Aug 10
Suicide and Unprotected Sex.
I was reading through my RSS feeds today.
For the most part, it was my usual fare - Russia is scary, McCain is old and kind of a dick, Obama is pompous, etc.
But then I saw an article that caught my eye. It’s this one right here, which reports the findings of a study published in a recent Australasian Psychiatry journal. The study found that certain types of behavior could be expected from teens based on their musical tastes.
The article goes on to explain that listening to the music doesn’t cause the behavior, it’s just an indicator that the behavior exists, and that knowing a patient’s musical tastes might offer some clues about them, but then again, it might not, blah, blah, blah.
You all already know all of that, so lets cut the crap and get to the results:
“WHAT STUDIES SAY ABOUT YOUR SOUNDS:
POP: Conformists, overly responsible, role-conscious, struggling with sexuality or peer acceptance.
HEAVY METAL: Higher levels of suicidal ideation, depression, drug use, self-harm, shoplifting, vandalism, unprotected sex.
DANCE: Higher levels of drug use regardless of socio-economic background.
JAZZ/RHYTHM & BLUES: Introverted misfits, loners.
RAP: Higher levels of theft, violence, anger, street gang membership, drug use and misogyny.”
This is bullshit, and let me tell you why. If there’s one thing I know that’s always true all of the time, it’s that one personal example of an exception to a rule completely negates any evidence to the contrary.
You know when you’re talking to someone, and the health hazards of smoking and eating unhealthy come up, and they say something like “My grandfather smoked a pack of cigarettes at every meal for 47 years and washed it all down with a tall, foamy glass of drawn butter and HE lived to be 87″?
Those are the people that GET it. When I say “get it”, I mean “are morons”, but just go with it.
Given that, I think it’s safe to say that this study is a pack of lies. Now sit back and prepare to be wowed as I use isolated incidents and logical fallacys to explain why this study is inaccurate and wrong.
Let’s begin with Jazz and Rhythm&Blues. I have to call bullshit, because I don’t believe that anyone under the age of 20 that listens to Jazz is doing it because they actually like Jazz; I think they’re doing it because they want to impress people, namely girls. These are the same kids that pretend to enjoy reading (and understanding) Kafka and make a point of laughing as visibly as possible at the “jokes” in Shakespearean plays so everyone knows that they appreciate the Bard’s razor-sharp wit (I know that I have to wear adult diapers whenever I go to see King Lear, because whenever I hear the fool say “If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes?” I am physically unable to keep from crapping in my pants I am laughing so hard.)
I just said he wasn't funny. I didn't say anything about being adorable.
I’m just kidding. You would need evidence that Shakespeare is still funny to do that, and evidence like that doesn’t exist.) What I am saying is that I don’t believe that teenagers actually love any of those things. They just pretend to in an attempt to get laid.
Dance: I think we can be a little bit more specific than “Higher levels of drug use regardless of socio-economic background.”
Let’s just come out and say it, guys: You’re talking about meth and barebacking (condomless gay sex - the hottest kind). Let’s just call a spade a spade here.
Rap: I don’t know. I don’t think I knew anyone in high school who listened primarily to rap. Ashley? Were you a violent gang member back when you used to ball in the hood? Are you a misogynist?
Pop: I think they may have nailed this one. Maybe teens who listen to pop music ARE overly responsible and have trouble with their sexuality. I certainly notice that I start to feel unsure of my sexuality whenever I listen to pop music.
Unless it’s Justin Timberlake.
When I’m enjoying the hot, hot dance jams that The ‘Lake is throwing down, I have a very strong stance on my sexuality, that stance being “Get Justin Timberlake in here, preferably without his pants on.”
Seriously, though. Look at this picture:
You’re looking at the lead singer of the band Tokio Hotel (Yes, they spell it “Tokio”. If there were any “s”s in their name, you can be sure that they would’ve turned them into “z”s). Tokio Hotel is a pop band that’s extremely popular with 16 year old girls. Unless you really like shitty music, you’ve probably never heard of them.
Now, here’s a question for you, fellas: Would you sleep with the lead singer of Tokio Hotel?
What do you think? Not too bad, right?
I mean, the hair is a little off-putting, but maybe if you were kind of drunk and it was a one night stand, you might be willing to give it a shot, right? Maybe girls who look like that are even kind of your thing.
I know that the first time I saw a picture of the band, my first thought was “That singer doesn’t look too bad!”
There’s just one problem: The name of the person you’re looking at is “Bill”. If you get a wang-o-meter anywhere near him, it’s going to start going off, because that’s totally a dude. Here are a couple more photos:
Doesn’t help, does it?
I swear to god that he’s a guy, but I still always find myself at half mast before my brain has sorted out the conflicting messages between my eyes and my long term memory. On some level I know that I’m looking at a man, but my brain still instinctually starts saying “Ehh, not too bad. I suppose that if I were desperate enough…” for a few milliseconds before the part that stores my memories sends the memo that the person I’m looking at has balls.
So, yeah, I guess the researchers really nailed that one, at least in relation to confusion with sexuality.
Now, I’ll bet that none of you saw this coming, but the genre I still haven’t mentioned really hits a chord with me - Metal.
Let’s review: Higher levels of suicidal ideation, depression, drug use, self-harm, shoplifting, vandalism and unprotected sex?
I have to be honest. I feel cheated.
Almost all of my memories of high school are kind of foggy. I can only recall a handful of random events from those years of my life. Nonetheless, I’m pretty sure that I wasn’t idealizing suicide, depressed, using drugs, hurting myself, shoplifting or vandalizing.
Most importantly, however, I can say with 100% certainty that I was not having sex of any kind during high school. In fact, the only sex that I had as a teenager occurred a few months before I turned 20.
That sex was a lot of things - inexperienced, a little bit awkward, the happiest four or five seconds of my life up to that point, but if there’s one thing that it was not, it’s unprotected. Nuclear reactors utilize fewer redundancy systems than my girlfriend and I did. A silverback gorilla couldn’t have made it into her uterus. My seed didn’t stand a chance.
So now, ten years too late, I find out that based on the music I was listening to, I should’ve been a wild, headstrong rebel without a cause, a loose cannon who just didn’t give a fuck. Kind of like Fonzie - Riding my motorcycle over to my pregnant girlfriend’s house with a bunch of AAA batteries I stole from the local drug store stuffed down my pants, wearing a leather jacket and high on cocaine.
'Aw baby, you KNOW it doesn't feel as good with a rubber on! Now stuff this balloon of heroin in your ass before the cops get here! AAAEEEE!!!'
That’s basically what the Fonze did, right? I’ve never actually seen an episode of Happy Days.
Do you want to know what I actually did when I was a teenager? I dicked around on computers in my parent’s basement, moped, did just enough to get by academically, wondered what it would be like to touch someone’s boobs and got really, really angry at my parents for making me do wildly unreasonable things, like wash the dishes or put the milk away when I was done using it.
I spent many a night in my room, talking to my poster of Jonathan Taylor Tomas - the one right above my hope chest.
“Oh Jonathan,” I would say, “Take me away from this horrible place!”
But he never did.
He never did.
So, yeah. Metal let me down. Or I let down metal. Or something.
I guess that if I’m going to turn things around, there’s no better time to start than now.
I have to go. I’m going to go smoke cigarettes behind the shed and spend a few hours idealizing suicide. Then maybe I’ll buy a motorcycle and go take a dump in my neighbor’s mailbox. No dice on the unprotected sex, though. I don’t care how metal it is to have babies.
Speaking of things that aren’t metal, enjoy a Tokio Hotel video while I’m gone.
Jul 26
The Diamond Method
Good morning! I’m glad that you could all make it to the workshop today! I’m here to give you some exciting news! Let’s get started!
Who here has a blog? Who doesn’t, right? I know that I do!
What’s the number one problem with owning a blog? Getting people to read it! Am I right, people!? Am I right?
Sure, everyone has a handful of family members and a few friends that are willing to visit their blog on a regular basis - that’s a given! But how do you really get the asses in the seats? How do you increase your traffic up to 40, 50, even 60 hits a day?
Sure, you could start writing interesting content. But with work, kids and housework, who has that kind of time!?
Well, what if I told you that there was a way to take those two or three hits a day and turn them into 20 or 30, all WITHOUT having to go through the backbreaking strain of thinking up and writing something that people want to read?
Would that be something you’re interested in? It is? GREAT! Then let’s get started!
One month ago, I was just like all of you: I had a blog, but no one was reading it! Sure, I would get a hit from a friend here and there, my family would feign interest in my diatribes about mowing the lawn or my special order getting screwed up at Bennigans, but that was it! On a GOOD day, I was getting two or three visits to my blog - I was pathetic! At rock bottom.
But then, one day, all of that changed! Do you want to know my secret? I said, DO YOU WANT TO KNOW MY SECRET? I CAN’T HE-AR YOU!!!
Alright, here it is:
I was trudging along, dumping all of the boring minutia of my life into my lonely, unvisited blog. Then, one day, I noticed that hits had shot up. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I was grateful. The next day, I checked them again, and they had shot up even more! In the span of two days, I had gone from a two or three visit a day loser to a wildly successful thirty-hit-a-day juggernaut!
It was then that I decided to look into this surge in traffic and get to the bottom of it!
The first thing that I noticed was that most of my hits were coming from this specific blog post about a technique I invented in my sleep called “Cobra Kai’n it” - but that’s an entirely different workshop!
I decided to look into it more carefully, so I checked out what search terms people had been using that had directed them to my blog.
What I found was alarming!
There were a few random search terms that scored me a few visits - “Succubus” was yielding about 3 hits per day, “gay porn” was directing about 5 people to my site every day - one lucky soul even found my blog by searching for “dog porn gay” (Let me break the 4th wall for a second here - I swear to God this is true. Other honorable mentions include “emo butt”, “warcraft porn succubus” and about 40 other variations of “gay porn”.)
But these search terms were small potatoes. I was only getting four or five extra hits a day from people mistakenly looking for a good supply of only the hottest dog porn of the gay variety, whatever the fuck that horrible, unspeakable act entails.
But there was one term that was bringing people to my blog in droves. One thing they were searching for that was directing them, time and time again to my rambling, incoherent posts. Do you want to know what that search term was?
I SAID, DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THAT SEARCH TERM WAS? DO YOU WANT ME TO TELL YOU?! SHOULD I TELL YOU!?
The term, of course, was “David Lee Roth”! It seems like an innocuous phrase, but make no mistake, those three little words are the proverbial milkshake that is bringing all of the boys to the yard, and when I say “boys”, I mean …Actually, I’m not sure who I mean. I had no idea that David Lee Roth was still on anyone’s radar.
That’s not the point, though! The point is that the number one phrase people search for that leads them to my blog, “David Lee Roth”, as of 12:25 today has suckered 1,568 unwitting souls into reading all of my boring thoughts! The next highest search term has yielded half as many hits! On top of that, there are over 20 variations on Diamond Dave’s good name tricking people into visiting this site! “David Lee Roth naked”, “David Lee Roth chaps”, even “David Lee Roth penis”! (Once again, I swear this is true. People searching for “David Lee Roth penis” have been directed to my blog five times. What this means is that if you’re ever on a game show and the host asks you how many times someone has searched for “David Lee Roth penis” on the Internet, the answer, frighteningly enough, is “at least five”.) There are probably at least 100 other hits from the different types of searches for Diamond Dave, or his chaps, or his penis!
I know what you’re thinking: “But Johnny! How do I apply this powerful secret to my blogging to make it successful!?”
I’m glad you asked. I could tell you how, but instead, how about I SHOW you how?
Here’s a typical blog post:
———-
Moby Dick
By Herman Melville
Chapter One
“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.”
———-
Not bad, right? You might even consider it a classical piece of literature, worthy of study years after it was written? WRONG, BITCH! CALL THE SNORE-BLIANCE, BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS BORING!!! Nothing can save this dull piece of crap, right?
WRONG AGAIN! Take a look at this spiced up version. See if you can spot the difference:
———-
Moby David Lee Roth
By Herman “Diamond Dave” Melville
Chapter Lee Roth
“Call me DavidLeeRoth.
David Lee Roth Penis Dog Porn Gay
Some years ago - never mind how long precisely -
Chaps Diamond
———-
It’s a subtle distinction, but can you see the difference in the two posts? Look carefully, it’s there! How many more hits do you think my blog would’ve gotten from the original post?
None, right? Right!
Now, how about the Roth’d up version of that post? God only knows! I’m am being completely honest with you when I tell you that I am completely terrified to see what kind of sick, depraved people come to my website looking for David Lee Roth engaging in unspeakable sex acts. I can hardly wait to find out how many hits a day I will receive from people searching for things that will make my stomach churn - churn with the satisfaction of knowing that I tricked someone into visiting my blog!
So there you go! You know my secret. To recap my recipe for success:
1. Write a post.
2. Fill it full of out of place, inappropriate references and photos of VanHalen frontman David Lee Roth.
3. Sit back and watch your hit counter accelerate to speeds you previously only dreamed of as people show up to your site, realize that it’s not at all what they thought it was and then immediately navigate away, disgusted that you would have the audacity to waste their time with a webpage that doesn’t have a single picture of David Lee Roth fellating a German Shepard.
I’d like to thank you all for coming out today, and wish you the best of luck in your Internet writing adventures!
Here’s one more picture of the Rothman to get you started:
Now get out there and get some hits!!!
Goodnight.
3 commentsJul 25
Dead Serious
As you all know, I like to joke around on this blog. Exaggerate a little bit, maybe say some outlandish things to get a chuckle, put my home address in a post on accident - anything for a laugh.
Right now, however, something is weighing heavily on me that I kind of want to talk about. I apologize for the somber tone, but some things just can’t be taken lightly:
Assuming that it exists, I need to get scrotum rejuvenation surgery.
Allow me to elaborate.
All things considered, I’m doing pretty well. My heart has been steadily beating for almost three decades without missing a beat. My brain works well enough that I can remember things that happened to me 25 years ago. All of my tissues and organs have done their jobs without any real complications for 28 years and without a single moment to rest. That’s 245,280 hours of continuous use without a single malfunction. How many things can you say that about? My laptop made it 12 months before breaking. My car is 18 years old and only barely runs thanks to thousands of dollars in repairs.
But I’m not getting any younger, and the signs are showing up more and more frequently. I’m fighting a losing battle with a body that, little by little, is starting to atrophy. My face is starting to show the first signs of smile lines and crow’s feet, my left achilies tends to get sore after running, my right knee gets sore sometimes, instead of burning it off instantly, my body turns food into fat if I don’t exercise - I’m still young and hopefully have a few more years left in me, but I’m getting more and more of those little reminders that I’m not 18 anymore, and haven’t been for over a decade.
On the top of that list of reminders is my sack. For those of you that don’t know, the scrotum is that sweet little pouch between your legs that your balls are in. It helps you regulate the temperature of the seed in your nuts by regulating the distance from your body. When it’s hot outside, it stretches out to distance your balls from your body to keep them cool enough. When it’s cold, it contracts, pulling your boys in towards your body.
At least, that’s what it’s supposed to do. One of two things has happened:
Either my scrotum, much like an old sock, has lost all of it’s elasticity, or my seed is now incredibly sensitive to heat, and the best place for my balls to be at all times is as close to my knees as possible.
And that is why I want to go under the knife and get my scrotum back to an acceptable position.
Now, this isn’t a vanity thing - granted, there’s nothing that women want and men envy more than a firm, perky sack, but it’s not something that bothers me enough to warrant surgery, unless of course I got a surgeon to completely remove it and replace it with a tiny ming vase…(note to self: ask surgeon about the possibility of replacing scrotum with tiny ming vase).
Who WOULDN'T want this slapping up against them during sex?
It’s not a fertility thing either. I’m what someone who is studying for the GREs and temporarily knows a lot of stupid useless words, a character in a Kevin Smith movie or a high school kid who’s trying to sound smart (or all three) would call myopic - I’m far too short sighted to even consider the reproductive ramifications of a poorly heated set of balls.
It’s about comfort. You are aware of my running difficulties, but lately, it’s been getting hard to sleep. That thing is all over the place, exploring places that it doesn’t belong and getting pinched or rolled on to in the process, and it’s starting to piss me off. I’m getting closer and closer to the day when I wake up, feel a little bit uncomfortable, and then realize that while I was asleep, my scrotum twisted its way around my throat and is now lying next to my face on the pillow.
I’ve had enough of this foolishness. Fortunately, in this day and age, I believe that a solution is available. As I’m sure most of you know, there is a procedure called vaginal rejuvenation. I looked it up on the Internet, and the procedure boils down to this: You pay them between four and five thousand dollars, they give you some local anesthesia, they perform some horrible, gag-inducing surgery on your vagina, removing a little here, tightening a little there, until you’ve got the vagina of…I’m not quite sure. An 18 year old? A 17 year old? A 12 year old? I don’t know what you shoot for with something like that.
That’s not the point. The point is that a scrotum is a whole lot less complicated and in the same area, and I’ll bet that for five grand, I can go to sleep at night knowing that I’m not going to wake up with my balls perched neatly on my shoulder. Hell, I’ll bet that I could get it done for cheaper. It’s not like it would be as delicate as a vagina. You could probably just cinch the thing up a few inches with a staple gun….hmm…
…I’m going to go try something real quick. Be right back…
…alright, something came up, and I need to take a quick trip to the emergency room. Have a pleasant day!
No commentsJul 22
Sinking to a new low.
I know that everyone expects really prompt posting from me. So sorry. I have an excuse this time.
But first, let’s spice this post up:
There. It’s getting better already.
Yesterday morning, I opened up my laptop and pressed the power button. Rather than turn on, it made a series of loud beeps that I can only assume were Morse code for “fuck you”.
That was all that it would do. After doing some cruising on the Internet, it became clear that something was very broken in my laptop that was beyond something I was capable of fixing. I spent some time with tech support, and it turns out that the solution to my problem is to pay them three hundred dollars and mail my laptop to them.
This is one of those parts of life that pisses me off: Paying a large sum of money to maintain the status quo. As I’m sure you remember, I feel the same way whenever I have to get my car repaired. If I take my car into a shop and then pay them nine hundred dollars, I kind of want it to do something that it didn’t before - shoot flame out of the tailpipe, take turns on two wheels like Kit in Knight Rider, something like that. Instead, it’s exactly the same, and the only perceivable difference in things is the decrease in my bank account. It just feels like I’m going along, doing my thing, and then the Bone Fairy magically appears and is like “Welcome to the ‘Bone Zone’, bitch! If you want things to stay the way they are, it’ll cost you five hundred dollars!” I mumble, give him the money, he cackles, yells “You’ve just been boned!” and then disappears in a cloud of smoke.
I guess that the good news is that everything was backed up on an external drive, so I didn’t lose anything EXCEPT THREE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS…I’m going to be cool about it.
Maybe I’ll even luck out and they’ll do something extra to my laptop as a way of saying “We’re sorry that the thing you bought from us only worked for one year before breaking for no discernible reason.” I’m hoping they airbrush a wizard shooting lightning out of a staff at a dragon onto the top of my laptop.
In the meantime, I’ve dusted off my desktop computer and I’m using it. It’s probably for the best; I was planning on putting it together to use for playing games so I could stick to writing on the laptop anyway.
There is a problem, though.
My desktop is far enough away from the router that I would be looking at 80 or 90 feet of ethernet cable to connect it to the Internet, so I went out and bought a wireless networking card. It’s pretty cool. At least, it should be. There is one small problem, however: I’m getting speeds averaging about 5k/sec and random disconnects. It’s…frustrating. I’ll keep fighting with it until it works, I suppose. I wouldn’t anticipate a lot of embedded video or pictures until the laptop is running again, though. Until I figure out what’s wrong with my network, I’m using the Internet 1996 style, and that means that accessing anything that’s more than 45k is out of the question.
Moving on, you know that I hate the heat. I have a long, convoluted story about that. Two weeks ago, I filled up my gas tank. I drive a ‘91 Camry. It cost me $50.01.
Now, I’m doing my best to appreciate gas prices where they are, because they’re shooting up so fast. How long ago was it that everyone was shitting their pants because gas was two dollars a gallon? It was only something like three years ago if I’m remembering this correctly. If you saw gas for two dollars a gallon now, you’d shit your pants all right, but you’d also be squealing into the station to fill up the tank. I’m trying to remember this, because barring OPEC falling apart, China and India getting nuked, Russia deciding to be “cool” and a discovery of a few billion gallons of previously undiscovered oil, I foresee myself wistfully remembering the summer of 2008 and those halcyon days of four dollar a gallon gas.
That being said, fifty bucks is enough money to go on a date, buy a video game or pay 1/6th of the cost of shipping your broken laptop back to the pig-fucking pieces of shit that couldn’t build it right the first time. I don’t really want to spend that money on gas when I could be lining the Bone Fairy’s pockets with it.
So I whipped out my bike. The bike’s movement is fueled by me, and I’m fueled by food. Most of the food I eat is cheaper than 4 dollars a gallon, and I get the added enjoyment of eating it. A vehicle powered by nachos, malt liquor and corn dogs? I’ll take three! Throw in some needles full of Insulin, and I’ll be unstoppable!
Before embracing the bike, my Dad suggested that I take it to the shop for a tune up, which I did. I picked it up yesterday, and as I was paying for it, the guy at the counter was telling my Dad that he was out riding yesterday, and it was just fucking hot. My Dad said that he never felt hot on the bike because there was always wind when you were riding. I pointed out that wind in an oven just turns it into a convection oven. The bike shop owner agreed.
Later that night, my Dad was talking about the conversation he had with the owner earlier that day.
“I can’t believe he was letting the heat affect him! It’s not very zen to let the weather get you down like that!” He told us.
I didn’t pay a lot of attention to this. My Dad is usually a really calm, low key, supportive guy, but when it comes to physical activity, he tends to transform into that super competitive, overbearing Dad that never thinks anything is good enough. Pretty much any activity you engage in, he always needs to mention that if you were actually a man you would be doing it longer, faster or harder. I’m lucky I have the genetics I do, because I pretty much avoided physical activity at all costs growing up, not only as a middle finger to him but because I got sick of exercising and then hearing that if I wasn’t such a pussy I would be running faster or riding farther or whatever. I think that one of the biggest reasons that I like weight lifting is because my Dad doesn’t. He’s one of those guys that thinks that there’s a legitimate possibility that you might accidentally do a few butterfly curls and then wake up the next day with biceps that prevent you from wiping your own ass.
Anyway, my Dad followed up with “Women are always sensitive to temperature, but it’s because they don’t exercise!”
This was a little bit above the normal craziness I expect on subjects like this. It was a powerful one-two punch. First of all, “Women are always sensitive to the heat” is a pretty bold statement. It’s hard to make a claim about half of the earth’s population that’s true with no exceptions, especially in relation to preference. Also, in my experience, women love heat. I don’t know why you would ever enjoy a sensation as unpleasant as a 95 degree environment, but almost all of the females I know prefer it to being cold. notice how I prefaced that statement with “In my experience”? That’s because in the entire course of my life, I’ve come into contact with…I don’t know. probably a few hundred or a few thousand people? A lot less than “all of them”. That much I know.
Second of all, “Because they don’t exercise”? What? I don’t even know how to respond to that. Suppose that the first part was true, and all women really are sensitive to the heat. Just pretend that you’re willing to concede that point. Isn’t it obvious that at least some women do exercise? Every high school has female teams, you have the WNBA, really competitive women’s soccer and hockey teams for USA, and let’s not forget roller derby, jello wrestling and foxy boxing! I mean, how about the fucking Olympics? Half of the athletes there have vaginas.
It’s also worth noting that during the winter, my Dad is almost always bundled up in several layers of clothes “getting warm” (aka napping) on the couch.
And that’s my story about the heat. When I told you I had a story about the heat and my bike, you thought I was going to bitch about how hot it is riding my bike around town, didn’t you? Well, it is. But with all this money I’m saving on gas, I’m too fucking rich to care!
That’s not exactly true, but it’s close enough.
Well, it’s about dinner time. If I’m going to be able to make it to my girlfriend’s house tonight, I’d better fill up the tank. This calls for some french fries and JuJu Bees.
No commentsJul 18
Complaining
I love complaining. So I’m going to.
First of all, I love feeling clean. Hopping out of the shower and knowing that my skin is mostly sweat, stink and oil free is fantastic. Throw in some deodorant and a pair of clean underwear and I’m ready to seize the day. Throw in some pants and I get angry, but that’s not really the point.
During most of the year, I can shower once a day and feel this way for 24 hours. Obviously if I work out or something I have to shower, and I’m usually starting to get kind of gross by the time I hop in the shower again, but not out of control.
Except during the summer. Those of you who have never met me and haven’t ever come into contact with me at all even once before reading this blog post might not know this, but heat turns me into a sniveling bitch. Anyone who’s spent even enough time around me to remember my first name knows that as soon as it gets hotter than 70 degrees I start whining and moping at anyone that will listen.
Part of the reason that I hate it so much is that it reduces the duration of that “clean feeling” I enjoy after a shower. October through early May, I get about 24 hours, like I said. During this time of year, my clean time is drastically reduced. I enjoy about eight or nine minutes before there’s a nice hearty bowl of ball soup cooking in my underpants. I just went running, and after showering off, I’m already starting to feel like maybe I’d better take another shower. Thank God I don’t live somewhere that’s actually hot. I got a facebook message from a girl I went to college with that mentioned that it’s 115 in Arizona, and she wishes that it were 5 or 10 degrees cooler. Oh well. I’ve still got August and early September to complain.
Second of all: I suck at chess.
This statement is always true, but is even more accurate when I’m playing computer chess. My friend Brian started playing again recently, and I’ve been playing against with him. When we’re playing against each other, I’m good enough to play one game where I lose but don’t embarrass myself. That one game always fries my brain, and in the next game I lose in two turns.
I’ve been having a good time with him, so I looked for some chess games for my gameboy. There are a few really really shitty ones that have a very strong “Programmed in somebody’s basement in 1996″ flavor to them (Think lots of lens flare and crappy midi songs), and then a pretty decent one called “Chessmaster: The Art of Learning”. I love learning, and I have plenty to learn about chess, so I downloaded…bought, I mean. I bought it, and started playing around with it. There are some good aspects to it. There is some pretty good instruction on forking, spearing, pinning, discovery…crap that I didn’t know anything about before I got my hands on the copy of the game.
Unfortunately, the game has one minor flaw, which is that I am way too retarded to play it.
After spending a while playing some minigames to learn some new techniques, I decided to play a real game against the computer. There are three tiers of players, so I chose easy, and from the list of easy players, I picked the easiest one. It was someone named Ben. Ben is an adorable 7 year old Asian kid with an elo rating of 500 (an elo rating is apparently a number that helps identify how good you are at chess, and after doing a little bit of googling, I can now say with confidence that a rating of 500 is abysmally low).
And so, my tiny Asian friend Ben, sporting a wide grin and a sparkle in his slanty eyes, with his elo rating so low it is typically reserved for animals, zombies and the mentally handicapped, played me in a game of chess.
And that tiny mother fucker whipped my ass.
I played him again. Same result.
I’ve been playing him ever since, and that little shit mops the floor with me about eight out of ten times. It’s infuriating.
First of all, it pisses me off to lose on the easiest level 80% of the time. Second of all, the easiest level is personified by a seven year old kid, further rubbing salt in my wounds. I know that the picture is probably just some stock photo that the game makers used to give their “Chess for retards” level of their game a more human feel, but the more I lose to him, the more smug his grin looks. I can almost hear him taunting me.
“You embarrassing yourself, roundeye!” Ben laughs gleefully as I sit and stare at the chess board. “I pray against dog that put up more fight than this!”
“You shut the fuck up or I swear to God I’ll cut your throat!” I hiss under my breath at my gameboy.
“Whatevah! Than you just roose to corpse!” He laughs.
Covered in sweat, I move my rook.
“You sure you want to do that?” He is still grinning just as widely as ever at me.
“Yes. I think so - yes. Shut up!” I am trying to sound tough, but my voice is cracking.
“You tha boss! Checkmate! A HA HA HA!!! You roose again! I can’t berieve it!”
And so on and so on.
Even on the rare occasions that I do win against Ben, it’s a shitty, hollow victory - I just beat the easiest level of a chess game that’s personified by a toddler. Am I really entitled to feel proud of that? That’s not a rhetorical question; the answer, of course, is “no”.
But it’s not all doom and gloom.
The good news is, I just saw “Hot Rod” for the first time. Most of you probably don’t remember that movie. It came out…last year, I think? It had Andy Sandberg in it? It didn’t look very good in any of the previews and it bombed with critics and moviegoers alike? No? Nothing?
Doesn’t surprise me.
What did surprise me was how awesome the movie actually was.
I won’t tell you everything about it, but here’s a little taste. Those of you that are familiar with “Footloose” will recognize it. The video even starts with Kevin Bacon tearing it up in the warehouse in a fit of rage. My girlfriend’s roommate described this scene as a combination of “Rocky” and “Flashdance”. She did that because she’s never seen “Footloose”. It’s even the same fucking song, for Christ’s sake. There’s not even any metal in it. Just watch it.
I need to go take a shower.
3 commentsJul 13
The Class of ‘98.
So, my ten year high school reunion was last night.
I spent a lot of time trying to decide if I was going to attend. At first I was strongly against it. I yelled about how I had kept in touch with everyone that I was interested in keeping in touch with from high school, that I hadn’t really known that many people in my class anyway, that only losers did that shit, etc.
Then, I said “Fuck it” and went anyway.
Part of the reason was that I’ve been coming to terms with the fact that I’m not quite as much of a loser as I used to think I was. Starting at about the time that I would’ve finished college if I’d done it in four years and ending about three months ago, I’ve been constantly down on what a failure I am, how I’ve squandered my life, how I will die alone and penniless and so on and so on.
I’ve realized recently that that’s not quite true. It might not work for some people, but despite my belief that happiness is impossible to achieve without finishing college in four years and then making at least sixty grand a year, I seem to be happy. So I’m going to try to just keep moving towards the goals that I currently have and spend less time worrying about doing it the right way. As long as it’s fun for me and sustainable, I think I’m actually probably doing things right.
The reason I’m going all Tony Robbins on you and telling you this is because, when I’m being entirely honest with myself and not rationalizing, a large part of the reason that I didn’t want to go to the reunion was because I was kind of afraid and ashamed of how the last ten years have gone. I had these vague images in my head of showing up at the reunion and having all of my conversations go something like:
Me: Hey, how are you, Beatrice?
Bea: I’m good. I make, like, one hojillion dollars a month, because I have a PhD that I got in 4 years. I live in France and am married to John Elway. I’m really really hot and when I take a dump, fresh, hot rice crispy squares come out instead of poop. (Presents a plate) Care for a square?
Me: Awesome. These are really good!
Bea: I know. So what have you been up to?
Me: Well, I’m a substitute teacher-
Bea: -and I’m unimpressed. The fact that you don’t make a lot of money negates any respect I had for you. We are no longer friendly acquaintances. Good bye.
Me: If you don’t mind, I’m just going to follow you around and hold a basket under your ass. Those rice crispy treats are really good.
Bea: I do mind.
Me: Damn it.
Strangely enough, this was not the case.
First of all, the trip to the reunion reaffirmed my belief that I’m probably not a complete loser. There were plenty of people there doing things that were more or less equal in pay and dignity to what I was doing. I would say that if you were to plot all of us out, I was probably a little bit to the right of center on the bell curve. Second of all, no one gave a shit. One of my old buddies from high school who is now apparently an investment banker and married to a pretty attractive girl was still interested in catching up even though we had differently sized bank accounts. Furthermore, he seemed embarrassed about the fact that he was an investment banker. I asked him why, because it seems like a pretty cool job. He said that he didn’t actually have anything to show for his work, he just moved shit around, and the only real thing that came out of his work was the possibility of some rich dipshit making some money. He was frustrated by the fact that there were plenty of financial perks to the job, but it wasn’t very rewarding at all. He also said he wasn’t entirely sure that the money was that great, because he felt like it kind of trapped him into the job. It made it more difficult to move to a more rewarding job that paid less when he’d gotten accustomed to the money that he was making.
So, you know, I guess that wealthy people are unhappy sometimes too. I’d read of such things, but never knew that it was actually true.
It was also interesting to see people that I had forgotten about, or people that I hadn’t been friends with in high school that are pretty cool now. That one should’ve been obvious to me, because two of my close friends who live in town are people I went to high school with but didn’t become friends with until after graduation, but it never occurred to me that some of the other people that I went to high school with might be awesome too. Lesson learned.
I don’t remember much else about the night, because I was kind of uncomfortable and so I got pretty wasted. I think it went well, but I always think that things are going well when I’m drunk, even if nobody else does when I’m exposing myself to the Creed cover band and screaming out requests for Slayer and Warrant as loud as I can in between every song. for all I know, I may have taken a dump on one of the tables, and it was probably not like rice crispy treats.
I guess that I won’t know until the 20 year reunion.
Final Verdict: The 10 year reunion was kind of weird and uncomfortable, but it was for everyone that went, not just me. Guilty. Of being far more painless than I originally expected.
I know that this is the first time I’ve blogged in something like 3 months, and that this is a pretty weak way to make my return, but it’s gonna have to do. I probably don’t have any more readers now anyway.
See you in three more months.
6 commentsMay 8
At It Again
Three Things.
First of all, I went and saw Iron Man with my girlfriend, Brian and my little brother. There are only two words to describe it. The first is “Fucking”, and the second is “Excellent”. They opened the movie with “Back in Black” by ACDC and ended it with “Iron Man” by Black Sabbath. The real problem was in between, where they went back and forth between “Stirring orchestral theme for when something inspiring is happening” and “The same two measures of generic ‘hard’ rock guitar because Iron Man is kicking ass”. Other than that, I was pretty impressed.
Either way, Iron Man didn’t fuck around. He just flew around and killed terrorists.
Oh, and if you stay until after the credits, it turns out that Samuel L. Jackson is Nick fucking Fury. You know that when you have so much cool shit in a movie that you have to ram Samuel L. Jackson as a character named “Nick Fury” into the part of the movie that comes AFTER the credits, you have two hours of solid gold on your hands.
Second of all, for your consideration:
As I’m sure you remember, I recently had a post that referred a dream I had about David Lee Roth and the special way that he keeps his dong hidden from the prying eyes of the camera.
In order to help everyone understand not only how funny this would be but how incredibly plausible it is, I posted several photos and a video of Mr. Roth showing him wearing outfits ranging from a thong to some buttless chaps and a thong. Somehow, I forgot to put up the picture above. It has nothing to do with this post, but I feel that I would be doing everyone that reads this blog disservice if I were to leave the picture unposted. So there you are. Soak it in.
And be mine, XO.
Which reminds me. Didn’t Elliot Smith have an album called “XO”? I think he did. And an ex-girlfriend of mine (Mrs. “I love you - BLARG!”) got XO tattooed on to her…leg (at least I think it was her leg) because she liked that album so much.
It’s kind of like the time that I wanted to tattoo a barcode onto the side of my neck or my forearm because I liked Slipknot’s first album so much. I didn’t do a lot of very smart things when I was 19, but fortunately, in one of the incredibly rare moments of clarity,
This probably isn't a picture of my ass, but I guess you'll never know.
It was hard to imagine that Slipknot’s first album wouldn’t be my very favorite CD for the rest of my life, but I decided that I wasn’t willing to risk that 1% chance that in 5 years I wouldn’t still be in love with it. And you know what? It was a good idea to wait on the tattoo. I still really like that CD, but not enough to have it tattooed on my body, and more importantly, if I had a goddamn bar code tattooed to my neck, I would feel like a moron. People would constantly be asking me “Is that tattoo there because you really like ‘Hitman’?” or “Did you get that tattoo because you loved ‘Dark Angel’?”, to which I would have to reply “No, I got it because when I was a teenager I really liked Slipknot, a reason which is only slightly less embarrassing to me than the reason you suggested,” to which they would reply “Slipknot? is that the band that wore the funny masks and obese middle schoolers really like?”, at which point I would glare at them silently while a single tear ran down my cheek before screaming “You don’t understand. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS! I’M GOING IN MY ROOM AND I’M NEVER COMING OUT!”. Then I would sprint off.
What I’m saying is that when I build a time machine and go back to beat teenage me’s ass for being such a moron, I’ll take a quick break in between “This is for taking eight years to finish college!” and “This is for working at the restaurant that will not be named but recently filed for bankruptcy much to my amusement!” to pat him on the back for not getting that stupid fucking tattoo.
On that note, I was thinking about if I actually did travel back in time and have a conversation with younger me the other day, and I started thinking about something:
Time travel Sci-Fi movies always address the long-term impact that fucking with the past has. Someone goes back in time, they kick someone in the nuts, and then when they come back to the present, everybody has four eyes or lobster claws. I was thinking about the sort of instant impact that it would have on the person traveling back in time, though. Especially if they were talking to themselves.
Here’s an example: I hit my head on the toilet and invent a flux capacitor. I decide that I’m going to install it into a Delorean and travel to 1994 to tell myself to study a little harder and whine a little less. I set my clock on the dash, crank the Huey Lewis and the News and punch gas until I hit 88 miles per hour.
At this point, I have no memory of an older, unshaven, slightly chubbier me coming to visit me and smack me around when I was 14, because it never happened.
But then, as 14 year old me is walking home from school and is suddenly confronted by older me in a Delorean, since it has now happened, older me would remember back to when he was 14 and it happened to him. If I were to say something to younger me, I would have no recollection of it happening until I said it, at which point present me would remember it happening 14 years ago.
I’m just saying, anything I did to interact with myself from the past would create a 14 year old memory of it in my head as it was happening. That’s hard for me to wrap my mind around.
And you know how you remember things differently after a few years? I wonder if that would happen. Would I say something, then think to myself “I don’t remember it going this way,” even though I only said it a few seconds ago and before that it had never happened at all?
Oh well. I’ll probably never know what happens if you do that, because I can’t travel through time. If I’m ever extremely wealthy because of a real hot streak of sports betting, you know why, though.
Enough about that. Let’s talk about my nuts.
I have been stepping up my running again recently, which has been fun and good for my self esteem, but unfortunately it hasn’t all been fun and games. My scrotum, or as I like to call it, “Nature’s brillo pad”, or “That piece of shit between my legs that gets in the way and makes it hurt like crazy if I get hit in the crotch and makes it so I have to wear condoms and is really likely to develop cancer” has been chaffing the hell out of my inner thigh. After a few days of trying to just man it up and deal with what felt like a pool ball covered in broken glass sitting neatly between my legs, I decided that I had had enough.
Unfortunately, I was at a loss as to how to stop the damage that my precious little sac was doing every time that I took a step.
I considered taping it somewhere out of the way, but I’ve tried that before, and it’s fairly painful and incredibly ineffective (Something that I’ll bet you knew WITHOUT ever actually trying to tape your balls to your thigh - I’m a slow learner, fuck you).
Then I considered some Vaseline, but I couldn’t find any.
I thought about using deodorant like the dude in Juno, but I didn’t really want to rub my balls all over my deodorant and then have my armpits smelling like Irish Spring and balls. It’s also worth mentioning that middle school kids fucking ADORE that movie, and after hearing “Hasta la pasta!” and “What the french, toast?” 50 times a day for the past three months, the movie has been fully ruined for me, the same way that my peers in 9th grade speech and drama guaranteed with their near constant recital of The Holy Grail in their shitty British accents that I would never enjoy Monty Python ever again. I know that’s a dumb reason not to use an anti-chaffing technique, but when you’re considering my critical thinking skills, you have to remember that I’m the guy who tried taping his balls to his leg. I rest my case.
My final solution? It came to me while I was getting ready to leave. I was absentmindedly putting on some chapstick and trying to decide if I could handle the pain of another high friction three mile run. I took the chapstick away from my mouth and looked at it for a moment, and it hit me.
I think you know what happened next.
Chapstick: 'Girls won't mind that they're hairy, if your balls taste like cherry!'
Long story short, there was no chaffing, and I made sure to throw away the chapstick, because I think we all know that it would be just like me to forget where it had been and then accidentally give myself a second degree teabagging.
I believe that’s enough random thought from me for one night.
Have a wonderful evening and enjoy this topical video:
Apr 18
BALLIN’!!!
I previously thought that I had pretty good perspective on being a middle school student. After all, I spent two year of my life in the middle of it.
As I spend more time with them as an outside observer instead of an active participant, I’m beginning to realize that what little I thought that I knew about being 12 from when I was 12 was badly skewed and misinterpreted by my tiny undeveloped brain.
First of all, I’m glad that I was a boy, and never a girl. Boys fight a little bit and then once pecking order is established, everyone is more or less cool. Girls are evil, vicious little fucks. They do weird, mean, spiteful shit to each other, and once pecking order is established, they keep doing weird, mean, spiteful shit. They will dedicate hours and hours of time to developing careful, elaborate schemes to do mean things to each other. It’s like watching hyenas fight over the remains of a carcass.
Second of all, it takes a completely different skill set to sit at the top of the social chain in middle school than it does anywhere else. It helps to be a talented athlete and good looking, which is pretty much the same as any age group, but whereas before and after middle school it really helps to be friendly, outgoing, funny and charismatic, in middle school it seems to primarily be about sticking out as little as possible and really lashing out at anyone that does in any way, shape or form. It’s funny, because one of the questions that I had them answer on a quiz about a book we’re reading right now asked them to compare and contrast the importance of conformity in our society and in the book’s society, and everyone was vehement about the importance of individuality in ours. Yet every time that I watch them interact, there’s nothing more terrifying to them than wearing a piece of clothing that someone might consider uncool, or liking a band that someone else doesn’t like, or even thinking that a joke is funny if someone else doesn’t. What’s really important to get ahead in social circles in 7th grade is to be completely unimpressed with anything that anyone says, roll your eyes and say “oooo-kay….” a lot and make that face where you raise your eyebrows and half smirk to make that expression that either says “I can’t believe that you said something that stupid!” or “I’m pushing out a pretty serious log right now.”
So why don’t I quit and work with students that I consider human?
First of all, they pay me.
Second of all, even though some of the kids are epic d-bags, some of the kids are awesome.
I have one that has the most devastating case of ADD that I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s constantly out of his seat doing the robot, yelling “ballin’!” and singing songs that he’s too young to know. I can tell that he doesn’t want to flip out, but he just can’t quite control himself. I know that I should be yelling at him and telling him to sit down, but when I look up and he’s popping and locking around the room singing “Blinded by the Light” and screaming “Ballin’!, I end up cracking up while I’m trying to pretend that I’m angry.
Yesterday he and some other kids were talking about bear attacks, and I pointed out to them that macing a bear is more effective than shooting it. “You know what’s more effective than that?” He asked me. “You jump on it’s back, wrap your arm around it’s neck, put it in an arm bar, ‘pow’! ‘pow’! punch it once or twice in the kidney and then ‘bam’. Problem solved.” The more that he discussed it, the more excited he got to actually wrestle a bear. I had to spend 30 minutes after that reading a few chapters from a very somber book to the class, and I kept having to bite my lip to keep from cracking up imagining a 12 year old neutralizing a bear with his bare hands.
THAT is what gets me out of bed in the morning.
BALLIN’!
Apr 10
Cobra Kai’n it.
I had a really wild dream two nights ago involving Dan, Van Halen, The Karate Kid and a little touch of Silence of the Lambs.
Allow me to elaborate.
So there I was, in the dream, watching MTv with Dan.
They were showing a Van Halen video. Not a real Van Halen video, but one that my brain was making up while I was asleep.
There came a part in the video where the camera was showing a train rolling by. The camera was rolling along with the train, and the camera moved forward a few cars, revealing David Lee Roth. He was hanging off of the side of the train, facing the camera and singing the lyrics to the song, looking very macho in a 1980’s-hair-metal-lead-singer kind of way.
His wardrobe was a leather vest and some stupid looking sunglasses.
That was it. Other than that, he was completely naked.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: David Lee Roth singing and hanging off the edge of a train, naked? That’s a little bit too risque, even for MTv!
I know, right?
But Diamond Dave had come up with a most elegant solution to that problem. There was nothing inappropriate on camera, because he had cleverly tucked his penis between his legs so that you couldn’t see it on camera.
At that point, the dream was pretty funny to me. David Lee Roth was doing some over-the-top 1980’s sex symbol posturing which involved a leather vest, some sunglasses, and a pair of tightly clenched thighs.
So then, in the dream, Dan turns to me.
“You see what he’s doing there?” Dan asked, referring to David Lee Roth’s hidden wang.
“That’s what you call ‘Cobra Kai-ing it’.”
This is the point where I started laughing hard enough to wake myself up.
It’s one of the more awesome dreams that I’ve ever had.
First of all, a lot of dreams lose their oomph when you wake up and think about them. A dream that seemed terrifying, important or incredibly sad while you’re asleep usually ends up just feeling absurd when you wake up and think about it. Not this one. It was funny while I was asleep, and it’s been funny to me ever since.
Second of all, it’s completely plausible. I don’t know how many of you are familiar with David Lee Roth, so let me just fill you in: He’s insane. Here are some pictures of him:
That should be more than enough to convince you, but let me really drive the point home with this video. Diamond Dave doesn’t even show up in the video until 1:32, and since I can’t get any of you assholes to even watch the first 10 seconds of an embedded video, it seems unlikely that you’ll do this, but if you do, I promise that it will totally be worth your while (as long as you consider buttless chaps “worth your while”):
Do you see what I mean? After viewing the evidence, I would almost say that it’s more implausible that David Lee Roth DIDN’T actually make a music video that featured him hanging off of a train while Cobra Kai’n it in a pair of sunglasses and an engineer’s hat.
But not only was it a great dream, I learned a new word in the process that’s going to save me time and energy. When I’m telling a friend about Silence of the Lambs, I can simply tell them “And then the crazy guy puts on some lipstick, puts some woman’s scalp on his head and starts dancing in front of the mirror while Cobra Kai’n it,” or, “I had to pee so bad during my 4th block! I was Cobra Kai’n it through the entire lesson!”
I’m not really sure how to end this post so…uh…here’s a video tutorial on how to do the moonwalk.
Happy Spring Break.
2 commentsFeb 28
Putting the “bits” in “Tidbits”.
I have a little entrepreneurial proposition for everybody who reads this.
I was talking to my girlfriend yesterday, and I was asking about one of her friends who waits tables for a living. I asked her if he had any plans to do anything besides wait tables. Apparently he kind of does, but his plans for life after serving are usually kind of half-baked schemes that he doesn’t put the necessary effort into (sound familiar to anyone? Well fuck you guys.) For a while, he was planning to become a stand up comic, after that he was going to be a sports journalist, etc. All great ideas, but his newest plan is, by far, the best, at least in my opinion.
He wants to start an Internet porn site using user-submitted photos and videos and use advertising to pay for everything. A sort of “Internet pornography tidbits”, if you will.
It’s as ingenious as it is groundbreaking! I mean, think about it: He’s cutting out the cost of models and actors by accepting submissions from his readers, and he’s making his money off of the embedded ads!
And pornography on the Internet!?!? It’s a completely untapped market! It’s one of those ideas that’s been around forever that you kick yourself for not thinking of first, like microwave pizza, or post-it notes, or pornography on the Internet! It’s money in the bank!
And so, after careful consideration, I have decided that I would be crazy NOT to pounce on this idea, so I am stealing his business model and beating him to the punch. I mean, come on! I already have hosting and a web site! All I have to do is start accepting all of your submissions, make a few minor changes to my website (I’ll start by changing it to “mindyourowngoddamnbusiness - in the butt”) and start cashing checks!
Sorry, baby. Market capitalism is a ruthless business, and my girlfriend’s loose lips have cost you dearly. You snooze, you lose.
So start sending in all of your naked pictures, readers, and rest assured that the compromising photos of you that I have on this website will be paying my bills.
With a readership that includes my little sister and a lot of males approaching 30, I think we can safely say that I am breathlessly awaiting your submissions.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I did miss out on a golden opportunity in this vein. When I was in my early 20’s, I had a roommate who, as Christopher “Big Black” Boykin from Rob & Big would say, “Did work” on a lot of good looking girls in Boulder. I’m pretty sure that if we had invested in a web address and a couple of webcams (one for his room and one above his pool table), we could’ve made a pretty big killing. It might have even been enough money to settle all of the lawsuits from girls that had sex with my roommate that we taped without their knowledge. I’m just saying. I’m pretty sure that as long as my roommate could convince them that it was completely necessary for all of the lights to be on and for him to wear an executioner’s hood while he did his thing, we could’ve made a fucking killing.
Anyway, this was originally a part of the post that I’ll be doing next that spiraled completely out of control.
Let me make it up to you with a clip of Rob & Big net-gunning Spiderman.
ROB & BIG BITCH!
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