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[14 Jan 2008|09:19pm]
Some questions regarding Grey's Anatomy.

1. Do you watch Grey's Anatomy?
2. How much do you weigh, how tall are you?
3. Do you go to the gym a lot?
4. Where do you live?
5. Are you by yourself?
6. How long would it take the cops to reach your house?

If you answered no to the first question, disregard this entirely. If you answered yes, keep reading. I am writing a paper on the statistical statistics of people who watch Grey's Anatomy. As such, I need these pertinent informations to compare with the general IQ of people who do not watch Grey's Anatomy. The controlled variable.

Studies suggest that people who watch Grey's Anatomy have been linked with the following actions: talking on their cell phones while driving, not using turn signals when turning, shitting on public toilet seats, not covering their mouth when they cough, walking really slow when you know there's people behind you, stiffing the workforce on tips, caring about what those bitches do on The Hills, Tila Tequila, and other general buffoonery.

If you think you have any of these symptoms, then it is of the upmost importance that you answer the next two questions very carefully.

7. Do you call Grey's Anatomy by the abbreviation Grey's?

If the answer is no, disregard the following question.
If the answer is yes, please continue the survey.

8. Can I come in?
4 comments|post comment

[14 Jan 2008|07:36pm]

10 comments|post comment

[11 Jan 2008|06:44pm]
The best movie of 2007.
And nobody even knows it.

These top ten lists that spring up whenever December gets ripped from your calendar are usually chock full of pretentiousness and inflated Academy recognition. It leaves us with a list of predictable "feel good" and inspirational movies. Movies that try to say something. Crash, Babel, Children of Men, etc.

But what about movies that are pure escapism -- their sole purpose to entertain. They seem to get shelved behind straight to DVD movies and never looked at again. Planet Terror is the best horror/homage flick I've seen. Not the best movie, mind you -- the best horror movie.

The thing that really puts my undies in a knot is the babe with a MACHINE GUN FOR A LEG. On what level does that not make you say awesome? It combines my two favorite things, guns and babes. And the fact that it happens to be on none other than Rose McGowan makes my heart palpitate. Who cares how it works? That she's obviously not pulling the trigger. Or how it magically switches from bullets to rockets. She has a MACHINE GUN FOR A LEG!

Dakota: Tony, if anyone comes up to the car, I want you to shoot them. Just like in your video games: shoot them in the head.
Tony: What if it's dad?
Dakota: Especially if it's your dad.

I think Robert Rodriguez has some of the best dialogue in his movies. "I'm gonna eat your brains and gain your knowledge." Stupid, but hilarious when it's coming from a zombie. I don't know what it is, but the words, the delivery, coupled with the soundtrack -- all of it together, just sends shivers down my back.

Now that's entertainment. The main characters are brilliantly written, action heroes and horror icons. I fell in love with Marley Shelton's Dr. Dakota the moment she stepped out of her house. And Rose McGowan's stripper comedian-wannabe turned badass is one of the strongest femme fatale characters as of late.

It's a movie where you can throw yourself into the imaginary, where you don't have to care about the message, pushing reality out the window. I will admit it is overly gruesome and nobody needs to see a pair of melting balls. But you gotta respect it for what it is. I haven't had this much fun watching a movie since the Spiderman 3 bar/dance scene.

The only negative points I give Planet Terror is for Quentin Tarantino being in it.

El Wray: Go. Leave me.
Cherry Darling: I am not leaving you here like this. Motherfuckers around here eat road kill.

Recommendations for other movies please?
21 comments|post comment

[10 Jan 2008|07:22pm]
The worst movie of 2007.

Hi. I just watched No Country For Old Men, and then promptly took a shard of glass to my retinas. So if I make a spelling mistake, you'll have to bear with me. I can't see. Spoilers for the rest of the entry.

It began amazingly, I was riveted to the screen. Who could predict that watching Javier Bardem walk around in the dark for thirty minutes, with a pneumatic system that kicks ass, would be suspenseful. He portrayed his character flawlessly. He was a cold hearted killer, with eyes as black as coal.

The first sour note that struck me (or didn't, in this case) was the lack of sound. I listened for music: a score, a soundtrack, Shakira yelling, anything. Yet, the only thing in the background was a harsh Texan wind. A little bit odd for me, as a score adds emotion to a film, but the cold silence did add to the suspense. So I momentarily digress.

They made us fall in love with Josh Brolin's character, his sweet wife making him even more endearing. And then he is on the run from this psychotic killer, making the audience root for his character. Tommy Lee Jone's cop character tells a boring story and then suddenly, the scene fades to black then fades back up and the main character is dead. And we never see him again...

That's when the film turned for me. In a scene that added no development to the movie, except to push my finger closer to the stop button, the killer confronts the wife. Okay, we get it! He's a psychotic killer and life means nothing to him. We understood this within the first ten minutes, no reason to go on for two hours about it. Then wifey is dead. Or is she? Because that scene was the epitome of vague.

Then Tommy Lee tells another lame ass story with the ending line "And I woke up." Cut to credits. Well, I woke up too and then scratched the back of my brain with a bullet. It's like the film suddenly decided to press fast forward and skip the main character's death, the wife's death(?), how the killer escaped, how he got the money, and what happened to the Mexicans. This would have been perfectly acceptable if time was a story device used throughout the entirety of the film.

It wasn't.

The beginning showed promise -- it was clever, well written, and suspenseful, up until the beginning of the resolution and then everything was shot to Satan. A bad movie is a bad movie through and through. An EXTREMELY bad movie is a good movie turned bad half way through. And that is why No Country for Old Men is the worst movie of 2007.
40 comments|post comment

[09 Jan 2008|07:48pm]
Annoying Facebook Applications are probably one of the best ideas I've ever heard of. Right next to sharing heroin needles, keeping Hitler out of art school, cars without cup holders, and House of 1000 Corpses. Seriously, there’s nothing I want more than to know who added the DO U LIKE MEH application to their profile. And I really, I mean truly, love it when I get fifty fucking invites to join in on “Saving the Human Race” with a Facebook Application.

I don't give a fuck. No one gives a fuck. You people make Facebook less enjoyable than being set on fire. I would rather play a game of Monopoly to the end, than get another message on Facebook telling me that Aaron Cuntlips bit me and I turned into some mythical hell beast. I don’t want to be vampire! I don’t want to be a pirate!


Nobody cares how sexy your name is, whether you're addicted to Facebook or not (as you clearly are), who your top friends are, what kind of drunk/lover/chump you are, your hotness rating, or whether you have a penis or a vagina. Save it for therapy.

Seriously, there's an application that tells you if you have a penis or a vagina. I know what kind of genitals I have. And for some odd reason if I didn't, I could just look in the bloody mirror. Even if I had the eyeballs of Ray Charles, I would still have a 50/50 chance of reaching down there and figuring out what was between my legs. So why do I need a Facebook application to do for me what fifth grade health class did?

I accidentally added an application where you find out whether you're right brained or left brained. It's like, you find out... and then that's it. WHAT'S THE POINT! You just have some stupid box on your profile with a big ass brain on it, telling you that you're right/left brained. Ridiculous!

The clincher is when you visit the profile of someone who has every application ever made and some that haven't even been made yet! (which I don't understand, how is that even possible?). And your computer loads the page like it's an AOL chat room in 1998. So you get the idea to write on their wall how very stupid they are, but you can't fucking find it because there are thirty five applications surrounding it like the Berlin Wall.


But who am I to say that someone doesn't need thirty five different applications to tell us what movies they thought were only worth 2.5 stars. Clearly, you are fascinated by such triviality. All I have to say is, the more Facebook Applications you have, the less respect I have for you.

There is only one application worth mentioning. The only problem with it, is it requires separate registration. But here it is.
11 comments|post comment

[13 Dec 2007|08:27pm]
I've said it before and I'll say it again:

People who support Christmas are crazy.

The holiday season rolls around and everyone is expected to be nice and cheery, with rosy cheeks and bowls of jelly. But what if you just came off a horrible day of work and there's nothing in the world that will make you cheery? Then you get called a fucking Grinch and people look at you like you killed Jesus.

Just because Jesus' birth happens to be around the corner doesn't mean you have to turn into some sort of Holiday Lunatic. Same goes for that whole Hanukkah thing and let's not forget Yule or Kwanzaa. In fact, just to be PC, let me include some Satanic Holidays in here and even Ramadan and um what else is nearby?

As I was saying, just because Jesus Christ or your mother's credit card happens to be peering over your shoulder doesn't mean you have to start getting all ooey gooey on everyone. I don't want to hear a whimsical holiday story, nor do I want you to tell me you love me out of nowhere just because you watched Scrooge last night.

Unless, of course, there actually IS some sort of ghost leering over your head informing you that chains will be bound to you forevermore unless you calm down, then I don't think there's any reason to turn into the complete opposite of yourself over December. You don't see me getting harassed by Jacob Marley, so I doubt you're getting the old one two choke hold thanks to his sterling silver QVC chains either.

Four Calling BirdsCollapse )
8 comments|post comment

[09 Dec 2007|06:49pm]
Why is my life so fucking funny? Such a joke.

Lets be reals. Seventy five percent of the population are stupid-heads. And that's being liberal. If you don't know what a stupid-head is, it can either be two things. One: a person who is stupid and has a head. Two: a person who is so full of dumb, that in place of their head is Stupid. I just made that shit a noun.

These stupid-heads like to conglomerate and meet up at once place. And of course it's on the internet. No no no, it's not Myspace, Facebook, or Livejournal. It's this website. Craigslist.

That's the cause of all my stupid right now. If you are one of these stupid-heads that are contacting me through craigslist, there is only one thing you'll get from me:

Let's make sense of this. I placed an ad (the first mistake) on Craigslist for someone to take over my lease, so I can peace out of this town. The first guy that contacted me, promptly decided to come knocking on my door without letting me know. He was fifty-nine and he asked me if the house was still available for $275 a month. I had to let him know it's a room in a house, not a house, but a room in one. 275 for a house? This ain't Monopoly.

I took the address out of the ad after that. Weeks and potential subleasers later, a guy calls me up.

"Hi, I was calling about the ad you put up on craigslist for a house in Lansing. Is it still available?"

"Yes, it's still available. Do you want to come see it?"

"I had a couple of questions first. What's the area like surrounding it and are there nearby grocery stores?"

"It's actually a really nice neighborhood. Like, I've never had a problem living here and it's right off the main road Martin Luther King. And there's a bunch of restuarants and stuff like that on it."

"Okay. I was just asking because I know a lot of the neighborhoods in Flint where I'm from, the streets around Martin Luther King are very black infested and... aren't good."

And the next thing that motherfucker heard was a dial tone.

His exact words, black infested. Like we're some kind of disgusting parasitic insect to him. Black people aren't good. Where's Kanye West and his ego when you need it? So I promptly gave that fool a dial tone. Because what do stupid-heads get from me?

But the fat lady hasn't sung. My phone rings again and it's his number. I hit the button on the side of my phone to silence him. He calls two more times and then on the final call, he leave a voicemail. As soon as my phone beeps, I check it.

"Hey, I don't know what happened, I think there was a bad connection. But I'm still really interested in the house. And you can give me a call back at this number..."

At first I think about calling him back to let him know that the connection was fine and I hung up on him. But, I thought of something better.


"Yeah, I get pretty bad reception. You wouldn't want to live here. A couple years ago, this black guy broke into our house and stole my roommate's jewlrey. And her baby. Then he sold the baby to Angelina Jolie."

19 comments|post comment

[07 Dec 2007|01:01pm]
A couple minutes ago, I was standing in line at Wendy's. I glance at the couple in front of me. They're kissing and in each other's faces and make little cute noises. I throw up and look back at the menu. The line moves forward. A young girl walks into the joint and steps kitty corner to me.

Knowing she wanted to butt in there, I took a step forward so she wouldn't try to edge herself in between me and the lovebirds. She waits for a second, and then calls attention to herself.

"Scuse me!" -- She was black, of course.

"Can I get ma cheese melted. My burga is cold and da cheese ain't even melted."

The young boy looks up from the register at her. His expressions telling me he didn't know what to do. He glances over at, I'm assuming, the manager to catch her attention. He succeeds and the manager takes over.

"What kind of burger did you have?"

"I was just in da drive through, and da girl gave me a cold burga."

"Is that a junior bacon?" -- "Ye-uh."

She hands the bag to the manager and she goes in the back to get another burger. Meanwhile, I stand there foaming at the mouth. The young boy looks around nervously, like it's his first day or something. The couple in front of me still haven't been helped. They look at each other and kiss. I vomit again. The girl mutters under her breath, but audibly so everyone in the immediate vicinity hears.

"Cold ass burga, can'even get my cheese melted."

The manager comes back out and hands her a freshly made burger. The girl looks in the bag and tries feeling the buger through the wrapper.

"Is da cheese melted?" -- "Yes, I made sure." -- "Dank you."

And the girl walks out of the restuarant. I hate rude customers so much. All that over some damn cheese? Good God! I get up to the register and ask for Chunky Chicken Salad Combo, because it looks delicious on the sign hanging from the ceiling. And baby is starving!

"We don't have the chunky chicken anymore."

Then why is it advertised!

I wanted to ask him. But this kid looked like he was about to have a heart attack, so I refrained. I arch my head back to look at the sign once more, and order the chicken nugget combo. I pay for it and step aside. The boy gets a bag out and puts a large fry into it. Then he puts a burger into the bag. Yes, I am looking at him like he's crazy. I arch back to peer at the sign to make sure I said the right combo number.

I did. He sets my drink next to the bag and peers over at the register screen at my order, then looks back into the bag. He then sheepishly looks up at me knowing full well I didn't order a "burga." I give him a chance.

"Is that everything?"


I stare at him for a second. He looks like he wants to vomit, but the lovebirds are nowhere to be found.

"Don't worry about it, this is just as good too."

And I walk out of Wendy's. I know what its like to start a new job and I've been there before. You're nervous and unexperienced. That boy had every twitch and look of confusion on his face that is humanly possible. So I gave him a break. Which leaves me where I am right now:

7 comments|post comment

[06 Dec 2007|07:08pm]
Wow. Everywhere I go, she is there. In your face. Everywhere. I turn and look and she's there. I go to work and she's there. I drive my car and she's sitting in my back seat. I use the bathroom and she is peering up at me from the toilet. I go home and she is there, lying in my bed. I go to sleep and she is in my goddamn dreams. Like she is on some omnipresent shit.


You are everywhere! How are you stalking everybody on the planet at the same time! How are you doing this! There's only so much we can handle, Beyonce. And you have pushed and pushed us so far past the limit that we breathe Beyonce. Like... it's not even oxgen anymore, it's Beyonce. And we can't take any more of this!

What's the first thing you think of when you see this:

DO IT! For God's sake, just stop it. No upgrading us, no ringing the alarm, no putting my boxes to the left. Sit down!

We loved you in Destiny's Child. You were somewhat dominant, but the best has a right to be cocky. And the other girls were their to pull on your weave, when you wanted to be everyone on the planet at the same time. They canceled you out. But now that you're gone, you need to STOP, Beyonce. Stop walking to the studio to record albums, stop it. Stop walking, stop talking, stop acting, stop making commercials, stop shooting photo-ops.


Dear Beyonce:

I can't go anywhere, without thinking that you're there. Seems like you're EVERYWHERE I go. I swear that I'm having deja vu. I don't want to put on my freakum dress! What if I just want to leave it where it is! I know you want to upgrade the world, but I don't want Audemars Piguet watches or Cartier top clips. I just want to look to the left and have you NOT BE THERE.

I hope you break a fucking heel,

7 comments|post comment

Note: This post was not written from inside Mengus' asshole. [02 Dec 2007|03:07pm]
Validation died summer of '05

Everybody needs validation. In some form or another, everybody wants it. A craving that every person needs to satiate. And you won't ever be satisfied, because once you achieve some form of it -- you only want more. Anyone who denies they attempts at validation, is a liar.

Hell, I wanted all the validation in the world for the words I wrote on this site. I wanted to top my six hundred friends of, I wanted people to think I was hilarious (which I can be, which anyone can be if they mix the right letters together). I wanted to prove I was different from the triviality of livejournal, that my day to day occurings were always riveting or hilarious.

But the real crave for validation was present in communities. Am I pretty? Do I write elegantly? Validate me! Tell me what I want to hear, so I can come away from this with something more. I participated in several livejournal communities that "rated" people on their journal's merit. It was fun, in a slight elitist way. An even bigger validation is when people seek it out from you.

What spawned my thoughts on this was coming across a community called Uncensored LJ. A quick scroll through proved interesting until my attention span would allow no more. But then I begin to see something, posts by users on my friends list noting particularly "well written" livejournal entries. The same users that were part of the am I pretty/do I write elegantly communities.

At first I thought nothing of it, coincidence. People who care about writing in a writing community. So what? But then, I noticed that the posts people were making mostly glorified their own friends. It was a "you mention me, I'll mention you" sort of thing. Nothing new, nothing outside, but the same people within the rating clique doing the same thing all over again.

Wow, when does this circle jerk get old? If you want to write, write. Fuck validation. Fuck what people care. Do what you want to do. And I'm sure their whole mantra is, they want to find amazing journals to read. That's the same thing I said when I was involved. If you're looking for something interesting to read, why don't you go to a bookstore? Getting it from a site full of inanity and narcissim doesn't seem to add up.

Why search the pawn shop for a diamond, when you can go to a jeweler's and take your pick of the best?
9 comments|post comment

[22 Nov 2007|07:15pm]
You ever ate Thanksgiving dinner with black people? Trust me...

Squanto is flipping 360's in his grave. Right now that pile of red shit that you see above is sitting in a pot on the stove in my grandmother's kitchen. The mere smell of of it makes me want to puke. Any of you curious enough to try pig intestines?

Before it's cooked and cut, it looks exactly like what you would imagine it to. The outside is hard with a tough skin wrapped around it. When you bite into it, the skin breaks with a sickening crunch around your teeth. The inside is soft and moist and tastes like an asshole. And the smell that's wafting through the house right now reminds me of rancid milk. Clumpy and clotted as your pour it down the drain.

That's my aunt's favorite dish. She cooks it every Thanksgiving and tries to force me to eat it. Being at school, the last three Thanksgivings, the pig intestines sort of slipped my mind. And I've made the smallest big mistake of my life by deciding to come home and see my family.

If my aunt tries to force me to eat that foul, filthy swine like she did several years ago, I will fucking spit in that bitches' face. For the last thirty minutes, I've been thinking about how I will go fucking INSANE if any of my stupid relatives say shit to me. Like the shit between me and my aunt got so serious at one point (read the second half of this post) my dad FORBID us from talking to each other. I am so ready to hit that bitch. I hope she steps to.

I never understood white people's obsession with pumpkin pie. That shit is mediocre at best. And it's also made of pumpkins? Who eats pumpkins? White people, that's who. Now if we were talking about sweet potatoe pie. Ooh ooh baby! That almost makes coming home worth it! Mmm MM!
20 comments|post comment

[05 Nov 2007|07:25pm]
What are your top
five albums of all time?





.Collapse )
22 comments|post comment

[04 Nov 2007|10:55pm]
The simple things in life.

The cool side of the pillow on a hot summer's night. The absolute silence created after the refrigerator shuts off. The smell of freshly laundered clothes. The cool temperature after a hot rain in eighty degree weather. Closing your eyes after a long day of work. The sun not setting until well after eight o'clock. The taste of expensive cheesecake at a fancy restaurant. The first kiss after you leave her at her door. Walking around without a shirt.

The extreme temperature shock of jumping into a pool. Finally being able to relieve a full bladder. Wearing socks that came right out of the dryer. A glass of water to quench that insatiable thirst. Walking out of the blistering sun into a cool, air conditioned house. Laying in a hammock with nothing but a good book and the gentle breeze of wind. Walking around in a new pair of shoes.

Going for a midnight drive with no destination in sight. The very first minutes of your favorite television show. Putting a nice paycheck into your bank account. A really good song played over and over. Waking up with a nose free from blockage. Realizing that your headache has been gone for a while now. Finding that one shirt or pair of jeans that flatters everything. The gas meter in your car being past the full line.

Picking your nose in privacy. When all of the dishes are in the cupboards. Having a twenty minute conversation with your best friend. Your place of residence with no other occupants at the time. The end of a successful year. waking up by running water all over your body. Freshly cut fingernails. Checking the mail for that one item and finding it there. Recognizing the simple things that please you. A home cooked meal wafting throughout your house.
7 comments|post comment

[11 May 2007|06:14pm]
I’ve never been a big fan of shopping for clothes. Don’t get me wrong now; I love getting new clothes. Who doesn’t like getting new clothes for theirselves? Maybe Benito Mussolini, but that’s only because he’s a fascist. And an idiot.

Thing is, I can’t ever find my size. I can’t ever find the jean that’s the right size around the waist and still a little loose throughout the rest. I can’t ever find the shirt that doesn’t make me out to weigh the 145 pounds I do. And when I do find the size that does it all, it looks as if it were designed by Ray Charles. Collars and buttons and pockets just all in the wrong places.

Then I see people walking down the street, with jeans that hug their ass just right, and shirts that look… just ridiculously good looking (for lack of better words). And I want to yell at them. I want to yell at them all. Hey! Are those Levi or Old Navy? What size, what style, what cut, what store? Gimme!

But I’d appear the fool, so I don’t. I just watch them and their fashion secrets walk away. And I decide to go thirteen months without shopping and then I’m forced to. Because by that time, the bottom of my jeans are shredded and the pockets are falling off. My shirts are stained and dingy and there’s a hole in the pit.

I get in my car and drive to the mall, much like I did today. I go to five different stores: two chains, three outlets before I finally find something that doesn’t look semi stupid. I try things on in disgust. I look like a monkey in this sweatshirt. Or I look like a starving African in this T-shirt. Or these pants look like MC Hammer pants on me, when they don’t on anyone else.

I put everything back and buy a package of socks. Because you can’t ever go wrong with socks. Socks are the one thing that make me feel like a normal human being. I love socks and they love me. I have a drawer full of socks and I love it. I look in there every morning, eager. What’ll it be today, low cut or high cut. Crew cut or ankle cut.
11 comments|post comment

[08 Feb 2007|06:55pm]
She had it coming.

I love it when celebrities die because, it's a freebie post for me. I was at work and some student gave me her cell phone as collateral for the camera equipment she checked out. When I gave it back to her, one of her moron friends had texted her that this bitch died. First of all, text message. Second of all, this celebrity? Yeah, alright. Okay, I see.

So the big question of the afternoon to the evening, what killed her. Was the death of her son too unbearable for her? Was it drugs? Or was it Trimspa? And not Trimspa for the reason you think it's Trimspa. But Trimspa for the reason that it was fucking annoying every time she said it and I know some people who know some people who wanted her dead because of it. If I had to listen to her yelling "Trimspa baby" every five seconds, I'd shoot the bitch too.

So would you. And then I'd figure out whether they're real or not. We're all perverts on some level. Maybe do the ol' one two poke test, jiggle them a little bit. Bounce 'em around like that, pop that thing real low. Unh unh! I hope they raid her house and find her fat suit and her fat suit makeup and her dead son who's not really a dead son but thought to be dead so she could get another fifteen minutes in.

I hope they find the gun or whatever she used to kill that rich dude she was married to hidden in her fat suit with her dead son. That, would make my life about square. I can't remember, did she get the money or not? Or not seems more likely. And I'm gonna leave us with her contributions to society, such as her work in Playboy: Playmates Bustin' Out, Playboy: Blondes, Brunettes, Redheads, Playboy Video Playmate Calendar 1993, and Season 2 of that stupid fucking reality show she has. Had.
4 comments|post comment

[22 Jan 2007|08:41pm]
I don't text you. You don't text me. And when you do text me, I hate you. I think about eating your babies. I think about slapping you with a frying pan. I think about the fact that you don't know me well enough to know that I regard text messages just as highly as I regard Germany. And I regard Germany about as highly as a removed strand of hair. From my buttcrack.

You text me and it twists me, telling me you don't have what it takes to pick up the phone and call. It tells me you're frightened or don't consider me the kind of person you can just pick up the phone and say what up to. You are silly, you are frivolous with your button pushing and your shortening of words that make me want to gag so I can take the pain of looking at your god awful text message away.

I give Allah daily thanks that I don't reside in a country where texts are as popular as people thinking they're still clever by discussing how they're going to bring sexy back. Every possible variable of that played out joke's been made. So simply, quit it, along with your ten cent pieces of torture. Pick up the phone and talk on it. I'll like you like the person you want me to like. And my frying pans will stay put.
9 comments|post comment

[22 Jan 2007|12:22am]
The only thing keeping my Lost withdrawal from manifesting itself into a demon baby and beating my worst enemies to death (I’m looking at you, Meredith Grey. Fuck you and your boring emotional baggage) is Heroes. It’s like Lost. Except minus the good doctor’s God complex, Kate’s level five cockteasing, and the button in the hatch you have to push every 108 minutes or the world will explode (but not anymore because Locke didn't pushed it anymore and it went bye bye).

For a while, my Lost withdrawal was doing good. It was fine. Until about a couple weeks ago when it started transforming itself into something scary, something frightening, something like the look on Clay Aiken’s mom’s face when she realized what she gave birth to.

Lost couldn’t go away for three months. I still had questions! I still wanted answers! Like why is Juliet the sexiest baddest motherfucker on that island and how do I go about getting her island digits. She could tie me, chain me, Locke me up in an underwater aquarium and bring me cheeseburgers, play secret video messages, and cocktease me all night long. Mm. Mm. Mmm! Island done you good, girl. It done you good!

And all of that was ripped from underneath my feet because half of America doesn’t realize there’s 22 to 24 episodes of a show in a season and you can’t physically air a new one every week (stupids) so you complain and moan about it until execs decide its best to run episodes back to back with a thirteen week break in the middle. All you Meredith Grey's need to stop whining and suck it up.

Heroes is here to tide me over. I was wondering who would hire Ali Larter after she did that one thing about the plane crash white boy saw that tried to kill a bunch of people in ridiculously unnecessary complex designs. And then she did it again. It’s like, what? Somebody got past the fact that she acted in knee high feces and could see a potential ass kicking hottie little mommy. Her husband is pretty sweet too. So is the kid. Except his hairstyle could go back to the 1970’s if it wanted to.

Heroes has the multi-character cast (that they stole from Lost), the Asians who barely speak English (who they stole from Lost), the mega hot blonde chick (stolen from Lost) the troubled Arab (who they stole from Lost), a serialized plot (that they stole from Lost), strangers coming together to help one another in adversity (yep, Lost again). But it's okay, because Heroes is Clark Kent on crack at a party. Impressin' everybody.

Heroes is exactly like watching Lost with superpowers. Although they could stand to stop mentioning heroes within the show. We get it. We know you think you’re being clever writing the name of the show into the dialogue. Quit overdoing it. It’s not like the islanders need to say everyday that they’re lost. Anyway, I’ll watch you Heroes, because you are the wind beneath my wings. Or some bullshit.
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[15 Jan 2007|09:29pm]
It's Hard Being A Black Man

Ten am. December 25th. My brother walks into the room to wake me from my fruitful slumber. Come on, it's breakfast time, he tells me. He nags me. Breakfast? What is this you speak of? I'm a college student. My meals consist of a Hot Pocket at noon, Taco Bell at 3, and leftover hamburger helper at 1 in the morning. Explain to me what this breakfast is.

I walk into the small cramped kitchen at my grandmother's house. I look at all of my stupid relatives and I'm reminded of how much I hate this place. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I sit down at the cramped kitchen table. My bitch of an Aunt throws a plate of sausage, eggs, bread, and grits in front of me.

Oh damn. Too bad, I don't like sausage, eggs, and break. The grits? I'll eat. Yes, I know, grits. Couldn't get any blacker if I tried. Unless of course. My uncle looks around the room and then says, can I get some hot sauce for my eggs?

Blackness obtained.

Hot sauce on scrambled eggs? Seriously now? Why don't you just go ahead and ask for some Kool-Aid too. Some watermelon flavored Kool-Aid. And while we're at it, can we get that poolside while we're not swimmining in the pool and not getting our hair wet. Add a side of fried chicken. Extra crispy, full of Crisco. We're gonna need something greasy to eat after we finish our cotton picking for the day.

Seriously. Hot sauce on eggs.

Black people suck.
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[09 Jan 2007|11:35pm]
This is how shitty my little brother is.

I went for two weeks without a cell phone. TWO OF THEM. WEEKS! God, how do those poor African bastards do it. You can't miss what you don't have, I guess. The only thing that kept me sane during the week I was without, was beer and wrist slitting and dreaming about murdering people.

Now, my dad is the most paranoid person on the planet. If he recieves a phone call from a number he doesn't recognize, he'll assume the government found him and is secretly trying to track him through our satellite system. They want what's inside of his brains. Apparently, our supply of nothing is running low. And thus, he won't answer his phone. Ever.

This man knows that my phone number is in the process of being switched from one company to another and he knows that I am without a means of communication (which I'm just going to go ahead and say, if I ever meet Cingular in a dark alley, I'd beat its fucking lights out, then eat it for dinner).

But common sense just doesn't click in with my dad. Oh gumdrops! Why would my son try to contact me from a different phone number. That's just silly! I bet it's the government trying to trick me! I'll just ignore this call and/or turn my cell phone off and never setup my fucking voicemail box so the government can't leave me any messages that want to eat my brain.

Then there's my brother, who knows how damn paranoid our father is, who knows that my phone doesn't work, who knows that I'm going to try and contact his stupid ass to get in contact with my dad. Oh gee willickers! I'm too busy smoking pot, stealing money, whining like the little piece of of a woman's PUSSY I am, giving away computers and jewlrey and my father's money, fucking bitches, getting Gonorrhea, lying about getting Gonorrhea (while my penis drips blood all over the damn place), and keeping my high school popularity at an all time high to bother with my brother.

So when my brother Brandon calls me, I'll tell him that I can't talk, HANG UP ON HIM, and then turn my goddamn motherfucking phone off so he can't call back and yell at my stupid fucking piece of shit filled ass. Golly, my popularity, and my look, and my clean Air Force Ones are my number one two and three items of priority. And of course we can't forget about my bitches, gots to get sick gifts to give to my bitches.

So I don't have a phone. And both of these assholes are lucky I don't have a car for another two weeks. Otherwise, I'd drive down to Beverly Hills, punch them in the face, stomp through their stomach until their bodies are impaled on my leg, and watch them wriggle and ooze all over our Burber carpet as I laugh. And then I'll set them on fire. And I won't get caught. Why? Because the government did it.

This makes me feel better.
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[08 Jan 2007|07:16pm]
So Saddam's dead, huh? So (damn) long, brother.

But about that look... couldn't they have made Saddam look less friendly and less like the victim when they wrapped that noose around his head? Who could blame that sad, weary, Middle Eastern Santa Clause displayed in that cell phone video? Perhaps he was just PMS'ing when he killed all those people. Perhaps it was just that he had a rock in his shoe he couldn't remove. You leave Santa alone, you bastards!

But about that video... could that guy have had a worse cell phone camera? I don't know about you, but when the sick, perverted, authoritarian dictator of my people is caught, put to trial, and sentenced to death by hanging, I want to see that shit in HD! I want to see the inside of his pores and watch beads of sweat develop. I want to hear his neck crack in 6.1 channel stereo surround. Whattya say?

But about that death... couldn't they have prolonged his suffering a little longer? That wasn't America, and we all know they threw cruel and unusual punishment consequences out the window years ago. I want to watch him strangle and gasp for air, baby! I want to see him kick his legs as he watches his life flash before him. Nevertheless, I feel a lifetime of near death beatings in prison would have been a better suited fate.

And about that other thing... Everyone say it with me now: So, where's Osama?
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