Wake up, me

Bad, bad brownies.
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Whoa. OK, ol' Spence is having some trouble waking from the trance his was put in last night. Words of advice: Don't. Ever. Eat. Brownies. That. Your. Friend. Made.

Shit. I wasn't just high. I was freaked-out high. You know, you can't say anything because every time you're about to speak you stop because you think you already said it. Then you start having an argument with yourself, which turns into you laughing at yourself, which turns into people thinking you're fucking weird.

Yeah, that's how I felt last night. I was seeing tracers and everything. Not cool. Well, it was cool, but not when I was driving home on the interstate at night time. Don't get me wrong: I love seeing shit. But there's a proper place and time for that. Not driving home at 6:30.

I'm usually not a weed man. I'll smoke it every once in a while, probably averaging to about three times a month. Well, eating this "brownie" was nothing like smoking weed. It takes about 45 minutes for it to hit you. Then it gets stronger. And stronger. I began speaking in another language it seemed like. Every time I opened my mouth to talk, it was like I had the stalk from a huge weed plant stuck in my mouth. I just kinda made noises that no one understood.

I went to bed at about 9:30 and woke up high. I've kinda snapped out of it though — thanks to a frappucino and my girlfriend's ADD medicine.

So my point of this entry? If you've never tried those brownies, do it — but with care. Don't eat more than one. Believe me.

More later.

Wake up, me

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Whoa. OK, ol' Spence is having some trouble waking from the trance his was put in last night. Words of advice: Don't. Ever. Eat. Brownies. That. Your. Friend. Made.

Shit. I wasn't just high. I was freaked-out high. You know, you can't say anything because every time you're about to speak you stop because you think you already said it. Then you start having an argument with yourself, which turns into you laughing at yourself, which turns into people thinking you're fucking weird.

Yeah, that's how I felt last night. I was seeing tracers and everything. Not cool. Well, it was cool, but not when I was driving home on the interstate at night time. Don't get me wrong: I love seeing shit. But there's a proper place and time for that. Not driving home at 6:30.

I'm usually not a weed man. I'll smoke it every once in a while, probably averaging to about three times a month. Well, eating this "brownie" was nothing like smoking weed. It takes about 45 minutes for it to hit you. Then it gets stronger. And stronger. I began speaking in another language it seemed like. Every time I opened my mouth to talk, it was like I had the stalk from a huge weed plant stuck in my mouth. I just kinda made noises that no one understood.

I went to bed at about 9:30 and woke up high. I've kinda snapped out of it though — thanks to a frappucino and my girlfriend's ADD medicine.

So my point of this entry? If you've never tried those brownies, do it — but with care. Don't eat more than one. Believe me.

More later.


NGAS -- the new disease

To: Girl
From: Boy
Date: Babies
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line

I love awkwardness. The uhhh's and ahhh's and oh yeah's. Love 'em. I, myself, don't take joy in feeling awkward per se. However, I love making others feel awkward.

Today, I guess, karma is sticking her nasty little foot in my ass for all the awkward times I've caused for others. I was the jackass that fucked with the new people. All in fun, though. But now, I wish I hadn't. Yes, I have the "new guy" awkward syndrome. You know, the phobia where you actually ponder asking permission to go to the bathroom, or to sit down or to look at, God forbid, a Web site that's not work-related.

It's all self inflicted. The people around me are cool as hell. It's just a matter of knowing what pushes people's buttons — and what'll get you bitch-slapped. Mastering this knowledge takes time. A few lunches, then, if you're lucky, an after-work drink or two (or three or twenty) and in no time, you're part of the family — whether that's a good thing has yet to be determined.


Farewell to the DOG

To: Bitches
From: Pimps
Date: Hoes
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well, everyone, this is my last entry from my job at the newspaper. I’ll probably take a three- or four-day break from blogging, but I’ll be back next week. I have to figure out how easily I’ll be able to blog without my co-workers and bosses knowing.

I had a meeting with George W. Bush yesterday. Quite interesting. We talk every now and then. He likes to ask me for advice and what not. I usually end the meeting by putting him in a head lock and making him say “Uncle!”.

It got a little rough yesterday, though:

Dubya: Hey, Spence, how ya doin’, buddy?

Me: Firstly, jackfuck, don’t call me Spence — or buddy. I’m not your friend, your partner, your admirer or even your compatriot. Just call me "Daddy." Secondly, I’m “doin’ ” pretty fucking bad. I’d feel a lot better if I could bitch slap you right now.

Dubya: I’m sorry. Go ahead. Slap me. (Schlack!) Ewww yeah — Poppa like

Me: Goddamn. How’d I know you’d like that? So what the hell are you doing nowadays? Last time I heard, you were invading Americans’ privacy, and trying to justify it with the executive powers that you don’t have.

Dubya: Spence, you need to do some catchin’ up.

Me: OK, you sonuva bitch. If you call me “Spence” one more goddamn time, I’m gonna give you the worst fuckin’ charlie horse you could ever fathom. Got me?

Dubya: Yes, sir. I’m sorry.

Me: Good. Now, do you have access to blogs? Like, say, mine? The Memo?

Dubya: Aheehee, aheehee, yeah, of course we do. I like that picture you had of that good ol’ boy from that movie. Darnit, what was it called? Super Cops?

Me: Super Troopers, ass pirate.

Dubya: Yeah, yeah, I forgot. My daughter loves that movie.

Me: Jenna? Yeah, I know she does.

Dubya: And, might I ask, just how do you know that, Mr. Campbell?

Me: She’s come over to my house before to watch it. A couple times. We always have fun.

Dubya: I didn’t know about this.

Me: George, I think there’s a LOT of stuff you don’t know about Jenna.

Dubya: Well, enlighten me.

Me: Aww man, where do I start? Oh I know! Almost every time Jenna comes over, she’ll put on that blue-jean skirt — kinda like the French woman in that movie — and make me perform a search on her like I was a policeman. She’s really into role play.

She looooooves it in the poopline, too. Whoo! And she can’t get enough of the shocker — you know, where I act like I'm picking up a six-pack?!

Dubya: (Without even batting an eye, he said) Get ‘em. ...

And just like that, I suffered the most deleterious beating of my short life from three Secret Service agents. I tried to talk shit while they were thrashing my face, but one of my teeth was knocked out — I ended up spitting blood and sounding like that blonde from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy when I talked.

All I could muster was, "Tell Laura that Daddy said 'Hello, darlin’!' ... Bitch!"


I love you, Wee Man

Look at him. Don't glare, though. He WILL kick your ass.

To: Wrestling fans
From: Tiny Tim
Date: All eternity
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

It’s confession time, folks. I hope some of you out there can empathize with me. I have this undeniable obsession with midgets. I love ‘em. They’re so awesome. They always have that cool, I’ll-kick-you-in-the-nuts mentality. Hell yes. I love kicking people in the nuts.

I don’t like the Vern Troyer midgets. Too small. Look like aliens. No I like the ones like Wee Man from Jackass. I just wanna pick him up and carry him on my back, take him to Disney World and kick anyone’s ass that tries to deny him a seat on a ride that has height restrictions.

Then, I’d sponsor him on the midget wrestling circus. I’d call him Li’l John and make him grow braids and wear a platinum grill. Sweet!

Anyone else with me?


Now, I am not bigoted toward anyone. But this motherfucker is weird — in every sense of the word.


Holy shit ... Go K-Fed! Go K-Fed!

How can you not feel totally fuckin' awesome after looking at this photo?

To: Tha Fans
From: K-Fed Fanatic
Date: Yeah, whateva
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

There are times when music is magical. Inspiring. Touching. All that shit. PopoZao by K-Fed is ALL of it. I mean, OMG, listening to his music makes me want to, like, kill babies and eat koala bears for lunch.

Don’t come to me with this Kevin Federline shit. It’s K-Fed. Kaaaaaaaay Feddddd. Awesome. Why does he get the cool name? I guess he was just born to have good prefixes in his name.

OK, all seriousness aside, the new song ... I love it. He has the lyrical flow of Q-Tip, the enunciation of Talib Kweli and the clever syntax of Sage Francis. Then, after a second listen, it sounds more like Ferris Bueller with Latin flava — which equals totally fuckin’ RAD.

(Yes, I just said rad. Sorry, it won’t happen again.)

Yo, I’m out, but I’ll be back. -- Ice Cube, Predator


My movie ...

Snowback Mountain

Religion ... ugh

To: The Congregation
From: Michael
Date: Eternity
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, I’ve left some people sort of wondering what my view on religion, the afterlife and spirituality is altogether. I don’t like to get deep too much, for myriad reasons. One, I like to keep a light mood around here. Two, sometimes when I try to get deep, my writing sometimes ends up sounding like satire. But oh well. Here goes…

Religion has played a large part in my development as a, well, jackass. My mother, whom I rarely talk to, is extremely religions. My father, my best friend and role model, claims to believe in God, but he never pushed it on me. The irony? My dad is a Republican and my mom’s liberal. She has an open mind and is extremely smart, but she has unwavering faith in God.

Anyway, so she took me to church often when I was a child. We weren’t exactly there every Sunday, but at least twice a month. I loathed going to church, even as a child. I had to have unnerved my pastor with all the questions I asked. "So, what happens to people who’ve never heard of Jesus, Pastor Roy?" I’d say. "Well, Spencer, they go to hell." I knew that wasn’t right, but I hadn’t yet found the courage to confront my emotions — even if they were instilled in me by someone else.

As I aged, I went to the little Southern Baptist church less and less. I moved to the gaudy First Assembly of God in North Little Rock. Now, if anyone can make church cool, FAG in North Little Rock can. If you’ve never seen it, it’s beautiful. All glass and white, with a huge sanctuary, a gym, a workout room. And believe me, these people can’t get enough God. They speak in tongues (fuckin’ freaky), pray out loud and praise the Lord for everything.

Not me. I thought it was a crock of shit. Their sole purpose was to get more money. They did everything to attract kids, too — huge youth room, lounge room with pool and pinball tables, big screen TVs, an arcade, ya know, the works. And it worked. They averaged about 400-500 kids each week. My friends and I usually went there to meet girls. I’ve rocked my Jeep a couple times in that parking lot, and God knows how many times we went in there stoned out of our mind.

But for some reason, the pastors there loved me. As I look back now, I know why. They wanted to use me as a tool. I was the “popular guy,” yet I still hung out with the geeks I had all my classes with. People looked up to me, as hard as it is to see it. I was smart, but I always pushed the envelope. I’d tell the teacher when I thought she wrong — you know, the little things that count, but many people never had the balls to do it.

They tried every way possible to get me to come to their side. They invited me on trips, they looked past my horrible profanity problem and they even let me play in the church band (drums). When my parents were in the middle of a divorce, my youth pastor let me stay at his house for a week with his wife and kids, and I still thank them for that.

But one day, I just woke up. I can even remember that morning. I was in 11th grade (so I guess about 16 years old) and I’d just finished reading Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. I had to write my junior paper on the book and Huxley. I remember waking up one morning — in fact the morning after I had finished the book, and feeling ... different.

I began seeing things in a new light. I had so many questions. I began to write, and I didn’t stop. The book questions religion, among other things, and the way society believes almost anything it’s told to believe.

... Here’s what I think. Religion is great ... for some people. For some, going to that altar on Sunday and confronting a drug problem is really helpful. Just not for me. We are confronted with questions every day: How did we get here? What happens when we die? Blah blah blah. First of all, when you die, you do exactly that. You just fucking die. What’s so scary about that? I understand you want to believe that your loved one is in a greater place when he or she suffered so much through life (or at the end of his or her life), but they aren’t. That’s not bad; just look at it as though they’re not suffering anymore.

I just don’t understand why people allow a sweaty minister to badger them into believing what he believes and refuting any other explanation offered by other cultures or religions. It shows gross arrogance and invites repugnance from others.

I think religious radicals in America are just as bad as Jihadists. They live their lives attempting to make others conform to their outlandish beliefs. Fuck you and fuck your beliefs, I tell them. You are one of the biggest inhibitors of America’s intellectual growth. If we were all dumb and gave in to your brainwashing techniques, this country would go just the way you want it.

But no. That will never happen.

Ya know, at first, I merely made a decision not to partake in anything with the religious right. But now, I’m starting to despise anything to do with them. Why is it thought to be appropriate for ministers to hold an alter call at the funeral? Ugh. Look at all the major issues in America. Numerous problems are rooted in orthodox values. Abortion. Gay marriage. Sex education in schools. Separation of church and state. Intelligent Design. Fuck those values.

It is the 21st century, you know. Just do me a favor, if you choose to follow the religious lifestyle, do it because you chose to. Not because you have a drug problem, or are going through a divorce or anything. Don’t let turmoil dictate life choices. Go because you want to. And keep an open mind.

Am I asking too much?


Dead Yuppies Walking

Wear this if you want people to think you're gay.
To: A&F Pussies
From: Your Worst Nightmare
Date: Lunch time
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

It’s impossible for anyone to hate anything more than I hate Abercrombie & Fitch. I hate A&F more than Jews hate Hitler, more than Pat Roberston hates Jews and more than my dad hates going to get a physical — combined.

Y.U.P.P.I.E.S. There, that says a lot. I fucking hate yuppies. But, you might say, why were you in A&F, Spencer? I like some of their jeans. Shoot me. I usually stick with Lucky’s or Buffalo, but I keep my options open.

Anyhow, I bought a pair of jeans from them less than two months ago. Last night (when I was shit-faced drunk), they ripped ... bad. The whole world could see my ass. Beautiful sight. Not really. I didn’t get too mad because, for one, I’m thinking to myself that they have some kind of policy for poor quality jeans.

So I call the ass pirate manager at lunch time today. He said it’d be great if I had the receipt, to which I replied that I bought them almost two months ago, why would i have a fucking receipt? He said I should come in and he’d take a look at the jeans.

Sometimes I forget how much I fucking loathe the mall. A trip there never fails to make me feel dumber. I hate the smell of freshly spruced floor tile. I hate the sound of cash registers, pretentious jackasses talking on cell phones and 4,000 salesman asking me the same goddamn questions. UGH.

A&F, though, always held a different place in my heart. My best friend, Josh, refuses to go in there. If I ever had any business in there, he’d wait outside. In fact, I used to date a girl that worked there, and I’d have to tell her to come outside if he was with me. I hate it almost as much as Josh. I always make an attempt to be extremely rude to at least two employees before I leave — just for the hell of it.

I don’t know if it’s the deafening, queer techno music playing or the ostentatious numskull employees — or, perhaps, a combination of both — that I hate about A&F so much. But if I believed in a heaven, it would be a place where I’d be stuck in a video game where I get to hunt and kill A&F employees, as well as the musicians that fill the speakers in their stores.

I actually had a friend that worked there. He was more of a guy I put up with because I liked his girlfriend (with whom I had a grrrrrrrreat night). He told me it was a “privilege” to be offered a job at A&F. Really? A privilege? I think it’s a privilege for those employees to help me when I’m there without me kicking the living shit out of them. It’s a privilege of mine to belittle an A&F employee without them even figuring it out until I’m out of the store.

OK, back to my story. So I get there at lunch today, the conversation with the manager goes somewhat like this:

Ass pirate manager: “Are those the jeans?”

Me: (Thinking to myself, “No, numbnuts, I brought these to joke around with you. I actually shoved those jeans up my ass so I could protect them.’) “Yeah, see the hole?”

Ass pirate manager: “Oh, that’s bad. How did that happen?” he said, while looking at the rip that goes from my ass crack down to the back of my knee.

Me: “I bent over.”

Ass pirate manager: “You’ve had these for a month and a half? (I nod in agreement.) Do you have the receipt?”

Me: “I told you over the phone that I didn’t have the receipt.”

Ass pirate manager: “Oh, that’s right, that’s right. Well, as the manager, I’m supposed to make a judgment call. ... And based on the condition of the jeans, they look a lot older than that.”

(Note: He’s talking in questions the whole fucking time. Be assertive, asshole. He sounds like a fifth-grade girl when he’s trying to be stern. Pussy.)

Me: “The condition? The condition of these jeans is the reason I brought them up here. They fucking ripped. What’d you think they’d look like?”

Ass pirate manager: “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I had to make a judgment call, and there’s not really anything else to do.”

Me: “Well if I would have known the result of my whole trip would’ve been determined by the judgment of a manager at Abercrombie & Fitch, I could’ve saved both of our time.”

Ass pirate manager: “What are you trying to say?”

Me: “Idiot. I’ll piss on your goddamn judgment.” (I then proceeded to wad up the jeans and throw them at him, after which he flinched like a girl and made a pouting face. Bitch. — Oh, and if you're doubting I actually said that last line, believe it. I always say "I'll piss on..." It's a habit of mine.)

See, one day, I’ll be banned from the mall. I’ll have to come to an agreement with them that I’ll stay out of all the stores as long as I can still get one of the Philly steak sandwiches from Great Steak and Potato Co. Goddamn, those are fucking awesome.

Fucking A&F pussies. I. Hope. You. Get. Hit. By. A. Bus. Full. Of. Boy. Scouts. And. Their. Gay. Scout. Leaders.


Dammit ... I didn't wanna do this

To: Homeboi
From: Dope dizzle
Date: Yesteryear
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I’m a little late jumping on this bandwagon, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Due to the dearth of story ideas, I’m gonna go ahead and list my five worst habits.

I’m usually against lists because, frankly, I think they’re for homos. But I’ve seen cool people (Marla included) go ahead with them, so I’ll follow suit. Here goes:

5) I hate people before I know them. So, yes, if I don’t know you, I fucking hate you. I don’t exactly treat everyone like shit. I’m just one of those people that, instead of looking for a reason not to like you, I try to find traits that would make me like you — kinda the opposite of most people.

Living in Arkansas, this is not a good formula because, for one, I absolutely abhor organized religion. I think it’s a detriment to our society, and our world would be far greater were it not for it. Um, yeah, that was kinda heavy. Sorry.

4) I judge people ... quickly. This habit kinda goes hand-in-hand with #5 — so what, shut the fuck up. (I’m tryin here.) I usually place people in categories: Superficial numskull with blonde hair that sucks men dry; art-chic liberal that’s incessantly protesting against nothing (the whole stick-it-to-the-man mentality); goddamn hippies, ugh; frat-boy prick that’s waiting to come out of the closet; the cool, don’t-give-a-fuck clan — smart people that have reached the point in their life where they can just laugh at our world and the little things which people fret over every day.

3) I’m not always totally honest — and sometimes I’m too honest. I’m sorry, but if you ask me what I think of you, I will tell you. If I like you, I probably won’t be totally honest. If I don’t like you, beware — I’ve probably been waiting for the chance to tell you how much I hate you (and what, exactly, it is that I hate about you).

2) I loooooove to get fucked up. I’m not as bad as I was in high school (I’d do pretty much any drug you put in front of me), but I have relapses. The thing is, I don’t have an addictive personality. I’ve never been addicted to anything. I’m just addicted to forgetting some of the problems I have on this planet. If I feel like popping a couple Vicodin or smoking a bowl or drinking an 18 pack or even eating a gram of mushrooms, I will. Then, every once in a while, I don’t mind snorting a few lines and having a long, drawn-out, deep conversation on politics and religion that my friends and I will laugh at the next day.

Sue me. I like drugs. And please, don’t send me any comment about how you’re worried about my health. These are recreation drugs, and I use them for just that — recreation. I’m not a druggie, so spare me.

1) I keep forgetting that I’m only 20. I have my whole life ahead of me — kind of. I just grew up a little too fast. I work 60-65 hours a week, and sometimes I forget that I need to just sit back and have fun.

Who the fuck am I kidding? That’s why god made drugs.

The Snake and the Rat — part two

The air is brutally cold when he leaves the pet store. The man hurries to his SUV in order to get his new pet out of the cold. The snake hardly moves.

The children love the snake. The little girl fearlessly picks it up and rubs the back of its head, marveling at its texture. The snake obliges. Later, the girl slithers around on the living room floor acting like her new best friend; the man and his wife watch in amusement. The snake, in a very short time, has become a part of the family.

Tonight is the true test, though. After the man tucks away the little girl and rocks the baby to sleep, he creeps to the snake’s cage. The owner of the pet store suggested he place the snake where the man had seen the rat in previous instances. The man places the snake beind the couch, he figures there might be a hole in the wall because it seemed as though the rat always found its way back there.

He turned the heat up slightly and lay the snake on the cold hardwood floor. The snake immediately went under the couch and, now out of vision, out of the man’s worries. He slept confidently. He dreamed about Charlize Thereon watching him from the press box at Yankee Stadium. He hit a home run; the crowd went crazy. In his dream.

During the night the snake made its way around the house, curious and ravenous, yet unassuming. The snake waited patiently for his prey, which he could see now, making its way into the kitchen. The rat stopped just before the refrigerator. The snake could move any time now, but it didn’t. There’s a certain beauty attained only by something so helpless. Its defenselessness makes the prey look pure and harmless, like a flower waiting for the blades of the lawnmower.

The snake saw this beauty, this vulnerability. And it watched. Then, it made its move. The rat didn’t have a chance. The snake was too powerful, too fast and too smart.

The man awoke before his alarm clock sounded. The owner told him to be patient, but this snake was different, he thought. He approached the couch cautiously, only to find a bare floor and a couple forgotten toys underneath. He was surprised when he walked back to the kitchen to see the snake resting in its cage, motionless, with a large object protruding from his lengthy body.

Even though he anticipated this, the man was surprised. He ran back to his room to wake his unsuspecting wife. He yelled her name, but she didn’t budge. He decided to let her sleep; she had a long day of work ahead of her. Her alarm clock would be sounding any minute now anyway.

He looked behind the couch for signs of anything that maybe once was.


The Snake and the Rat — a story (part one)

The snake and the rat

Look at the man. He looks tired, as if he’s slept with one eye open for far too long. No matter how long he presses his high-end dress clothes, they still look wrinkled. He’s wrinkled. His work’s suffering. Drugs, maybe? No, but he has a problem — more precisely, a rat problem.

He doesn’t know if it’s one, two or five rats, but he’s seen at least one. Over and over. From what bird’s eye views he’s had, the rat looks about nine inches long. The rat’s thick, dark brown fur resembles berber carpet from afar. It moves quickly, and the rat’s long, hairless tail is the best indication the man’s dealing with a rodent instead of a cat. It’s fat ... Really fat. And it’s eyes glisten, even in the dark of night.

He has dreams about the rat. Visions of the rat nibbling on his wife’s delectable cheesecake and leaving the house slipshod with various piles of droppings fill his mind at night, instead of his normal dreams fantasizing about his favorite movie star or about playing for the Yankees. The rat has become an obsession — one of detestation and embarrassment.

The man’s also scared. He has two children — one infant approaching his first birthday and a 6-year-old girl. Beautiful kids, they really are. He worries what might happen if the rat sneaks into their room. What if it already has? Rats can have rabies, right? Scary. But the man knows his outgoing little girl would tell him if she made such a curious find.

The man’s had enough. He decides to do something about it. The light bulb in his mind ignites. He’s found just the remedy for this problem.

He called an extermination service and receives little hope. He enters the local pet store, curious to what he might find. The owner of the pet store greets him as he passes the guinea pigs. “Can I help you, sir?” said the noticeably aged man, wearing a vibrant yellow polo shirt and shiny white shoes. The owner has a fluffy salt-and-pepper beard that seamlessly makes its way from his cheeks to his neck on his pudgy face. His voice scratches the man’s ears like a cat’s tongue across a cotton ball.

“I have a problem,” said the man. “I have at least one rat in my house that I can’t get rid of. Can you help?”

“Ah-hah,” said the owner. He seemed excited, like he’d been waiting for the man all his life. Chuckling, he wobbled over to the other side of the store and nearly grazed the man with his shoulder as he passed him.

“A snake?” queried the man, almost hoping the owner was jesting.

“Tried and true method for eliminating rats,” said the owner as-a-matter-of-factly. The man looked puzzled.

“Are they safe? I have children, you know.”

“Of course, of course,” said the owner. “The snake is harmless. All you must do is let him out of his cage before you go to bed and place him back in before you go to work. Your little rat problem will be eradicated.”

The man surveyed the snake. No snakes look harmless, but he’s never had a problem with them. In fact, he had a pet snake in college. He took the snake out of his cage and caressed its cold, black skin. The snake lay there helpless, reveling in the attention it was receiving.

The man had found his match.

Part two coming soon.


Patriotism sucks

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I was kinda in a bad mood this morning, so just like I do every time I'm not in a good mood, I listen to Bill Hicks. No matter how mad I am, I can't help but laugh. One reason I like listening to him so much is because I agree with the majority of things he says. It's also amazing to me how things he said 10-12 years ago are still extremely relative today.

One of my favorite tracks on his CD "Rant in E-Minor" is the one about patriotism. He suggests changing the face of our flag, replacing the stars and stripes with pictures of our parents fucking. Now if that wouldn't make people cringe when saying the Pledge of Allegiance, I don't know what would.

Personally (concurring with Bill Hicks), I hate patriotism. To me it's another form of religion and another way to judge people. My question is this: How can anyone love our country right now? Honestly.

I hate how the goddamn government reiterates every time they can that the Army is fighting for our country and our freedom. Bullshit. I also hate how protesting the war will draw remarks such as, "How can you turn your back on your country and our soldiers when they're fighting for you?" or "You're a fucking traitor."

Fighting for me? Pshhh... Traitor? OK numbnuts, this isn't the 18th century. Just because I don't pitch a tent in my pants when the flag is raised, I'm a fucking traitor? Well, then I guess you should prepare to hang, draw and quarter me.

I think patriotism, to an extent, is healthy. I sincerely want to love my country. But I'd be a fucking liar if I said I did. Sometimes I fake it because, really, I don't feel like engaging in a deep conversation every minute of every day.

Then again, maybe I'm looking at our country the wrong way. Should I look at it like I look at my brother, the fuck up? No matter how many times he gets drunk and wants to fight me, or yell at his kids, or start shit with my dad, I still love him. He tries to do right. Then, of course, numerous times he knows what he's doing is wrong and he does it with a smile on his face.

I don't know, but I'm tired of arguing with myself.


Gay gay gay gay

To: Spongebob
From: Cartman
Date: Tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I was reading my buddy Lindsay’s blog (you should read it, she’s a bright little ray of sunshine) and she brought up a great point. Is America done being gay, yet? I mean damn.

I didn’t watch the Golden Globes last night because, well, that would’ve went against everything for which I stand — plus I can’t stand to sit there while my girlfriend criticizes every actress’s outfit. However, I did read the list of winners; therefore, I can stay up to date on the goings-on of that shithole otherwise known as Hollywood.

First things first, know that I have nothing against homosexuals (I refuse to refer to them as “gays”). Even though it grosses me the fuck out, true love is true love is true love, whether it be man, woman or beast.

With that said, look at this list of winners from last night and tell me you don’t see a pattern:
• Best Motion Picture — Brokeback Mountain. The “groundbreaking” movie about two cowboys who fall in love with each other got a few awards.
• Best Performance by an Actress in a Motion Picture — Felicity Huffman in Transamerica. Hmm... Fuckin’ tranny! Ha! (Sorry, that’s the best I could do.)
• Best Performance by an Actor in a Motion Picture — Phillip Seymour Hoffman in Capote. Imagine that. Hoffman wins for portraying Truman Capote — a homosexual/pedophile/fucking weirdo.

Brokeback Mountain also garnered the awards for Best Director, Best Screenplay and Best Original Song. Excuse me, Hollywood. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s sooo gay to be gay right now.

So this queer cowboy movie is supposed to be groundbreaking, eh? So sorry to rain on your gay parade, but it’s not. Two guys making out in a scene of Gone with the Wind would’ve been groundbreaking. Queen Latifah taking it doggy style from a horse in Beautyshop would’ve been groundbreaking — and fucking gross. But you get my point, right?

Let’s explore this term “groundbreaking.” Mmmk... As in breaking new ground for something that’s never been seen before — or at least a compelling new version of something we already have. If you’re talking excitement from McDonald’s breaking new ground, I understand. But when I think of groundbreaking, I’m thinking that’s like an IKEA being built in Little Rock — farcical.

You had your spotlight, Gay America. Now, I think Hollywood should do a remake of Beauty and the Beast — “Harriet and the Horse” or “Gary and the Goat.” Sound interesting? I think so.


I'm over it

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well, it ‘s 4:20 right now (when I started writing), so I decided to get over my little tantrum. And I’m NOT going to talk about Bush.

Something happened to me last night that really chapped my ass. OK, so as you all should know, I’m only 20 years old. Moreover, I loooooove to drink. I have a favorite bar that I go to — all the time. Most of the waitresses that work there know that I’m not 21. They don’t care. There are two people, I guess, that don’t know I’m under 21: The owner and the waitress that was waiting on me last night.

Also, something you should know, I work at a bar two blocks away from my favorite spot. Everyone there knows I’m not 21. They all know that I drink at my bar all the time and have all agreed that if they see me there, it’s no biggie.

OK, insert stupid butt-slut into the story now. ... This lethargic, insecure, pitiful excuse for a piece of shit waitress, Kim, sees me at the bar. See, Kim and I have our little spats from time to time, like all cooks and waitresses do. But this fuckin inebriated whore crossed the goddamn line.

Her drunken ass stumbles up to my table, where I’m talking to this beautiful waitress (and we were actually having a decent conversation), and shouts, “Hey, hey, HE’S not 21!” Pointing her finger straight at me, she repeats until the waitress stops and acknowledges that she even spoke.

The dumbfounded waitress didn’t believe and looked at me, half-smiling, and said, “Yeah, right. She’s lying ... isn’t she?” Well, that’s the gist of the story. I got to finish my drinks, the waitress got over it, and I told Kim to go off herself at her table.

This is what I don’t understand. What would you get out of telling someone something like that? Immediately, you are branded an asshole by everyone who hears about it. The same thing happened to me about a year ago, but luckily I had a fake ID on me. But, I want to know, who are you helping when you do shit like that?

There are too many people in the world like that bitch, Kim. Don’t be mad at me because you’re life is a fucking bulging ball of mediocrity. Fuck you. Have a nice day. : )

Another day, another disgrace

Sorry, guys. I just can't find it in myself to write anything today. When will our country stop killing innocent peopel?



To: Momma
From: Daddy
Date: Down Yonder
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I don't know if it was what I drank last night — a couple liquid cocaines and some beer, but I feel fucking weird today. While on my way home at 7:00 this morning, I caught the sunrise over the river as I crossed Broadway bridge. We had some pretty bad storms last night and the clouds were leaving just in time for dawn. I actually caught myself thinking, "Wow, this is beautiful. I wish I had a camera."

Ya know what I've come to realize, though? (Caution: I'm getting off the subject.) Most of the time we end up saying, "Damn, I wish I had a camera," it's usually best that we didn't — for myriad reasons. I say during different occasions. The situation may be similar to this morning, where I see something beautiful that I want to show everyone. Then, of course, I may have slept with a beautiful girl and need a picture to prove to my friends. (Then, of course, that proves that I'm a pig.)

But cameras can't always say what we were feeling. Oftentimes, they can, but not always. Plus, not having a camera gives way to great storytelling and bullshitting — an area in which I excel tremendously.

OK, so anyway. Yeah, I feel fucking weird today. I almost feel ... I guess, high. I can't help but smile — and it's kinda freakin' me out. So bear with me.

I think I'm happy because one of the girls I work with is leaving. To give you a little insight as to what I think of this girl, I'll re-enact a conversation I had with my new editor.

Ass Pirate Editor: "So, what exactly is it that everybody, and especially you, Spencer, doesn't like about [Freaky Bitch Murder]?"

Me: "Well, [Ass Pirate Editor], it's hard to say I dislike her as a person because, as you know, she's extremely nice. But, it's what I dislike about her... Let me put it this way: She is everything that's wrong with our society — all balled up into one shitball of a person."

Ass Pirate Editor: "Oh. I didn't know you felt that strongly about her."

She's a small-town girl. She's psycho-religious. She, honest to god, wants 10 — ten — fucking kids. Pro-life. Close-minded. Shallow. You name it.

So yeah, I guess it's nice to get her out of the office. Good riddance.



A little quirk of mine ...

To: The Pub-lick
From: Big Brother
Date: Two day before the day after tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I have an extremely bad, hmm, I guess you could call it an idiosyncrasy. It exposed itself when news surfaced of Bush undermining the FISA act, therefore allowing the CIA to spy on American citizens.

My little eccentricity is this: I tend to not read or listen to news stories that could possibly have a huge effect on society — call it my attempts to sweep them under the rug. I want to believe that it’s not happening. I want to think somebody’s just fucking with me.

But eventually, these stories will hit me like an uppercut from Mike Tyson. Bam! What the fuck? This really is happening. It is legal now for my government to tap my phone and read my e-mails without iniquity or provocation.

“Eavesdropping,” they like to call it.

Was I really reading this headline? “Bush: Eavesdropping helps save U.S. lives.” Are you fucking kidding me? The shocking news, to me at least, is that this isn’t new. The government has been doing this since October 2001.

And Bush, being the piece of shit that he is, uses scare tactics, yet again, to justify his actions. Instead of trying to fully explain himself and our government, or maybe even give a few detailed examples of how this could be integral to our safety, Bush cops an attitude with America.

According to the story, “Often appearing angry in an eight-minute address [eight fucking minutes?!], the president made clear he has no intention of halting his authorizations of the monitoring activities and said public disclosure of the program by the news media had endangered Americans.”

Go ahead, Dubya. I thought you might forget to mention 9/11. I was wrong. “The activities I have authorized make it more likely that killers like these 9/11 hijackers will be identified and located in time,” Bush said. “And the activities conducted under this authorization have helped detect and prevent possible terrorist attacks in the United States and abroad.”

Oh, really? Any examples? No. He hardly had any time in his eight-minute address.

Nevertheless, it’s time to look at the big picture. Bush broke the law. Let that sink in for a minute. ... Yes, he broke the law. But he doesn’t believe so. “The American people expect me to do everything in my power under our laws and Constitution to protect them and their civil liberties,” Bush said.

“And that is exactly what I will continue to do, so long as I’m the president of the United States.”

The funny thing is, Dubya, that you don’t have the authority to do that. A professor of constitutional law at Georgetown University Law Center said Bush was “taking a hugely expansive interpretation of the Constitution and the president’s powers under the Constitution.” In other words, she was saying, “Hey, he can’t do that.”

All hail King George Jr. It’s funny the way he puts it. He said the program is employed only to intercept the international communications of people inside the U.S. who have been determined to have “a clear link” to al-Qaida or related terrorist organizations.

Then, Mr. President, why would there be any problem getting approval from the court to “eavesdrop” if someone had “a clear link” to a terrorist organization? There wouldn’t be a problem. It’s all bullshit.

I’m sick of this administration manipulating laws and even American minds at the expense of our guaranteed freedoms. I’m also sick of Americans thinking we can’t do anything about it.

My favorite part of the whole news story? Bush saying the news media acted improperly and illegally when they disclosed the story in the New York Times.

Yeah, shame on you media. What America doesn’t know isn’t going to hurt it.


Gayest Joke of the Day, part 2

Gayest joke of the day question: What do you call two Mexicans playing basketball?

Gayest answer: Juan-on-Juan.

ha. ha. fucking ha.

Stop clapping ... damn

To: Bitches and Pricks
From: Daddy
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I'm happy to announce to you, yes YOU, that I, Spencer Campbell, have been selected as an intern for the Oxford American Magazine. Fucking awesome.

I'll be leaving the Democrat. But I should be able to continue my blog over there. If not, I'll probably have to go to the library a couple days a week or something. We'll see.

If you haven't ever heard of the Oxford American, check it out.

I had some help getting it from Girl Arkansas. If you haven't ever checked out her blog, you should. It's fucking hilarious.

I'm trying to get one of my friends that's a bad ass graphic designer to do some work on this blog. I'm getting kinda sick of blue.

Anyway, I'm out for now. Check out this really cool band Charlie saw while vacationing in the south of France: Metallic Banana.


I hate new bosses

To: The Office
From: Your Goddamn Master
Date: Evermore
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

As you've probably come to know, I hate — well, — pretty much everything. But I embrace this dark part of my personality. I cuddle it. Feed it soy milk. (I used to breast feed it, but that fucker has some sharp teeth.) In other words, I've come to terms with the chip, or should I say "fucking boulder," on my shoulder. Hey, that has a nice ring to it: Fucking boulder on my shoulder. Ha!

Every waking day, I find something new to hate. For instance, on Saturday I came to the conclusion that I will never, ever, again buy those clear lighters from the E-Z Mart in Stifft's Station. They were made and distributed by Lucifer himself and are about as useful as a deaf, blind and dumb tour guide.

Today, I realized that I hate new bosses. Not new bosses as in, say, a job I just started. I'm talking about a cool boss leaving and a new jackfuck ass pirate taking his place. I've been pretty blessed throughout my young life with cool fucking bosses.

When I say "cool" bosses, I don't mean the ones that try to be my best friend and end up jeopardizing their authoritative tilt on the administrative scale. No, I mean the firm-but-fair boss that I can get high or drunk with after work. The one that will tell me to straighten up or, if need be, chew my ass out for something on which I fucked up.

Well that boss is long gone. And the new boss? you might ask. Deep breath, Spencer. OK.

Firstly, picture Johnny Cash meets Matthew Broderick. There's just something not fucking write about that, is there? My new boss, whom I will refer to as AP (ass pirate), wears all black, all the time. Sounds cool, right? Wrong. Despite wearing all black, he's gayed up like my 7-year-old niece's lunch box.

Ya know, I feel bad. I’m usually not like this. I usually like someone until they give me a reason not to. But not in this case. I just don’t like this motherfucker. At all. He has one of those smug, "I went to a private Christian college so I think I'm smarter than you" looks on his face. He was home-schooled throughout his childhood and into high school, which explained a lot to me. However, being home-schooled doesn't give you the OK to be a goddamn jackass.

Charlie and I were sitting in our office the other day and we realized something. It feels like I'm stuck at one of those parties I promised one of my dorky friends I'd go to. Ya know, just one of those places you show up just because you promised you would and then you go on to a real party or club or whatever. "Eeeeeevery day," said Charlie. Every fucking day we are stuck in that situation. Pity us, please.

Out of the 5 people we work with, two were home-schooled and both went to John Brown University in Siloam Springs, and one girl grew up in Greers Ferry (population around 500) and went to Ouachita Baptist University. Hold on. Let me scrape the throw-up taste off my tongue.

Before I know it, I'm gonna be forced to look at myself in the mirror with tears in my eyes, saying, "I am NOT a bad person!" sniff sniff. Ah, fuck that.

I’m tired of writing. Check out this fucking hilarious Web site: Steve Don’t Eat It.


On the miners that passed away ...

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

As if Americans needed another example of the utter incompetence on display by corporate heads and our government: Ladies and gentlemen, Exhibit A — Tallmansville, West Virginia.

As improbable as it may sound, I know how the families of the fallen miners actually feel, but it was sort of the other way around. Let me explain:

In 2002 my girlfriend, Amber, was woken by a phone call from her shaken mother. Amber could barely understand her mom, and just standing next to her, I could hear her quivering voice and slight squeals.

The police had just contacted her mom and told her that her son, Amber’s brother Jason — whom my brother was best friends with, was found dead. He was driving his father’s Mazda Miata on a curvy road in the outskirts of a suburb of Little Rock and lost control at approximately 110 mph.

Amber’s mom and dad were about to leave to go identify the body. The police had to trace the license plate to Amber’s house because the body was badly marred and no wallet with identification was found.

Meanwhile, my brother and I set out on a trip I’ll never forget. We went to the house where Justin was living with two other roommates — all of whom had been friends since childhood. I didn’t know what to say to my brother, and to say I was regretting this trip is a gross understatement.

We arrived at the apartment, and Chad answered the door. It was obvious they had experienced a long night. There was still cocaine residue on the coffee table. Empty vodka bottles were strewn across the room. Someone was passed out on the couch, fully clothed, with shoes on and everything.

My brother, with a look on his face that I’ll never forget, simply said, “We need to talk. Outside.” Chad took it pretty well, but he wanted to go and wake up Chris, the other roommate, and let him know.

We let Chad go by himself. He was closer to Chris than he was to Justin. Justin was closer to Chris than he was to Chad. Then I heard the weirdest shriek/scream/”what the fuck” sound in my life.

My brother and I ran in the room to find Justin wiping the sleep from his eyes asking what the fuck our problem was.

... To make a long story short, the police assumed it was Justin who was driving the car and immediately called his parents without checking, well, anything. The cop that made the initial call didn’t call back to say he fucked up. A desk cop that never leaves the office was forced to call a mother and tell her that her son was NOT dead; instead his best friend is dead.

I know that these instances are sticky. Shit happens. To a certain extent. It’s not like no one did nothing wrong. At least one person fucked up, got excited and told someone that the miners were alive. And as angry as people — me included — may be, it doesn’t do any good to belittle that person any more.

Think about going to sleep every night knowing that you’ve cause the worst grief that 12 families have ever experienced. Think of how many people were affected by this shit. No words you could say to the person who “miscommunicated” could ever hurt him or her as much as they are already.

That one instance with Justin and Chris sent ripples throughout that small suburb, with everyone questioning the police department’s capabilities and some even demanding the expulsion of a handful of officers.

In no way is this forgivable or forgettable. But grieve, and try your best to get on with your life. It should never give anyone pleasure to kick a man while he’s down.


Top Ten Lists ... A little late

To: Unsuspecting reader
From: Suspecting writer
Date: Shush!
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well I guess I need to do that whole Ten Things I Liked/Hated About 2005 bullshit because, well, everyone else is doing it. I’m usually totally against them, but it seems as though people are thoroughly interested in these lists.

Here goes...

Top Ten Things I Liked About 2005:

10. OK, I’m already going blank. That’s a bad sign. Maybe it should’ve been Top Five. Anyway, I guess I could say I’m happy with my love life over the last year. See, I’m complicated. I — being the pig that I am — like having sex, a lot. But I like having a girlfriend.

This year I was pretty good with her. I’ve been with this girl on and off for about four years — that’s a long fucking time. I didn’t cheat on her this year. I just did the more immature break-up-before-you-cheat shit. I know it’s shitty, and I really don’t wanna hear about it from any of you. Next subject, goddamn.

9. I liked my work life the last year. We’ve had a bunch of ups and downs but I got three raises and more responsibilities thrown at me. Although it’s probably not easy to tell, I’m a fucking workaholic. I work a little too much, but I’m making good money.

8. I liked the weather in 2005. Every day people have been bitching about how it feels out-of-season outside. Shut the fuck up. Who cares? Ya know, I really don’t give a fuck when I can wear shorts in December. I know it hasn’t rained much, either, but that’s cool with me. I fucking hate rain. Notwithstanding, I know farmers — and the state as a whole — are losing money, but I don’t care. I mean I do, but... ah, nevermind.

7. I liked the movies in 2005. See, I’m different. I like it when movies are supposed to be fucking HUGE and they just flop. It makes me laugh. hehe. ...See?

6. I liked my purchase of headphones for my computer at work. I love being able to act like I’m listening to music when people are talking. I love being able to switch the music to my mood. And I absolutely love it when my bible-banger boss walks in my office and I can take the headphones out of my computer and blast Pantera or Ministry.

5. C

4. C

3. C

2. C

1. I liked discovering the wide world of blogging. I started a blog about two years ago, but I was unsure how to go about it. Every time I tried to write something, it felt like I was trying to come up with a speech in front of an empty auditorium.

I’ve discovered the secret, though. You don’t give a fuck who’s reading. You just write, and let it pour. Make it as short or as long as you want. If it’s good, people will read it. If it’s bad, people will read it and then tell you how bad it is. And essentially, let everything off your fucking chest. And cuss, cuss a lot.

Ten Things I [Fucking] Hated About 2005

10. I hated coverage of Hurricane Katrina. I totally sympathize for the millions of people affected by that god-awful storm. But in America’s time of need, the last fucking thing we need is Geraldo Rivera putting on a show, acting like he actually gives a fuck. I wanted to choke the shit out of him when I saw that bullshit.

9. I hated the cars that were introduced. OK, GM and Ford... You’re getting a little out of hand. Some of these new cars are fucking retarded — in regards to looks and price. Go back to the goddamn drawing board.

8. I hated George Goddamn W. Bush. I’ll always hate him, but I think in 2005, I hated him the most. He seems to have that smug, “Get used to it, bitches, because I’m here for another three years” look on his face. Everything his opponents said about him ended up being true, and NOW his approval ratings are down. God, people are fucking stupid.

I could go on forever. But I won’t.

7. I hated new music. There are no good bands that came out last year. Did The Killers come out in 2005? If so, then they are the exception to my hate. I’m so tired of the bullshit bands coming out today. Ugh.

6. I hated VH1. Ya know, I didn’t mind the I Love the 80s shit. Kinda cool, kinda funny. But for fuck sake, talk about overkill. Three times. Three fucking times you talk about shit you loved in the 80s. And then I Love the 90s? What the fuck. That was six years ago. I’ll piss on six years. That ain’t shit.

5. C

4. C

3. C

2. C (I’m trying to make this short.)

1. I hated, and still hate, the Iraq war. The War on Terror, eh? Fuck the war on terror and fuck you if you support it. There is no threat to our country. That is smoke being blown up our ass. That’s like saying let’s start a war on pregnancy. It’s always gonna be there. We can take measures to prevent it, but no matter what you do, who you blow up, whatever — it’s still gonna happen.

I truly feel for the soldiers and their families. Ya know why? Because they’re dying for nothing. Yeah, I said it. They are being brainwashed to think that they are fighting for our “freedom.” How fucking vague is that? Our freedom. They’re fighting another country’s war. And for what? Our freedom. If my freedom costs the lives of over 2,000 soldiers, you can fucking have it. I don’t want that burden on my shoulders.

Any time I think the public is close to realizing how we’re getting bent over every day, Bush gives one of those speeches. Ya know, where he basically threatens everyone, literally knowing that millions of people are actually paying attention to his bullshit. “Your freedom is at risk,” he’ll say. No. No, it’s not. And if it is, it’s your fucking fault. It’s also your fault that my goddamn cousin never got to see his son. How the hell do you sleep at night?

... Whew. Sorry for getting a little serious. Now ya know what bugs me. : )

Ahh... Long time, no see

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Well, folks. My vacationing days are over. I had to fucking work on New Year's, and yes, it sucked. I got to make fun of all the drunk asses ringing in the New Year. I also saw some of the ass eaters I went to high school with. God I hate those motherfuckers. I think I started something on Scientology before I left... so here I go.

Ahhh. I remember now. I was feeling a little woozy from the pain meds. (Woozy? What the fuck? Where did that word come from?) Well I'm not in near as good of a mood today. I'm not listening to "Dazed and Confused," rather I'm listening to "Hooker with a Penis" by Tool. Never heard of it? Here's the chorus, to give you a little clue as to how I'm feeling today:

"All you know about me is what I've sold you, dumb fuck. I sold out long before you ever even heard my name. I sold my soul to make a record, dip shit, and then you bought one. ... Well, I've got some advice for you, little buddy. Before you point your finger, you should know that I'm the man. And if I'm the fucking man and your the man, as well, then you can point that fucking finger up your ass."

Isn't that sweet?

Anyway, so about this ass pirate L. Ron Hubbard and his queer ass religion. Ass ass ass, yeah I say "ass" a lot. I remember hearing about Scientology for the first time. It was when news surfaced about Tom Cruise choosing the Scientology route, therefore inadvertently announcing his idiocy. I thought to myself, "Hmm... What is this Scientology shit? It must be cool if TOM CRUISE believes it. And Beck. And John Travolta, too!" Sorry about the exclamation point (and the all-caps).

So I went online to check it out. And yes, I fell into the trap. I took the "Free Personality Test!" (Goddammit, I swear, no more exclamation points are coming.) South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone hit the nail on the head (sorry for the lack of of a better phrase) when they portrayed the Scientologist ass pirate asking Stan those fucking-Duh! questions.

"So, Mr. Blah-blah, do you ever feel like there's something you'd like to change about yourself?" Well, no fucking shit. Ya know, now that I think about it, this L. Ron guy wasn't that stupid. I wish I would've thought about asking people demeaning questions, making people question their own self-worth and self-confidence, therefore making them feel alienated and ostracized by society. In their minutes of helplessness, I'll offer them a new religion as solace. Hell yeah.

It'd almost be kinda cool if Scientology was thought up by L. Ron after numerous LSD-induced hallucinations. It's just gay that he thought it up on his own. I'll read any writing that people thought up when their Third Eye was wide fucking open (see, "The Doors of Perception" by Aldous Huxley), but L. Ron Hubbard was a goddamn science fiction writer. Wait, something didn't sound right about that. Science... Fiction... Yeah that's it: Fiction, bitches. Goddammit.

OK, I'm done for now. To quote Ice Cube on The Predator:

"Ya know I'm out, but I'll be back."