Friday, March 28, 2008

Space Boots

A terrible scream,
the cloak of failure beckons
you must not succumb!

Space boots.

So the time finally came when I had to buy my own school clothings. I had enrollified at Northeast, the school of champions (if by "champions", you mean "drug dealers"), and walked onto the football team, which was not all that hard since there were only 26 total football players; coach would have gladly taken homeless people and meth addicts to fill his ranks. It was at football practice I met Antonio, who ended up being one of my best friends at that dump. He lived a few blocks away from me, and we drove to and from school every day I bothered to get up in time to go.

Anyway, back to the clothings. Smeagol made it obvious he had no intention of helping me purchase any of the stuff I needed for school, being jealous that I had made it farther in school than he did (he was an 8th grade alumni from Westport) and being a money hungry raptor was not known for his generosity. "That's your problem niggie! I don't have time to be helping you out; I need to get a new engine for my remote control car!" Smeagol said as someone shut our gas off outside the window that needed to be replaced because Mystery's inner queefjuice had turned it a crusty yellow and then obliterated it much as the German Panzer tanks did in the Blitzkrieg of 1939. I kid you not, they claim it was because our great uncle did not do proper maintenance on the house, but the window did not turn yellow and break until Mystery and Smeagol started sitting right beside it every day, and that is too much for a coincidence.

So I took a field trip down to the Landing, a beautiful vista of shops and eateries in beautiful South Kansas City, across the street from Cash America Pawn, 2 bail bond places, and a liquor store next to a school. I moseyed into Harold Pener's and spent my vast wealth of 80 dollars on what I assumed was the flyest gear this side of the Mississippi. I would soon find out why shirts and other accessories were so cheap there.

At school, I wore this pair of grey on darker grey Lugz, that admittedly did not look as cool as I thought but were in my price range (I think they were 20 dollars) and not Prowings so I bought them. Antonio saw them and remarked that they looked like gay ass space boots. I informed him that he was gay and if he did not like my boots he could jump out of a moving car again.

This is a long lead up but this is the good part of the story. When we left football, I was usually too lazy to change back into my school clothes and just wore football clothes home. We tool 71 highway home from 31st street, because it was not finished at that time, and every day as we would turn left on 31st street to get onto the highway Antonio would yell out insults and throw glass bottles, school books and various other things at some hoodlums who stood on the corner every day at that time, telling them things like "Get a role model, BIIIIIIITCH!" or even funnier "Me, your mom, and a brewski BIIIIIIIITCH!"

On this particular day, Antonio was out of schoolbooks to throw at these young lads, and had already lost 2 pairs of his shoes from throwing them at people as we drove by. I was quietly confident he would have to simply hurl insults on this day when he lit upon an idea I cannot in good conscience say I agree with. He grabbed my Lugz, informed me that since they were "space boots" that they would probably knock the ruffians out, and leaned out the window to launch them.

Well for a week or so up to that time I had had some trouble with my car, with it dying at random times and the like. This was one of those times, and as the boot left his hand, Antonio yelling out "Eat that BiiIiIIiIII-" The car cut out. He turned and looked at the wheel and the speedometer as the car gently rolled to a stop 50 feet short of the onramp to the highway. The ruffians noticed out predicament and started moseying over, presumably to help get the car started; nevertheless, Antonio was less than happy about the current change of events.

"Bitch that ain't funny start the car! Your mom has scabies on her cheeks (?) start the car you fuckin' fag!" I finally got the car into gear and peeled out in time to spray a fine mixture of shitwater and rain and mud onto the closest ruffian, who was taken aback and soaked all over his white sweatshirt, good times.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

My how times have changed....crack edition

A stomach grumbles
a sphincter opens up wide
and stress drifts away

I know for those of you who gause your own home lives by saying, time and time again, "well at least my family is better than the Stevester's..." that any hint of someone pulling themselves from the deep void many in my family have dug themselves is a sad story indeed. So I know it was received with sadness and gentle crying while you masturbated in your beds when I informed you all that he no longer smokes crack rock/ crack rock dealer's penis. I have no proof he ever smoked any penis, but come on we never got a decent answer out of him, much like Smeagol.

Today's story is also heresy, I got this second hand from JJ, but still I have no reason to doubt it's veracity. I was over at my parents home when Toboggan Boy was very deep in the throes of cracketry, just looking upon the dump that they lived in (there was a hole in the ceiling in the dining room that went right up through the floor in front of the toilet, so you could see if someone was trying to smoke crack without you, the fiends!) and wondering how I could be doing so much better making 10.57 an hour at gateway and supporting 2 (at that time) kids as well as a wife, and my mom, dad and JJ all had jobs and yet were constantly broke, when I saw it.

I assumed at first it was a joke, but it was a clue strap on dildo, resting stinkilly on the couch. JJ noticed and made this face like he was as disgusted as me and informed me that Mom used this on Dad once, completely dominating his quivering sphincter in ways that previously had only been known in gay porn and many of our nation's correctional institutions. He also informed me that he had found it in the car I had only recently sold to them, which somehow made things worse...or hot, depending on how you think of my fat dad, with that come hither look in his eye, tight burgundy boxers glistening with his sweat, for some reason Smeagol in the background, munching on a raw fish... Long John cheering them on while I sit nearby.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

...and that's all I got to say about that

The move, circa 1997

Ode to PBR,
Your price, amazing, the taste
well at least it's cheap

So that fateful day came when Smeagol came by and asked me to undertake what would be the most dangerous mission I had ever handled: to move in with him into the house my great uncle and great aunt had died in a few months prior. Smeagol was happy at his good fortune, as we did not have to pay rent and he never bothered to pay back taxes or the mortgage, because that is not how Smeagol rolls yall. We threw out my uncle's crap, including a transsexual magazine and one called Split hairy beaver, and also some magazines in the same box with Hulk Hogan in them (Don't ask, I didn't) and settled in.

After the initial scare with the police helicopter coming by because I was throwing bowling balls through televisions (if I haven't told that story I probably never will) we got to work on the home, much like on HGTV but with more drivebys and loud rap musics coming from all around, and people walking into our house and taking stuff while we were in other rooms. Great success!

I got the job at Burger King, and although I was a year older than the rest of the juniors, enrolled in school at Westport, only to play football and then show up sporadically the rest of the year in order to try to get tang from the ladies, which I never did because all women want hardcore thugalicious guys and it is hard to be a thug when you are a fat black guy who knows no ebonics and wears glasses, not to mention tight shirts with the company name of where your dad works on them because you are too much of a loser to afford Fubu or even the knockoff Phubu clothings...

Smeagol relished being a complete douche, telling me whenever I missed the bus "you better get to hoofin' niggie" while lounging on the couch after calling in raptor at work. I soon found out while it was better living with Smeagol because if he talked too much smack I could best him in both physical and intellectual combat, things were still not as I would have liked them. Mystery was a complete buttfucking moron, hiding food from me, or trying to, I would see her scrunched up on the couch in plain sight, looking at me from the corner of her eye as she tried to eat a cookie from the sleeve of her shirt (really). They would buy like 10 dollars worth of groceries, and hide them in their room in a little mini fridge, which until I started working at BK was fucked up because that meant I either went hungry or had to come up with some cash to feed myself. The funny part about this is when I would come up with like 5 dollars at a time (I don't want to explain how, let's just say there are some homely girls that got a taste of life with the Stevester and leave it at that) I ate better than they did, with Mystery eating raw hot dogs, Smeagol eating a raw fish while grunting anrilly in the corner, and me munching on some tasty Zipps mayo infused burgers and curly fries.... I miss Zipp's.... good shit.

At school things were not a whole lot better. Jeff's daughter (who was disgustingly smoking hot) was in my classes yet more popular because she gave up the twat on a regular basis, and therefore never spoke to me. There was the guy who showed his penis to me in the restroom and asked me if I was gay, and the Indian kid who shit all over the inside of the stall (it happened at Northeast too, maybe it was his cousin or something) and the guy who tried to shoot me not once but twice because he did not like my face.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Ah, the name's Bootsy, Baby...

Indian Thriller
I cannot stop watching you
and I don't want to

I am not kidding, I cannot stop watching the Indian version of thriller from yesterday. The one with the english subtitles is especially entertaining. Girly Man Man Man!

Anyhoo, life in Northeast was not so great. Dad was heavilly into the cracketry (and it is now confirmed that he no longer cracks it up), Janet's breathicles smelled of hot cock, a different one each day, and the 6 of us shared a package of cinnamon rolls a day as well as the 5 dollar "Piccadilly" pizzas they sold at the neighborhood convenience store. We had mice, smelly clothes, and drug dealers contatntly dragging us into the abyss.

I think I already spoke of how I left my home, never to return, and how I lived with my sister for awhile, today is going to chronicle a little more about my fun time living under Jeff's roof. Boy was life there soooo much better! I got to live in a basement! I could hear Richard, the bum who slept in the unfinished part of the apartment building, farting and masturbating vigorously almost daily through the thin sheet of sheetrock that seperated me from complete failure! When I moved out I moved in with Smeagol and it was a step UP! I accidentally ate a piece of chicken I was not sure that Jeff purchased and later found out he took it from some guy who was going to throw it out at Churches! Let me tell you something, right now. You listen, and you listen good: If Church's Chicken is going to throw something out, it is not fit for human, bovine or dead person consumption. I had turned my nose up the last time he brought home chicken and donuts because I knew, this time though it was the day after payday, how was I supposed to know?

I tell you guys, Stevester hit a low spot at that point. Listening to Jeff pound my mother's monkey hole through the sheet that seperated the couch I slept on from their bed, sleeping 12 hours a day, playing an old atari 2600, life friggin' sucked. I had no money, no real aspirations, I tell you I almost grew a perm and wore a green thong, grunting angrily whenever someone sat on the same couch my saggy testes rested on. Little did I know my ticket to salvation rested in the thong of a North American Smeagol, the most dangerous in the region...

Monday, March 24, 2008

What the Hell...?

O, sweet India,
you've taken 3 jobs from me
I gladly give them

So I was talking to my wife about the good old days, which is the second sign you are getting old, the first is shitting your bed, and as we all know I have done that before. Anyway, last evening's discussion came about because I had put Thriller on a cd, and she had heard the song but never saw the video. WTF?! How could you miss out on one of the best music videos of our time? I tried in vain to convey the awesomeness that was 1980's cable, with those brown zip boxes you got from American Cablevision (5 dollars to the first person to send me a picture of one of those, I can't find one) which went from channel 2 to 37, to MTV when it actually showed shit like:


and of course the reason for the conversation:

I am sorry, that one was too awesome, here is the real one...

Anyway, she claims she did not have cable and only listened to what her dad did, which is stuff like Rush, Kraftwerk's Autobahn, Pink FLoyd, and her mother's *shudder* *vomit* Beatles... I guess that's all good, but now I have made it my life's (at least for this week) work to train her in the beautiful art of the 80's video. Cure and Duran Duran here we come!

The bar was great last Friday: Sexy time looks were exchanged, feels were copped, many a new Greyskull joke/insult were pondered, heinies were shown. All in all good times to be had all around. I swear one of these times I will bring along Smeagol, if only for entertainment value but because, and I cannot believe I am saying this, I miss my brother a little bit. Sure he owes me money, hits on my wife, eats my food, stinks my furniture up, sleeps while everyone talks around him, and is otherwise a total jerk, but he's my bro, you know?

Which reminds me... This one time (at band camp), JJ and I decided to take the Smeagolese along to go play some ballbaskets. This was a hilarious field trip for a number of reasons, the chief among them being that raptors do not play basketball. They can have teams named after them, but they cannot play basketball.

Dangit, work calls, I will finish tomorrow. And I will make sure in the future to piggyback the rest of my scams with some more Smeagol goodness until I finish the threads I have, and then I will let them die much as clean bacteria die in Smeagol's thong after they come into contacts with his Raptorpubes...

Friday, March 21, 2008

Smeagolisms, with definitions

Time for the threatdown
and this week's number one threat?

So yesterday the Tylester asked if Smeagol had any other sayings that he frequently....uh....said, and I realized that if I ever get any new readers besides the 3 people I pay to log on each day (the checks in the mail, Will, I promise!), they might like a handy little lexicon on the different Smeagolisms, their definitions and how they are used. Enjoy.

Stevester's Smeagolisms (in no particular order)

Bitch muhfugger: Smeagol's default term for Jeff, homeless people, or those more successful than him, i.e. every person who reads this blog, because by inference you have the internet and Smeagol does not, is a "bitch mufugger", or more accurately, "bishmufugger"
example: If I wasn't so tired right not I would whoop Jeff's ass, bishmufugger!"

Bish niggie: Usually either myself or JJ, or any of our friends he is trying to impress with his awesome grasp of modern ebonics.
example: "Hey bish niggie, when are we gonna go pick up some ho's?" (Usually said right in front of Mystery)

Trust, mmkay?: Smeagol usually says this when he wants to reaffirm something, or he makes a threat and you ask him is he can back it up. He also uses it when he tells Mystery something and she goes "Duh really" like she does 99% of the time. Example: Smeagol: "You know what, I coulda kicked Hitler's ass, if I felt like it. I was there, you know." Mystery: "Really?" Smeagol: "Trust, mmkay? I was all like 'quit, qui- *snoring* -huh? Oh I was all like 'I don't care what singles you made, you can't do that to Kevin Federline no matter where the sauna is! ANd then I punched that bish mufugger out niggie!"

I'm so tired: Smeagol's default response to any and every question you could possibly ask ever. Example: Hey Smeagol where's the ketchup? Smeagol: I'm so tired... You: Hey Smeagol my dog died. Smeagol: I'm so tired... You: Hey Smeagol this Taco Bell must be a month old! Smeagol: I'm so...really?! Let's eat!

booty ass overtime: I think booty ass overtime is any time worked over 20 hours a week, because smeagol constantly complained about it but never brought home the paychecks to back up the validity of his claim

punk bitch niggie: Usually reserved for either Jeff or random homeless people, Smeagol is known to also call residents at the nursing home he works at this. Has twice been knocked out by old men, maybe for calling them either 'punk bitch niggie" or a variation.

More Monday

Thursday, March 20, 2008

The Shocking Conclusion to Indian Giver!!!!!!!!!!!?

Rodeo burlap
assless chaps and rose petals
I'm a macho man

So anyway, one afternoon, we were not in school, and LJ, one of the local hoodlums, came over and asked if I could give him a ride to the store. My little brother and one of his little loser friends agreed that since I had a car, keys in my pocket and 5 dollars that we should all make haste to the store. Being flat out retarded, I acquiesed.

We all pile into my fly ride, and I take off. Yes I only had a permit, but I was also cool for those brief golden-tinted seconds, driving my cream colored Buick through the fly streets of North Kansas City....until I saw the lights.

Apparently the local constable did not find the humor in my fun, and decided since I had a temporary tag that he would stop me and verify it's legality. I was worried, as I only had a permit and was the oldest person in the car at the tender age of 15, but was less worried about the temp tag. Smeagol would never forge a temporary tag, would he? I admit until that point I had never looked at said temporary tagification, but I just assumed it was legal.

The officer did as officers usually do when they stop someone who is not white: He walked past my door and looked at the VIN number, as if he could tell from the numbers whether or not I was a criminal. He then took my tag out of the back window, and then asked me to exit the car.

Showing me the temporary tag, with the word August misspelled, he informed me that he could tell this was a fake tag, as the 1 was a modified 7 and the 2 before it was poorly drawn, as it was evident there was not space for said 2 before. He also noted that the tag belonged to a 1990 Pontiac Sunbird, not the 1982 Buick Regal it was ensconced in. He informed me that I must get back into my car while he ran some things to see if I had any warrants, and I got back into the car.

During this whole exchange, LJ had the strangest look on his face, as if he had to take a shit or he was scared shitless, either way feces was involved and that aint good.

"Steve, I got weed on me, I got weed on me...." he whispered seductively into my ear, while, unbeknownst to me, shoving approximately 5 ounces of marijuana under my seat along with some crack rocks and pills. Thankfully the officer never found those, and informed me that I needed to take the car home and never drive it again.

I found out about the weed later, when my dad got home and yelled at me for what I had done and had gone out to put another temp tag in the window. I informed him it was LJ's, and he told me that he was going to sell it and split the profits. Apparently "sell it" translated to "smoke it all with some skank that evening", because that's what he did. I am still waiting for my share of the drug money.

Smeagol came by a few days later, after hearing the story, and told my dad, while I was at school, as punishment he was going to take the car to hold onto until I got a license, and ended up selling it to buy more hot wheels, kim chi and failure inducing instruments of raptordom. Buttfucking assblaster. His answer to my query as to the veracity of the temporary tag? "Look niggie it is legal as long as no one looks at it, you shouldn't have been driving it, bitch muhfugger!" At this point I was at least 5 inches taller and 100 pounds heavier, but it still never occured to me to hand this ruffian his comeuppance in a bout of fisticuffs.

Mystery snorted angrilly and they drove off, and that, my friends and Benson Hunter, was what I like to call the Epoch: it was the first time I believe my dad smoked crack, and also the first time I realized how much of a complete douche Smeagol was. As a sidenote, my dad made me give him 100 dollars out of my savings account, that he used to pay LJ for the drugs he had smoked. Awesome, huh?

Monday: Lilian Ray returns!

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Indian Giver

corned beef and cabbage
unfair to fart in the gym?
hell if'n I know!

So after the warm reception the state of Kansas gave us, making me walk 2 damn miles to school lugging a cello every damn day in addition to a backpack full of books, we bid our temporary home in my uncle's basement (really) a fond farewell and moved to North Kansas City, to the ghetto if there could be said to exist one up there. It was a tiny 2 bedroom apartment, but it was clean, air conditioned, and 2 blocks from Macken park, which was fantastic because that is a beautiful area. Nay, I dare posit that with the exception of Dawn, my retarded neighbor and Walt, the retarded guy we played Smear the Queer with all the time (I will explain the rules later) it was a veritable utopia. I got a girlfriend at school, I played football, my uncle let me work at his moving company until I dropped an ethan allen centerpiece sculpture and the driver I was working with waited until we were in the middle of nowhere to inform me he had been raped by an older man when he was my age, and then there was my dad, who cried while he jerked it and used to sit on the couch and literally whine "I need some puuuuussssyyyyyy!" Great Times!

It seemed odd, then, that Smeagol started coming around. I know now it was because he smelled success, and felt he needed to crush it, but back then he seemed to be genuinely caring about my dad and his need for love pudding. He would come over and sit with my dad, who was whining because of his lack of a love petal to pollinate, and listen to his boring tales. Kinda funny, since my neighbor, the one with the retarded daughter, was single. I never understood why they did not hump. Maybe because she was hideous, but if he needed lovin' that bad I don't think he would be that particular, but I digress...

Anyway, Smeagol had a nice car, was dating Mystery, but we will not count that against him, I only note that because he said he was drunk during their entire courtship and he obviously was not, and he did a very nice thing for me: he bought me a car.

No one ever knows why, but Smeagol is known to go out of his way in the oddest of situations and seem like a decent human being, until you find out what his hidden raptor agenda is, and then you realize that cud you are chewing on as he hand feeds it to you is really a dingleberry attached to his thong, the kind with peanuts and corn ingrained in it so it tastes like chii con car.... nevermind.

So Smeagol drives over this 1982 Buick Regal, and I have to admit: it was a beautiful car. I would be proud to drive that car today. It was a cream color, with a tan interior, very straight, clean, with a 305 in it, nice automobile.(Whatever the GM version of the 302 is, if I have it wrong you have too much time on your hands and that time could better be spent masturbating. Try it!) He said he got it for 500 dollars, because there was a little piece of the fender in the back that was missing, like it had been cut out or something, and that he was going to get it legal for me so he would keep hold of the title. The warning lights that should have gone off at that point went ignored as I gently caressed this lovely used car much as John Holmes caressed the labias of homeless women. I know that analogy made literally no sense but I am tired, fuck it.

So I got my drivers permit, and drove all over town with my new ride, my dad riding uncoolly in the passenger side, refusing my repeated pleas to hide his head or at least wear a shirt and pants next time, he loved wearing these cutoff shorts back then, totally gay.

Tomorrow - the conclusion, including my first brush with the law and my realization that Smeagol was a piece of crap. Don't miss it!

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Journey into... (Conclusion)

the warrior, lion's mane,
his sword turned evil to stone
Can it stop Raptor?

Journey into... (as told by Cletus "Jive Turkey" Jenkins)

So lissen up lil niglets, ol Jenkins goan give you da lowdown, cat!

So there he was, Steve of the Impeccable Weave, in his velvet leisure suit, platties with the goldfish swimmin' underneath, Burger King crown and Scepter of Listerine. Making sho his cape was tied on thizzle, he wormed into the-

ELDRIC: Wait, wait, wait a minute. What the fuck are you talking about?

Cletus: Man shaddup, I'se tryin' to finish the tale you almost fucked up son!

ELDRIC: 'Almost fucked up'? How dare you, to fisticuffs, brigand! (a brief, very gay scuffle ensues)

Eldric: Now that I have bested this smarmy negro in unarmed physical combat, I can properly end this tale.

Forsooth! Before our hero stood the Den of Failure, a low vibration emenating from it's very foundation. The stench of Smeagol's Thong was so great, Lord Stevester tried to spray Listerine from his Sceptre on it and it melted before it could penetrate the foul stench.

With trembling hands and steady heart (and iron cock) Stevester bravely grasped the latch of the faux wooden door, intent on battling the minions of the Raptor King. Slowly, the door eaked open.....

And it was a normal apartment. The smells of the hearth, of someone cooking something with too much onion, of what was hopefully a baby's filled diaper and not a dead body served to partially mask the dank undertow of Smeagol's raptor thong.

credit card and positive balance imbued bank statement in hand to ward off the Failure Minions, Stevester made his way to the second floor, as the mailboxes were all marked save 3, and they were all ont he second floor. The claw marks, probably left due to a lack of dexterity (The cloak of failure, while adding +4 Failure and a +2 Horrid Stench, also adds a -5 in dexterity, due to their crippling nature) gave the raptor away.

At the top of the steps, Our brave hero stopped to listen. Hark! The mumblings of Stupidity could be heard, uttered by none other than The Thonged One's Sorceress, Mister-E the Unlearned. Known to the villagers of Kansas as simply "The Dumb One", Her powers were unique, able to end all hints of argument with nary a word, simply exhaling could end all rational conversation, her sweaty, ass scented leggings, slightly browned from prolonged use, bearing silent witness to her senseless killing of many a cuddly kitten.

Lord Stevester knocked upon the door, marveling at how well his Gloves of Archeon, known to be doused in the Soap of Kralgon, which adds a +2 Cleanliness to his manly attributes, survived the searing heat from the flatulent breath of the raptor thought to be ensconced within.

Upon his knock, a silence fell where once the idiotic babbling of a Smeagoled lover had once emenated. A sudden new wave of crotch stench hit our hero as Mister-E got up off of her throne, the kitten dangling precariously over oblivion, and sadly, the only freedom it would ever know.

Footsteps, uncoordinated and heavy, like the fog over a toilet when one forgets to flush, thudded toward the door. Lord Stevester had begun to lose his nerve. Would his armor stand up to the breath of the Raptor?

We may never know. Smeagol was out working booty ass overtime. Stevester had to endure the breath of Mister-E for what seemed like minutes as she explained, wincing every time she uttered the letter "h".

And so the story comes to a temporary end, as Stevester did not get to battle the Wily Smeagol, but now knew where his lair was. And to all other adventurers seeking to find and capture Smeagol, be it for entertainment or lovemaking, know that his lair is in the heard of Liberty, and that you can see the cloak of failure rising as a triumphant plume into the night sky.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Journey into.....

His cloak donned ragged,
sword imbued with good magic,
our hero sets forth....

The Den of Failure

(Told by Eldric the Unworthy, Bardric Mage from the town of New Tristramville)

And lo did Lord Stevester finally become sated with waiting,
the air heavy with his thoughts,
an empty mug that smelled of ale,
a satisfied nymph (Mmm Hmm!),
all bearing silent witness to his final decision:

"I must find Smeagol."

Many had travelled the darkened land,
some for riches lost,
some for riches perceived,
but none had returned.

It was rumoured, nay, whispered in darkened alleyways and brothels amongst the common skank,
that those intrepid, adventure seeking souls had become Smeagoled,
wrapped in cloaks of Failure so strong,
even Sol's warming rays could not penetrate their horrid stench.

Lord Stevester began his preparations,
as many a brave soul hath done before him.
Knowing this could be his last day, he kissed his fair maiden and 3 young apprentices,
and with a heavy heart set forth upon his adventure into the Pit of Doom.

Neither sword nor axe nor motorcar had he,
not a single luxury,
for these implements were for far different adversary,
and were useless against the cawing raptor.

Only a credit card, debit card or current bank statement,
a work permit or other such proving document
could dissuade the raptor from it's heinous attack.

To Liberty, the land of the Mega-church, Stevester doth travel, leaving his convoy behind in the clearer pastures and sanity of Kansas City.
For to best the raptor,
Lord Stevester knew the only way was to travel alone.
To bring others for security, moral support or to sacrifice at the breath of the Smeagol would lead to a cockiness that could be deadly.

As soon as Stevester crossed the line into Liberty, a pall, dank and dark with failure and the scent of the Green Thong, hung low in the sky.
With each step Lord Stevester bravely took,
the omnipresent cloak of failure threatened to take away his very sanity.
With Herculean effort, Stevester turned his troubled brow toward where the heavens would be, but in it's place he could only see failure, and the red and blue lights that signal Smeagol is in the area.

Following the contrails and currents of the flatulent smelling wind,
Lord Stevester did see a vortex, one of such powerful failure that nothing could possibly survive.
The Den of Smeagol was terrible, an unassuming apartment building to the naked eye,
but an abode of unfathomable horror.
Boasting a +4 Cast Failure Spell with bonus Screech of the Raptor being cast every few seconds,
The Den was a terrible place, and Stevester was instantly sorry he had come.
To know the Den of Smeagol was to know it's many names:
The Den of Failure,
The Hovel of the Raptor,

Gathering his strength and courage, and countering the defensive shield Smeagol's Spell of Hiding had created with his Lasik Eyes of the Ancients,
Stevester entered the Den.

Tomorrow, part II, as told by Cletus "Jive Turkey" Jenkins, who just moved on up to the East side.

As an aside, Smeagol called the day after his birthday to beg my mom for money because he had lived another year, and lamented that no one called him on his birthday. WTF?! I am seriously contemplating posting his number here so we can all spam him unmercilessly and of course sign him up for gay escort services.

I also found out his email address, is it not funny that his name is Reaper69? I will let you all know when he gets his new computer and internet connectivity so we can all write him all the time. JJ said the only reason he would get on the internet was to look at porn, gently massaging his thong while little kids ran around, sometimes stopping to look at him and shake their heads disapprovingly.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Product Review: Boulevard Wheat Beer

Once the beer is gone

the drunk spouts philosophy

with shit in his pants

Boulevard Wheat Beer:

So for my first ever product review I chose Boulevard Wheat Beer, as the heading of this post and the name of the product, 2 lines up from here, can surely attest. I know what you are thinking: "Stevester, I can go read reviews on products other places and from much more intelligent people who have even a small idea of what the fuck they are doing, which you do not."

First, fuck you.

Second, I plan on delving into the intangibles, on seeing more than what other product reviews dare to explore. I am going to give you the stinky low down on things you probably don't even want to friggin know about. Let's begin.

My rating system goes thusly: I rate on a Smeagol scale, which is anywhere from 0 to 5 Smeagols. I then give the product an overall rating, which can be anywhare from a tattered cloak of failure, to a sexy Jeremy, to the coveted Spiritual Mystical Retard classification.

Price: 6.50 for a 6 pack of 12 ounce bottles.

score: 4 Smeagols (I would give it 5 because I thought it was a great price until I saw how much PBR goes for)

Product packaging: 3 Smeagols, nothing overly fancy, but I kind of like the olde timey graphics on the bottle.

Butt drunk?: 2 Smeagols. On this classification the lower the score the better, this hashes on one simple, yet beautiful question: Would I be willing to stick a funnel in my anus in and waste beer by pouring it up my ass? I will be honest, there are a few beverages (Fosters, Hurracane, Night Train) that are too elegant for such behavior, but this stands up well. T'would be a shame to miss out on this beverage's complex flavors.

Smeagolness: 4 Smeagols. In this classification, I ponder whether or not Smeagol would imbibe on such a beverage, by that I mean could his hot breath and cloak of failure melt the liquid before it makes it to his jowls o' Failure? I am happy to say that Boulevard Wheat Beer is good enough most of it would be able to withstand the trials and terrors of the Journey through what historians have dubbed the "Raptor's Halo": an area, usually extending about 2 feet in front of the face, where even bacteria cannot survive, the stink is so unbearable as to kill all it encompasses; the only known natural counter is the Breath o' Mystery, which is just as bad.

So here, our model, who is TOTALLY not the Stevester, poses with the delicious alcoholic beverage before diving into it's complex bed of pleasures and deliciousness. Notice how the thumbs up signifies that the liquid is ready to drink; this is not done voluntarily by the model, the beer is actually so good that it makes your thumbs stand at attention (among other things, rowr).

Hoppyness: 5 Smeagols. Since I have no friggin idea what the hell a hop is and I am too lazy to research, I will give this beer a 5 just for the hell of it.

Body: 2 Smeagols. The cloudy beer is a natural reaction to the wheat and yeast and shit, but it still looks like jizms to me. Sadly, this did not stop me from drinking 2 or 8 of them.

Complexity: 4 Smeagols. Our model noted that "beer good, sleepy time soon", which means he found the beer complex, with a very smooth texture and taste, and a little sweet.

Guzzlability: 4.5 Smeagols. If this shit was piss warm, our model would have simply poured it down his gullet, and bypassed the taste. Alas, it was cold, though he still tried.

Fills you up without letting you down? 5 Smeagols. See the photo below. Good times.

(side note: My wife kept making me pull my pants up higher and higher for this photo, it was pissing me off. SHe also wanted to put mayonnaise or whipped cream on my ass, the nasty buzzard)

Modalities? yes.


Now I didn't want to give such a coveted award out the first time, but in all honesty this was a very decent beer. There are only a few levels higher that you can go from the Green Thong of Awesomeness, and this beer is very deserving.

More Monday.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Fuck Smeagol

touch a rotting corpse
stick your finger up his ass
that's friggin' profound

Alright, so I got Smeagol's cell phone number from JJ, with the added knowledge tidbit that "Unless it's your payday, he won't answer." Bah! I thought to myself as I dialled his number from work, "He's a jerk, but surely he would answer his phone on his own birthday!"

I was wrong.

I tried 3 times, and then called JJ back to verify the number. He informed me that "Smeagol gets paid every other Tuesday. He is usually broke by Wednesday morning, and has to borrow money for gas and food and stuff. He will only pick up the phone if it is your payday and he thinks you will give him some money. Call him on Friday, I bet he answers."

We spoke about the possibility of my going to Smeagol's lair, as I really wanted him to do the product review, but no one knew exactly where Smeagol lives. He had been burned before, with family members sending the authorities and various bail bondsmen to his house before, so he decided to play it safe and not give anyone his address at all. I wondered aloud if I could just drive around Liberty until I saw the telltale aura of failure emanating from the very bowels of a particular apartment building. JJ suggested taking talcum powder with me and sprinkling it on the steps in front of each apartment. When it catches fire or I hear Smeagol howl in pain, I would know he was there. I would have to get ready much like Abraham Van Helsing did in the late 19th century: Like his garlic, I would need breathmints. Like his cross, I would need a GQ magazine or a valid work permit. Like his holy water, I would need hand sanitizer. My journey to Smeagol's lair would be fraught with more danger, though, as with Dracula you only had to worry about becoming a member of nosferatu yourself. In my case, I could get raptored to the very death, or at least until I got totally annoyed by having him caw and scratch me with his claw like nails. I could also get thonged, having Smeagol's oddly heavy with Raptor juice thong flung at me with the speed legends are made of.

The decision was made, out of my safety and the risk of letting a raptor run free when more people would be out, to go by the Smeagster's house this weekend, as Smeagol is known to work Booty ass overtime on Fridays and so would be hiberraptoring (like hibernating but with a lot of really bad smelling farts added in) and at his most vulnerable.

I will make the required edits on my review, as I had made some changes to add Smeagol in, and post tonight. I am so sorry to disappoint everyone, I know Smeagol would have made this special, but he's a douche.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

A Birthday shoutout

Happy Birthday Smeagol

of the raptor you're the best

may your thong hang low

I was a little saddened that Jason's lovely daughter (congrats, man!) did not wait to be born on Smeagol's birthday, but then again who wants to share a girthday with a raptor? Anyway, I am going to hold off on the product review, as I have a special treat: I am going to try to get Smeagol to review the first product, Boulevard Wheat Beer.

I figured I would post a couple of blurbs about my few years at Burger King today, with more following this evening or early tomorrow if I am too lazy.

Life was rough at Smeagol's house. Food was hard to come by, much as success and prestige were. Self respect was a long gone luxury that none of us could afford. I needed a job.

In the ghetto (47th and Paseo area) there were not many job prospects for a fat guy with glasses on. Due to my corrective lenses being gangsta was out of the question, and I was too lazy to deal drugs, as it apparently warranted a lot of running fro the authorities and salesmanship skills, which anyone who has known me for more than a year knows I do not have. That left jizz-mopper at the Tiger's Den, a nudie bar on 46th and Troost, or one of the fast food restaurants on that same block. I opted for fast food, though jizzmopper would have been a better career choice in the long run.

I for some unknown reason chose Burger King, as the KFC would have required crossing another street and I was apparently too fat and lazy to do that. They must have been hard up for workers, because the manager came out and gave me the basic Burger King interview: "So, you gone show up on time nigga? Cool, cool, you got a job son!" (say thi in your head with a faux Brooklyn accent). My pay was 4.75 an hour, and there I was.

So I started down the career path toward greatness, and my trainer and mentor, a young lad named Jason. Jason was a drug dealer who, I assume, worked at Burger King because he could attain free food and ply his trade more easilly there, picking up contacts and allowing people to sample his wares by sprinkling marijuana on their food, most awesome.

I feel like I have told this story before, and if I have my bad, but Jason has done some pretty awesome things to people's food. He has jammed his middle finger up his own ass, getting shit and blood on it, and wiped it on people's burgers before, he has rubbed cock-cap paste (I know I called it a different name before, consistency is not my strong point), that oily stuff behind the head of a circumcised cock that builds up if you do not wash it enough, all over someone's burger because they were rude to him once, and once on a dare shit in the little stall where we squeegeed water after hosing the floors down.

I hate to say it, but this gentleman was my hero. I was not brave enough to do a tenth of the things he did, and so was completely content to live my life vicariously through him. He was awesome, if someone made the mistake of trying to peek through the fry hood to see what he was doing, they would get s little spit in their burger, unless he was feeling gamey enough to rub his "shit-finger" all over their sandwich, good times.

"Why didn't you tell on him, Stevester?" You might be asking aloud. Well I can't hear you, the tube that your internets is delivered on is not connected to the one I am sending this out on, if you do not understand that ask Senator Stevens. The reason why is because:

1. Jason was humping the shift manager, Stephanie. Turtle, the token Older Black Guy Who Thought This Was A Career Guy, was also humping her, I think. I think I was the only one who was not fornicating with her, and that was because she was a little large for my tastes, plus I was going out with Camel, and there was that stupid "faithfulness" thing, which I know sounds lame but shaddup.

2. I was pretty sure Jason carried a gun, one clue was that Jason had a gun handle sticking out of his work pants on many occasions, another was he pulled out a gun and showed it to me once. Other than those two instances I was not sure though.

3. Jason was cool as hell, and I did not want Turtle being my manager.

Anyway, we soon learned Jason would do literally anything we dared him to do, either because he was high or because he just didn't give a shit. Either way our favorite days on the job was when he was dubbed manager for the day due to his seniority when Stephanie took the day off to get her nails done or whatever, because he would shut the lobby down and we would trade food with either Dairy Queen or KFC and eat int he lobby while people came up to the door confused and stand outside the windows, lonely Smeagols watching sadly as we all had fun jack-assing around and usually drinking Hurricane on the job. Good times.

Anyway, congrats again to Jason (not the one in today's story) who had a baby girlenhausen, as they say in Germany, and to Smeagol for raptoring it up yet another year.

On a side note, does admitting I absolutely hate the taste of Guinness make me a terrorist? I am going to get one of those Guinness surger thingies, but as it stands I do not even plan on doing a product review on that crap, it tastes like tree bark that had been fermented in a tub of firty bathwater that was also used to launder 3 or 4 of Smeagol's thongs, gently squished between Mystery's toes as she stomped on the clothes to simulate a washing machine agitator.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Product reviews, Smeagol

Hardcore butt pleasures
turns delicate pink blossom
into brown sinkhole

So I am going to post my first review either this evening or tomorrow morning, it's a beer, the reason I am not posting now is I would like to post photos and the like to go along, and I have not worked up the bravery to even contemplate some of the things I promised myself I would do to make these reviews more memorable. On a completely unrelated note, if I ever do do anything that involves my anus, a tube and a funnel I will have the good graces to not post the photos.

I am really excite about this, guys! I am thinking maybe Consumer Reports, GQ, something like that. I mean, how many consumer reviews tell you whether one kind of beer or another tase good drunk out of dirty carpeting or sucked out of a baby's shirt because the little turd made you spill it? No one that's who!

Anyway, on to the story of the day.

No doubt a bunch of you are sitting at home right now, fantasizing about Mystery's luscious curves, how her leggings, stained with "brown", entice you oh so much, and wondering how any Smeagol could ever leave something like that, especially a North American Smeagol. Well, I'll tell you.

We all have a sexiness ratio, a ratio that each person automatically calculates to see if he/she/Smeagol would be compatible with said person and how they should act toward them. Take my wife, for instance. Her sexiness ratio, or SR, was and is much higher than mine, due to my fatness and strange smell. She knew she could ignore my advances for as long as she felt like it because I was much too fat and ugly to go elsewhere. Little did she know that I also had bad credit and a gap in my teeth, 2 signs of abject sexiness! (Think before you laugh: Anthony Anderson, Michael Strahan, Mike Tyson, Lawrence Fishburn, Chewbacca: even dudes would gladly bed any of them, though you don't know why)

Anyway, Smeagol's sexiness ratio was pretty low. I mean, many women would rather bed a random homeless person than allow a raptor into their life/bed/bank account, and many probably followed through on that promise. Mystery was one of the few people I knew who was able to command a negative SR without having a communicable disease or being dead. This was an OK arrangement though, because due to his massive aura of failure Smeagol was not able to attract anyone with his SR either.

Well after hanging out with the Stevester and JJ for awhile, and getting the brushoffs from both of us (the selection of ladies available was both more plentiful and had much lower standards due to JJ's SR, which is - I must admit, even though he has no job, doesn't bathe, and once wore the same pair of red Nike shorts for more than a year - is almost 5 times higher than the Stevester's) began to inflate his sense of his own SR. This led to the fights with Mystery, usually ending with him throwing her out, her calling her mom, her mom coming over and trying to bribe Smeagol into keeping her in the house, and then taking Mystery with her until payday, when Smeagol realized he could not cash her check without her and had to let her back into the house. He also claimed it was because she had some kind of infection or fungus or something (I usually blanked Smeagol out when he starts talking about Mystery so I cannot be sure about this) that she could not or would not accept the little Smeagolette he was trying to infiltrate her with.

Ugh I will never read that paragraph again, every time I do I get a flash of her bare chested, which I tried to erase from my mind the instant I saw it and have yet to be able to, though it helps if I am in a public place and need to quickly calm a raging boner down (try it!).

The arguments were always hilarious, with Smeagol Raptor stoming into the living room, gingerly stepping over Bailey's dog shit that had been sitting there for weeks, and calling her all kinds of names while she sat there looking blankly at the wall, me nonchalantly playing the Sega Saturn and trying to stay out of it, the kitten in Mystery's arm praying for sweet, sweet death while slowly choking on the toxic combination of Mystery's breath and her football grip on his neck.

The funniest time was when Smeagol would yell at her while holding his thong up, as these times he would only be wearing his thong and his 2 pairs of thich cotton socks, he looked so obscene wearing that with his lopsided perm dangling precariously toward oblivion, especially the time or two he pushed her outside, well TRIED to, it's pretty hard to push someone who is a foot taller, 50 pounds heavier and with rubber soled shoes on while you are a raptor, holding your baggy thong in one hand, grunting angrily from the effort, kim chi fermenting on the couch.

More tomorrow.

Friday, March 7, 2008

My milkshake makes all the boys....wait a minute

A gentle caress
empty pint on the table
How I was conceived

I don't know if any of you knew this, but I have a strange family. There's some crack that's been smoked, some horses pounded, and then there's Smeagol, who needs no introduction and defies categorization. There was Matthew Conneroy, the young lad who would come over and allow our dog to molest him, and my dad's boss, who looked almost exactly like the principal in Billy Madison and kept trying to rescue me at the company pool party.

There was that crazy uncle we all have, you know, the one who shits in plastic bags and hangs them from a tree less than 10 feet from the toilet?

Anyway, I was feeling a little nostalgic today, and figured I would share a slightly older tale. Way back in the day, JJ was living with my mom on 35th and Bales with Jeff the Buttfucking Shitstain. Dad and Janet were living in the worst neighborhood in the greater metropolitan area, and Smeagol and I had just moved into our abode on Woodland. My grandma, under some kind of retard spell, believed my dad when he told her he was done with them crack rocks, and had just purchased him a cherry 1985 dunmetal grey ford thunderbird, which he would end up selling to me numerous times.

Back to JJ and my mom, their neighborhood was pretty fun to be around. There was Billy Bill, who was apparently in training to become my mom and dad's new crack dealer, who was training under V, who lived a few blocks down the street. There was Jenkins, the lovable homeless guy who would drop trou no matter where he was and shit if he had to, and I feel sorry for you if your foot was in the way! There was Chadwick, the token white guy who JJ and all of his friends robbed on a near daily basis in order to train for the more lucrative opportunities for B&E in the neighborhood, and then of course there was the rest of the alphabet crew, whose job it was to kidnap my dad and make him smoke crack for free at their house in beautiful South Kansas City.

Riding the bus down there was always fun as well, because you could sit by a crackhead, a homeless person, a prostitute and a mental patient and only be sitting by one physical person! Mypersonal favorites were the Bargainers: those intrepid souls who could not affort the 1 dollar fare and always asked questions like "How far will 68 cents get me?" their funk penetrating everyone on the bus in a most foul manner, totally hot. I always wondered how those people went to job interview after being almost physically smeagoled on, as they smelled like they had allowed Smeagol to rub his saggy balls most vigorously on their legs. It was also funny how well the Smeags blended in with the homeless and the vagrants, and yet how much he grunted angrilly when he was reduced to riding in public transit (which he liked to call "pubic transit" which usually illicited a little raptor giggle) with the common folk.

On this particular evening, we were on our way back from JJ's house, and were waiting on the bus. Jenkins moseys by, asks us for change, and then walks about 10 paces down the street and drops trou to take a dump. I ain't gonna lie, I watched, giggling like a schoolgirl in the process, and another vagrant moseyed by. He saw Smeagol, got a good look at the lopsided perm, and I guess was mesmerized. "Damn bitch you is fine" THis is not his exact words, I am paraphrasing as I was busy watching Jenkins shit and had not turned to see what was going on yet. Smeagol grunted angrilly, and tried to turn the other way, as if not looking at the vagrant would dissuade him from pounding him some green thonged north american raptor taint. It didn't work.

"What's yo name, girlie?"

"I'm a guy" Smeagol whined, sounding very much like a girl.

Monday, the conclusion, and my first product review.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

A pilot

there's nobody here
we're hidden in the doldrums
it's gray, it's dark, fuck.

Some things going on

I am thinking about starting a product review section on this site, not anything important or boring, mostly video games, beers and various products used in the act of snootch pounding (sorry, I watched South Park last night). It will also give me a chance to use my new camera a little more. I felt like a jerk in that little email thread that I did not actually have another blog set up for product reviews.

So far I have a few different criteria, here is the sample for video games:
Home Console:
Awesomeness (or lack thereof)
Smeagolness (would Smeagol play this game?)
Difficulty (how many times Smeagol would call around for help)
Price (is this damn game worth it?)


The portable console will be the far more in depth, as I play video games whilst shitting a lot more than I do sitting in a chair or anything.

Portability (can I finish an iteration of a game in one toilet shopping instance?)
saves (how hard is it to save the game and get out of the crapper when I want to, rather than sit there and develop butt crust trying to find a save point or turning the damn thing off in frustration)
Music (is it something that I would turn off to avoid embarrassment, or something that I could not bear to turn off even though I know I would be found out?)

This one will have to wait a while, I cannot drink for like 2 months due to alcohol constricting your eyes or some shit the doctor told me no for a couple of months after Lasik.

Price: If I have to think twice about it, it's too high. On the other hand, points can be taken away fi you can purchase a six pack for less than 50 cents a beer (I'm looking at you, Camo and Night Train)
Hoppiness: Does this beer have pizzazz?
guzziliness: Can the Stevester chug one without having to bother tasting it, or is it a beer so good chugging seems like a crime? (For instance, I chug Guinness, I hate that crap but if that's all thats there, fuck it. With Foster's, however, gentle sips until the pint is extinguished is the order of the day)
Drunkenness: How long does it take before Brown bear either passes out or starts attempting to molest whomever is nearest? (I found out with Sam Adam's for instance, after only 5 cans of the crap I was attempting to molest random passersby)

I dunno, I might demo other things too. I will post pix of me using the product (and since this is a family blog, that leaves a lot of products out) and the aftermath of imbibing said product. Let me know what you think in the vote box.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Weigh in

A feeling once lost
cherry blossom, the crack pipe
addiction suits you

Rare political rant

I have to ask, and I know I risk losing some of my 4 readers here but I have to wonder: what retards voted for John McCain? It seems like the Republican Party of lat (and by "of late" I mean "the last 8 years") seems to really have gone down the shitter, with scandals such as the gentleman who was in charge of a group that combatted sexual exploitation of minors who then got caught sending lewd and lacivious emails to pages (Foley) to some asshole who was a manager of a damn stable completely fucking up a disaster his new job was created to combat (Brown) to the senator telling us that the internet "is a series of tubes, it's not a truck" (Stevens) To a senator totally against gay anything getting caught attempting to get some black mamba in his anus in a Minneapolis shithouse (Craig). These are not even a small indicator of all the crap that has gone on ein the last almost decade, yet it astounds me to know that there are people out there who still vote for that party.

Let me put this into context: If you come over to my house to borrow a cup of sugar, and every time I opened the door I committed sodomy on you, how many times would you keep coming back before you learn your lesson and go somewhere else to get sugar? (If your answer was longer than a week, send me an email, I would like you to come by my house)

The economy is in the fucking shitter, Iraq had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with 911 or terror, we are losing the war in afghanistan as well as Iraq, and yet almost half of the country seems to think our new leadership should come from the same party. My dad is a huge McCain supporter, and I asked him why, since like me he is poor and it is well known that the last couple of Republican presidents have shit on the poor, I am willing to bet if they had the time they would drive by each poor person and do it personally. His answer started out with the same stereotype: that Dems are all limp wristed liberals who would surrender to the terrorists and blah blah blah, I stopped listening because my brains were leaking out of my ear.

I like how all people who would vote Democrat are automatically limp wristed effimate either full-blown homo or on the cusp of gaydom. I so wish I could be a senator so I could go on some of these shows and when they start that crap about me being a wimp and shit I could kill them with my superb prowess in unarmed physical combat, then shit in their tacos to boot.

I also like those books by Ann "I am a piece of human feces" Coulter, calling all liberals homos and the like, I would like to publish a book entitled: "All Republicans Eat Babies After Raping Them"... catchy, no?

Anyway, I think I will get to a couple of scams tomorrow, they are backing up, I also have a few more Mystical Retard stories as well as some Dad and Janet, so good times.

Sorry about the rant, but whenever I try to bring it up with my Conservative friends, they usually resort to the "Win by Volume" method, which usually wins. I like how all they can bring up about Bill Clinton is how he lied about shooting Lewinski a little man-gravy, hell if every person in office got in trouble for that terms would only be about an hour or so.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

More Assorted goodness

Classy film? Or crap
The Guy With Secret Kung Fu
Eyeball masterpiece

The above title is my DVD tester for the courthouse where I work. It's awesomeness is underappreciated. One of the judges here has borrowed this film not once, but twice. Hey, when a man uses his secret kung fu to take out a zombie, you gotta watch twice!

The Douchebag

When I worked at GE, we had a couple of superb douchebags working there. No one came even close to a couple of the ass blemishes who worked at Da Firm, but still, some no talent ass clowns nevertheless. One of those asswipes was The Douche.

The Douche was an engineer turned management pencil pusher. He had an overinflated sense of self worth due to the fact that he was assigned some big operation in Brazil, and had a few unlucky patrons working under him. He was a complete douche for many reasons:

1. He was a racist. He had a bunch of civil war memorabilia in his office, and being a total Civil War history nerd I got real enjoyment in looking around his office while I was working on his many, MANY issues. I did notice a strange trend, though, in that he had no photos or memorabilia from the Union army. Maybe he had it in a place of honor at his home? I assumed. It was not until I spoke with one of our chocolatier complexioned employees that it dawned on me: He was a Southern Sympathizer. Nothing wrong with that, but then I started noticing other little things: I was not allowed in his office unless his secretary announced me. He always walked me to the door, I assumed because he was a good host or wanted to check out the goods, but was told and later saw because he wanted to make sure "that spook don't steal nothin". Various other things.

"So what's funny about racism, Stevester?" you may be asking. Shut up, cracka! Sorry. Anyway, the funny thing about this is I was at one point told to clean off his computer, as it was running very slowly. He was out of the office, and I went ahead and remoted into his machine and started with the usual crap, until I got to his cookies. You see, I usually just go ahead and delete them, as I generally do not have time to look at any of that crap and I hate doing extra work. But something caught my eye. There was a cookie from, or something like that, I mean it sounded like a gay porn site. I snickered to myself, but maybe I was wrong. I finished cleaning his cookies, and just to make sure, took a look at some of his pictures.

Holy hell. This man had some issues. Apparently he enjoyed seeing large black men ramdangle old fat white guys in the buttocks. Some of the photos were so disgusting I almost couldn't copy them to my blackmail folder in my documents for later usage. I tell you, it was a little awkward to go into his office after that and turn my back on him.


OK, I just wanted to put in a blurb about work, but I thought I would share another Smeagol tale with you. It was autumn, and I was still going to school (I usually quit showing up for school regularly after football season was over) and love was in the air. Well, not so much love, but I was on the rebound from being dumpified by Cameltoe, so I decided to go out with this little chick from school. She was not all that attractive, but I had nothing better I am ashamed to say, so when she asked me to go out I could do nothing but accept.

So I am getting ready for our little date, we are going to go see "Cruel Intentions" at the ghetto movie theater. I had already seen that same film with a much more attractive young lady, but I figured if I could get her to fall for the dick-in-the-popcorn box gag the night would not be a total bust. I start to head out, and Smeagol is laying on the couch, polluting the air with his trifecta of funk: thong, slightly open sphincter and open mouth as he cooed while Mystery rubbed his feet.

"Hey wait up niggie I wanna go!" Smeagol exclaimed, and started his Get Up Movement. For those of you who are uninitiated, you can check this video out here . He rubbed his perm down with one claw as he moaned agreeably, scratching his almost naked ass with his other claw. Mystery started getting ready too, squeezing some smelly vag juice out of her leggings or whatever it is she did to get ready.

"Not you, bitch! I am going to pick up a lady and I don't need you there fucking it up!" Smeagol cawed angrilly. Mystery did this kind of shoulder shrug and sat back down on the couch, dejected. Then the plain white wall caught her eye and she disappeared into her own magical world, where she was a watermelon flying amongst the trees, eating sticks made of brown.

Smeagol got his freshest NWO jersey on, the one he spent last pay period's grocery money to purchase (he even had the gall to drive up to my grandmother's house and try to bum the 85 dollars to purchase this jersey, saying it was for his car payment), splashed on some of my cologne, which sizzled as it contacted his cloak of failure, and off we went. After getting that asshole Marvin to move his damn truck and listen to him whine about how we need to find some other way to get out of the driveway, we were interrupting his show, we took out, the windows down to hopefully dissipate the concentrated stench of Raptor.

Part II later.

Monday, March 3, 2008

Smeagol facts

Michael Bolton, Wham!
grace electric avenue
bands made of awesome

So I thought I would post some fun facts about Smeagol, since it has been awhile since I had posted anything on him. I know it is wrong to make fun of others, even raptors have feelings, and yet I cannot seem to stop.

1. Smeagol must wear at least 2 pairs of mismatched socks to go outside or across wooden floors. This is due to his complete lack of care of said feet. He must also have them rubbed, no matter how sweaty and smelly, by Mystery every evening.

2. Smeagol once spent a full quarter of his paycheck on a date with a good looking girl who ended up giving herself to JJ for free. This all happened while Smeagol was sitting outside JJ's bedroom, presumably masturbating while crying softly, tears and failure streaking down his sad sad raptor face.

3. A Smeagol shit will 7 times out of 10 completely clog any toilet. Also due to his lack of usable fingers, Smeagol never flushes, prefering nature to evaporate his dropings.

4. Smeagol's wardrobe was cool once. But then 1986 came along, and he never looked back.

5. I know I have told you, but this is for those new to the site: Smeagol has been knocked the fuck out, multiple times, by men over the age of 80 in various nursing homes.

6. Smeagol works as much "booty ass overtime" as he possibly can, for what no one knows. On a side note, how is it that Smeagol and Mystery work, yet they never have any money, drive a POS that is always one second from being remotely shut off or breaking down, never has all of his utilities on unless they are on when he moves in, and is generally a complete failure? You might counter with "Maybe he spends all his check when he goes out" to which I would like to point out that you are wrong. Smeagol works, and hibernates. In between he plays the same 3 video games, Castlevania, Devil May Cry and Gran Turismo.

7. Smeagol calls JJ all the time for tips on the most mundane of video game tasks. A common call goes like this: "Hey JJ how are thingswell enough with the small talk on Devil May Cry it says 'collect 4 orbs to beat game' and there are 4 orbs next to me. Can you come over and get me to where I only have to hit one button to beat the game? Just wake me up when that time comes."

8. WHen Smeagol wants to borrow money and is forced to call you he starts the entire conversation with "You can't say No!" This is usually followed by us saying no and him grunting angrilly and hanging up.

9. Never, NEVER ask Smeagol for money.

10. Smeagol's thong holds within it the cure for AIDS. WHy, you may ask, has no one harvested this cure? Because it involves sucking the Raptor juice out of it, and no one has been able to do that yet.

11. Smeagol's perm-a-fail must be replaced every 2 weeks, as he still has not figured out that you have to wash your hair after you get it permed.

12. Smeagol wears nail polish. No word yet on whether he paints his balls with the same fingernail paint. 5 dollars to the person who figures that riddle out.

13. Though Smeagol lives like a homeless person, he hates homeless people with a passion rivaled only by his love of hotwheels and Failure's love for him.

14. Smeagol grunts angrilly when you make fun of him. I have never heard him grunt so often or so many times in a row as when my friend Anthony used to make fun of him. He sounded like he was dropping a deuce.

15. If Smeagol ever asks you to help him move, save yourself some trouble - don't.