Random

I really had no where else to put this.

Bed of Roses

While pretty, I am best viewed from afar.

Greetings and Salutations!

For some strange reason I decided to overhaul this blog instead of just trashing it. Originally, my plan was to delete the thing and end this voyage and abandon any dear readers that I may have collected along the way. Readers which I am certain have moved onwards and upwards and have forgotten about an alleged narcissicist with  tendencies for degeneracy on scales that can only be measured with “epic” as a qualifying adjective. But I ditched the plan. I have no reason why I have done so – I was having a bastardly bastard of a time coming up with things that I felt were relevant enough to write about (and we all see where that went…). And beyond explaining what has happened it the eon that I have been away, I find myself wondering if I will have material beyond a few days, maybe weeks.

Now, things have changed. I have moved on to a new chapter in my novel existence (see what I did there?), and wonder if the coming experiences will rate sharing with others. It is not that I feel that my life has become or will become boring…that is not something that I believe is possible for me. What is at issue is that I have been avoiding – the collapse of The Foundation. Yes, the collapse of the what was the single most beneficial asset to Samurai City. From beginning to end, the tale is one that I am sure would amuse, horrify, and possible bring about several more indictments; it may be told on various turns of your humble narrator’s new adventure, but do not plan on it (for any of you that care, for those of you that do not…pick a finger). The fall of the Creator of the Thunderdome is a tale wrought the joy, sadness, treachery, and ultimately, a tragedy of Greek literary tradition. But our Foundation life was not a bed of roses, this way is better for us (snicker). Needless to say, instead of focusing my empire on “charity,” I decided to go back to the University. A career in psychology/psychiatry seemed like a new and exciting path for Dear Xavier, so I packed up my office, and traded my ledgers for textbooks.

We all press the lever for food.

The road back to academia was an interesting and treacherous one. I found myself immersed in a culture of students that were significantly younger than me. Now, I am not unused to being around young people, but typically I am bossing the younger people around like some self-important autocrat. However, they younger people are now my peers and colleagues. I am now faced with having to remind myself that these are people with opinions that I owe the same consideration and respect that I would give my fellow Generation Xer’s or some junk (which is not necessarily all that much). Still, the journey has been pleasant, despite learning that I still can count mathematics as an area that I am lacking in superiority. I have also learned that psychologists are an incredibly interesting lot of people.

 

I think the best part of the journey that led to my literary hiatus was  that I got to avoid discussing the 2016 election. I also have to struggle to refrain from speaking of the result of that train wreck. 2016 will always represent where three to four decades of dismantling public education will lead. I cannot even bring myself to watch the news anymore. However, this is not a bad thing because I can avoid local news stories that have not gone away (I get it, the Thunderdome and Arboretum would make an excellent public park and demonstrate good will to Samurai City after the unfortunate turn of events that may have involved the Foundation! I said I was thinking about it assholes!).

These are not real babies.

In addition to avoiding the election, I was able to rediscover a few old interests. Namely, photography. I have turned into one of those people that is an unabashed and unashamed iPhonographer. See that shit? I even used tend-iLanguage to talk about my old/new thing. I am not sure why it all started. I mean, it could have been when I was taking naughty innocent pictures of various sex acts statues. It could have been when I got the idea to take a bunch of babies used for teaching how to not abuse babies and arranged them into neat photos. Whenever it was that it started, it started and now it is a thing. One thing that does not bother me about my journey into iPhotography (I am addicted, maybe?) is that I cannot take selfies. It bothers me that I had to type “selfies” multiple times to discuss this, but it was unavoidable. You see, dear readers, it seems that my arms are in fact too short for me to take a decent self-image. No, it is not an angle thing. No, it is not an inability to frame an image. My arms or too fucking small to take one, and I refuse to use one of those horrid sticks. Instead, I have to request that others take pictures of me, and aside from my secretary, I trust the photographer responsible for the image of me featured above (and one other). Other people will make my head to big or get my fat side or get too much forehead or not tell me what do in the picture so I do not look like a hideous fool. This is why images of myself tend to be a year old, maybe two.

What does any of this have to do with me? Loser!

When people quit smoking, or retire, or elect a dangerous Ferengi that had ear reduction surgery to public office, they tend to remember the date that the deed was undertaken. People remember import, significant, life-changing events. So, it would seem to reason (to me) that I would remember what date the doors to the Thunderdome closed leaving the looming structure abandoned in heart of downtown Samurai City. But, I do not. Which is a little disconcerting to me now. I mean, the amount of litigation alone would probably warrant a course in some law school…but I guess when you leave the minutia to attorneys and sycophants and spokespeople one does not have to be concerned with dates and outcomes. It sounds terrible, but other than maybe having to pay for the demolition of some property, the outcome does not really effect me. And is that not the American way? What does not effect me, should not concern me…right? Is that not the direction our species is headed? I believe you should all be concerned that someone such as myself is questioning the humanity of humanity. I mean, my idea of helping the less fortunate involved elephant stampedes parades, and alleged forced substandard-wage labor in apple orchards. I am not saying that I was bad person (just horribly misunderstood), but friends, I am just saying consider whom is writing this and the implications.

Lately, I have found myself having Dante running through my head: “In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life’.” It seems that I am headed into a new life – I admit to being eager and horrified.

“…to survive the tide…”

Oy. It has been one of those days/years/decades. I have no idea where to begin or where to go with this; I seem to be having that problem rather often when it comes to writing in this blog. No, extend that. It goes way beyond this blog.

You never know how much you will miss a place until you are actually faced with leaving it. You know? That trip to Disney or Cedar Point lasts forever while you are in the lines or taking pictures with a gigantic anthropomorphic mouse. Then you head for the gates to return to your car, or bus, or motorcycle, or long-distance walking shoes and are faced with the prospect of leaving. The difference is most of us return home, or to something like a home. Which leads me to the following question: would you miss a place more if you were not so sure that you had a place to return?

Yeah, yeah, yeah…

I fucking hate January.

I tend to appreciate duality. However, Janus and your namesake month have never been anything but a source of ill for me. I have been listening to the same song on my iPhone when I am in transit places since September. Maybe even before that. Maybe it was the mantra the song had become. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. Maybe I should have listened.

It is taking every ounce of strength I can muster today to stay here at the Foundation and manage daily affairs. I came in to an empty desk. I have piled that desk with work to accomplish. This work will never be accomplished. This desk will never be clear. I sit and look at it, and realize that it will never be clear. I have come to realize that eventually, I will have to sit at the desk…

Even with the chatter of the Board of Directors earlier, the Boardroom was empty. Many of us know a person that walks into a room and has that sort of personality that fills the room. Sometimes the person is smothering; sometimes we would prefer that the person vacate so that the rest of the people in the room can move/breathe/walk/talk freely. Other times…other times the person contributes such an air that others suffocate as soon as that particular air leaves. The Boardroom was very empty. I twirled my pen and sat and stared at the emptiness. Thankfully, the Board Secretary takes excellent notes; I have no idea what happened during the meeting. I was absent in the empty. I am pretty sure that the Veep took over presiding the meeting at some point. I remember him calling votes and asking for seconds…on votes as well as danishes.

Now, back in my office. I just want to burn the place. Not my office…not just the office…the whole place. Like cleaning out the old dead growth in the orchards. Last night, I went out to set some of the old growth to flame. I figured I would get a start early so that planting in the Spring of the new trees could start sooner that usual. Whatever. Any excuse to burn things, right?

Orchard Hand: “Mr. Sir. X, this is not the best time to try burning the orchard. Really, it is never a good time, but now is really not. Too much snow.”

Me: “When did I start paying you to question my burning needs? Look, this fire is going well.”

OH: “Yes, sir. That it is. Starting to go pretty good. However, soon this shed will be engulfed. The snow will put out the fire. However, we’ll be burnt up before that happens…the smoke will get us before that.”

Me: “Oh. Yes. That. You may go for the day. Take your son to shoot some dangerous or delicious animal.”

OH: “After we leave together. By force if necessary.”

Me: “Fine. I am going to fire you as soon as we get up to the estate.”

OH: “Sure you are. Just like always. Now come on, I’m starting to smell like burnt apple-cherry crisp.”

“…you’ll never walk alone…”

No, this is not about Dionne Warwick or whomever may have sang the song with the title that consists of the same words of the italics above. This is my way of saying some things that maybe need to be said. Maybe they are better unsaid. Maybe they are better off forgotten and ignored. Who knows? I certainly do not. What I do know is that I have to get out of this office before I have legal issues surrounding arson, insurance fraud, and a lot of disappointed community members without a place to freeload off of the largesse of the Thunderdome. They come in daily. They tour the grounds. They enjoy the free food court. They swim in the pool, enjoy the arboretum and dodge the koalas and cybergators. Yet when they leave, they pause and look at the statue commemorating a loving and valiant Lord or Lady Phant (really, I cannot even think about that now). That statue was supposed to be a shrine, now it only serves to remind visitors of that tragedy. And that is what the Foundation has become, that is what has become the Rothechilde legacy.

Looking at the clock I find myself wondering if it is ethical for me to leave early for the day? I mean, there is an answering machine. Also, this place has gone on for months at a stretch…even with the ineptitude of Smeagol trying to run this place. So, yes. I think I can go now. No one is even going to notice that I have gone.

The Chauffeur

“…and the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…”

Duran Duran, “The Chauffeur”

Except for the brief mention on the The Foundation Page, I do not believe I have spoken much about the other members of the prestigious Rothechilde Foundation. They are a wonderful group of people, without whom, the Foundation would not be the monster of charity that it has become. In addition, they are my “family,” in far more ways than one. They have all been selected by me to hold close and dear. That does sound a bit narcissistic, even by my standards; yet, we all have family that we have selected. Most of us choose not to say such things for fear of retribution from “true family.” I, however, am not bound by such limitations.

Strangely, the person involved with the Foundation that I probably depend on the most is my personal secretary. My secretary whom has informed me that her title is Executive Assistant. When I pointed out the irony of her taking such a corporate identity in the workplace, she replied that it was more to distinguish her from the Board Secretary, and to get her position printed as a proper noun. Besides, she said: “You would think you would be more concerned with the pay increase that comes with the title. Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. You have no idea how payroll works.” That is my girl. Snarkier than Dennis Miller mocking Bill Maher. But…

…without her, I would admittedly be a complete and utter confused mess. For example, she is the one who suggested that I try matching my Derringers to my ties or cufflinks, instead of my shirts (for some reason, I have been adding color to my wardrobe. I am terrified and elated.). That way, I could pick a metallic color from a paisley or something to highlight the color or the “pearl” handles. I remember a while back, I was obsessing and stressing over some legal issues regarding elephants and alleged amok-running. I had not come to Samurai City for weeks; choosing to stay at the Orchard and Estates and never leave my bedroom. I think I lost count of how much absinthe I drank that couple of weeks and I had a crazy beard. CRAZY BEARD!!! I had no idea that I was getting that much gray hair. I seriously considered getting some of that stuff the jocks advertise for “weird beards” and “trashed staches.” I have since abandoned that cray-cray and opted for a clean shaven look.

Whoa! That is getting way off track. As I was writing, No wash, crazy beard, drunk as can be thanks to Alandia. There, no we are caught up. Anyway, my secr..er…Executive Assistant (I personally think she likes this to fuck with my OCD and make me type more) shows up:

E.S: “Hey! Get up. Get clean. Get dressed. We need to head down to Samurai City. You have an important meeting tomorrow. Press conferences, insurance claims, all that shit is not going away because you want to stay home and hide.”

Me: “No, thank you. I think I will enjoy a few more days solace. The Vice President can handle these things. Is it really six in the morning?”

E.S: “Yes, it is. And no, I got here last night. I do have keys. You probably were passed out or just couldn’t hear me over that movie of you and Charlotte that you were watching. You’ve got issues, serious issues, dude. Speaking of which, she could always come and get you, she says. She’d be sooo pleased to have to show up and deal with you acting like a baby”

Me: “No, that will not be needed. Fine! I will go. But I am going like this…”

E.S: “Naked..?”

Me: “Grrr! No, I will go in my silk jammies and this robe. I even think I still have a pair of slippers to wear.”

E.S: “Oooh cute! You’ll look like the bastard child of Howard Hughes and ‘going-to-the-courthouse-Michael Jackson’!”

Me: “Ugh You. Suck. I will be ready in a few minutes.”

E.S: “And that is why you love me.”

No, that is not why. At least not the only reason why. I do not think that I can put all of those reasons down without turning this blog into some kind of sissy sap-fest, and I have to keep a certain level of testosterone about, you know? But I will say this, this something that may be better left unsaid. I am not sure why I love my Executive Assistant, there are far to many ideas that come to mind, and my OCD picks out the same one, and the ADHD chases it away; distracted by the Vulcan-looking woman discussing sociopaths in the background. One thing I am certain of is that I possibly love her too much. The kind of too much that is disturbing because it may both please and frighten tremendously at the same time. Scary, huh?

It could be scary if I were simply your run-of-the-mill-type person. I am pretty different. I have a hard time relating to most people on any level but the most superficial. The level of relation that is left to public speaking, or mingling, or demanding the highest quality apples and cherries from one’s orchards while keeping your overhead low. With my Executive Assistant, the relationship is most different; I can talk to her, and she always knows how to motivate me when I would rather spend the day with my head in her lap ranting about not knowing whether to cry or head out to the range and shoot every round that I have stored on the property. She deals with my alleged quirks, and stands beside me when I clearly may not be acting as my best self (a rare treat!). And she will not leave! Either she is the most loyal person in the world, or she is a stubborn criminal who has something important to extort me with; I have fired her many times and she always replies with “Yeah, yeah…” or “whatever,” or “No, I’m not. I’m sure you meant to tell me that I am getting a raise and more vacation time.” It is a good thing that she never takes me seriously with those shenanigans, or I would never be able to leave my closets due to not being able to decide what to wear (which is a total nightmare now that my clothes are more than black and white). Hell, I would be really screwed seeing that I do not know how to buy clothes and rely on her to keep me looking spectacular.

And those are just the things that she does for me, personally. Apparently, she is the one who communicates with payroll, purchasing, and all of those departments that make up the Foundation. She says all we board people do is squawk in the Boardroom, demand checks, and make public appearances to take credit for the Earth rotating while she does all of the work. I always counter that she is not paid enough, and we should vote on giving her a raise. Her reply: “You have no idea how payroll works…”

Which is true, I do not. Thank the goddess I have someone who does.

So-So New Look, Shabby (Even for a Hack) Title.

I have been making changes. Many changes. In fact, I had gotten so caught up in changes, that I had completely forgotten that I had this blog. Actually, that is a complete and total falsehood. I was fully aware that I still had this blog. It clung to the back of my brain like a cybertext yarmulke. However, it was causing me a large degree of anxiety. A tremendously large amount.

To begin, I hated the way the damn thing looked. Being unfamiliar with how the formatting thing-a-ma-stuff works here, I am unable to manipulate the design as I was able to back on MySpace. On MySpace, I was a God! I could format the blog’s appearance, and add pictures, and adjust the layout of each blog entry so I could dazzle and amaze! Then MySpace became terrible, and Facebook seems to have something against blogging, so I came to WordPress. I came to WordPress where I saw things like CSS and strange empty windows that would allow me to somehow type something in them in order to create a spectacular looking blog. I searched for templates on the web. I did not have the patience to try and figure out anything I found. Sure, there may be an easy way to go about doing things to give me the blog of my creative dreams, but I just do not have the patience to sit and figure all of the subtle cyber-nuances that would help me create the design of my twisted dreams. C’est la vie.

I know I am being harsh, but I already agreed the old design sucked more!

OCD is a terrible creature. It makes life difficult in the most innocuous, but crippling ways. For me, the anxiety of having a blog with dysfunctional pages was making me nauseous; just thinking about the idea of of WordPress was giving me cold sweats at times. This may sound weird. But it was not WordPress, per se, it was the pages that were a part of my blog that had no data and were just sitting there like failed cyber trash or those blank pages that you can never get rid of in a Microsoft Word document unless you get certified in its use at one of those seminars taught by some IT geek from the regional office of your corporation. Certification that is going to be invalid after the latest update comes out a week later.

To avoid the anxiety, I ignored the blog, occasionally suffering guilt from not writing, and more from disconnecting from the words of friends and colleagues that I share this bloggy part of the net with. I managed to log in periodically and keep up with the blog of a Mr. D. A. Adams. He tends to write daily, and I did keep up with most of what he had going on, but I refrained from commenting on things as I have been feeling significantly less that witty, or able-to-say-something-meaningful-y.

I did try to write a few times during this dark period of apathetic writer’s blockage. I have about four lengthy drafts stored up, waiting for some sort of finish that more than likely will never come; I have grown to hate those drafts. While they started out as interesting tales, they now only seem as relics, fossils, of a lost time period that started with a catch line that was the greatest thing since “Once upon a time,” and eventually came to that senseless drivel that you can read in the fifteen or less line at the local Piggly Wiggly or Kroger or where ever you get your groceries.

And then Arabella posted a blog, And another. Two from her that quick was a bit of a shock to my system. And then Apple sent me an update for my WordPress app on my iPhone. The technology that I had been using on a daily basis was starting to remind me about WordPress. That was odd, but a little motivating.

And so here I am today. I decided to figure out how to remove the offending pages (which I did), find a new design (I stuck with a non-custom design, I hate the fucking orange highlights), and that is where I am at the moment: a new look and a shabby title, and hideous, orange, fucking highlights. Shabby title for now. I have decided that it would be a good idea for me to take small steps. And this is the smallest step that I could imagine taking. For the time being. Yet, in that small step, I also took a spectacularly large lunar leap for Xavier-kind; those that know me well, would have seen that right away. What is this thing? It is the picture of myself that I have added to my blog. There, on the sidebar, a picture of me in full color, non-oldtimey or black and white. A picture that further defies convention and shows me wearing a blue, three-piece suit, rather than my standard black, two-piece with black tie. I am not sure how I feel about that one for the time being, I may remove it once I come up with a better title for my blog.

However, my anxiety and apathy does not begin and end with this blog. I stopped training. All aspects of training, I simple ceased. It was easy to stop running because I hate running and can do without that means of cardiovascular exercise. But I stopped lifting, and calisthenics, and stretching, and most significantly – jujitsu. I stopped going to the dojo. I even stopped thinking about technique. The idea of doing anything just crept from my mind and body. It was if my brain decided to go on strike, and my body joined in a sympathetic shut down of operations in solidarity. Next my desire for inane fun left; the Playstation 3 sits there getting dust, the newly discovered verb, “Batmanning,” slowly creeping from my vocabulary along with the Third Street Saints and Ezio Auditore.

“Bonnie Parker”

What I have been doing, is riding my newly acquired motorcycle. Ever since the last one was crushed by that imbecile, I had been displeased with riding. Sure, I was able to replace the mirrors and turn signals, but I felt like I was riding a victim. It felt as if taking her out was a further violation. And then, the gear shift broke. So, I was no longer faced with the guilty sensation of pushing my poor, injured, bikey to her limits unnecessarily.

Fortune smiled upon me and I was able to acquire another vintage beauty. A nineteen eighty-one Honda Silverwing. I named her “Bonnie Parker” after Clyde Barrow’s infamous, but compelling partner in crime. Since I got her, I have added a windshield (which was graciously given to me from a fellow rider, more on that later), and even gotten some luggage for the back so I can carry things, like tools, Monster drinks, and spare ammunition and tazer cartridges. Oddly, one of the things that pleases me the most about Bonnie is the convenient helmet holders on her sides. Once I figured out how they worked (Thank you, Manthony), I was fascinated with them. I have no idea why. It just is what it is… And yes, although the great State of Michigan has repealed the mandatory helmet law, I still wear my helmet when I ride.

I also joined a motorcycle riding club. From what I understand, there is a definite and distinct difference between a motorcycle club and a riding club, I am a member of a club of the riding variety. While I may offend few by saying this, I wish to be completely honest and say that all that matters is that I have a few cool cats to ride around with and learn how to become a more skilled rider. Sadly, I have not gotten to ride with my new pardners, my schedule is being a total bitch. Happily, my schedule has not prevented me from riding Bonnie. In fact, my schedule has become one that ensures that I have to go places, and the recent spate of decent weather has further ensured that I have had the opportunity to ride to those places.

So, I guess this is where I am. I hope that I have finally gotten through those doldrums that I have kept me in a see of apathy, non-motivation, and generally ho-hummity.

Beware the Ides of March

There was once a time where man’s only concern was walking into a Senate Chamber and wondering why sixty of your chums were now stabbing you in the back. Literally. Fortunately, it was not really much of a concern to others unless they also happened to be Roman “dictators” whom had sixty disgruntled Senators (now former friends) lying in wait in a government office with steely knives and murderous intent.

How times have changed!

If you happen to associate with me via any other social networking site, you will have noticed my placing the same soothsayer’s warning on those pages. Status messages. Tweets. Billboards in Times Square and tattooed to pre-tossed dwarves in Las Vegas. All places carried the same warning for all to be wary of this fifteenth day of March.

All places carried this warning in vain. I am certain that most people were not very ware this Ides. I am even more certain that most people that may have read my “warning” (and most Americans) have no idea where that warning comes from. Hell, most adults I have come into contact with lately only know Caesar in terms of pizza and salad. One such person was that elderly gentleman who decided that it was his moral right to turn his wheeled boat out in front of me like he was rushing to the hospital to give birth, only to proceed to drive and swerve in front of me at a very slow speed. I could tell by the confused look on his little wrinkled face as his eyes passed from his blown tires to me, Glock waving out of my window as I shouted “Beware the Ides of March.”

Normally, I would be extremely annoyed with what I may have perceived as literary ignorance. Truth be told, the old man was most likely wondering why no one had come to arrest my tire-shooting ass. He should have paid more attention when Samurai City called for the vote on what The Foundation would consider defense of one’s home and person… However, such ignorance is beneficial on several levels.

The most important of these levels is the ability the knowledgeable have over those who are not so knowledgeable. Sure, information may be power, but literary information is the ultimate power. Armed with such teeth, a body can add a steady stream of insults, innuendoes and other clever Bon mots and your target is none-the-wiser. There is a reason Dubya never challenged people to battles of wits…

Where is this going? I have no clue. But what I do know is that the one thing that I have consistently done when it comes to writing is write a blog every March Fifteenth. And to this day, I have managed to keep my tradition.

Leap Year Address, Two Thousand and Twelve

Greetings and Salutations!

Foundation stakeholders, Board members and Citizens of Samurai City, while I am simply elated to be here with you to celebrate the addition of the extra fourth of a day each year that we ignore save for every fourth year, I am saddened to begin this evening by asking that we all take a moment to remember Davy Jones. Mr. Jones was a good man, a funny man, a man who shared his name with the burial ground of sailors and pirates. He will be surely missed.

With that said, I now present the good news. As it is a Leap Year, it is important that we remember the fact that we are also being lazy; lazy on a scope that has encompassed all of humanity. Why lazy? The answer to that is simple: instead of adding another day to February on a permanent basis, a day that would last about six hours, we have opted to save those hours and bank them into one day extra every four years. In doing so, we have cheated ourselves, and our species.

True, true…that extra day in February would be a short one. More than likely, we would get very little accomplished as a whole. Which is why I would propose that the extra day be a six-hour holiday. Six full hours to do exactly nothing. Nothing! A person could sleep, fly kites, go on a drug/sex/booze bender. What the world needs exactly that: a day that is a holiday with no cultural purpose other than to slack off and not worry about a motherfucking thing.

Now, I realize that some people would want to work, and that some services cannot be avoided. To solve this: triple time. Maybe quadruple time. Yes! For six hours the people that HAVE to be on duty, would get an assload of cash to work on said day. You do not like the idea of cops rolling around in a Benz in their free time while you gad-about in your hooptie? Then behave on the extra day and we will not need the 5-0 up in our grilles for six hours. Besides, if you are somewhere being a complete lazy ass, you should not be getting into any mischief anyway.

So, dear people, as you go about your every fourth year shenanigans and celebrations, think about the benefit and joy that a six-hour jerk off could bring to you and humankind as a whole. Embrace the six hour additional day to February. Strike a blow for relaxation and against greedy day stealing Augustus.

Thank you, and Good Night!

Happy Leap Year!

Happy Hump Day Extravaganza: The Return

Many, many moons ago, in a land called MySpace, I used to make it a point to blog a special blog on Wednesday. I called it “Happy Hump Day Extravaganza” and used the forum to post random bits and pieces about things that had occurred earlier in the week and the week previous. I figured that this would be a good day to return to those lost days and present a new installment for the WordPress edition of my eScribblings. Shall we begin?

Etta James, RIP

There really is not too much to say to this. The lady was an icon with incredible pipes. I will miss her terribly.

The Best Snack…Ever!

This morning when I arrived at one of sites that The Foundation supports, I happened to walk into the main office right as the building administrator was telling a few people there about an incident in Connecticuit. Apparently, a four year student decided to bring the party to his pre-school class and share his snack. Which just happened to be nine bags of pot. Wow! Nine bags of pot. That kid wanted to be sure that his whole class got crazy insane in the membrane! Apparently, the child did not know that the snack brought would have gone over better in the teacher’s lounge, at least they have lighters and the fine-motor coordination needed to roll a decent fatty, but that is of no consequence. The incredible thing is the article that came from the a news site that is local for those particular east coast residents:

MERIDEN — Police and DCF officials were called into an elementary school after a 4-year-old pulled out marijuana during snack time.

The teacher told police the 4-year-old special-needs child pulled out 9 individually wrapped bags of marijuana during snack time.

Police say the bags appeared to be wrapped for sale.

The child is a student at Hanover Elementary.

Police and officials from the Department of Children and Families are investigating the incident.

No arrests have been made.

Really? Nine bags that appear to be wrapped for sale? They are being too hard on that child. He may have been separating the snack for easier distribution to his classmates: “Okay, each table gets its own bag and hookah! We must share little people.” And nine bags? Yeah, right. There probably were many more, but who’s going to admit it? The parents? (“Um, excuse me, but there are actually fifteen bags missing from our stash…”) No there were more than that, they found their way to an after party thrown by a center educator of young people… And this was a special needs kid as well. Perhaps that was his special need! We need to stop hating on people and their nutritional choices. Perhaps he needed to really chill the hell out, and so did the rest of the class. Sometimes the only thing that works is a big fatty.

And no arrests have been made? It is not often that medical cheeba cheeba is bagged for resale and toted about by pre-kindergarten kiddies. Just saying…

Fatkins Eats Humble Pie?

Maybe I was missing something. Maybe the folks that I encountered in the past were misled on the Atkins Diet. Maybe I should have read up on the scheme and learned more. However, that is a lot of maybe, and I did none of the above. My understanding of the Atkins Diet was that you only filled your tum-tum with meat. Eschewing vitamin loaded vegetables and fruits, and eliminating the energy providing carbohydrates was the impression I had gotten from the dieters on that program who screamed its praise, yet still hit a plateau where they lost no more weight. A flock of tired, slightly smaller people, rapidly approaching gout and heart disease to lose the pounds that they worked hard to add to their frames. With no carbohydrates for energy, these tired souls could not attempt one of the most crucial parts of any weight loss protocol: exercise. It helps build efficient fat burning, lean muscle mass. But what do I know? I am just a vegetarian martial artist with low cholesterol, low blood pressure, and the energy to please a harem of nubile wenches (I just felt a little perverse and piratical…this entry was seeming a bit too inoffensive and tame).

But I digress. Where I mean to go with this is the commercial that I recently saw for the Atkins plan that specifies the inclusion of “healthy carbohydrates.” So, score one for the experts and take two from the misinformed puppets of the meat and dairy industry? Who knows?

American I-Don’ts

Do I really need to say more? Pretty soon, the horrible singers will be off, and I can go back to watching the antics of the dumbest whatevers on TruTV. Also, Jim Carrey’s daughter was on last night’s broadcast. She made it through the first audition and on to Hollywood. Jennifer Lopez said that she remembered the chica from the days when Jim would bring her onto the set of “In Living Color” when JLo was a flygirl on the show. And apparently, she made it through on her own merits. We shall see…

And here is a question: why do the contestants who show on one song that they have no talent, insist that they can do better by singing a different one? It never works out with a change for the failure.

Motorcycle Update

So, the saga continues with my poor motorcycle. I have resigned myself to paying for the damage myself. The bastard that ran it over has no intention of paying for the damage, and taking him to court would be too costly considering that the only victory that I would gain is the personal satisfaction of a judgement against him, a judgement that cannot affect his already horrid credit, a judgement that would never be paid.

I saw the bastard and that cunt muffin that he calls his significant other today and asked them about the damage to my motorcycle. I pointed out that October had come and gone, and they had not paid for the damage. That was when I was informed that they did not have to pay me a cent for my “piece of junk that ain’t worth the money I was asking for in repairs.” Well!

Needless to say, I am pretty upset about that situation. However, I do have a plan. A horrible plan. Hopefully, my intention will be clear and their children will not be orphaned. However, I only appealed for the intervention of the Dark Mother. We shall just have to see what she feels is an appropriate compensation to made for my loss. But for the rest of the world: Johnny Benson is a bitch! He destroys biker property and lives in Saginaw, Michigan. If you see him, do as you please. Mind you, I am not advocating any violent acts, that is left to the province of the spirits that should start chasing him in the next few hours…and until he dies. “Anger is a gift.”

And so, that will do it for today’s installment of these Hump Day shenanigans. Have a great one, happy humping!

 

Missouri Loves Company

This post has nothing to do with the state of Missouri. At least I am not planning for it to have anything to do with the state of Missouri. To be completely honest, I have no idea where this blog entry is going, what the intent of this entry may be, why I decided to write this item, nor whether I will publish this article or not.

Before I go any further I have a question for any professional bloggers, internet geeks, and/or language freaks. I know that this whole deal that I am writing here on WordPress is a blog, but what do I call each blog entry? I mean, I switched between “entry” and “blog entry” above to see which one felt better. One seemed a bit long and dorky, the other seemed a bit clerical. Either way, the whole pseudo-alliterative, redundancy of that started to really annoy me. So, I switched to item, which seemed too short. Then I tried article, which, for reasons that elude me, does not seem to apply.

Earlier today, I was on my way to a local college where I am taking a nutrition class. With the mild temperature, sun and cloudless sky, it was shaping to be a pleasurable motorcycling experience. I would call it fahrvergnügen, only my motorcycle is Japanese…and not a car (however, there is an ironic “Axis” relationship here…). Anyway, I came to this intersection which is a four-way stop. As I began to cross the intersection, the horrible excuse for a bitch just turned out in front of me. She was just chatting away on her cell phone, not paying any attention to anything around her. Maybe it is the low profile of the motorcycle. Maybe she was just too concerned with her phone and where she had to go to think that she could have killed a person who was not paying attention. Whatever the case, I have learned to be even more attentive when out riding. It is a strange thing, it is: what you gain in freedom while riding in the open air, you almost have to surrender to paranoia regarding the big things in that open air being driven by people not in the same air.

The Republican party is complaining again. They are saying that this new proposal from President Obama is class warfare on the rich. Now, it is this sort of lunacy that drove me from my gun-toting, wealthy brethren long ago in favor of using my own clout to affect the local politics in my area to suit the Foundation’s and the Rothechilde Estate and Orchards benefit. I grew tired of the hypocrisy that they are spewing on near elephant projectile vomit proportions! They are crying class warfare because they are being asked to pay a little bit more in taxes. But, cutting social programs that benefit the poor is not? And, cutting funding for the public schools (which is where the poor tend to go to school if they want an education) is not? Smashing the unions, sending the “unfortunate sons” to war in foreign lands is not? Wow. I guess I understand. When it involves asking the rich for more, then it is class warfare. When it involves asking the poor and middle class to pay all, then it is sound economic policy. Jeez. That poor little picked on one percent of the population who has all of the cash better hope that the poor do not start listening to what dear old Jim Morrison said: “…they got the guns, but we got the numbers…”

Various

This past week has been a real roller coaster for me. I have been both busy and not busy, annoyed and not annoyed. For the most part, the days rolled by pretty swiftly, but I still had my random bouts of being annoyed and irritated.

Irritation Number One: There is nothing more annoying to me than to have someone talking over me. Apparently, others have discovered that this is a pet peeve of mine and are doing all that they can to get on my last frayed nerve. Really. Is it that hard to respect someone when they are trying to get out a few words? If you really do not care to hear what I have to say, then just quietly ignore me. There really is no reason to stop talking louder and louder because you want to be heard over everything and everyone else.

Irritation Number Two: My motorcycle.

Irritation Number Three: Casey Anthony. I am really tired of hearing about her over and over. We get it, there was allegedly a gross miscarriage of justice regarding her trial and non-conviction. Yet, this is the result one gets for holding a trial in the media and coming to a verdict before the trial is settled. If you were not present in the courtroom, how can you say what is guilty and what is not? The hating needs to be directed away from Anthony and towards the prosecution who must have botched this case if the chica is guilty of killing her daughter. Oops. Did I say “if she is guilty?” Apologies, C.A, there is no if, your peers declared you not guilty…

Irritation Number Four: My Ni Dan belt. It is supposed to be black. The problem: it has turned green from my tying and untying it. The makers of this particular brand of martial arts belt decided that it was a better idea to cover a green belt with a layer of black cloth. This was not a good idea. My belt has turned from black to green, with the only indication of my rank being the kanji embroidered on the belt. While this situation is annoying, it is not enough for me to order a new belt, I know my rank; the deal is that I am sick of explaining it to newbies.

Irritation Number Five: Internet shopping is anal rape. It really is! I needed to order a two dollar part to repair the oil leak in my motorcycle. The shipping for the part was three times the cost of the part. Am I the only person in the world who sees something horribly wrong with this? I went to a local motorcycle shop and was able to order the needed part, it cost about sixty cents more, but the shipping cost is no where near the astronomical numbers being asked for from the site I visited.

Irritation Number Six: Lately, I have come across several articles about proper behavior in threesomes. Why does this irritate me? Because the volume of articles may lead one to believe that there are a lot of hotties out there waiting to explore their bi-side in a naughty, naked romp with some lucky dude and his woman. Yet, these women are no where to be found. Is there some conspiracy generated by the writers of Penthouse that seeks to convince everyone that sexy fun with multiples simultaneously is just around the corner? I think that is the case.

Irritation Number Seven: The heat. It is hot, damn hot. Too hot to fuck. Hopefully it will cool off tonight…

A Few Things

First Things First

My neighbor died a few days ago. I happened to be out checking the progress of the new vineyard and the clearing away of the old, dead trees when I noticed across the way that there were a bunch of police cars at my neighbor’s house. I left the vineyard and walked across the divide and opened the fence that led from my property to my neighbor’s.

I asked one of the women standing out in front of the house what was going on and one of the women, who turned out to be his sister, said that he had died. They did not know how. She had come by the house to check on him and he was sitting at his desk, with a pen in his hand like he was writing. He was slumped over, dead.

"...like a drop of rain, falling to the ocean..."

I offered my condolences and went back through the fence to my vineyard. The grapes are looking great, and the laborers that are cutting the dead, fallen trees into firewood are moving way to slow. I took out my sidearm and fired off a shot that barely grazed the ax handle held by one of the laborers. I commented that had he been working faster, then I would not have been able to pull off such a shot. The laborers began to work a bit faster then. Ah, Capitalism…

He has been gone for a few days now and when I look across the hills and peeks of the apple trees I can see the faint yellow glow that emits from the outdoor lights that are on twenty-four hours a day. The lights used to be white. Now, they are yellow, they add an eerie glow to the vineyards only yards away.

Ellen Garrett, Rest in Peace

I went to visit her at the hospice. She died three days later. I will miss her.

Hooray for Me!

A couple of days ago, I posted a blog. While I was writing this blog, I happened to notice a button on the tool bar for this blog window and it showed a tool tip that said “kitchen sink” or something like that. I clicked the link and slap my dick and call me Seymore Butts, I noticed that I had more text options. I could change the color of the text. I discovered how to underline! Now, some of you WordPress veterans may have known how to do this already, but I was driving myself to OCD Hell because I could not do much for blog formatting.

I even discovered how to make a quote show up inside the blog and be separated from the rest of the text like I have been seeing in other blogs. Now, granted this is not a quote, but I am all excited about the prospect of being able to do these things and want to show off my new skills.

So, now I believe that this site will be even more fun for me and I may even be enticed to write more than once or twice a week. Which I could definitely do, if I could only manage to tear myself away from my Playstation 3. I have become addicted to “Infamous” and still have to check out “L.A. Noire.” Ah, priorities.

Wednesday Night at the Bar

That video has nothing to do with this topic. Almost nothing.  I just like the song, the video, and I wish that my trips to my shrink went more like this. Actually, I just loved this movie. I hear this guy has a new one in the works, I am eager to see it. I wanted to post the video for the opening of this film, but I was unable to find it on YouTube.

However, this has nothing to do with the trip to the bar. Except for the video that I wanted to show that I did not get to show. You see the video has a few really chubby women and a score of monkey men. My night at the bar was greeted by chubby women and strange monkey men. And it is along those lines that I go on with this post.

The night began innocently enough, the plan was to meet a couple of friends at a local bar and have a drink or two and then turn in for an early evening. When I got out into Old Samurai City, most of the folks that I was supposed to meet were gone, and I ran into Baron Outenburt and Ethermagus standing out in front of the coffee shop near the bar. Since the Thunderdome is undergoing some extensive renovations, I had not seen Ethermagus in some time; as for the Baron, he pops up from time-to-time as a friend of mine on the Playstation Network, but I had not had the pleasure of conversation with either gentleman in some time. So, we greeted and proceeded to catch up as friends sometimes do when they have not seen each other in a bit.

Suddenly, our reverie was broken by this dirty-ish fellow who had been standing down on the corner with another fellow that was moving about with the aid of a cane. I had seen the guys down on the corner when I walked up and the martial artist in me was compelled to keep an eye on them. Periodically, they would look down at us and then talk to each other, and then look down at us again. I was wondering if the two were conspiring against us and was now cursing the fact that I decided to obey the Michigan Concealed Weapons Regulations and left my firearms in the car since they are not allowed in bars. Well, this guy calls me: “cousin” (which I am not sure if that was because he had been watching “Lilo & Stitch” and was inspired by the culture of indigenous Hawaiians or because we are both ethnic minorities and the Baron and Ethermagus are clearly not), and asks me for a cigarette. With an uncharacteristic feeling of giving, I gave the dude a smoke and then he asked for my cigarette to light his with. I am not sure why, but I gave him my cigarette, he put his HAND ON THE FILTER, and he gave his cigarette what we smokers like to call a “monkey fuck.”

Be a Proud Bitch!

Ew. He touched my cigarette and I had no idea of knowing where his hands had been. Judging from his overall smell, I am happy to still be unaware. Before anyone starts getting up in my ass about any implication that I am referring to a person who is “houseless,” let me tell you that this was a drunk, perfectly capable, non-houseless mooch of a man who was trying to find a clever way to get something from me other than a cigarette. As I tossed my cigarette to the ground and got out the bottle of sanitizer that I keep in my pocket to scrub my hands in a mad fit of germ avoidance, this guy begins to tell us how his friend on the corner got robbed of three hundred dollars. Apparently, some chick took his money. My immediate thought was that this was a drug deal gone bad, and he was feeling the buyer’s remorse one gets when one buys and gets nothing in the exchange.

After a time, the man with the cane approaches me and asks me if I would not only call a cab for him, but would I pay for the cab to take him to Bishop Airport. You see, he was from Atlanta, Georgia and did not even know where he was. He needed to at least get to Bishop so that he could get on his flight home. Really? First of all, Bishop International is in Flint, Michigan. Flint is about a thirty minute drive from Samurai City. That would cost one Hell of a bit of money and there was no way in Hell that I was going to cough that up to some drunken idiot that gave some bitch three hundred dollars for some drugs. Some bitch that he did not know. How do I know that this is what went down? Before he came over to ask for cab fare, he was telling the smoke-mooch that he thought three hundred dollars was too much to pay for an ounce of pot. At least he is right on that point. Unless he is getting the bomb-diggity chronic. Which he was not getting from some chick on the street in Old Samurai City.

After this encounter, Ethermagus, the Baron and I parted ways and I walked down the street to the local Eighties Bar where I was told that some folks may have gone. I ordered a Captain and Coke, looked around and saw no one, and then sat down to enjoy my drink. While drinking and telling Sister Constance that I was going to send her a text message with a picture of my cock attached (which I did, only I sent a picture of a rooster. Get it? Cock? Rooster? Oh, never mind), a guy walked over to me:

Guy: “Hey, what’s up? So, I see you are sitting here on your Facebook or something and I do not mean to interrupt. My name is Rob.”

“Well, Rob, get your fucking nosy-ass eyes off of my iPhone and two, I am not in Facebook, not that it matters any to you, you fucknut” Is what I should have said, but he did catch me off guard, so instead:

Me: “Greetings and Salutations, I am Xavier A.S. Rothechilde.”

Rob: “So, I saw you sitting here alone, and just thought I would come over and say hi. I was sitting over by the DeeJay.”

Me: “And now you are sitting next to another one. Only I am an Internet DeeJay, and you probably never have listened to my show. That is too bad for you.”

Rob: “What?”

Me: “Nothing, Rob. Just small talk for small people. What brings you over this fine night?”

Rob: “Well, I thought you may need company ’cause you’re sitting here by yourself and I came to say hello and see if you wanted company.”

Me: “No, but thank you. I really hate to be around too many people that I do not know and I think that you are coming on to me. You may try to Roofie me or slip me some kind of Mickey so that you can ass-rape me behind the bar. I already feel naked because I am unarmed; you are giving me the itchy trigger finger that may have me calling my attorney so that I can avail myself of legal loopholes to deal with the likes of you.”

Rob then walked back to his spot by the DeeJay, the non-Internet one, and ignored me for the duration of my stay at the bar. Now, it may seem that I was a bit hard on poor Rob, but I resented the idea that he felt that I had to be lonely and needing company because I was sitting alone in a bar! Yeesh! I can do whatever the fuck I want, and part of that fucking want is to go out, watch people, and be a hermit in public if I choose to do so. I would have been more than happy to have Rob join me for a drink and conversation, I do enjoy meeting people every once and a while, but his arrogance in assuming that I needed company? For all he knew, my “Facebook” fun could have been me asking where the Hell my crew was or me watching porn while I enjoyed my tasty beverage.

Apparently, we are turning into a culture where it is not okay to be by yourself in public.

Warning: This Post Contains Many Penii

Lately, I have been overwhelmed by penis. Many women will tell you that men only think about their dicks, but that is not really true. We tend the pass most of the day without paying much attention to the trouser mouse unless we have to go to the restroom or if something “motivating” happens to pass by. However, the sad case is, the fellow is often neglected unless we need it for a wank or some other thing. You would think that it would be something that is thought of more often seeing that it is an appendage; we know it is there, we just do not pay it much thought. Unless we happen to be baseball players and have to give ourselves random gropes to keep the closet homosexuals watching the game titillated. Okay, now that is not fair. I know that all baseball fans are not homosexuals, and homosexuals around the world are probably better off for that fact.

But this is not about homosexuals or baseball it is about penises. The ones that have been overwhelming me lately. Ironically, I do have to admit that a homosexual/homosexual hater will be mentioned later on, and he happens to be one of the dicks that have been overwhelming me lately. If you have an image of me being covered by male genitalia or assaulted by a gang of cocks wearing leather coats, swinging chains, and singing about the glories of being a Jet, LOSE THAT IMAGE! I have not been invaded by schmeckels. Rather, I have been subjected to numerous media occasions that feature swinging meat of various types and flavors. Personally, I blame it on iPhone literature and the Kindle for the iPhone app.

Unneccesary, slightly related, pseudo-porn

Recently, I purchased a collection of horror stories that were all centered on cannibalism. Really. I want to say that the book is called “The Book of Cannibals,” but I am not sure. I could go and look on my iPhone to be certain, but that would interrupt my flow and my ADHD would lead me to other venues…like Lego Star Wars III: The Clone Wars…and this would never get finished. But I digress. One of the stories in this collection is titled “Of Priapism and Big Breasts” or something like that. The quick summary: a hot chick with big boobs lures men via the internet. She lures men with big dicks. She meets the fellows, drugs them, ties them to a bed, and cuts off their tumescent cocks. She then cooks said cocks and eats them in front of the poor guy as he bleeds out.

Eventually, she meets a guy with a tremendous member, who by virtue of being crazy, resists her drugs, ties her to a chair and cuts of and eats her bountiful boobage. Yes, that is quite a story, and the associated graphic is a bit “extreme,” but I do have a vivid imagination and I wanted to make sure that your senses were as overloaded as mine. In any case, after reading the story, I started noticing that I was surrounded by a sea of floppy hu-Man sausage.

I do not include Ally-boy in the penis encounters because I have encountered his cock, but rather because he sets my gadar off as if I were hanging out at a RuPaul show, apparently hates gays, and is an intolerant prick. He is one of the dicks that has overwhelmed me lately. Remember, this is the same guy who created an app for the iPhone that would instruct others on how to cure gay-ness. Apple pulled his app soon after receiving many complaints. Perhaps they did not see that his blog clearly identifies him as a “leading speaker on gender issues.” If they had know that, perhaps he would have been appreciated as more than a homophobic penis.

Alan Chambers: sexy in lavender!

Having cured himself of his problematic gayness, Mr. Chambers seeks to spread the word to others that faith in Christ can help save you from your rump-rangery urges. Faith can help you stop acting gay and just keep up the gay look for shits and giggles or whatever reason you may be trying to pretend that you are a “reformed homosexual.” He believes that sexuality is a choice. If you believe this as well, then I ask you, if you are a heterosexual, when did you make that decisison?

For my next penile encounter, I have to travel back to last night. I watched a program on the learning channel called “Taboo” (sorry, no clever pictures here). This show featured “adult babies,” women who carry around real-looking fake babies, cosplay, and a thirty-six (I think that was the age) year-old virgin. I am not going to address the adult baby people. The man looked like a giant baby, his “mommy” had tits that hung to her knees (kind of like Ogra, from “The Dark Crystal”), and he disturbed me a bit. The other two items on the show…not too much to go on. The one item, I left out, was a transgender person, who is going to get a surgery to change him into a male physically. You see, he was a girl, and now wants to finish the look, so to speak.

Now, I am all for doing what makes you whole, and technically, I do not feel to comfortable including this story in the penis discussion. However, penis was in my face during this segment of the show as a surgeon discribed the procedure involved to create a penis out of female genitalia. A main part of this surgery is the installation of tubes that air can be pumped into for the creation of an erection. A cyborg balloon dick! Resistance is futile and safe to fourteen PSI! His lucky girlfriend is going to select the size his junk is going to be. Word on the street is that she is a size queen…

And that about does it for my pertinent experience with dick this week. I am sure there are others. There are dicks driving about all over the place, and generally showing up in everyone’s lives at some point to pee in the lemonade or spread their verbal smegma about the atmosphere to annoy and pester the general public. However, it should be noted that being a dick can be catching: if you spend too much time around penis you start to behave like one yourself. It has happened to me. What is coming next could be seen as penis-y behavior, but I am who I am, and sometimes, I am a dick. But you can still love me, I am harmless to most.

Yesterday I was Binging friends (Bing is my default search because I am too lazy to switch to Google; so I Bing things, I guess) and associates and I entered my dawg, Manthony’s, name for a search. First, I noticed that terror of language, Urban Dictionary, had a definition of Manthony. I was not amused. I was amused by this MAnthony, however. Oh, Mr. Secretary, if you only knew that skinny, Asian men are stealing your namesake and using it to promote their scrawny frames that they hope to turn into pillars of muscle in the future. After taking a closer look at the spelling of this cat’s name, I observed that he was not really a “Manthony.” He is a “MAnthony.” The extra capital letter really makes a difference on Facebook. Ha.

After reaching this Manthony, however, I immediately stopped looking for Manthonys and could not stop laughing. Really. I had to stop writing this, bribe my secretary to start writing this so that I could enjoy a hearty laugh. I think I need to get a drink to calm my hysterical nerves! This Manthony is like the opposite of the Manthony that I have grown to love and mock.

Random Thoughts and Possible Week in Review

The last week has been a rather busy one. Between my daily tasks at the Foundation, preparing for what will surely be a horrid year for cherries and apples (maybe I need to reconsider the vineyards…), and my chemistry course at a local University. I barely have enough time to explore porn, post random tweets, or enjoy a bit of absinthe while playing the part of a tiny Lego Jedi in a Playstation 3 game. Oy gevalt! I need a vacation.

I agree with the Dead Kennedys. Kinky sex does make the world go around.

It was recently brought to my attention that when the link that indicates a page attached to this site (blog? blite? whatever this is…), a message is displayed stating that the page is not present. Well, it is there. Only, it cannot be seen by anyone yet. I know, I know…I could temporarily remove the link until the page is ready, but where is the fun in that? Just kidding. To be completely honest (which, by my indication could imply that I may not in fact be completely honest), I have been driving myself into a fit because of that page. You see, in addition to my charming sexiness, narcissism and occasional wit, I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Later in life, it was indicated that I also have ADHD. What does this have to do with my page? Well, I have not finished that one page and it has made it difficult for me to sit and write a blog until I can finish that page. That page is a humongous source of anxiety to me. Upon further thought, having to face the prospect of said page has made me really want a drink. Maybe absinthe is soon on the horizon.

I hate to write numbers. Unless I am doing math. If I am writing, I like to write the number out rather than the numeric representation. Mentioning the Playstation 3 because I am compelled to write out the name as it is rather than suit myself and write the number out gives me significant cognitive dissonance. This is what happens when one has conflicts in compulsions. …and people wonder while I like sedatives.

That last paragraph was difficult to write. I know what I wanted to say and now wonder if I was able to properly convey the message. If I was, hooray. If I was not, then obviously you are having trouble understanding me at such a distance. I recommend moving to an Eastern corner of the room, it may help.

What the Hell is going on with all of these people asking for the President’s birth certificate? Really? Have we really gotten so paranoid about immigrants that we have to ask the President of the United States to show us his papers?

Currently, I am watching WWE Smackdown while I write this entry. There are twenty sweaty, musclebound men fondling each other in a big playpen in their underwear. This is entertainment. We tell boys that this is how men behave. Then we are surprised when we find Tommy groping Johnny’s basket while making out under the pool table. Pray out the gay! Why is he gay? I never raised him that way!!! Well, if you give your little boy half-naked men to idolize, do not be surprised if he has a liberal approach to love.

People often ask me if I am gay. I never answer their question. At least, not outright. I typically answer by showing the person a porn video on my iPhone. If it is a guy, I will show him some hot lesbians. If it is a chick, I show her some hot lesbian porn. No one ever gets what I mean. They think I mean that I like hot lesbians in porn. Which is true, but not why I showed them that. Showing the other porn is more personal and like foreplay to me. If I share that, I may want to see you naked.

Well, I have gone on long enough for this evening, methinks. Tomorrow, maybe I will try to tackle that page and stop driving myself crazy about it. More than likely, I will not.