Monday, December 29, 2008


I'm an IT guy
no I can't fix your damn car
find a mechanic

You know what's a-fucking-nnoying? I work in IT. I fix issues with computers not working. There are a few other things I could PROBABLY help with if you needed me to. Those "few things" are getting so fucking blown out of proportion I am not sure what the fuck it is I do anymore. We have a few people here where I work that assume if it is on a computer or has the word computer in it's name or description, I know everything there is to know about it. They also assume that even when I am on my lunch break or taking a shit or out of the fucking office that I am living and breathing megabits, yearning for the moment when I can come back and listen to retarded stories about how your machine runs so much slower and you think it's because Dell installed super secret programs to make more money and has nothing whatsoever to do with you downloading "Hot Cleveland Steamer fisting sessions with paraplegic granny trannies" videos on Limewire along with clicking on every fucking link you get in your shitcan email which is so full of chain letters and other assorted shitfuckery your junk email filter deletes valid emails instead.

I get emails and calls all the time asking me to modify fucking documents with North Yemenese formatting and merging all kinds of bullshit together and God help me if I admit I do not know how to do something, I have to listen to their whiny "But you're the IT guuuuuuuuuuy you should know how to do this waaaaah!" (read that in Fran Drescher's voice, it will give the full effect). I get stuff like "Please set up a wireless audio system in said room and make it so the acoustics don't vibrate off the walls" or "please unbolt the front seats in these cars and install these laptop mounts" or "please find out why my transmission keeps slipping". I am starting to feel like I need to come into work with some greasy blue coveralls with a sewn on "Jimbo" namepatch, and though the idea of walking around with my backpussy on full display it a tempting one, I would like to pass.

It is with this kind of Christmas Spirit that I would like to put down this short but sweet "Top 10 Ways to Annoy an IT Guy", and as always with black people my list starts an hour late and only goes to 9. Enjoy:

9. Start talking to an IT person about something interesting, say personal life, politics, or sports. Once you are sure they are listening to you, try a cool transition like " that's why we should fire Herm Edwardshey while I've got you can you take a look at for me?" THen wonder why they never come by to talk to you anymore.

8. Assume the IT guy's life, nay, his very fucking EXISTENCE, centers around cleaning up your spyware.

7. All IT guys do work on the side. We feel like superheros, and the idea of going to your house and cleaning gigs and gigs of hardcore goat porn off of your computer so you can download more gives our small, insignificant lives purpose.

6. IT guy taking a shit? Never! He's simply crying inside a stall waiting to hear more of your issues as to why you can't download your favorite episodes of "House" onto your computer. Tell us all about it, nevermind the grunts or calls to heavenly bodies as our feet kick spastically at the floor.

5. Got a new car/microwave/dvd player/vibrator with calculating function? No problem! Not only do I know everything about it and can fix anything you like on it and customize it to fit your needs, but I really want to stand around for a half hour after I somehow figure it out without the manual and internet and watch you fumble your way through using it (with exception to the dildo. I WOULD like to see you fumble around using that, unless you're a dude. Or my mom again.....*shudder*). Please feel free to bring your crap by and brag about how awesome it is and how you never plan on using all the functionality while I desperately try to get my 1973 dot matrix steam driven printer working.

4. Got a lengthy, concise, well worded error message on your computer? No problem! Simply hit "OK" or "Cancel" 10 times until the message doesn't call back up, and then call and leave a message for the IT guy saying you got an error. Bonus points if you get annoyed when he asks what the message said. By no means should you actually write down or try to remember the error message, that ruins all the fun!

3. Your friendly IT guy loves it when you leave messages like "Give me a call about a problem with my computer" and then say nothing else. We love having no idea what the issue is and walking all the way to your fucking office to change your password, which could have been done on our end and not wasted time having to walk all the way down to look upon your homely face and/ or smell your farts.

2. If an IT guy has to crawl under your desk, and you KNOW he has to crawl under your desk, make sure to loose upon said confined space a fart that could tame one of the Gods upon Olympus. Bonus points if you look at IT guy as if he did it when he gets up to gag in your trash can.

1. By all means, we all are salaried, make sure to call your IT guy at 4:59 every Friday to give some long winded description about how you can't get to some damn website and haven't been able to all week and yet are choosing NOW to get it fixed. Make sure you are high enough on the corporate ladder to ensure he has to stay until you can check your MLB scores and print them.


Anyway, on to other things. My Escort is acting up, it will start one day and not the next. I took it to my dad's house so he could have a look at it (and yes I paid him, so it's not the same as anything in the preceding list) and see what is going on. We couldn't figure it out, so I left it there and told him I would come back Sunday (yesterday). I get out there, and the fucking year stickers on my car are gone. WTF?! The asshole attempted to steal the whole license plate, and when that didn't work just took the stickers, leaving my front plate hanging by the shoe string and leaving the razor he used on the back bumper. Who would be so lazy as to try to steal a license plate and then leave when the shoe string proved too tough to conquer?
I called Smeagol to ask why he stole my stickers.

Of course he denied it, but let's look at the facts:

1. He's a raptor.
2. Whoever took them had to have known the dog as the car was in the back yard.
3. He's a fucking raptor.
4. Smeagol just got his car running, and we all know his track record with getting vehicles legal.
5. A real thief would have been undeterred by a thin shoe string.
6. Smeagol has been salivating over the Escort since I got a new car.
7. He's a fucking raptor.

With that kind of evidence, I would win a court case on almost any episode of Judge Judy, at least I would if he would admit he was a guy, as she is about as sexist as they come.
Before I get to that though, I had a different interaction with that wily raptor. Remember about 5 lines ago when I told you Smeagol had a running car? I'll wait... OK, well apparently even though he has a running vehicle, he still needs his family. You see, Smeagol wanted to come up to my house, no doubt to see if I had any valuables laying around, or maybe he is turning over a new leaf and genuinely wants to spend time at my abode and reminisce about the good times... I dunno. Anyway, he informed me that in order to come up, it had to be on a day he had off and also I would need to pick him up. How grand.

Hmmm.... I want to end this post in the middle of all these stories and then never tell the ends of them, but I feel like I am missing something...

Oh yeah Pinkpenguins had a spawn! Yay! That's about as touchy feely as I get, deal widdit.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

suck shit through a tooth!
crow creeps in and seals your fate!
Florence Nightengaaaaaale!

These are lyrics to 99.7% of all death metal songs. Cherish them, friends.

I guess I harp on this, but I never understood my mother's unending belief that Smeagol, much like the war in Iraq, was about to turn some corner and evolve back into a human again. It's something future philosophizers will no doubt dub one of the world's greatest mysteries, right after we find out his magical thong is actually a space alien from the planet rapturis failuria, a doomed planet too hot for human colonization that has been stealing air and resources from it's neighbor planets for eons... but I digress.

Let's look at the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, shall we? Smeagol routinely borrows money from her, and that same day not only no call/ no shows when she is his duty nurse (meaning his boss), but then refuses to pick her up from work, ending in her walking home in the cold, rain, and sleet numerous times whilst being accosted by all manner of masturbating vagrant, which she probably thought was hilarious. He sleeps at her house all the time, eats her food, borrow moneys and never pays it back, and on top of all that insults her on a near daily basis, and yet she still tries with him. How far should a mother's love go before you realize your baby is actually a raptor hell bent on the destruction of this, our planet Earth?

Anyway, Smeagol is not the reason for this post, though he probably should be. No this post is about the Diplomat, the magical steam engine car, and why Stevester should never be allowed tools or to be near something that would require mechanical aptitude.

Twas summer, nay, a warm summer to be specific, and times were kinda tough for me. Ercie had just declared she was going to have her nephew shoot me, and I was working nights out in the middle of Kansas for almost half the pay, which I assured my corporate overlords was wrong as I had done nothing wrong but they cared not, which made me sad. Anyway it was time to give the old steam engine car a magical oil change. I did that, foolishly storing the oil in an old antifreeze jug.

Fast forward lets say 3 weeks, and the car is running a little warm. I go check the fluid levels, then zip my pants up and go check the fluid levels in the car (I was a quart low). The coolant was a little low so I grabbed the jug of antifreeze and filled it up, never even bothering to pay attention to the fact that what was coming out of the jug was black, not green. As I am not racist I do not see color. Astoundingly enough, the car drove for about 2 weeks like this, with oil in the radiator and all. Then the car started acting funny, and by "funny" I mean it died on the road mid turn. I managed to get it to my in-laws house, which was only a few blocks away, and her dad came out to look at it. I told him I just filled the overflow thingie up, actually saying "thingie", to which his brow immediately furrowed. He knew I should never touch tools or the inside of an engine compartment, and it was with dread that he opened the hood. Nothing seemed amiss, and I stood there with a look of bemusement on my face as he tried to find where I had screwed up.

He finally decided to flush the system and if that didn;t work to replace the radiator. It was at this time he took the cap off of the radiator to see if there was anything in there. Did you know when oil and antifreeze mix oil expands and coagulates? I did not know that, and I think he did but did not expect that. I wonder how people reacted when driving home watching a car seamingly money shot all over the ground and me. I wonder if they found it hot as we flushed all the coagulated crap out, watching it spray deliciously all over my hardened nipples, glistening in the hot summer sun, the surprised and disgusted look on her dad's face as more and more of the sexy time liquid shot all over the place, the way my wife giggled uncontrollably at my mental retardation.... great times.

Update: Smeagol is definitely coming over tomorrow. I called him today and he informed me the reason he had not been by earlier is he had been working "booty ass overtime niggie", and the reason he had not answered my phone calls was because those "bitch niggies at sprint made all my calls long distance". I asked him if his car was running, to which he said yes, and then in the same breath told me to call him when I was on my way to his house to pick him up tomorrow. Unbe-fuckin-lievable.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

You black gunga din!
with your swarthy scent and walk!
Why can't I quit you?!

Today's tale, children, is one of tenderness. One of good times, hugs and kitten snuggles. Of a young man, let's call him Stevester, and his magical journey into the mind.
Life on 54th and Woodland had finally gotten to me. my wife, who was during that time my girlfriend, was constantly nagging me about seeing Smeagol in his thong at the bottom of the stairs, and the horrendous smell coming from the toilet because Mystery refused to flush was causing some sickness. It was time to find a new place.

I know I have spoken about the move to the magical realm that is 5th and Maple, with the Somalian brotherhood calling us to prayers every fucking morning and offering to trade their sister for my wife, this is a different tale of family and gentleness.

You see the sweet n sassy ride I had at that point, a 1985 Grand Marquis, possibly sensing the ghetto I was moving it to, started developing a myriad of strange problems. For one, the windows would roll down, but not back up. This was not so much a problem during the summer, and even less of an issue during the fall, but led to some trouble during the winter. You see, being decent folk we had gotten Wyatt Earp a job at Burger King, and being bald on top during that winter he wore this gay knit cap. He was always doing gay stuff, yet he got no end of joy calling me "bitch-nugget" and "gay slut-dog"... great times

Anyway this one time (at band camp) we were driving home from da BK after a fine evening slopping the populace, and the local constabulary corps noticed that all of our windows were down, which was odd because it was snowing heavily, including into the car. At this point I would like to point out my license was suspended from a previous misunderstanding which I would rather not get into; suffice it to say cocaine is a helluva drug and some people have no sense of humor.

The cop moseys up to where my wife and I had expertly switched seats, and asked her where the owner of the car was. She informed him it was mine, but that I was not in the car. The officer looked right at me, and then ignored me for the rest of the stop, choosing instead to arrest Wyatt for having a handlebar mustache and yet not being a police officer. I think they made out in the car.

Part II tomorrow

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

short post yo

Bye Carl Peterson
You've taken the Chiefs to shit
and hid the TP

And yesterday, gentle readers, I hand-partied to a man for the first time since "Jitterbug" came out on MTV, and for a different reason. When I heard Monday Night that Mr. Peterson was out, I was shocked, cold, a little hungry, and quite strangely aroused. Was it true? What could this mean? And why was I hugging Tylester?

Anyway, such awesomeness should not go unawarded. I hope the Chiefs fans who promised to come back when Peterson was gone stick to their promise; filling the stadium after getting rod of CP would be a much more powerful message than continuing to show no support for the rookies out there on the field who need our support.

One last note before I get to the post though, why is it such a big fucking deal to "make these guys feel comfortable and build their confidence"? Are they toddlers or bipolar? If someone not cheering for you makes you play like a shit time, then you are a shit time playerwho needs to grow up. Why is it alright to attribute their shitty play to not feeling confident and I got 20+ manager's meetings for grunting?!

Phun Tyme link for Jonathan Lee Riches, I am renaming my house "the Man Hole" from now one:

Anyway, no word from Smeagol yet on coming to my house, I am wondering if he is in jail as his phone is busy every time I call, or does that mean I am blocked? And does that make me a loser when a raptor refuses to talk to me? I need a hug, I think.

Friday, December 12, 2008

ZInfandel of Justice!

A crisp breeze beckons,
couples embrace, shut out cold,
yearning warmer climes

You ever notice the uglier a kid is the less you want to hear them cry? As a young lad, my mother took every opportunity to inform me that not only was I hideous to the eyes, but a damper on the ears as well whenever I began talking or asking for assistance because I fell down the stairs that one time. I said that to try to persuade you to not think me a monster when, at the local mullet hunting grounds, otherwise known as Walmart (I am serious, nowhere, not even Santa Calgon, has as many magical mullets, too tight shirts with the dirty ping sweatpants on a fat older lady or magical cameltoes of justice), when I saw a young man crying. Had he been attractive, clean or clearly not from the ghetto I would have simply smiled knowingly and moved on to get great deals at unbeatable prices. But this child was hideous. He had that permakoolaid lip, where you get that ring of red around your mouth but not from staying at a prison? And that constant snot drip, much like an iv of desperation, kept injecting his persona with an aura of ghetto that would make a certain raptor's cloak of failure bow in tribute.

I looked upon the little heathen in complete disgust, and crop dusted on my way past him. Why don't some of these parents care anymore? I would beat my kids retarded if they started rolling around on the floor screaming like they lost their damn minds. His mom was just standing there, saying over and over "No Bryce, you know this hurts Mommy's feelings when you do that!" While he was snotting all over the place, probably waiting to shit in plastic Walmart bags and hang them in a tree, I dunno.

Anyway, I am going to try to pick Smeagol up this weekend to allow him to see my house. I took the Wii upstairs to better keep an eye on it, as even though he does not own one and has no plans to ever own one, he would still steal controllers and games for one. I also need to take a dishwasher to my sister's house. I might somehow combine the two for effect, why shouldn't I get anything out of it?

What else, what else... of my wife brought home a damn cat she got off of is essentially what it sounds like, you go post your crap that you are getting rid of and someone comes and gets it. No word yet on whether or not someone will bite at my posting of my old underwear. Anyway we were posting a washer on there, and she started looking through the bummables, and found this fucking cat. It was owned by some old lady, who according to my wife is a very stereotypical cat hoarder. 8 or 9 cats, smells like cat food, poor communication skills (no diploma son!), ratty clothes, no furniture, horrible house/ yard keeping practices, you know the type. Anyway she brings this fuckin thing home, and it immediately scratches my dog and starts messing with Nubbies, my madly obese completely declawed cat, who I like. Fuck that! I was right about to feed this damn thing to the dog when wifey informs me the old lady called her and told her to bring her cat back. Apparently, the cat she gave away had had kittens, and she said one of the kittens was acting sad, thus we had to give her her cat back.

First of all, how can you tell a cat is sad? They mope around all the time anyway, and when they do bother to recognise your presence it is only to get some food or to keep you from walking by running in front of you.

Second, my wife specifically told her the cat was a Christmas present for the boys, which is funny because upon meeting said cat, they just shrugged their shoulders and went back to playing Mario Galaxy. But why would you ask for a cat back when you were told it was for three small children? What kind of fuckin no talent ass clown do you have to be to take a present away from small children? Apparently she informed my wife that she did not care about my kids, she wanted her cat back.

So she's driving me to k-rat, telling me how mean this old lady is, and I told her to tell her that the cat was supposed to be a meal for our snake, and did she have any other small animals she was willing to get rid of? This would have a dual purpose: since the thought of ruining Christmas for small children did nothing for her (and I told my wife it wouldn't have, cat hoarders only care about their fucking cats, not about anyone or anything else), the idea that one of her cats was going to be dinner for a snake could (pleasegodpleasegodpleasegod) cause a heart attack, and 2 it would have stopped her from putting stuff up she wasn't really going to get rid of. Of course my wife, like a dweeb went and tried to appeal to her humanity, telling her "There are three little boys at home crying right now (they didn't give a shit) because the cat I was going to give them for Christmas is being taken from them, I hope you're happy!" To which the old lady did not pay any attention, just like I said she wouldn't, simply taking her cat, inspecting her Precioussss to make sure it was in good condition, and shutting the door in my wife's face. Why do I have to be right all the time?

On another front, I have a bit of wisdom to share with you. When someone asks you for a Christmas wish list, tell the truth. Don't joke around and write things like "Anal", "a blowjob", or "Cleveland Steamer followed by a donkey punch with a rimjob to top it off". Those things, much as we all want them, should be relegated to verbal wish lists only, and not written on paper, creating ample blackmail opportunities. It could also cause a raised eyebrow or two when your wife takes said Christmas list and opens it at the store where your mother in law is standing next to her, both of them reading it for the first time. Not that that happened to me, just wanted to make sure it didn't happen to any of you.

Merry Whatever.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008 the oven on? I need to buy a stamp!

why must thou shun tasty meat?
veggies have lives, too!

So I am at work, not really doing any of the work I said I would this morning, when I came to a shocking revelation: I'm a friggin loser! It started slowly enough so as to be almost imperceptible: I remember going out to the improv or a movie or something 2 or 3 times a week, laughing, telling of gentle times past, hopping over homeless people and pretending I knew something about astronomy. I was so cool then, so hip and in the know, I had interesting things to say to counter Greyskull's daily diatribes about the mating habits of drunken buffalo or whatever it is she talked about while in her daily threesome with Santa and Flanders. I don't really drink, as the amount of alcohol it takes for me to actually get drunk is incredibly expensive and I don't have enough dedication to drink for that long, but I would go out and have a good time.

It started shortly after the wife started working, though I do not thing that had anything to do with it... you just kind of get into a rut. I felt less and less like going out, making excuses like "I have explosive diahrrea", "I smell like an anus", or "I might run into Smeagol"... these became easier and easier to believe, until I recently noticed I was not leaving the house at all, simply coming home and putting on my too-tight sweatpants and trying to grow chest hair like I am sure you all do every night. SOmethings gotta change!

"Why are you so frightened of spending a quiet evening at home, Stevester" you may be asking, and the reason, is tonight's word [applause and chanting]

No, Smeagol works booty ass overtime. He works sometimes 15 hours a day, strangely enoguh still never having any money, and never goes anywhere or does anything. He works, or sleeps. I remember when I lived with him he would go months without going anywhere, just going to work, coming home and going to sleep. I remember wondering who could live like that, and promising myself while taking a shit one day that that same fate would never befall me, for to lax into that rut is to succumb to the siren call of failure, and this Oddysses is not ready to falter in his magical quest to someday play porn music on guitar!

That's another thing. I now know why I want to play guitar. I want to be responsible for the background music in porn movies. I do not come upon this lightly, and this is a sincere wish, not like when I promised I would stop farting in the gym room because of my evidently bad karma (which I was a victim of yesterday).

Anyway, I have to do something, lest I risk falling victim to stir-craziness and become like Smeagol or my Walmart bag-shit filling uncle. It doesn't have to be anything drastic, maybe go to Walmart and intentionally take the last sale items in order to make children cry, or flashing old ladies at the nail salon again, something to get me out of the house. I wonder who's at the improv...

If you haven't had a chance yet, go vote on Derka's blog. Unlike my polls (zing!) her voting choices all have pictures of pretty girls on them instead of the very real risk of another Jeremy photo. My style sense do you say....nonexistent, but really, can you go wrong in a black dress?

I am still waiting on word from Smeagol on when he wants to come by my house, though everything valuable is safely hidden in the basement. I will update when he shows up.

Monday, December 8, 2008

Jungle Boogie

cold air howls, blisters;

lone wolf howls at the full moon

man I'm fuckin' deep!


OK so you all know Smeagol is known for taking the ladies to JJ's house, usually paying JJ for the honor of mounting them thongless on the couch or in the cat's litterbox for all I know while other people are there so that no one will be the wiser...

This kind of magic continues. Smeagol I guess asked JJ if he could bring a bus station skank by while she was still liquored up enough to allow him entry into her stinky love hole. As tempting an offer as being allowed to listen to a raptor attempt to mate with what might by all accounts be a dude is, JJ graciously declined. No word yet on whether Tylester or the Pritster will allow him to use their homes.

So I bought a pool table, or rather the wife did for me for Christmas yesterday (I'll let her know she bought it today), and I called my dad to use his pickup truck to go get said table. I get to his house, the table is out in friggin Lee's Summit, which sucks anus, and there are at least 6 frantic messages left for me by a certain wiley raptor. Apparently he had been trying to get ahold of me with much gusto for the last week or so, which is strange as I called him on his cell phone and he said he kept the number, and wanted my parents to trick me into calling on a cell phone so he could keep that number too. I like the idea of Smeagol desperately clawing at a phone, maybe howling out in raptor disamy, unable to work his claws well enought to find my saved number...
Anyway, I of course do not call him, we go pick up my table and get it set up at the house, and then the phone rings.

I stop, knowing Sami is home and hoping against hope that she will answer it. She asks who is on the phone, as we have Time Warner on screen caller id, where it flashes who is calling on your tv. It only said one word: Raptor. The phone icon had changed to a green thong, and the actors on Law & Order were looking up at it with a mixture of revulsion and outright fear.

We froze: Sami in mid-mix of one of her margaritas (which taste like crap), me in midjerk while watching that Russian chick take down a particularly swarthy negro. My jerk son moseys up and answers the phone, and we continue to hold our breath while listening to what sounds like a coubple or prairie dogs mating. Which one of us did he want to talk to?

YES! He wanted to talk to Sami. She flipped me off and took the phone. I could almost see the tongue of the raptor coming out of the phone to caress her cheek, and vowed not to kiss her for fear failure had leaked through the phone like Freddy Krueger's tongue did on Nightmare on Elm Street

She stood there, scowling but managing to talk normally into said phone, and then midsentence told me to pick up. Fuck!

"Heeeeyyyyy bitch niggie..." he swooned, making me cringe and making the cat shit himself,
"What's been going on? Well enough with the small talk, I heard you got a pool table-" I felt instantly betrayed, who had told him? Only a select few people knew of my new purchase, and I immediately planned to get back at them.

"-how big is it? Is it regulation sized?" WHich reminded me of Mystical Retard and her "MmmMmMmMmmmMmmmMmmMm...... is this Mr. Pibb certifiiiied?" And I tried to stifle a guffaw (because men don't giggle)... No, I informed him, it was not regulation, as a regulation table would not fit in with the other stuff in my basement. He kinda snorted like that made it below him, and I instantly hated his thong even more.

Smeagol wants to come up to my new house to see what all I have and hang out. I am seriously considering allowing him up so that I can get better photos of both him and Mystery. Should I only pick him up in the evening so he cannot find his way during the day, or should I drive him by the little city hall/ police department during the day so he can meet some of his old friends? Or should I be really devious and drive him directly to the lockup and turn him in, banking on him having a warrant in my town?

I would never do the last one, that's just not right. Funny, but not right.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Turkey Lurky Bitches!

I want some turkey
but only assholes remain
O I can't refrain!

So we ended up with 28 fucking people at my house (not actually fucking, but there were some weird stains on my bed... hmmmm) and I didn't get to try half of what was there. You might not care about that, waiting with baited breath to hear if that wily raptor caused any malarkey, and if that is what you were waiting for.... you will be disappointed.

No, Thanksgiving was a great day, in no small part because that raptor did NOT show up. It was amazing - people called and asked if he was going to be there, and as soon as they found out he was not going to be there all kinds of people wanted to come by the crib. What's so funny is that everyone put aside their hatred of other people in the family in order to look to the common good - a hatred of Smeagol. Yes, people who had told me no for years showed up and enjoyed the festivities, eating all the food and not leaving me any, sleeping in my bed, using my personal bathroom, all had great times. But I wonder, what happened with Smeagol?

Apparently, Haggard can now collaborate my claim as there has been a confirmed raptor sighting at his "second" "job". Apparently a week or two ago, Haggard was out at a certain McDonald's in Liberty, enjoying a light lunch, when he saw said raptor walking towards the building. I will dig deeper to see what if any interaction there was at a later date.

Anyway, I have more updates, apparently Smeagol is paying JJ to hump various ladies on his couch, I will elaborate on that tomorrow... the Escort makes an astonishing return as well, there is plenty of drama going on right now, so stay tuned yo!

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

People Madness

cherry tree, pickle!
burnt butthole, stinky tomato!
haikus make no sense!

Weird People Shenanigans

Alright I have a few pet peeves that I would like to share with like minded individuals; but since I don't know any other weirdos who look forward to holiday brawls in his own home, you guys will have to do.

And because I know you all love lists so much, I put these all in order. Enjoy.

1) Untrusting old people - This is the person who blames everything on Microsoft, nevermind that the reason their computer is running slowly is because their grandkid had been downloading Placenta Pounders 3: The Rebirth, all issues are because Microsoft wants to ruin their lives. SLow computer? Microsoft. Tons of porn on your desktop? Microsoft. Bought some Viagra and still can't piss without it getting on your balls? Well that's really sad, but still the fault of Microsoft.

2) "You control the internet" - I hate this person. THis is the douche that calls because is not working and the first thing out of their upper sex hole is "Is the internet down? Why can't you guys just keep it working? I'm trying to *insert totally mundane task* that will make this company *insert astronomical number* and I can't because you can't keep the internet running!" You should respond to this with "Well as soon as I do reboot the internet I am going to do *mundane task* so I can make those *astronomical number of dollars*!" Then shit on their desk.

3) The Weird smile - this is usually an elevator person. We all know the etiquette: get on the elevator as quickly as possible, no farting unless A) you know everyone on the elevator or b) you are getting off on your floor, look straight ahead but if you do make eye contact, a quick nervous smile and then look only at the closed doors or up at the floor number indicator. The weird smile person is usually someone of the opposite sex, sometimes quite homely but not always, and usually does the proverbial "double take" as you get on the elevator. This is followed by her staring at you, sometimes mouthing words to try to get you to look at them but not always, followed by moving slightly closer to you every time someone else gets on the elevator or she thinks you are not watching her. DO NOT get off on the same floor as weird smile person, even if that is your floor and even if she is riding the elevator up to see you at said floor. Tis much easier to become entangled in an awkward toilet shopper moment (see number 4) than deal with said person following you around, going "mm-MMMm" while looking at your crotch (hello, my eyes are up here ladies) or, and I shit you not, informing you "you is fine as a muthafuckah" and then nodding their head in case you didn't quite get the message.

4) Awkward toilet shopper - This is when another of the magical (and quickly growing) numbers of toilet shoppers gets off the elevator, checks around to make sure no one else is in the vicinity, heads for the bathroom and bumps into another toilet shopper, creating that awkward moment and sending many questions racing through each of the participants' heads:
1 - Does he/she use my toilet?
2 - would he/she tell anyone about my smell?
3 - Did I flush?
4 - WHy am I still standing here looking at this asshole?

It makes it worse if it is in an empty hallway, as there is no way to just bump into eachother and walk away quickly and then get lost in the crowd. WHen you are both alone, and you look into eachother's eyes, and both realize neither of you had any business on that floor, and you both know you are using the same toilet, but that the one who has not yet shit will still go sit on the warmed toilet seat of the one who has already shit.

5) Smeagol - What can I say, he steals shit, he is an asshole, what more do you need?

6) The "I'm still hip" wino - we all know this guy, this is the man with the tattered rags on, always smells of alcohol, can't french kiss worth a damn, always trying to shy away from your gentle touch as you lick what looks likce creamed spinach off of his 5 o'clock stubble while he sleeps in a pile of refuse behind the lofts on 5th and McGee....anyway this is the wino that tries to still be hip while trying to scam your hard earned monies. You can usually tell if a wino is the "I'm still hip" type because he starts his bum pitch with "Scuse me young blood, what's really good?"

On to other things...

So my aunt calls the other day to ask if certain people will be there, like she is trying to get her own fight card right in her head. Our guest list at this moment looks like so:

My fam
My wife's parents
Smeagol and Mystery
My parents
JJ and his kid
My aunt, her son and at least 3 or her grandkids
my sister and her coven
my wife's sister
whatever homeless wino my mom befriends on the way up

I swear, I sincerely love my mother. I do. But her penchant for finding the nastiest looking, gayest weirdo in the greater metropolitan area and then bring him to family functions is, has been and will always be mad annoying, son! I will never forget about that year she brought that blind guy up who ended up shitting all over my toilet, mad sprayage!

Anyway, if I don't have the pleasure of talking to any of you beforehand, happy holidays, stay safe, and can Smeagol move in with you?

Thursday, November 20, 2008

No Associating with Coloreds!

Take the long way home
hug a child; pet a damn dog
be someone, dammit!

When did I become a loser?

I sat on the can yesterday, playing a video game long after my shit was done, and pondered this. That act, sitting in the bathroom after I was done dropping the kids off, was my last act of outright defiance toward a world that had for years shunned me simply because I look like Anthony Anderson and Nell Carter made sweet love and created a baby. I wondered how I went from the guy everyone loved in Kindergarten because I had shown them my weiner, set fire to my mom's clothes, killed not one but 3 classroom pets, and was a general terror to all authority figures, to the meek individual you see in the manager's office today. I mean sure, I went to all manner of manager's meetings back in the day, but the rebellion seemed forced.

The manager meetings at the Firm had taken a decidedly more confrontational stance after my little suaree at the technical retreat, which baffled me because one of the highest people on the food chain was up there rambling whilst drunk about "and IT, you guys are....(starts falling asleep, wakes self up violently) you guys are the best at what you do, I mean if you don't do IT then who does, am I right? You guys are computers.... you do computers SO WELL..." thus proving that

A) she had NO fucking clue what we did, and
B) if I had been just a little more unscrutable I could have beat her back out toot sweet, but alas I was busy answering calls from all manner of pissed off toupee wearing lawyer at the time.

Anyway, I think the reason for this manager's meeting was either I had made Flanders cry by ignoring him or grunting out my answers, one of my favorite things to do, or Greyskull had overheard me saying I fell in love with the 14 year old intern after she crawled under a desk for me; I sometimes get dates and stuff mixed up. Anyway, I think all G-Skull wanted was an opportunity to call me into her lair, and she got it when I dared speak to the other African-American on the floor. As we all know, 1 black guy means a robbery is about to take place, 2 is the beginning of a riot. As I am standing over ther, rambling on about completely inapproriate things with Derka and Mixmaster P, Greyskull moseys over and sweetly calls me into her office. This was strange for 2 reasons: at that point it had been almost a week since I had been called into her office, and we were all wondering what the drought was for, and 2 she was usually already fuming by the time she came by to call me in. I walked to the lair vowing to keep my wits about me and stay on my toes.

I walk in and sit down, noticing that no one else is in there and so this is just another retarded "You're so well spoken for a negro, you gotta be happier from now on, smile for your overlords boah!" lack of communications meeting, and relax, leaning back with my arms crossed so she knew she was wrong.

"Stevester, I would like to start by saying you are very intelligent, and your technical skills are sound-' blah blah blah '-but I've noticed that you are starting a very disturbing trend where you only talk to certain people, and completely ignore others. SPeaking to Desi all the time makes others feel as if you do not care for them, and that's not what we're about. From now on, you need to respond to everyone favorably, and try to make everyone feel as if they are your best friend, understand?"

Never. Never in all my years as a security guard, burger flipper, hand party maker or warehouse worker have I gotten in trouble for not being everyone's "friend". I was literally getting talked to because I was not everyone's friend. I was so completely floored I could not find words to protest other than "are you saying I have to be likable to everyone? I have to be buddies with every person here? I don't come in to work to be anyone's friend; I come here to work. Some people I like talking to, and some I talk to less, but I am not here to be anyone's friend."

She tried to counter with a different tactic: preying upon my ego. This would work if I (and my weiner) were allowed to roam free amongst the large swathes of uger hot ladies (especially the ones in records, MMmm MMmmm!), wrangling them down with my love lasso, but at that point I was in year 8 of my wife's 25 year plan to turn me either gay or so meek that I would actually watch her stupid lifetime movies and cry along with her (I still won't, great success!)

"Listen Stevester, when you come in with a good attitude everyone is happier. The day moves along more smoothly and everything works out easier. When you come in and sit at your desk like that-' at this point she pointed at how I was sitting with my arms crossed, desperately trying to roll my eyes a little bit more -' and grunt when people try to talk to you, you bring the whole team down and everyone walks around wondering 'what's wrong with Stevester?', 'why is he so angry all of the time?'.... stuff like that. I do not want to see you talking to Desi anymore, as it appears all you are doing is wasting time instead of doing what you are here for, which is to work. You also need to put on an academy performance to get rid of that bad attitude and become more approachable by ALL employees' and at this point I knew she meant mostly Flanders, who had made it very clear that my ignoring him and grunting at him was hurting his widdle feewings because "I'm a sensitive guy" which I think is code for "I'm not gay, but I would take a cock if the guy bought me flowers first"

Only after I walked out of the office and sat at my cube while Flanders dry humped me into submission with Greyskull looking on with a maniacal grin did I think to tell her that I also hated Derka when she first sat by me and did not speak to her for almost a month either, but by then it no longer mattered.


Desi also got into trouble for "inciting riots and unlawful assembly with another colored" or something like that, and in whispered tones in a back hallway he informed me of this. It is on this day that I officially began a search for another job. When I am not only not allowed to talk to friends but am in essence forced to circle jerk Santa and Flanders, who had to be the only ones who complained because they were the only ones I didn't talk to, it is officially time to move on.

Monday, November 17, 2008

The Road Less Travelled - Holiday Edition

autumn leaves, brisk wind
a chilly breeze reminds you
the raptor draws near

I would first like to apologise, I forgot to inform you all I was going on a weeklong hiatus as I took a week's vacation from work, from computers, from life. Twas a grand time, and I fully recommend everyone do it, taking a week where you do absolutely nothing, just sit in the living room with either a cup of cocoa or some hardcore porn, and revel in the fact that not only are the kids at school, but that you have nothing to do. No errands to run, no reason to turn the computer on, just sit in a chair and go completely blank. Make sure like me you have a goodly spouse who will turn you at 4 hour intervals so that you do not get bed sores, and that they clean up your poopies.

ANyway, on to other things.

I turned 28, whoopie. I got my third stripe on my belt that happens to be black, which is pretty cool, but with that came something not so cool. We are trying to go more traditional, as some of the heathen children in my dojo have no respect for themselves, much less their elders, and so I have to deal with every time I enter the dojo going through the Sempai rule.

The Sempai rule sounds cool in theory. In Japan, the third degree blackbelt was the one who actually runs the classes within the dojo. The higher belt rank mainly handled money and other administrative tasks, and taught the black belts. As most of your teaching up to the rank of black belt came from the third degree black belt, or "Sempai", you showed them a great deal of respect, done by stopping whatever you were doing when they enter the dojo, turning to them, announcing their formal title and bowing profusely. THis would have been cool in the olden days, with adults and possibly children who are not poster children for Ritalin (I do not advocate Ritalin, but if I did... that's all I'm saying), but today, not so much.

I get to k-rat, and walk in the door scratching my balls like I usually do before I walk around shaking hands, and the kids all turn to look at my mid-scratch, parents as well, and giggle out "Hey Semper fi!" or some such crap before trying to hug me into submission. I swear I almost used my kung fu powers to kill them. Why do kids like me so much? I go out of my way to avoid them, and they somehow take that as me trying to mentor them or something, and it annoys the crap out of me. I mean, I like my kids, but that's because I am required to by state law I think.


So I am setting Thanksgiving up in true steveshaikus style, I asked Smeagol to come and then called my sister and assured her he would not be there, and also invited a few other people that wily raptor owes cold hard cash to. I think things will turn out really well.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

First, and I do not say this lightly, I have to comment on last night. I am a STAUNCH Obama supporter. I would let him put his finger inside me. Well maybe after a couple of cosmos, but you get the idea. The main reason besides his message made angels weep tears of happiness? McCain never said what his stances on anything were. He spent the whole time insulting Obama, which would have been funny but his insults were stupid.

Having said that, McCain's concession speech last night was quite possibly the most beautiful, eloquent, and seemingly heartfelt sincere thing I have ever heard. I saw not an old guy who was angry some punk negro was stealing his hubcaps/ election, but an old guy who loved his country deeply, as we all know he must since he helped build it. I am not in the least bit ashamed to say I watched it in it's entirety, and while I did not cry, I did stop masturbating to for a few seconds, as his words flowed like jisms down an especially moist back pussy after happy time hand reliefs.

Anyway, part II of the Richie Rich Saga.

So there I am, picking up McDonald's off the ground, and this asshat is rambling on about God knows what with no teeth I can't really understand his primitive but beautiful language, until I get everything bagged up and just walk away from him and into the house. I am standing inside, and it's strange, I can still hear that asshat! Amd I goin insane? I stick my finger in my rectum to make sure, and no, all is well. I wipe my finger on the dog and go back outside, and he is still standing in my driveway, facing my front door, talking away!

Let's start with a relatively short tale:

So RR had just moved in with his wife, Behemoth, known as such not for her huge hulking figure, but more for the amount of hair that sticks out of her shirt and armpits and chin. I had just gotten my black belt, and had just finished kicking the front door off of the hinges, which was terrible because to this day the door still doesn't work.

Anyway, later on my wife is telling the neighbors what I had done, and RR ambles over, gums on
full display. I give you, a moron. Observe:

"Yeah I used to take karate, I got kicked out of the school because I beat up my instructor, and he didn't want me taking over his class."

I kid you not. This moron said that while we all stood there. The silence, as we tried to take in his retardation, was palpable. Time to change the subject. I start talking about work at da Firm, and Greyskull's penchant for devouring kitten souls. At this point I still did not know about what a loser RR was, so I foolishly stopped long enough to take a break. Big mistake:

"I used to work in a warehouse and I made 70000 dollars a year. I got fired because the manager was afraid I would take his job and run the whole place", and with that, without asking if anyone else cared, he lit up a cigarette and blew breath that can best be described in a monologue, by Samuel Jackson:

"The shit was BAAAAD, muthafuckah!"

Thanks, Samuel, anyway, everyone kind of dispursed at that point, and I think that day RR fell in love with my wife a little bit, as that is the only explanation I can come up with for his bothering me more than anyone else in the area.

More tomorrow.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Movin' On up to da East Siiiide!

Corrugated shank
muffled yelps; some poop falls out
prison's a bad place

So we moved.

The time had finally come, this past weekend, to bid lovely Ferrelview, with it's trailer park of doom, high concentration of sex offenders and penchant for harassing anyone brave enough to risk passing the police at the speed limit, a final adieu and move on to greener pastures.

I remember it like it was about 3 weeks ago, when my lovely wife was, as is our usual configuration, sitting on the edge of the tub bothering me with her questions and idle chatter while I tried to take a shit. I specifically informed her, that "no matter what, the ONLY STIPU-FUCKIN-LATION I had was that we needed to either stay in the area we were in or move slightly West, as I was not willing to drive a whole lot farther to go to work. You can all see where this is going, and those of you lucky enough to know my wife (whether you worked with her or had the terrible misfortune of sitting opposite her at a Charlie Murphy comedy special (I still feel bad about that)) know that once she has her mind made up everything else is simply beeps and clicks; my most fervent arguments are simply tiny speedbumps on her journey to completely neuter me and somehow make me gay.

So instead of even bothering to look at the many very nice homes I found in Platte City, Gladstone, Leavenworth, Basehor, and Compton (I keep hearing good things about this corner called Florence and Normandy, great things), she said the only home she wanted was in Smithville. And I, being a sad, broken man, spent my weekend moving all manner of gay/heavy thing into this pink house. Fuck my life.

Actually, it is a pretty nice home, and was at first a rent-to-own, but is now (I think since I am black) a lease-with option to buy, where we lease for a year while they look for less Africanized tenants, presumably, and then We can buy the house. It is a nice 4 bed, 3 bath place that looks completely out of place for either me or my Escort of Flava. I do enjoy the 3 shitters though, it really increases the opportunities for me to toilet shop in my own home, which is nice.

Anyway, we are packing the U-Haul up, and over comes RR. RR is short for Richie Rich, and is as close to a white version of Smeagol as genetics would allow. He is about 30, has absolutely 0 teeth, is a failure in everything he does, and is so annoying my other neighbors pretend to not be home so as not to have to talk to him.

This damn loser is known to be competing for the coveted title of "Roach King", so called because of the awesomeness of the infestation at their abode.

RR is very close to being the complete winner, he only has to make that final push. He is not my neighbor, he lives across the street, but he has been seen with numerous roaches crawling around in his hair, in his shirt, his wife has been seen outside shaking clothes and carpets out, flinging huge, live, pregnant cockroaches toward the next door neighbors (who I like) and has been seen with them in her hair as well. Now I usually cannot complain, we had ants during the summer which are almost impossible to get rid of, but when you start fearing the ant population is going to go down because you know the raging hordes of roaches are now coming to your domicile, things get hairy.

Anyway, outside of these charming qualities, he is also the most annoying person on the planet, yes more annoying than Smeagol. I have a few stories on him, but this one is probably the sassiest. I had had a shitty day, what with having to work and all, and k-rat did not go well either, because Karawte Man was trying to do....something, I will not go so far as to say he was attempting anything even coming close to actual karate at that point, as all he was doing was attempting to punch, failing miserably, then asking what I would do if someone superglued my body to the ground and a volcano erupted under me while impending Nazi Panzer tanks fires shells directly into my anus and all of my limbs were gone due to an unfortunate smelting accident and blah blah blah.

I had just attained some delicious McDonald's, and was looking forward to watching some hokey kung fu films whilst my boys ate to try to lift my spirits.

It was a windy night, a detail you will want to keep in mind for later. I am getting my kids out of the car, and stupidly placed the bags on top that were holding my dinner. Well, a gust of wind finished out my bad karma for the night, and knocked my sandwiches, fries and drink all over the driveway, which my dog had shit on only minutes before. The kids' food was fine, as it was in happy meals. As I get down on my knees, yes forgetting the dog had shit and getting it on my fucking knee, RR moseys over, with his "so what's going on in your world" shit. RR is INCREDIBLY fucking nosey, and a gossip, just like smeagol. His wife is hideous, just like Smeagol's. He cheated on his wife, gave her STD's and left her when she had the kids, only moving in when she finally got a place of her own, which he ran into the ground in 2 weeks. Sound familiar?

So I am really not in the mood, and he is standing there rambling on about how he got fired from Subway because the manager was afraid of him because he worked so much faster than him, blah blah blah watching me and still rambling on like a leech attached to an asshole: getting fuller and fuller of shit by the second but unable to disengage.

Part fucking II tomorrow, or in like 6 months, you all know my track record by now.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

A Midsummer Nights Raptor

from the depths it came
Lands fall to plague before it
failure quells it's ire

Ah Fall, that special time of year. Like the Brown Bear it is a time when the Stevester's thoughts and dreams take on a tender, softer appearance, for the time of hibernation is near, the Baconator has sated his hunger, and the air is crisp with the sweet smell of apples and pumpkin spice.

It is a different story for a certain wily raptor.

I am moving. I signed the paperwork, I got a place in Smithville that overlooks a pretty good-sized fishing pond (though with my incessant fear of fish that selling point was totally wasted on me) and is right off the town square, the final sign that I am moving up in the world. In a time honored tradition carried by my family for generations, instead of calling professional movers or renting a truck, I had planned on simply getting a caravan of my family together, and having them help me move with the promises of money, and then as tradition dictates never pay them.

"I thought this post was about Smeagol, I'ma stop reading right now, baby" you might be saying to yourself, playing funk guitar and eating exotic cheeses while rigin a unicycle naked, but hear me out, I will get to that raptor soon enough.

I was wondering if I should invite that raptor along to help move. I know he would feel offended if he was not asked, which once he finds out I live closer to him might lead to even more thefts when he comes over, but the inital amount of stuff that would "disappear" during the move is going to be a big hit as well... .

Smeagol has a long history of stealing things or begging you into oblivion during moving. He is no longer allowed to help my aunt move as he stole stuff like soda and PS2 games from our 4 and 5 year old nephews (this is an allegation until I receive proof, but it IS kinda strange that he came up with some sweet new games that he claimed he "got from a pawn shop" soon thereafter. I know for a fact that when Smeagol enters a pawn shop they move right for the register because he only has one kind of business in a pawn shop and purchasing things is not it.

Of course he is not allowed to help my sister move, and I do not think my mom would allow him to help, either.

Another reason is he has the strength of an ape.....action figure from a GI Joe toy set. Remember when I told you he needed to put 2 pairs of socks on each hand and needed mover assist for tiny boxes?

On the other hand, Smeagol does have his strengths.If he has the idea that he can get more from you by not stealing, he will make sure everything you wanted to make the transition to your new home makes it there, with his raptor eyes of carnage. He will also tattle tale on anyone else who dares steal, even if he ends up stealing it soon thereafter. I dunno... should a brown bear trust a raptor? This is unprecedented.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Smeagol, from the Ethiopian Raptorsmeagolis

booty ass OT
is a bitch motherfucker
but where's the Prelude?

So I get a call from JJ on Friday, while I was busy not posting to my blog, and he related this fantastical tale that I thought I might share.

Apparently Smeagol's happily ever after with his Prelude of Justice was short lived. Kudos to the one who can remember when he actually bought the Prelude, I think it was like 3 weeks ago but I could be wrong. Anyway, Smeagol shows up at my mom's house....on the Metro. As you should all know, the Metro is full of homeless people, winos and hookers. Smeagol hates homeless people, and winos. The hookers are fine. But knowing that Smeagol hates the unfortunate so much, him riding the bus means something drastic had happened.

Had the authorities found out his temp tag that doesn't expire for 3 years was a fake?
Had he been in another hit and run?

Did he fall asleep and someone took his car and maybe stick a carrot in his asshole to stem the flow of funk?

Apparently not. JJ watched with interest as Smeagol hobbled up to the house, moaning in either sadness or ecstacy, you can never tell with him.

"Heeeeyyyy niiggie," he cawed, "can you give me a ride home? Mmmmmmmmm...."

Smeagol went on to inform JJ that his car had run out of gas and a tail light had gone out. The fact that for just a tiny bit more than he had spent on the bus and what he should be giving JJ to make a 40 mile round trip in a car that only gets 15 MPG he could remedy those issues was apparently lost on that wily raptor. He informed JJ that he could finish what he was doing and that he would go in and fill his toilet and catch a quick snooze, which meant he had planned on taking a raptor dump and then stripping down to his thong and laying spread eagle on the couch, but we all know that by now.

And so JJ, who had his girl coming over later, drove Smeagol all the way home for the sum of 3 dollarinos. QUestions at this point abound. What was Smeagol doing south of the river when he worked only 3 blocks from his house? Why did he not have JJ help him push his car either home (as it was not there when they got there) or to the gas station like any normal person would have done? Where did the three dollars come from? Why did I wake up with a nasty itch and a burning sensation in my trousers? All good questions that must be answered.

I'm sure you all have theories, and I'm sure most if not all of them have something to do with the local constabulary corps, and I will try to find out; the problem is Smeagol is incredibly unreliable, as should be referenced by him being fired numerous times from his old nursing home job for various reasons, including my favorite, taking his doberman pinscher and allowing her to bite people. It probably was nowhere near as dramatic as you are picturing, but I like to picture Smeagol, wearing a cowboy hat much too small for him, curled up like a cockroach on the floor in the corner while the dog drags some terrified old lady by... great things.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Smeagol Race, pt II

santa caligon
Mullets are gifts from Heaven
I cry with passion

Smeagol's Races pt. II

OK, SO I posted part I of Smeagol's magical race history, and now here is part 2 in the 43 part series (I am exaggerating).

The Hit and Run

I know I spoke about the last hit and run Smeagol had in the Bronco, but did I tell you there were 2 of these incidents?! I didn't? Well sit back and enjoy, my friends!

Twas a magical August day, magical because it was one of the few that I had nothing to do, which is a rarity in my life. ON an aside, I ALWAYS have a ton of crap to do. When I was in high school, I went to school, played football, and worked in the evenings. When I got out of school (read: dropped out) I worked in the evening and went to school in the mornings. Now I work and go to karate and try to keep a certain wily raptor from stealing things from my house. I'll be glad when I am dead, I'll finally get some damn sleep.

Anyhoo, like I said, I was laying around in the living room, after the incident where I threw a hatchet through a glass table and accidentally left Bagheera's cage open while the rabbits were out I figured doing things would lead to more trouble (I dunno if I will post on that magical day, cocaine's a helluva drug), and Smeagol comes walking in the door in an elevated state of failure. Now it was strange, because I did not hear his Bronco pull up, which I should have because we did not have any of those pesky windows to block out the noises/bugs/squirrels/urine streams that constantly barraged our home, especially after our neighbor's drunken brother held us hostage that fateful night for 5 dollars and then pissed on our car (I will try to get to that, great times).

Apparently, Smeagol was attempting to race his 1985 Chevrolet Blazer against someone who was driving a 1996 Pontiac Trans Am. This was usual, Smeagol didn't usually let things like overwhelming odds or the local authorities to mar his fun, and this was to be no different. As we all expect, He was blown out of the water, as I am pretty sure the gentleman driving the Trans Am never even knew he was racing a wily raptor, and was trying to catch up.

That was mistake number one.

Smeagol runs red lights when he is racing, his favorite quote is that if they are more than 10 feet off of the ground they are optional, which really annoys me because every time he says that Mystery goes "really?" WHich causes him to launch into a retarded diatribe about how it is illegal to stop someone who runs red lights and I don't feel like getting into it.

Anyway, so Smeagol runs a red light and runs right into a hapless gentleman driving an old Buick. At this point, you or I would stop the car, get out and make sure everyone is alright, exchange insurance information and wait for the authorities to obtain a police report. Well, Smeagol has 1) never attained insurance for longer than it takes to get his car legal,2) has not gotten a car legal since he got the new updated Missouri tag,3) would never wait around long enough for the local authorities to show up as they would arrest him even if he was only an innocent bystander, so Smeagol did what any responsible raptor would do: he fleed the scene, leaving behind a little of his headlight, his front plate, and some of his thong.

Such genious deserves recognition, but it doesn't end there! Instead of parking in the driveway, Smeagol came upon the bright idea that he could park his clearly damaged blazer across the street from his house, in plain sight of said house and now on a busy street, and no one would be the wiser. The knock on the door a few hours later told us this plan had some flaws. On an aside, why would Mystery answer the door, with Smeagol in plain view, I mean PLAIN view, as he is lounging on the couch allowing his saggy balls to take the breeze, and with a straight face tell the authorities that that crazy raptor is not there? The sheer idiocy of such a statement would give the best of us pause, and probably almost baffled the police into not believing their own eyes.

I will try to post later on today, but the next month or so will be hectic as I am actually working, it totally sucks.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

The Race, Pt. II

you see the debate?
yeah, I was watching porn too
fistersister rules!

...will be tomorrow's post, I promise. I was watching last night's debate, and realized how futile John McCain seems. If you are a McCain supporter, you may want to navigate away. I finally wrote to the rudepundit.

If you do not know who the rudepundit is, check this out. Fantastic, no? I started reading it about 3 years ago when the website closed, and it is very readable. In closing, here is the email I sent, hope you enjoy:

OK, I've had it. Last night, I watched as an old, completely out of touch with anything newer than the Manhattan Project old geezer was outwitted, out matched, and outclassed. And once the moderater finished doing all of those things, Senator Obama hit him even worse.

But the true, frothy outrage came when I was watching the "analysis", and by "analysis" I mean "retarded meanderings of the diahrretic bowels of whatever sacks of shit they could find that had not already said the exact same thing". I listened, shocked and dumbfounded, as they claimed Obama spent much of the debate "backpeddling". WTF?! I mean no, seriously, What. The. Fuck. Did they not watch the same debate I did? Because what I saw can best be described in this mini skit I am going to make up. Here, for shits and giggles you pick a role, let a friend be another, and hire an old emphasymic (I know I spelled it wrong, fuckin' sue me) hooker to play McCain! It'll be fun!

o = Obama m = Moderator j = McCain

m = Senator Obama, what is your stance on economic policy?
o = Well thank you, Bob, I believe we need to blah blah blah, I would like to reach across the-
j = Senator Obama is a raging pedophile.
[stunned silence]
m (while looking at McCain, who said that with a straight face) = Uh...OK. And to you again, Mr. Obama, what do you think is the most pressing issue for Americans today?
o = Well, I think the most pressing issue is the economy, with high gas prices and education coming up as close respective seconds and thirds. If I am given the honor of bein-
j = Senator Obama was the third gunman on the grassy knoll.
[slightly less stunned silence. Someone in the audience nervously clears his throat]
m = Uh....alright. Senator McCain, what would you do to pull us out of our current economic downfall?
j = When I was a young boy, I dreamed of being an orange. Of flying through the air, and saving children and curing disease. Senator Obama raped a dog yesterday, and lathered his cock in it's bloody shit before sticking it in a leukemia pationt's mouth as he slept.
m [after a few seconds staring in disbelief at this old woman] = Senator Obama, your rebuttal?
o [also looking at McCain, who has started undressing at the podium] = Uh...I would....uh...I would start by giving middle class Ameri-
j (dancing around like a drunken leprechaun) = Shit leg turkey fuck bunghole petunia! Shit leg turkey fuck bunghole petunia!
[in the audience, some of the lower IQ'd people start believing him, and are looking at Obama with a mixture of contempt and embarrassment]
o = While I have no idea what he is doing right now, I would like to point out that I agree with Senator McCain on some issues, such as bailouts and trying to reform the education of our young children. One of the ways I can make this work better is -
j = Barack Obama's mother introduced AIDS to America.
o = No, she did not.
j = You're a pedophile.
m = Let's switch gea-
j (Looking at Obama with idiocy in his eyes) = You're a pedophile.
o = No I'm not. Can we talk about the iss-
j = You're a pedophile.
etc., etc., ad nauseum

It is at this time, gentle reader, that some of the, how shall I put it diplomatically, more impressionable constituents watching this debate began believing Barack Obama was a Muslim Arab Pedophile Terrorist, and began frothing at the mouth in retarded anger, jiggling pockets of fat covering red-sore laden vaginas or long flaccid demi-cocks, mouths turning into tributaries of anger, with crows feet accentuating extra jowls as they wonder when the Arabimaniacs are going to burst through the door, lift up the huge layer of fat and violate them. If someone calls you a pedophile 10 times in a row, you have to realize that there are people out there stupid enough they will believe it, much as they believed Saddam Hussein was one of the original 20 who attacked America on 9/11. As much as it hurts you to dignify such a response, you have to dignify it with a response, or the frothing masses will have your head over it. When did Joe Sixpack become so fucking stupid?!

It's sad, frankly, that our political climate has devolved to this point. I know, I know, I promised I would not get all political but sometimes you got to.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Hole-EE SHeeeeit!

A gentle kiss comes
but our love, it's just so wrong?
Wii-ner Fit, indeed

Alright ya'll, there's too much for me to get all this in one post so I will have to split this all up. I took my mom to the Rennaissance Festival, that will be one post. Today though, I must get into more pressing issues.

Another thing, Smeagol called tonight. It is enough for a whole new post, but you will have to wait.

Tylester got back today, and apparently his handshake unprotected with Smeagol finally took it's toll on his frail body like a marauding rebel force. You all remember The Tylester touched Smeagol's claw, which had previously probably been ensconced in his thong or a random resident's anus. You will also note The TYlester was out sick all week last week. Apparently he went to the doctor, who proclaimed his liver was suffering. This should come as no shock, especially when they drew blood and it was 140 proof and the nurse was sued by Pabst Blue Ribbon for copyright infringement for not turning said blood over to them, as it is actually used to hold the recipe for their, actually not so bad beer.

Anyway, the doctor says something is wrong with Tylester's liver, and orders some tests to be done, among them hepatitis, all of which he.....failed. The doctor now has no idea what is wrong with the Tylester's liver, but you, my intrepid readers, do. ANd so we must all work together, to come up with a cure for Raptoroptomy, as it is infectious. Trust me, I know. Simply walking by him can cause credit card failure, low gas mileage, and a failure to produce sperm. Help me.

On another front, do you all remember the Lillian Ray stories? No? Fuck you then punk! I worked hard on those scams. Anyway, I get an email out of the blue from some guy in SLovakia, named Salsito. Apparently Lillian Ray was sending him emails and one of the return emails in her little email list was mine. He asked what I knew about her, and friends, I think I have a new partner in my scambaiting operation. I will post some of this gentleman's excellent work in the coming days, please give him the same love you give me: that is, completely platonic, with the occasional awkward copped feel.

Thank you

Monday, October 13, 2008


We will have to meet up later this week, Tylester has been sick this past week and Smeagol is working at his "Second" job today.... I'll let you know, I think Smeagol has Wednesdays off...

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Alien Retard

Ligget, don't stigget
You can sugget, don't fuckit!
Youuuuuuu liiiiiggggeeeett damn Steve!

So it was that your friend Stevester was getting tired of living under Toboggan Boy's reign. Janet was getting crazier and crazier, pulling her hair back tighter and tighter, and she always made this weird noise with her mouth, this inhalation of snot and a popping sound like she was trying to swallow a load, which she might have been I dunno. Alphabet drug dealers came by more and more frequently, V, J, K, ~, and we were forced to go to the store and purchase food for them, while we ate our daily rations of a cinnamon roll and/ or an egg sandwich. FuuuCK!

Toboggan BOy had not taken his fateful ride down the front steps yet, but he was getting more and more annoying as he became more and more cracked out of his mind, coming home and walking around the house, all wide eyed looking for stuff, always telling JJ and I that he was a foolish man, that with love and support he would change his life and move up in this world, then immediately heading up to the Enterprise, which is what I will now call his bedroom. It's pretty sad that at this time moving in with Smeagol seemed like a good idea, and in retrospect I may have been better off simply getting addicted to drugs. Dad had just told me in lieu of getting me new school clothes and trying to pull myself out of the quagmire he had placed us in, he was planning on buying me a little bit of every kind of drug he could find, letting me sample them, and seeing which one I wanted to become addicted to, showing why he was still in the races for "Parent of the Year".

Smeagol was in the middle of a custody battle for his kids, who are both bigger than he is and probably completely successful now, and had just introduced me to Mystery, or rather her photo, which I erroneously thought was a friggin dude. I enjoy reminiscing about the olden times, but this story is about the last time I showed any emotion, other than my o face which strangely enough I use more often when taking a big dump.

Even though we had moved and I was no longer in school, my girlfriend at the time was still with me, why I still don't know, since she routinely told me at that time that she was too attractive to be with the likes of me, and before I realized ladies love fat black guys I assumed she was right. I needed to devise a plan to get back in school North of the River and thus things would magically get back to normal. This would take some finagling the likes of which I have never tried before, observe:

!) Grandma: In order to go to school north of the river, I had to have an address up North there. THe only person I knew who lived anywhere near the school was my grandmother. I foolishly asked Smeagol to run me up there, not knowing she was already well versed in turning raptors down, and that he had been up there recently begging for money to buy another wrestling jersey, which I thnk he used to hide the fact that he had no muscles.

We get up there, and before I can even say anything, start putting the moves on her, Smeagol starts in with his stupid "You can't say no, niggie!" whining about how he needs money to pay his car payment, causing her jowls to sag with annoyance. Fucklick! I cut in on his sales pitch to inform her that I too wanted something from her but it was nothing monetary, causing her to quit paying attention to the raptor sitting there, letting his thong scent taint her couch (I went up there like 5 months later and there was a different couch there, coincidence? I think not).

"I just need to use your address so I can go to a good school, I will drive myself to and from school every day, I just need an address in the Northland." I said hopefully, thinking if I went the education route I would get a better response. I had forgotten she hates niggers though, so her response, in hindsight, should not have surprised me: "Well, I can't tell a lie' - wait WTF?! THis hoe ain't George Washington! I was told by my dad that my grandpa is actually my grandpa's brother, who she started banging behind his back, and NOW she has values??!?!
'because that's not who I am, I know your dad will get you into a good school." For the record, to flesh out her retardedness or pigheadedness, she, to this day, thinks my dad has smoked 1 marijuana cigarette in his lifetime. I am still not sure what she thinks that while film around his lips, the burn marks on his fingers or his random outbursts of "Nigga I want some crack!" mean (I kid about that last one, but if you have seen my dad, picture him saying that in a Tyrone Biggums voice. If you do not know who Tyrone Biggums is, kill yourself)

Later: Part 2, where I go live with a buddy of mine and somehow ruin a friendship, also with my confrontation with Toboggan Boy in full effect ya'll!

PS - It has come to my attention that there are approximately 10 stories I have started but not finished, let me know which ones you want to hear finished and I will work on those first

Tuesday, October 7, 2008


I'm a foolish man

take that cigarette from me

and hug the bad out

Random Question #4 - What asshat decided work should start so damn early in the morning? I mean seriously, why can't work start whenever I get up? Fuck I hate having to wake up in the morning!

Anyhoo, no one cares about my inability to wake up on time for work, let's get down to business!

.......and so Stevester fell into a rut, coming into work, taking phone calls and fixing things Flanders was always too busy to work on himself, listening to Max, Derka and Jason all laughing, joking around and having a good time, always under threat of seeing under Greyskull's leather skirt or being called into her lair, dank with the smells of incompetence and failure, though not all that unfamiliar after living with Smeagol all these years (did I tell you he used to mow his front lawn with no shirt on and a scythe?), which may explain why I spent all my time there.

Yes it was a sad time, what with my mom telling me she caught Toboggan Boy in the basement smoking rocks, hiding in the corner behind the clothes dryer. At what point do you realize that something like that is no longer cool, when you cannot look your kid in the eye when they ask if you ever sucked a cock to smoke rocks? Or is it when you have to hide in Smeagol's lair, a dank basement in the ghetto in order to enjoy the crack rocks?

Anyway, I was just getting back from my trip to Omaha, the fun I had staying at the Howard Johnson Hotel (more on that later), sitting in a closet on a milk crate for 3 days (really) and working my ass off trying not to laugh at the managing partner's VERY fake toupee, and the guys (and gal) had decorated my cube, welcoming me back, something I sorely needed. Apparently, even though this was not my fault, it was the last straw with Greyskull and her counterpart, the strangely wigged Skeletor. I was immediately called into her lair, which made me sad because I could not enjoy the decorations, and annoyed. It would take all the power my diploma in communications had to get out of this one, and even that might not be enough.

I mosey in, and sit in my default way, leaned back as far as humanly possible with my arms crossed and trying as desperately as possible to roll my eyes the entire time.

The meeting started with Greyskull telling me the usual filler crap, 'You're a good tech but you lack de social skills', blah blah blah, the only difference is Skeletor was sitting right beside me, not looking at me at all. This was most troubling, Batfriends!

"I would like to say that I am a little annoyed by your desk this morning' what the fuck does that have to do with me?! I could understand if like a loser (or Flanders) I had decorated it myself, but I didn't!

"It seems you are in your own little click, you only talk to a few certain people and you completely ignore others' - meaning Flanders and Santa - 'and frankly I'm sick of it. You will start getting along with everyone here, you will respond when someone says something to you, and keep your negativity and bad attitude to yourself"... so par for the course as far as manager's meetings go, so why is George Washington here?

"Skeletor also spoke to me about your subpar performance in Omaha, and I think this is going to warrant a little more than a talking- to"... WTF?!

It is at this point Skeletor starts with her (his?) whining about my bad attitude and unwillingness to work with other people, telling me and Greyskull about how she said 'Good Morning' to me and I just grunted and ignored her (I did), how I walked by her in the hallway and completely ignored her when she said something to me (I did) and how I seem to be going out of my way to make her feel uneasy around me (I did not). Sad part is, since I was acting all of this out in realtime in the office I was not in a position to negate said argument, and so simply sat there looking at the wall clock, wondering when this old man was going to shut up so I could go back to listening to Journey.

Finally, I heard silence, and realized they were expectantly looking at me, as if I was supposed to say something. "What?" I asked politely, and Greyskull blew a fuse. "That's what I'm talking about. Your attitude brings this whole helpdesk down, you make everyone around you feel uneasy as if they have to walk on eggshells around you, and I'm sick of it. I want you to read this and sign it, and turn your demeanor around TODAY or you will be looking for employment elsewhere." And with that, she gave me my first write up, a 2 page document that I was proud to say I had earned with my own blood, sweat and tears, and her and Skeletor made out loudly whilst I gazed upon it's beauty, imagining Greyskull frothing wildly at the mouth while pounding away on a tiny keyboard, Santa crying softly in the corner as he tries desperately to adjust his bondage gear, knowing she would only put the ballgag back and the chaps would be retightened upon her return.

More tomorrow.

Friday, October 3, 2008

Cannonball Run

A lone quandary
I wash my ass, then my face
why?! Why'd I do that?

So Smeagol has been telling JJ he is pretty sure his hot rod 1992 Honda Prelude could smoke my 1989 High Output (meaning 108 horsepower instead of the wimpy 86 on stock) Ford Escort, with the super smooth 5 speed manual transmission and lack of bolts holding the front end together. This is going to be some real fun, but I figured I would take you on a short trip through some of his past races and prove why I think he has no chance.

Race #1: Smeagol - 1992 Pontiac Grand Am Opponent - 1986 Mustang Dominator
This race, as many others, was completely impromptu, and doomed from the beginning. As you all know, the 1992 Pontiac Grand Am was a weak 6 cylinder 135 HP engine, versus the HO 5.0 supercharged 350+ engine the Mustang Dominator, with it's dual glasspack exhaust, which could beat a stock Corvette.

The Story: so we were, as usual, about 20 minutes late leaving for work, as Smeagol was taking one of his usual shaving cream baths and fell asleep having a tinkle, and damned if I am going to go in there and try to wake his nasty ass up (Mystery never flushed, so there were always flies and shit in the bathroom, and the piss in the toilet had like this nasty ass film over it. Pretty nasty, I remember cleaning that toilet out before company came over). We were cruising up I-29 North, and were just going over Parvin Road, when this Mustang Dominator zooms by, easily doing 100 (with the speed limit being 55, Smeagol would regularly drive 80). Smeagol got into race mode.

Race mode, if I have not gone into this before, is when Smeagol starts gyrating in his seat like a meth addict, saying over and over "aaaawwwwwwwshiiiiiiiit niggie, it's on now, it's on now... whoooooooeeeeeeessssshhhhhiiiiiiiittttt" and starts flattening his perm on the sides with his outstretched hands. He then puts one outstretched hand (he never closes his hands, is what I am trying to get at) on the shifter, which I am not sure why because it is a fucking automatic, and places his other raptor claw on the wheel at 12 o'clock, I guess ignoring the fact that he does not possess the strength to turn the wheel with only one hand.

So there he is, hair all in disarray, car smelling like activator, thong and shaving cream, and he stomps on the gas, let's imagine (even though he was still saying the above phrase) that he said "I'm a guy!" as if only to convince himself.

Instead of responding positively to the stomping of a raptor on it's accelerator, we all know by now failure refused to let that happen, and he ended up blowing a seal or the head gasket. There was a loud popping sound, and smoke billowed out from under the hood. "Awwww shiit niggie, I almost had that bish muhfugger" Smeagol said happily, ignoring the fact that he had only made 5 payments on this car and now no longer had a car. And no, we got nowhere near close to outrunning that car, as they had gotten off on the exit before us, so in essence Smeagol was racing them as they slowed to stop at the stoplight.

Epilogue: Smeagol called the car dealership, told them "Hey niggie your car broke down, I'm not paying for it, come get it stupid!" Thus getting another hit on his credit, which is why he has to call at least 10 used car dealers before he can find one sleazy enough to deal with him now... what a class act.

Monday: I go into the second of three races: The Blazer. This one ended in a hit and run by our wily raptor, which has still not been solved. Don't tell the authorities!

Thursday, October 2, 2008


I may or may not have noticed that today's post was a little nast, even for me and is probably more than you wanted to know about me, so my bad. Anyway, Smeagol has been talking trash on the Escort, saying he could beat my car with his "totally not stock, niggie" 1992 Honda Prelude with 48432083905890432890489305712032184031253.4 miles on it. Should I skool this young raptor? I will need to borrow a video camera to catch the festivities, does anyone have one I can borrow?

Please vote, it's the only way I can learn...

A History of SexyTime

swollen hemorrhoid
flowered pinwheel now beckons
the fuck am I say'n?

When we left off, I was about to tell you all about the night my neighbor's 18 year old wildebeest aunt touched my naughty place. Let's resume, shall we?

Anyhoo, the day started out normal enough, I hopped on my supafly gold peregrine dirt bike (with the mismatched mongoose handlebars, totally boss!) and moseyed down to my friend's house with JJ in tow on his brand spankin' new TMNT dirt bike with the handlebars that you could rest your legs on while you ride, totally keen son! Anyway, we all met up at Matthew's house, (if you will remember he is the kid that let our dog hump him) and were trying to decide on what to do on such a wonderful day. It was finally decided that we would start by racing to another friends house down this huge hill and around the corner, get some Koolaid, and then try to catch another glimpse of one of our friend's 13 year old sister changing, as she did not have shades and did actually have tiny breasts.

JJ was already on his bike and flying down the hill, singing "Koolaid Koolaid I'm gonna wiiii-" when it happened. You see, at the corner was a stop sign. and parked at said stop sign was an RV. Yes this is illegal, but also understand this is Northeast Kansas City, so not only did no one care about no stinkin laws, no one spoke English anyway. Get a good picture of the RV and the house on the corner obscuring anything coming down that street. Got it? Good, let's move on.

JJ was screaming down the street, intent on flying around said RV and winning the race to get to the delicious Koolaid we all craved. As he rounded the corner, though, this is not what happened. Apparently 2 old ladies in a late 70s Cadillac Coupe Deville had decided to take this very street on this most unfortunate day. Since said RV was blocking the stop sign, they never even saw it, and went hurtling through the intersection at a breakneck pace of about 10 miles an hour, completely decimating JJ's bike and introducing him to the world of a stuntman as he flipped like a ragdoll over the top of the car and onto the pavement.

We stood there, shocked. Was he dead? As if in answer we heard him cry out "I'm dead! I'm deaaaaaad!" as the little old ladies finished mangling his poor brand new bike and got out to see what this heathen negro was whining about after sullying their while caddy with his smelly body.

Anyway, more on that later. As JJ was at the hospital, Mom decided to get rid of me for the night too and suggested I stay the night over at the neighbor's house. No not our immediate neighbor, though I am sure someone over there would have loved that; no, I was to sleep across the street.

So I went over there, and noticed as I was setting up my sleeping bag in the piss-smelling room my friend shared with his little brother, looking in disgust and a little pride at the huge urine stains on the underside of the little fella's bed, that Amber was staring at me shyly from her room, the door cracked just enough for me to see her unibrow and that she was not wearing a top. Awkward! I finished setting up and went to find Chet (that's what I'll call the neighbor boy, I only call one person on this blog by his real name) to see about playing lazer tag.

All went well until the parents left later on that evening, and Amber was making it apparent she wanted some of 12 year old Stevester's shaft inside her smelly love hole. She conveyed this by offering to play a game with us in which she would lay on the floor on her stomach, and Chet and I would take turns sneaking up on her and trying to mount her from behind. I noted with some chagrin that though she bucked Chet off like a wildebeest bucking a potential mate, she was opening her legs a little wider for the Stevester. This was making me feel strange, not unlike I felt when I was 5 or 6 and mounting my babysitter, but this chick was ugly. I am ashamed to say, you all, that that did not stop me. I can't even use the excuse Smeagol uses for marrying his wife, that "I was drunk off my ass niggie!"

It was about 10 o'clock, and for some reason instead of bunking in the room we originally planned to, the urine smell forced us out and into the living room. So there we were, telling dirty jokes and giggling like schoolgirls (which is actually how I fall asleep now, ask my wife) and Amber sneaks down. She informs us that she was going to let us both have her, but wanted to show me something first. Whatevs, son, whatevs, I follow her to the laundry room, where she turns and lifts up her nightdress to reveal her hairy snooter. Sadly, just like with my babysitter, this excited the Stevester, and she noticed my throbbing tiny wiener underneath my superman 2-sizes-too-small sweatpants. She smiled and walked back toward the living room, and I am more ashamed to say I followed.

Chet, and this is disgusting because he was her nephew, went right for the butt, plunging his little wiener in her shit hole over and over, which was kinda grossing me out. There was no way I was gonna go for her vag and risk touching cocks or balls with that nasty motherfucker, so I informed her I wanted her to suck the schlong. Well I will not go into details, but after that particular evening ended, I went back home, feeling like I would assume anyone would waking up next to some hideous beast, with what looks like jizz all over her mouth and a smile on her face, ugh....

Anyway, I figured I was off the hook, as she was going home to Oklahoma (to be on the range, I am guessing) and I would not see her again because Chet's family was moving to Harrisonville. I was partially right. About a week after she left, I got a letter from her. I should have thrown it in the trash, but what can I say? The Stevester ego would not allow me to pass up hearing how I satisfied another lady.

"Dear Stevester,

I just wanted to tell you how I felt. Sometimes I sit on the wall in front of the house and look through your window, and I cry because I want you so much (ugh). I loved having your dick in my mouth (ugh), and would like you to put it in other places the next time I come by. I have a car now, if I came up would you run away and come live with me in Oklahoma?


OK there was other stuff in the letter, about how just thinking about me turned her on, blah blah blah, friggin gross. I had planned on throwing the letter away, and of course never seeing her again, but she DID send along a NKOTB poster, so I kept that and let JJ read the note, in which I think he lost all respect for me, as she was quite hideous.

Shit but at least I didn't get hit by a fuggin Cadillac! LOL I mean am I right?! *crickets*

Screw you, judgemental jerks! I was 12! Any one of you would have mounted her and bragged about it over a Lunchable at school, just as I did!

Sorry about that outburst, you know I only hit you cause I love ya!

More later.