tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21093954412473903902024-03-05T00:20:24.749-08:00steveshaikusHome of the Mystical Retard.Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.comBlogger367125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-19377490671868762322020-08-27T13:38:00.000-07:002020-08-27T13:38:05.874-07:00Hookers, Nature's Spumoni <p> I've watched hookers shit</p><p>gentle turds on the damn street</p><p>not bragging, just truth</p><p><br /></p><p>"Whoa, a notification from steveshaikus, I wonder what he's on about" you may be saying whilst spreading Vegemite on whole wheat toast and possibly wondering if Smeagol was here would COVID have survived long enough to infect people (no, it would have died immediately in the slurperrific ranch, pepper and overripe tomatos that comprised his favorite snack, sitting with his legs open on a filthy couch and one oddly hairless ball hanging out of his banana hammock he wore on way too many occasions)</p><p>Well, Steve's on some bullshit.</p><p>So, what's happened over the past 6 years? </p><p>I got divorced, screwed most of her friends, then when that got boring, found new love, lost it, maybe kissed a hobo or 5, I dunno if I'll get into it, I need to talk about hookers.</p><p>We all love hookers - they provide an equitable service at an agreeable rate. They make sure corners look populated and their snooches leave fun snail like trails on park benches. It's a symbiotic relationship especially when there are so many very very strange and unwashed men needing the gentle and temporary touch of a woman.</p><p>But goddamn it. </p><p>Story #1: I was driving up Independence Avenue, taking a lovely young lady to my house. I was in THE FUCKING MIDDLE of telling her how nice the area actually was and that it gets a bad rap because it's in the inner city, when we stop at a stoplight. Across from us is a small group of vagabonds and assorted scoundrels standing in the parking lot of the liquor store. As all the cars come to a stop, this very large hooker, without breaking stride, lifts her sundress and shits on the sidewalk. Just goosh after goosh of Kentucky brown butter bake, plastering the yearning concrete in a cavalcade of brown miasma. No wipe, she just walks off. The young lady decides she will suck me off in the car and go home. I accept, and sadly look out the window as the deed is done. </p><p>Story #2: One of the hookers walking around is a man that is in varying stages of his transformation into a woman. He has a VERY nice body, with thick, voluptuous legs and what look like small breasts, the only indicator being his 5 o'clock shadow and thick cock he keeps trying to tuck under a loosely hanging shirt. Walking to the liquor store one evening as I need exercise, I see him walking down the alleyway with a few young whelps, and opine internally about how winter brings out young love. Attaining the few items I'd gone for, I start to walk back, and the scene behind that liquor store.... {shudder}</p><p>The hooker is being railed from behind while jerking a gentleman off and another is apparently going full hog on himshe's mouth. No real moans but lots of very excited yips and grunts and a very faint smell of unwashed booty and cigarette smoke emanates like sit down air through the alleyway and into my fucking unwilling nostrils. I watch, transfixed for a minute, realize I'm watching gay porn live, say "gross" not unlike Napoleon dynamite, and walk away, to the gentleman (after taking the dick out of his mouth) saying "Whatevah honey you'll be here for this back pussy tomorrow". I did not go back the next day. So.... </p><p>The final story ensues as thus: headed home, long night at work and teaching karate, go to turn and almost hit a hooker standing in the middle of a one lane street. She/It walks up to my open window and lifts it's dress, swooning "Haybabyyoulikedisshiiiiit" while showing me a very hairy, unwashed, possibly tooth having may-have-once-been-a-vagina. I lose my lunch, think about punching her and realize I'll catch something if I do and drive off. Get home and J-Dawg is on about some super hot hooker down the street and I almost throw up on his fucking shirt.</p><p>I'm not even going to pretend I plan on posting regularly, but until next time... SchlipSchlapSallyWhop Niggies</p>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-62478770579313387132014-12-19T07:20:00.001-08:002014-12-19T07:20:49.064-08:00Sadness<div>
Another gem, this one from 2010. I have a few more drafts, will post them then back to your previously scheduled shenaniganistas.<br />
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Sadness...</div>
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In lieu of your usual haikueygooeyness, I would like to post a poem by one of my favorite poets, Leon Phelps:</div>
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What is love? </div>
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What is this longing in our hearts for togetherness?</div>
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Is it not the sweetest flower? </div>
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Does not this flower of love have the fragrant aroma of fine fine dining?</div>
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Does not the wind love the dirt? Is not love not unlike the unlikly not it is unliking to?</div>
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Are you with someone tonight? Do not question your love. Take your lover by the hand. Release the power within yourself. You heard me release the power. </div>
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Tame the wild cosmos with a whisper. </div>
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Conquer heaven with one intimate caress. </div>
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Thats right, don't be shy, whip out everything you've got, and do it in da butt!!</div>
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BY LEON PHELPS!!</div>
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Sadness</div>
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Getting old is a sad time. Not in the trousers, since I seem to be only getting hornier at more and more inopportune times than I used to (sorry, Old Lady in Front of me at Walmart, that WASNT a garden hoe!), but in other ways. I used to be able to go to work, listen to Flanders or Crazy Eyed Santa for literally MINUTES at a time, go to karate, get home and masturbate furiously onto my neighbor's lawn (or my neighbor, whichever) and it was a good night. Hell, even last year I played football, did karate, and failed to satisfy my wife on a regular basis. I thought turning 30 would be the beginning of my drop off, little did I know how fast said drop off would hit.</div>
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Woke up this morning aching all over, annoyed at those damn kids outside at the bus stop yelling about some damn video game, and my pee came out in 3 streams instead of one. In my more youthful days, that meant chlamydia, but now it means sadness and olde age.... or chlamydia, I'm not a doctor.</div>
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Anyway, getting older seems to have some great benefits. You can be annoying as fuck, and no one can punch you in the face for it. Take Super Mario.</div>
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Super Mario is a fat guy with a delicious mustache at my dojo. He's a nice enough fella, easygoing and a great cook. Super Mario is also old. This comes into play OFTEN. He has roughly 493120894 ailments that he will list and describe anytime he has a chance to corner you. In my younger days, I was able to stand there and nod appreciatively. Now, I turn and walk away as he is talking because I realize as I get older there's no point in wasting my already shortened time on this earth listening to shit I don't feel like listening to. This stance also leads to less sexy time at home, but more satisfying quiet time for me.</div>
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Before I go on with why Super Mario annoys me sometimes, let me start by saying I like the man. He is not a no talent douchemeister like the majority of people are after pleasantries are exchanged and the real person comes out, and that is saying something in this day and age. But sometimes he annoys me so much I want to blowdry my sphincter with a rusty jackhammer instead of listening to his praddling abominations of conversation.</div>
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Yesterday, I am practicing kicking people in the face, and he comes up and says "Got a computer question for ya" and then just looks at me with an actually quite adorable grin on his face, I guess waiting for me to beg him to tell me his issue cause Lord knows I can't get enough computer work! After waiting with raised eyebrows I ask nicely "What the fuck is the problem get to it" and he looks like he is hurt, but goes on to tell me his issue which eludes me right now because I wasn't listening. Fine, I tell him to bring his machine in and I will take a gander at it. He takes "I will look at it" for "please tell me your issue 2 more times in the greatest detail you can muster as I try to walk away from you" and happily follows suit, peppering in new ailments (he comes to karate, and MUST line up ahead of me, but can't do any of the physical stuff, which is fine, but he sometimes makes a big deal about it, which is NOT fine) and how far he can lift his arm and what happened to his third ball and blah blah blah...</div>
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I mean honestly, I don't bore people with my myriad issues, or if I do I would hope they would tell me to shut the fuck up, why do people feel it is OK to tell me all about every problem they have? Is it the big nose? Do the Brown Bear eyes draw you into a false sense of security? I know I sound mean but after a while.... FUCK!</div>
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You know, reading my post over, I am sounding more and more like Smeagol. Maybe he had it right (in this regard). When someone started saying something he didn't want to hear, they got a "I don't wanna hear that shit" and he called them a bitch niggie and walked off. I used to think it was because he was a douche, and he was, but not for that. If you look over your life, try to think of all the times you had to stand there and listen to some ass-nugget tell you stories about their cat or their sciattica or their trip to Honduras or the time they got syphillis from fucking that dead midget, and add that shit up. That is wasted time. My New Year's Resolution is to let a little Smeagol shine through me in that respect. WHen someone starts telling me about their toe getting broken that one time they were eating a pickle and tripped over a curb, instead of relinquishing my soul to the utter depths of unfathomable annoyance, I am gonna take a "fuck that, bitch niggie" moment and tell them (nicely) to eat shit and die and walk off. Will it lead to awkward social situations? I would bet not, because I am also a large black man, so it is assumed I have a natural bad attitude and I have done little to nothing to dispel that ideal.</div>
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As to Super Mario, I also got told he is heavily addicted to porn, so maybe it won't be so bad, couldn't be worse than that time I tried to clean Smeag's computer off and it had been so heavily infested with hardcore porn it was almost unusable... we shall see.</div>
Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-3482121585166554302014-12-18T06:51:00.001-08:002014-12-18T06:51:20.723-08:00A Midsummer Nights Raptor<div>
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from the depths it came</div>
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Lands fall to plague before it</div>
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failure quells it's ire<br />
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EDITOR'S Note: These are drafts I wrote and never finished. I am going to post them because I'm lazy. You're welcome.</div>
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Ah Fall, that special time of year. Like the Brown Bear it is a time when the Stevester's thoughts and dreams take on a tender, softer appearance, for the time of hibernation is near, the Baconator has sated his hunger, and the air is crisp with the sweet smell of apples and pumpkin spice.</div>
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It is a different story for a certain wily raptor.</div>
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I am moving. I signed the paperwork, I got a place in Smithville that overlooks a pretty good-sized fishing pond (though with my incessant fear of fish that selling point was totally wasted on me) and is right off the town square, the final sign that I am moving up in the world. In a time honored tradition carried by my family for generations, instead of calling professional movers or renting a truck, I had planned on simply getting a caravan of my family together, and having them help me move with the promises of money, and then as tradition dictates never pay them. </div>
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"I thought this post was about Smeagol, I'ma stop reading right now, baby" you might be saying to yourself, playing funk guitar and eating exotic cheeses while riding a unicycle naked, but hear me out, I will get to that raptor soon enough.</div>
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I was wondering if I should invite that raptor along to help move. I know he would feel offended if he was not asked, which once he finds out I live closer to him might lead to even more thefts when he comes over, but the initial amount of stuff that would "disappear" during the move is going to be a big hit as well... .</div>
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Smeagol has a long history of stealing things or begging you into oblivion during moving. He is no longer allowed to help my aunt move as he stole stuff like soda and PS2 games from our 4 and 5 year old nephews (this is an allegation until I receive proof, but it IS kinda strange that he came up with some sweet new games that he claimed he "got from a pawn shop" soon thereafter. I know for a fact that when Smeagol enters a pawn shop they move right for the register because he only has one kind of business in a pawn shop and purchasing things is not it).</div>
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Of course he is not allowed to help my sister move, and I do not think my mom would allow him to help, either. </div>
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Another reason is he has the strength of an ape.....action figure from a GI Joe toy set. Remember when I told you he needed to put 2 pairs of socks on each hand and needed mover assist for tiny boxes? </div>
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On the other hand, Smeagol does have his strengths.If he has the idea that he can get more from you by not stealing, he will make sure everything you wanted to make the transition to your new home makes it there, with his raptor eyes of carnage. He will also tattle tale on anyone else who dares steal, even if he ends up stealing it soon thereafter. I dunno... should a brown bear trust a raptor? This is unprecedented.</div>
Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-924026993962786442014-12-16T14:53:00.001-08:002014-12-16T14:53:25.770-08:00random meander<br />
through an oft-filled clime<br />
great, now I got herps<br />
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I never finished my Rocksmith story I see, and maybe I'll do that one day... in the meantime;<br />
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I got a dog. A dog I fucking picked, not my wife. A dog I like, that is a man's dog, enormous in physical stature, but with no brain whatsoever. Observe:<br />
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So I was walking in to work 20 minutes late as usual (if I leave for work when I'm supposed to actually already be there I don't feel like I'm giving the muthafuckin man extra) and I notice there's a huge damn black dog leaning against the building in the breezeway, looking at me and wagging his tail hopefully. He's huge. For some reason, I'm not scared though, like Smeagol always was when the police got behind him or when some bitch niggie pulled up in a Mustang Dominator; sure, it didn't matter that he was in a 1992 Pontiac Grand Am with 200k miles on it, he was still gonna race, trust... he just knew he'd lose unless he REALLY slicked his hair back and clawed the wheel.<br />
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Anyway, people are wandering by and feeding this dog their lunches, which he gobbles up and then greedily keeps sitting there waiting for more, which should have been a red flag, but I'm fucking dumb. I call my wife and tell her there's a puppy that she needs to come get. She gets all excited like when I promised I'd watch Pretty Woman with her as long as she put out during the boring parts, but unlike that situation she did not leave unsatisfied and disappointed and wondering what I'd done to her credit.<br />
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She shows up, opens the door to get out, the dog jumps in the backseat and we now have a dog.<br />
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Couple weeks after we get him, we're making spaghetti with garlic bread. We put the industrial sized Country Crock butter up on the counter, and next to it a smaller 1lb tub of garlic butter. The dog (Link), is tall enough he can walk up to a counter and just take things off of it, but we assume since it's not meat, it's goddamned BUTTER, we'll be fine. At this point we learn a black lab/ Great Dane mix is a popular dog because they are super nice, but not super smart. I come downstairs a few minutes later to put stuff up, and the butter is gone. The 4 fucking pound tub, and the smaller 1 pound garlic butter tub.... gone. Link is sitting there like he has no idea what happened, but when you have a pure jet black dog with a large dollop of butter on his nose, you know what that asshole did.<br />
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Later that night, I'm on the computer in my room, and Link is doing his evening ritual of jumping around in a circle bucking his back legs out like a moron. All of a sudden he stops and looks at me. I just have enough time to turn and smile because he's adorable, and out comes 4 pounds of curdled warm butter and cat shit with pee flavored sprinkles on it, all over the carpet in the boys' room. We had to use a snow shovel to clean that shit up.<br />
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"Who gives a fuck about your fucking dog asshole where's the Smeagol stories" you may be saying aloud on a crowded bus, possibly while masturbating to a picture of Jeremy. Fuck you, asshole, but here is something I CAN offer you:<br />
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JJ has been complaining a little more than usual recently about Mystical's animal repository. I have some stories that I'll share at odd later dates, but suffice it to say she has too many animals. 8 cats, to be particular. They have odd fucking names like Sir Sergio Villalobos, Duke of Espanoza, and other random fucked up names. Has anyone ever called a cat and had the little shiteater turn and recognize their name? No? Dogs know their names. They don't know anything else, like "heel", "fetch", or "eat this peanut butter real slow", but they know their names. Cats do not, which is another reason they are stupid. But I digress.<br />
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Anyway, to hear JJ tell it, these cats run the fucking house: they constantly throw up, piss or shit wherever they damn well please, everyone is expected to know their names and give up their seats for them, and Mystical has these intricate back stories for each one. In very short form, I offer my favorite:<br />
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One of her cats, Sergio Jr., got out. This is cause for concern. For a week on Facebook she wrote these long, inane, incoherent diatribes about how Jesus and her favorite band are working to bring her damn cat home, and that it is a test by both of them to see how resolute she is and it's all to do with Mercury being in retrograde and I have no fucking idea. 7... fucking... days... of these long, LONGER THAN MY POSTS rants about this fucking cat. Finally JJ goes into the backyard and sees him, he runs from him and Mystical eyes him on the front porch. That night, after profusely thanking both Jeebus and Band Which Shall Not Be Named, she says she picked Sergio up off the porch, and whispered a prayer and then the name of the band into his ear, and he looked at her with solemn eyes as if to say: "I know"...<br />
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WTF. No, he fucking didn't. The cat wanted food, and was willing to reenter the abbatoir of fucking doom to get food. He didn't care about your random prayers. He doesn't care who your favorite band is. He didn't come back because the new album was coming out. He was goddamned hungry and that's all that mattered. He had a choice to make: fillet and eat my own asshole or go listen to the same CD every day all day for the rest of my days but get fed. For now... he chose the latter.Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-76897470523208742922013-04-02T14:56:00.000-07:002013-04-02T14:56:00.208-07:00Let a bird go free<br />
and if it returns to you<br />
make it your dinner<br />
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Been a while, bitches, but I'm back. Smeagol is never going to be that raptor we know and love again, but maybe that's OK. He is still an asshole, so at least SOME of him is back...<br />
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Went to go see him with Mystical Retard, and he sees me and his eyes lit up and his thong constricted (gross), so I knew he was happy to see me. He then sees Mystical, and in his now-slurred speech says, clear as day, "Fuck off bitch!" If he had thrown a "niggie" at the end I would have giggled like a schoolgirl. In case you were wondering what a raptor's mother had to do to get his ire, wonder no more. She immediately started poking, prodding, looking at his weiner, just fuckin with him. "It's OK, I'm his mammy" she said while unceremoniously sticking a finger in his too-slow-to-stop-it clenching ass cheeks... if I ever get to that point I want to be put out of my misery.<br />
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Mystical is getting weirder and weirder. When Mercury goes into retrograde, a kind of pall of mysticism comes over her that makes what she says even MORE incompre-fuckin-hensible, and she already says shit so weird it makes you want to jam a cork up your ass after drinking a quart of laxatives.<br />
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Sometimes I feel bad for JJ as he is still living with them, as he gets to bear the brunt of the insanity. Mystical is an avid user of Facebook, and posts these diatribes that, if you understood what you were reading, would be the most inappropriate shit this side of a Caligula-style orgy. Every post has to do with hot lube and balls slapping asses and all manner of reference to her favorite band, who I won't give press to by mentioning their names but is your typical average to slightly above average alt rock garage band setups...<br />
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I'm going to go see Smeagol soon, but I can't bring myself to go alone. Not yet. I was actually in the neighborhood, and thought I'd share why, and didn't go by there...<br />
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ROCKSMITH<br />
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So I wanted to play Rocksmith. Here is a short story to show that if I had not been a cheap sack of shit I would have gotten the game for 40 dollars and a guitar for 19 and been playing it.<br />
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Starting price - $0.00<br />
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So, I went looking for the game, and see it's 39.99 at Ebgames. Im too cheap to pay 39.99. A little looking and I see the same game for 13.49 on Steam. Bazinga! I buy and download it.<br />
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Cost - 13.49<br />
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Well, Rocksmith is that game where you plug your REAL guitar into your game console with the SUPPLIED FUCKING SHIT CABLE. Guess what does NOT come with the Steam download??? You guessed it! A little looking and I see a cable for.... drumroll please... 29.99. with 7 dollar shipping.<br />
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Cost - 50.48<br />
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Fuck.<br />
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I wait patiently for a week and get the damn cable. Shows up, I plug it in... and nothing. Guess what? The plug does not work on my Windows XP computer!!! Awesome!<br />
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I figure I will go get a pickup for my acoustic guitar instead of buying a new one and start downloading the game to my laptop.<br />
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I see a story online where a guy got a pickup for 40 dollars so I assume I will only have to spend 10. The cheapest pickup I find is 86.00 fucking asshole dollars. Fuck that.<br />
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A quick search on Craigslist shows that there's a guy living 3 blocks over who would love to suck my cock, and also there's a couple really cheap guitars. The cock sucking guy does NOT have a guitar.<br />
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After seeing the cock guy I go back and there is a real cheap electric kids guitar for 25 dollars. It's pink. Fuck it, it's a game controller at this point so I tell the guy I'll be right there. I get there, he sold it. While trying not to shart in my car in his driveway I check craigslist on my phone, and there's another guitar 5 blocks from where Smeagol is for 40 dollars. The next day after work I run out to get it....<br />
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To be continued (I'm lazy, dammit)Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-78429458138133101472011-08-26T07:39:00.000-07:002011-08-26T08:47:51.738-07:00The NinjaThong entanglement
<br />claims the lives of thousands daily
<br />get yourself checked out
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<br />So.... wow... it's been a while. Whats happened? Smeagol is in and out of the hospital and the nursing home, my sister said he is doing better but I haven't been to see him, and by "doing better" she means he tries to feel the ladies up while calling them names, and if that's the case I can only assume he will be released soon, which should kick assholes.
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<br />I also got my 4th degree blackbelt, which is cool, I guess, kinda made me wonder though: What more do I need to learn in order to defend myself? I always tell people "If all you want to do is defend yourself in your typical bathroom brawl (where all the fights I have ever been in have occured, the line to be first at the glory hole brings out the ugliest in all of us) you really only need to get to yellow or green belt. Anything past that is A) overkill, B) indication that you wish to become Chuck Norris, or C) a sign that you have an unhealthy addiction. To punching people. In the taint.
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<br />I'm still being asked to dress up in all manner of more and more inappropriate outfits, if you have seen my Elvis costume (or the honeybee, or the tutu, or the sugar plum fairy, or the Richard Simmons, or that time I showed up nude after eating 3 viagras) then you know the I no longer have any dignity, self respect, or spine. I wonder if anyone is still surprised since I dress up for all occasions, be they retirements, bar mitzvahs, interventions, or episodes of hoarding (by the way, does that show put your cluttered house into perspective or what???)
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<br />My mom's still crazy as all shitfuck, which is OK because we all love her, but her fascination/ stalking of all things Evan's Blue is getting a little out of hand. I mean REALLY out of hand...
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<br />My mom loves Evan's Blue. She loves them in the ass. This has led to a lot of consternation in her house, as because SHE loves them, then everyone else must. That includes, but is not limited to:
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<br />Concerts: My dad has come home from work to see her sitting on the front steps with a packed bag, and learned she bought tickets to a concert in Rockford that starts in 5 hours. This has happened more than once.
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<br />CDs: This has been my greatest annoyance. Mystical asked me to burn some Evans CDs. I did so, and gave them to her. She then called me 3 FUCKIN DAYS later to inform me she had listened to the CDs so much they melted, and could I burn a couple copies of the CDs now? I made 5 a piece. What the hell. What....the.....FUUUUUUCK. I love my mom, but seriously, how fucking annoying is it to be at home, excited because you're alone so you decide to jack one while watching Teen Wolf (don't judge), and then you get a phone call because Mercury is in Retrograde and Andromidus-Persei VIII is orbiting .666 million parsecs from Ganymede and so all of the cds she was listening to spontaneously combusted and turned into little butterflies, VAMPIRE butterflies with an unquenchable bloodlust and a natural exoskeleton that did 1D4 hit dice of mana damage whenever they cast Shocking Ray due to their Charisma modifiers, and could I burn 48390284 more so she could have them last 2 days?
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<br />Goofy Videos: I thought these were great, but JJ and Toboggan had these looks.... I know I am going to take flak for this, because I have never said anything inappropriate before, but they looked like 2 poor, starving, beaten down Jewish people in a concentration camp, just without the hope. I was asked to come down and film a short video of her that she is on a "very strict deadline" to make for them. I get there, and it's hilarious, she knows all the words, there's takes, she has to take a moment to get into character, the works. JJ is standing there with this most godawful look on his face, which only makes it funnier. In the video she wants at random times for a little doll to be thrust into the foreground of the camera, and this job was given to JJ. The fact that he was genuinely and demonstrably annoyed, coupled with the fact that he had apparently done it so many times he knew EXACTLY when to do it, and did so with so little gusto I assumed he was atrophied, meant this was not his first rodeo. I still have the video if you're interested.
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<br />Facebook: O....M.....F.....S.....G... (Oh My Fucking Shitfuck Gonads)... Mystical loves her some Facebook. First thing's first: A status is just that... a one sentence fucking STATUS. Her statuses (statii? Statutory rape?) are epic diatribes written in the 5th person by the acclaimed Viking berzerker Kraag the Unfettered, high ruler of Valeria in the Upper Danish Norsk region of the 3rd century, beater of all manner of Beast, killer of Beowulf, and hi ruler of Zamunda. I mean seriously, some of these statuses are 4 paragraphs long, and by "paragraph" I mean a huge 300 word fucking block of text that no one can possibly read or comprehend. I am now positive she is using code like those Windtalkers in WWII to send nuclear secrets to Krsyphillistan. She also has friended random people at my job, which lead to the inevitable "Hey dude your mom friended me, now I'm gonna pound her in the browniehole" remarks. OK maybe he didn't make those remarks but I would if I was him and that's just weird. Haven't I been through enough? I worked with someone who had seen and possibly stuffed money into her unobstructed smelly hairhole at one point, I assumed it could not get any worse but it could. If Tylester befriends her, I must then kill myself.
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<br />Anyway, don't hold your breath for updates, I am not going to post too regularly, or when I do I might post 3 times in one day, though I haven't done anything 3 times in one day since my wife took the kids to the ozarks and I found out the playboy channel had free previews. Zing!
<br />Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-23333026401701418972011-03-11T08:55:00.000-08:002011-03-11T08:57:30.275-08:00The DMV. Fuck you.<div>The DMV. Fuck you.</div><div><br /></div><div>people in line, pissed</div><div>wond'ring why it takes so long</div><div>to get turned away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fuck the DMV. Fuck it in the ass. Do not use lube. Do not give it a reacharound. It is the skidmark of all society. It is the reason state workers are hated. It is the Mordor of all beauracracy. It is shit.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's what I wanted to use as my haiku but could not find a way to limit it to the correct format.</div><div><br /></div><div>So last year my license expired. I didn't realize it. Before it had expired I got a couple of tickets for doing 70 in a 40 and for failure to provide insurance (I have insurance, the paperwork was a week expired and I had not printed up my new cards yet). Please keep these 2 seemingly unrelated facts in mind as you read my lamentations.</div><div><br /></div><div>I finally realize my license is expired and mosey on down to the Gladstone Drivers License Bureau to renew it, thinking I will simply have to pay a fine. By the way do you know what they call Gladstone? "Happy Rock". In all my dealings with the police there I think I know why it was named that. In 1847 It was the town of Inbred McRacistville, completely indistinguishable from any other town in Norther Missouri. Otis Jenkins III, a young black man, was caught making eye contact with the wagon wheel of the local sheriff, Adolf "Niggerhater" McNazi (no relation), and as was common practice back then, was fired upon with all manner of shotgun, rifle, and slingshot loaded wooden dildos. Being black, Otis easily jive danced his way Matrix-style around all of the projectiles, adding to the consternation of the townspeople, until one young man, Silas Gibson, picked up a random rock and threw it, hitting young Jackson right in his fuckin' eye and taking him down. At the fair trial/ hanging later on that morning, The judge praised young Silas, calling him a Lethal Weapon, keeping young Jackson from holding the town Ransom, and how he had such a Braveheart (do you see the picture I am painting here???) and officially renaming the town to Gladstone to commemorate such a happy occasion. The police there hold that brave tradition to this day, in ways I will be happy to elaborate on, though they oppress anyone who is poor just as much.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I go get in line, sit down and look at some porn on my Android tablet, showing some sweet split hairy beaver pics to the 6 year old young man sitting next to me (hey, he's gonna see it soon anyway), until my number is called. Before I get into the raging shitstorm that is the DMV, let me ask a few rhetorical questions:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. What the FUCK takes so goddamn long?! I give you a paper with a number on it. You stick it up your ass and then type my name in your computer. The computer says pay, and I do. DONE.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Why do they have 5 booths for DMV, 3 for drivers license and alt vehicle shit, and the DMV ones have 1 fuckin person working while the others have 2 people per station? Is it THAT complicated to give me a tag for my boat?</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Why do they go on break 3 times per hour? </div><div><br /></div><div>4. Canada...please explain.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I head on up, politely throw my paperwork at the lady and scowl at her for wasting my time. 11 minutes of random typing and looking at the sheaf of docucrap I had to bring and she asks what my name is. WTF?! You can't tell who I am from my old drivers license, my registration, title, stool sample and VD card? (Hepatitis free since 2008!) I answer her stupid questions, and she informs me after wasting 20 minutes of my time after having me wait 45 minutes to talk to her by telling me I need my birth certificate. Why. Why do you fucking need that. There's no reason I can think of that my birth certificate would be needed. Also why can I not get that there? Why do I have to drive ACROSS town to get that, then to fucking shithole ass Liberty to pay property tax, but oh shit I lived in Platte County for 11 minutes so now I have to go to Platte City, it's no wonder people drive unlicensed or while suspended: they aren't criminals, they have NO idea how to maneuver through the shithole of a system we have in order to get their licenses so must spend their lives in a kind of purgatory for all eternity, being constantly harrassed and annoyed by all manner of douchebaggery both real and imagined, crying softly into their pillows as the Man gently thrusts his police baton into their....whoa. Sorry about that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, long story slightly shorter, I go get my damn birth certificate, which now proves I was born in 'Murrica. Wait another 30 minutes, get the SAME FUCKING LADY who takes my shit, and starts going through it like she has never seen it before. Get all that done and....no license. I have warrants. I must pay compliance. </div><div><br /></div><div>OK, I am going to take a little blame here. I got the tickets, the police officer informed me while sprinkling crack in my car that I could mail the money for the ticket in, and I would get a court date in the mail for the insurance. Fine. I will readily admit I threw the ticket on the counter when I got home and promptly forgot about it. I will say I NEVER got a court date for the other, and I told the lady this. She looked at my license and it had my old address. I TOLD the cop my new one. How do police ever catch criminals? This is mind boggling. I got the ticket in August of last year, and it's February. No one bothered to contact me or look for me or arrest me for 5 months?! She says maybe the ticket was sent to my old address but it's still my fault for not showing up to court. Not sure what kind of sense that makes. I head to the police station to pay "compliance", which turns out to be "All my fucking money I got back from taxes". THis takes the rest of the day as apparently while it is easy to book someone IN, getting them back OUT of jail is a lot more time consuming. </div><div><br /></div><div>THe next day (this is day 3 of the saga, day 2 was spent running around getting documents) I head to the DMV again, wait in line, and give the lady the compliance. She takes my picture and I wait for 20 minutes to get my license. SHe calls me up and guess what? I have to go to court on one of those now. Awesome. I head down to the KC municipal court, wait in ANOTHER line for a little over an hour, listening to the people there talk proudly about how many times they have waited in that same line and telling me tips and interesting facts about the tellers ("Tracy there is faster but she just broke up with her boyfriend T-Dawg so she is not thinkin' real clear, Olga is slow as shit and she's on her period"...), all of which I ignore because I don't like black people. I get to the front of the line, the FUCKING network goes down. AS I am walking up. For all but ONE computer. In a line I am not in. I shit you not. </div><div><br /></div><div>Wait in the other line for another hour, get to the front and they stamp "Compliance" on my paid tickets, I head up to court which is thankfully quick and then head back to the DMV. This is where the story SHOULD end. It does not.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get there, there is a skinny black guy there now. Being black myself, I assume he will quickly process my paperwork because we have something in common. This does not happen. After the requisite Jive Handshake we all know he prints up my license after looking all my paperwork over, and then quickly picks up the phone and whispers into it for 4 minutes. WTH now? Well apparently I paid compliance to the police but I have to pay all manner of fees to reinstate my license. Fine, whatever - at this point I have spent a little over 600 fucking dollars to get my license. He takes the money, PRINTS UP MY LICENSE, types something in the computer, and then puts my license under his desk. I politely ask him WTF he did that for in a menacing tone and he informs me that they don't process payments for 24 hours just to make sure the payment clears the bank. I counter with while that is a sound business practice I paid him in CASH. He informs me that be that as it may they can't change the rules for one person otherwise anarchy would ensue and undead zombie kittens driving German panzer tanks would duct tape us to the floor and use our nipples as catnip while a morbidly obese man takes a shit on our chests and Muslims would take over the country all because he bended the rules for me. Whatever, I leave.</div><div><br /></div><div>2 days later, after I go to court on the insurance ticket, I go back to get my license, and the same guy informs me that they are going to put my license in the mail, and that they STILL haven't processed my paperwork yet, because they are backed up. This boggles my mind, because that implies this is a daily occurence, and if so why is no one else complaining? Because they are still in line, that's why! He says my license will come "in a few days" and he's oh so sorry about all that. I can come back when the payment clears and get a duplicate for 12 more dollars if I like. I storm out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Long story short, after waiting a week I go get a duplicate. Same guy tells me according to their records they sent my license out that morning, do I really want a dupe? Seriously....What....the.....Fuck. Never have I wanted to study bomb-making or just get a large car and bulldoze a building more. Putting up a NAMBLA Pedophiliac Drive-Thru would be a better use of a building than having a DMV there. Shoving my arm full force up an animals ass and unblocking it's impacted colon while it shits down my arm and into my shirt would be better than going through this process again. </div><div><br /></div><div>Epilogue, still waiting on the original license they mailed out February 18...</div><div><br /></div><div>What else....today is Smeagol's birthday, in honor of such a day I am going to the hospital to watch either Black Dynamite or MacGruber with him, well wishes are welcomed, insults will be rebuked with photos of Jeremy.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-32578203293945030792010-11-16T06:15:00.000-08:002010-11-16T06:53:14.100-08:00Ridicula.damn you homeless guy<div>why do I even bother</div><div>you shit on my tire</div><div><br /></div><div>First, before I begin, if you haven't already gotten it, At Home by Bill Bryson is one of the most interesting, thought provoking, fantastically chock full of useless facts that will annoy people and bring out your inner elitist books I have ever read. It really is fantastic, it's a history of the home and how it has evolved over the millenia, from the lowly bus station skank, to the high class, sophisticated, Fifth Avenue, bus station skank.</div><div><br /></div><div>Smeagol update: Well kids, he's doing better, but still not to his normal self. He talks at about half speed, and moves like he is in water.... I'm not going to lie, it hurts to be there and see someone you love and who owes money to you going through that. Am I EVER going to get my 10 dollars back? All jokes aside, he is displaying glimpses of his old self, as when I guess Mystery got a ride from her mom's house 120 miles away, and he told her to get the hell out of his room as he had just woke up and didn't want to see that shit. Classy times. I am torn between forgetting about the past and feeling sorry for him because no one deserves what happened to him and wondering how much of this is karma and could have been avoided with one trip to the doctor's office, or, you know, asking someone at WORK because he works in the medical field. I do know Thanksgiving will not be the same without him... not looking good for him being able to make it out by then...</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, on to other things. I recently picked up one of those Chinese knockoff ipads, and am pleased to say that for only 100 dollars you can safely rub one out to some bondage goat porn as they surf the web at a pretty decent clip! I also like letting people check it out then tell them I only really use it on the can after they touch it and lick their fingers. I do that because I am a classy guy, and because 80% of the time I am using it I AM on the can, so there's that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoodles, we took the kids around for Halloween recently, and it led to some observations, observations I would like to share with you:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. The child molesters that are not allowed to participate, do you think they are jacking off while looking out their curtains? Like I do when old ladies walk their dogs by my house? Well I'm not behind the curtains but still...</div><div><br /></div><div>2. How fucking lazy have kids gotten? I remember when I was a lad we got dressed up, Mystical and Toboggan would drop us off at Mr. Z's on 39th and Volker Boulevard in Westport, and told us they would be back at 1030. We usually got dropped off at about 6. Smeagol was told to watch over us, so naturally as soon as the car pulled off he would tell us to go fuck ourselves, take what little candy we had started out with and run off with his buddies, probably to assault another wino who was just down on his luck.</div><div><br /></div><div>We would walk ALL over Westport, and this was the 80s, when 3 out of 5 houses looked creepy anyway because back then the weird molester look was in for some reason, or maybe we were infested with the back then, I dunno... houses without lights on, fuck it we didn't care... and every once in awhile Smeags would come by, assault us and relieve us of our bounty, and disappear again. I miss those simpler times...</div><div><br /></div><div>We get outside, and first, about every 7 out of 10 kids is getting DRIVEN from house to house by their cell phone yakkin moms, almost running us over and glaring at us when they have to stop talking long enough to apply the breaks..... WTF?! is it really that taxing on your fat ass to get out and walk around for 20 minutes?! </div><div>Fuck!</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, kids are fucking lazy too.... my jizz-spawn walked around 2 fucking blocks and then started whining about being tired and could carry them. ?! I mean I thought I was a lazy shitsniffer because I would get tired before we made it to Gennessee, thinking back that was almost 2 miles in... I know, I know, I am old now because I am whining about how it used to be, but shit!</div><div><br /></div><div>And the trust thing... we get home, I take my thong and nipple clamps off, the kids are already balls deep in candy, candy that could have razors or jizz or arsenic in it, I thought that was a well known tradition: wait until the parents check it and take all the good candy. It's a tradition passed down for generations, yo!</div><div><br /></div><div>I recently had to have "the talk" with my oldest. How awkward can things get? Try explaining to your kid that if he plans to rub one out make sure he erases the history and uses a laptop so I don't have to walk in on him. Funny side fact: after we got done talking, later on that night, one of the checkout laptops was gone and he was downstairs. I had already heard that he was on some Harry Potter site but told the wife he was rubbing it out to necro porn. She was less than impressed both with my knowledge of the various types of porn but with my insinuation that our kid liked seeing dead people ravaged, but you know, fuck it if people can't take a joke.</div><div><br /></div><div>So that's about it for now, I will be uploading my elvis pictures on facebook soon and will post some in here as well, I ought to start a business or something, I may have found my calling.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-61256251031343968472010-05-19T15:59:00.000-07:002010-05-19T17:03:09.367-07:00Karma.trachea cock storm<br />testingtest out the throat with flesh probe<br />prison love is back<br /><br />It's been a while.<br /><br />I had hoped I would never have to write this post, that by the time it became apparent this post would be needed it would be ok, or even wanted; that hasn't happened.<br /><br />If you came here looking for giggles and laughs, I point you to the online photos of my genitalia.<br /><br />Since you all know him mostly (only) as Smeagol, I will continue to refer to him as such.<br /><br />Make no mistake, all I have written on him is true, and no amount of sepia toned glasses or fond remembrance will fix that; he has always been, and hopefully will continue to be, a self centered, self absorbed, womanizing, jail-going raptor of the highest caliber... but things have changed.<br /><br />Let me start from the beginning.<br /><br />Last year, apparently around August, Smeagol got into a car accident. I was not aware of this. In this car accident he apparently cut his foot up pretty bad. As a diabetic, any fucking shit-flinging retard would go to the local hospital and get immediately checked out. Being in the medical profession, you would naturally assume Smeagol would know this. Working in various nursing homes and being summarily dominated in all manner of fisticuffs by sundry old people who also have diabetes and all manner of complications from the disease coursing through their veins and causing issues like an unstoppable rebel force, you would also with a certainty think that wily raptor would have the presence of mind to get his dumb ass checked out.<br /><br />He didn't.<br /><br />Apparently, the rapid swelling, lack up unswelling, turning purple, smelling worse than his thong, or seepage from open sores 7 months later did little to deter him from seeking help. The horrible cacaphony of his coughing and hacking that I made fun of that has gotten worse over the recent 7 or 8 months has also not clued him in that something was possibly wrong.<br /><br />This takes us to about 3 weeks ago. Smeagol caught a most terrible fever, I mean 104+... he was taken to Truman Medical Center.<br /><br />Truman Medical Center, if you are not in the know, is well known as the only place you can go and die from a runny nose. My favorite (true) story is when I was going to Northeast, a ghetto school, I went there to get a sports physical for football. During said physical, the doctor looked more and more confused, and at what I will call the low point not only for the physical but for my illustrious career as a heterosexual male, I had to instruct the gentleman to touch my balls for the hernia test. Thankfully he looked both surprised and dismayed at this prospective idea.<br /><br />Anyway, TMC is also known as the best place in the region if you have to go to ICU, depending on whom you talk to (certainly not JJ, who got shot in the leg and received gauze and a band aid). It was to this ward that our intrepid hero was taken.<br /><br />Long story short, I got a call at work (completely unaware any of the previous story had occured) and am informed that Smeagol was at the hospital, and that he had for all intents and purposes, gangrene. I rushed to the hospital, hoping that since they had never worked on a live raptor, that they were wrong in their deduction that they would have to amputate his foot.<br /><br />You read that right. They were going to amputate Smeagol's foot.<br /><br />I rushed to the hospital, and was completely and totally shocked. What I had assumed I would find was Mystical, maybe Toboggan, JJ possibly, but that was it. What I found, was the entire clan, all huddled in the waiting room, more than 15 people waiting to talk to that crazy raptor... aunts, uncles, his real dad, my sister... I waited my turn and went in.<br /><br />What struck me first off was that my sister and mom were being unnaturally caring, and I remember my first reaction being "I hope this never happens to me" because I hate hugs and compliments and handjobs (unless they are free) (for the record the handjob part I just wanted to throw in there). Smeagol was completely loopy, his voice had risen another octave, his eyes were glazed over and he was absolutely giddy. I instantly felt embarrassed for him and saddened that it had come this far. Mystical kept lifting his sheet to look at his junk, and tried to show it to me, and luckily I was able to turn away each time. I also saw his foot, which was almost 3 times larger than his other one...Fuck, dude.<br /><br />I will try to finish this sage tomorrow, the writing helps take the focus off of what is happening right now... I know it sounds like I am having fun and enjoying all manner of debauchery, but I'm not. I am not an emotional man, I don't cry or feel sadness or pain (because I'm not gay), but I'm not going to lie it hurts. RIght now Smeagol is on a ventilator, after blood poisoning which had been left free to multiply for 8 months had made it into his lungs caused complications after his lower leg was amputated and caused him to fucking die for a minute or so, and the doctors (I at first wrote "coctors" and thought about leaving it) brought him back and have been trying to revive him to no avail... and are wanting to meet with the family to talk about options.<br /><br />I am putting this down for posterity, and like I said it is not a funny post but one I feel needs to be made...<br /><br />Will the posts stop? No, as soon as we get something worked out they will continue.<br />Will the posts about Smeagol stop? No, he would disapprove of us being all nice and lovey dovey now...<br /><br />Anyway, that's whats going on here.<br /><br />Oh, I forgot, I play 8 man outdoor football for the Missouri Mustangs. We are 7-0 right now, and our last game of the season is this Saturday, then we have the "playoffs" and the "Superbowl"... stay tuned, I will post pix of that, my newest retarded outfit I wore to work, and more later... honestly I just don't feel like it right now.Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-71277788373448755152010-03-16T21:34:00.000-07:002010-03-16T21:55:20.666-07:00Food poisoning...at the hands of the Mexican tamale vendorbursts forth from cocoon,<br />new wings drink in fresh spring air<br />the raptor is back<br /><br />Confluence.<br /><br />The raptor sat in the darkened room, pondering; no, plotting his next move. How had the world turned it's back on him in his hour of need after all he had done? Had the adversity of his ever full <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">flagon</span> of failure not brought about a togetherness that had united a once greatly and deeply divided populace? How dare they attempt to eradicate that which will not be eradicated!<br /><br />He grunted hard as he squatted over his raptor litter box, his acidic waste, from all of the 30 day old Taco Bell and Kim Chi burning like acid as it melted through the freshly shredded activated credit cards. Oh they thought they had beaten him, but he would be back.<br /><br />It had started out such a mundane affair: He had asked that whelp <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">JJ</span> if perhaps he could "Pay you to lick on your honey's pussy a little bit <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">niggie</span>", and had been laughed at. By golly he wasn't going to take constantly being declined the sloppy seconds he so desperately needed to regain his full power so blithely!<br /><br />He had gotten into his new car, a Ford Explorer with no door handles running on poorly photocopied temporary tags, purchased from the fine automakers on 44<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Troost</span>, just like all the other cars he had bought, and decided the town, like a coveted piece of candy in an infant's hand, was his for the taking (negating the fact that those damn infants usually defeated him in unarmed combat on a regular basis)! He hardly noticed that he has physically pumped his fist and muttered an evil laugh as he drove away, a faint unpleasant odor, stopped up toilet and wafting sounds of Wham!'s "Jitterbug" the only sign he had even been there, and went to the finest restaurant in Kansas City, nay in the world: The tamale vendor outside U-Wrench-It.<br /><br />Purchasing a few tamales with his hard earned monies form all that booty ass overtime he worked assaulting the infirm, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Smeagol</span> sat in his car to think about how he would reclaim the world that had so wrongly been stolen from him in the Middle <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tyme</span>, when he was promised a partnership in ruling the world if only he would cast out the dragon-folk of Middle <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Uberion</span> with his flaming +4 Cloak of Enfeebling Failure, which had like a +50 instant <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">mana</span> burn and took strength, constitution and Dexterity down even lower than that of a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">halfling</span>. Believing the Fabled King Arthur was nowhere near as crafty as he, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Smeagol</span> had cast his cloak about, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">whomping</span> up on those bitch motherfuckers with extreme rage <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">niggie</span>. The devastation would cause the very Earth to cry over the deep chasm the cloak had created, pulling the dragons and valiant <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Orc</span>-trolls into what we now know as the Marianas Trench.<br /><br />But treachery had been afoot. The fiend Arthur had tricked <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Smeagol</span>, had stolen his <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">preciousssss</span>.... his Rent-a-center Preferred awards card, and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Smeagol</span> had been cast out of Upper <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ilyarnikka</span> into the dungeons of his own lair, never to see the light of day again. A seal of valid credit cards, approved credit applications and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Runestone</span> holding the spell 'Bob' had sealed him to his fate.<br /><br />But the economy had failed, and the cards and apps had disappeared, weakening the barrier, and finally the foolish <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tylester</span> of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kansa</span> had spoken the name Bob, freeing <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">Smeagol</span> from his dungeon to wreak havoc upon an unsuspecting world, and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">thats</span> what he would have done right after his nap, but then it happened: what he had assumed was another <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">innertube</span> of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">poopy</span> had in reality turned out to be food poisoning from the tamales, and since failure had permeated his very being, there were no longer defenses to keep the poison from attacking his frail body like an unstoppable rebel force. Would this be the end of the Raptor's siren song?<br /><br />No....Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-87017937316787096572010-02-07T15:34:00.000-08:002010-02-07T15:51:40.484-08:00Old people should be exterminatedSuper Bowl is on<br />Smeagol's out of hospital<br />world back in balance<br /><br />So as none of you know Smeagol was recently in the hospital for food poisoning. I will post more on that later. Tonight I have a more pressing topic.<br /><br />I don't normally have any problems with old people. They smell funny, want to talk way too much and constantly want to tell long boring stories with no discernable start, end or plot; in this way they are not unlike women. Women, though, make up for all of this by having breasts and vaginas. Old people, not as much.<br /><br />"Why are you tanking on old people Stevester?" You may be asking, or not, I don't care I am going to tell you wither way: Tonight, I was on my way home from football practice. It was freezing cold, I was dead tired, my car smelled funny because of all the intermingled sweat from myself and numerous dudes, and I wanted to hurry home to watch the Super Bowl.<br /><br />I pull up to the intersection of Kansas and Ridge in Liberty, and watch, dumbfounded, as this old fucker pulls his crown Vic out and sideswipes me. As if that's not bad enough, this no talent asshat fuckin drives off! As annoying as the prospect is, I follow him a little ways, and a police car that had been sitting at the top of the hill pulls out between us. For the first time in my life, I am glad to see the police, as I really don't want to kick some old guys ass, or have some old guy kick mine. I follow, a smug little smile on my face, and watch as a block later the officer turns right.<br /><br />I now have a choiceL follow the old guy farther into the depths of Liberty, and risk running into Flanders, or follow the officer and see what the fuck is his problem. I, like a retard, choose the latter. I turn and follow the officer, flashing my lights and honking my horn, and he speeds up and leaves me, thus ending any hope I had of for one sticking it to the man.<br /><br />This leads, and gives further credence to, my idea that all old people, once retired, should be humanely exterminated, by making them dig a grave and then humanely feeding them through a rusty woodchipper into said grave. I know some of you out there are gonna wine about my idea, but seriously, that motherfucker never even looked around at me after he hit me, and that's not the first time some old shitfucker has hit or almost hit me and then just drove off.<br /><br />Old people feel like just because they are too old to be of use, that it gives them wanton license to:<br /><br />1. Steal<br />2. Make everyone feel guilty<br />3. talk too much<br />4. clog up roads, supermarket lanes, restrooms with their inane chatter and funny smells<br />5. talk to you in the gym while completely naked (seriously?! no one wants to see your saggy ass old balls)<br />6. Hit people in their fuckin 1994 Dodge Shadow then drive off<br />7. Wear weird clothes<br />8. Be old<br /><br />I think I have made my case here. That is all.Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-56634228032999053452010-01-16T12:08:00.000-08:002010-01-16T12:22:43.697-08:00Smeagol.The time has now come<br />For Smeagol to take his place<br />As king of Raptors<br /><br />...blah blah blah "something about posting more" blah blah...<br /><br />Your raptor, whom you all know, love and look down to, is at it again.<br /><br />"Has he been arrested?" Will may ask...<br /><br />"Who are you again?" Derka must be musing...<br /><br />"I'm so tired... bitch niggie" Tylester may be moaning, spread eagle on his bed with a 3 liter of urine next to him...<br /><br />But you are all wrong (and I'm hurt that SOMEONE forgot to give their old pal Stevester a login to their site, I promise I wont send you Jeremy pics anymore!)<br /><br />Smeagol had apparently moved back in full time with Mystical, thus ensuring I shall never run out of stories again.<br /><br />Apparently, his short-lived love affair with the young lady who once took 5 cocks in one night (no none of them mine, that woulda been more like 5 1/2) was unreposed, and she told him he could no longer stay with her during the work week and lap up other gentlemen's love milk or whatever he was doing.<br /><br />So far he has gotten in trouble numerous times for stopping the toilet up, been caught in everyone's bed wearing his gentle thong and... even less (my favorite story is when JJ's girlfriend called him into the room and was standing there laughing at Smeagol's saggy little balls whole they rested unceremoniously on JJ's pillow, great times)... and Toboggan has had the thankless job of picking up and dropping off said raptor every day so he can work booty ass overtime and not pay any bills or rent.<br /><br />JJ got a job at the corner liquor store, which stereotypically is owned by Koreans. Those who know Smeagol will know where this story is going, but dont ruin it yet... Koreans make kim chi, and Smeagol is aware of this. The first time JJ allowed Smeagol to come up to the liquor store to get "a little" kim chi, Smeagol ended up eating the whole pot, and helping himself to many sundry items that were deemed unfit to sell as they had come into contact with a raptor. More stories on that to come.<br /><br />Also of note is when I was telling the Tylester about the time when Toboggan Boy would cry on the couch about how he desperately needed pussy, and who should come to his rescue but Smeagol, gently patting his back and telling him "don't worry, you'll get some" and the new twist on that story that has occured recently. Also there's the fact the Mystery is still in the apartment deemed not fit for a raptor, and Smeagol almost coming to fisticuffs with JJ's girlfriend before Mystical came to his aid.<br /><br />I will post more during the weekend, lots to talk about, but just wanted to pop in and inform you all that that raptor is alice, well and in rare form.Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-4102915190605262922009-12-04T08:42:00.001-08:002009-12-04T08:42:49.283-08:00Golgorath McNipplemilk<div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Golgorath</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">McNipplemilk</span></div><div><br /></div><div>hard times D & D</div><div>tiny <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">weiner</span>, apathy</div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">da</span> revolution</div><div><br /></div><div>So I know I have been less than forthcoming on posts, and the only thing I can say right now is I will try to update as I can, but in these poor economic times I must at least pretend to have some semblance of productivity. I so miss the Clinton days, even though I began working on the tail end of them, knowing that even though I made 4.75 an hour I would be alright because someone was taking a shot in the mouth for America. Now I make all of 5.13 an hour and I am wondering from whom I can take a shot in the mouth to make it in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ths</span> world... great times.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, lots has happened, and I will try to post as I can, but today's post is about guns. Yes, guns, helping conservatives seem relevant since 1860.</div><div><br /></div><div>As you all know, I teach the k-rat. I also teach jujitsu (and if you would like a day getting all hot and sweaty rolling around on the floor with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Stevester</span>, email me and I will send you sign up sheets, Will and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Tylester</span>). My main student for jujitsu, for even though the class is free to k-rat denizens, no one but this young lad has lasted longer than 2 classes, is a pretty staunch conservative. He's a great guy, him and his mother both take karate and are like family to me, but sometimes their standpoints on things makes me want to abort my own asshole with a rusty pitchfork.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the talk turns to politics, which happens WAY too much in k-rat, it usually ends up being my instructor, who is I think pretty centric, which means liberal, against them, and it gets awkward pretty quick. I know none of this appears to have anything to do with guns and you only logged onto my site to read about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Smeagol</span>, but it does, so wait a second, let me lay down the lyrical foreplay before I get into the main hot, sweaty throbbing thrust of my post.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I have a lot of ideals that are somewhat conservative, so usually I will mosey over after one of these awkward confrontations (did I mention this happens after class while everyone is lined up waiting to leave so they have to listen to it?) and try to smooth things over as they usually look pretty riled up. Some of the stuff they say though, like the reason we are in a recession is because of Clinton, that George W. was the best president we have had in recent memory, that Democrats are hell bent on taking their guns away from them, that being gay automatically makes you a Democrat (I SO want to counter with the fact that 95% of the allegations of child molestation, inappropriate sexual comments to male underlings and hurried <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">weiner</span> on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">weiner</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">frottage</span> has been PROVEN to have been perpetrated by Republicans, but I am a diplomat of sorts, so...), among other thing, and the worst part is these people actually believe this is the truth.</div><div><br /></div><div>OK, now back to guns. A week ago I was invited by said student to go skeet shooting. I immediately wondered why some dude would want to see how far I could shoot <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">jisms</span> from my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">chowdermaker</span>, but learned that skeet shooting is actually shooting at moving clay targets with a gun, and not what rappers say it is (curse you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Soulja</span> Boy!). I accept the invitation, as I have never really felt black due to my lack of firing a gun. I traded a gun for a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">sega</span> game, but that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">doesnt</span> count. The only way I know I am black is my poor credit scores and strange almost unstoppable urge to mount all large white women (I can't stop thinking about it).</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Anyhoo</span>, I get directions to their house, which is in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Klanland</span>, or Northern Missouri (I have no idea if the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">klan</span> is out there, but let's assume there is nothing else out there just for the sake of comedy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">HMMMMM</span>?), and we head out in their car, the whole time them talking about how when I shoot a gun I should feel great about the freedom to do so because Democrats (and I got the feeling they believed I) wanted to take their basic freedoms away. I leave all the obvious mistakes and idiotic believe alone, as we are in the middle of the woods, I am outnumbered 2 to 1 and they have guns, and pray neither of these guys has seen Deliverance.</div><div><br /></div><div>We get there and get out of the truck, and what do you know, I am the only black guy. I am also the only black guy not wearing suspenders, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">camoflauge</span> (if <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">thats</span> not how you spell it, eat my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">shitmaker</span>) or a combination of the two. I am also the only one who does not have a beard. Strangely I was pleasantly surprised when other than a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">sideward</span> glance every few seconds like "Hey Cletus, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">izzat</span> nigger still here?" I got little to no attention.</div><div><br /></div><div>So anyway, the first gun they give me is a pump action shotgun, very nice, and show me how to load it, I assume since I am black my negro instinct will take over and I will wow these rednecks with my accuracy, the first clay pigeon flies, I aim, fire, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">annnnnd</span>....miss.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh well, second one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">annnnnd</span>.... miss.</div><div><br /></div><div>in fact, first 10 in a row are all misses. I am saddened and horny. The dad walks over and informs me the problem is that I am "aiming". I look at him like he just got done pounding my wife and told me he was checking her cervix instead of what I saw, and he explains that aiming screws it all up. I look at his NRA hat and figure he might know what he's talking about. He tells me to aim at a milk jug about 50 feet away. I aim, and miss. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">WTF</span>? I can't hit a huge milk carton 50 feet away? I feel saddened and not as horny anymore, so I look sad and slump my shoulders. Long story short though (too late) I learn that aiming is for suckers, as once I quit bothering to aim the gun or take the safety off when I was reloading I realized my day got better by tenfold!</div><div><br /></div><div>Ah... great times. I will update on the Thanksgiving from Hades later, and also on how <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Smeagol</span> can make your life better!</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-61959162548299054782009-11-17T14:20:00.000-08:002009-11-17T14:21:47.086-08:00I got Crabs!<div>I got crabs</div><div><br /></div><div>organ donor time</div><div>hot beef injection is here</div><div>talking about ham</div><div><br /></div><div>So I just wanted to share with you all that I got crabs. 2 little fiddler crabs from the local <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Wal</span>-Marts. They are adorable, but I should have done some more research on them... I put them in my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tank and</span> watched them scurry around, and then one of my fish, an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">African</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">cichlid</span> that I bought because it was a pretty fish, promptly moseyed over and ate one of their claws off. The worst part of this whole ordeal is the crab then turned toward me and just stood there, and I dunno if you have ever looked at a crab but they always look sad, but this one looked like I had just....well, just put him in a tank to die. I almost started crying, I felt horrible. I have a 10 gallon tank in the basement that I am gonna clean up and probably put them in, crap I'm a jerk.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, as we all know (and I am sure care) Sunday was my birthday. Yes, it's true, yer old pal <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Stevester</span> turned a delectable 29, and I feel every <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">friggin</span> bit of 70, except I can still get it up and I don't shit myself...yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, the day started with my mom and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">JJ</span> calling me at 7:00AM and yelling "Happy Birthday" into the phone, then laughing and hanging up. I of course did a great Danny Glover impression by saying "I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">gettin</span>' too old for this shit"... the awkward part was when they guy with the greasy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">jeri</span> curl with the sax played that little hook from Lethal Weapon and then walked out the garage (for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Prit</span>, that's "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">gair</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">awjj</span>").</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, after receiving phone calls from my whole family, I get up and that's when it hits me. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Smeagol</span>. The raptor. The Life-Stealer. The Thong-Wearer... known by many names, answering to none.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get a call, and it's him. Foolish foolish me, I assumed he was calling to tell me happy birthday, which would have been a nice change, but as we all know <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Smeagol</span> never does anything unless it will benefit him.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Niggie</span>, how you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">doin</span> well enough of the small talk I got a computer from Rent-A-Center and I need some help with it" he moaned <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">sassily</span>, I can only assume scratching another barnacle out of his thong. </div><div><br /></div><div>Before I go any further, I must explain something to those of you who read this blog who are not IT techs:</div><div><br /></div><div>For the most part, we enjoy our jobs. Some, like me, got into the field simply to make money and become useful members of society, while others found a way to make money doing something they love. We also love our family and friends, and every once in awhile do not mind helping with a technical issue if they need assistance with it.</div><div><br /></div><div>But make no mistake, it is still work for us. My uncle is a mechanic, and I used to call him all the time asking idiotic questions <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">about my</span> car and what was wrong with it, never realizing he didn't want to come home from working on cars all day to work on more cars. It is the same with your IT friends. We don't mind helping you, and sometimes even if we do the genuine love and friendship and good will will outweigh our annoyance with working on your computer, but there are a few ground rules:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Don't make the call for computer help the ONLY fucking time you contact us.</div><div>2. Don't EXPECT us to jump at the chance to remove all of your split beaver <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">shemale</span> porn.</div><div>3. No matter how well you try to hide the nasty shit you put on your machine, during the normal course of things we will find it unless you delete it.</div><div>4. I dunno about my colleagues, but we do NOT enjoy "being alone with all that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">techy</span> stuff", and will more often than not get annoyed when you go in the other room and enjoy your day like I am a fucking plumber. Bitch you ain't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">fuckin</span> paying me, the least you can do is entertain me.</div><div>5. Don't assume that because we CAN that we WANT to.</div><div>6. You are not the only asshole who calls me for technical help. I WILL answer people who are not pushy a LOT sooner than you. If you don't follow any of the above rules, I will NEVER answer you and put you off until I get annoyed with your calls or the next holiday when you inevitably corner me and ask why I ignore your calls all the time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry, BTW I am not talking about anyone who reads this site, mostly I am talking about a couple people in my family, it's REALLY annoying when they call 1 time every other year and it's only so I can remove all the gay porn their kid downloaded onto their computer, "completely without my knowledge", which is why it is in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">quicklist</span> on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">WIndows</span> Media player. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">RIIIIi</span>-i-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">ight</span>...</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, this post is about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Smeagol</span>, so back to the story. He calls and after I spend an excellent 15 minutes walking him through getting his computer configured and set up, he remarks that he needs a mouse. There is a long pause as I wait for him to ask where to get one, or what kind he needs...</div><div><br /></div><div>....and am wrong. "...so... if you can bring me one, that would be great <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">niggie</span>." I blink a few times as the realization sinks in. What?! <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">This</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">fuckin</span>' raptor wants me to bring him a mouse. A mouse. a 3 dollar fucking mouse. He wants me to get in my FUCKING car, on my FUCKING birthday, and drive for a half hour to bring him a mouse. You know what, fuck it. I do it. Because I am a spineless piece of shit who will bend over backwards to help my family out, I fucking do it. Well also because I wanted to know what was up with that raptor so I would have something fresh to post. It's also a lovely drive from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Smithville</span> to Liberty via the back roads, so I pack the kids up, grab a mouse and head out. I leave at 2:08PM on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Sunday</span>, with the full intent on being back at 3:00PM to watch the Chiefs play the Raiders.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Smeagol's</span> coven, tell the boys that we are not going to be there for very long, walk in, ignore his "Thank you so much" as I know the thank yous will not replace the 5 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">bux</span> I spent in gas money driving over there, plug the mouse in and prepare to leave. Then <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Smeagol</span> notices my oldest son holding a Harry Potter book. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">This</span> is significant, because had he not taken that fucking book inside I would have happily enjoyed the rest of my day <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Smeagol</span>-free. And yes I am blaming the ruination of my and my dad's day on my 9 year old son.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Smeagol</span> pounced on him, talking about wizard school, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Hagrid</span> and all manner of fantasy nerd bullshit (I say this knowing I installed and am currently playing Dungeons & Dragons Unlimited on my computer - it's free!), even comparing books and plot twists. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">THis</span> does 2 things: It gets me thinking maybe <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Smeagol</span> is not so much of a douche, and keeps me close by long enough for him to lay his question on me:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hey <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">niggie</span>, you aren't going by Mom's house are you? I need tog <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">et</span> down there because I have orientation tomorrow..."</div><div><br /></div><div>No. Not in a million years, no. My kid tells him I just filled my car up though, so I can't use that as an excuse. Think, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Stevester</span>, think!</div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing. I tell him to call Mom and Dad, and if he can't get <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">ahold</span> of them, to call me after the game and I will run him down there. As I am leaving he leaves no indication that he plans to call anyone by saying "I'll see you after the game <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">niggie</span>!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Fuck. </div><div><br /></div><div>The only joy in this whole thing is going to be when my dad sees that raptor at his house and gives up HIS will to live. I get home, call my dad, ask if he will go pick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Smeagol</span> up, listen as he and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">JJ</span> and my mom laugh in the background for a couple minutes then hang up on me, and realize I now can't wait to take that wily raptor down there to share in their lives and take their resources and stop up their toilet.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the game, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Smeagol</span> of course calls, tells me he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">couldnt</span> get <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">ahold</span> of them (I called right before he called me and he never called them), and I prepare to go pick him up. I get to his house, and I call his cell phone; I'm sorry, "Francisco"s phone, and get Mystery. I tell her to send him out as I don't want to get out of the car, then wait 10 minutes to see him hobbling out the door with a couple huge bags, and smile internally even as I get out of the car annoyed to open the trunk and help him with his bags.</div><div><br /></div><div>The ride down to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">JJ's</span> house was for the most part uneventful, except <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Smeagol</span> remarking over and over how great my 1994 Dodge ran. Seriously?! I mean for all the jokes and shit I know it is a piece of crap car, I hate it when people patronize me. Notice that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Smeagol</span> still hasn't said anything close to Happy Birthday or "Hey let me give you gas money for making a 95 mile round trip"... nothing like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>We get to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">JJ's</span>, I happily take <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Smeagol's</span> bags in, and grin internally as the look of joy at seeing me quickly turns to deep, face-creasing frowns for my dad, my cousin and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">JJ</span> at seeing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Smeagol</span> hobble in... and head straight for the kitchen.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">JJ</span> mouths "What the fuck" as my dad just sits there, shaking his head, and I instantly feel bad for what I have done. What have these poor souls done to deserve a raptor in their lives? As we are shooting the breeze, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Smeagol</span> pokes his head around the corner and asks Dad if he can have one of his beers. The awesome thing about this is my dad's name is "Toboggan Boy" if <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">Smeagol</span> doesn't need anything, but it's "Daddy" or "Dad" if he needs something. My dad asks how many beers are left, as he doesn't want that raptor drinking his last one, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Smeagol</span> walks off, supposedly to count the beers. We talk for a minute, my dad promising to drop <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">Smeagol</span> off at my house one of these days, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Smeagol</span> comes back in slurping noisily at a Miller High Life, the Champagne of Beers. Dad asks how many were left, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">Smeagol</span> holds the can up while proudly proclaiming "I took the last one!" and we all laugh and enjoy the good will and cheer as he drinks it right in front of everyone, then lets us all know he has to be at orientation on 110<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">th</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">Troost</span> (I didn't even know <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">Troost</span> went that far) the next day. There is no way I am going to call in to work or show up an hour early to drive that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">asshat</span> all the way to fucking Joplin or wherever 110<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">th</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">Troost</span> is, and I turn and leave. Great times. I enjoy the annoyance, the genuine, unfettered annoyance everyone displayed when I took him by. They will all be REALLY surprised come Thanksgiving time.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-59115690619970445442009-11-06T09:09:00.000-08:002009-11-06T09:23:59.518-08:00Smeagolaise<div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Smeagolaise</span></div><div><br /></div><div>gentle brook bubbles</div><div>clear cold water bubbling down</div><div>shit I pissed my pants</div><div><br /></div><div>Porn time</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Smeagol</span> is a thief. This is well known. From his "house cleaning" excursions when not only is the house spotless, but less cluttered with your personal belongings, to his "I thought it was mine, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">niggie</span>" when it is fairly obvious no person with a double digit IQ or higher would believe that, especially since your name, address, DNA/Urine/Stool samples are permanently affixed to whatever the item is, I mean come on!</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a penchant for collecting classic video game systems. I HAD everything from the original <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">NES</span> (can't find a decent Atari 2600) all the way up to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">XBOX</span> 360, including handheld gaming systems. I even for a while had them all hooked up, until my lovely wife came home that day I was in nerd heaven, and after that I was a true nerd, completely sexless masturbating on the sofa whilst crying softly. Sorry, didn't mean to go into that much detail...</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">JJ</span> is my brother. I love my family. SO when <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">JJ</span> asked me if he could borrow my Sega Genesis and my Sega <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Dreamcast</span>, there was never a second thought. He had never stolen from me before, so there was no reason to think he would now...</div><div><br /></div><div>I gave him my Sega and 22 video games with it, lots of them quite rare, each one with my name and most with a picture of a cock being plunged into either a vagina or puckered asshole crudely inscribed on them as I am wont to do, and my Sega <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Dreamcast</span> with 15-20 games that I had burned over the years, since I long ago lost the original copies... note that these games were fucking BURNED onto <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">cd</span>-rs, had my name on them, and were very obviously not the original games as they had no artwork on them, well save for the aforementioned pubic regions.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">JJ</span> asked a few days ago to borrow a few PS1 games, which I gave to him, including Final Fantasy 7, Metal Gear Solid, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Xenogears</span>, a game I paid more than 125 dollars for. Like I said I don't mind helping. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">JJ</span> called last night and asked if he could borrow some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Dreamcast</span> games. I was like "sure", went to my inventory closet in the basement, past the shelves and shelves of porn, and realized the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Dreamcast</span> was gone, as were the games. I then remembered I had loaned it to him. I called and informed him of this, a little put out, and he mentioned with some trepidation that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Smeagol</span> had been by recently, and had cleaned house. He also noted that of the original 33 Sega Genesis games, there was now only the actual game deck, 1 controller out of the 2 I loaned him and 2 games. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Smeagol</span> had actually stolen a controller and the FUCKING power cord. And how do you steal 31 game cartridges without being caught? Apparently it had not all happened at once, but every time <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Smeagol</span> came over to clean he would steal 5 or 6 different items, tuck them under his shirt or down his sweat pants (really) and then ask for a ride home from the very people he had stolen from.</div><div><br /></div><div>-Update- this post was written a couple days ago, I am just finishing it. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">JJ</span> went to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Smeagol's</span> hovel, and apparently saw all the games and assorted memorabilia sitting on his table next to let's assume his genuine thong collection. Upon seeing my name on them, he asked <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Smeagol</span> where he had gotten them, to which he first replied "I bought them all at the pawn shop, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">niggie</span>!"</div><div><br /></div><div>When confronted with the notion that pawn shops aren't in the business of selling 20 year old video game systems, and the coincidence that the games and stuff had my fucking name on them, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Smeagol</span> changed his story right there to "Oh, well I had these for years". </div><div><br /></div><div>I am now torn between taking all of my things back from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">JJ</span>, and thus depriving him of the opportunity to ever play these great games again, and actually going to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Smeagol's</span> hovel and taking my shit back, though I know that will only lead to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Smeagol</span> somehow <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">raptoring</span> to my house and never leaving. At what point would you just say goodbye to your belongings, no matter how precious?</div><div><br /></div><div>I know I harp on this a lot, and a lot of you are getting tired of hearing about it, but dammit!</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Well it's that time of year again, Thanksgiving. This year I invited everyone, and already some battle lines have been drawn. Here is what we have so far:</div><div><br /></div><div>I invited <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Smeagol</span> (because my fucking mom told him and so he invited himself) and Mystery. No one knows they are coming, but all 30 people who came last year (my lovely wife included) have threatened to kill him if he shows up simply because he owes them money, has propositioned and/ or dry humped them into oblivion.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">JJ</span> wants to have Thanksgiving at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Mystical's</span> house, which is in the ghetto. My wife informed me that since the dangers of being shot are at roughly 1 to 1 there, if I go it will be alone. Her family also refuses, and my mom's kitchen/ dining room is smaller than my bathroom.</div><div><br /></div><div>My wife's sister, who lives out past Lexington (like an hour and a half drive) informed us she would be completely insulted if we did not pack up and go to her house for Thanksgiving, which is awesome as if we all go there then my family will hate me as most of them planned on eating at my house.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">JJ</span> and my mom said if my aunt (my mom's fucking sister) goes to my house after showing her ass last year and being a douche all year this year, they are not coming. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">This</span> will lead to more bad blood as my aunt is one mean lady.</div><div><br /></div><div>My sister said if <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Smeagol</span> is going to be at my house she is going to murder him, and she also doesn't want to see my aunt.</div><div><br /></div><div>My cousin said if my wife's "fat white bitch ass" shows up she is going to "cut some gravy out <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">dat</span> bitch". <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">The</span> infraction? Last year said fat white bitch butt-bumped my cousin out of the way on the way to the turkey.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hate children and most if not all of them are bringing their kids and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">more</span> than 5 of said children's parents have already asked about leaving their kids with me for the night, which will not make me happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hate the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">holigays</span>.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-39877371022230728352009-10-19T13:10:00.000-07:002009-10-19T13:11:45.090-07:00Smeagol, the Sausage Thief<div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Smeagol</span>, the Sausage Thief</div><div><br /></div><div>Love is like a rose</div><div>delicate, beautiful, yet</div><div>the thorns <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">fuckin</span> hurt</div><div><br /></div><div>First things first: I got kicked in the goddamn taint. "What the fuck is a taint" you may ask yourself? A taint, or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">taintius</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">holestinkius</span> in Latin, is the small sensitive area of skin between your asshole and your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ballsack</span> or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">lovehole</span> if you're a lady... and while you may wonder why I am not glad I didn't get kicked in the balls, sit back and listen and I will regale you with the tale, and form your own opinions...</div><div><br /></div><div>So we are sparring at the K-Rat last week, and things are going well... I couldn't find my sparring gear, so I wasn't wearing a cup (I usually don't anyway, they're too constrictive. I'm not saying I have huge junk, I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">prolly</span> wearing the damn thing wrong, but I always have one ball or my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">wiener</span> hanging out c<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ause</span> there isn't room... OK this is too much info... Sorry) and wasn't planning on sparring anyway, but I get there and everyone already is, so I borrow some gear and saddle up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Things go well initially, until I am sparring this fucking little girl about 10 years old and she punches me right in the fucking dick. This is not a particularly painful experience, but when it smashes your balls into your leg and that fart you had been desperately holding in because you had fried chicken with gives you horrible rotten-egg-and-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">brussel</span>-sprout smelling farts escapes with all the velocity of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Taepodong</span> missile (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">LOL</span>) and almost kills the other patrons of the building, something bad has happened. I pretend it doesn't hurt by balling up in the fetal position and crying loudly, and after the pain subsides we go back to sparring. I told you all of that to tell you this.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this point I REFUSED to get kicked/punched/licked in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">fuckin</span>' cock again, and was quite willing to take a shot in the ass if that meant no more (not that way, sickos). We line up to spar, and I throw a back spinning hook kick right into this guy's sternum, resulting in a very satisfying "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">WHUMP</span>" sound and him hitting the floor. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Yeeaaaaaahhhh</span>. He gets up, and as soon as the ref says "fight", he bull rushes me. Let me take you in slow motion what transpires at this point:</div><div><br /></div><div>As he is hopping toward me, he is throwing all manner of hard front, side, round and gay kicks, following them up with punches meant to stun. I coolly assume since he is a much lower belt rank that somehow he will not see me move, even though I am a fat black guy and it is a brightly lit area, and move to the side, turning so I can trow a backwards roundhouse and snap his ribs. As he gyrates around like a wind up toy that is hooked up to a car battery, he throws a perfectly times front kick, which I am not incredibly worried about as I had received more than one toe IN MY ASSHOLE before (no, seriously, all the way in there). As I lift my leg up, my pelvis kinda arched back, and his whole foot barely missed my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">shitbox</span> and pounded said taint. This is met by me again balling up on the floor and crying for my mommy. </div><div><br /></div><div>It sucked.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Aiight</span>, anyway, you don't care about my taint (or if you do, you're so sweet), face it: the title intrigued you, you feel cheated that thus far you have heard no mention of (and let's be honest here) the only reason you even bother logging into my blog: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Smeagol</span>. Hold your horses, here it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Smeagol</span> got relieved of his position at the nursing home. This is the same nursing home that had fired said raptor for infractions such as bringing in a doberman and letting it run free, and allowing it to bite people; assaulting residents (verbally, but let's assume for comedy he was going in and punching old people in the face as they slept), sleeping on the job,and many others. Our favorite raptor was saddened, and had apparently moved in with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">ladyboy</span> and her friend who sucked my cousin off, in the hopes of possibly maxing out on said <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">ladyboy</span> again and also attaining sloppy seconds on said young lady (it sucks, she is REALLY pretty, she could do so much better for herself... whatever though), as he had his mail sent to her house. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">JJ</span> informed me <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Smeagol</span> is still an avid player of Pokemon (or as he calls it, and I shit you not, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Pookee</span> Mans"), and is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">constantly</span> writing codes and various crap down on any paper he can find, and in this case he got a letter from said nursing home, and after glancing nonchalantly at the contents, commenced to writing said codes all over the back of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>During one of his many, many naps, apparently <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Kareema</span> (the girl who sucked my cousin off, not the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">ladyboy</span>) saw the notice, and called and informed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">JJ</span>, who informed me. It was a termination letter, and under "Reason(s) for termination", right there in black and white, was the cryptic sentence: "Caught stealing sausages from the kitchen". </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">HmmmMMmm</span>.....</div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously, What. The. Fuck. Apparently said raptor was caught, on surveillance camera (and how much would you pay to see that), <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">raptoring</span> into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, and stealing delicious sausages, much as his ancestors stole live young and suckable eggs from the nests of more successful creatures. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">JJ</span> said one of the sad side effects is now <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Smeagol</span> is coming by MUCH more often, and things are disappearing at an alarming rate... I loaned him 22 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">sega</span> genesis games, there are only 13 left. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">JJ</span> went to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Smeagol's</span> house and saw them, and remarked that those belonged to me, to which <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Smeagol</span> replied he had "bought" them. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">When</span> confronted with the fact that my full fucking name had been written on said games as I knew something like that would happen, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Smeagol</span> repeated the edict that he had bought them at a pawn shop, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">nevermind</span> pawn shops would NOT still have Sega Genesis, what kind of coincidence that there's another <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Stevester</span> out there who just happens to have the same 7 games and pawns them at a pawn shop down the street from our intrepid raptor? </div><div><br /></div><div>None, that's what. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I know we all got a little sad that no one could find a job for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Smeagol</span>, but now joy of joys the search is still on. </div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-67656895781869031012009-09-30T07:39:00.000-07:002009-09-30T07:40:10.189-07:00Love, Happiness, Steveshaikus<div>Love, Happiness, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Steveshaikus</span></div><div><br /></div><div>the budding writer</div><div>begins on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">shithouse</span> walls</div><div>and ends writing shit</div><div><br /></div><div>Good morning,</div><div><br /></div><div>Here at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">steveshaikus</span> we use only the finest completely nude midget hookers to bring you the stories you know and love - from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Smeagol</span> making sweet love to a hermaphrodite, to Toboggan Boy sliding down stone steps in tight burgundy boxers, to Mystical Retard proclaiming with much gusto that her salsa was so good it made her want to suck a man's love appendage.... to my sister telling me not to put my arm out the window of her 1984 Ford <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Fairmont</span> as it would slow the car down, the list goes on and on and on.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">steveshaikus</span> will take a slight detour, though I promise more <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Smeagol</span>/Mystical/Toboggan Boy goodness in the near future...</div><div><br /></div><div>My lovely wife enjoys reading. A LOT. She reads these totally lame Harlequin novels and love stories with the default picture of the shirtless guy wearing some sort of hat (seriously, she has one called "Captured by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Sheikh</span>", and it is the same fucking white dude but now he is wearing one of those dinner cloth helmet towel things...) carousing with a woman who is NEVER naked enough to pique my interest... and said novels are full of complete crap that would never fucking happen in real life.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hate these books, forget the fact that she gets all hot and bothered and dances on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Stevester</span> skin pole more often, these books are the bane of men the world over, because NO real man would act like these assholes in these books. After a prolonged discussion last night, your old pal <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Stevester</span> decided to write a short novella that is just as romantic, but much more realistic... Like Stephen Colbert;s Better Know a District or Alpha Squadron 7: The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Tek</span> Jansen Adventures, these will be peppered <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">throughout</span> my posts, and much like soap operas it will take months for anything to happen and when they do happen it will be on a day that none of you are reading (not that I watch soap operas, I do love <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Bridezillas</span> though, that show kicks ass!)</div><div><br /></div><div>And with this short introduction, I bring you the first short chapter of my own romantic novella,</div><div><br /></div><div>"The Way of the Shaft"</div><div><br /></div><div>By <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Stevester</span> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>1.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Lindsey woke up with a start. It was cold outside, late fall in the hills of Vermont tended to be cold, and the wind was howling outside the bay window, throwing rakish moving shadows across her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">fuscia</span> colored walls with little gay flowers on them, VERY tasteful. She looked down at Burlap, her dark chocolate colored Labrador, who was snoozing peacefully at the foot of her canopy bed, his hind leg barely moving as he dreamed about catching rabbits or tearing the throats out of those smelly coloreds.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>What was making her so jumpy? Could it be that her biological clock was ticking, and the conversation she had had with her mother that afternoon was getting to her? Or could it be that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Smithers</span>, the snivelling yes man at her job as a fashion magazine editor, was vying to get her fired for snubbing his awkward, infantile advances at the company Halloween party? The thought of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Smithers</span> dry humping her as she frantically tried to get away from him made her shiver subconsciously, and she felt a quick stab of pure hatred for all men because of it. Why was she having trouble attracting a decent man? She turned to look at her face in the large vanity mirror, scrutinizing her straight dark brown hair, falling haphazardly onto her shoulders; her large, emerald green eyes and her decent tits. Fuck dudes should want this shit!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She lay back, trying to get into position, fluffing the comforter up and drinking in the smell of her juicy sounding fart that had been festering like a boil for what could have been hours, and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a gentler time when men were gallant, women were worshipped, and Roseanne was still a popular show.</div><div><br /></div><div>~~~</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"....and you tell that son of a bitch that I will wrap up the Johnson account today if it kills me!" Dirk yelled into the speaker phone, clenching his fist in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">unrequited</span> anger. Damn why all of this <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">bureaucratic</span> red tape when his construction/architecture/investment firm was just trying to turn over a profit? Why must he endure this endless parade of middle managers, thankless snivelling leeches who had nothing better to do than mire these negotiations in the proverbial muck?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well you'd better, because Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Genovese</span> doesn't like it when people are late making their payments, and Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Genovese</span> particularly doesn't like when he is made a fool of," the connotations of the underlying message were deafening. Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Genovese</span>, kingpin of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Genovese</span> crime Family in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Rutland</span>, Vermont, was someone to be taken very seriously. He was also one of the only people to turn to when you were in a pinch. He was also totally gay and loved the cock. Dirk took a moment to compose himself, wondering if these people even had hearts in them, and promised to make a payment soon. Sated with his extortion for the day, the lackey hung up, and Dirk gladly took the speakerphone off of his knee where he had been balancing it as he dropped a clunker in his half bathroom, half office on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">jobsite</span>. He had won the bid to build the Gordon P. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Chesselbaum</span> office building, and things had so far not gone to plan. First the illegal aliens he had been carting around had died because he forgot to let them out of his van, and after burying them in the cement foundation of his building. covering them in lime and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">quik</span>-set concrete, he realized that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Orloff</span>, the Ukrainian refugee with a heart of gold, had all of his building permits tucked into his pants for safekeeping. Then the building code inspector, Ilsa Jenkins, had been pestering him about various things, like why was the foundation already poured when there were no steel beams or girders sit in it to, you know, support the building?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Dirk Ventured outside to check on his crew. It was a cool day, and being a little after noon the crew had taken up their usual spot, in front of the privacy wall cat calling any woman, man or animal that dared cross their path within earshot. Funny how some things change and some stay the same, Dirk thought as he ambled <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">lackadaisically</span> toward the crew.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As he stepped around the fence, he heard Antoine, his most senior employee and token black guy on the construction site, say in his best Boston accent (for, seriously, the only way to catcall if you work in construction is with a Boston or New York accent) "Hey hey hey! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Wouldja</span> check out the legs on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">dat</span> broad! Hey baby! I bet you're looking for a commitment with a strong man with good family values who is unafraid to cry! A-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">WHOOOGA</span>!", making the other workers grunt in agreement. Dirk looked around to see who he was talking to, and saw her: the beautiful woman who took this route about this time every day, always alone, walking quickly with her head down as if she were always wading into a hurricane. He watched her walk across the street and into the fashion magazine building across the street, and wondered if she might be the one his astrologist told him was the woman for him...</div><div><br /></div><div>~~~</div><div><br /></div><div>A few excerpts to keep your interest piqued until the next chapter:</div><div><br /></div><div>"...Lindsey knew this was wrong, that this was all happening too soon, but she also knew she must feel the rock hard shaft of a man plow into her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">stinkhole</span> of love, or she would go insane..."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"... Dirk wondered if Lindsey knew how much he cared for her, how badly he needed his dinner ready for him when he got home from work, and how much he enjoyed maxing out on her naked ass during commercial breaks during NFL Sunday..."</div><div><br /></div><div>"... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Smithers</span> looked down in disgust. Yes, he had fucked his dog in the ass again..."</div><div><br /></div><div>"...Dirk wondered, 'did she really love me?' ... 'Would I ruin this love if I told her how much I care?'.... then he bunched up and dropped a brown bowling ball in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">shitter</span>, wondering if there was a little brown baby in there..."</div><div><br /></div><div>All this and more in the next chapter of the steamy novella, "The Way of the Shaft"!</div><div><br /></div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-67401232246923821892009-09-23T08:26:00.000-07:002009-09-23T08:27:25.612-07:00Smeagol and the Ladyboy: A Love Story<div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Smeagol</span> and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ladyboy</span>: A Love Story</div><div><br /></div><div>corpuscle madness</div><div>things begin to not make sense</div><div>more <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">baconnaise</span> please!</div><div><br /></div><div>*sigh*</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to get back to the cars, I really do, and I was a little apprehensive about posting a story about a certain raptor allegedly making sweet love to a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ladyboy</span>, as I am starting to feel bad about it (hasn't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Smeagol</span> been through enough? I mean getting his magical ring stolen from him and now this)....</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a terrible battle being waged. On the one hand, sweet lovemaking between a raptor and a chick with a dick is the kind of story that launches these kinds of blogs; on the other hand, such sweet love is something best shared between those two parties, a sacred <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">bond</span> that no man, woman or woman with a cock should tear asunder, and I am a little guilt-ridden to share this.</div><div><br /></div><div>The only reason I decided to go through with this story is because <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Smeagol</span> is going out of his way to cheat on his loving wife, and though she once got caught allowing come janitor dude entry into her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">shitbox</span> at a nursing home (allegedly), I am sure she doesn't deserve this.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, here's the story:</div><div><br /></div><div>My cousin, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Rhinoxx</span> (not his real name), recently found himself <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">de</span>-hoed. This led to his yearning for the gentle feel of a young lady's mouth on his man-shaft, and he relayed this concern to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">JJ</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">JJ</span> informed him that Kareem was available for such endeavors; nay, all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Rhinoxx</span> need do is walk up to her and display said appendage and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">suckitude</span> would most surely commence with little to no negotiation, as Kareem is apparently a "hoe". Upon learning this your old pal <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Stevester</span> was most saddened that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">JJ</span> could not recount her address or whether she was home, but that's another story (I kid).</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Rhinoxx</span> made the trek to Kareem's house, I am assuming rubbing his junk gently while riding the Metro (he has a car but this is funnier so I will go with it) and possibly grumbling incoherently, much as every other Metro patron in that neighborhood is wont to do, and is most surprised to see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Smeagol</span> at Kareem's house. This is not too far out of the realm, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">JJ</span> informed me <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Smeagol</span> hung out with Kareem a lot trying to "get at that hoe", whatever THAT means, and this was evident as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Smeagol</span> informed her even with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Rhinoxx</span> in the room that he could give her a "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">schlip</span> slop sally whop <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">sassafrass</span> spicy tuna roll" labial tongue lashing that she would not soon forget... so his default conversation topic with the ladies (I'll pause here for any ladies reading this to finish with your steamy fantasies of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Smeagol</span>....)</div><div><br /></div><div>So anyway <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">RHinoxx</span>, who as I noted before was desperate for the mouth of Kareem, informed her he would be much obliged if she would suck his rock hard shaft. Kareem, as a true lady should, balked, informing him she wasn't that kind of lady, and then as soon as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Smeagol</span> left the room, proceeded to suck said shaft most convincingly and with much gusto.</div><div><br /></div><div>Where had <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Smeagol</span> gone? According to my mom, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">JJ</span>, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Smeagol</span> himself, Kareem was not the only love hole in that lovely apartment that day. Apparently there was a young lady, who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">JJ</span> noted would only accept it from the back because she had a sizable cock in addition to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">vag</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">butthole</span> package your garden variety bus station <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">skank</span> carries. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Smeagol</span> revelled in his recounting of the tale of "munching away on that pussy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">niggie</span>!", and therein lies my conundrum, which for the sake of clarity I shall put in numbered format for the more astute observation and debate amongst all 5 of my stalwart readers:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. If you have sex with a hermaphrodite, does that make you gay?</div><div><br /></div><div>2. If you are not gay, and are munching said hermaphrodite's twat, and her/ his cock touches your forehead, does THAT make you gay?</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Is it possible to pound a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">hermaphro's</span> twat without touching said cock?</div><div><br /></div><div>4. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">JJ</span> said she was not ugly, yet all the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">shemale</span> pics I have sent and been sent show what look like a dude with a 5 o'clock shadow and horribly misshapen fake boobs. Can Hermaphrodites grow beards?</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Smeagol</span> making sweet love to the old guy with gorgeous boobs on that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">people of walmart</span> website? If so, did he then suck room temperature creamed corn with cottage cheese chunks out of the old guy's beard at the completion of the act?</div><div><br /></div><div>6. Why was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Smeagol</span> so proud of that, and how does Mystery stay with him when everyone within a 50mile radius of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Smeagol</span> knows he cheats on her?</div><div><br /></div><div>Conundrums worthy of the best Sherlock Holmes novel, to be sure....</div><div><br /></div><div>More later.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-80368414038087561052009-09-22T08:53:00.000-07:002009-09-22T08:54:41.237-07:00D-M-V!!!<div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">steveshaikus</span>: sweet, kind, nice</div><div>like willow branch in a pond</div><div>swaying in the breeze</div><div><br /></div><div>D-M-V! (Sang to the Ruff Ryder's theme on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">DMX's</span> album (...And then there was X))</div><div><br /></div><div>OK, So here is the story. It's finally time to get my car legal, after replacing the entire engine, transmission, and one brake light (which was the hardest part)...</div><div><br /></div><div>First, a little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">backstory</span> (like a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">backpussy</span>, warm and moist. A little stinky, mostly gentle pink, unless there are poor wiping habits, then a thin shade of brown... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ok</span> I'm done)</div><div><br /></div><div>My K-Rat instructor lives in the country (for this story, anywhere north of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Smithville</span> Missouri but South of St. Joseph counts as 'country'), and goes to all manner of delicious estate auctions out in the middle of nowhere. On once such estate auction, he happened upon a totally sweet 1994 Dodge Shadow, the precursor to the Dodge Neon, with a 5 speed manual transmission and a 2.5L engine. Awesome.</div><div><br /></div><div>He buys said car, and, remembering a certain <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Stevester</span> loves such cars (I promise I will finish the cars thing soon), he decides he will sell said automobile to me for the paltry sum of about 600 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">dollaruskies</span>. The car has a little over 100k on it, so it's not too bad, and I decide why not, I always make great decisions when it comes to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">automobilia</span>, let's go with this.</div><div><br /></div><div>Upon road testing before selling said car to me, my instructor finds out why he got the car so cheap. The previous owners, who he works with, ran the car out of oil, and it promptly throws a rod, which after a little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">diggin</span> on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">internets</span> I find out does not mean the same thing as it does in the films I keep under my bed. Apparently, to "throw a rod" means one of the pistons breaks and shoots through the cylinder, or is in danger of shooting through the cylinder. I won't bore you with the details, it's pretty manly though...</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, all the stuff I did (replacing the engine, transmission, brakes, rotors, hoses, etc) is going in another post that will have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">pictoral</span> documentation and funny quips and anecdotes, this is about the (ongoing) saga to get this fucking car legal.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am not an angry person. I like to think of myself as patient, kind, funny, huge-cocked, with a penchant for snuggling and a mind of the arts. Probably none of these is true, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">whatevs</span>. Going to any <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">DMV</span> in the state of Missouri, however, turns me in to a complete and total asshole, and I shall explain why.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's the deal: The old guy who sold the car to my instructor gave him the title, lien release, a scrap of notebook paper that had both his and my instructor (let's call him Bob) names and a date on it, like that constitutes a bill of sale, a legal bill of sale from when HE bought the car from his son, and other assorted documentation that for the sake of brevity (too late) I will not divulge. My instructor, upon learning that the car needed a new engine, was just going to junk the car rather than sell it to me, but I told him I wanted it anyway, so he dropped it off at my house. I looked online and found an engine at a local junker that had less than 60k on it.....</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, my instructor gives me all the paperwork he has, and tells me I SHOULD be able to send the paperwork off and get the title sent back to me, no problem. Having dealt with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">DMV</span> before, I was skeptical. I decide to drive from Smith-fucking-ville to Ray-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">shithole</span>-town to get the old guy to sign off on my title and a fresh bill of sale, to hopefully circumvent the unstoppable rebel force that is the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">shithole</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">DMV</span>. </div><div><br /></div><div>I drive to the old guy's house, kiss his ass for a few minutes, and get him to sign. He signs the bill of sale as the buyer, which annoys me but I decide to let it go, and I go on about my way, happy that I will have no trouble getting said car legal. If I had no trouble, though, there would be no need for this post. I give all the paperwork to my wife, who goes to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">DMV</span>, waits 3 hours in line with my 3 year old, only to be told that since Old guy, who the title is signed over to (we signed on the second assignment line) originally, never got the car registered, that it was an illegal sale and we would need to get the ORIGINAL guy to sign said title over to us, or the old guy would have to register the car and pay the fees and all that shit just to give us the car. In other words, take it in the hole <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Stevester</span>, take it hard.</div><div><br /></div><div>At this point I am pissed. Now I have to drive ALL THE FUCKING WAY back to RAY-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">FUCKSHITASSCOCKPUSSY</span>-Town, find the ORIGINAL asshole, get him to sign it, and then I can get the car legal. Fine. I drive to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Raytown</span>, wasting even MORE gas, stand there and listen to this guy piss and moan (rightly so, I mean this is retarded that he has to even be a part of this), but after a while sign on the third assignment line, and we crossed out Dad's name and he wrote his on there. Should all be good, right? I now have:</div><div><br /></div><div>Title (with 3 assignments filled out on back, but the last one is what counts)</div><div>bill of sale</div><div>inspection</div><div>lien release</div><div>insurance</div><div>property tax</div><div>2.5 inches of rock hard cock should I need to persuade any of the old ladies at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">DMV</span> to see things my way</div><div><br /></div><div>I go into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">DMV</span> at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Petco</span>, feeling good about myself, when that old apprehension hits me. Did I forget something? Are they going to balk at the 100 dollar selling price? <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Would</span> this lady in line in front of me get mad if I rub my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">wiener</span> on the back of her shorts?</div><div><br /></div><div>It all falls away when my number is called. I know this will go well, I have been through too much shit for it not to. I get up to the counter, confidently throw the paperwork in the young lady's face, and say with all the courtesy I can muster "Gimme those plates"...</div><div><br /></div><div>She sorts the paperwork, looks at it... it's taking too long. Fuck me, she starts shaking her head. </div><div><br /></div><div>"OK this isn't going to work, this is called title jumping and it is illegal. This guy here-" she points to the first assignment, showing the original owner selling the car to the old man -"needs to get the car legal and in his name then he needs to sign it over to you, he can't sell the car to you if he doesn't own it."</div><div><br /></div><div>I point out that the guy whose name is on the FRONT of the title DID assign it to me 2 assignments down, and start trying to explain, and she cuts me off. "Well this guy-" still pointing the first assignment, which I already told her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">doesn't</span> matter -"has to get the car legal, you have to go to him, have him get it legal, have him sign it to you, then you have to start over. There's too much writing on this, it's illegal."</div><div><br /></div><div>I snatch the paperwork from the bitch smirking smugly behind the counter, mouth a growling "fuck you" and stomp off.... then sheepishly mosey back and ask her to hand me my sunglasses. Karma is a bitch yo!</div><div><br /></div><div>So I go to another <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">DMV</span> to try and get SOMETHING done.... and long story short, get the same answer but get a temporary tag while I wait for the original owner to jump through hoops too.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a few questions so far regarding this whole process:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. If filling out more than one assignment on the back of the title completely invalidates it, WHY THE FUCK ARE THEY THERE?! That is the dumbest thing in the world, why have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">textboxes</span> there that it is illegal to fill out?</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Why is it the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">DMV</span> cannot listen to logic? Apparently it was too tough to comprehend that I was not buying the car from the old guy but from his son, the original owner. I asked if we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">woulda</span> been able to get it legal if I crossed the other 2 assignments off or wrote VOID over them, and was assured that would just make it harder to get said car legal. </div><div><br /></div><div>3. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Why</span> do you have to wait so fucking long at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">DMV</span>? I stood in line for almost an hour, and watched as one after another lady went on break, and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">DMV</span> at that point had only been open for an hour. Seriously?! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">WTF</span> is that all about?!</div><div><br /></div><div>I know now why so many people just don't bother getting their cars legal and run on bad plates all the time. Missouri is the WORST place to get a car legal in the United States. I could detonate a bomb, wipe the shitty state of Missouri completely off the map, fill it in with Jello, and the economy would magically raise a few points and no one would miss it. Jesus have you ever tried driving for any length of time across the state?! The whole place is a festering <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">shithole</span>! Why is it always overcast when you are driving through Missouri? Because God is trying to blot the whole state out, that's why. "But <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Stevester</span>, you live in Missouri" you might say, and screw you hippie for pointing out how much of a hypocrite I am! I have the right to be a completely uninformed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">douchebag</span> opinionated retard, hell according to the election results from 2000 and 2004, more than 50% of America is full of them! Zing!</div><div><br /></div><div>I will get back to posting on the cars soon, I have a few other things coming up, including <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Smeagol</span> making sweet raptor love to a chick with a dick, my saga of putting the engine in (with pictures!) and other assorted dementia. </div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-34351197865142185382009-09-09T07:44:00.000-07:002009-09-09T07:45:10.499-07:00Deaf Bob and the Mekanixxx<div>Are your ear-pussies<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div>ready for my haiku schlong?</div><div>I won't be gentle</div><div><br /></div><div>Deaf Bob</div><div><br /></div><div>OK so I will get back to the cars and all that shiznit I have been neglecting later, but I had to share this little tidbit. The other day I am minding my own business, looking for a successor to Jeremy, and Deaf Bob (heretofore known as Def Bob) shows up. Def Bob is the manager of our building maintenance engineering technician accompaniment, or janitors for short. He is also, as the name implies, deaf.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, he come up and kinda taps me on the shoulder as I have my back to him, and you know how deaf people talk you can't really understand what they are saying because it sounds like the adults on Peanuts? Fuck you if you're offended I'm trying to tell a story, but he was all like "A'whugh fat machy idn wonkie" or something like that... I just sit there looking at him because now I am retarded simply for trying to decode his simple but beautiful language...</div><div><br /></div><div>After 5 or 6 tries and much miming I realize he is telling me his fax machine is not working. When he sends some paper through it it goes, acts like it is faxing, but no confirmation sheet. Proud of myself for figuring out what he had said, I was not totally thinking when I went into technician mode to try to troubleshoot the issue. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now I want you to read this next part good, maybe twice, because it may qualify for the single most wrong thing I have ever said. My first question to Def Bob is "When you pick up the handset on the fax machine what do you hear?"</div><div><br /></div><div>It still had not dawned on me, as he stood there blinking at my blatant idiocy, wondering if I was really that stupid or if I was trying to insult him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why can I not go more than a week without saying something so wrong there is no way to make it right?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, one more update for you all, the new hot rod successor to the Escort is almost finished, we got the engine swapped out, and I proved the other day why Stevester should ALWAYS be under direct supervision when vehicles and tools are concerned...</div><div><br /></div><div>So we have the entire engine done except for putting the front axle and the wheels back on (I have a picture montage in the spirit of my old gateway days that I will share soon), and your favorite Stevester is feeling pretty good about himself. It's time to start filling fluids, or so I assume, and I get the radiator and cooling system filled with NO LEAKS. I am psyched, as I personally hooked the cooling system back up and it's very gratifying to see that it is done correctly the first time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I move on to putting the oil in. On manual transmission engines, you do not put in transmission fluid, you fill the transmission with oil, which I did not know but was psyched to find out. I fill the transmission with oil, of course overfilling it, and go to bed. Remember, at this point, the axle is still not in the car. The car's front end is jacked up about 3 feet in the air, meaning the lowest point in the car would be where the front axle goes. If you have any automotive knowledge, you would know the front axle is COMPLETELY driven by the transmission, nay, it is an integral PART of the transmission. And, being a moving part, it needs to stay lubricated. The best lubricant in a car engine is oil. If you haven't figured this all out yet, I will spell it out. There was a huge hole in the bottom of the transmission I filled with oil that the axle usually takes up, preventing oil from pouring out of the bottom of the car and onto the floor of my completely flat garage floor, which was nice and dark the next day when your loving Stevester wandered out there in plastic crocs to revel in his handiwork. Not seeing the fucking LAKE of fresh, clean motor oil, and perhaps tired from playing Assassin's Creed on my Xbox while watching Canadian Football and Lockup (I love Lockup, great series), I was walking pretty briskly toward the front of the car, where the old fucking 600 pound car engine was sitting, balanced precariously on a wooden block.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily my awkwardly splaying outstretched hands and feet missed the block and the car, but not the concrete floor, and I learned a valuable lesson as I lay there looking at the ceiling of the garage. Leave all mechanical work to professionals. I hope this PSA does not scare anyone from riding along with me in my new hot rod of justice, as I plan to have it inspected by a competent professional.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-526252028034300832009-08-17T09:37:00.000-07:002009-08-17T09:39:15.117-07:00Understandificate what I'm Sayin'!<div>Understandificate what I'm Sayin'!</div><div>
<br /></div><div>O Larry Johnson</div><div>my man-crush stands unwav'ring,</div><div>which is why you rule</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Alright, I came in today intent on moving on in my car saga, but this morning's festivities demand I talk about them. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>First, I think I told you all I was going to lunch with my mom and JJ last week, well, there were complications...</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Apparently, my foolish, foolish mother was telling Toboggan boy about me taking her and JJ out to lunch, and Smeagol, sleeping face down on the couch, woke up, hearing about the possibility of free vittles. His thong leapt into action, informing her that since it was free food, he would tag along, as he had nothing else to do that day (go figure). JJ called me the morning of, whispering as that wily raptor was camped out in the front hallway, making sure no one left without his knowledge:</div><div>
<br /></div><div>JJ: (hushed tones) Fuck Stevester, I can't leave, fuckin' Smeagol is at the front door and he can see the back door from there too... </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Me: Well, I'm not buying the entire goof troop's damn lunch. I got 50 bucks, and that's it (I had my credit card, but telling them that is asking for the whole damn clan to show up, and I'm not doing that again)...</div><div>
<br /></div><div>JJ: (even quieter) Every since he heard we was gettin' free food he's been sitting by the door, all dressed, just looking around to make sure no one leaves without him...and he stinks!</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Long story short, he called my mom, who was out paying bills, and informed her she would have to go on without him, as he wasnt going to sacrifice letting Smeagol come along and ruin everyone's life just to get some damn vittles... so I ended up going to lunch with my parents and enjoying a 75% beef fat lunch at Gates. My God, I remember the burnt end sandwich having, you know, fucking MEAT in it. Are times that hard that you raise the price AND slather BBQ sauce on cooked fat and serve it? Wuduppwidat?</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Anyway, on another front, I went upstairs to the 4th floor to toilet shop this morning, and man I was laying some rope. It was a huge ringer turd, and there were 6 or 7 clunkers in the middle, which is great times, but all of a sudden, some lady opened the door to the bathroom and called out "is anyone in here?"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I sat there, frozen, and in shock. I had 2 choices: A), I could ignore it, and risk them coming in and seeing me shitting, or 2), I could call out, and anyone out in the hallway would know I was the Bathroom Bandit, much like Desmond was at da Firm. For a split second I contemplated option 1, but with the legal ramifications (can I get arrestified for indecent exposure if I am in a shitter stall and some lady sees me?) went with the second. I called out "I'm >grunt<><div>
<br /></div><div>I heard her say to someone beside her "There's someone IN there... what do I do?"</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Well RIGHT FUCKING AFTER I answer her, some guy yells from the FUCKING HALLWAY "Hey is anyone in there?" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">FUck</span>? What did they expect? That I would disappear between the 4 seconds of silence between her calling for me and him calling? Fuck that asshole, I sat there quietly. Then he comes into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">shitter</span> and I hear him say "I can see someone in the last stall" real loud... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">FUUUCK</span>!</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I assumed since someone was, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">y'know</span>, IN THE FUCKING BATHROOM, they would leave and let me sneak out with what little dignity I had left intact. Not a chance. All of a sudden I hear loud noises, like there is a construction zone in the bathroom, and I am mid-turd so I can't stop... I go ahead and finish, flush and try to sneak out of the stall, and right into the middle of 4 guys tearing the fucking bathroom apart. The soap dispensers are all gone, the paper towel dispenser is open, and these guys are tearing the whole fucking bathroom apart. I stand there, shitty fingers hanging at my sides, and one of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">douchebag</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">du</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">jours</span> notices me and says "Oh, hey, you probably need some soap"... then he leaves. I stand there awkwardly, looking at the other guys working within 5 feet of where I had just taken a huge shit, no doubt smelling it, and one of them hands me a roll of paper towels. At this point there is no coming back, so when the guy brings the soap in (we were changing vendors), I am all like "hey, thanks buddy!" and wash my hands.....while the 4 guys watched. It was fucking creepy. I then turned and left, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">sure</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">they</span> would look in the stall I had just vacated and see the tire treads I left in the bottom of the stool...</div><div>
<br /></div><div>The 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">th</span> floor, which for 2 years I have loved like a brother, a brother I hide behind to take shits, is now tainted. I must now find a new shit spot. Let us all have a moment of silence, as we remember a friend lost, a comrade who has fallen by the wayside; nay, let us *sniff* remember the good times, the *snort* time I won the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">superbowl</span> on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">tecmo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">superbowl</span> during the harrowing month of December, when I ONLY allowed myself to play whilst on the can...</div><div>
<br /></div><div>4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">th</span> floor, you will be missed.</div></div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-62038983161978587852009-08-14T08:53:00.001-07:002009-08-14T08:53:29.750-07:00Cars, cars, everywhere there's cars<div>Cars, cars, everywhere there's cars</div><div><br /></div><div>see the mountain blue</div><div>heartland vista; majesty</div><div>Let the eagle soar</div><div><br /></div><div>Before I get into the next set of cars in our cavalcade of awesome, I must (as I am wont to do) emit another flurry of barely understood rhetoric on politics. If you are a conservative republican, tell the person reading this to you to skip the next paragraph. Thank you.</div><div><br /></div><div>I so wish I could be hired on to go to these town hall meetings. I would put everything so bluntly a retarded deaf blind child with an arm growing out of his ass would understand. And then he could explain it to Rush Limbaugh's listeners.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here would be my speech, verbatim:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ladies, gentlemen, child molesters, and mullet aficionados, welcome. I will make this short, so as to save you time and keep you from missing the next NASCAR/ Bass fishin' event. Before you start screaming about Obama bringing 'socialism' to America, you are from now on required to define socialism. If you cannot correctly define socialism, you will be tazed, then pepper sprayed, then sterilized so your idiocy does not infect our country's gene pool, which would lead to some bad stem cells being used to lengthen the penises of homosexual men before they legally marry.</div><div><br /></div><div>Second, if you truly believe there are going to be 'death panels' (note I would put up the double quotes on all these), panels that tell people to die and try to steer old people toward death, then you are an idiot. While personally I believe that all people (myself included) should be exterminated once they have outlived their usefulness (which does not come at an age, mind you), only a complete and total moron would put that into legislation. And claiming it is magically 'hidden' (note the quotes again) in a document that is 'more than 1,000 pages!', shows you have a shorter attention span than the average Harry Potter aficionado, who is on average about 10.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lastly, Barack Obama was born in the United States. End of story. If you are one of the many, many idiots frothing at the jowls about needing to see his birth certificate, you should be stripped naked and raped by a prison gang. Nicely though, with like lube and stuff because stupidity is a crime but it's just as entertaining as it is hurtful.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you, and no further questions.... except from that big tittied girl in the third row."</div><div><br /></div><div>Seriously.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, political rant over for the time being, let's move on:</div><div><br /></div><div>10. 1992 Plymouth Sundance</div><div>Price - 650</div><div>Location bought - Truman Road and I-435 (auction)</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* So finally I had had enough with these sheister car dealers, what with their deigo mustaches and their greasy hair (I got that from celebrity jeopardy, not even sure what a deigo is, I think it's someone from California though), and decided to buy a car from the public (pubic) auction this time, as THAT would be a lot better.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not a lot on this car, except it was one of the top 3 cars I have had the honor of owning. I put 32000 miles on it in 2 years, never had a problem (except that if you tried to speed up to 55 without letting off the gas, the car would yaw until you let off, then it would drive fine) until the transmission shit itself. Like an idiot, instead of getting it fixed, I just got out and walked off, no idea what happened to that car.</div><div>THE END - Tranny went out one day, I got out of the car and walked away. Never looked back.</div><div><br /></div><div>11. 1986 Dodge Diplomat</div><div>Price - 250</div><div>Location bought - Truman Road and I-435 (auction)</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* The steam engine. The bird-murderer. The Life-Stealer. All names given to this well-documented piece of machinery. The windows in front would not roll down, and the heat only worked in full blast mode. It had NO power, even though it had a 318 v8, because it had almost 250K miles on it, but when we DROVE it to the junkyard, it had almost 400k miles on it. I had to replace the alternator once a month, and we had to hose the engine down once a month from all the oil spraying around in there. Great times. Look through earlier posts, I really did love this car. I got it the same day as the SUndance, and it lasted for 5 years, mostly as the backup car but for a LONG time as the only car...</div><div>THE END - We sold it to Wyatt Earp, who drove the shit out of it, and finally took it to the trash heap when he got tired of the poltergeist like manifesting of the car shitting itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>12. 1996 Chrysler Concorde</div><div>Price - INITIALLY 2000</div><div>Location bought - My wife's dad</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* Initially this car was supposed to be 2000 dollars. Long story short, I think at last count we owe just under 4000 now, with all the repairs that her dad covered on said automibile. Not a whole lot on this car, it had 75k miles on it when we got it 8 years ago, we still have it, it had 176k miles on it, my wife plowed into a deer doing 70 on I-435, and THEN finished her drive to work, we put a bright purple hood on it (the rest of the car was an opal color, so it actually kinda matched), and since it was my wife's car it was almost always halfway full of fucking trash. I hate dirty cars. There's no fucking reason for it. When you finish eating your sandwich, throw the damn paper in the trash or out the window at a wino so he can smell success... </div><div>THE END - the car never really ran right after hitting the deer, but it is still here, sitting in my driveway... maybe one day I will see what's up widdit.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This post is getting a bit long, so I will pause here. Monday I shall delve into the EBAY years of my car buying career, great times.</div><div><br /></div><div>*/Post note: If you are a conservative and I have offended you, my bad ho. It just annoys me that I have to listen to people all the time saying stupid shit and I have to keep my mouth shut because I am at work or in some other setting where it is socially unacceptable. /*</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-13688644451264647892009-08-12T11:02:00.001-07:002009-08-12T11:02:27.389-07:00Cars, Cars Cars!<div>Cars, Cars Cars!</div><div><br /></div><div>golden shower time</div><div>upturned face, mouth is agape</div><div>it's apple juice, perv</div><div><br /></div><div>...so without further ado, we move on to the second installment of my 5 part series, "Better know a lemon"</div><div><br /></div><div>6. 1980 Chevrolet Malibu</div><div>Price - $800.00</div><div>Location Bought - Truman Road across from Elmwood Cemetary</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* So when it was obvious that the Skylark had a myriad of problems that had been covered up (it was later found out it had some serious front end problems, but it was tough to find that out since I couldnt keep the car started long enough to find that out), I did what any sane and thoughtful person would do: I got Toboggan Boy and headed down to the car dealership to get another car from them.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It was great fun watching Toby's crack fuelled rage-o-thon, the indignation in his voice as he threatened to "whomp some goat-smellin' ass", his white guy afro and huge lip rug jiggling in awe-inspiring fury, the stereotypical nasty looking lady with the green shirt and filthy pink sweatpants never taking her eyes from her magazine... and finally he calmed down enough to infomr them that we had no intention of ever purchasing a car from them again, and that we were leaving this piece of crap here. We were then informed that they would call the police unless we took that car because I signed a contract. This was somehow parlayed into me buying the above mentioned car.</div><div>THE END: This car was another "looks great, runs, not so much" cars, which will become a common theme in my sexy time posts... the front end was so squirrely when I took the car back to them the steering wheel had ceased to turn the car anymore, and it was by pure luck the car just happened to randomly turn enough to bump it up on the curb by their establichment.</div><div><br /></div><div>7. 1985 Mercury Grand Marquis</div><div>Price - $1497.00</div><div>Location bought - 52nd and North Brighton (right off of North Prospect, FYI)</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* I got this car because the down payment was in my budget (49 dollars) and because it was big and gold. It had an anemic 302 V8 in it, got about 14 mpg, and fell to shit soon after I got it. First, the power windows went down and would not come back up. This would not have been a huge deal, but I bought the car in December. Driving down the highway with it fucking snowing and freezing rain inside you damn car lets police know that stopping you is paramount. Then it started dying. Often. While I was driving. Finally, one day something happened and antifreeze foured out from under the car. </div><div>THE END - I took it back to the dealership, having learned my lesson, and got</div><div><br /></div><div>8. 1992 Ford Taurus</div><div>Price - #3495.00</div><div>Location bought - 52nd and North Brighton Road</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* I never go to drive this car. I had been arrested and my license had gotten suspended previously, for turning when the police were turning, which for some reason equalled suspicious behavior, and my lovely wife drove this car the whole time, so outside of the fact that it always ran, I can tell you little to nothing about said car. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>That being said, I will note that during the ice storm that hit that year, she was driving down North Oak WAY too fast, jumped a curb at like 50 MPH and from then on between 45 and 60 the car jostled like we were in a washing machine. Great times.</div><div><br /></div><div>9. 1978 Chevrolet Impala</div><div>Price - $330.00*</div><div>Location bought - Northland somewhere</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* THis car was a pleasant, and complete surprise. We were sitting at work on break, my wife and I, at lovely Burger King, trying to figure out how we were going to pay 375/mo. rent AND the way too high 152.00/mo. car payment. No we couldnt afford, so didnt purchase, insurance. As we were talking, the lady behind us remarked that she was moving to Montana (why I am not sure. Are there people in Montana?), and that she would sell us her Mother's car, which looked rough but ran great. Her price, 330, was more than equitable, and we went to look at the car.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Well, "ugly" did not begin to describe this car. Let me preface this by saying I LOVE that body style of car, and this one had no dents, dings, or any of that shit. On the OUTSIDE. It was, however, sky blue, gold, rust colored and orange. As in 3 times someone had decided to paint the car, got started, said "Fuck it", and quit. Whatever. The interior left a little to be desired. The cloth on the seats was all ratty and torn up, so we sat on lovely foam cushion, which would of course grind itself into your pants if you dared move. There was also no headliner, so there was orange fluff that rained down on you at all times. By the time you got out of this car, you looked like a Cheeto. All of these things sucked, but this was the best automobile I ever owned. It ran ALL the time. My wife dumped it nose first into a ditch - twice, still ran. I spun out and hit a guardrail, still ran. Did I mention when these things happened there was no damage to the car? It got 20 MPG, city, highway, or lake. It was an ugly son of a bitch, and people moved out of the way when I got on the highway. Best memory though? When I drove that ugly sucka up to the hospital door to take my oldest son home. You should have seen the look on the nurse's face, great times. I sold this car twice, got it back twice, and it outlasted everything I ever had. </div><div>THE END - I am literally getting teary eyed as I write this. I fucking loved that car. She finally met her end when a buttfucking JJ got to her, as he wrecked it trying to peel out around a corner. Every year I stop to think about that car, the great times, the lack of air conditioning, the sweet jacked up look it had when I put truck tires on the back, and I let out a remorseful, sad, memory laden fart in honor of my gone friend. Rest in Peace...</div><div><br /></div><div>Fuck, I will do the next few tomorrow, I...I don't wanna talk about cars anymore. WHY?!</div><div><br /></div><div>* The price for the car was 330. We told the lady that we had 300, and promised to send the remaining 30 later. She left for Montana that day. To this day I am assuming I owe some lady 30 dollars in Montana. Great times.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-55106399347357637642009-08-11T14:45:00.001-07:002009-08-11T14:45:41.527-07:00Vehicular Manslaughter<div>Vehicular Manslaughter</div><div><br /></div><div>touch the Whitesnake, girl</div><div>Kraken's your QUiet Riot</div><div>Take on me, A-Ha</div><div><br /></div><div>So yesterday, we were all debating cars, with me being the only one in the room who does not enjoy the fruits of GM's labors, and the Tylester dared ask me to explain myself. Well, friends, as I was going through the cars I had, we all came to the completely skewed observation that it was not so much the fault of GM, as it was mine for purchasing cars for less than 600 dollars and then expecting them to be awesome. I figured I would go through, really fast, the more than 20 vehicles I have owned in my short driving career, and let you draw your own sweet and sassy conclusions.</div><div><br /></div><div>1. 1982 Buick Regal</div><div>Price: Free (it was a "gift" from Smeagol)</div><div>Location bought: N\A</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* In all honesty, this was a really nice car, and I cannot complain too much about it. Smeagol gave it to me to drive, I drove it for about 2 weeks, then Smeagol took it back and traded it in for a 1990 Pontiac Sunbird, which promptly got impounded and still to this day sits in an impound lot, as far as I know.</div><div>THE END - Smeagol took it back</div><div><br /></div><div>2. 1984 Pontiac Fiero</div><div>Price: $297.00</div><div>Location bought: 41st and Troost</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* This was a sweet looking car, kinda like a little Ferrari. Why was it so cheap? It was a manual, had 200k miles on it, and had no 3rd gear. I also remember it not being able to go in reverse either. I ended up trading this to the most shady character I had ever seen (you know when you see someone and you can just tell by the way they are kinda jukin' and jivin', or smoking crack?) for car number 3, which was:</div><div>THE END - Traded for Camaro</div><div><br /></div><div>3. 1978 Chevrolet Camaro</div><div>Price: $575.00</div><div>Location bought: 37th and Cleveland *interesting side note, it was a junkyard/trash heap, and I had to climb over trash to get to his desk. This should have been an indication of what was to come...</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* I got this car because it looked cool, plain and simple. It was electric blue, had turbine wheels, T-Tops, and a cool sounding engine. However, the ENTIRE front end was held together with bailing wire (which is chicken wire, for the uninitiated), it never ran right, and every time I turned a corner I had to hold the door on or it would fly open, which was not cool. The first day I had it, I went outside to admire it after some healthy toilet shopping to find some nasty ass old guy in the front seat. I asked him politely what the fuck he was doing in my car, and let my doberman loose before he had a chance to answer. Turns out I had forgotten to take the "For Sale" sign off of the car and he thought it was for sale... Tee hee! </div><div><br /></div><div>Another funny thing (not really) is when the skeevy loser came to pick the Fiero up, it ran like a top even without that gear, and I had never driven it because I didn't know how to drive a stick and also because it had no third gear, so that Fiero could have ended up being a great car, I will never know.</div><div>THE END - I ended up selling it to some hoodlums, who promptly found out it was crap, demanded their money back, which I gave, and then came back later and stole the car. Sad times. Also I had no title, so there was that.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. 1991 Pontiac Grand Prix</div><div>Price - I dunno, it was technically Smeagol's car</div><div>Location bought: 63rd and Troost</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* The Grand Prix was a pretty decent car, technically it was Smeagol's, but since he would always climb into the back seat and curl up on the floorboards and fall asleep, gassing me (have you ever tried breathing through your mouth and actually TASTED fart?!)</div><div>THE END - I backed out of the driveway and the axle broke. In the middle of the fucking street. I just sat there, cars on either side honking at me (what the fuck am I supposed to do, moron?) and looked, dumbfounded, as all manner of fluid trickled out of the bottom of the car.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. 1986 Buick Skylark Custom</div><div>Price - $850.00</div><div>Location bought - Truman Road across from Elmwood Cemetary</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>* I should have known not to purchase this car because all of these dealerships looked shady, but fuck I needed a car. THis was a GORGEOUS car, it was silver, had a digital dash, smelled fresh all the time, there was one problem. When I bought it, apparently the mechanic covered all the holes in the block over with some thich black grease. I first noticed this when I tried to go up a hill and the car could not do it. This was an indication that something was awry. My second clue was the car died. A lot. Like every 3-4 minutes. I am not exaggerating. It was hilarious, one of the bus station skanks I dated during that time thoguht I was killing the car on purpose to get busy. This could very well be the case, but I would want to get, you know, away from your fucking house first, moron...</div><div>THE END - I traded this car in, at the same lovely dealership, for car # 6, a 1980 Chevrolet Malibu...</div><div><br /></div><div>More tomorrow... I will try to do 5 a day, that way I will be done sometime early next week.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2109395441247390390.post-24757683363679541402009-08-06T14:03:00.000-07:002009-08-06T14:04:48.828-07:00Giggity Giggity Goo!<div>The nipple pimple</div><div>blemish on hot body part?</div><div>or snack with your milk?</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, Smeagol went home today. I know, I know, you are crying in your oatmeal... I know you all secretly hoped he would come into your life, sleeping on your couch, in your car, on your toilet as he stops it up with ginormous half-digested 30 day old taco bell turds of justice... but I guess true love, or Mystery's mom getting the lights turned back on, convinced him to change his ways.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I told JJ to tell Smeagol about the party my sister was having, simply because it would have been hilarious to see him there, but he didn't show up, meaning either A) Smeagol never woke up long enough to be informed about said party (he was always asleep when I called, which is why I never got to talk to him) or B) he feared the Country Club Plaza's constabulary corps. </div><div><br /></div><div>Whatevs, the party wasn't so bad, they had a band (can't remember the name, but my sister was all googley eyed the whole time, so I am going to assume it was Culture Club), decent food, plus I was the buffest one there, so that was pretty cool...</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess I just don't understand that wily raptor. Sometimes I think he can function in normal society if he really wanted to, and though outlandish, his constant claims that he got to sniff the vaginas of hot ladies all the time can't ALL be lies, can they?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, on to something else, the PLAN is this next Tuesday to take my dear mother out to lunch with the Tylester, where I am assuming he will attempt to make out with her or get her to say something from the olde Mystical Retard days... we will be at Oklahoma Joe's on 47th and Mission road next Tuesday, look for the guy not wearing any pants, and Tylester and I will be behind him.</div><div><br /></div><div>On another front, we have another 50th b-day coming up, and before I am asked to dress as something humiliating, I would like to come up with an idea of something hawt to dress up as, but I am coming up blank. I originally thought assless chaps and a Duluth letterman jacket would be nice but maybe not so corporate environment friendly... </div><div><br /></div><div>So I am leaving it up to you. What should I wear? This time it is being left up to me, and as long as they are no more wrong than a pink tutu or a bumblebee costume I am willing to listen to any ideas... I will then put them up to a vote and get a costume made.</div>Stevesterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15477824929201192519noreply@blogger.com0