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Feb. 26th, 2009

Computers Are Assholes

Today was trying to reset the password on my Twitter account because I forgot it. Kind of like the same way I forget the names of girls that I desperately want to get with. I'm still not sure why I even have a twitter account in the first place. But I needed to login to help Michael Ian Black in his twitter war against Levar Burton. So when it came to hitting submit on the change password form I was presented with this message:

403 Forbidden: The server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it.

Now I'm no stranger to 403 errors, but never have I gotten one with this much sass. If there's one thing that I hate more than sass from people that are not me, it is sass from computers. What this message is basically telling me is that it heard what I want it to do, but is telling me to go fuck myself. Well I am not one to take insults from machines lying down.* So I e-mailed their support team this:


To Whom It May Concern:

While attempting to reset my password for my twitter account I received this error message from your site:

403 Forbidden: The server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it.

As you can imagine I was not pleased with this error message. I was not so much displeased with the inability of your website to perform a simple task, but instead I was upset by your server's severe behavioral maladjustment. As I am to understand from the error message, your server was fully capable of carrying out my request but simply refused to for some reason which it deemed unnecessary to impart on me. Imagine if you will, that you were to order a hamburger from your local McDonald's employee. The employee hears the requests and is physically able to press the button that rings up one hamburger, but he doesn't feel like doing it, so he says, "No. Bugger off." This is basically the same situation that I am in with your servers right now. The morally responsible thing to do is promptly improve your servers' attitudes. I thank you for your time.


I do not expect to receive a real response from an actual human being, but I will update as necessary if I do get a response. If further action is required, I can always impart Arnold's interpretation of collateral damage on them.

*A big middle finger goes out to the semen dumpsters who thought it was a good idea for the past tense of "lie" to be "lay" which is the same as the present tense form of the transitive verb "lay."

Jan. 3rd, 2009

New Year, Same Shit

Since there seems to be such a high demand for it, I might as well write about the new year.* But rather than doing what everyone else does and talk about the new year by actually talking about the past year, I’m going to talk about what is going to happen in the new year.

- White people will continue to complain about how bad they have it.
- Hispanic people will continue to make shitty music.
- White people will take credit for it.
- Wal-Mart will continue to sell shit, vis-à-vis it will piss off hippies.
- I will become pissed at both the spelling of vis-à-vis and my general lack of understanding of how to use the word and cease to ever use it again.
- James A. Garfield will come back from the dead. Nobody will care.
- The makeup companies will be sued for their practice of selling you a product that you think you want then selling you another product so that you can remove it.
- I will punt your dog if it looks like a pig. Either that or turn it into bacon.
- Conan O’Brien will realize what year it is and stop doing the “In the Year 2000” bits, unless he already has. I don’t know I haven’t watched it in a while.
- I will watch Conan O’Brien more often now since I remembered they have it on Hulu.

Now I’m sure you are all very disappointed that I didn’t do a Simpson’s style clip show recap of the past year, but the fact of the matter is that nothing cool happened in the past year. At least nothing of public knowledge happened that was worth mentioning. On the other hand, I had an awesome year. It was quite possibly more awesome than all the best parts of everyone else’s year put together. Still, I’m glad that it’s over.

*Microsoft Word told me that “new year” should be capitalized. Microsoft Word can get fucked.

Dec. 7th, 2008

Is That a Basset Hound?

What’s with the word “phones?” Is that Latin? Anyways, I always get phone calls at the most inopportune time possible. Either I am in a deep or hilarious conversation with a friend about marshmallows in jar, playing video games, or my hands are covered in cookie dough, making it impossible for me to answer the phone without covering it in dough. Interestingly enough, I never get calls when I am cranking it. Though that might be accounted for by the fact that I never crank it during peak hours, I’m going to take it as a sign that I don’t crank it enough. The point is that phones have made it their personal agenda to make everyone else’s life convenient while making my life a pain in the ass.

Today however, my phone almost helped me out. I was walking my friend Nathan’s dog, since he was too lazy to, when Gwen Stefani’s #1 hit, “Hollaback Girl” protruded from my phone indicating that my partner in ladies undergarments, Andrew, was calling me. He sells ladies undergarments mind you, he doesn’t wear them. He’s not a freak. As Andrew was informing me that the third quarter profits had been announced, a glandularly challenged man carrying a garbage bag filled with what I could only assume was used ham bones erupted, “Awwwww, is that a basset hound?”

Now in case you don’t know a thing about me, it is important that you know this one fact: I loath when random people try to start bullshit conversations with me. To make his case worse, this “human” was a globulous excuse for a man who starts his conversation with, “Awwwww,” and I was attempting to control the most conniving dog I have ever met while also listening to my good friend talk about panty profits. Even if I had wanted to, I was in no condition to give this fat fuck a verbal response. Therefore I stared at him with a look of agitation and disbelief, while at the same time making it abundantly clear that I was on the phone. This however did not sway the man, for he absolutely had to confirm his belief that the dog in front of me was a basset hound. So he asked me again, louder this time. This time I just ignored him and continued to walk away from him.

Of course it would have seemed way cooler if I had come back with a witty response like, “Yes he is. And no he’s not for eating, you vacuous blubber bucket.” The problem is if I had done that, he would have received more social interaction than he usually gets in a week, making him the victor. So all I can do is hope he has his own blog and is crying about how he just wanted to know what a basset hound looked like.

Oct. 18th, 2008

A Quick Word About Mustaches

I was making my way through the speed bumps, a.k.a pedestrians, at the local Wal-Mart today when I saw what appeared to be a mustachioed man. But after a double take and a triple take, I realized that this was no man, but a woman with a stache that could account for multiple missing babies. Upon seeing this spectacle, I almost ran over an Asian couple, which would have been ironically just.

Oct. 8th, 2008

Stop and Chat

Due in part by the fact that I am far from fat, I really enjoy walking. It gets me from point A to point B in an efficient and cost effective manner. This is my primary use for walking. Occasionally, I will walk to ease my troubled mind or if I am feeling gassy. However my goal is ultimately to get from one place to another. I have found that a large percentage of people do not share this goal with me. As such, when they are walking they will do things such as stop for no reason, slow down to a legless Korean War veteran pace, or walk in circles and warn me of imminent disaster to be caused by a hurricane. This frustrates me. More and more frequently, people have been luring me into The Stop and Chat. This pisses me off immensely.

For those of you are unaware of what The Stop and Cat is, let me enlighten you. I will be walking along at a brisk pace, minding my own business, when somebody will call out my name. I of course do what comes natural to almost anyone and turn to look. It is at this instant that I wish I had not looked because I know what is about to come. But as I don’t want to look like a robot that is capable of speech recognition but not actual speech, I greet the person in return. This greeting usually does not include their name because, more often than not, I do not remember their name. After the greeting I have exactly 0.3 seconds to think of a reason to continue walking and not talk to this malcontent. I usually fail at this as I am not a quick thinker. I will continue walking as I am doing the greeting but this does not face the stopper, he dives right into conversation. So then I am stuck in a conversation about current events or shoes or my lack of intimacy for at least a full minute. I loathe talking about all of these things, especially with acquaintances.

Often vagrants will attempt to launch The Stop and Chat with me. The irony of this amuses me so much that I ignore them completely. There is of course one instance where I will not hate, but also initiate The Stop and Chat. This occurs only if an attractive female greets me first and given female is not known by me to be a crazy bitch. So if you are not in this elite category and you try and commence The Stop and Chat with me, just know that I am full of shit when I say, “I’m late for a hearing.” Also, I hate you.

Sep. 17th, 2008

If you are dumb, I will punch you

I had a dream the other night that was too spectacular to be kept to myself. It started out ordinary enough: I was riding in a convertible with some strangers who claimed to be my friends, yelling at old people to “Give something back to society besides Worther’s caramels,” and “To stop stealing all the lucrative Wal-Mart jobs from mexicans.” I soon tired of this, though I do not understand why, and I was instantly transported to a school. This particular school seemed more reminiscent of a mall than a school, complete with escalators and a Cinnabon.

I’m going to take this opportunity to go on a brief tangent about Cinnabon. Why the fuck do people pronounce it as if they were eating cinnamon on the autobahn? To begin with, it should be CinnaBUN, as it is the clear choice for the combination of cinnamon and bun. You don’t see me calling myself C-Nog do you? But let’s pretend that it is indeed Cinnabon, even so, you don’t pronounce cinnamon like you’re a fucking Rastafarian. So why would you when you change one consonant?

Back to schools and malls; the interesting thing about them is that they both are filled with underage whores. I made sure to point this out to every one that passed me. Eventually, I felt the urge to use the gentlemen’s facilities. A wandering girl appeared to me upon entrance of the bathroom. I double checked that there were urinals to confirm the fact that this was indeed the gentlemen’s facilities. She asked me if she had seen her dog or her bra or something, I was too busy looking at her boobs to pay attention. She continued to whine, which became annoying after a while. As I was fairly sure she was of legal consenting age, I told her, “The way I see it you have two options: take your top off and give me a blumpkin or get the fuck out of the men’s lavatory.” This only made the girl yammer on more.

This was getting old fast as I really had to drop a deuce and I wasn’t going to do it with a girl hovering over me if she wasn’t also going to be sucking my dick. Under the circumstance, I did what any sane man who had to take a crap would do: I grabbed her by the back of the head and forced it at an alarming rate towards the closest urinal. Apparently her brain did not like this. It was fairly apparent by the way she did not move a muscle as she lay on the floor. An elderly man exited the stall directly in front of the incident with a look of utter terror on his face. I tried to explain to him that she had knocked herself out while trying to use makeup and a tampon at the same time, but he was not buying it. So I did what any sane man would do when caught in a bathroom with an unconscious, scantily clad girl who was bleeding profusely from the head: I ran.

An array of shouts, European police sirens, and Nazi propaganda trailed behind me as I blasted out the front door. I was met by a bouncer who had a rather displeased look on his face. Fortunately for me, this was the worst bouncer ever as he was about 5’6” and 120 pounds. I beat the shit out of him too.

This is where things get kind of weird. The school’s guidance counselors began to chase me in police cars. Unable to escape them by normal means, I turned into Jackie Chan and ran into an apartment complex, flying over every wall I came across. Mercenaries hired by the school/mall rained down upon me so I murdered all of them with a few well timed roundhouse kicks. By way of ninja smoke, my [Jackie Chan’s] father appeared without warning. It may have really been my uncle. I couldn’t tell as they all look the same. He explained to me that I had happened upon the exact location of my conception. This news was disturbing and disgusting; therefore I punched him so hard that he turned back into ninja smoke. This tired me. I went to sleep on the bed on which I was conceived.

I awoke the next day [still part of the dream] to find that I was no longer Jackie Chan. Lame. My mother was outside the window, painting away. I went outside to find all of my friends helping her paint, happy as ever to see me. “I’m confused,” I announced to them, “aren’t you all mad at me for beating the snot out of that hot girl?” They all quit painting and turned to me with confused but amused looks on their faces. They explained to me that I had fallen asleep in the convertible. When they stopped, I slept walked out of the car and slept fought a mob of homeless people until there was nothing left but bloody cardboard boxes. “Well I still assaulted somebody; shouldn’t the police still be after me for killing those bums?” I asked with concern. Everyone just laughed.

All things considered, it was my least racist/sexist dream ever.

Jul. 9th, 2008

Money Saving Jew Tip #207

Instead of driving around the mall parking lot looking for that perfect spot that is as close as possible to the entrance of JcPenney's, park in the first spot you see upon entering the parking lot. You will save on gas in addition to getting FREE exercise whilst walking to the store. The fat cats down at L.A. Fitness lead you to believe that you have to pay in order to get exercise, but with this money saving tip planning, you can get it for free. Also, don't buy anything at the mall.

Have your own money saving tips? Tell them to your Jew friends who give a shit.

Jun. 28th, 2008

Crazy People Will Kill You

It's a fact: crazy people will kill you if you cross them, or if you do something they don't comprehend, or if you do anything at all.

I was able to pass by most of Thursday without any encounters from any crazy people. Staying indoors and away from homeless people will dramatically decrease your chances of coming into close contact with a crazy person, inherently increasing your chances of living another day. In a recent medical study, scientists found that people with an extreme money deficiency were 96% more likely to be crazy than a person without this deficiency. It wasn't until I started drinking some cold beers that my chances of meeting a crazy person, nay, multiple crazy peoples, increased dramatically. The thing about drinking is that it inhibits your ability to identify crazy people, and as well as preventing you from realizing that they will kill you.

Nate (who will be henceforth referred to as Alpha Tango Johnny Cash, because that is way cooler) and I were safely inside playing video games away from any crazy people when disaster struck: the xbox broke. Our only recourse of action was to go outside and talk to people and drink cheap beer. Alpha Tango Johnny Cash and I are not made of money after all. And even if I was, it's not like I would just rip off a part of my body just to pay for better tasting beer. Money legs don't just grow back overnight. Also, I might be crazy.

Alpha Tango Johnny Cash (who will henceforth be referred to as ATJC, since it is annoying to type his full name) has the uncanny ability to get complete strangers to give him high fives. Now you may think that this is the coolest ability since being able to stare at a chick's cleavage and not get slapped or punched in the scrotum, but you are fucking wrong. While normal people view high fives as a noncommittal display of friendliness, crazy people view high fives as invitations to sit down with you and announce, "I'm going to stick my finger in your asshole," to every girl that walks by. Of course, this was bound to happen.

So after introductions and more harassing of random passersby, this crazy guy sitting with us asks out of the blue, "You ever seen a man die?" Before I could even produce a syllable he answers for himself, "I have, man. I saw my best friend die in Iraq, puking out his own blood." After he said that about five times in various wordings, he claimed to have shot said best friend. Keep in mind that this was all interlaced with gems such as, "Hey baby, you have two fat dudes behind you."

After about twenty minutes of talking to the craziest guy ever, I realized what time it was and desperately looking for an out, I said to ATJC (who will be referred to as Nate again, because ATJC is stupid), "We should probably get going to beat this drunk rush." The crazy man, desperate for new souls to take, asked, "Oh yeah, where you going next?" "Probably back home," I responded. To my horror, he questioned further, "Right I know, but where's your home?" It was about this time that another crazy person that was possibly drunker and crazier than the first, pointed at me with a serious face and motioned that I follow him. I was eager to get away from crazy number one so I figured I would hear him out. He explained to me that crazy number one had been "eyeballing him" earlier and that as an "Alabama boy" he could not let that happen without crazy number one having his ass kicked.

I decided this was a fantastic time to leave. So I told Nate that we had to go and as Nate was saying his farewell, crazy number one asked Nate, "Did you take my wallet?" while his face was overcome with pure hatred and rage. Nate obviously said, "No," and we left, narrowly escaping the most unmotivated beat down ever. Crazy number two never made good on his word, but he did graduate college to become a high school teacher. Crazy number one tried going back to the army but was deemed to be too fucking crazy, even for the army. Nate and C-Nug grew up and became astronauts and got married to hot alien chicks. No girls' assholes were fingered that night.

Jun. 17th, 2008

You and everybody you know sucks

First off, I want to apologize to the two people who read this for not updating more frequently. Secondly, get fucked.

I've heard several times that a good tip for aspiring writers is to just listen to people in public talk. I would highly discourage trying this at Wal-Mart if you have a fear of stabbing yourself in the eyes with two elephant dicks provoked by severe psychosis of the anus. I passed by some tool bag today while shopping in the wormhole who was warning his 2-3 year old kid to, "Get out of the damn way of the cart." While I too take joy in the tormenting of small children, I can't say that I approve of doing it to your own spawn. But who am I to judge how someone should raise their child? So I blew it off and went back to deciding what kind of peanut butter would be best to cover the entirety of a cat. It wasn't until I passed him again that I almost lost it.

And now an excerpt from my book The Night of the Werecat:
"I just can't decide what kind of fucking pizza to get right now," said the dill weed as he threw the unsuspecting box back to its frozen tomb. Filled with the rage of a thousand anti-abortion activists, I passed him with my barely operable shopping cart. It took every ounce of determination and willpower I had ever known not to punch this degenerate in the back of the neck and then while he is spasming in pain, perpetually stomp his crotch into the ground as I take pleasure in knowing he will no longer be able to produce further failures. No, this half-man half-brick will never know how lucky he is this day. For it is this day, that I have the more important matters to attend to of deep frying peanut butter werecats.

I highly recommend you all listen to the new Opeth album Watershed. I don't want to hear any of that "it's scary," "what is he screaming about?" or "why does C-Nug like to watch people eat?" crap. Get over it and grow a pair; it's damn good music.

May. 9th, 2008


This post is just a friendly reminder that the keyboard shortcut [Ctrl+Q] will quit some programs and is dangerously close to [Ctrl+A] (the shortcut to "Select All"). So if you happen to be trying to select your two page journal entry encompassing how much grocery baggers and hippies suck and how awesome BLTs are, you might want to play it safe and select it with your mouse.

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