“This movie is drenched in more blood than me when I went down on that hemophiliac girl on the rag. While wearing a razor blade attachment on my tongue.”
That’s what I would say if I was the marketing manager for this film and had to sum it up for the viewers.
Wow.
Um.
Yeah, wow.
Vampire Girl Versus Frankenstein Girl is exactly why Japan is still the word’s foremost leader in splatter horror. I don’t even know what this movie is about, and frankly, I don’t care. I just know that I want to watch it. Now.
…But before she died, Dodi gave it to her girlfriend, the mailman, the paperboy and the vet.”
Sounds like a porn, huh?
Nope. Just an old school (HILARIOUS) series of Swine Flu PSAs from the 70s.
Seriously, stop this shit. More people die in car accidents in Mexico each day than Swine Flu. Your stupidity and gullibility is more contagious, and very soon, all the hypochondriacs are going to start coming rearing up and freaking the fuck out. I should know. We can smell our own.
All right, I am putting my foot down. STOP! You are not going to get the Swine Flu. I actually went to Mexico, got an infected pig and threw it into an AIDS ward. They are not dying any faster. You should be more worried about my scorn than this stupid illness.
Christ.
As a side note, I was searching for an appropriate image, and I couldn’t really find one. But I did find a badass tattoo. I seriously want this. Not kidding.
I wrote a book. It’s called Shedding the Reptile: A Memoir. You can tell from the title that it’s a memoir. I wanted to make that clear. That’s why I didn’t title it Shedding the Reptile: A Cookbook. Incidentally, it has nothing to do with reptiles. Rather the title is derived from our reptilian brain. Well, not really derived. What I mean is that the title references the human reptilian brain, not that it is actually derived from a reptilian brain like some gross extract. You probably already know that though, right, Agent?
Awesome.
Anyway, my book, right? Pretty cool, huh? I included between five and 30 sample pages, depending on who you are and whether my boss was lurking around the corner while I misappropriated company stationary. As you can see from the onset, my book is going to kick your ass right in the balls. It’s a true story about how I fucked and drank and did speed and stole and traveled and then fucked some more while drinking until I almost died (all the while trying to find love). It’s a family book. I sent my grandma a copy, and she hasn’t died yet, so I think it’s probably safe to give to the elderly.
It’s not a very happy book, obviously. Think about the worst day you have ever had and then multiply that by some huge number. That’s pretty much the feel of the book. But there is some humor. For instance, when I wrote about an abortion, I said….
Wait, you just go ahead and read that part, okay Agent?
In all seriousness, though, Agent. I really, REALLY want this book to be published. As nasty and disgusting as it is, it is redemptive. It will be even more redemptive when you decide to represent me and I can give you the sequel which is far more light-hearted and addresses my clumsy child-like experiences in dealing with sobriety.
Then again, you can just give me the old standby, “This is not really something that I can put all my strengths into. Good luck, though.” If so, I am probably going to go on a murderous rampage followed by an outlandish suicide involving levers, pulleys and a pickaxe. That’s not redemptive at all, is it Agent.
Anyway, Agent. Take care. Enjoy my book, and I look forward to hearing from you.
Today all these retards are celebrating how awesome you are. People are rejoicing your rivers, saluting your forests, praising your atmosphere.
Not me, Earth. Today, I hate you harder than ever. Don’t get me wrong. I hate you all the time, but today, I am putting as much effort into hating you as I possibly can.
When I came into work today, dressed in a Styrofoam suit, one of your retarded fans asked me what my beef with you is. I’ll tell you what my problem is, Earth. Wait. I’ll tell you what my PROBLEMS with you are.
First: Ever since Al Gore made his insipid crockumentary, An Inconvenient Truth, I’ve had to recycle. I hate recycling. It’s stupid and it is totally inconvenient. I drink A LOT of soda, and instead of just throwing my cans into the trash or on the floor or into a nature preserve where they belong, I have to walk ALL THE WAY to the recycling bin. That takes like 10 seconds. Like I said, I drink a lot of soda, and those seconds add up. Trying to take away MY life Earth? I don’t think so, bitch.
Second: Whenever I turn on the TV, I have to watch these retarded “green” commercials. One or two is only slightly annoying, but like soda, I watch A LOT of TV, and I end up having to see like a zillion stupid commercials on how I can keep your shit clean. You’ve been around for like 4.5 billion years, Earth. Something tells me you can deal with me using CFC and DDT-laced aerosols so that my feet don’t itch. Fuck off, Earth. Quit making people air these commercials.
Third: You act like you are all benevolent, but let me point something out, Earth: volcanoes. Volcanoes, while badass, kill like tons of people all the time. I know this for a fact because I saw it happen in Dante’s Peak. How come people are spending all this time protesting tire-burning and carbon-footprints when volcanoes are exploding all over the place? I’ll tell you why, Earth. It’s a corporate-backed conspiracy, and you are involved. You are a dickface, Earth.
Fourth: While I’m on the subject of disasters, let me point out some other shit you let happen: extinction of the dinosaurs. Dinosaurs kick ass. I do more polluting in one day then those sweet, sweet GIANT lizards did during a hundred-million year period. If you are so cool, Earth, why didn’t you move out of the way when that gigantic asteroid was coming at you? AND, if your stupid atmosphere is so cool why did it trap all that dust and make the dinosaurs stop breathing fire and eating cavemen?
I could go on and on, Earth. But it obviously won’t do any of us any good. So I’ll tell you what I am going to do, you round piece of shit:
I am going to take like 30 dumps today, and I am going to use an entire roll of toilet paper to wipe my ass each time. I’m not even going wad it up. I’m just going to use the whole roll to wipe my ass. Obviously, the roll won’t flush, so what I am going to do is douse each roll in gasoline and then light it on fire. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m still going to flush 10 or 11 times per dump.
If you have a problem and want to step, Earth, that’s fine by me. I will be in my apartment this evening stomping on endangered animals and leaving all the lights on.
I was going to post a piece called “Things I Fucked When I Was a Kid” today.
These past few days have been way too serious for me, though. I’m not a big fan of serious. So today, there is no serious writing. I am going to cleanse the air with some good ol’ fashioned side-splitting, ass-coughing fart humor.
I recently created a new station on Pandora called “Edna’s Favorite Chair in the Nursing Home” so that I can listen to soul-soothing soft-rock jams from the 60s, 70s and 80s. And I started thinking about the really nitty-gritty gross details of my favorite musicians of yore.
I sometimes play this game where I think, “What kind of face does this person make when he or she cums?” “What size crap does this person drop and what does it smell like?” Well, as I was listening to Jim Croce croon “Time in a Bottle” I wondered what his farts smell like:
They smell like unwashed gym socks packed with tainted meat and Mahatma Ghandi. And they they lingered. Jim Croce, when you weren’t being compacted in a fuselage, your farts probably cleared a room and kept it clear… Wait! Did you tear ass on that plane and knock those pilots out, Jim Croce?
John Denver. I mean, you would think John Denver didn’t fart. You know, like women and Jesus. He did, though. He did. When John Denver farted, his ass coughs smelled like baby angels. Soaked in whiskey.
If The Bee Gees vocalization is an indication of how their farts smelled, then their farts smelled like vinegar. Sharp and nauseating.
Neil Diamond farts all the time. Why? His farts are filled with pheromones and passion. When he farts, women get wet. When Neil Diamond needs a beej, all he has to do is walk up to a woman, kick up his knee and let one loose.
Michael McDonald’s farts smell boring and ordinary. They are the kinds of farts that might get your parents’ attention but for the most part are just run-of-the-mill gross.
And finally, Steve Perry. As you all know, I consider Steve Perry to be a badass’ badass. Steve Perry is like the voice box of god on earth. And his farts are pretty much the olfactory equivalent. When Steve Perry farts, it smells like triumph. It’s the smell that happens after wars are won. When records are broken, there is the lingering stench of Steve Perry’s butt roar.
I would now like to open this up to all of you. Have fun. I’m going to go think of something serious/important to write.
All right, here’s the video of me and King 40 and Frankie Figgs on “Down With the King.” I think it went well. Thanks for having me on the show, fellas. There’s nothing really left. Admittedly, I do kind of like King a bit now. Seems to be an all around good guy. Here’s the video. I come on at about minutes 38:00:
Apparently the guy who did make the shitty comment at about 1:18 minutes is Frank of Zedalza Radio. That’s the name he gave. Hi, Frank. I don’t take back what I said about him, and I’m sure he won’t about me. We’re two different guys. He’s wrong about my smarmy “coffeehouse” stance on shit, though. Very wrong. I hate that shit just as much as the next asshole. I was a nasty person two years ago, Frank. Mean, nasty and fucked in the head. It’s a lot easier to be a pompous ass now. But you don’t know me, tough guy, and you should not make assumptions. I’m not a coffeehouse pussy, dude. I’m just at peace with the present and happy with life.
At this point, we just go seperate ways.
Either way. Good luck. Have fun at Zedalza, kiddos.
I’m getting back into to my own shit tomorrow. These past few days have been fun. Hasta luego, vatos.
Stay tuned for “Things I Fucked When I Was A Kid.”
Transformers 2 is on my list of stuff to watch as soon as I can. The first one was awesome, and I think this one will be, too. But godammit! I don’t care about “story,” Michael Bay. I don’t care about douchey Shia LeBeouf. I want to see Megan Fox’s tits and robots with absolutely no personality beat the shit out of each other for like two hours.
NOTE: The screenshots of the tweets may me difficult to read on some computers. Click on the image for a crisper shot.
NOTE 2: I was mistaken when I noted that the podcast where King 40 and his son get reunited is down. My mistake. Apologies.
NOTE 3: King 40 and I actually seem to be on civil speaking terms. I’m still going on his show on Monday. We’ll see how that goes.
Note 4: Went on the show. Had fun. We’re good King. Good luck and much success.
Sometimes I read the comments on YouTube and other websites. Common insults include “fag,” “faggot,” “pussy.” My favorite is reading ALL CAPS insults by users who think they are intellectually superior. They toss out burns and scorchers like “ur stupid,” and “wtfux is rong wit you dumbazz?”
Then I get mad. Seriously, you don’t even know how many pets I’ve gone through. I am pretty sure there is a pile of once yappity dogs, doe-eyed kittens and fluffy bunnies on the floor outside of my apartment. All of them have my boot mark on them.
I actually got to participate in one of these conversations today via the Twitterwebz.
Meet KING 40, or as he is known as on Twitter @KING40
I’m not sure which one KING 40 is, the dude in the Lakers jersey or the Borat-looking guy.
Anyway, I was minding my own business when I got these two unsolicited tweets from my new friend:
The “honorary douchebag” thing was pretty funny. I wasn’t sure what KING 40 was getting on my case for initially. I assumed it was because I had started following ICE-T on Twitter and had been made an honorary “gang leader” in his Twitter army. True story.
Also, as an aside, I have been made even more honorarily black by one of my favorite Twitterers, @Zombianca:
And, yes, I’ve done my homework. I checked out her MySpace profile. She’s black, so she has that kind of authority.
Anyway, I got all frustrated because I was being randomly attacked by KING 40. On top of that, he took it upon himself to be a self-proclaimed psychiatrist and call me out on my “idendity crisis.” He is right. I am having an identity crisis, but it involves being a high-ranking officer in an android army. I have no idea how KING 40 knows this, though. PS: For a doctor, you suck at spelling, KING 40.
I went ahead and snapped back at him:
Just so you all know, I am not black. But since I’ve been made an honorary one by the dude at my AA meeting and by @zombianca, I felt it would be cool for me to say “homie.” That’s cool, right?
Before it escalated any further, I let all my tweeps know about the assault on my character and psyche:
Then shit got real. WAY real.
Now, I really don’t take issue with this. I make fun of spics and retards all the time. I even dropped the n-bomb in the ”Honorary Black Guy” blog, but that was contextual and just a quote. My concern is that KING 40 is getting on my shit for my obvious goof and play on black stereotypes before going on to not only mock “retards,” use pejorative language like “faggy” and then call me a “spic” and a “cracker.”
And FYI, KING 40, I’m not skinny anymore. When I stopped being an active alcoholic, I bulked up, and my fatass exploded my pants.
Seriously, this dude is angry. Real angry. But I got really scared when he started using words I have never heard of. So when he said people should check out the “patheticness” on my blog, I made sure to look it up so I could be fully versed as to the meaning of this new word:
Nope. Fail, KING 40. FAIL.
I commented further:
Then I closed up shop.
About an hour later, KING 40 came back all angry again.
*sigh*
I really didn’t want to go on a show. I like the sound of my own voice and all. But I felt that going onto this dude’s radio show would only encourage him more. But then I thought about it. I went into Cameron from Ferris Bueller mode: Okay, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go. I’ll go!.
Seriously, the cock-smooching fairy part was funny. But come on, you self-righteous homophobe. Don’t use pejoratives like “fairy” when you are trying to have a serious dialogue with someone who didn’t want a fight in the first place. Sheesh.
I hate that he says “I shy away from nothing!” like he was standing up to some shit I started. This fucker is the antagonist. What the shit!?
So there it is. I guess I’ll be on the radio this Monday. And who knows, maybe me and KING 40 will come to some sort of understanding. We may become boys. I don’t want to fight, but if he wants to, I will. We’ll see. I’ll record the whole thing and share it. Or, if you guys want, tune in.
I’m serious when I say I welcome your rebuttal, KING 40. Write something. I’ll post it. Want to squash this whole thing? That’s fine. Want to keep this shit going? That’s cool, too.
EDIT: Here’s their profile: http://www.zedalza.net/downwith.html I’m not sure if this an online show or an on-the-air show. But the number is 914-595-6945
EDIT2: Here’s a clip of the show. I did some side research, and I think King 40 is that Borat-looking dude with a severe Fonzie Brooklyn accent. Anyway, go here: http://www.zedalza.net/podcast.html - and listen to “KING 40 REUNITED WITH HIS SON” to listen to the guy I will be talking to. Yeah.
EDIT 3:Apparently the aforementioned podcast link has been taken down. Here is a new link: http://www.ustream.tv/recorded/1380405- or just watch it here (until it gets taken down).
April 13, 2009 @ 7:47 pm
· Filed under General, Videos
I’m sitting here in my grey checkered comfy pants and a rad v-neck Hanes t-shirt. I’m listening to Phil Collins’ “Sussudio.” For some reason, I always thought my dad looked a bit like Phil Collins. Or Bill Murray.
I’m sipping Dr. Pepper.
It’s 9:51 PM.
It’s raining outside, and I am periodically looking through the window of my study/soon-to-be-Lex room. I can see the trashy, meth-addled tenants in the building next to mine. I hate that building, but for some reason I leave my blinds open for them to look into mine. I’m wondering if those speed freaks ever see me walking around naked. I do that a lot. Walking around naked, not speed.
Sir Rowdimus Megatron, my faithful canine compadre, is staring at a pair of my shoes as I type this. I am certain he is weighing whether he can get away with eating them. If I catch him eating them, I will kick him in the dick. I can’t kick him in the balls because I had the vet rip those bad boys out last year.
I mean business.
When it comes to nachos.
I didn’t like the song “Atlantis” until I saw this scene in this movie (3:32):
Now I love that song. I also want to own a snub nose pistol. And hang with Joe Pesci. But he has to act like a Mafioso. If he acts like Leo Getz from the Lethal Weapon movies, I will stab him in the throat with a pen, Casino-style.
I was going to write something about this product Jess Glasswas discussing today. It is called SkinMedica and is apparently made from HUMAN foreskins or at least foreskin derivatives. I guess women do like dick cream on their face after all. Oprah endorsed it. Don’t get your panties up in a bunch.
I’m jamming to Pandora Radio. I have created a channel called “Sledgehammer Radio.” My wife just yelled, “Are you really listening to that?” She is referring to “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. “Yes. Yes I am.” I am not ashamed. But now I’m listening to “Angel of Death” on “Slayer Radio.” I love Slayer. My baby, Lex, plans to like Slayer, as well.
Seriously? Foreskin facial cream? What crazy bitchperson dermatologist thought of that? Whatever.
My teeth and gums are still hurting. I haven’t been to the dentist in 10 years, and now I am paying the price: My mouth bleeds more than normal. I could probably spit up enough blood to film Kill Bill Volume 3.
It’s still raining outside, and this post is as about as nonsensical as foreskin facial cream.
