If These Walls Could Talk, They'd Say "There's Dried Semen All Over Me"

Out of all the letters the internet people could've picked to start every website, they had to pick a series of three W's. Why W? Sure, it stands for World Wide Web, which makes sense in this context because that is what it is, but they could've come up with some other phrase to abbreviate that wouldn't be so lunky. I mean, having to say "WWW DOT" in a real-time conversation is a hefty bitch, a garbage truck of awkward. Just listen to the letter: DUH-BULL-YOO. That is an ugly fucking letter. It is gross. No other letters have three syllables, all the rest are neatly confined to a single, easy to remember syllable. Remember singing the alphabet song? Now I know my A B C's and all that crap? Like two measures of that song are devoted to the behemoth that is W! It threw off the whole rhythm, tossing in a beast of a letter like W. W is like a sentence. Saying three sentences before even getting to the name of the web site is too much, dammit, too much. Sure, pairing three of the same letter together is easy to remember and in the long run mquite beneficial, but W? From all the letters in the alphabet they choose the one with all the emotional baggage. Nay on a tidy M, and nix that comforting S. Bah!

I tend to think people who refer to themselves being "happily married" as sneaky and up to something.

Sometimes when I read a typo, I like to go back and look at the misspelled word and read it again and again in an attempt to decipher its true meaning. Sometimes I look deeply at where the letters on the keyboard are located to try to figure out how someone would make such a typo. If the letter accidentally put into a word is seated aaaaaall the way at the other end of the keyboard, I know something is up. No way did they accidentally put the letter Z into the word "plum". That Z could not have simply snuck in, it was invited, and yes, even encouraged. I like to assume all typos are completely intentional and that they refer to a word that I've never seen before. "Iot" can't mean "It", that's too obvious. No, "Iot" must be some new word I haven't discovered yet, possibly slang or robot talk. Even though "It" would make the sentence make total sense, this must be a new rare word that changes the meaning of the sentence completely.

Cats dump in boxes. Its a fact.

Christmas is a horrid sham that makes everyone hate each other, but we all love it. Especially Burl Ives.

The Episode Entitled "TV Personality Martha Stewart" Features TV Personality Martha Stewart

I suddenly got a strange urge to pick up a 3/4 full bottle of whiskey and chuck it at a brick wall. I don't know where this bizarre desire came from; maybe from the brick wall and 3/4 full bottle of whiskey I've been staring at. For some reason I feel this bottle must be thrown into this wall. I don't know if it stems from animosity towards the wall or the bottle, or maybe it isn't animosity at all. Maybe I just really want to see the image of the glass shattering and the sweet brown nectar slwoly dripping to the base of the floor. Then I get the urge to strip naked and rub up against the brick wall, letting the whiskey spill all over my tender areas and down my waiting tongue. That urge surprised me a little.

Trust me, I am not an alcoholic, but if I were, I'd be one of the fun kind. The kind that pours scotch in his Wheaties and is always yelling "Party" at the TV, not the kind that my nephews are warned to stay away from and whose pubic hairs have prematurely become infested with termites.

Sometimes I get silly little urges like this, and depending on their sillyness I may or may not fulfill them. I don't think I'll fulfill this one, because it isn't my whiskey, and people are still asleep. The day isn't over, though; we'll see how I feel about it come 8 PM.

Tats Nutting We Can Tok Abt Now

I am almost through with school this quarter. Soon it will be time for dancing; time for cookies with peanut butter in the middle; time for hills; time for falling from large heights; time to rejoice loudly and vocally; time to decide in the middle of a night to venture into the abandoned woods and get eaten alive by Jiminy Cricket, the famed and alleged bear that roams the woods and, legend has it, ate thrity children in one lonely, dark afternoon; time for lists; time for music and whistling poorly; time for silly away messages that refer to a television program I watched recently; time to eat a large bag of potato chips and regret it soon after; time to trip on my shoelaces; time to not actually ever leave the house; time for love and time for hate; time for joy and time for sorrow; time for throwing CDs with free AOL at cars we're not particularly fond of;time for snowball fights and bloody retinas; time for intervening police and questionably dubious ideas; time for bad movies and Little Debbie; time to reflect; time to Jazzercize and, time permitting, Mousercize; time to discover all the letters on the keyboard and what they actually mean, not only in the English language but as they pertain to my life and my choices; time for Yoga mats, but not for Yoga; time for boring video games and boring web sites and boring television and boring boars (not really, but that totally had to be there, and soon you will understand why); time to write "Wash Me" on someone's car in the frost, even though frost does not imply a dirty car, simply a frost-ridden one (the true statement should be "Scrape Me" or something to that effect, but "Wash Me" is the foremost message written on cars, I imagine, and thus is the first thing that comes to my mind, dusty or not); time for spitting; time for somersaults; time to spin; time to throw Belgian waffles in the air and catch them in my mouth; time for chocolate syrup and imagination; time for fireplaces and rhubarb; time for semi-colons; time to enhance my blanket-wearing abilities; time to chortle; time to shoot bugs out my nose; time to realize the error of not only my ways, but yours as well; time for passion; time for exhiliration; time to eat something other than Top Ramen; time to work on my knuckle-cracking; time to expound, far too much; time for reading books and learning songs and smiling from this ear to this ear; time to get into all sorts of mischief and make Old Farmhand McLellan shake his fist full of porkchop at me and say "One o' these days, by cracky!" then have a heart attack; time for multiple chins - one ain't never enough!; time for over-used punctuation and under-used asterixes; time to read comics and play board games; time to invent a new kind of frosting - Frost-O-Awesome-FrockingFrost! - and put it on all manner of cakes, unbeknownst to the masses; time to expand my knowledge and to get a brain transplant; time to make boistrous untrue statements at the top of my lungs with my fingers pointing in all directions; time to get secretly angry at my door but never tell it; time for me to sleep for a really long time and wake up a magician; time for lawlessness and dapper outfits; time to give back to the community that which I find myself taking again and again (and again); time to get a job and make some god damn mother fucking piece of shit ass-munch hole-in-side-of-buttocks tinkle-berry la la lucy fuck-fuck-on-a-fuck-fuck money to keep my sullen ass from being broke; time for water-skis, not to use, just to sit there; time to rekindle my love affair with sneaking around on my tip-toes; time to roll myself up in a carpet and jump off a bridge; time for drugs, alcohol and corners of rooms; time for happy!

Actually, it's likely time for me to do what I've been doing all this time: Shit.

There's A Reason They Don't Put Rhetorical Questions In Cat Nip, You Shrewd Customer You

This boy seemed to have a real problem with those pants what say terms on the buttocks that have grown so popular these days. There seemed to be no origin to his tirade; no one was wearing them and the current topic had nothing to do with pants, asses or words. His jumping point must've been solely in his head. Either he had seen some earlier that day and was all set to come into class and start talking loudly to other people about his peeve, or this had been something his mind has been fixated on for a long time and he had just finished memorizing his draft he had been writing and rewriting for all this time. I couldn't tell if he was truly performing holy war against the term-clad clothing or if he just wanted to have something of interest to say so that the people eavesdropping on him would think he was clever. There were two girls in our group; girls change everything. In what may well have been a vague attempt to improve his appearance in front of the two females, his petty annoyance of the pants became rather a rant, a personal essay, a magazine article, a stand-up comedy bit.

And not a very good one.

See, I've noticed a lot of people have tendencies like I have to go on unrelenting rants against meaningless targets such as fashion, media and the otherwise ridiculous. But mine are better. Dammit. I'm more clever than you are when you hate things, and that is that. The most controversial thing he had to say about these pants was to "shoot them into the sun". I figured I'd add my two cents: "Those pants that say 'Juicy' on the ass always make me think something in there is dripping." This got a rise out of people, and I easily could've continued, but I had no personal vendetta about the pants. I tend to rant only when I feel a particular hostility towards something, and the pants had really not bothered me much lately. The pants and I could probably have had a conversation in the corner of a cocktail party without it feeling too awkward. But this boy became a low-rent, second-rate me when it came to this cultural phenomenon, and people seemed to like him for it. They don't see through the hidden motives. He's not saying that because he truly feels the pants should be shot into the sun, oh no. He wants desperately for someone to say to their friends later in the day "Oh my God, this kid in my class said the craziest thing about those 'Juicy' pants!" He wants someone to think he's funny and invite him to do things and incur further conversations, with further viewpoints on society and culture. He wants to be heard.

And who doesn't want to be heard? I'd like to be heard. But I also don't care. I rant in a blog, an inconsequential piece of nothing occupying space on a non-existance cyber realm. No girls are going to invite me to lunch because I wrote some snarky comment about Paris Hilton in my online journal. And, frankly, I wouldn't want them to. Because if they can be entertained by something innocuous like this boys sub-par conversation, let them have him. I'm fine being alone and more interesting than other people.

Carpooling You To Shame With Timmy Tinkles In The Back Seat

This child today was trying to convince his mother he was a moose, I think, with the simplistic tactic of placing his thumbs to his temples and extending the rest of his fingers outwards at the sky. I can't speak for the mother, but he certainly wasn't fooling me. He looked nothing like a moose, save perhaps for the brown t-shirt and groaning noises eminating from his mouth. I was incredibly tempted to stop him and tell him in plain English: "You, sir, are not a moose! Hands at your head do not a moose make, son! Not only did your hands not win me over as antlers, but your body type and hind-leg walkery have such a disresemblence of the moose type that I feel bad for moose everywhere for your tarnishing of their good name." He was gone far too quickly for me to do anything of the sort. I hope someday he gets over this moose fixation. It can't be healthy in the long run.

Someone decided to grafitto-tag the side of a building downtown with their MySpace adress. Though my rate of walking did not change, I did crane my neck as I passed it by so as to fully take in the fact that some fool done put a directive to go to their depressing web site, likely riddled with Green Day music videos and messages from 168 people who he'll never meet but all like the movie Old School (instant classik!!!). I found this remarkably ridiculous, as though they actually thought someone would stop, pull out a pen and jot down the site, itching to return home so they can find out just what this MySpace business is all about. Is silly.

Plot Thickens Like Peanut Butter

So Jason Bateman is dragging me up a sand dune in the middle of the desert, when suddenly the dune turns into the Paramount Pictures logo, the one with the mountain, and all the silver stars begin to circle the top of the dune. But then the stars turn into alien spacecrafts and begin to fly towards Jason Bateman and I and attacking us.

I Hope My Loud Rock And Roll Music Offends Your Sensibilities

I'm too young for my dreams to be crushed. I'm supposed to come to the realization that my life is shit when I'm 44, lying in my bed next to my frigid wife, dog Scruffers, three kids all named some variant of "Annabell" in their quaint beds down the hall, Chevy with a quarter tank in the garage, unfulfilling desk job, alcoholism, secret porn stash hidden in the babies playpen, dark circles under every part of my body that circles logically grow under, pubic hair in grey knots. I'm supposed to wake up and realize none of my dreams will be fulfilled and satiate this with a new car and an affair with my secretary. Does having a mid life crisis when I'm 19 mean I'll be dead at 38?

All these half-baked dreams of becoming an artist or a musician or a writer or anything but a pitiful sad sack of a man living alone and cursing the world aren't supposed to hit me as dead until I get older. Why can't I continue to lie to myself and say I'm good at anything? Life is supposed to crash down on me at least at a quarter life crisis... I ain't even old enough to legally be an alcoholic yet. I have to go through a friend in order to buy alcohol so I can drink my sorrows of not having any friends away.

I know all about the self-fulfilling prophetics of depression: If you telly ourself you're not good at something, it shall be so. So in order to kick this feeling sorry for myself bullshit I've got to stop telling myself I'm bad at everything. But come on. I don't want to lie to myself. I think I'd much rather have my dreams pre-crushed then to go through life inspired to do something and then have it all crash down on me. I'll give up hope now, save myself the time. I can catch up on all the reruns I'd miss if I had potential.

I feel like my brain is a negative influence on me. One of the keys to overcoming depression is to quite simply stop being depressed. But once you get into the habit, you're too depressed to have the willpower to get out. And I ain't even depressed, really, just bummed. Bummed that I'm alone, bummed that I got nothing to do, bummed that what I once called my hobbies no longer excite me. All the things I should feel after living a little while longer. This time in my life is supposed to be the time where I look back twenty years from now and call these "the days". The days, ha! If these are "the days", my real mid-life crisis is gonna hit hard, causing me to be immobile and incontinent, which I'm not far from now.

I've been depressed to some degree as far back as I can remember. But I always live by the same simple credo: No matter how sad you get, there is no excuse to listen to emo.

Forty-Five Pounds Of Nipple Scraping Mayhem

Oh man oh man oh man how I would love to be a journalist at a local free entertainment digest! It would be so damn easy! All I'd have to is pump some dumb shit out onto a piece of paper six minutes before the deadline and go on my merry way, paycheck in hand! What I've noticed in my time as a (shudder) "blogger" is that most of the people who write for free are actually much better than those who get paid! Seriously, get that kid who loves My Chemical Romance and types lIKe ThiS% , get them a good editor and they could be writing front page material! The main stories on these rags are whatever the topic around the office is, and most of the material is quotes from other people or opinions picked from Ed in accounting; fill in a few blanks, punctuate punctuate punctuate, end on a high note saying something larger about society, and you got yourself a story! It's beautiful! I would do just great as an in-depth reporter in a free entertainment digest:

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THE ARTIST WARMER-LY KNOWN AS GLOBAL
by Jack Spencer

You can't walk a few steps without hearing about it: Global Warming. There it is, on the tips of everyone's tongue. But is this current phenomena just a theory, or could it affect your life? "Global warming is definitely real, and it is changing the world around us," says Guy Calhoun, someone I found on the street a couple seconds ago, wearing a black Germs T-Shirt. "Pollution and littering, now this. Holes in the ozone layer." So how has this "global warming" issue changed the way we see the planet? I took a stroll down Armitage yesterday as part of my in-depth field study. I noticed I was crunching leaves, a past-time of mine since I was a child. I also noticed I was not wearing a sweater. Here I was, in a short-sleeved shirt, doing what I had always done in more layers. If that's not proof enough for you, here's a scientist I contacted by phone. "What?" questioned Dr. Lydia Barney, PhD. "Who is this? What are you calling about?" Wake up and smell the Global Warming, doctor. It smells like change. Change for America, and the hometown that this paper is written in. Go Sox. So the next time you are rolling down your window to throw a smokestack out of your moving car, think of me, walking these lone streets, crunching leaves in a shirt. I hope then, maybe, you'll see the terror of your ways.
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Or! Or! I could be the guy on the front page, the coloumnist or whomever, the guy who has the word "humor" next to him but you feel uncomfortable calling him that because he sounds like Paul Reiser on an off day! That guy's probably got the best job of all, basically just blogging for money. "Johnson! Write a 75 word essay on what you think about anti-bacterial soap!" Man. That'd be sweet.

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GOD, IT JUST REALLY PISSES ME OFF
by Jack Spencer

Do you ever get on the subway and you see that guy? You know, that guy, the one with all those annoying habits that I'll mention in just a bit? God! That guy! It's like he's sitting there, making out with his girlfriend, when all of a sudden his phone rings, and his ringtone is the theme from Bosom Buddies! Then he answers it, and he's all yelling about his personal life! Just yelling away, like there was noooooooooooooobody else on the train or something! God! Then like this microwave dings and his mini-pizzas are ready, and he's all eating them really loud, with big smacks and dripping all over his suit! God! He doesn't even ask me if I wanted any! I didn't even, but he could've thought to ask! No, but he'd probably all yell it in my face, then go on about his dying grandmother! God! If I have to hear the words "terminal cancer" one more time, I'm going to upchuck (they won't let me say anything worse than that...)! God, and he's like just being really loud an obnoxious for like the whole twenty-five minutes that I've been staring at him intently, like he has no social skills at all! Like, where did you grow up, Dingus-berry-town? The town for Dingus-Berries to live? What the heck darn shoot? I almost wanted to get my hand out of my pants and walk out at the next stop I was so annoyed, I totally should've, I totally should've. God, this guy!

But I learned something that day: Don't judge a book by its cover. The end.

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Also a big fan of "the list guy", the guy who makes a top ten list of something and writes a little unclever blurb about each one.

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TOP TEN ENTERTAINMENT NEWS TIDBITS
by Jack "Sleuth-Mo-Graph!" Spencer

10. KANYE WEST

He is currently popular. KANYE he keep it up? (Kanye, in this sentence is meant to stand for "Can yay", as in this is a joke. Go back and read it again.)

9. DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES

Yowza! Wouldn't mind borrowing some sugar from these ladies! Gonna make me the most bad-ass cake in the Earth!

8. MARY-KATE AND ASHLEY OLSON

Did someone order ribs??? (Sorry, David Spade, that shoulda been yours.)

7. BRADJENGELDINGJALINA

I'd tap that. Which one, you ask? Mystery....

6. MADONNA - QUEEN KABALLAH???

Looks like the Material Girl has a few choice words to say about the Material World! (I guess, like, it's ironic cuz she used to have this song, see...)

5. PARIS HILTON V. NICOLE RITCHIE

Remember that sex video Paris made? The green one? Get ready, I'm about to allude to it.

4. THE O.C.

A show about rich, white Californians? Fucking finally!!! (Sorry I swore, Mom, I think my boss might change it to "freakin'" or "friendly" in the final draft.)

3. BRUCE WILLIS ON THAT 70'S SHOW

Oh man, Mr. "Die Hard" is gonna "Try Hard" not to get jealous of his ex-lovers new boy toy, half his age! He'll have to use his Sixth Sense to not Apocolypse the Armaggedon Fifth Element Jackal Siege Bruno the Kid Whole Nine Yards Look Who's Talking Too!!!!!! WITH A VENGEANCE!!!!!!

2. ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT: THROAT TROUBLES

Wait, isn't that one show... that, like... I dunno.

1. REALITY TV

It is so awesome. It is so awesome.

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Or, actually, best of all is the little back page blurbs, the one paragraph no-effort pandering to advertisers quickies. I'll bet I'd make a mint on those, busting out fifty in a half hour.

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MOVE OVER, STARBUCKS!
by Jack Spencer

Burger King is now selling coffee, called "BK Joe". Is it good? Burger King says "Yes". We say "Listen to everything Burger King has to say".

AVIAN FLU: MOVE OVER, KFC!
by Jack Spencer

Uh, this might just kill us all. But did you read about Burger King and that coffee thing? Awesome, huh?

FROZEN SENATE: BRRR!
by Jack Spencer

The Senate held a secret meeting to investigate the intelligence of weapons inspectors. I think. Hope they make a couple BK pitstops, in case they get tired (see above).

MOVE OVER, HOLLYWOODPLACE!
by Jack Spencer

Talks of a movie! Someone, somewhere, gonna make one, and we'll probably watch it!

MOVE OVER, JACK SPENCER!
by Jack Spencer

I just lost my job. Hope we've had some fun, guys, be sure to read my journal on Xanga, and do yourself a favor and grab some BK Joe. I heard it was kinda good.

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Those of you who I'm mocking, you know who you are. Either give me a job or feel ashamed.