped wonderment anyone could reasonably expect from any person.

Am I, then, simply being pompous and arrogant? Well, one could lay the claim that when you have a sister-crippler like I do then there is nobody who can contest anything I say as a result of my thick stick. In fact, anyone who has the audacity to speak ill of my fabulously robust dick is more than welcome, as far as I am concerned, to suck on my aforementioned tube steak.

Initially, this post was meant to be a brilliant dissertation on the magnificence of my junk, but in explaining the true brilliance of my shit I believe I have stumbled across what is possibly the greatest discovery ever in the history of humanity - I am hung like the average orangutan.

And yes, I am very fucking proud.

Fucking proud, indeed.

Shit Falling Out of My Brain

I'm sitting at work right now hungover and trying to kill time until I get to escape. Naturally, the first thing that came to my pounding mind was to write about whatever came to me. Here are just a few of the things that are bouncing around in my head. Be warned.

1. I wonder how long it will be before an employer or prospective employer finds this little weblog I write and fires my ass. I mean, I really do not ever write about anything of any real value here. Every other word I use is "fuck" or some derivative of that word. I routinely make fun of homeless people, talk about wanting to blowing up more abortion clinics than Eric Rudolph, detail my debaucherous nights, and generally promote the downfall of humanity. I am pretty good at it, though. So, am I going to clean this shit up and produce more wholesome and educating articles and posts? No fucking way. I like to swear and make fun of crack heads. Few things give me greater pleasure. And if I can make my friends laugh because of what I write then that is only extra incentive to keep writing this disgusting and utterly worthless drivel.

2. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck fuck. Fucker. Fuck. Fuck. Hahahahahahaha.

3. America Idol is starting again. Fucking fuck am I fucking excited!!! Oh fuck! Am I being sarcastic? You decide. Here is a list of things I would rather do than watch American Idol:
Watch a puppy die.
See Rosie O'Donnell naked.
Stand between a fat woman and the buffet table.
Parachute-less skydiving.
Anything having to do with centipedes and my genitalia.
American Idol!! Catch the fucking fever!!!

4. Boobs. Such a great word for such a great thing. Just wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Boobs.

5. Ann Coulter is a loud-mouth, pickle-licking, baby-kicking, shit-eating, whorebag bitch who couldn't make a lucent argument that she is fucking Ann Coulter! I haven't cut loose about this bitch for too long and now I'm fucking angry. Angry and tired. But mostly angry. I can't even decide if she is good-looking or not. I've got a thousand dollars that says she is totally into bondage and loves to beat the shit out of whoever is unlucky enough to be captured by and forced to sleep with her. I'm certain that she has a dungeon in her home. And when you enter your soul is sucked into the fiery pits of hell. And she kicks puppies. Whore.

The Day of Reckoning

I turned 21 on December 17, 2006. Having done so, I contend that on that day I drank enough to kill an average-sized horse. Here is the transcript of my day:

1:03pm - Wake up still drunk from the night before. Today is the 16th of December. In 11 hours I will be of legal age to do what I have been doing since I was 15. Oh, and I can drink, too.

1:04 - First beer of the day. It will be a long and memory-less day. God save me.

1:06 - Second beer of the day. Friends assure me that I can drink slower and that there is, in fact, more beer. I tell them that they are crazy and that beer tends to drink itself if left alone. I drink faster.

1:32 - First insults hurled at all friends who are not turning 21. As it turns out, there are only 2 present. Insult 2 people mercilessly.

1:33 - Am reminded that I am also not 21 yet. Assholes.

2:01 - Beer.

3:06 - Hard alcohol. Lots of it.

4:23 - I am fucking wasted. Slurred speech? Yep. Glassy eyes? You know it. Fat chick in my bed? Not yet, but probably later.

5:00 - I am becoming witty and charming to everyone around me. People love to hear me yell at them and sing mumbled, drunken Phil Collins songs. That's right. I listened to Phil Collins on my birthday. Jesus ain't got shit on me.

5:07 - Point out to nobody in particular that I am the best looking man in the room. Point out to the homely looking girl my friends brought by that I might not even be the ugliest girl in the room.

5:08 - Ugly girl slaps me.

6:42 - Notice Sharpy marks on my arm. Turns out friends have been keeping track of how many shot I take. Why did I not notice this until now?

7:18 - Friend Tom brings the Newcastle. My fate is sealed. (Side note: Only two kinds of alcohol signal the point of no return for me - Steel Reserve (extra side note: only to be consumed when you are fresh out of gasoline or sweat squeezed out of Rosie O'Donnell socks) and Newcastle. God knows why such a delectable beer would consistently and without fail ruin me.)

8:00 - I am jumping on couches and beating my chest like Tarzan. Tarzan is probably more clothed than I am, though.

9:24 - Memory gone. I'm certain I did something fun at this time, but alcohol has the tendency to steal things from you. Like dignity, money, and brain cells.

10:00 - Walk (read: basically fall) into Murphy's, a Marquette campus bar.

10:01 - Am surprised to learn that Marquette's bars consider me to be of legal age. I do as well. Take first legal shot.

10:02 - Second legal shot

10:03 - 3rd and 4th legal shots. I am going to die. Of this, I am certain.

10:08 - Cement Mixer. I take it like a man. Inside, however, I feel like a six year old girl who just got hit with a golf club.

10:37 - Man up and shoot pool. I am on fire. How is this possible? I am bobbing and weaving and cannot differentiate between stripes and solids. Whatever, I still win 20 bucks. Christ I'm good.

11:48 - Leave Murphy's. Head for Water St. I might as well be headed to Baghdad. My friends have a look about them that makes me think they are trying to kill me.

11:49 - Am alerted to the fact that my friends are trying to kill me. By my friends.

12:00am - Officially 21. Officially toasted. Officially black out. All memories from here on out are made up or provided second hand.

12:23 - My friends send as many girls as possible to dance with me. I am told the next day that I "danced like a champion."

1:04 - More shots, of course. I can't even work the automatic doors at the grocery store anymore. Which makes opening my zipper to piss just that much harder.

1:05 - Manage to not piss all over myself. I am victorious. I congratulate myself with more shots.

1:06 - 2:05 - Life as I know does not exist. I may very well have traveled to a different planet, but I would not know.

8:03am - Wake up in friends' apartment. Fully clothed with huge cuts and scratched on left bicep and right elbow. I took a massive spill, obviously.

8:09 - Walk the 8 blocks to my apartment. No coat. No hat. No dignity. I am still drunk. Very very drunk.

9:07 - Screwdrivers, Bloody Mary's, Miller Lite. Today should be a good day.

9:34 - Pass out, drink in hand.

1:23pm - Wake up, balls hanging out of the front of my boxers . Walk into living room, with balls unknowingly still hanging out, and find several friends passed out on my couches.

1:24 - Tuck nuts back into boxers. Fall asleep again. No fat chicks. No serious injuries. I am alive. And I am 21.

My friends stopped marking down how many shots I took after 27. So, unofficially, I took approximately 40 shots in addition to the untold number of beers and mixed drinks I consumed. How am I alive? My momma don't raise no losers.

Anyone want to go out drinking with me?

Boom Goes the Propane Tank

Holy fucking shit, Batman!!! An asplosion!!! Wednesday morning at about 8:10am I was sitting on the edge of my bed tying my shoes before leaving for work when my fucking apartment started shaking. My first thought, of course, was "who the fuck drove a car into my building?" I soon found out, though, that a propane tank had exploded in a factory building about 20 blocks from where I live, leveling the 1.5 million sq. ft. warehouse, injuring over 40 people and killing 3. Obviously this propane tank was just slightly bigger than the one suburban yuppies use to grill their tofu burgers. This is pretty sad so I'm not going to make a joke about it, but it also was pretty intense. Walking out of my apartment and seeing the smoke rising above the Menominee Valley and the flames shooting out of the gutted building made me start thinking about things I would like to blow up. I've provided this handy list for you in case you have been wondering. If you haven't, well, read it anyway. It can't hurt to practice your reading skills, ignoramus.

Here ya go:

1. The Scrub-A-Dub car wash next to my house.
I swear to everything holy that I am on the edge of twisting off and nuking the fucking car wash. The next time I am woken up on Saturday morning at 7:30am by gangsta rap blasting from a purple Impala with fake rims I am going to start shooting. . . Remember when I wrote about how I need someone to hate for no reason? Bear that in mind when reading what I write next. . . Every fucking weekend I am woken up by screaming black people who can't decide if 50 Cent is better than Nelly (that's a stupid argument, too, as they both suck fat donkey cock). I don't give a shit if your car costs more than your house - and I'm certain that it does - you don't need to be fucking clean it at such a ridiculous hour. How the fuck is it that you can't wake up and go get a fucking job but you make it a sacred ritual to vacuum your car directly below my fucking window every Saturday? Hey Hey, Ho Ho, the Scrub-A-Dub is gonna blow!!!!! I hate you, carwash. Next.

2. The Mall
Children running around knocking shit over. Retarded parents screaming at those children in vain. High school douche bags wandering around aimlessly. Cell phone salesmen every twelve goddamn feet. The morbidly obese cows stuffing themselves in the food court. Nearly everything about the fucking mall pisses me off. Sure it's cool for picking up aging women with three kids or buying the coolest and newest piece of shit at Hot Topic, but with few other exceptions the mall is pretty much the commercial and social equivalent of having your gay uncle beat the shit out of you and then show the pictures of it to your friends. After he rapes you with a stick. And the thing with the stuffed panda bear that somehow got on the internet. You know what I'm talking about. Do you know how often I have to wade through the sea of cock-smoking delinquents doing nothing in a store just to find whatever it is I'm looking for? Never, because I don't go to the mall. But if I did you can bet your kids' lives that I would have to. I know these things. I didn't even have to go there to find out. Clairvoyance. That's what I'm all about. Next soon-to-be crater.

3. Planned Parenthood
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!!

More to come.....

Late Night Thoughts

It's been a while, it's late as hell, and I just received some inspiration in the form of a terrible, terrible, foul piece of writing a friend of mine presented to me. To be honest, it made me question any type of faith in or hope I may have for humanity. Not really. But it's pretty biased and vulgar so I figured it was worthy of putting up here. But first, I need to complain about little kids. Why little kids, you ask? Because lots of people like to bitch about kids, and it makes me seem badass, you know, like, I just don't care and shit, and, man...... I got off track. Anyway, I saw some kids in the mall today in the store while waiting for the return of my guest writing friend's computer and one thought came to mind. Shouldn't these kids be on leashes? That was quite seriously the very first thing that came to me as I saw three rich suburban tweeners nearly convulsing with joy while playing the Blue's Clues computer game. It made me think of how much of a douche I was when I was 9 or 10 years old. I know for a fact I was a prick, but watching these kids, I was actually filled with anger that they were let loose into the world that I nearly kicked the one with braces only on the top teeth (as compared to Dipshit McOverbite sporting rims on both sides of the grill) squarely in the face. I declined, however, as the security at the Apple store looked menacing with their badges in iPod holders and cool walkie talkies. Also, I try to make it a policy not to hit kids. Unless I can get money from their parents. You have no idea how many parents don't beat their kids but will pay someone to do it. That someone is me, friends. That someone is me.

Anyway, on to G-Spot's unedited, absolutely uneducating, angry rant about academia. Good luck.

While being new at college I tend to notice that the world is really fucked up. The people who inhabit this piece of shit rock called earth really have no fucking clue what’s going on. The people who go to college are the worst of the incompetent, and worthless bunch. These, actually, we people pay money to take classes full of information we drink or smoke or blow away within hours. And even if we do remember it for the future, what the fuck does half the shit we learn even matter? Take a look:

1. History- Great, let us soak up and memorize instead of learn every little fact of manipulated, falsified, and unessential shit that we read or are told about. The people who write these book write with a bias, even if you’re told they don’t. Plus, if you have time to fucking write a book full of unoriginal ideas and manipulated facts…. fuck you and kill your self because you are worthless, too.
2. English- umm that’s funny but I believe the English I learned in 2^nd 3^rd 4^th 5^th 6^th 7^th 8^th 9^th 10^th 11^th and 12^th grades is the same as in fucking college. I’ll answer that for you inept salad tossers- it hasn’t changed, so stop trying to tell me my writing needs to conform to some strict guideline that some pole smoker came up with.
3. Philosophy- Great so now I know how to sound like a fuckbag asshole and tell someone they employ weak deductive reasoning or they are too ambiguous with their word choice. Fuck that. How 'bout I just tell them they are worthless and need to contemplate jumping off a bridge?
4. Foreign language- Fuck you, AMERICAN and AMERICAN is what yall should speak… my president and history book told me so. Damn foreigners. All I need is a gun. And Jesus. These colors don’t run!
5. Political science- And, finally… Why should we study fucking politics when we vote on one issue and are so far out of touch with our politicians that we are not even represented. We have no voice because the fucking polygamists, robbers and murders in Washington are part of a pre-established fraternity that we are not allowed to join. Elections are bought, always with our hard earned money that could be spent on more important things like hookers and pot. Politics are a joke, and a wonderful way to shade our worthless eyes from how fucked up we really are.

So, we pay 100,000 dollar to forget everything and pay even more money for booze. We get out of college and either pay more money to learn more dumb shit or go out into the real world which will ultimately lead to conformity and mindlessness. We are fucked, and every one of us helps to lube the ass of society.

Having said that, I would like to note that I share same cheery outlook on life as the real author of this fine weblog. Peace be with you, and Jesus saves, and, you know, shit like that.

G-Spot

Wow. I don't know how to respond. Should I make a joke about fat people? I think so. The funniest thing I have seen in a very long time happened to me a short while ago at a local grocery store. I was walking in to the store in time to see a woman who was holding at least four hundred lb. on her probably skinny frame (probably) crash her Rascal scooter into a Coke display knocking the boxes of soda all over the place and onto her well detailed, maroon fat-ass carrying machine, hitting her in the process. As I laughed my ass off because I'm a douchebag, this monument to enormity actually managed to pry herself from the seat of her scooter and pulled the fucking thing out of the mess - she stood up and pulled it, why the fuck did she need it if she could pull it? Shit I'll never know - and scoot off from the scene. For all I know that fat bitch is still on the loose terrorizing the candy and steak aisles.

Enough already. Fuck me.

Shut The Fuck Up

Have you ever been out on a weekend night, perhaps admiring the fine drinking-type establishments on Marquette's campus from a distance, and overheard any of the following phrases?

Dude I'm soooo wasted. I musta drank like forty shots of grain alcohol.

or
That bitch was such a slut! She sucked for twenty minutes and never took her mouth off.

or
I gotta get laid tonight. I brought my "A" game.

or
So I was railing this chick in the bathroom back at Caffree's and....


I'm sure that you have. Now allow me to systematically and efficiently rip new assholes for the cock-mongers that spew these wholly untrue (shocking, I know) statements.

Dear Guy Who Says This Shit,

Please know that before I go any further I want you to die a slow and painful death, preferably from cholera, dysentary, or any other disease made popular by the Oregon Trail computer game. Also know that I am trying to help you discontinue your journey down the path to douchebag-dom. Down to business.

You need to stop saying anything that you think makes you sound like a badass. Why? Easy, you're a pole-smoking dipshit who couldn't get laid with a fistful of twenties in a whorehouse. You are an inept piece of shit and you have to realize this before I can help you.

You need to stop making audible predictions to everyone regarding the possibility of you getting laid. Here is the rule: If you talk about it more than once you are trying too hard and you are going to end up tugging it while watching The Smurfs and crying.

You need to stop making shit up about "laying the pipe in the alley behind the bar." First, that's fucking gross. I'm being completely honest when I say that if you can't wait ten minutes for a cab to take you and you're cumdumpster home but you can successfully take said jizz-receptacle to the back alley for a parting of the beef curtain then you are an impatient asshole and you penetrate common street trash. Second, you are a liar. There is no alley behind Caffree's. Tell the truth, cocksucker!!

You need to stop talking about your "A" game. You have no game. You don't even have a "D" game. You are a loser. Shut up.

Fuck it, you need to shoot yourself. In the stomach. You can survive a stomach wound like that for over a day. After that shoot yourself in the head. You won't survive that, asshole.

Bastard.

Love,

Michael

I've Been In Jail

I have returned. Jail was an eye-opening experience. Especially when you've been convicted of possessing child/midget porn and an entire hard-drive full of child on midget on horse porn. I guess my tastes are slightly different than the rest. Whatever, I'll never give up my tiny person-tiny person-huge animal fetish. Never. As an apology to my 7 readers I will write the most offensive and foul-mouthed post ever. As Samuel L. Jackson said in Jurassic Park, "Hold onto your butts..."

I need a racial prejudice. Or a non-racial prejudice. I don't give a flying fuck. Some people hate black people simply because they are black. I don't, and can't, really. It seems like a stupid reason to hate anyone. But I need one. I want to be a bigoted piece of shit and I want to be one for no particular reason. So, here is the list of people I could potentially hate for no reason at all:

Asians - Unfortunately there are just too many of them to hate. And they're so cute with their little slanty eyes and broken Engrish. Plus, I mean, come on . . . Me so horny!! Me ruv you rong time!! Hahahahaha. Ohh, who am I kidding? I just can't hate them. It's like hating a puppy. Impossible.

The Elderly - "Old people die. . . it's what they do. . ." Old School summed up the purpose of the elderly in one line. Beautiful. Distressing, though, as I may very well live long enough to become elderly. Fuck. I can't hate someone I might become.

Christians/Muslims/Jews/Religious People/Pagans/Satanists - They may be morons. They may be misguided. They may slaughter goats in ritual sacrifice to Satan. But they've been doing so for thousands of years and still nobody seems to notice the absolute lunacy of organized religion. I guess maybe these organizations are smarter than I give them credit for. Or the followers are even dumber than I thought. Either way I'm both scared and impressed. Can't hate something or someone that impresses me with and incredible amount of stupidity. Fuck they are dumb.

College Students - Hey! That's me!! (I'm giving myself the finger for even thinking about grouping myself with the rest of these dipshits) Can't hate myself.

People Who Do Volunteer Work - Do you feel warm and fuzzy inside when you get scammed?I'll bet you do. I try to be helpful here, so please, listen to my advice when I tell you that you are getting screwed. Or helping out a whole lot, I don't really know or care. All I'm saying is that if someone wants me to work, he had better fucking pay me. 'Cause the only important thing in the world is money. And owning a flying car. Which can be bought with money. Money you idiots won't be making doing labor for nothing. Dumbasses. Flying cars rule!!

Gay People - Hahahaha. Fags!!! You are all, like, so queeeeeeeerrr!!! Ugghhhhhh, look those two guys are holding hands!! That's not what God intended!! It's Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve. Fags!! God, I'm so much better than those people because they are gay and don't have anyone inferior to hate. Praise the Lord and pass the ammo!!! I'ma go shoot me a rump ranger!! Yeehaaa!!!

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.

....and no, I haven't been in jail. I've been lazy and busy. And drunk.....

Don't EVER Steal From Me

I caught someone stealing from me on Friday night. He wasn't trying to steal my wallet or my identity or my girlfriend, this wretched piece of shit actually went into my apartment and tried to steal my shit. And I caught him. Red-handed. He took off. I caught him. I beat the living shit out of him. I extracted a promise from him to never steal again. He will break that promise, no doubt. Asshole. This is what will happen to you if you ever steal from me. This is what else will happen:

1. I'ma kill yo ass.

2. I'm going to force feed your testicle to you and then kick you in your empty sack just so that you know you are no longer in possession of a working pair of nuts.

3. Ever been sodomized by an angry lion? You will be if you steal from me.

4. Do you know why small children and animals eat rat poison? Because it tastes sweet. You are going to find this out first-hand. Because I'm going to force about 8 lbs of it down your fucking throat.

5. Pirannhas will be employed to eat your face.

6. Am I going to repeatedly hit you in the spine with a baseball bat? You bet I am.

7. There are numerous tall buildings in the Milwaukee area. I'm throwing you off one of them.

The moral of this all - don't fucking steal from me. I don't go into your house and take shit from you while you are gone, please extend the same courtesy to me. Or I'll kill you. And if you think I'm kidding, then fucking try me.

Fucking thief.

Entertaining? Eh. Insightful? No. Beyond Fucked Up? Certainly

I wrote the following poem during work today. Ummmmm, I can't even describe or explain it - and I wrote the fucking thing. I just don't know. Whatever.

How does one define or quantify the values he holds?
Impossible . . . or at the very least difficult.
Kill all the infidels!!
Introspection is a gift one gives to himself.
Self understanding is what he receives in return.
I don't bone fat chicks.
Day after day, I struggle to learn what it is that gives me value and defines me.
Day after day I learn that the more I know the more I want to know.
So I'm balls deep in this nine-year-old and my clown nose falls off . . .
The search for self-knowledge is endless
The knowledge of oneself is priceless
The best way to get rid of the dead-hooker smell is Lysol
Undoubtedly, there is more to know than any person could learn in ten lifetimes
Though seemingly daunting, this can also be a driving force in the quest for self-knowledge
Having sex with your boss's wife is the best way to earn a promotion
Look inside, see yourself, know what it is that makes you work
And you will see far beyond what meets the ordinary eye
The University of Wisconsin promotes the rape of defenseless animals

I don't even know what to say about this. It's different, so, whatever. God help my twisted mind.

A Bit Chilly

New Years Day. It is 8 degrees Fahrenheit. You have just consumed an entire bottle of jager. Before 11am. What do you do next?

Well, if you are me you wear a toga and a santa hat and jump into Lake Michigan with the Polar Bear Club.

Ode to a Crackhead

I've been reading through some of my previous posts and I realized that I haven't written anything recently about crackheads. This is slightly worse than alarming to me since I relied heavily on the unintentional comedy provided by these monuments to human achievement to carry my first few posts on this little thing I like to call a weblog. Well, no longer will I neglect the three-toothed bum that lives next to the Scrub-A-Dub or the woman with no eyebrows who calls 23rd St. her home. I am not responsible for the stupid shit that follows. May god have mercy on my soul.

I present:

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

Worthy of the Pulitzer? I think yes.

How to be a Bigot

Ever wonder how you, too, can be a bigoted asshole? Well, wonder no longer. Here is the answer:

In order to be a bigot, or at least prove to the world that you are a bigot, you must first live next door to a certain ruggedly handsome guy with a seldom read weblog.

After you accomplish this task you have to buy beer. Lots of beer.

Sit down on your balcony with the aforementioned soon-to-be-famous writer and proceed to drink lots of the beer.

Talk casually about anything that comes to mind.

Realize that your ruggedly handsome neighbor is vastly smarter than you can ever hope to be.

Become jealous, but remember that you are too stupid to recognize this jealousy.

Try to impress your benevolent and intellectually superior neighbor by using big words incorrectly and out of context. Smile nervously as he laughs at you for being an idiot.

Continue talking.

Realize that your neighbor is so well-versed in the ways of the world that he can talk at will about nearly any subject.

Begin talking about sports.

Claim that the runner on 3rd should have tagged up with 2 outs.

Get laughed at. Again.

Suddenly realize that you are all drunk.

Start yelling things from the balcony to the people passing by below.

Watch as ruggedly handsome neighbor leaves to go to the bar.

Continue to watch as he and his friends (some of whom happen to be women, which undoubtedly makes you jealous) get into a cab.

Scream at the top of your lungs to the cab driver (who is Indian) "Yeah! Get the fuck out of here you fuckin' foreigner! Fuck you!"

How to cure yourself of your bigotry:

Get raped by a donkey.


Fucking bigots.

A Day in the Life

7:15 - Wake up. Hit snooze. Fall back asleep.

7:37 - Wake up again because alarm has been going off for 7 minutes. Smash alarm clock with fist. Fucking clock.

7:46 - Shower. Marvel at the size of my penis. Almost slip in the shower. Perform miraculous and acrobatic aerial maneuver to save my ass.

8:01 - Drink first of nineteen cups of coffee.

8:03 - Drink second of nineteen cups of coffee.

8:07 - Put on pants.

8:09 - Put on shirt.

8:10 - Rebutton shirt because first attempt was a failure.

8:20 - Start wishing I didn't have to go to work. Begin thinking of excuses for being four hours late.

8:35 - Leave for work.

8:39 - Get cut off for the first time. Give finger. Yell obscenities.

8:55 - Arrive at work. Stare at hot intern from my office.

9:35 - Still haven't done anything productive.

10:19 - Look at first case file. Auto claim. Boring. Nap time.

11:37 - Wake up from nap. Time for lunch.

12:01 - Return to my apartment. Have first of six beers. Proceed to drink the other five.

12:58 - Decide to return to work. I got shit to do.

1:27 - Return to work. Sit in my office. Decide not to do anything.

2:00 - Boss walks in the office. Asks about the service of a subpoena - the one thing I've actually done this week. Yes!! Tell him it's all taken care of and that the other intern is a lazy piece of shit. Receive hearty congratulations.

2:31 - Decide that my time here is done. I've put in a good day's work. Time to start drinking.

2:49 - Return to apartment. Start on the tequila.

3:31 - Passed out drunk.

5:43 - Friends stop by. It's time to go to the bar.

6:12 - Finish my fourth Vodka and Tonic. Alcohol is my friend.

6:28 - Hit on hot girl at the bar. She doesn't slap me or turn the other way. I'm in.

6:31 - Tell her fellatio is a precursor to receiving shiny things from me. Get slapped.

6:32 - Jager bombs. Lots of them.

7:00 - Leave the bar. After being asked. By the owner. Who is holding a gun. And pointing it at me.

7:20 - Arrive at the next bar. Immediately order tequila shots.

7:32 - I am a fucking wasteland. Time to pull my shit together.

7:34 - Order Vodka and Red Bull. I immediately perk up. My fate is sealed.

8:00 - Start telling girls that I am rich.

8:03 - I am surrounded by girls who think I'm rich.

8:05 - Call them all gold-digging whores.

8:06 - I am no longer surrounded by hot girls.

9:02 - Go to new bar.

9:07 - Consume half of what would have been my 17th drink of the day. Other half migrates down the front of my shirt.

9:35 - The fat chick saddled up to the bar is looking really good right now.

9:37 - Ask friends if the fat girl is really as fat as she seems.

9:38 - Friends tell me to go for it.

9:39 - Tell friends to fuck themselves for trying to make me hit on fat girl.

11:00 - 2:12 - (Scene missing)

2:17 - Wake up at apartment with no pants, half eaten Taco Bell on the table, and a girl passed out in my bed.

2:18 - Smile.

2:20 - Wake her up and make her night better.

3:12 - Fall asleep exhausted and drunk.

7:15 - Wake up and kick girl out. Start day anew.

A Very Important Question

Introspective interrogation, in the vast majority of cases, can only result in better self understanding which often leads to personal betterment. I often sit down and think about where I stand in respect to certain issues and questions pertaining to me, and in doing so I was led to a very natural question that is pertinent to many people. How many 8 year olds could I fight at one time?

There are a few stipulations that must be addressed. The 8 year olds are all about the same in terms of strength and stamina and each will continue fighting me until dead or incapacitated. No pansy-ass 2nd graders allowed, each kid keeps on coming. There are no weapons involved and each side, the 8 year olds and myself, has one day to train. Here is an objective analysis of what would result if (god-willing) this ever happens:

I am a pretty big guy (6'5", 195lbs), but I am by no means anyone who could double as a NYC bouncer or a UFC fighter. Having said that, after all is said and done I believe I could take 54 eight year olds. Here is the breakdown:

The first line of 8 year olds would surely charge at me. They would jump on me and immediately try to overwhelm me. This, of course, will not work. I will simply single each out and deliver quick and calculated jabs to each individual face I see. You see, these stupid fucking 8 year olds will concern themselves with taking me out in one shot whereas I will incapacitate as many as possible, leaving them on the floor writhing in pain and unable to return immediately to the fight. Doing this will allow me to return later to the ones that I don't immediately kill and take them out as well.
Initial death toll - 12

Soon, though, the second wave of these little bastards will be upon me. I will undoubtedly be tired from the first wave that I valiantly fought off, but, like the superhero I am, I will never ignore my duty to destroy the lives of young children. In response to this next wave I will immediately grab the first kid that comes at me and use him as a battering ram to break the line of little devils coming at me. By separating them I will be able to quickly pick out single targets and deliver jabs to the face, knocking those kids unconscious and allowing me to come back to them later. After eliminating enough single targets I will undoubtedly be able to take out the rest of the group that hasn't been turned into cream-of-child soup.
Secondary death toll - 14 +12 = 26

Don't let anyone tell you differently, 8 year olds are not nearly as dumb as they seem (they can't possibly be). After seeing their counterparts dismantled by my iron fist they will formulate a plan to take me out on all sides. Of course, 8 year olds are not as smart as they are given credit for, either, and again I will fight off the attack. These little shitheads keep coming. At about this time I will summon, from deep within the depths of my soul, a second (or possibly third, I can't remember) source of energy to take down the evil empire of 8 year olds. I will unleash a primal scream the likes of which will cause each child to start crying for his or her mother. Then I will start beating indiscriminately. I will deliver blow upon blow until the little geniuses figure out what is happening. By this time, though, there will not be enough of them left to mount a significant offensive and I soon will have vanquished the oncoming horde.
Tertiary death toll - 16 + 26 = 42

After the third wave of snot nosed hole-in-the-condom-mistakes is dispatched by the likes of your truly I will surely be in the twilight of my defense. Valiantly I will prop myself up against a wall and wait for the next wave of kids to come at me. I will surely take out the first group of kids but, as even the greatest fighters understand, I will soon have nothing left to give and will be taken down. Worry not, though, for I will live on in the memories of all the people I have saved by unselfishly taking out these dangerous children. In the distant future, I will surely be remembered as a great liberator and people will recount the tale of my final battle while women weep as my final breath is described.
Final death toll - 12 + 42 + 1 = 55

After my objective and unbiased analysis I have determined that I could take out 54 eight year olds before succumbing to their grabby little hands and ultimately sacrificing myself for the good of humanity. In fact, I'm a whole lot like Jesus. You know, if Jesus killed kids. Which he certainly did.

This all leads to another question, though. Where do I get 54 eight year old kids to beat down? The orphanage? The dog pound? Can I buy them on the black market? Fuck it, I'll just steal them from their parents while they sleep. Damn, I am such a good problem solver. Hahaha, and I'm better than Jesus. He'd only take out 40. Loser.