Hookers, Nature's Spumoni

 I've watched hookers shit

gentle turds on the damn street

not bragging, just truth

"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)

Well, Steve's on some bullshit.

So, what's happened over the past 6 years? 

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.

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.

But goddamn it. 

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. 

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}

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.... 

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.

I'm not even going to pretend I plan on posting regularly, but until next time... SchlipSchlapSallyWhop Niggies

Sadness

Another gem, this one from 2010. I have a few more drafts, will post them then back to your previously scheduled shenaniganistas.

Sadness...

In lieu of your usual haikueygooeyness, I would like to post a poem by one of my favorite poets, Leon Phelps:

What is love?

What is this longing in our hearts for togetherness?

Is it not the sweetest flower?

Does not this flower of love have the fragrant aroma of fine fine dining?

Does not the wind love the dirt? Is not love not unlike the unlikly not it is unliking to?

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.

Tame the wild cosmos with a whisper.

Conquer heaven with one intimate caress.

Thats right, don't be shy, whip out everything you've got, and do it in da butt!!

BY LEON PHELPS!!

Sadness

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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!

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.

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.

A Midsummer Nights Raptor

from the depths it came

Lands fall to plague before it

failure quells it's ire

EDITOR'S Note: These are drafts I wrote and never finished. I am going to post them because I'm lazy. You're welcome.

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

It is a different story for a certain wily raptor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

random meander
through an oft-filled clime
great, now I got herps

I never finished my Rocksmith story I see, and maybe I'll do that one day... in the meantime;

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:

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.

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.

She shows up, opens the door to get out, the dog jumps in the backseat and we now have a dog.

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.

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.

"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:

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.

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:

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"...

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.

Let a bird go free
and if it returns to you
make it your dinner

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...

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.

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.

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...

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...

ROCKSMITH

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.

Starting price - $0.00

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.

Cost - 13.49

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.

Cost - 50.48

Fuck.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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....

To be continued (I'm lazy, dammit)

The Ninja

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The DMV. Fuck you.

The DMV. Fuck you.

people in line, pissed

wond'ring why it takes so long

to get turned away.

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.

That's what I wanted to use as my haiku but could not find a way to limit it to the correct format.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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?

3. Why do they go on break 3 times per hour?

4. Canada...please explain.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Epilogue, still waiting on the original license they mailed out February 18...

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.

Ridicula.

damn you homeless guy

why do I even bother

you shit on my tire

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.

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...

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.

Anyhoodles, we took the kids around for Halloween recently, and it led to some observations, observations I would like to share with you:

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...

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.

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...

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?!

Fuck!

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!

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!

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.

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.

Karma.

trachea cock storm
testingtest out the throat with flesh probe
prison love is back

It's been a while.

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.

If you came here looking for giggles and laughs, I point you to the online photos of my genitalia.

Since you all know him mostly (only) as Smeagol, I will continue to refer to him as such.

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.

Let me start from the beginning.

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.

He didn't.

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.

This takes us to about 3 weeks ago. Smeagol caught a most terrible fever, I mean 104+... he was taken to Truman Medical Center.

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.

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.

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.

You read that right. They were going to amputate Smeagol's foot.

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.

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.

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.

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...

Will the posts stop? No, as soon as we get something worked out they will continue.
Will the posts about Smeagol stop? No, he would disapprove of us being all nice and lovey dovey now...

Anyway, that's whats going on here.

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.

Food poisoning...at the hands of the Mexican tamale vendor

bursts forth from cocoon,
new wings drink in fresh spring air
the raptor is back

Confluence.

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 flagon 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!

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.

It had started out such a mundane affair: He had asked that whelp JJ if perhaps he could "Pay you to lick on your honey's pussy a little bit niggie", 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!

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 44th and Troost, 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.

Purchasing a few tamales with his hard earned monies form all that booty ass overtime he worked assaulting the infirm, Smeagol sat in his car to think about how he would reclaim the world that had so wrongly been stolen from him in the Middle Tyme, when he was promised a partnership in ruling the world if only he would cast out the dragon-folk of Middle Uberion with his flaming +4 Cloak of Enfeebling Failure, which had like a +50 instant mana burn and took strength, constitution and Dexterity down even lower than that of a halfling. Believing the Fabled King Arthur was nowhere near as crafty as he, Smeagol had cast his cloak about, whomping up on those bitch motherfuckers with extreme rage niggie. The devastation would cause the very Earth to cry over the deep chasm the cloak had created, pulling the dragons and valiant Orc-trolls into what we now know as the Marianas Trench.

But treachery had been afoot. The fiend Arthur had tricked Smeagol, had stolen his preciousssss.... his Rent-a-center Preferred awards card, and Smeagol had been cast out of Upper Ilyarnikka 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 Runestone holding the spell 'Bob' had sealed him to his fate.

But the economy had failed, and the cards and apps had disappeared, weakening the barrier, and finally the foolish Tylester of Kansa had spoken the name Bob, freeing Smeagol from his dungeon to wreak havoc upon an unsuspecting world, and thats what he would have done right after his nap, but then it happened: what he had assumed was another innertube of poopy 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?

No....

Old people should be exterminated

Super Bowl is on
Smeagol's out of hospital
world back in balance

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

Old people feel like just because they are too old to be of use, that it gives them wanton license to:

1. Steal
2. Make everyone feel guilty
3. talk too much
4. clog up roads, supermarket lanes, restrooms with their inane chatter and funny smells
5. talk to you in the gym while completely naked (seriously?! no one wants to see your saggy ass old balls)
6. Hit people in their fuckin 1994 Dodge Shadow then drive off
7. Wear weird clothes
8. Be old

I think I have made my case here. That is all.

Smeagol.

The time has now come
For Smeagol to take his place
As king of Raptors

...blah blah blah "something about posting more" blah blah...

Your raptor, whom you all know, love and look down to, is at it again.

"Has he been arrested?" Will may ask...

"Who are you again?" Derka must be musing...

"I'm so tired... bitch niggie" Tylester may be moaning, spread eagle on his bed with a 3 liter of urine next to him...

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!)

Smeagol had apparently moved back in full time with Mystical, thus ensuring I shall never run out of stories again.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Golgorath McNipplemilk

Golgorath McNipplemilk

hard times D & D

tiny weiner, apathy

da revolution

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 ths world... great times.

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.

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 Stevester, email me and I will send you sign up sheets, Will and Tylester). 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.

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 Smeagol, 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.

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 weiner on weiner frottage 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.

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 jisms from my chowdermaker, but learned that skeet shooting is actually shooting at moving clay targets with a gun, and not what rappers say it is (curse you Soulja 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 sega game, but that doesnt 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).

Anyhoo, I get directions to their house, which is in Klanland, or Northern Missouri (I have no idea if the klan is out there, but let's assume there is nothing else out there just for the sake of comedy HMMMMM?), 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.

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, camoflauge (if thats not how you spell it, eat my shitmaker) 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 sideward glance every few seconds like "Hey Cletus, izzat nigger still here?" I got little to no attention.

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, annnnnd....miss.

Oh well, second one annnnnd.... miss.

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. WTF? 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!

Ah... great times. I will update on the Thanksgiving from Hades later, and also on how Smeagol can make your life better!

I got Crabs!

I got crabs

organ donor time

hot beef injection is here

talking about ham

So I just wanted to share with you all that I got crabs. 2 little fiddler crabs from the local Wal-Marts. They are adorable, but I should have done some more research on them... I put them in my tank and watched them scurry around, and then one of my fish, an African cichlid 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.

Anyway, as we all know (and I am sure care) Sunday was my birthday. Yes, it's true, yer old pal Stevester turned a delectable 29, and I feel every friggin bit of 70, except I can still get it up and I don't shit myself...yet.

Anyway, the day started with my mom and JJ 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 gettin' too old for this shit"... the awkward part was when they guy with the greasy jeri curl with the sax played that little hook from Lethal Weapon and then walked out the garage (for Prit, that's "gair-awjj").

Anyway, after receiving phone calls from my whole family, I get up and that's when it hits me. Smeagol. The raptor. The Life-Stealer. The Thong-Wearer... known by many names, answering to none.

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 Smeagol never does anything unless it will benefit him.

"Hey Niggie, how you doin well enough of the small talk I got a computer from Rent-A-Center and I need some help with it" he moaned sassily, I can only assume scratching another barnacle out of his thong.

Before I go any further, I must explain something to those of you who read this blog who are not IT techs:

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.

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 about my 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:

1. Don't make the call for computer help the ONLY fucking time you contact us.

2. Don't EXPECT us to jump at the chance to remove all of your split beaver shemale porn.

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.

4. I dunno about my colleagues, but we do NOT enjoy "being alone with all that techy 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 fuckin paying me, the least you can do is entertain me.

5. Don't assume that because we CAN that we WANT to.

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.

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 quicklist on WIndows Media player. RIIIIi-i-ight...

Anyway, this post is about Smeagol, 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...

....and am wrong. "...so... if you can bring me one, that would be great niggie." I blink a few times as the realization sinks in. What?! This fuckin' 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 Smithville to Liberty via the back roads, so I pack the kids up, grab a mouse and head out. I leave at 2:08PM on Sunday, with the full intent on being back at 3:00PM to watch the Chiefs play the Raiders.

I get to Smeagol's 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 bux I spent in gas money driving over there, plug the mouse in and prepare to leave. Then Smeagol notices my oldest son holding a Harry Potter book. This is significant, because had he not taken that fucking book inside I would have happily enjoyed the rest of my day Smeagol-free. And yes I am blaming the ruination of my and my dad's day on my 9 year old son.

Smeagol pounced on him, talking about wizard school, Hagrid 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. THis does 2 things: It gets me thinking maybe Smeagol is not so much of a douche, and keeps me close by long enough for him to lay his question on me:

"Hey niggie, you aren't going by Mom's house are you? I need tog et down there because I have orientation tomorrow..."

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, Stevester, think!

Nothing. I tell him to call Mom and Dad, and if he can't get ahold 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 niggie!"

Fuck.

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 Smeagol up, listen as he and JJ 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.

After the game, Smeagol of course calls, tells me he couldnt get ahold 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.

The ride down to JJ's house was for the most part uneventful, except Smeagol 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 Smeagol 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.

We get to JJ's, I happily take Smeagol's 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 JJ at seeing Smeagol hobble in... and head straight for the kitchen.

JJ 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, Smeagol 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 Smeagol 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 Smeagol walks off, supposedly to count the beers. We talk for a minute, my dad promising to drop Smeagol off at my house one of these days, and Smeagol comes back in slurping noisily at a Miller High Life, the Champagne of Beers. Dad asks how many were left, and Smeagol 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 110th and Troost (I didn't even know Troost 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 asshat all the way to fucking Joplin or wherever 110th and Troost 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.

Smeagolaise

Smeagolaise

gentle brook bubbles

clear cold water bubbling down

shit I pissed my pants

Porn time

Smeagol 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, niggie" 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!

I have a penchant for collecting classic video game systems. I HAD everything from the original NES (can't find a decent Atari 2600) all the way up to the XBOX 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...

Anyway, JJ is my brother. I love my family. SO when JJ asked me if he could borrow my Sega Genesis and my Sega Dreamcast, there was never a second thought. He had never stolen from me before, so there was no reason to think he would now...

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 Dreamcast 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 cd-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.

Anyway, JJ asked a few days ago to borrow a few PS1 games, which I gave to him, including Final Fantasy 7, Metal Gear Solid, and Xenogears, a game I paid more than 125 dollars for. Like I said I don't mind helping.

JJ called last night and asked if he could borrow some Dreamcast games. I was like "sure", went to my inventory closet in the basement, past the shelves and shelves of porn, and realized the Dreamcast 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 Smeagol 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. Smeagol 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 Smeagol 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.

-Update- this post was written a couple days ago, I am just finishing it. JJ went to Smeagol's 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 Smeagol where he had gotten them, to which he first replied "I bought them all at the pawn shop, niggie!"

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, Smeagol changed his story right there to "Oh, well I had these for years".

I am now torn between taking all of my things back from JJ, and thus depriving him of the opportunity to ever play these great games again, and actually going to Smeagol's hovel and taking my shit back, though I know that will only lead to Smeagol somehow raptoring to my house and never leaving. At what point would you just say goodbye to your belongings, no matter how precious?

I know I harp on this a lot, and a lot of you are getting tired of hearing about it, but dammit!

Anyway...

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:

I invited Smeagol (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.

JJ wants to have Thanksgiving at Mystical's 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.

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.

JJ 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. This will lead to more bad blood as my aunt is one mean lady.

My sister said if Smeagol is going to be at my house she is going to murder him, and she also doesn't want to see my aunt.

My cousin said if my wife's "fat white bitch ass" shows up she is going to "cut some gravy out dat bitch". The infraction? Last year said fat white bitch butt-bumped my cousin out of the way on the way to the turkey.

I hate children and most if not all of them are bringing their kids and more 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.

I hate the holigays.

Smeagol, the Sausage Thief

Smeagol, the Sausage Thief

Love is like a rose

delicate, beautiful, yet

the thorns fuckin hurt

First things first: I got kicked in the goddamn taint. "What the fuck is a taint" you may ask yourself? A taint, or taintius holestinkius in Latin, is the small sensitive area of skin between your asshole and your ballsack or lovehole 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...

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 prolly wearing the damn thing wrong, but I always have one ball or my wiener hanging out cause 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.

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-brussel-sprout smelling farts escapes with all the velocity of a Taepodong missile (LOL) 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.

At this point I REFUSED to get kicked/punched/licked in the fuckin' 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 "WHUMP" sound and him hitting the floor. Yeeaaaaaahhhh. 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:

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 shitbox and pounded said taint. This is met by me again balling up on the floor and crying for my mommy.

It sucked.

Aiight, 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: Smeagol. Hold your horses, here it is.

Apparently Smeagol 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 ladyboy and her friend who sucked my cousin off, in the hopes of possibly maxing out on said ladyboy 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.

JJ informed me Smeagol is still an avid player of Pokemon (or as he calls it, and I shit you not, "Pookee Mans"), and is constantly 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.

During one of his many, many naps, apparently Kareema (the girl who sucked my cousin off, not the ladyboy) saw the notice, and called and informed JJ, 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".

HmmmMMmm.....

Seriously, What. The. Fuck. Apparently said raptor was caught, on surveillance camera (and how much would you pay to see that), raptoring 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. JJ said one of the sad side effects is now Smeagol is coming by MUCH more often, and things are disappearing at an alarming rate... I loaned him 22 sega genesis games, there are only 13 left. JJ went to Smeagol's house and saw them, and remarked that those belonged to me, to which Smeagol replied he had "bought" them. When confronted with the fact that my full fucking name had been written on said games as I knew something like that would happen, Smeagol repeated the edict that he had bought them at a pawn shop, nevermind pawn shops would NOT still have Sega Genesis, what kind of coincidence that there's another Stevester 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?

None, that's what.

Anyway, I know we all got a little sad that no one could find a job for Smeagol, but now joy of joys the search is still on.