I don't have anything to write about today, so just point your finger at this guy and laugh. It'll make you feel better. Promise.



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

I just made up a word. Smugidity. In case you're wondering, Yes, I watched the newest South Park last night. And it was MUCH more fulfilling than last week's episode. If you didn't see it, Kyle's dad gets a hybrid car and becomes a smug asshole—he closes his eyes when he talks and loves the smell of his own farts. (I'm starting to realize that maybe it isn't as funny when you read it.)

Anywho (I brought up Smugidity for a reason), you guys remember when I bitched about a $10 sandwich? OK, I've changed my mind. Give me a ten-fucking-dollar sandwich any day. Last night for our anniversary, my girlfriend and I went to this Brazilian restaurant we'd heard about for a while, Gaucho's Grill. I should've seen it coming, if only its location (in West Little Rock, the snobby part of town) was any indication.

Fifty-four goddamn dollars for me and my girl to eat—and we drank WATER. And not only was it expensive, but the "Smugidity" in there was borderline unbearable. You go in there and they give you a plate and something to drink, then a bunch of people walk around and bring you all these different kinds of meat. They act like you're stupid when you don't know the spices they put on the lamb rotisserie. The waitresses are snobby. The owner walks around and asks everyone how they're doing. I told him my back hurt and I had a rash on the back of my leg that just wouldn't go away, and he just looked at me blankly and moved on. You asked motherfucker.

I remember saying to my girlfriend, "The smug is so thick in here I can barely breathe." Now that I think about it, our waitress did sort of close her eyes when she talked to us. But instead of smelling their own farts, I think they smelled each others' farts.


Big Brother is watching

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

You know, you'd be surprised how easy it is (sometimes) to contact fairly famous people. It's something I learned during my days at the newspaper, but it's becoming more and more evident now that I'm working for a nationally circulated magazine. It's got to be a little scary (I would think) for these notable politicians, huge movie stars, professional athletes, etc. that anyone with a brain and a quick wit could find their e-mail or mail address and/or phone number.

... And I thought they were always paranoid because of the massive amounts of cocaine they ingested! What the fuck was I smoking?

Another thing you learn, though, is how rude people can be. I thought I was rude, but these folks have me beat to hell. I've kinda learned tricks of the trade, though. Say I'm trying to contact Hillary Clinton, I'll look on all her Web sites and look for different names of people I might could contact. Usually they don't have phone numbers for those names—just e-mails. So when I call the main number, I'll just say, "Hi, I'm [blobbity blah], can you forward me to Sam please?" Works every time.

• • •

The New York Times published an article (either today, or it's coming out tomorrow) about this "secret" memo, which reveals President Bush and British Prime Minister Tony Blair plotted to provoke war in Iraq. News flash: Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Anyone remember the Downing Street Memo? Despite the magnitude of said memos, they never reach the heights I would expect them to—most likely because numerous media conglomerates (including Fox News) refuse to give the stories proper or sufficient air time, all the while downplaying the severity of the situations.

Why do people choose to neglect the idea that George Bush and his cabinet lied—flat out lied—to everyone? And even when people do come to that realization, they usually ask, "Well, what the hell can we do about it now?" Impeach that sonuvabitch. OK, Washington was in disarray for months over the Clinton impeachment—and it had absolutely nothing (nada, nil) to do with our country or the way the president was running our country at the time. In this instance our president has lied to everyone (yes, that means you) about his reasons for going to war, and even those presumptions have shown themselves to be totally false.

I know, it's getting old. But it's not beating a dead horse if the fucking horse isn't dead.



The boy is bad, I tell you. I'm thinking an LSU/Florida national championship, with LSU pulling it off in a really really close game.

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

Wow. Is it just me, or doesn't it suck when you go out on a Sunday night and drink so much that, when you wake up in the morning, you forgot you went anywhere and wonder why your tongue feels like sandpaper, you're out of cigarettes, and wondering how in the hell all those crumbs got in your bed? Maybe it's just me. All I have to say is that xanax and liquid cocaines are a deadly combination. Like bad.

Well, despite getting two out of the Final Four right, my bracket is officially on its way to the outskirts of Pulaski County, where I'm sure it'll find a cozy place, nestled somewhere between some baby's dirty diaper and and old t-shirt dampened with beer-puke. I did have Florida and LSU in the Final Four, which places me in first place in my group on the ESPN challenge (out of over 300 people). However, overall, my rank is, like, 75,000th. Do they give any prizes for 75,000th place? A keychain or something? Damn.

• • •

How's everyone been? I've kinda been down lately, hence the sporadic posts. But it's the weather and my girlfriend. Her family's going through a lot of problems and, when you've been with someone for almost five years on and off, they kinda become your problems. But I'm all better now. I got outta town this weekend for a little bit, and I need that.

• • •

Oh yeah, and to answer that question lingering in everybody's mind, I got ARRESTED for an unpaid traffic ticket. I didn't think it was everybody's business, but I mean shit. I've gotten numerous e-mails from people. "So WHAT did you get arrested for?" Like I'm hiding something or something.

• • •

I watched the encore episode of the latest South Park where Chef comes back, leaves, then ultimately falls off the bridge, is mauled by a mountain lion and bear, and shot. I must say, it's a lot funnier the second time. A lot. During the first time I saw it, every time I heard Chef talk, It just kinda fucked me up because they were piecing together his lines, but once you get past that, it's pretty hilarious.

I'm out. Maybe more later.


Jailhouse Rock

Memories, memories. Ah, your favorite blogger got arrested last night. No, no, I wasn't following the Mt. Saint Mary's track-and-field team in my Jeep, whooping and hollering. For those of you that've never been arrested, it's a pretty humbling experience.

My favorite part is when the cop backhandedly consoles you: "Now, if you're good, I'll put these cuffs on a little loose. If you're an asshole, I'll make sure you have bruises on your wrists for the next three weeks." No matter what the hell I say or don't say, I always get three clicks. Three clicks=bruises. I kinda have girly wrists, so I like to think they don't mean to put them on that tight.

Other favorite part? When they put you in the back of the car, (most of the time) if you look above the backside door's window, there's a microphone. I guess it's there to catch people admitting to stuff while the cop is outside searching their car or something. I usually sing into it. While Mr. Police Man was outside talking to my friends, I started singing Jailhouse rock as passionately as I could muster. "Went to a party in the county jail, dahdahdah... and he began to wail? dahdahdahdah dah dah ding. doodoodoodoo let's sing. Everybody let's rock. Everybody let's rock! Everybody in the whole cell block was dancing to the jailhouse rock! Ro-ro-rock!" Now that I think about it, I probably should have sung the national anthem.

See, there are two things you can do when you get arrested: Freak out, get pissed off and yell; or just say, fuck, I'm going to jail, my dad (or friend or whomever you'd call) better pick up when I call, goddammit. The way you talk to a cop is the way he's gonna treat you. You'd be surprised what cops will say when they know you're not a fucking idiot. I had a cop open up to me one time about problems he was having with his wife. He found out I worked for the Democrat-Gazette and thought I was really smart, so he just opened up. I really wanted to tell him to eat shit and die, but I played it off. He still kept my thirty pack.

• • •

In other news, Les Claypool from Primus was voted the coolest-fucking-weird-ass-dude-in-the-world's imaginary friend today. Or somethin' like that.

• • •
You know Matt or Trey one probably farted when they were taking this picture. They are never serious.
Anybody catch the new South Park last night? I was a little let down. You could tell they wanted to fuck Chef over because he left, but I think Scientologists came out looking the worst. It was still funny, but it could've been better, I thought.


Ten-fucking-dollar sandwich

I just ate a ten-dollar sandwich. Excuse me while I kick myself in the balls.

... (waiting) ...

Ah, fuck it. I'll do it later. But it looked soooo good on television. "Try Quizno's new Prime Rib sub, blobbity fucking blah." If you've seen the commercial, you know you want to try it. Don't lie. Liars go to hell. Muahahaha.

The thing is, it wasn't that bad. The fuckin problem? you may ask. It wasn't that good. Not ten-dollar good. Look, if I'm gonna spend ten goddamn Georges on a sandwich. It better be the best sandwich I've ever tasted, or do some really awesome trick. All I could think about while I was eating it was how I spent ten bucks on this shit—that's not what it should've been like.

I should've said: "Wow, this is a hella good sandwich. I'm hella gonna tell my friends about it, 'cause it's hella good." And you'd say, "Spencer, why are you saying 'hella'? It sounds super gay." And I'd say, "Cause I'm hella cool. Bitch."

• • •

It starts tomorrow. My baby (her name's Madness—March Madness that is) is back. Awwww, I missed her so much. So much. I was chatting with a new e-mail friend (whose 'hella' cool), and we were talking about how numerous friends scoff at the thought that we like sports. It makes me wonder. Is there a certain IQ where interest in competitive sports in at its nadir, as well as a certain (lower) IQ where the interest is more than an interest? More than an interest, an obsession?

I know people (like you, Lindsay) that hate sports. But it's hella cool as long as you (not your, Lindsay) don't look down on me for liking sports. Explain to me how its stupid to be able to let yourself go for a minute and not be so serious all the fucking time and get fucking plastered and watch sports. Even if you do provide a decent explanation, I'll still be a hella big sports fan. 'Cause it's hella cool.


In case you can't tell, that's an "I care" face. Bitch.

I went to the Catholic church near my house yesterday. It went something like this:

Me: Forgive me, dude, 'cause I'm sinning. Like, bad.

Father (figure): Child, what is it? Tell daddy what you did.

Me: You ready?

Father (figure): Ready as I'll ever be.

Me: OK. Let me see here. Well, I hold this hatred inside of me that I can't seem to let go. It eats at me, perpetuating my hatred for people in general, but really, it all starts with this one guy. He's not a bad guy, I imagine. But then I think he could be. He acts like he cares, then I know it's just a front.

Father (figure): Who is it, child? Is there anything—and, I mean ANYthing—I can do?

Me: No, no. But, it's Maury. Povich, I think is his last name. I hate that motherfucker. I mean, I want to like him because I think he generally cares for the people that appear on his show. But I know it's a lie! It's all lies. He doesn't give a shit if my mom has three daughters from three different men, who ended up being the minister at our local church, our mailman and her boss—who are BROTHERS. He doesn't give a fuck. He only cares that his teeth are so white that they get that purplish hue when light touches them. He doesn't care that I was a troubled kid and had a drill sergeant yell at me, whose voice smelled like dog patch. He doesn't fucking care, does he! Tell me it's true, father. Tell me!

Father (figure): Are you fuckin' kidding me? Listen, kid, I just had a 12-year-old girl tell me she gives BJs for adderall. And you hate a daytime T.V. host?

Me: Alright, bitch. First, I'm not a kid, or your fuckin' child. I came to you with a problem. And, by God, I want it fixed!

Father (figure): Problem? We're gonna have a fuckin' problem if you curse at me one more time.

Me: Ah, shush. Fuck it. I knew you'd be no help. I just want to know one thing.

Father (figure): What? Bitch.

Me: Would you've been nicer if I told you I liked kiddie porn?



I got this from Charlie's blog.

Good mornin' (2:47 p.m.)

Sorry, guys. I was sick a couple days last week and out of the office. I have a computer and Internet service at home now, but I can't find it in me to write for my blog when an abundant source of midget porn is waiting to be tapped. (No, I don't really look at porn. Well...no.)

I'm thinking about submitting myself to drug rehab. Seriously. (I'm sure you all saw this coming.) I can't take it anymore. After approximately 9:30 p.m. last night, I lost it. Thursday? I fuckin' have to wait 'til Thursday to see third-round games. Are you F*CKING KIDDING? I'm forced to watch ESPN Classic games until THURSDAY. What the fuck am I going to do with myself?

I call my friends. They're no support. My team, the Arkansas Razorbacks (of course), lost. My bracket is shot to hell. I might as well have taken $30, or just six five-dollar bills, and pissed all over them, flushed them down the toilet, seen that they're stuck, then slipped on my fluorescent yellow, arm-length rubber gloves and ripped them to shreds in pissy toilet water. At least I would've be having withdrawals right now, rather I'd be carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer.

Anyone feel my pain? I mean ... it's re-damn-diculous.

• • •

On another note, George Bush, today, announced that he is now a member of the Church of Scientology.

• • •

I hate Mormons. Yeah, I do. Like, really bad. Prejudiced? I know. Fuck off. I hate 'em. What'd they do to me? They took wearing ties with short-sleeve, oxford button-up shirts out of style is what the fuck they did. Bitches.


Mr. Preacher Man

"You, son, are going to hell," he said to the guy wearing a Pi Kappa Alpha shirt. "Fraternity brothers are drunkards who abuse women and look at pornography."

(I'm not making this shit up.)

The preacher man, probably in his mid-20s, is dressed in his Sunday best (on a Wednesday), wearing a maroon Oxford dress shirt, fashionable tie, and weathered black shoes. As one would suspect, he's fair-skinned, despite a reddened face, with blond hair and, presumably, blue eyes—he was standing a good 20 feet away from me.

"You have yet to see happiness until you have invited Jesus into your life," he shouts. "Jesus is alive. He is standing next to you as we speak."

Really? No shit? Jesus! You sneaky bastard, come over here and show yourself. ... Hello? Somebody say something. Anybody?

This preacher man has this aura about him—it reaks of accomplishment (futility) and self-worth (hubris) and, even, intellect (ignorance). He is one that will never question why.

Reminds me of a song: Judith, by A Perfect Circle:

"you're such an inspiration for ways that i will never ever choose to be.
oh so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you.
Thank(fuck) your god, your lord, your christ,
he did this, took all you had and left you this way.
still you pray, never stray, never taste of the fruit. never thought to question why.
it's not like you killed someone.
it's not like you drove a hateful spear into his side.
praise the one who left you broken down and paralyzed.
he did it all for you.
oh so many ways for me to show you how your dogma has abandoned you.
pray to your christ, to your god.
never taste of the fruit,
never stray, never break,
never choke on a lie,
even though he's the one who did this to you
thought to question why
it's not like you killed someone.
it's not like you drove a spiteful spear into his side.
talk to jesus christ as if he knows the reasons why he
did this all to you.
he did it all for you."


Yo yo yo (yeah, it looks just as stupid as it sounds)

To: Sufferers of Missing White Girl Syndrome
From: The Doc
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I just finished reading Anderson Cooper's 360 degrees blog, for which he, himself, never submits ANYthing. The writer today posted on an interesting topic: the alleged "Missing White Woman Syndrome" found in the media today.

"That was the phrase invoked by Sheri Parks, a professor of American studies at the University of Maryland, College Park, during our interview yesterday," according to the blog. She alleges that the media neglects reporting cases of missing "women who are black, Latino, Asian, old, fat, or ugly."

My initial reaction was, "Shut up, bitch. Start a significant argument with someone about the gap in standardized test scores between whites and minorities." However, the more and more I think about it, she's kinda right, but I still think there are bigger issues to tackle.

Honestly, she's fighting for no cause. Who would benefit from constant national exposure in the case of every missing persons case? No one. Most (and probably all) missing persons cases are local, and therefore, are broadcast locally. When those attempts are fruitless, often the story hits the national media. Stories like Natalie Holloway and Laci Peterson hold more weight in national media because they generate more attention—regardless of race or physical appearance.

In some instances, say Elian Gonzales, I think that argument holds merit. Face it, America wouldn't have been as captivated by that story if he had two heads or buck teeth and a Jew 'fro. That's not subjectivity on the media's part, it's merely an editor who knows what people like to hear. Blame the American public, not the media.

• • •

March Madness has begun, thank you, KRISHNA! I know many of you could care less about sports, but I'm sorry. I am a college basketball and football fanatic. Sue me.



Proud to be an Amurrican

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

"I'm committed to strengthening our relationship with the UAE [United Arab Emirates] and explaining why it's important to Congress and the American people." --George Bush

Thanks, George. 'Preciate it. I'm so glad you are taking your sweet ass time to explain why things are important to me, a member of the American people. I'm eternally grateful for your dumbing down to explain things to Congress and me. Without you, I'd be lost.

He reminds me of a third grade teacher trying to explain the difference between apples and oranges.

Bush: "You see, Amurrica, apples are red. Oranges, on the other hand, are orange. See the difference?"

The classroom responds collectively: "Yes, Mister Bush."

Bush: "Good, now go do something good for your country. You kids know that towel-head in Ms. Hoover's class? Kick his ass at recess, OK?"

Classroom: "Yes, Mister Bush."

• • •

In other news, MC Hammer announced today that he is gay.

• • •

Have any of you gotten a chance to watch Walk the Line yet? I thought it was a pretty good movie. I think I went into it, though, expecting way too much. I wasn't let down, but I guess my expecations were brought back down to earth. All I could think about the whole movie was how sexy Reese Witherspoon sounds with a twangy voice. Talk to daddy, Reese. Talk to daddy.


Equal or better

Hot damn! I'm on TeeVee!
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, listen up, God. I know I don't believe in you, but if you do exist, will you please tell me why the fuck you created George W. Bush? Please. I'm begging, and I don't beg, except for sex but that's another story. Huh? Part of your plan? Ahhhh, blow me.

"Bush: Levees to be 'equal or better.'" Equal? That's real smuckin' fart George. I can hear Ralph Nagin now: "Uh, Mr., uh, President. Well, I mean, if they are gonna be, uh, equal, then, uh, won't they still, uh, collapse?"

Bush: "Listen here, Ralphie-boy. In the world of politics, I am daddy. And you know what? Daddy is gonna do and say what he wants to. Mmkay? So shut up. Bitch."

Nagin: "Sir, yes, sir."

Laura Bush: "George! Fix your pants. What the fuck, are you waiting for a goddamn flood?"

Bush: "Laura, why do you always do this in front of people?! Gah. ... Is that better?"

Laura: "Yes, that's better. And, ah, don't ever raise your voice at me again. I will kick you out again, and judging from the way you came back last time, I'm guessing you don't wanna go stay with Dick again, do you?"

Bush: "If I have to sleep on the street, I don't care. I will never stay at Dick's house again. I told you what he did to me. I still have nightmares about him. You know he doesn't wear underwear, right?"

Laura: "Neither do I and you don't seem to have a fuckin' problem with it."

Bush: "Yeah, but your balls aren't bulging out either."

Laura: "'Nuff said."

... Yeah, George. Go ahead and piss away our money to build levees that will, yet again, fail the city and take the lives of even more people. That makes about as much sense as a blind and deaf tour guide. Idiot.


Best college essay eva

This can't be real. But it doesn't matter, it's hilarious. Read this essay: Planes, Trains, and Plantains.

Fuckin' weirdo

To: Unsuspecting reader
From: Punk-ass writer
Date: Two days before the day after tomorrow
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

I love really weird people. Whether their weirdness is acquired through time or a birth defect, they spice up the world and, oftentimes, can make you feel normal, which is a good thing. Take Spongebob Square Ear here for instance.

That's one of those things you look at and say, "Damn. I'm so glad I'm not you. ... So, um, can you, like, hear better with that thing?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm weird. I'm fairly sure you're weird, too. Come on. You know you take off your shirt and recite lines from The Terminator in the mirror when no one else is around. Come on, I know you probably fart in bed and force the covers over your unwilling partner's face and laugh hysterically. Don't lie.

I have a bunch of weird friends. I have one friend that treats his dog like a goddamn person—honestly. He gives her four baths a week, which is probably more than he takes, and gives her the window seat in his single cap truck no matter who rides with him. Then I have the one who can make himself throw up and used it all the time in high school to get out of class. Then I have the friend that keeps count of the mile markers on the interstate and becomes extremely perturbed when he loses count (usually when he's drunk).

Have you ever been just flat-out caught doing something weird? I remember when I was a kid that I loved to sing the national anthem. I don't know why. I had a decent voice. Hell, I even sang in my CHURCH choir. Can you believe that shit? Anyway, so I'm sitting in my dad's truck at my aunt's house, acting like I'm listening to the radio until all the people go inside. After I see the door close, I started. I'd always draw it out, you know, and act like I was in Boyz II Men. I got to the hardest part for guys: "And the rockets..." Then, as I was preparing for eeeeeeeeerrRED GLARE, one of my punk-ass cousins popped open the truck door and scared me so much I thought I shat myself. Horrifying, I tell you.

Also, when I thought I wanted to be a kickboxer, I'd shadow box when i thought no one was home. One day, my brother and his friends were smoking weed on our balcony outside, which has a window that allows you to see into the living room. I was probably 8 years old, and I just started goin' at it. I mean, I'm getting embarrassed now just thinking about it. Just think of what I felt like when I heard a knock on the window and looked up and my older, cooler brother and his friends were falling on the fucking floor laughing at me—all without fucking up rotation.

Don't act like I'm weird. I know you're worse. Bitches.


Sweaty McGruff

My sweaty-arm-pit brethren. Rise and take over the world with your repugnant malodor.

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

It's confession time, and why I feel so comfortable letting tons of people (more like about 80) know this, I'm not sure. However, I'm certain that if I've met you in person, you've noticed and just not said anything. But I suffer from hyperhidrosis, or excessive sweating. It fucking sucks, too. But I know there are people out there just like me. Come on. Show yourself. Lift up your arms with pride.

Mine's kinda weird, though. A lot of times, I'll only sweat under one arm, which I think is fucking crazy. But look at some of these stats. I didn't know I was one in 7.8 million with the problem. (I really believe I'm gonna regret writing this shit. Oh well, laugh all you want. I'll shove your face in my arm pit next time I see you.)

• Hyperhidrosis, or excessive sweating, affects a much larger proportion of the U.S. population than previously reported, according to new research.
• An estimated 7.8 million people in the United States suffer from hyperhidrosis.
• People suffering from hyperhidrosis experience excessive sweating on the underarms, palms of hands, soles of feet and the face, to name a few places.
• Cold, wet handshakes, soiled or damaged shirts, papers and shoes are just some of the symptoms of hyperhidrosis.
Anxiety and stress often accompany hyperhidrosis, as well.
• The results [of a survey] suggest that in axillary hyperhidrosis, sweating often impedes normal daily activities and can result in occupational, emotional, psychological, social and physical impairment in a substantial proportion of individuals.
• Prior to this survey, there was very little research available regarding the prevalence or impact of hyperhidrosis.
• The prevalence rates were significantly higher among people 25-64, which is the prime working-age population.
• Females are far more likely to discuss their condition with a health care professional (47.5 percent of women versus 28.6 percent of men.)

It's pretty embarrassing, to say the least. Oh well, you can either joke about it, or cry about it. I usually joke (then cry when I get home). I'll post in a little while, there's just kind of a dearth of story ideas right now.

If you get a chance, check out Maddox's most recent post.


OK, I'll admit it ... I'm obsessed with it

Run, bitches. She's got a bible in hand and fire in her mouth. She's the antichrist. Hang, draw and quarter that bitch.
To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Anybody in the world watch the History Channel besides me? I hope so because, if not, I'd feel kinda weird. I can't get enough of that shit, and last night they had programming aimed toward me, I swear. First, they had a two hour special about hell, Satan, and the world's infatuation with the two. After that, they had a special on the antichrist. You know what I was thinking ... Sweet!

I kinda freaked out my girlfriend. She ended up having nightmares about it, and I laughed through the whole thing. The funniest part? Anne Graham Lotz, the daughter of THE Rev. Billy Graham. This bitch, whoo... breathe, Spencer. She came off looking like a third grader compared to the other people who were commenting on the matter. You can tell she has studied nothing but the bible. She honestly believes that hell is in the center of Earth. Not just matter and molten lava. Hell is there. Am I the only one that finds that fucking hysterical? Hold on, I need to laugh. Muah hahahaha!

The antichrist special was sort of a let-down. They did have Hal Lindsey speak—the guy that wrote The Late Great Planet Earth, which served as a sort of precursor for the Left Behind series (which have sold 65 million goddamn books, can you believe that shit?). Though I can't quote him verbatim, his messages went something like this, "He will be extremely charismatic, attractive, the whole world will love him. Then, they will worship him." Ding, ding, ding! I think I know who he's trying to paint a picture of. Clinton anyone? Bill Clinton? I knew they had to talk about him somewhere. Why can't you guys leave Billy-boy alone?

Probably the funniest part, to me at least, was these people at the New Life Church in El Paso, Texas. These fucking people were crazy. "Satan! I command you. Leave this young boy here!" Ahhhhh! I have Satan inside of me? Goddamit, I need to go to church. It all makes sense now. Satan is inside of me right now making me write horrible things about Anne Graham Lotz. I just need to go to church, so I can be cleansed. I can see the light, bitches! I can see the light.

I need to stop. I don't want an angry mob finding this post and forming outside to burn me at the stake. Later, bitches.


My 75th post ... wow, I'm suprised my attention span hasn't drifted yet

This bitch is fake.
To: Bitches
From: Daddy
Date: Foreva
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

OK, this is gonna be sort of a serious post. Who am I kidding? It's serious, but not a dark post, mind you. I had a friend, whom I dearly care for (and wish she hated frat boys), question me yesterday. Here's what she said:

"[J]ust read your blog.... catching up on the newest post and the ones I hadn't yet read. You are a strange kid, you know that, right? The thing is - I think only part of it is an 'act' of sort. You and I have had conversations that don't follow this persona that I see on there. I'm not saying you are being fake, I don't think you truly could be, at least not for an extended amount of
time. Maybe you have me fooled. ..."

Pretty strong words, huh? And I love that I have friends that would say stuff like that to me. It lets me know that they care about me. Anyway, here was my response:

"I totally understand your stance. Maybe I am fake every once in a while, but when you really think about it, aren't we all a little fake every now and then? I started the blog for one outstanding reason: a place to release, without censorship, my thoughts on everything. I don't do that always in public and around my friends for various and obvious reasons. One, I don't want to alienate myself from people I care about, like you.

"I don't necessarily think you'd agree with me on a bunch of stuff, so I don't talk about it. If that's being fake, then that's what I am. Hell, my own mother still doesn't understand why I always come up with a bullshit excuse to avoid going to Christmas Eve services every year. I'd rather her not know some of my views because, frankly, I don't want to hurt or scare her—or even worse, make her think she failed as a parent, which is exactly what I think she would believe."

For those of you I've met in person, I generally am a pretty mild guy, just as long as I don't start hearing Christian rock or George Bush speaking. I don't want everyone to know everything about me. Like Kurt Cobain said on the cover of his journals, "If you read, you'll judge." Simple, but true—especially in Arkansas.

Oftentimes, I don't want to know EVERYthing about other people. I may judge them, too, in a subconscious way, therefore causing problems that didn't have to arise. Call me fake. Where I live, my views aren't exactly welcome. I'm not scared. I just pick my battles. What's so wrong with that?


Why I'm ashamed (sometimes) to be from Arkansas, part 37 in a series

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

Perusing through the shelves of my local bookstore/publishing conglomerate on Sunday, I, yet again, was suprised by the sheer stupidity, ignorance, and bigotry of another Arkansan. I passed at table set up with numerous books on and about African-Americans (keep in mind it was still February, a.k.a. Black History Month), with a sign hanging above the table reading, "African-American Interest."

I hear this jackfuck—who just so happened to see the table, stop, and feel obligated to tell his wife what he thought—look at her and say, "That's bull shit. You know them blacks would throw a fit if we put a table out there that said it was for whites only." His face turned red, and he continued on, most likely to read books about how horrible Jews are or pick up the latest book from David Duke.

For those of you that don't live in the South, it may be hard for you to understand how widespread this shit is. It's heartbreaking for me, in particular, because at least 40 percent of my family is extremely prejudice. You see, most cases of racism today are not as confrontational as in the old days. I meet people all the time that seem like nice, intelligent, thoughtful and caring people, until it slips. The N word, or any other derogatory term used for deprecating a race. The worst part about it is that you almost come to accept it, as horrible as that sounds. Some times you have no choice. Other times you do. I'm not going to avoid visiting my family in Clarksville, Ark. every Thanksgiving because I know I'll hear a couple racist jokes. I want to, but that's family, ya know? It just sucks to be in this situation, and I wish it weren't so.

... So, uh, yeah. Shut up. I gotta get to work. I'll post later.