A real bunch of garbage

Thrilled that the end of the semester was mere hours away, I did what anybody who’s excited does; I put on my party hat.



Soon after that, I took a look in the mirror, appreciated my beautiful physique and wondered why my legs were so bulbous. Then, curious if my legs were in fact bulbousy, I consulted a dictionary. When only a Spanish dictionary was available, I spent several hours perfecting the language. When I was confident I had mastered the Latin dialect, I hopped on the first flight to Guadalajara. In the airport, I stopped the first Spanish-looking person I saw, who happened to be a famous Mexican wrestler known only as “The Legend,” which, in Spanish, is “El Legendo.” When I grabbed him by his arms--which were somehow larger than my own--he gave me an intimidating look. I was sure that he thought I was just another American tourist, so I slid him a sexy little snippet of Spanish:

Hola, encontré una caja de sus niños.

Some fourteen hours later, I awoke in a dumpster behind a brothel with a deep gouge on the back of my head. I touched my hand to the wound and when I brought my hand back around, I was surprised to find that I no longer had a hand, and for that matter, never did. So odd that I would think it would magically be back. Oh well, I just blame The Legend.

Needing medical attention, I went into the lobby of the bordello, hoping I wouldn’t run into a bad Corey Feldman movie. It was strange; the lobby looked exactly like a dentist’s office, complete with People Magazine and The Daily Dental. Apparently there were some fine concubines at The Tasty Fish (at least that was who the magazines were addressed to), as there were 6 people waiting to get their jollies. I took a seat and picked up a particular copy of The Daily Dental, as the cover caught my eye:



It was right then that I realized what my mistake was. It seemed I had not mastered Spanish after all, because while trying to say “Hello sir! Good day! Aren’t my legs bulbous?” I had mispronounced when saying Hola, encontré una caja de sus niños., which translates to “Hello, I found a box of your children.” I immediately called up The Legend, apologized, and agreed that the only way to settle things was in the wrestling ring at Wrestlemania XXXVI: Does Anyone Really Care Anymore?

It was after this call that Marie walked into the lobby. She was a dominatrix, and informed me that one of the ladies could see me now. Before passing the threshold, I took a quick look back at the six others who had obviously been waiting longer than I had. Everyone was too busy reading People magazine to notice, except for a seven-year-old girl, who called me something in Spanish which I’m pretty sure meant asshole. I quickly ran back to the lobby and slapped that little bitch square across the mouth. I later found out she grew up to be a successful paleontologist. Thus began my Smack Bitches phase and political slogan.

Marie walked me down a long corridor for what seemed like a long time. The walls looked wet, and for some inane reason, a voice inside my head said “Touch them.” The walls were indeed wet, and my remaining hand immediately rotted off from touching old Spanish man juice.

After a while, Marie (which she pronounced MaaLee) stopped and extended her hand, showing me the room I was to enter. I thanked MahLee, and promptly smacked her in her little bitch mouth. She then brought out a hatchet and lobbed off my third hand.

The room’s décor left something to be desired; namely cleanliness. When I turned the light on, the roaches and wildebeests scattered under the oven. While I awaited my whore, I surveyed the room, noting the flickering yellow light and the distinct smell of Lucky Charms mixed with urine. Then, to my delight, I saw a mirror. Lying on the sink below it was a rusty razor. I had been wanting to shave the whole day, but one thing led to another, and now here I was in Guadalajara. The razor didn’t look particularly good for my health, but I figured fuck it, I’m in Guadalajara, I might as well.

I turned on the faucet and out came a liquid that I can only describe as blood. Well, I wouldn’t call it blood per se, but well, yes it was blood. When I finished shaving, I noticed I had a couple nicks on my face. I figured it was due to the rusty blade, but then I saw something moving in the mirror…on my face. I leaned in a bit closer, and found, to my horror, the cause of my nicks:



Yes, there was an agitated demon closing in on my left sideburn, the good one. Determined to never let anyone mess with my sideburns again, I slapped that angry little bitch of a demon right in his mouth. Unfortunately, he saw my attack well ahead of time, and bit off the index finger of my fourth, yes fourth, hand.

Just then, a short little Mexican walked into the room. She introduced herself as “Steve” and told me I was about to experience a little piece of Guadalajara I wouldn’t soon forget. I thought she had a pretty face, but the penis scared me off. I told Steve I had better get back to America, for fear of becoming cultured, and he said he understood. I caught the first flight back to “Freeze your tits off” Michigan, got back to my house at 2:43 am, with just enough time to take a little nap before my last final.

Whew, what a day.

Take the internet back, I can’t deal with the stupid assholes

I know I’m breaking precedent by not waiting a full month between posts, but I have some fresh animosity I’d like to disperse amongst my two readers. Hi Mom, hi Dad.

Recently I’ve started playing Hearts on Yahoo! Games. It serves as a nice little intermission between studying these last few weeks of class. That, and when I win it makes me feel slightly stronger, when I then immediately use up punching people smaller than me.

Usually it’s pretty fun, because I’ve always liked Hearts since I read Stephen King’s Hearts In Atlantis, of which in one story the game is heavily featured. Unfortunately, people on the internet—especially the ones who are addicted to it, can be idiots, and nowhere does it really show than in public forums, like message boards or chat rooms.

This is going to get funny real quick, ‘cause I’m starting to bore myself.

While playing any game, Yahoo! had the retarded idea of adding a small chat room at the bottom of the window. Great, no sore losers can have a place to be themselves. As if giving everyone a place to complain weren’t bad enough, throw in competition so they have something to whine about right off the bat.

Side note: I believe in free speech, but I don’t think everyone is entitled to it. I mean, they can say whatever they like, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen. Having a chat room at the bottom of the screen is not a good idea for this reason. Hearts is a fast-paced game, and I assume most of the other games on Yahoo are too. That means there probably isn’t time for lively discussion (some may define ‘lively’ as meaning ‘foul-mouthed idiocy’). When someone says something, I can’t help but read it, the appearance of text catches my eye, as it does everyone else’s. So rather than belabor the point before actually stating it, this was my experience today.

The game was going fine, when the anonymous but character-revealing person named blabberjones, who for all intents and purposes we’ll call batshit, made this astute observation:

batshit: asksammy2003 is a chickenshit
asksammy2003: for what exactly?
batshit: for not covering your passes, dipshit

At this point, I was glad we knew each other by ***shit names.

asksammy2003: what does that mean exactly? im in the beginner room for a reason
batshit: it means youre a fucking faggot bitch

It became clear that I need to step it up a level intellectually, because shitbat was obviously a high caliber human being, who has every right to be alive, and that will really leave the world in a better place than he found it.

asksammy2003: nice, im touched
got-a-bat-in-my-arse: lick it up, douche (though I’m almost certain he misspelled it—this is from memory, not a transcript)

The conversation proceeded as such, so I no longer felt the need to even acknowledge raisedbybats’s comments, save one. It came when one of the other player’s was attempting to explain what “covering your passes” means to me. Apparently, echo-location-cant-save-my-sorry-ass expected me to be born with this knowledge, and said something to the effect of “forget it, he’s a god damned retard” before the other player even finished his explanation.

I felt it was necessary to save my piece and then just finish the game, saving personal ridicule for the end. I said something along the lines of “Hey not-even-george-clooney-would-hang-out-with-me-hint-i-made-the-worst-batman-movie, Question: Am I in Advanced, or even Intermediate? No, I’m in beginner. And wouldn’t I be an idiot if I wasn’t even trying to learn what I’m doing” which got the expected response of “fuck you,” the universal phrase for “I don’t have anything to say to counter that.”

Once the game was over (by the way, I beat running-out-of-bat-references and only lost by one point—looks he got beat by a god damned retard), I decided to strike a little closer to home, not because he got under my skin, but because people like that—who feed on negativity and lash out at everyone as long as it’s anonymous—need to be put in their place every now and then. I sent him a private message, which was themed similar to:

Hey, I understand why you get so upset. It’s okay. Yahoo! Games is all you have, and anybody that attacks you with irrefutable points really gets your goat. You don’t know what to do but spit out brainless obscenities, because you’re an elitist, and when you’re left with nothing to say, you realize you look like a fool, and a childish one at that.

I then closed with the line that always hurts when true:

You need to go out and get laid, so you can release some of that pent-up frustration. Oh, and try to come up with something a bit more clever than “fuck off homo.”

He then promptly disappeared.

My goal isn’t to hurt this guys feelings, it was pretty obvious he already knows what a turd he is. It just irks me to no end when I observe something so disappointing as the development of a person gone wrong. I suppose it’s possible he’s actually a great person, but has this hideous alter-ago when he sits behind a computer. However, I think it’s more likely that he sits in his underwear in his mom’s basement, hoping that ridiculing someone for no particular reason (before you say “hypocrite!,” I have a reason—hopefully giving this guy a much-needed look in the mirror) will inflate his ego a bit further, to where he can temporarily fill the void of meaning in his life.

And to be fair, I’m emailing blabberjones a link to this (one benefit of being on Yahoo!—tack “@yahoo.com” to their name and you have their email address) so that he has the chance to retaliate with meaningful comments. If he makes even one intelligent remark, I’ll concede and apologize for going as far as I have.

Are you up to the challenge?