Your children are NOT special

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

Goddamn I hate kids. All of 'em. They stink, they're dirty, and they make my life a living hell. With that said, I had another dream last night. It went a little something like this:

I open my eyes and I'm in line at the grocery store. In front of me is God, and he's taking forever (I'm still trying to figure out why he was buying Vagisil and cranberry pills). I could feel the stares from the two people behind me, so I turned my head and acted like I was looking at magazines to get a peripheral look at them. Holy shit! It was George Carlin directly behind me, and Pat Robertson, who was reading the latest issue of Us magazine.

I hear Patty (as I like to call him) murmuring, "Thank the Lord, Jesus Christ, Britney finally broke it off with Kevin. Let us pray." He squinted his eyes, looking more like he was trying to figure out the square root of 4,063 than trying to contact God.

"You're a fucking idiot," said George.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm talking to God right now. If you don't watch your mouth, I'll damn you to hell and eat your wife and kids," Patty snapped.

God got over the embarrassment of his apparent yeast infection, turned around, and seemed to enlarge to the size of Goliath, with fiery eyes and diamonds for teeth. "I command thou to cease this nonsense," He roared. "Bitches."

I had to stop George from bull-rushing God. His face was blood red, and I probably could've seen steam fuming from his head had I looked closer. He's one of those extremely angry atheists. (I can understand his contempt with people like Patty and, of course, God himself, but one thing I've learned from being an atheist/agnostic is that the more severe anger you display, the worse it is for you. I usually tell people, I think it's cool that you're religious, or at least I can accept it. Over 85 percent of Americans are. When you show that you're upset over their beliefs, all they'll do is tell you that you need Jesus (or religion, in general) in your life. That's the point I reach when I feel the need to slap someone. Believe it or not, there are intelligent Christians that simply have chosen to believe in a superior being but also understand why others may not concur, and they accept it and decline to badger you with their ideas.)

"But he was being mean," pouted Patty, on the verge of tears. "Can't you do something, like, maybe, make a tornado ravage his hometown and kill his wife and family. That would teach George a lesson not to mess with You."

God replied, "Goddammit, Pat. You see, you're the posterchild of exactly what not to be for the Christian faith. You're judgmental, and you hold everyone in the world to implausible standards that you, yourself, fail to uphold. You can't expect me to act like your big brother, beating up people because they called you names, or serve as your version of karma to inflict pain and suffering on people unwilling to succumb to your orders and your interpretation of what the status quo should be."

"Damn. I must say I'm surprised," George said. "I guess it's just your followers I can't stand. Is that beer I see in your basket?"

"Who says I can't get fucked up every now and then, George?" God said, sounding a little perturbed. "You're fixated on the stereotype of the God-fearing American, and you, in turn, end up portraying the run-of-the-mill atheist, pissed off at the world, jealous that those Christians are happy all the time, yet happy because you think you're smarter than them.

"You do realize, George, that, in the same way I made beautiful flowers and allowed the invention of automobiles, I also let man find a beautiful plant called marijuana and invent beer and LSD and so forth. ... You humans kill me. Shit."

Coincidentally, it just so happened that I had ridden to the grocery store in a car, smoked a joint on the way, drank a 40 oz. of Old English and swallowed a five strip of acid before I came in. God sounds like my kinda guy.

... The moral of the story/dream is this: I have fucked up made-up dreams; AND God, Allah, Krishna, Jesus, Mohammad—they're only what you make them to be. That's why I don't buy it. According to scriptures from the past and the preachings of today, Christianity's God seemed like he went through that phrase after you break up with someone special. First, he was nice and let everyone do as they please and live as long as they wanted (the phase where you act like nothing's wrong). Then, all hell broke loose—floods, plagues, dead babies, you know, bad shit (the phase where you just fucking snap and love to see other people suffer). Now, he's to the point to where he just doesn't give a fuck. But then he does, right? Free will? ... With a plan, I guess?

The ulterior moral could be that it's all a crock of shit. Yeah, that's what I'm sticking with.

I'm thinking about some weird shit right now. I'm gonna take a nap.


Daddy's back... and this is the last time I'll refer to myself as "Daddy" ... so shut up

Don't you wanna hang with these guys and play Twister?
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, I'm done crying like a little bitch. I'm ready to rant about, well, pretty much nothing. Sound good. Great. Bitch.

What's everyone been up to? Shit, it feels like I haven't posted in a fucking year.

I kinda have a funny instance that happened last Thursday. OK... So we're at the house of my friend who passed away, and we're all sitting in his room watching the Arkansas-Alabama basketball game. To be honest, I was drunk. Margaritas, a martini, pitchers of beer. I was drunk, OK? The mother of this guy I beat the shit out of in high school comes into the room, thankfully not remembering me, and lectures all of us:

"Listen guys, I know you're hurting right now. Believe me, I know. But you can't use pot and drugs and alcohol to get through this. It just breaks my heart that you guys would think about doing that. Look at yourselves. Goddamn."

I look around the room. Chase is staring at the T.V. screen forcing his mouth to close, whereas to conceal his laughter. His eyes looked painted red. Clint is looking at me, scared, like this woman's gonna tell his mommy or something. Our friend Joe is standing behind the woman thrusting his pelvis at her and sticking out his tongue.

I tell her she doesn't have to worry about us doing that, all the while covering my mouth so not to reveal my horrible tequila-gin-beer breath. Then, I step backward and my left knee buckles. I fall. Hard. The room bursts into laughter and this "I am a woman of God" looks mad, then cracks a smile. We ended up smoking a bowl with her and talking about her gay husband, who's a cop.

Guess you had to be there.

Anybody check out MSB00's predictions for 2006? Seem dead on to me.

I'll post later.


Hit Me With It, Blanket. And Put Some Stank On It!

They may have gotten off to a rocky start, but somebody get Jacko one of those #1 Dad hats... 'cause he has definitly earned it!

In an attempt to give Blanket, Paris and Prince Michael II a normal childhood, Michael Jackson has moved them to the Middle East... far away from the American public that has belittled and ridiculed him, and his family, for way too long.

What has the King of Pop done to deserve all of this scrutiny? Showing kids a good time is wrong? Well, then someone pull the plug on Walt Disney's cryogenic chamber!

Let's face it, there's no way Blanket and the kiddies can expect to be accepted by other children in a society that frowns upon the complete masking of one's face. Believe me, I know. My mother made me wear a paper bag until I was 28. "They're all going to laugh at you," she'd scream, chaining me up in the basement.

So he's surrounded them with the only people cool with that, Muslims! Actually quite brilliant. Still, they only cover up their women. Blanket, get ready for some gay Arab jokes down the line.

But that's okay. If I know Blanket like I think I do, hardly, he'll take all those years of harassment and channel it into his art. One day he's going to blow the world away with the Sunwalk. Can you imagine? That's what the Jacksons do — revolutionize dance. The Jackson 5 perfected the line dance, Michael gave us the Moonwalk (which nobody can do, still.. a true testament to its complexity), Janet gave junior high drill-squads that oriental looking move from the "If" video... and Blanket will one day shock us with his installment.

I can't wait. ...Cha'mon!


Here goes

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

It's amazing how quickly, and drastically, life changes — however cliche that may sound. At 7:14 a.m. yesterday, I was complaining about the alarm and wishing I could go back to hibernation. At 7:15, my girlfriend's phone rang. I ran outside to start her car, freezing my ass off in the seemingly sub-zero temperatures.

By 7:16, I was hit with the news that one of my best friends from high school had passed away in his sleep. I told my girlfriend I didn't want to hear it, and I went back to sleep, or tried, at least. "Spencer, Dustin died." It kept resonating through my head, and I didn't know how to make it stop.

I had to drive home in my Jeep, which is without a radio. I would've turned it off if I had one anyway. Somehow the silence was pleasantly unbearable. I looked to my right and saw Dustin, laughing uncontrollably, mouthing out the words to his favorite rap song. Hell, he was even dancing like a maniac, singing "I don't fight, I don't argue/I just hit that bitch with a bottle." It's funny. I begin laughing, and then I stop myself. It's not real. It's not funny. I immediately call people I'm sure haven't heard the news yet. No one's answering their phones. It's before 8 a.m. on a Monday. What was I thinking?

I start getting inundated with phone calls from concerned friends. I inform the uninformed and solace the ones who knew. They try to do the same for me. They knew I was close to him. I was. He was like my older little brother. But I don't wanna hear it. I want to hear silence. Then, I want to hear Dustin's poor excuse for rapping/singing. Nah, I want silence.

I start revisiting the times we had together. Damn, I'm surprised he or I didn't die already. Too much coke. Too much ecstasy. Too many Vicodin. Too much vodka. But too much was just enough.

I begin to get angry. He wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to overdose and survive, then promise to never do drugs again. "It was his time to go," one friend from Fayetteville says. "Fuck you," I say. "It wasn't his time to go." I feel bad, but, then, I don't. It doesn't comfort me one bit for someone to say they're going to pray for me, or to tell me that it was part of God's plan. The audacity of these fucking people — however benevolent their intentions may be — amazes me.

Dustin's dead, I say. He's not "in a better place." He's not playing golf with Jesus. Why pad your emotions with something you don't wholeheartedly believe? It's a fucking cop-out. That's why. Life kicks you in the balls every now and then. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?

What you should do is remember him for the person he was, and nothing more. He was a good kid. He had more courage than anyone I've ever met. He had the mouth and alcohol-consumption capacity of a sailor. He was a motherfucker wasn't he? He could make anyone laugh. And, boy, don't talk about his mom.

Dustin, Dirty D, "Daddy" as he called himself, will be missed. But I will fucking lose it if one of these goddamn holier-than-thou ministers has an alter call at his funeral — like they have at other funerals I've attended.

That's all I gots ta say.

Sorry, guys

I had a friend pass away yesterday. I don't feel like sayin' much. I'll probably post later today.


I should've known

Sex tape Friday ... that sounds stupid.

Atheists 1 ... Christians negative-666
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Anybody hear about the Kid Rock/Scott Stapp sex tape? This is fucking awesome. I love seeing shitty musicians fail. I've always kinda liked Kid Rock, the guy, not the musician. He just reminds me of a lot of my friends and seems like he'd be a cool guy to get drunk with. Scott Stapp, though. He's an ass pirate. And it's even better that now he's officially a Christian rock guy.

Is that not the biggest oxymoron? Christian rock. Or Chrisitan industrial. Christian rap. Puuuhlease.

It's confession time. I actually paid the money to go see Creed when I was about 15. I know, that's super duper ass pirate-y of me, but hey, what can i say? I'm sorry? I still, to this day, defend my stance that I like their drummer (or former drummer) Scott Phillips. He's fuckin' bad. I never liked Scott Stapp, though. He reminded me of a pussy frat-boy-wanna-be that slaps his girlfriend and looks at kiddie porn. And I always thought he was ambiguously gay.

Read the story, it's fucking hilarious.The journalist has to point out in the story that Kid Rock and Stapp didn't engage in sexual acts with each other. He thinks he's gay, too.

I have a retarded joke: What's the difference between a crackhead and a crystal meth addict?

Answer: A crackhead will steal your shit and run. ... A meth addict will steal your shit and help you look for it.


I haven't seen this shit in years ...

I wanna be like Mike

All right, YAY! I'm gonna eat your fucking kids for lunch!
To: The Gov.
From: Your goddamn daddy
Date: 9 and a half years
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

All right. I feel like dog patch today. How are you? Really? Awesome. I'm still thinking about what it would be like to shoot a 78-year-old man. In the FACE. Dick, how do you sleep at night? Fat fuck.

This morning before I headed on my 30-minute commute, I took the time to read a Mike Masterson (columnist for the Arkansas-Democrat Gazette) piece. I, honestly, wrote better columns as a freshman in high school. MSB00 and Girl Arkansas talk often about how simple his columns are, MSB00 even gave a do-it-yourself format for writing a Masterson column. He uses bullshit phrases like, "That, my friends, is true." First of all, you pudgy bitch, I'm not your fucking friend.

He's one of those fuckers that assumes everyone that's reading his column is a God-fearing American, succumbing to the pressures of living under a dictator and taking it in stride. Fuck him. Today, he talked about Gov. Mike Huckabee and his "official business" expenditures.

For those of you that don't live in Arkansas, we have a goddamn ass pirate for governor. Since he was first elected governor, he's taken nearly 750 trips in the state-funded airplane. The bullshit a bout it is that, by state law, he doesn't have to say where he's going or what he's doing, all he has to state is "official business." Even though, everyone in the state knows he's promoting his nasty fuckin' ass for president. Or promoting his book. Or giving a speech on health.

Am I the only one that thinks he looks like an alien that should've been in Men In Black? He looks so fucking unhealthy. And it pisses me off even more that he spends my goddamn tax dollars to take trips to Washington to rub elbows with George Bush and give $5 blow jobs to the Republican National Convention chairman.

Doesn't Huckabee remind you of one of those gay guys that likes to lay in a tub while other guys pee and shit on him? Me too.



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

Ah, yes. Or no, I mean. I guess I tried to cop-out of my blog entry today. Lindsey caught me (in the comment box). Maybe I'm the only one that thinks a story about irrepressible bowel movements equals hilarity. I'm sorry. I digress.

I just ran into a person from high school in the UCA parking lot. When people I knew fairly well see me, it's not just like, "Hey ... er ... dude!" I got out of my Jeep, and all I hear is, "SPENCER CAMPBELL!" When I hear that, it's either one of two things: 1) A long-lost fried; or 2) Someone that's been waiting to catch me by myself to kick my ass. Luckily, it was a girl's voice I heard today. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw who it was.

I'd known this girl since junior high. I wasn't attracted to her at all then because, frankly, I thought she tried too hard to be popular — a total turn-off. She was just one of those girls that I thought was meant to be cool, but not extremely popular. She's beautiful, with smarts to match, and she hung out with cool people who didn't give a fuck. Yet, she acted like she did, and sometimes alienated herself from some of her own best friends.

Anyway, I was genuinely pleased that I saw her today. I wanted to tell her that I didn't have a girlfriend. She doesn't have a boyfriend. I wanted to get her number. I'm pretty sure she'd have given it to me. But I pussed out, and, anyway, my girlfriend and I are getting along — right now, at least.

For every one of those awkward moments when you see someone you really didn't care for that much, there's that one person you are extremely glad to have run into. Maybe it's just me.

God, I sound like a fuckin' pussy. I'm gonna kick myself in the balls real quick until I throw up, then call a random person and cuss them out. Yeah, that'll get that testosterone running again.


The Chili Cook-off

To: Your Stomach
From: Your Ass
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Alright, I got this forwarded e-mail today. I usually hate forwarded mail, but this is fucking hilarious (to me). I hope you find it humorous. It hits a chord because we have chili cookoffs in Arkansas all the time. I can only imagine an experience like Frank's:

— Frank: "Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a chili
cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment and I
happened to be standing there at the judge's table asking for
directions to the Coors Light beer truck, when the call came in. I was
assured by the other two judges (native Texans) that the chili
wouldn't be all that spicy and, besides, they told me I could have
free beer during the tasting, so I accepted."

*Here are the scorecards from the event: Frank is Judge #3.

• Chili # 1 - Eddie's Maniac Monster Chili.

— Judge # 1 -- A little too heavy on the tomato. Amusing kick.

— Judge # 2 -- Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild.

— Judge # 3 -- (Frank) Holy hell! What the hell is this?! You
could remove dried paint from your driveway with this shit. Took me two beers to put
out the flames. I hope that's the worst one. These Texans are fuckin' crazy.

• Chili # 2 - Austin's Afterburner Chili.

— Judge # 1 -- Smoky, with a hint of pork. Slight jalapeno tang.

— Judge # 2 -- Exciting BBQ flavor; needs more peppers to be taken seriously.

— Judge # 3 -- Keep this out of the reach of children, for Christ's fucking sake. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.

• Chili # 3 - Ronny's Famous Burn Down the Barn Chili.

— Judge # 1 -- Excellent firehouse chili. Great kick. Needs more beans.

— Judge # 2 -- A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of peppers.

— Judge # 3 -- Call the EPA. Right now, bitch! I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels like I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now. Get me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting shit-faced from all of the beer.

• Chili # 4 - Dave's Black Magic.

— Judge # 1 -- Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing.

— Judge # 2 -- Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for
fish, or other mild foods; not much of a chili.

— Judge # 3 -- I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it. Is it possible to burn out taste buds? Sally, the barmaid, was standing behind me with fresh refills. She weighs about a deuce and a half, but that woman is starting to look HOT...just like this nuclear waste I'm eating! Is chili an aphrodisiac?

• Chili # 5 - Lisa's Legal Lip Remover.

— Judge # 1 -- Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground,
adding considerable kick. Very impressive.

— Judge # 2 -- Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato. Must
admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement.

— Judge # 3 -- My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead, and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from the pitcher. I wonder if it looks like my lips are burning off because it sure in the fuck feels like it. Goddammit! It really ticked me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming. Screw those rednecks. What the fuck is wrong with you people?!

• Chili # 6 - Pam's Very Vegetarian Variety.

— Judge # 1 -- Thin, yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of
spices and peppers.

— Judge # 2 -- The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and
garlic. Superb.

— Judge # 3 -- My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulphuric flames. I shit on myself when I farted and I'm worried it will eat through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that Sally. Can't feel my lips anymore. I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone. Then I might eat it — it sure in the hell would taste better.

• Chili # 7 - Carla's Screaming Sensation Chili...

— Judge # 1 -- A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.

— Judge # 2 -- Ho-hum; tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chili peppers at the last moment. I should take note that I am worried about Judge # 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress, as he is cursing uncontrollably.

— Judge # 3 -- You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn't feel a thing. I've lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili, which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava to match my shirt. At least during the autopsy, they'll know what killed me: I've decided to stop breathing. It's too painful. Fuck it; I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I'll just suck it in through the goddamn 4-inch hole in my stomach.

• Chili # 8 - Karen's Toenail Curling Chili.

— Judge # 1 -- The perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili. Not too bold, but spicy enough to declare its existence.

— Judge # 2 -- This final entry is a good, balanced chili. Neither mild, nor hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge # 3 farted, passed out, fell over, and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself. Not sure if he's going to make it. No one wants to help him because he's covered in his own feces. Poor fella, wonder how he'd have reacted to really hot chili? Oh, shit. He's going into convulsions. Paramedics!


Shot ... in the FACE

Aaaaaaah! Run, motherfuckers, run. Dick! Put it down, you sonuvabitch!

To: The FACE
From: Dick N. Balls-Cheney
Date: Face, I tell you
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Richard, Dick, Balls, whatever your name is, what were you thinking? I admit, I can be a ruthless bastard sometimes, but, dear GOD, I don't shoot 78-year-old men in the FACE. In the fucking face?! Goddamn.

And you know what Dick Cheney did after he shot that guy ...

Dick: "Goddammit, why did you get in my fuckin' way? Sonuvabitch."

78-year-old man who got shot IN THE FACE: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Dick, put the fucking gun down. Put it down, you goddamn cum dumpster!"

Kiss-ass hunting friend: "Uh, sir, Mr. Dick Cheney, sir. He's a lawyer. Like, a good one. Like a multimillionaire from something other than Haliburton."

Dick: "Well, now he'll think twice before he plans on suing me. No one — and I mean no one, Bananno (? sounds like a gay, kiss-ass name) — fucks with the Dick. Bitch."

Kiss-ass hunting friend: "SIr, yes, sir!"

... In other news, I watched the Stephen Colbert Report last night. Some ass-pirate governor was on the show talking about liberal and conservative moderates. Ahhh blow me. You know, as much as I want to like Colbert's show, I really don't. It's just not that good. I'll watch his interviews, but that's about it. I like it when they talk to a U.S. Representative: "One down, 434 to go!"

What does everyone think about Chas? I hate him, but I think it's out of jealousy. I really wish my mom would've named me Chas. It's edgy. It's cool. It reminds me of Hugh Hefner in the 60s. Hugh's name should be Chas. Chas Hefner ... I like that. But, really, doesn't it scare the living shit out of you to know there are people just like Chas all over the United States? That just gives me the chills thinking about it.

Oh well, just let Dick go hunting with all the guys like Chas. Maybe he'll shoot them. In the goddamn FACE!


Dick Cheney, My Hero!

To: All
From: Chas
Date: Monday, Feb. 13, 2006
Subject: Forgotten Rules

Has the media gone completely mad over Dick Cheney's recent hunting mishap?

Sure, he didn't have a completed license and the amount of walking he was doing may have blown his knees out, forever, but come on... he's the VP!

Can you imagine what Teddy Roosevelt would have done to some punk ass reporter probing into one of his "accidental" misfires during the Spanish American War? Trust me, they happened. And they probably weren't accidents...

If some choad ever questioned the Bull Moose Party in front of Teddy, he'd string him up by the balls and skin him alive! That's the way things were done back then -- the good ol' days.

So why can't we still extend this common courtesy to today's elected officials? Let's face it, even though they're supposed to be held to the same standards as everyone else, they're not us... they're better!

We need those old, crusty white men deucing on golden toilets, banging their secretaries in the Bahamas and keeping the hegemony alive. Without them our way of life would be in total jeopardy, leaving the world to be run by lesser-thans.

True Americans wouldn't ask Cheney what he was thinking... they'd ask him if he needed more ammo!

Mr. Vice-President, come quail hunting with me in South Dakota. If it's human blood you crave, I've got all the Mennonites you can handle and over 2,000 acres on which to massacre them.


Library .... AAAAAAAAAAAH!

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

Not to sound like a complete jackass and dork, but I love going to the library. I mean, of course, I love the books, but that's not why I come here. You never know what to expect here. Will I see someone famous looking for a book they've written? Will I stumble upon an old girlfriend or friend from high school?

Essentially, though, I like staring at the transients. I don't know why, it's some weird fascination--similar to the one I have with midgets. I like hearing the stories they have. The other day, I had a guy come up to me and tell me he was starting a Christian-based Internet service and he wanted a $10 donation. And? That was it. What the fuck is a "service"? Anyway, I simply replied, "All my praise goes to Allah. Damn your Christian Internet service!"

I really thought he was gonna slap me. That's the look he gave me. It's OK, though, I sized him up and came to the conclusion that I could have kicked his ass, that's why I said that. But I do; I love transients. I like trying to determine what different substances joined together to create that beautiful malodor. (Hmmm... I'm guessing you spend a lot of time around a paper mill. No? You just shit yourself? Oh, umm... OK. Whatever tickles your pickle, man.)

Also I like talking to some of the people that work here. Some of them are just fucking weird. Not in a bad way, kinda like that cool friend you had that worshipped David Hassellhoff. Cool, but fucking weird. Then there are the people that just take themselves waaaaaaaaaaay too seriously and overcalculate their own intellect. They act like you're fucking retarded because you haven't read some underground author that only five people know about. I'll piss on you and your fucking author ... even if he's a good one.

There's people exactly like that when it comes to music, too. Don't treat me like I'm Hitler because I haven't heard of your favorite underground band. Let me borrow a fucking CD or something. Shit. It's like a club of snobby book-readers and music-listeners that don't want to let anyone else in.

OK, I'm rambling. Back to why I really came to the library. (I gotta get some work done.) Later.


People who hate people ... Come together

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

I've been looking at my StatCounter shit, and I've realized that a lot of people are starting to look at this page. Why? I'm not quite sure. I like being able to see where people are and who their Internet providers are, that way I can act like a stalker when I talk to them (not that I like being a stalker, but you know what I'm satyin').

I'm pretty impressed because most of the people that visit actually stay for a couple minutes. And the majority of people that visit aren't even from Arkansas. I got one that works for Google (I think) that visits pretty regularly. One from Mission Viejo, California -- the town with the bad ass high school football team every year. One from Denver. I got Lucy Lu from Wales. Bunch of people.

A lot of the people that visit often I've never even talked to. I'd like to, though, just so I know a little about the people visiting. So if I'm talkin about you, drop me a line 'cause I'm always bored at work, and I like meeting new people.

I know it may seem kinda weird that I'm posting here at 9:45 on a Friday night (and maybe it is), but we're waiting on the girls to get over here. My beer hasn't kicked in yet. Neither have the drugs I've taken. So I can simply sit here and wait. Plus I'm not used to being at a house that has a computer, so I like to take advantage of it.

OK, I'm done. Holler at 'cha later.


P.S. Isn't Chas a total douche?

Chas' Manifesto

To: The General Public
From: Chas
Date: Friday, Feb. 10, 2006; 10:05 a.m. CST
Subject: Me, myself and the American way of life...

Hello. My name is Chas. For those who may not be fully aware, Spencer has asked me to contribute to The Memo from time to time. I have accepted his gracious invitation for two reasons: To act as your guide toward the light of reason and as a pedestal for the acquisition of loftier things.

First, I would like to thank Spencer for allowing me this freedom on his public forum. It takes a real man to bring in outside opinions (especially ones differing from his own), and for that I commend him. Please understand that these are my opinions and he shouldn't be held accountable for my views - not matter how obvious they really are.

Next, I would like to bring you up to speed about who I am and what it is that makes me tick. I believe in God, the United States of America and all forms of hunting and fishing. For fun, I like to sit by the fireplace in my exceptionally cozy leather recliner, reading Corey Ford short stories and sipping on a well-aged scotch.

At other times, my friends and I can be found smoking cigars and drinking highballs at our favorite ultra-conservative bar and lounge, The Elephant. You've probably never heard of it. Even if you had, I doubt they'd let you in.

Tweed jackets, the Wall Street Journal and over-and-under shotguns are my passions in life. Without them, I see no reason for getting up in the morning and hopping out of my William Faulkner Collection king size bed... except, of course, for enlightening the world about the importance of conservativism and traditions.

Finally, I encourage anyone viewing my entries who either agrees or disagrees to comment. Open discussion is what makes this country so great. Thank you and may God bless us all.

I'm changing the looks today

I can't even read my own blog on this computer. It's a blown font. I'm gonna change my format to the same one on MSB00 and Girl Arkansas's page.

Armageddon ... and Chas (chaz)

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

Damn, I feel a lot better today. I think the only thing that could make me sick right now would be eating — rather, even looking — at a bowl of Ramen noodles right now. Am I the only one that thinks, Damn, I'd love some Ramen noodles right now, only to be let down by their unmistakably bland taste? They're okaaaaay if you put a little Cavender's Greek seasoning in them, but other than that, ewww!

Well, I hope everyone's preparing for the end of the world in Arkansas — or just three inches of snow. That shit drives me nucking futs. My brother worked at the Wal-Mart grocery store in Sherwood last year, and he said in a 24-hour span (before a winter storm hit), that grocery store sold over $100,000 worth of groceries. Yeah, Goddamn! is right. Think about it. Worst case scenario: You'll be stuck at home for a day, tops. Eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; it won't fucking kill you. If you get bored, just call me. I'll bring my Jeep to your house, tie up an inner tube to the back of it and get drunk and go for joy rides. Sound fun? Good. 'Cause it is.

I think that's another reason anybody north of the Mason-Dixon line would think we're fucking crazy, redneck, hillbilly jackfucks. As soon as the weatherman predicts sleet, freezing rain or snow flurries, people prepare for fucking armageddon.

Why don't they just do what I do? Go to the store, buy some beer, rent a couple movies, go pick up a little bit of weed and some honey buns and Twix candy bars, and take advantage of a day off from work. Right now I'm just listening to some Primus (fucking awesome), thinking about how stupid I'm gonna get later.

So what did everyone think of that Chas guy leaving all those hurtful remarks? Yeah, I hated him, too. But I think to add a little balance to this blog, I need voices like Chas. I like pissing people off — especially right-wing fundamentalists like Chas. Therefore, I've asked Chas to contribute to this blog every once in a while. I'm still waiting on his reply. Feel free to tel lhim how much you hate him or think he's stupid. I told him to be ready for that, just in case. Plus, it's gotta be worth a good laugh to let some jackass like him get his psycho ramblings out of him once in a while.

I hope no one's extremely pissed or anything. I don't think you will be, though. I think you can look at it the same way I can: It's a joke. Take it with a laugh.

Everyone have a good Friday, and weekend. As you should have known by now, I don't have a computer at home, and therefore, I can't write on the weekend unless I go to the library. I think I'm going to the library on Saturday, though, so I might get to post. Anyway, later bitches.



To: The Porcelain God
From: Your Humble Servant
Date: Around 8:36 a.m.
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Oh. I feel like a victim of Civil War torture tactics today. I had to stop on my way to work so I could raaaaaaaalph, and all I could think about was the people sitting in their cars at the stop light staring at me. I waved at them and smiled, after which they looked off quickly and pretended like it wasn't them. People are so stupid. I'm kinda pissed, though. I only got to eat two bites of my Sonic breakfast toaster, therefore wasting five bucks — and I'm a cheap sonuvabitch.

I don't know why I'm sick today. I didn't drink that much last night, and I didn't do any drugs. Plus, I don't EVER get sick. I can count on one hand how many times I've been sick from getting fucked up. Oh well.

I'm kinda pissed off. I checked out this book from the library the other day called "The God File." I thought it might have been one of those great books that I found by chance because I sort of just stumbled upon it. I was looking for a book on Eudora Welty, and I saw this black book that just stood out to me. Sure enough, I figured out what caught my attention: THE GOD FILE was emblazoned on the side, with shiny, silver letters that stood out like a black dude at a Klan convention.

I read the first page, and the book already grabbed my fancy. In the second paragraph the author stated three of my favorite vulgarities: shit, fuck and goddammit. The storyline was simple: Guy goes to prison for a crime he didn't commit and questions his faith in god. Blah blah blah. What I thought would be an interesting, Christian-bashing epic turned out to be a story about how a guy finds his faith in the Lord in the most inauspicious circumstances. Boring.

I thought it would be one of those books in which I could put up with the elementary writing and weak storyline because I liked the idea. It turned out being a shit pile with elementary writing, a weak storyline and an idea that wreaked with unoriginality.

OK. So yeah, fuck that book. I'm gonna get to work. Peace, bitches.


Arkansaw at its best

Oh, this is too good to be true
Hey, look, it's the newest tissue paper out, Super Bowl-theme.
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Ahhh... Wednesday. Monday feels like it just happened and Friday seems too far away. I took a day off yesterday because, well, on this blog I'm daddy and daddy does what he feels like. OK, sorry, that won't ever come out again.

I forgot to talk about the Super Bowl. What a sleeper, huh? It was worth watching, though, just to catch a glimpse of Shawn Alexander's face after the realization of defeat had set in. God, I hate that motherfucker. He reminds me of the know-it-all, good-at-everything guy in high school.

You know what we did to those guys? We'd invite them over for a party, get them drunk, wait till they pass out, then the guys would tea-bag 'em (I will not explain what that is, in case you don't know) and take pictures after we let the girls put makeup all over them. Then we'd take the photos and post them around school.

Looking back now, that was kinda mean. Whoa. Hold on. Remorse is not in my vocabulary. That's what they deserve for being pretentious jackasses.

I also got to see UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championships) this weekend. I'm obsessed with that shit. Chuck Liddell + Randy Couture = One bad ass fight. Little factoid about me for ya: I used to train for no-holds-barred fighting when I was in 7th and 8th grade, that's why I love it so much.

Anybody have anything exciting going on in their lives? Everyone I know has been in a piss-on-Jesus mood the last week. Serious. Did I miss a major disaster or terrorist attack or something? Shit. I offered glorious bouts of sex to all the girls I know that are in somber moods. Access denied.

Don't say I didn't try.


Dur dur dur!

To: Me
From: I'm talking to myself
Date: Not you
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

You know, I never made it to a college class. (Hell, I didn't even finish high school.) I still plan on starting next fall, nevertheless, but I've yet to fully experience the college life. Of course, I've attended numerous parties, met tons of new people and visited numerous friends on campus, but I — me, myself — haven't lived it.

That's one reason I like my new internship. I'm on campus every day, though not for classes. But coming here every day and seeing the people I see, I've confirmed a conclusion I came to a long time ago: High school never ends. Ever.

I'm one of those people that, when in a new environment, I like to observe. I look at peope walking by me. I listen to their conversations. I survey what they're wearing, how many piercings they have, what tattoos they have showing, etc. I can't help it, I guess it's a trait that comes with being a writer. What I'm trying to say is that I'm seeing the same things I saw in high school, just slightly modified.

Incubus has a song about this very theme on their last CD, One Crow Left of the Murder. They're not just talking about high school likenesses in college, but in every aspect of life. The last company I worked for fit the bill. I mean you have the popular people that go out all the time and invite a lucky few to go. Then you have the smart clique that couldn't care less and have fun on their own. Then, of course, there are the people who act like they could care less if they get invited to go with the popular people, but they really do.

I even get frustrated talking about it. Who gives a shit? I wanna go out with people who like me for who I am, not because they think they could gain with me being their friend. I like girls that don't care if their hair is a little, uh..., misconstrued.

I don't know what I expected. I guess I just knew what I didn't expect: immaturity, pretentiousness and sheer cruelty.

I still think it's hilarious to see girls that still find pleasure in getting made up to go to class. They act like it's a first date or something. Give me the girl that's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and one whose facial features are actually visible and not plastered with makeup.

I guess it's something I'll have to, not get accustomed to, but avoid. Shouldn't be that hard, right?


A little late?

Pentagon lays out strategy for 21st century. And, yes, it's 2006, not 1999.

Are you fucking kidding me?

To: The White House
From: The Future President
Date: Yesterday
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I just read an article concerning the implementation of random drug testing at a private school. Numerous public schools have already passed — and even more are considering — some form of drug testing program for students. Sometimes the testing applies strictly to students in extracurricular activies, including sports programs. Oftentimes, it's for all students.

The White House endorses the idea. Bush alluded to his approval school drug testing in his State of the Union address. Am I the only one that thinks this is total bullshit — or in other words, an invasion of privacy and an obviously absurd and gross move by elected fearmongers to deplete our youths' civil liberties?

I look at it like this: Experiences in high school help shape the person you'll be for the rest of your life. However, I also believe that you change more after high school than you do during your actual tenure. Of course, drugs can be harmful, even deadly. But don't let these leaders assume the role of these kids' parents. That's not their fucking jobs. These kids already have parental/authoritative figures. They don't need any more.

Essentially, that's what most of the Christian conservatives are trying to do — be our fuckin' daddy. Who the hell are they to say a girl can't have an abortion? Who are they to say a kid can't smoke a joint? Who are they to you shouldn't have a beer? They had nothing to do with the development of that child or that girl. They don't know their middle (or possibly even their last) names, or their nicknames. They don't know what their favorite movies are. Yet, they're gonna try to punish and ostracize them for something that they did while away from school? Fuck you.

Private schools can do it because they're just that — private. It's still bullshit, and I wouldn't stand for it if it were my child; but at least it's legal. I'm so fucking tired of the fevered egos of this country tainting our collective unconscious, making us think that this shit is acceptable. (Thanks, Bill Hicks.)

This isn't the first time this idea has come up. But, for the love of God, can this please be the fucking last time?

Freaky Friday ... Haaaay

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

So how's everyone doing today? Really? Who gives a fuck? Not me. I thought I was supposed to say that.

Anyway, it's Friday and I feel like complete dog patch. It's all my fault, though, as you would probably imagine. I drank "a little" too much last night. Before I went drinking, however, I went to the mall. And boy, oh boy, was it fuckin' fun fun fun for everyone.

Do you ever catch yourself being extremely rude without even trying? Good. I'm not alone. I do it all the time. The older I get, I hate everything more. I used to be the nice guy. Well, not that nice. But nice enough for my girlfriends' parents to like me. But that guy is long gone. I catch myself grumbling under my breath after a cute, little 17-year-old smiley glad-hand says, "Are you doing OK, sir?" To which I reply, even mildly interrupting her, "I'm fine. I don't need any help."

The thing is, I should empathize with these kinds of people. (OK, I'm about to tell you something of which I'm ashamed and I'm sure will shock you.) See, I used to work at The Buckle. Yes, I know how much you hate it. I know how they badger the customers. I, honestly, wasn't one of those. I actually made pretty good money there; and the big bosses liked me. They'd say shit like, "If you keep this up, you could have your own store by the time you're 19."

Then I turned 18 and it was like a switch turning on in my brain. I was at work one day, got mad and told everyone to go fuck themselves. I also called them pretentious jackasses that nothing to fret over but their waist size and hair color. I just got sick of being around people like that.

OK, back to the subject: I used to get the evil stares and the low grumbles all the time. I'd just laugh at people. I wouldn't do the whole, "Hey, let me help you find something. What size do you wear? What? You don't want to say it out loud in front of 60 people? Why? Pussy?" I was more like, "Hey, I'm Spencer, you need any help finding anything, come find me. OK?" Always worked. People like to be left alone, and if they need your help, they'll find you. If they don't need your help, you can go take another smoke break.

However, despite my past endeavors, I fucking hate the mall. I hate department store salesmen. I, ugh, need to go back to sleep.


Made-up dream, God, Vicodin and beautiful girls

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

Yippee. The brownies are finally out of my system. Dear GOD, thank you. I'm feeling a little "iffy" today. Yeah, iffy. Kinda like, iffy you say one cross word to me, I might choke the shit out of you. K? OK.

I had this pretty crazy dream last night. (Not really, but I'm gonna make one up.) God spake — yes, spake — to me. Do you know what he said? "Sup, bitch? Wake your punk ass up, I got some brownies." To which I replied, "No, goddamnit, er, God. Why you gots ta fuck with me like that? Uncool. Really fuckin' uncool."

God: "Quit bein' a little bitch. Hey did you see Dubya's State of the Union speech?"

Me: "No. Since I can't help but vomit every time I watch or listen to him, I've cut down on my Bush take-in each day. Ya know what I mean?"

God: "No, I don't know what you mean, but I'm gonna nod in agreement and hope you won't bring that up again. He said he was gonna cut foreign imports of oil by 75 percent. Can you believe that shit? You better lose that freshman 15 you gained, 'cuz your punk ass is about to be walkin' every where."

Me: "Freshman 13, ass pirate. Anyway, there's no way he's gonna do that. It would cost HIM too much money. And besides, Dick Cheney wouldn't allow it. He'd bitch slap Bush until he drew blood and lick it off Bush's lips. He's gross like that."

God: "You're a sick fuck. Did you know that?

Me: "I've been told that before. Yes."

God: "OK, I'm out-ie. Here's a couple Vicodin. It'll take the edge off."

Me: "Thanks, God. You're the shit."

God: "You think that's good? Wait till you get to heaven. Beautiful girls. Everywhere. That actually like you."

Me: "Sweet. OK, my mind's getting a little cloudy. You gave me the big blue ones. Shit. The 'edge' is gone."

... And that was my made-up dream. Have a good day. I'll be back.