Object
DO
Could this guy give any less of a fuck? He’s like Ebenezer Scrooge if Bob Cratchit were being paid in fucks. Somebody put that whistle around his neck and asked him to be their apathy coach, and he said, “You already care too much.” And when the dude walked away, this guy changed his mind like that stupid bit you see on tv where the recruiter paradoxically is turned on by the reaction of defeat he causes by turning a guy away, and he said, “Hey, you’ve got what it takes, kid.” But then the dude came back all excited and coach told him to fuck off. I watched this shit for like an hour before I stopped caring. He’s good.
DON’T
Okay, lesbians. We get it. We don’t want to fuck you.
I think I’m on to something. I think I’ve figured out why George W. is such a divisive figure as President of the U.S., and why some people including myself just don’t like him (besides him lying to us and basically just being a puppet leader holding down the fort for Republicans until they find someone who doesn’t ever say the word ‘Publican).
It’s his name. He’s named after a part of a vagina, which is kinda cool, but it’s the worst part of the vagina. So we’re all conflicted and shit. Maybe if he was like George W. Labia or something that would help, but then there are some people who just don’t dig vaginas. I propose that our president changes his name to George Tits. Everyone loves tits. Even chicks love tits.
If we’re going to avoid a holy war, becoming a totalitarian nation, and being invaded by aliens who were attracted by our surplus of reality tv we need a leader we can believe in. I believe in Tits.
 | Goals
Sunday July 31st 2005, 10:25 am
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Here are a few of my goals:
1. stop picking my nose. it’s gross.
2. have gerard way’s babies. This will probably take extensive planning and a solid ghb connect, as deceit and trickery will most certainly be needed.
3. stop smoking.
4. lose 5 lbs.
5. get my own place. it’s starting to get harder and harder to hide the dead hookers here. baby steps, people. you gotta start with baby steps.
anyone else have any goals they want to share?
It seems like the same scary oil slick has sucked Lager down to the bottom of the lake and eaten her brains. So God’s manning up again:
i’m feeling really existential today. like darby o’gill and the little people or something. its so much better than last night. i told Pointer to suck my c*ck. it was so funny because i’d neeeeeever say something like that (actually, i said “suck my C-asterisk-C-K!”) and it’s also funny because i don’t have one. OBVIOUSLY!
Mr. Baxter’s dying. i feel so bad for Mrs. Baxter. She’s so courageous, tending to her garden everyday like there’s nothing wrong. i hope i have her strength when i’m an old woman, and HER FIGURE!
i’m such a cow. Samuel brought me a t-shirt from the show (rock on!) and it was a large. A LARGE! i almost cried right there but i bottled it up and put it away. always gotta keep that smile heehee.
oh LINDSAY LOHAN’S ON MTV! GOTTA GO!
Smooch
Current Mood: Existential/random
Current Music: Iron and Wine
*Lifted from an actual LiveJournal
FellowWalken seems to have disappeared (even I can’t find him) so I thought I might give my own little rendition of this whole “Mystery Box” business, which is supposed to be our regular Thursday segment. FW hasn’t told anyone what this Mystery Box thing is exactly, and far be it for me to overstep my bounds as God and just look into his mind and soul and all that jazz to find out. So here’s my interpretation of…the mystery box.
Two pre-teen boys are walking in a field through tall grass on a lazy summer day. Richie, the bigger of the two boys is a tough kid with a soft spot for adventure. Pete is red-headed with freckles; the smarter of the two boys, but a bit of a coward. They come across a box. A box with a secret.
Richie: What is that?
Pete: I dunno, Richie. Looks like some kind of box. I wonder who put it here.
Richie: I wonder what’s in it. I’m gonna take a look inside and –
Pete: No, don’t! You don’t know what could be in there.
Richie: Come on, don’t be such a fraidy cat.
Pete: I’m not afraid of nothin! But I dunno. It doesn’t look like a regular box.
Richie: Well, only one way to find out…
(Richie begins opening the box as Pete hovers over him a few steps back. Once Richie gets the box open, it’s clear that something isn’t right.)
Richie: Oh…God.
Pete: What is it, Richie?! Move! I can’t see!
Richie: I can’t belie — It’s…everything. And nothing. All in one place.
Pete: You moron. It’s just a stack of porno mags. My dad’s got a whole trunk full at home.
Annnnnnnd scene.
| Idea
Wednesday July 27th 2005, 11:44 pm
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thought occurred to me–wouldn’t it be fun to start a comedy troupe? Laff Riot and Pussy has since disbanded on account of creative differences (Count Taco wanted more of his sketches to be performed but there really isn’t a big audience for cat jokes, and i got sick of having to write everything down for him on account of his lack of thumbs.) At any rate, one pressing question remains–who is with me?
On another note, does anyone else here find flagrant displays of racism (blatantly ignored by Hollywood and all of America) incredibly endearing? i love you, general lee.
Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow. . . . . meow. Is not a fucking song.
When basketball players make an amazing play, they look angry. I like that.
Destiny’s Child has a song called, “Independent Women”, and a song called “Can you Pay My Bills?” Anyone else see the problem there?
Chess is a game of skill. Craps is a game of luck. Poker is a game of both. Eat a lot of stuff until you blow up, is just a dumb game.
Penis spelled backwards is Sinep, which isnt a word at all. Ok I move on.
If I ever had a TV show I would call it, “A Pretty Good TV Show.” Because then people would want to watch it, but they wouldnt have too high of expectations.
After being on this Earth for 20 years I learned one thing, I am 20 years old.
I dont care what anyone says, infants have no place in politics.
Steak used to moo.
No matter how much hair you grow, people still know there is a head under there.
Unp0ssible= The next MSN
Meow= Not a fucking song
There’s no better way to let people know than to ruin the latest book for someone.
(Warning: There be spoilers herein)
I’ve just figured some stuff out.
First of all, I just realized that there’s nowhere for you registered folks to log in besides where you post comments. That has been remedied up on the nav bar. You like? I’m all about making shit easy…JOKING. Come on. Can’t you take a joke?
Also, now that you can actually log in to our operation here, you’ll see that you have the ability to write. You won’t be able to publish directly. You’re not that cool. What you can do is submit drafts to us for review. It seems like we’re going to try to do the guest posting on the weekends thing. So if you guys would be so kind as to submit anything for review before Thursdays, we’ll do our best to get it up on the weekend if we like what we see like middle-aged men whose kids are off at band camp.
Also, if you’re going to try to write for us you need to track down an avatar (the little picture that goes next to your name) for yourself. To save yourself some trouble, look for something that looks good at about 100×125 pixels, and email it to us for review as well.
Here’s something new. The basic premise of this new segment: Stories with no beginning or middle. You’re just getting an ending. So here goes nothin’…
And that’s when he said,
“You know…I always knew you had the leprechaun. I just didn’t want to embarrass you.”
Mortimer cracked a smile, but quickly let it fade when he came to a startling realization.
“If you knew about the leprechaun all along, why did you let the professor take the fall?”
In Hank’s armor a small chink had been revealed. He frantically grasped for anything he could think of to keep his plans on track.
“Well, you know as well as I do, Mortimer, the professor had set himself up for a fall. There was very little that could’ve been done to keep the druids at bay. They know things. Things that you and I can’t even perceive.”
Mortimer thought about it as Hank examined him to see if his explanation would suffice. There was a tense moment until Hank saw a small glint and a widening of Mortimer’s eyes. He opened his backpack and pulled out the lebrechaun, giving it a gentle tap on the head.
“Okay. Let’s go home.”
