Assorted Dementia

Smeagol's smelly thong
can the bacteria think?
Yes, better than Smeags

Tidbits

I got my guitar for Guitar Hero last night. I ordered the game and a guitar and an extra guitar and I got the guitar last night. Getting just the guitar is like what I would assume getting a blowjob from a blind hooker would be like: sure you know the end product is gonna be great, but all the teasing from the missed hookups leaves you feeling even more impatient. Plus, you owe 15 dollars for something that should have taken 10 minutes and ends up taking 20 because she's sucking the stick shift off, but I digress....

I spoke with JJ, he is going to have me pick him up and take him to my house this weekend so we can have a marathon session of the I'm a Foolish, Foolish man speeches by my dad and also the Throbbin' Rob Chronicles, which I will explain in further detail:

When I first got on the eBay, way back in 1999, I bought tons of crap before I realized I could be a little picky with my cash. One of the things I bought was a 386 laptop with a floppy and a grayscale screen. It had Windows for workgroups on it and with that came wordpad. I lucked on an idea one afternoon whilst waiting for a nudie picture to download, as during those times I had a lot of time to think (I had a 14.4 kbps modem): "Hey, I should start a book!"

And that, my friends, was when Throbbin Rob was born.

Throbbin' Rob is a man who for some reason drives a beat up Pinto, goes everywhere naked, sticks various things in his ass like money, condoms he plans on using, resumes, and the like. He has a retarded son, Sven, who is not actually retarded but is 23 and still in the 3rd grade, another son named funnily enough Daniel, who for some reason takes no end of delight sticking random fruits and vegetables up Rob's asshole while he sleeps, has horrid diarrhea and is as gay as the sky is blue, a wife who's only job appears to be cleaning the diarrhea off of the walls and getting food, and a constant flow of hot exchange students that he humps and then sends back. We had quite a few bit characters, as most of the writings were on whatever happened that day, and that was when Mom and Dad were in full on cracketry, and we had amassed maybe 50 pages of material, with liberal use of fart jokes and anal seepage. Good times.

Smeagol has, and has always had, no shame. When JJ would be humping some girl on the living room couch, the living room floor, the kitchen, twice on the toilet, and in his bedroom (which happened the least), Smeagol would stand there, less than 10 feet away, in his thong, and gently massage his own cock-n-ballz, probably in tune with JJ. That's fuckin' nasty. I know he used to stand at the bottom of the stairs and listen to the Stevester and whatever lady who was lucky enough to ride the Stevester Black Mamba rollercoaster that night, because he would tell me the next morning "man I heard some girl howling at the moon last night, you must have been pounding that pretty hard" giving me this very unsettling look, all that much more unsettling because except for his over sized thong and these stark white socks he was naked.

Smeagol would leave his bedroom door, which you had to walk toward down this hallway to get to the bathroom which was right by it (They shared the same doorjamb even), and try to get Mystery to howl at the moon while he dominated her anal cavity, and the sound of strained farts, Smeagol saying in his always exhausted sounding girly voice "take it bitch, take, take, take it alll" and Mystery kind of grunting softly and farting every few seconds ruined many a deuce I tried to drop in the next room, well that and the fact that in the 10 years I have known her Mystery has never, NEVER flushed the toilet.

So it should come as no surprise when I finally acquired a fine automobile, and kept a 20 in the visor for gas, that Smeagol would ask to borrow said car when his ran out of gas, and subsequently steal my money and blame it on my mom. He would also bring it back with no gas, and something was usually broken (my radio, the side mirror, the windows would not go down) and I did not realize until now that the issue was probably not anything Smeagol did, per se. It was probably his cloak of failure, breaking my side mirrors, taking the knobs off of the radio, and generally ruining everything Smeagol touches.

More tomorrow, I think more on the scam I am trying to nurture...