Adamantium to Loony Rant

The other day I was writing something, and I noticed that the word Adamantium is not in the Microsoft dictionary out-of-the-box. I was perplexed; figuring that Adamantium is pretty much a household term thanks to Wolverine. Then for shits and giggles I tried Magneto, and it’s in the fucking dictionary! Now before you physicist types fuck up the forthcoming hypothesis with your little “facts” and “Webster’s definitions”; I’d just like to say, STFU!

I’ve come to realize that Microsoft is actually a front for the Brotherhood. I must admit, the only comic book character I follow is Deadpool (<-Not in the dictionary), and have no idea whether or not the Brotherhood of Mutants still exists. If it doesn’t, the Microsoft Office developers are trying to rebuild. The developers of Open Office must be informed! Only they can stop this menace growing deep within the fluorescent lit corridors of Microsoft. The Open Office people have a stealth jet right? Be forewarned people the Office Wars are on the horizon. Personally, I’m siding with the Brotherhood of Microsoft. Fuck the Linu-X-Men; seriously. Open source software is great in principle, but it’s lacking in every other aspect. Besides, it’s for socialites, err Socialists, and dirty Commies. Piracy is the true American way! I doubt those idealistic Linu-X-Men advocate Piracy, so obviously they aren’t very American. However, Microsoft doesn’t either. Shit, we’re fucked. Join the resistance. We have to shut down these meta-human software developers before they use their powers to subvert us all to either Capitalism or Equality. This post is going nowhere. My premise for this whole thing is being adhered to loosely at best. I should rethink and come up with another draft, but when writing these blogs I go pretty much stream of consciousness. Like up there where I said open source software is for socialites; I just kept on going. We all know those big-ass rose-tinted sunglass sporting bitches don’t run Red-Hat. Paris Hilton is compiling shit. I can’t think of another one of those chicks, but isn’t programming a damn thing. I don’t care though; put fingers to keys and go, that’s how I run game. The news had pictures of some murdered transvestite on the other day and my first thought was, he’s hot. I don’t give a shit, I just write it; none of you are ever going to meet me. I’m just some weirdo with a twisted sense of humor on a keyboard somewhere. Fuck you! I don’t know why I became so irate with you just now. That was uncalled for, and I apologize, but really, we both know I don’t mean it. I never do. It’s all just an act to subdue your displeasure with me. I only make you happy via lies and manipulation. It’s better for both of that way. I find joy in playing puppet games with you, and you find joy in my nice-guy façade. Mu-hahahaha! Fools! I will kill your children!

I’m joking no I won’t. Unless I’m like 95.5 percent sure I’ll get away with it. If I’m positive there’s no witnesses, and I just happen to have some gloves, the chain from a chainsaw, a duffel-bag, and happened to be near a large body of water, sure I’ll off ‘em. I’ll choke the little bastard with the chainsaw chain, puncture any organs which might balloon with posthumous gasses, stuff his gut and intestines with rocks, stuff him in the duffel-bag, zip up the bag, and sploosh under an overcast night sky.

I kinda hope no one reads this, yet I’ll post it anyway.

Olive Garden Kills the Unhappy

The other day I was at an Olive Garden, in Cheyenne, Wyoming. I happened to notice a strange quote on a decorative black-board, which met me as I entered. It read “If you’re happily, you’re family”, and I thought, that’s a horrible thing to say to unhappy people. Then my mind laid out a rather extreme and unlikely scenario.

Let’s say for instance, a man’s mother just died. He is an only child, and his father let them when he was born. Now he’s all alone in life. His mother, whom he loved dearly, just died in a fire, while trying to save his puppy. The puppy didn’t even survive. This guy’s down and out. He’s never been more unhappy in his life. So, he decides to go to the Olive Garden for, what he hopes to be, an uplifting Italian meal.

As the man passes into the dining area, a black-board catches his eye; a black-board which joyfully high-lights his isolation. Oh, hello Mr. Frumpy-Pants, you’re not really welcome here. Sure, we’ll feed you, but honestly we won’t accept you. How could we? We don’t give a shit what atrocities have befallen you today. You’re not a part of this cheerful family. Why don’t you just head home, eat some Vienna sausages, pop a bottle of Tylenol 3s and wash it down with a bottle of Popov Vodka, and die.

I hope you’re satisfied with yourself Olive Garden. You killed this poor man. Oh yes, he took you’re advice (in my interpretation of this hypothetical situation). Now he joined his ghastly roasted mother’s corpse as maggot food.

I suggest everyone contact their local Olive Garden and complain about this travesty of humanity.

Unemployment Solution

I think it’s pretty well known to everyone by now that our nation is in economical turmoil. Our unemployment rate is ridiculously high, and I heard on POTUS this afternoon somebody said it would be at least six years before it even returned to where it was before the downturn (“somebody said”- you can’t fuck with my research skillz). Anyways, the point is, I have discovered an elegant solution to the unemployment problem, and I believe it will help with some of the other factors economic problems.

Before I get too far into my answer to our current state of affairs I would like to point out that these are desperate times. Our economy is taking a beating like Rihanna telling Chris Brown that dinner’s cold, and the dishes aren’t done. So understand I will be asking a lot of the American people.

The answer to unemployment is deceptively simple; suicide. If two thirds of our unemployed population swallowed a .45 slug it would effectively cut our unemployment rate by two-thirds (My math skills, also unfuckwitable). Think about it, the American depression rate is nearly 54 percent; according to a figure I just put in this sentence. That’s around 1.3 billion people, I guess; I’m making up all these numbers.

Let’s be honest; we really don’t need these Prozac popping drains on society. You, the Xanax zombies of the world; you can accomplish one thing to benefit our great country. Off yourself. All you have to do is flush your meds down the toilet, or sell them to some local elementary school kids (they’ll buy whatever, they’re stupid). Then, let nature run its course. You probably wanted to swing from that pole in your closet with a belt at one time or another anyway. That’s instincts. Who are our psychologists to play God? Obviously your brain is telling you that you’re unworthy of breathing, and you shouldn’t argue with that.

Depression isn’t a mental illness. It’s nature’s way of thinning the herd, since lions don’t eat us anymore, and religion isn’t killing everyone fast enough. You’re brain is telling you that you are extra weight. You are America’s man-boobs. Do everyone else a favor, and liposuction, er wait, lipo-blow your brains out all over your garage.

If you really want to help, take out some families on welfare while you’re at it. That’ll really cut back on American expenditures which show no return. Hop in that broken down piece of shit jalopy you drive, and ram right through your local Habitat for Humanity.

DISCLAIMER: Do it faggot!

Meeker, Co and teh DOW Douche-Bag

I’d like to take some time to write about Meeker, Co. The people in Meeker are some of the nicest you’ll ever come across (outsiders are their main source of income). However, the law is formed from a bunch of bitches.

While I was there my dad and I decided to hit the shooting range to buck off a few rounds. We had a fed-ex envelope as one of our targets. There was this old piece of shit couch out there that we stuck it in, and forgot to grab. Anyways, now, two weeks later a DOW douche-bag calls my pops to inform him he’s getting a littering ticket. What kind of shit is that? It was in a fucking couch. It was a little piece of trash firmly fastened to a huge piece of trash. There was trash everywhere. It was a shooting range, cans, bottles, unwanted pets, babies whose mothers had a date they wanted to go on.

I want to know how this incredibly perceptive Douche o’ Wildlife officer even noticed the damn thing. I guess when you don’t have much to do in a day you find shit like that. Then, I wondered if he really became irate upon its discovery. I wonder if he was all pissed standing out in an open canyon like “what kind of monster would defile nature’s majesty with the white cardboard rectangle of Satan? Oh, what is this? A name, well I have a surprise for you pal.”

I realize we should have grabbed the damn envelope, but come on. You can’t let one fucking envelope in a mound of shit slide?

Basically there’s two morals to this story; 1.) Don’t use shit with your name on it as target practice, and 2.) Never go to fucking Meeker, Co.

My Myspace Prank E-Mails

I thought I would share with you a few of the various messages I've sent on Myspace, in order to confuse, amuse, or maybe even discomfort people. So, without further ado here they are.

Cease and Desist (Stop Masterbating)
This letter is for sending to anybody, because the receiver needs not meet any requirements for it to work.

I have recently been informed, by many trust-worthy sources, of your habitual masturbation while viewing my Myspace page. Under usual circumstances this would not bother me, but do to the rash of unfortunate souls recently admitted to masturbation rehabilitation clinics, citing me as the primary source of their addiction, and the legal issues which have followed, I am forced to contact all persons engaging in such aforementioned activities and requesting it be stopped immediately.

This is a problem which lies heavily on my heart and soul. It distresses me greatly to think of these once vivacious beautiful women (and dude, but that distresses me in a whole different kind of way) reduced to mindless zombies touching themselves in the faint glow of computer screens. I cannot help the fact that I seem to be the solanum of sexuality, but I can issue this stringent warning; stop masturbating to the thought of me. It will take over your life; rule you like a magnificence Greek emperor. My spirit cannot take another life destroyed in my wake, but more importantly I can’t take another fucking lawsuit.

If utilization of my page for chronic masturbation does not stop I will be forced to visit the police Myspace page and send them a message detailing the situation, or possibly post a comment (assuming they accept my friendship, we’re not on the greatest terms).

Love or sincerely (whichever you prefer),
Me

I Need Advice (Wanting Stalkers)
I originally sent this post to Renee Townsend, but she never replied back. Fucking bitch, too good to reply to to her most amusing fan, well not really fan. I'm joking I'm sure she has hundreds of dirty-perve messages to delete, and my face probably fits in with the rest.

Dear [Insert Name],
Recently I’ve embark upon a quest. What is my goal? Capture the attention of various crazy people, and become harassed. I know; it seems like a strange aspiration, but I was often neglected as a child. I was the victim of a horrible accident during birth; I refer to it as the “Doctor Butterfingers-Didn’t-Rinse-The-Soap-Off-His-Damn-Gloves incident”. I suffered various learning disabilities and had a terrifying misshapen dome piece, so other children would not play with me.

However, that is not the real reason behind my need of attention. The only times I saw my mom was when she was in between “clients”, and then it was only long enough for her to tell me that I would never amount to anything and take another swig of her wine (after she dispensed it from the little box nozzle). My dad spent a lot of time with me, but he had a strange way of showing affection. He really liked playing catch, but preferred to use half-empty beer cans instead of baseballs for some reason.
I tell this story to shed light on were I’m coming from, and because I enjoy rousing sympathy from beautiful women (story works great at the club, but not so much for getting out of tickets).

I only have one direction left to turn, and it is towards the warm embrace of the world’s sociopaths.
Oh, what jubilance it would bring to my soul if I could receive just one mad-nasty picture along with a fairly detailed, yet horribly compiled (grammatically speaking), account of what its sender would like to do to my various orifices. All I ask is the occasional disturbing, hateful, explicit, unintelligent message, or perhaps UPS package containing my own hair and a short, but handcrafted letter; preferably scraped together from various newspaper clippings (magazine clippings would work too, as long as it was from Nickelodeon, Teen, or even Cosmo just to let me know the creator is really loopy).

What does any of this have to do with me, you wacko? You may be asking yourself. I write to beseech your tutelage. You seem to attract the same attention I desire, and expertly at that. It’s like you don’t even try, I am in awe of your deft ability.

I’ve tried everything. I posted pictures of myself in sexy lingerie, but the only response I receive is thirteen year-old punks calling me gay, and I’m not even gay. Admittedly, I don’t have “nice abs”, or “smooth legs” (or smooth anything for that matter), or a “killer rack”. However, my ass is alright, and my Don Johnson rugged facial hair is just straight-up sexy.

Maybe, I didn’t get the attention I seek because the pictures didn’t turn out well. I figured if I was going through all the trouble of wearing sexy lace lingerie I had to sport the matching heals. Unfortunately, it’s really hard to run in heals and my camera has a really short delay timer. Therefore, all the pictures ended up as me in a form a super-man dive, and I totally sprained my thumb three times. I won’t even get into what happened when my panty-shorts (I don’t know what they’re called not quite panties / not quite short, you know I’m talking about) caught on the edge of the coffee table.

I could go on, but I don’t want to waste too much of your time. So in conclusion, is there any advice you could offer to a would-be myspace-creepy-people victim?

I Think I Remember You (My Schnookems)
This is another one which could be sent to anyone, and most likely the most discomforting of the group.


I was browsing through Myspace today when I came upon your site, and I was struck by the most awkward feeling. Not a creepy kind of awkward feeling, mind you, just a sense of déjà vu. I’m not a crazy stalker who sits in a dark basement with boxes of pizza and gallon jugs of flat Mountain Dew. I do collect women’s hair, but that’s just so I can build a genetically engineered android to take over the world, so it’s nothing weird. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, you triggered some deep dark memory trapped deep within my psyche. As I clawed at my temples trying to get the pain out of my skull, it hit me.

You ran over my dog!

Oh I remember well now, the way those mountain bike tires rolled over my pour little Schnookems. I just want to know. Does it haunt your dreams? Do you suffer as I? Do you lie awake at night with those tear filled puppy-dog eyes and horrified puppy-dog face floating in the darkness like an adorable little phantom? I do.

There was once a time when Schnookems was my only friend; my stoic companion who stood by my side as life rained agony and defeat down upon me; day after excruciating day. Every time I approached the brink of hopeless and stared into the abyss a little bark would wash over me, warming my soul. Not anymore.

Are you happy with what you have done? You heartless monster!

SCHNOOOOOOOKKEEEEEEEM!


And that's it. Feel free to use them, and send me any you can think up.

Pics, Video, and More?

The other day I was browsing a women’s empowerment website, because I’m all about women’s rights and liberation. Anyway, a porn pop-up shot up on my screen, and as I rushed my cursor for the close button before having to witness any objectification of women, I noticed a line of text reading “Pics, Videos, and more”. And more? What the fuck is more? MILF holodecks? Girl on girl boardgames? Erotica? Adult audio? An MMORPG. Then I thought that last one would be pretty funny.

Welcome to the world of Eroticar. Use the mystical prowess of sexual gratification to conquer your foes.

I'm a Nice Guy, Really

I messaged one of my little sister’s friends on myspace the other day (she’s 19 now I’m good to go, shut up). Anyways, I guess the message wasn’t mean, and she called me out on it; “Wow, you’re being nice,” and I get that all the time. Yeah, I’m a sarcastic smart-ass. I make fun of people, but only in good fun. If I don’t think they’ll laugh at it then I don’t say it, usually. Okay, sometimes I do.

It’s kind of disheartening to think, maybe that’s how people see me; a sarcastic asshole, with the saving grace of being able to make them laugh at themselves. I’d like to think I have more endearing qualities then that. Sometimes, I’d like to just be me, and actually connect with somebody. I can’t though because all they expect is stupidity, goofiness, and me to be generally nonsensical. When I do say something sincere or remotely kind I get “are you feeling okay,” so I feel stupid and go back to being cocky and cutting.

All I’m trying to say is; if I’m being nice to you, just enjoy it. If you make a big deal out of it, I’m going to stop and be an asshole.

Gun Control Rant

I was listening to the radio driving back from work today (POTUS, it’s one of my presets, shit I’m getting old), and they were interviewing people in Washington DC to get some views on whether or not we should send troops to Mexico.

Anyways, one douche-bag went off on gun control, and how the American people need to change their views on guns. We need to shut down all the gun stores; we aren’t cowboys anymore. All I can say is fuck that guy.Where does this delusion stem from? I guess people who weren’t around guns growing up. All they see is gun fights in movies, nine millimeters blowing up SUVS and propane tanks, or other fantasies. Beyond personal protection and mercing bitches guns are enjoyed by all kinds of hobbyists.

What really confuses is me is that even with all the shit-storms brewing in Washington, mishandled this and oversight that, some people are willing to put their safety completely in the hands of the government. Violence is capable of hitting your front door tomorrow in a lot of different forms, and personally I take solace in the ability to fire back.
I don’t want to have to stab a mother-fucker for trying to take my TV. At least with a gun I can stay out of splatter range and keep my kicks clean. People aren’t thinking of the dry-cleaning bills they will incur upon the nation by taking our guns.

Seriously, I’m not willing to put enough faith in anything to surrender my ability to defend myself. Today they take our guns, ten years from now some asshole has the capability to put cameras in our living room and posters of himself on every street corner. I really don’t think it’s all that far-fetched.

I’m no Bill O’reilly, let homos get married, let teen bitches get bleeding fetuses, promising a future of fail, sucked from irresponsible wombs without anyone narking them off to daddy, but let me have my gun.

Besides Jose and Figuardo aren’t getting their ARs and HKs from your local sporting-goods store, they bought from Heffey down at their local military outpost, or police station.