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!