The Shuffle Conversation- Be Your Own Pet- Bicycle Bicycle, You Are My Bicycle

I had cold feet, both literally and figuratively. Figuratively, because I was about to walk up and talk to the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and literally because while I was walking towards her, I stepped in a puddle. I've always had a thing for girls in bands. They have this seething confidence that I could only hope to have. Like its hard enough to get in front of people, it must be really hard to be a good looking girl and do it. It takes amazing guts. It makes what would be a somewhat okay looking girl into some sort of goddess that I lust over. I would lop off my own ear like Van Gough if it meant I got one night with Joan Jett. Not even Joan Jett 1985, Joan Jett right now.

I quickly pulled my canvas low top out of the puddle and ducked behind a nearby bush, hoping she didn't see me. I spread apart bits of the foliage and stared at her from what I hoped was a safe distance. She had on purple tights and a white v-neck t-shirt stained with her own blood. Some of that blood stained her bleach blond hair as well, making her look like a pixie Ric Flair, circa 1983 Starrcade. I knew it was her blood, because while she was onstage, she punched herself in the face and appeared to break her own already bloodied nose (I'm not sure how it was already bloody, I arrived a little late.) Punk rock lead singers tend to do shit like that, and I have no idea why. In this day and age any person with any real sense comes to these shows to listen to the music, not to rebel against the British Proletariat or the cess pool that is 1978 New York City by destroying themselves and their audience, like how punk music was first established. Now, most people who act like Johnny Rotten or Richard Hell, kind of just look like posers. But for her, I dunno, she just seemed to overcome that, like she knew she was being a tool by punching herself in the face. Like "look at me, I'm being a stereotype!" Because if anything punk music shouldn't be about stereotypes, but about making fun of them.

I pulled my shoulder length hair back and smoothed it out a little bit. I tried to swoop it to one side, which I hoped made me look a little less like a doofus, hard rocker, but I think, in reality, looked like when I was in junior high and the guidance counselor made me comb my hair before picture day. I tugged out some of the wrinkles in my black t-shirt, which was also bloodstained, only with someone else's blood. I unfortunately got too close to the mosh pit, and got some investment banker's plasma splashed across my chest. I'm not sure what caused the blood to spray as far as it did, but I was sure he was some white collar scum bag because those were the only types who went into mosh pits in 2009. The type that have to rebel against what they've become and want to show that, see they still know how to throw down, they aren't at all adult sell-outs now. They still know how to party. They were the only people in the mosh pit. That and drunk guys with too much aggression. I knew she was different than most because she made fun of the guys in the mosh pit, while she was onstage punching herself in the face.

I stood up and cleared my throat and checked my breath. I thought it smelled fine, but it probably smelled like cigarettes and Guinness. I wasn't too worried, though, because well, I think that's a smell a girl in a punk band would be used to, and maybe gravitate towards. I walked up to her as she leaned against the wall. She finished her cigarette just as I walked up to her.

"Hi," I said, somewhat unconvincingly. She looked at me and cocked her eyebrow slightly.

"You got a smoke I can bum?" she asked.

"Didn't you just finish one?"

"Who are you, C. Everett Koop? I can smoke as many cigarettes as I want."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Camels. I handed her the pack and she pulled out two, she lit them both in her mouth and then handed one of them to me. Then she pulled back the waist band of her tights and stuck my pack against her skin and let the spandex snap them against her body, almost like a fanny pack without the pack.

"Excuse me, I think those are mine."

"Nope, I think you're wrong. Look can I help you with something?" she said. She let her lip curl up like Billy Idol and I giggled.

"Look you don't have to do the act anymore. I get it."

"What act?"

"You know, punk rock mistress. I get it, it sways the rubes, but I get it. You can just be a normal person now. I'm cool"

"Fuck being normal." Then she spit in my face. It hit me on the forehead and then slowly moved down my nose. I crossed my eyes following it to the dirt below. Then she put her cigarette out on my arm. I screamed in pain and ran away as she laughed at me, then she lit another cigarette from the pack she just stole from me, with my lighter. Fuck punk rock chicks.

Let's Try a New Gimmick- The Shuffle Conversation- Foo Fighters Everlong

Since the well isn't exactly overflowing with fresh ideas (the well of course being my brain. I am so void I cant even write a solid metaphor) I have decided to try a new gimmick to help me. I am going to put my ipod on shuffle and use the first song that pops up as a springboard. I may write about the song, I may write about the band, I may use the idea of the song to write some fiction, I may write more about my love affair with Tim Tebow. But regardless, I'm going to write dammit. I will try this daily until I stop doing it daily. These have the potential to be even more terrible than my usual offerings, just be forewarned. Today's song is: Foo Fighters-Everlong. Oh boy, this should get interesting.



I speak frequently in hyperbole. I am constantly overrating things. It's just something I do. When I'm drunk, I do it in a way that makes it seem like what I'm saying is the most important thing I've ever said, and then defend it until my throat is sore or until I think of something else even more earth-shattering. In this case, though, I think I can defend my hyperbole sober. And its going to be some hyperbole, boy howdy.

Everlong is the greatest song ever.

Hang on let me try that again.

Everlong is the greatest song ever.

It sounds wrong to say that. I look at that sentence, and if someone else wrote it, it would seem painfully awkward. I think I would question it blindly and dismiss the author with a wave a my hand and move on to something else. The more I think about it, though, the more correct it seems. Please don't dismiss me with a wave of the hand.

Lets get the facts out of the way. It contains one of the best riffs of the 90's, the drumming is absolutely insane, and the lyrics, with its subtle ambiguity, are some of the most touching and interesting ever written. But the actual technical merits of the song aren't what makes this song so important.

Everlong is the greatest song ever because while it means so much to so many people, it doesnt mean more to anyone than it means to Dave Grohl. I refuse to believe that there is a more open and personal song than this one. It feels like sitting in a psychiatrists office as Dave Grohl bares his soul, his pain and his triumph all in one four minute session.

I once had a conversation with a singer/songwriter in a metal band who said he refuses to write lyrics based on personal situations because those are his situations, and his band is something greater than himself. I think that's bullshit. A singer, a frontman, whatever, shouldnt be an actor, playing out scenarios and pretending like these are his thoughts. I want passion, I want depth, I want to know that person, and there isn't a single song that you feel a person more than Everlong. You feel every emotion through every word, every note and every tempo change. Even the part where Dave is muttering nonsense, you understand it.

And to me, that's what makes this song so amazing. It's not a song written about somebody else or telling a story about somebody else (which can be fun). It's not a song where they try too hard to show they're an emotional person (like every Staind song ever). And it's not a song where they pretend like they are speaking to the world around them (which can be done well, like Green Day, or can be done poorly, like every country song about America). Its simply a four minute show of personal emotion. You don't have to decide whether you agree with it, you don't have to decide if he wrote it to make a quick buck, you don't have to try and guess what he was trying to say. You just have to feel it. And this song makes you feel.

Buy Something Because the TV Tells Me To, What Am I, Crazy?

This idea actually kept me awake last night. Seriously. My brain can pretty much kiss my ass. Seriously, all night. Also, quick reminder that most of the stuff that I write is fiction. Please don't judge me.

I want to take a second and tell the world that I have solved the economic crisis. If we need people to start spending again, we need to start gearing commercials towards normal people like me. If I worked as an advertising executive, there would be some changes.

I have never bought a box of cereal because a rabbit told me to, although, to be fair, I have bought a rabbit because a box of cereal told me to.

Sure the Sham-wow can clean up spilled wine, but what about stains real people get? Like when your pet racoon knocks over your urine collection? Does the Sham-wow work on that Vince? I mean who spills wine on the carpet?

I have never once had a night on the town with a bunch of young people and drank alcohol. Alcohol is only used to silence the screams that constantly ring out in ones head and as a a good place to put drugs to knock out young Asian women, that is all.

They make those cheeseburgers from McDonald's look so good in the commercials, but did you know they use real cow and not the remains of housepets dug up from the pet cemetary? I bet it doesn't sound so good now.

I will never see another movie again. In the commercials they make The Joker look so normal, but did you know that he's the bad guy? Unreal.

At no point in my life have I ever drank soda, yet they always push it as a drink. Why don't they show what soda is really good for, like cleaning overworked batteries and de-calicfying teeth.

I don't want to know whether a Mac or a PC have more viruses, I want to know which one can hold the most pictures of the corpses I happen to come across.

I guess Catherine Zeta Jones is kind of pretty, but she isn't going to make me buy a cell phone. If they want to get a hot chick to talk me into buying a cell phone, they should've gotten Amy Winehouse or the late Bea Arthur (preferably the late version).

There is a car commercial on some channel every single second, but I havent seen one commercial for a shovel that doesn't break when you hit a mailman in the head with it. It took me four purchases to figure out which shovel was the right one.

Come one, get it together Madison Avenue!

There is Never an Inappropriate Time To Talk About 'The Warriors'

I'm really tired and about to fall asleep at work. This is going to keep me awake. Police Academy 2 is on and I started thinking about street gangs and how they are portrayed in late 70's early 80's movies, and I'm just going to freestyle something. This will be terrible. You have been warned. Oh and Spoiler Alert to anyone who hasn't seen The Warriors. And if you haven't, shame on you.

"Hey, why don't you come off that ledge?" I asked politely. He didn't respond. His shoulders were bobbing up and down in no real rhythm and as I inched closer to him, I could see it was because he was sobbing uncontrollably. He was a younger man, or maybe he was older, I guess I couldn't tell. His eyes were red and had very distinct lines around them, which led me to believe he was older, but he had the hair cut of a much younger man. It was floppy and parted on the far right side (his right not mine). It fell uncomfortably in his face, and he would sweep it away slowly and slightly tugging on it in between sobs. It was dyed blond in that way where it looks like it was from the sun, but really it was just from a bottle of Clairol. He looked like he was the star of a Disney Channel Original Series, but maybe not as handsome. There was something deliberate about his sloppiness. It was almost as if he wanted people to think he didn't try very hard, when indeed he had.

"Why are you standing there? It's awfully dangerous," He still gave no response. He stared straight ahead the whole time, not once looking at me or down at the water. He wore a pair black canvas Converse, the same kind I wore back in my elementary school P.E. His low tops were partially concealed by his long pants. He looked to be about a 32/32 pant size, but the pants he bought were probably 32/36, so the cuffs had grown tattered from walking on them so much. I don't know why he didn't just buy pants that fit, then maybe his pant legs wouldn't get so tattered.

"Boy, I sure wouldn't want to stand there, you might fall." He had on a shirt of what I assumed was a band I had never heard of since it had some tour dates on the back. It had to be a band, but I guess it could be somebody else on tour like an author or pro wrestler or a cat circus or something. It was bright green and had graffiti style lettering, making it basically indecipherable. If I were to guess I would say the band was either called The Remedies or The Pear Flavored Vodkas. One of those two.

"Wow that river sure is far away huh, I bet if you fell from this height, you'd probably die." Still nothing. He had on a wristwatch. It was an analog watch with just little lines where the numbers should be and a leather band, but it think it was broken. The second hand was moving, but I think it wasn't set to the correct time. It said it was four forty-five, but it was too dark to be four forty-five. I suppose it could've been four forty-five in the morning, but when I left my house, the news was on, so I think that means it was ten p.m. There was no way I had been walking around town for almost seven hours. I mean, I guess I had walked about a mile or so at this point. I'd like to think I could walk a mile in less than seven hours, although I was pretty far removed from the last time I had timed myself. Maybe I had been walking for hours.

"God, I bet that water is cold too. Even if you didn't die, man, I bet its real uncomfortable," I said as I turned my back to him and leaned against the bridge. There was no traffic, which was odd since this was a busy street. Although, I guess it was a Tuesday night, so most people were probably at home. And if it was four forty-five in the morning, that would make even more sense. There was graffiti on the bridge that just looked like a big check mark. It's possible that it wasn't graffiti, and the city had just marked the bridge for some reason, but I guess I didn't really know for certain.

"You know what's a good movie? The Warriors, have you ever seen it?" I reached into my pocket and lit a cigarette, I offered one to him. No response. "Its kind of neat, they're a street gang in the seventies, although I guess I'm not sure if its the seventies, it might be in the future. I guess they never really say. Well anyway, they go to this big gang meeting and the big gang leader gets shot. They say The Warriors did it, but it was really The Rogues. Well, anyway, they, The Warriors, have to go all they way from the park to their hideout on Coney Island. You ever been to New York?" No response.

"Well, New York is really big, so its really hard to get back. And all these other gangs are trying to kill them. One of the gangs is an all girl gang called the Lizzies, but the first time I saw it, man, I thought they were the Lezzies," I laughed and slapped him on the top of his shoe a couple of times. He moved his foot slightly.

"So yeah, all The Warriors have real funny names, like Rembrandt and Ajax and Fox and Snow and Cleon. I assume they were code names, but maybe they just had really weird parents. I guess in the future people can have weird names, so maybe that lends a little credence to that thought. But, I mean, I never met anyone named Snow in my whole life, how about you?" He turned his head slightly down, but still didn't look at me, he had stopped crying by this point, which was nice because it was hard to talk to someone when they are crying. It makes me feel sad too.

"Well Fox, I think it was Fox, it has been a bit since Ive seen it, he gets thrown in front of a Subway and Ajax he gets arrested, so they don't all make it back to Coney, which makes me a little upset, but you know, I guess they had to build the drama. Well, so the remaining guys make it back to Coney and who do they find waiting for them? I bet you can guess."

"The Rogues," he said in a deep monotone voice and without looking at me.

"Yeah, The Rogues. So The Rogues leader, he starts clanging these beer bottles together and then they drive out to the beach for the big finale, but its a swerve because The Riffs (The Riffs were the gang that had the leader who got shot back in the beginning) they are out there and they probably kill The Rogues. You don't know for sure what happens to them, but you know its bad. Oh and one of the gangs are a bunch of baseball players. They're The Furies." He swept his hair out his face a little quicker then he had been and finally looked at me.

"I like the part where they fight The Punks in the bathroom."

"Yeah that part is good. Oh, and you can totally see through that girl's shirt, then she put on a jacket."

"Yeah, that's true." He turned around and stepped off the bridge. "You know, I think I'm gonna go home and watch The Warriors."

He walked down the sidewalk as I finished my cigarette. "Good talking to you," I yelled as he walked off in the darkness, stepping on the back of his pant legs the whole time. He should really look into getting pants that fit.

My Sincerest Apologies

It's late and I should be in bed. However, I drank a Red Bull and now I'm wide awake. So now here we are. Me typing nonsense. Also, I feel like I should apologize for me saying I have too much free time in my address, I really don't have that much free time. That should explain my lack of posts. Anyway, nonsense ahoy.

I got this idea because this really did just happen to me. I dunno why, but all I thought of was an old Kids in the Hall sketch where Dave Foley apologizes for clotheslining a guy from his bike. So with apologies to them...

Dear Guy Who Bought Kotex in Front of Me at the Grocery Store,

I'm sorry I laughed at you at the checkout line. I only laughed because you were making such a production. But you know, it's cool. I have a wife, so I get it, although, she has never made me purchase feminine sanitary needs at midnight because she is smart and purchases these things ahead of time. Also, because she loves me. But, I understand and I wouldn't laugh at you because I have common decency.

But when you stand there and your small talk with the cashier consists of you over-emphasizing how you are out buying maxi pads and flail your arms and say that you're just "doing your bitch a favor," I'm going to giggle a little bit, because you're kind of a tool. I didn't care what you were buying, the cashier didn't care, and quite frankly, you shouldn't care either. But you had to make a big scene and pretend like we gave a shit what was in your hand. I bet you didn't care that I was buying Extra-Strength Alka Seltzer and Michelob Golden Light. And that's a pretty weird couple of things to buy at midnight, so I could've been pretty animated myself.

Oh, and I'm sorry I laughed even harder when you puffed your chest out and told me you were going to "rip my heart out." And I'm sorry I made the cashier laugh when I then said, "Well, good thing you have maxi-pads because then you can stop the bleeding." I wasn't trying to egg you on. Okay, I was, but really you were being pretty stupid. But I didn't want to egg you on because that is not the kind, human thing to do. The kind, human thing to do was to ignore you. Plus, there was a possibility you had a gun. But really dude, threatening me with the same punishment the bad guy from Temple of Doom dished out. Neat.

But yeah, sorry about all that. Hopefully, you weren't waiting too long outside to "put your size 10 in my ass" because I went out the other door.

Sincerely,
Dave Murphy

Five Reasons Why I Wish Tim Tebow Were Gay

For some reason I started thinking about the episode of Sex in the 90's I mention in this essay and here is what became of that random thought. I swear I'm not gay.




I remember back in the nineties MTV ran a series of specials about sex called, appropriately, Sex in the 90's. It was the usual claptrap produced by MTV News to enlighten and inform youngsters to the perils of disease and the like. They still try and do this today, but I wish they'd stop because I think that people who watch MTV regularly nowadays should be forced to get some sort of painful disease just for keeping that network in business. I mean have you seen A Shot At Love? It is just about the worst show in the world. It was bad enough that Tila Tequila was on the show. Despite her obviously lack of charisma and the fact she looks like Wile E. Coyote after the chunk of cliff rips off and flattens his head, she is a least somewhat well-known. But who the fuck are the Ikki Twins? Am I supposed to know who these whores are? Don't even get me started on The Hills. God, I want to put a boot on their program director's throat and just stomp away like Michael Flatley, but I digress.

Sex in the 90's, for some reason, ran a special focused solely on masturbation. For two thirds of the special, it was just like the history of masturbation in society. Then for some reason, it took a weird Red Shoe Diaries turn. It became the youth of America talking about their celebrity self-pleasure fantasies. They did it in this really creepy voice over way, where they would show clips of the celebrity while people talked about various scenarios they'd think about when they got down. It was, um, odd.

They did the standard five angles I think we all fall into while we take care f business: guy-thinking-about-a-girl, girl-thinking-about-a-guy, girl-thinking-about-a-girl, guy-thinking-about-TLC, and guy-thinking-about-guy. When they got to guy-thinking-about-a-guy, it started off with "I'm not gay and I don't think Henry Rollins is gay, but..." This always seemed weird to me. I always thought, "Henry Rollins is cool, but I only fantasize about doing guy stuff with him, like watching boxing and talking about chicks and riding BMXs and stuff. If you're thinking about Rollins while you whack it, well then, you're probably gay." I never understood that "I'm not gay, but I would nail Henry Rollins," mindset. Sure I've used it as the crux of several jokes (oddly enough, most of them starring noted child murderer Chris Benoit, but only before he was a child murderer.) (Okay also a couple of times after he was a child murderer.), but I never actually meant it. That was until I saw Florida Quarterback Tim Tebow.

I'm not gay and I don't think Tim Tebow is gay, but here are five reasons why I wish we were.

Reason #1: He is a pretty handsome guy.

Again, I'm not gay, and I don't think Tebow's gay, but if I were to be seen on the arm of some dude, I would want it to be some studly beefcake. Not one of these spindly boytoys like Orlando Bloom. I want some meat on those bones. I mean if the picture above doesn't do it for you, take a look at this one:



See he has that muscle that goes from his hip down into his shorts. That's pretty neat.

Reason #2: He seems like a very gentle lover.

Despite all the muscles. I bet he would be very gentle and giving. He spends a lot of time overseas, helping the poor and doing charity work in underprivileged countries. He cares so much for other people. He probably would only worry about my satisfaction were we to hook up. I imagine candles and maybe some wine. He would tell me stories about the Florida Locker Room and all their monkeyshines. I would tell him about my day, and he would listen and actually care about what I was saying. Then he would start with a back rub and then make me a bubble bath. We would share the bath and cuddle. Then I would make him wear like three condoms because, well, he spends a lot of time in underprivileged countries not to mention in the Florida Locker Room. Seriously, you step on a bar of soap in that shower and you probably just got Chlamydia.

Reason #3: He is way into The Bible.

I'm not into The Bible, personally, but this isn't just about me. I want Tebow to be gay to help the whole world. While I'm not into The Bible, it seems like a lot of people are. It also seems that a large portion of Bible loving people also don't like gay people. There are literally a million (I counted) straight athletes who love The Bible. Tebow would just be another athlete cliche. But if Tebow were gay, he could be all, "I love The Bible, and I'm gay so suck it." And since everyone loves Tebow they would all take note. And then maybe other people who like The Bible could be all "Oh, Tebow's gay, so gay people are cool." Then people will live in harmony. Tebow could change the world if he were gay.

Reason # 4: His (alleged) girlfriend could get that breast reduction surgery she so sorely needs.

Here is Tebow's (alleged) girlfriend:



Now what is the first thing you see? It's the pain she is clearly in. Her smile is crooked, her eye is partially hidden by her hair. She is trying way too hard to keep her shoulders straight. She clearly has a look of torment. Like she is in intense pain. Like her back is screaming at her all the time. She even appears to be getting a back rub from Tebow, just to help alleviate the pain (something that may be unknown but Doane's Lower Back Pain Relief is just a little lighter version of Tebow's Massage in pill form. His hands, literally, are a pain killer. If you were to concentrate it, it would be heroin).

Now, take a look at her chest. Her breasts are abnormally large (I bet you didn't even notice until I pointed it out, right?). I would imagine the pain that radiates off her face would go away if somehow, she could just get those things reduced. I mean, you strap two midgets to your chest and see if your back doesn't hurt after a while. She must be in constant pain. However, she must think that since she is dating Tebow, she must have the largest breasts in the world just to satisfy him. Which would be true, if he were straight. If Tebow were gay, she wouldn't have to keep those unsightly and potentially dangerous funbags. She could finally get the relief she needs. And I think it's important for her to have a comfortable life.

Also, I think it may actually be easier for her to get another guy. Because while we all like big boobs, eventually she is going to have to wear one of those supports that guys who work on loading docks have to wear. And speaking as a straight male, I, personally, have never been into the fat guy who unloads lawnmowers at Lowe's.

Reason #5: Sportscasters could finally just admit to being gay too.

We all know that every sportscaster is in the closet. They all dress too well, have too perfect of hair and like sports a little too much (overcompensating obviously). And they all really like Tim Tebow. Like, a lot. Maybe way too much. Here is what Thom Brennaman had to say about Tim in the most recent National Championship game:

“If you’re fortunate enough to spend five minutes or 20 minutes around Tim Tebow, your life is better for it.”

Even after Tebow earned a 15-yard unsportsmanlike conduct penalty for taunting Oklahoma’s defense, Brennaman incredulously, almost defensively stated:

“That might be the first thing he’s ever done wrong.”

He is in love with Tebow too. You can just tell. It would be nice if their love would be a little less unrequited. I mean, even if Tebow didn't reciprocate (because obviously he would be in a loving, committed relationship with me), maybe they would be able to find the love of their lives by finally admitting what they are. And that's Super Gay. All the time they talk about how great Tim Tebow is, and clearly that makes them gay. Not like me, because I am not gay and Tebow isn't gay. But sportscasters? Gay.

Hard Feelings

I got the idea for this little essay because Bonnie Raitt's 'Something To Talk About' randomly popped into my head at like two in the morning last night. It is a response as to why maybe we shouldn't give them something to talk about. Or at least that what its intent is. I reality, this is me still being pissed at my ex-girlfriend from ten years ago with some bits of just random fiction interspersed. Also, I don't think the two people in the song actually had sex. I think that's the whole point of the song. Bonnie thinks they should start doing it, right? So, anyway, I guess I'm not sure what this is exactly.

You want to know why I don't want to give them something to talk about? Well here are a few reasons.

You have poor taste in music. You listen to show tunes and Hank Williams, Jr. and acts from the nineties that I was certain were either broken up or dead. Sure, I like that "Sex and Candy" song as much as anyone, but who knew those guys made so many albums?

You have too many stuffed animals on your bed. It makes me feel like I was about to have sex with a child. That that somehow turns me on even more really freaks me out.

Your gerbil is evil. I don't like the way he looks at me. Like he's going to enter me somehow, use my heart as his exercise wheel, my intestines as that weird tunnel system he loves so much and make a bed out of the cedar chips that is my liver. I assume because of the amount of beer I drink, my liver smells like cedar chips.

Your body temperature is poorly regulated. Just because it is 3 degrees outside doesn't mean it has to be 90 degrees inside. Just put on a fucking sweater and leave the thermostat at 70. And put on some thicker socks, your feet are freezing.

Your bedroom practices are lacking. If I like something that you're doing, you'll know. If I didn't tell you to stop, it doesn't mean I like it. Maybe, I'm just trying to be nice. And unless specifically directed, stay north of the perineum.

Your parents are insane. Calling lunch "dinner" and dinner "supper"? Who does that? Also, there is no "r" in the word "wash", let your mother know, please, before someone poops in her mouth and "warshes" the poops down with their fists.

Your cat is dumb. I saw that fucker fall off the bed once while he was sleeping. What an idiot.

You drive so close to the curb I'm convinced you and your car's alignment have some long standing, personal beef and you are just looking to fuck it up. And when I point out that I am pretty terrified you are going to hit a curb, or possibly that telephone pole or that old lady walking a Schnauzer, don't over correct. Stay either to the left or right of the lane markings, not on top of them. They are not there to track where you're going, like Jeffy in The Family Circus, they are used as a tool of separation. Think of them as a wall, you wouldn't drive on top of a wall, would you? Well, you probably would.

You are bad at social situations. When someone asks if you have seen a good movie lately, do not speak. 'Failure to Launch' wasn't funny and stop telling people it was. It has Terry Bradshaw in it. Terry. Bradshaw. Seriously, stop it.

Your friends are all ugly and stupid. Can you believe Melissa wouldn't have a three-way with us, what a bitch.

In fact, I don't think I even want to be friends with you anymore. I'd like to say I hope you have a nice life, but really I hope you die. Now if you fix all of these things, maybe we can get back together. Oh what's that, you'll found someone you like better? Cool, I hope he likes devil rodents and you playing with his butt.

This Is A Test

I started a blog because I get ideas for articles or essays or stories that just really aren't that good or I just don't have any place to put them. I sometimes lie awake with dumb ideas and have decided to chronicle them. I'm not really sure why either. Really, I just want to get the dumb ideas out of my head so I don't obsess over them and then maybe I can focus on the stuff I think of that doesn't suck, which honestly rarely happens. Mostly I started this blog because I am bored at work. But this post is just to test if I can actually post pictures and stuff so pay no attention to me. Actual content to follow (or I guess is now above).