Hey! I gotta do work! No time for blogging! I will update soon I promise! Work work work! In the meantime, check out these links!
http://www.evanjacobs.blogspot.com/
Who the hell is that guy? It's not me, that's for damn sure. Make sure he is aware of my wrath!
Here's a nice definition:
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=alaskan+pipeline
Now I know what to call that thing I do!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Oh my god! I didn't update my blog! Today isn't opposite day.
Actually, I did update my blog, and today really isn't opposite day.
Two things for this blog entry. Nothing really about me. On Paris “Filthy Whore” Hilton going to the slammer.
Good riddance, I say. Some people say it was too harsh a crime. Well, here’s what we have. She had her licensed revoked for driving drunk, which was probably lenient in the first place, and then she was caught driving without a license three times! And, finally, on the third time, they decided to lock her ass up. Now, usually, this sentence can be given with parole, or hopes of leaving early for good behavior, but the judge, my hero wanted none of that. He wanted her to serve the whole goddamned thing. And I say, thank Christ we finally have someone who will stand up and fight for what is right: locking up this spoiled, whining cunt. She has been able to get away with whatever she wanted for so long, and I’m not even talking about crimes here, just run-of-the-mill being a dick to people. Well, let’s see how much of a dick she’s being after getting sodomized by a few horny lesbian fists. Eh Paris? You ready for that? No night vision cameras here! Of course, you probably won’t to be able to see what they’re doing to you anyway. And, after she gets out of prison, I hope she gets terminal cancer. That way, we won’t have to put up with her or people who like her, and her final days will be full of her regrets that she wasted her life being a vapid semen-chugging bimbo. And, if you don’t agree with me, you should take a long walk off a short pier. Then, swim back to shore and kill yourself.
On being a fat fuck.
For the full article and all the quotes I used, go to: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/08/health/08fat.html
So the New York times recently had a scientific article about the genetics behind weight gain. It was really interesting. I wonder if they started off with a study…
“The study was rigorous and demanding. It began with an agonizing four weeks of a maintenance diet that assessed the subjects’ metabolism and caloric needs. Then the diet began. The only food permitted was a liquid formula providing 600 calories a day, a regimen that guaranteed they would lose weight. Finally, the subjects spent another four weeks on a diet that maintained them at their new weights, 100 pounds lower than their initial weights, on average.”
So when they were thin, they were happy, right? They didn’t start going completely fucking nuts, did they?
“The Rockefeller subjects also had a psychiatric syndrome, called semi-starvation neurosis, which had been noticed before in people of normal weight who had been starved. They dreamed of food, they fantasized about food or about breaking their diet. They were anxious and depressed; some had thoughts of suicide. They secreted food in their rooms. And they binged.”
But at least none of them got fat again, right?
“Dr. Hirsch [the conductor of the study] says, ‘they all regained.’”
But at least some of them stayed thin, right?
“There were a very few who did not get fat again,”
Sweet!
“but they made staying thin their life’s work, becoming Weight Watchers lecturers, for example, and, always, counting calories and maintaining themselves in a permanent state of starvation.”
Oh fuck my ass and call me a bitch! Jesus Christ! Whatever happened to metabolism? We all know that skinny people have higher metabolisms, so the skinnier you get, the higher your metabolism gets, right? Right?
“Before the diet began, the fat subjects’ metabolism was normal — the number of calories burned per square meter of body surface was no different from that of people who had never been fat. But when they lost weight, they were burning as much as 24 percent fewer calories per square meter of their surface area than the calories consumed by those who were naturally thin.”
Holy fuck that’s surprising! So surprising I think a surprising conclusion has to be reached!
“And that led them to a surprising conclusion: fat people who lost large amounts of weight might look like someone who was never fat, but they were very different. In fact, by every metabolic measurement, they seemed like people who were starving.”
Ok, so getting fat is bad. Once you get fat, you can’t get thin again. Got it. Never get fat. Sweet. Thank god there is no other study that refutes that theory.
“It began with studies that were the inspiration of Dr. Ethan Sims at the University of Vermont, who asked what would happen if thin people who had never had a weight problem deliberately got fat.”
Are you serious?
“His subjects were prisoners at a nearby state prison who volunteered to gain weight. With great difficulty, they succeeded, increasing their weight by 20 percent to 25 percent. But it took them four to six months, eating as much as they could every day. Some consumed 10,000 calories a day, an amount so incredible that it would be hard to believe, were it not for the fact that there were attendants present at each meal who dutifully recorded everything the men ate.
Once the men were fat, their metabolisms increased by 50 percent. They needed more than 2,700 calories per square meter of their body surface to stay fat but needed just 1,800 calories per square meter to maintain their normal weight.
When the study ended, the prisoners had no trouble losing weight. Within months, they were back to normal and effortlessly stayed there.”
Those lucky pieces of shit! But wait, New York Times, what are the implications of this? Are they even clear?
“The implications were clear. There is a reason that fat people cannot stay thin after they diet and that thin people cannot stay fat when they force themselves to gain weight. The body’s metabolism speeds up or slows down to keep weight within a narrow range. Gain weight and the metabolism can as much as double; lose weight and it can slow to half its original speed.”
Fuck! What am I going to do? Wait, there’s more? They did another goddamned study?
“Dr. Stunkard ended up with 540 adults whose average age was 40. They had been adopted when they were very young — 55 percent had been adopted in the first month of life and 90 percent were adopted in the first year of life. His conclusions, published in The New England Journal of Medicine in 1986, were unequivocal. The adoptees were as fat as their biological parents, and how fat they were had no relation to how fat their adoptive parents were.”
So you’re saying that if my adoptive parents were Kate Moss and a Tree Branch (who has been rumored to be canoodling with her), and my real parents were fat bags of shit, I would end up being a fat bag of shit no matter how much wheat grass they starved me on or how much coke they shoved up my nose? But that’s just one study. How can you say that after only one study? I mean, there aren’t any other—
“A few years later, in 1990, Dr. Stunkard published another study in The New England Journal of Medicine, using another classic method of geneticists: investigating twins. This time, he used the Swedish Twin Registry, studying its 93 pairs of identical twins who were reared apart, 154 pairs of identical twins who were reared together, 218 pairs of fraternal twins who were reared apart, and 208 pairs of fraternal twins who were reared together.
The identical twins had nearly identical body mass indexes, whether they had been reared apart or together. There was more variation in the body mass indexes of the fraternal twins, who, like any siblings, share some, but not all, genes.
The researchers concluded that 70 percent of the variation in peoples’ weights may be accounted for by inheritance, a figure that means that weight is more strongly inherited than nearly any other condition, including mental illness, breast cancer or heart disease.”
—studies. Damnit! I guess I am completely helpless when it comes to controlling my weight.
“The results did not mean that people are completely helpless to control their weight, Dr. Stunkard said. But, he said, it did mean that those who tend to be fat will have to constantly battle their genetic inheritance if they want to reach and maintain a significantly lower weight.”
Well, that sucks. At least you guys didn’t draw out any conclusions from this. Wait! No! No more quotes! No more!
“The findings also provided evidence for a phenomenon that scientists like Dr. Hirsch and Dr. Leibel were certain was true — each person has a comfortable weight range to which the body gravitates. The range might span 10 or 20 pounds: someone might be able to weigh 120 to 140 pounds without too much effort. Going much above or much below the natural weight range is difficult, however; the body resists by increasing or decreasing the appetite and changing the metabolism to push the weight back to the range it seeks.”
But, there might be a saving grace! A few days later, the New York Times added a correction to this article. Come on, big money, big money, big money!
“An article in Science Times on Tuesday about the role of genes in weight gain misstated the publication date for an article in the journal Science describing the biological controls over body weight. The article was published in 2003, not 2000.”
Fine! Fine! Ugh. Now, for my take:
There are a few problems with the conclusions from the studies done here.
First of all, given that genetics determins seventy percent of weight problems, should there be a wide-spread obesity epidemic? Shouldn’t there be the same amount of fat people per thin people now that there ever were? Of course, this would only affect people’s weights on a generational scale, which might be more sensitive to diet.
Second of all, what about muscle mass? A guy who weighs 230 pounds of pure fat vs a guy of the same height who works out all the time and weighs 230 pounds of pure fat and pure muscle is going to have a different metabolism than the first guy. What about that, New York Times? Eh? What about that?
Well, either way, I guess I should just keep dieting and doing what I’m doing. Still, it is a disheartening study. Will I ever be able to really be? I already figured that I am going to have to watch my weight for the rest of my life, so what does this change, exactly? I guess nothing. I will still diet and workout ,like a maniac. But now, the little voice in the back of my head will be even louder. The little voice that echoes what Joe Powers told me when I showed him this article:
“Sweet. I guess you were just meant to be a fat fucking piece of worthless shit.” – Joe Powers
Live in peace, Evanites!
Two things for this blog entry. Nothing really about me. On Paris “Filthy Whore” Hilton going to the slammer.
Good riddance, I say. Some people say it was too harsh a crime. Well, here’s what we have. She had her licensed revoked for driving drunk, which was probably lenient in the first place, and then she was caught driving without a license three times! And, finally, on the third time, they decided to lock her ass up. Now, usually, this sentence can be given with parole, or hopes of leaving early for good behavior, but the judge, my hero wanted none of that. He wanted her to serve the whole goddamned thing. And I say, thank Christ we finally have someone who will stand up and fight for what is right: locking up this spoiled, whining cunt. She has been able to get away with whatever she wanted for so long, and I’m not even talking about crimes here, just run-of-the-mill being a dick to people. Well, let’s see how much of a dick she’s being after getting sodomized by a few horny lesbian fists. Eh Paris? You ready for that? No night vision cameras here! Of course, you probably won’t to be able to see what they’re doing to you anyway. And, after she gets out of prison, I hope she gets terminal cancer. That way, we won’t have to put up with her or people who like her, and her final days will be full of her regrets that she wasted her life being a vapid semen-chugging bimbo. And, if you don’t agree with me, you should take a long walk off a short pier. Then, swim back to shore and kill yourself.
On being a fat fuck.
For the full article and all the quotes I used, go to: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/08/health/08fat.html
So the New York times recently had a scientific article about the genetics behind weight gain. It was really interesting. I wonder if they started off with a study…
“The study was rigorous and demanding. It began with an agonizing four weeks of a maintenance diet that assessed the subjects’ metabolism and caloric needs. Then the diet began. The only food permitted was a liquid formula providing 600 calories a day, a regimen that guaranteed they would lose weight. Finally, the subjects spent another four weeks on a diet that maintained them at their new weights, 100 pounds lower than their initial weights, on average.”
So when they were thin, they were happy, right? They didn’t start going completely fucking nuts, did they?
“The Rockefeller subjects also had a psychiatric syndrome, called semi-starvation neurosis, which had been noticed before in people of normal weight who had been starved. They dreamed of food, they fantasized about food or about breaking their diet. They were anxious and depressed; some had thoughts of suicide. They secreted food in their rooms. And they binged.”
But at least none of them got fat again, right?
“Dr. Hirsch [the conductor of the study] says, ‘they all regained.’”
But at least some of them stayed thin, right?
“There were a very few who did not get fat again,”
Sweet!
“but they made staying thin their life’s work, becoming Weight Watchers lecturers, for example, and, always, counting calories and maintaining themselves in a permanent state of starvation.”
Oh fuck my ass and call me a bitch! Jesus Christ! Whatever happened to metabolism? We all know that skinny people have higher metabolisms, so the skinnier you get, the higher your metabolism gets, right? Right?
“Before the diet began, the fat subjects’ metabolism was normal — the number of calories burned per square meter of body surface was no different from that of people who had never been fat. But when they lost weight, they were burning as much as 24 percent fewer calories per square meter of their surface area than the calories consumed by those who were naturally thin.”
Holy fuck that’s surprising! So surprising I think a surprising conclusion has to be reached!
“And that led them to a surprising conclusion: fat people who lost large amounts of weight might look like someone who was never fat, but they were very different. In fact, by every metabolic measurement, they seemed like people who were starving.”
Ok, so getting fat is bad. Once you get fat, you can’t get thin again. Got it. Never get fat. Sweet. Thank god there is no other study that refutes that theory.
“It began with studies that were the inspiration of Dr. Ethan Sims at the University of Vermont, who asked what would happen if thin people who had never had a weight problem deliberately got fat.”
Are you serious?
“His subjects were prisoners at a nearby state prison who volunteered to gain weight. With great difficulty, they succeeded, increasing their weight by 20 percent to 25 percent. But it took them four to six months, eating as much as they could every day. Some consumed 10,000 calories a day, an amount so incredible that it would be hard to believe, were it not for the fact that there were attendants present at each meal who dutifully recorded everything the men ate.
Once the men were fat, their metabolisms increased by 50 percent. They needed more than 2,700 calories per square meter of their body surface to stay fat but needed just 1,800 calories per square meter to maintain their normal weight.
When the study ended, the prisoners had no trouble losing weight. Within months, they were back to normal and effortlessly stayed there.”
Those lucky pieces of shit! But wait, New York Times, what are the implications of this? Are they even clear?
“The implications were clear. There is a reason that fat people cannot stay thin after they diet and that thin people cannot stay fat when they force themselves to gain weight. The body’s metabolism speeds up or slows down to keep weight within a narrow range. Gain weight and the metabolism can as much as double; lose weight and it can slow to half its original speed.”
Fuck! What am I going to do? Wait, there’s more? They did another goddamned study?
“Dr. Stunkard ended up with 540 adults whose average age was 40. They had been adopted when they were very young — 55 percent had been adopted in the first month of life and 90 percent were adopted in the first year of life. His conclusions, published in The New England Journal of Medicine in 1986, were unequivocal. The adoptees were as fat as their biological parents, and how fat they were had no relation to how fat their adoptive parents were.”
So you’re saying that if my adoptive parents were Kate Moss and a Tree Branch (who has been rumored to be canoodling with her), and my real parents were fat bags of shit, I would end up being a fat bag of shit no matter how much wheat grass they starved me on or how much coke they shoved up my nose? But that’s just one study. How can you say that after only one study? I mean, there aren’t any other—
“A few years later, in 1990, Dr. Stunkard published another study in The New England Journal of Medicine, using another classic method of geneticists: investigating twins. This time, he used the Swedish Twin Registry, studying its 93 pairs of identical twins who were reared apart, 154 pairs of identical twins who were reared together, 218 pairs of fraternal twins who were reared apart, and 208 pairs of fraternal twins who were reared together.
The identical twins had nearly identical body mass indexes, whether they had been reared apart or together. There was more variation in the body mass indexes of the fraternal twins, who, like any siblings, share some, but not all, genes.
The researchers concluded that 70 percent of the variation in peoples’ weights may be accounted for by inheritance, a figure that means that weight is more strongly inherited than nearly any other condition, including mental illness, breast cancer or heart disease.”
—studies. Damnit! I guess I am completely helpless when it comes to controlling my weight.
“The results did not mean that people are completely helpless to control their weight, Dr. Stunkard said. But, he said, it did mean that those who tend to be fat will have to constantly battle their genetic inheritance if they want to reach and maintain a significantly lower weight.”
Well, that sucks. At least you guys didn’t draw out any conclusions from this. Wait! No! No more quotes! No more!
“The findings also provided evidence for a phenomenon that scientists like Dr. Hirsch and Dr. Leibel were certain was true — each person has a comfortable weight range to which the body gravitates. The range might span 10 or 20 pounds: someone might be able to weigh 120 to 140 pounds without too much effort. Going much above or much below the natural weight range is difficult, however; the body resists by increasing or decreasing the appetite and changing the metabolism to push the weight back to the range it seeks.”
But, there might be a saving grace! A few days later, the New York Times added a correction to this article. Come on, big money, big money, big money!
“An article in Science Times on Tuesday about the role of genes in weight gain misstated the publication date for an article in the journal Science describing the biological controls over body weight. The article was published in 2003, not 2000.”
Fine! Fine! Ugh. Now, for my take:
There are a few problems with the conclusions from the studies done here.
First of all, given that genetics determins seventy percent of weight problems, should there be a wide-spread obesity epidemic? Shouldn’t there be the same amount of fat people per thin people now that there ever were? Of course, this would only affect people’s weights on a generational scale, which might be more sensitive to diet.
Second of all, what about muscle mass? A guy who weighs 230 pounds of pure fat vs a guy of the same height who works out all the time and weighs 230 pounds of pure fat and pure muscle is going to have a different metabolism than the first guy. What about that, New York Times? Eh? What about that?
Well, either way, I guess I should just keep dieting and doing what I’m doing. Still, it is a disheartening study. Will I ever be able to really be? I already figured that I am going to have to watch my weight for the rest of my life, so what does this change, exactly? I guess nothing. I will still diet and workout ,like a maniac. But now, the little voice in the back of my head will be even louder. The little voice that echoes what Joe Powers told me when I showed him this article:
“Sweet. I guess you were just meant to be a fat fucking piece of worthless shit.” – Joe Powers
Live in peace, Evanites!
Friday, April 20, 2007
Holy Shit, I Updated My Blog Again!
Finally, a goddamned blog update.
Hey everyone! So this is finally it. After days and days of starts and stops on entries, I’m just going to write one to tell you what’s going on, and I don’t care whether or not it’s funny, but at least it’s good to get it out there. You know what I mean? Well, do you? Hello? Is anybody there? Why won’t you answer me? Oh god. This is it. I’m the only one left, aren’t I? I’m the only human being left on earth! The only one! I better start masturbating to repopulate the globe! But no, wait, the others would want what I have. I can’t let them have it. No. I can’t masturbate. I need to castrate! That’s it, I’m doing it! Here it goes! Ow. Ow. Ow! Ow! OW! OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW! Ugh. Good, that’s over. No more balls. Oh wait, I’m in a room at work with other people. Damnit, I did it again!
First, let’s start with the gay man in the dyke bar: that goddamned mass-murder:
Don’t worry, I’m not going to joke about this stuff. It really is a horrible situation. It’s just so strange, that people like BTK or Charles Manson spend their whole lives killing this amount of people, and one asshole just does it in two hours. I don’t get it. Anyway, here are some thoughts.
Some people feel bad for this kid. Let me just say this about Seung-Hui Cho: fuck him. Fuck him right in his ass. I don’t care what he went through, fuck him. Other people are depressed also, and they don’t do this shit. I have no sympathy for this asshole, and based on what I’ve heard, teachers and other students tried to reach out to him. Even in high-school he was only teased minimally, probably much less than I was. What a dick. That being said, he was a troubled, clearly had untreated mental illness, and felt victimized himself. He was still a selfish prick, but to a certain extent, his own story just adds to the tragedy.
Also, it doesn’t matter that he is from South Korea, and I wish that people would stop mentioning it. The only strange thing is that school shootings and mass murders in America are committed by a predominantly white crowd, and an Asian doing this is virtually, if not actually, unheard of. However, once you start saying “he’s Korean! He’s Korean!” you’re just giving a target for the dumbasses in America to hate. And I love Koreans, so I wish people would just forget about it. He’s been in America since he was eight.
As for the school’s response, yeah, they were probably too late in responding, but then again, you need to weigh the options of causing a panic vs. protecting people. Because, if they had just sent out announcements over the loudspeaker, there may have been a panic, there may have been people running through the quads, and maybe Seung would have shot more people. Maybe not. Of course, they did have a double homicide on campus with no suspect, and they didn’t do anything. Furthermore, there was a convict a few months earlier near the campus and they completely shut down the whole thing. But, the bottom line is that they weren’t trying to have anyone get hurt, they were just trying to go about the matter in a way that was the best and smartest, and were probably overwhelmed by the scope of a double homicide in the first place. I’m sure they should have done more, but whatever it is, in hindsight it’s easy to say what they should have done, and it is probably important to have protocols for situations like this, but people must understand that the university did not shoot those students.
Finally, as for gun control laws, there are a few things going on here. First of all, I hate guns, I think they should be very hard to get and very regulated. Of course, I don’t want King George knocking down my door and putting a pistol in my face without any way to protect myself. I do believe that giving the population guns is a surefire way to protect against a militaristic state. That being said, I don’t think gun laws were the problem here. The students in the classrooms were not all wishing they had guns on them, but were forbidden by the university. If guns were as easy to get as say, iPods, I don’t think that even one more student would have had a gun on them. Second of all, Seung, got the guns legally. Don’t forget that. And, if he hadn’t, he would have found a way. When you want to kill a bunch of people that badly and are planning it carefully, not much can stop you from doing it. Third of all, he did it with pistols, not semi-automatic guns, so much of the arguments for gun control are thrown out the window. Seung was a man on a mission, and there was very little that the government could do, short of actually arresting him.
I have been reading about it and thinking about the victims and how they felt, especially during the actual rampage, pretty much non-stop since it happened. I hate being all mushy like this, but my heart truly does go out to them. They were human beings like the rest of us, and they all had stories, futures, loved ones, and dreams. Even Seung was a human being, and had all those same things. Perhaps he will not be awarded a posthumous degree, but it is still sad that he had to add another body to the massacre.
You might want to check out this stuff, because I read it too. The first one is a reconstruction of the events of the day:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/18/AR2007041802824.html?hpid=topnews
http://www.vt.edu/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Tech_massacre
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6564075.stm
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/18143312/
http://virginiatechvictim.com/
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/20/AR2007042000185.html?hpid=topnews
Anyway, it’s a very sad thing and I am trying my hardest not to joke about it. But, after all, I am a comedian.
Shits:
So, I was just in the bathroom. Actually, I was in the bathroom like an hour ago, and then I came back and wrote about it and then my stupid fucking computer shut off and I lost everything I wrote about it and I am unbelievable pissed off about it, because I lagged in saving every two minutes, even though I usually do just that. Actually, this paragraph, except for this sentence, was written yesterday, but I am too much of a lazy fuck to post a blog. Actually, this paragraph, except for this sentence and the last sentence, was written two days ago, and the previous sentence was written yesterday, but I am way too much of a lazy fuck to post my goddamned blog. Fuck! Anyway, I’m sitting in the bathroom, in the farthest stall over of the four stalls—the one closest to the wall—with the other three stalls empty. So, I’m sitting there, minding my own poop-business, when some douche-bag decides to sit right next to me and do his thing, instead of picking one of the other stalls like any sane person would do. Listen, you goddamned moron, when you are in that situation, you put at least a stall between you and the other guy, ok? I don’t need a shit buddy, all right? I don’t need to be looking at your dumbass shoes while you prove to me how you aren’t shy to be crapping right next to another man. Well I am, and I don’t appreciate you bathroom raping me like that.
Finally, my life!
Here we go.
Graducal Schools:
Dear Evanites, I regret to inform you that I have not been accepted for the Fall 2007 Creative Writing program at any of the schools—except for fucking CCNY! And LIU! And maybe Fordham, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet. And, as I said before, I was wait listed at The New School, so they might let me in eventually as well. Sweet Jesus’ Huge Hairy Balls, thank you! I am so grateful! I’m going to grad school! And CCNY has a good program! That’s right! Eat that up, all the schools who didn’t accept me! CCNY believed in me. CCNY saw the potential I had. CCNY wants me to learn, not to have already accomplished! So, I’m not sure which school I want to go to yet, but I am leaning toward CCNY as heavily as I can, much in the way that Michael Jackson leans in the “Smooth Criminal” video. Now, if I could only learn to read and write, I’d be all set. I’ll keep you updated, ok? OK?
Herby-snerbies!
I did it. Last Monday was the last day of habitual smoking for me ever. It may not be the last time I smoke, but it was definitely the last time for at least three months, which is the time it takes to get over an addiction. I will probably have to smoke at my friend’s bachelor party. But I might not. And even if I do, I am not going to be doing it every day. It would be a one time thing every now and then. The bottom line is that I am never going to buy it again, which leaves me more disposable income. You know what that means: whores! Anyway, this means that I have quit basically everything except for drinking, and I do that rarely. Just once every fifteen minutes. As for the weedies, so far, I’m feeling great, and I don’t quite hate everybody yet. But, if last time I quit is any indication, about three weeks from now I will probably be slightly irritable. But for now, I’m fine. So, shut the fuck up!
Little Glasses!
I did it. I got soft contact lenses, which I never thought I could have. I’m even wearing them right now. I think they make me look gay. I think they gave me women’s contacts by accident. After all, they’re called Accuvulvas. The last time I had contacts was ten years ago, and they were RGP contacts. In case you don’t know what that is (and are therefore dumb, because everyone knows what that is), those are Rigid Gas Permeable lenses, otherwise known as shards of glass you are sticking right in your fucking eye. These soft ones are much more comfortable, and now I don’t have to worry about getting cum on my glasses anymore! By the way, I now refer to my glasses as my “Big Contacts.”
New Dokka!
So I’ve recently been going to see a new psychiatrist/shrink/quack. He’s been doing a nice job psychoanalyzing me and giving me new meds, like Cymbalta. He helped inspire me to quit the herbos. I like him a lot, especially because he’s kind of a nutcase himself. I guess it takes one to know one. I hope he doesn’t read this, but I am going to give him the web address. Anyway, he’s a nice guy. A real nigga.
Comedy!
Still doing it, still working on it, still bombing sometimes, still killing other times, still not moving forward that much, so stop fucking asking!
iPod!
I have a fucking iPod now that works wonders! I love it I love it I love it! Did I mention I love it? So stop fucking asking!
Job!
I’m fucking permanent now! Holy fucking horseshit! That’s why I haven’t been posting my blog though. They look at my internet and see what websites I’m going to, and I, for some reason, think that this blog would be inappropriate.
Girlfriend!
She hasn't figured out that I'm a loser yet, so she's still around! Yay! I love her I love her I lover her! She's the bestest and the biggest boobest!
For Christ's Sake, Enough Already!
I think that’s enough for today and for the last few days. So, enjoy it, you douchebags!
Seacrest Out
Hey everyone! So this is finally it. After days and days of starts and stops on entries, I’m just going to write one to tell you what’s going on, and I don’t care whether or not it’s funny, but at least it’s good to get it out there. You know what I mean? Well, do you? Hello? Is anybody there? Why won’t you answer me? Oh god. This is it. I’m the only one left, aren’t I? I’m the only human being left on earth! The only one! I better start masturbating to repopulate the globe! But no, wait, the others would want what I have. I can’t let them have it. No. I can’t masturbate. I need to castrate! That’s it, I’m doing it! Here it goes! Ow. Ow. Ow! Ow! OW! OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW! Ugh. Good, that’s over. No more balls. Oh wait, I’m in a room at work with other people. Damnit, I did it again!
First, let’s start with the gay man in the dyke bar: that goddamned mass-murder:
Don’t worry, I’m not going to joke about this stuff. It really is a horrible situation. It’s just so strange, that people like BTK or Charles Manson spend their whole lives killing this amount of people, and one asshole just does it in two hours. I don’t get it. Anyway, here are some thoughts.
Some people feel bad for this kid. Let me just say this about Seung-Hui Cho: fuck him. Fuck him right in his ass. I don’t care what he went through, fuck him. Other people are depressed also, and they don’t do this shit. I have no sympathy for this asshole, and based on what I’ve heard, teachers and other students tried to reach out to him. Even in high-school he was only teased minimally, probably much less than I was. What a dick. That being said, he was a troubled, clearly had untreated mental illness, and felt victimized himself. He was still a selfish prick, but to a certain extent, his own story just adds to the tragedy.
Also, it doesn’t matter that he is from South Korea, and I wish that people would stop mentioning it. The only strange thing is that school shootings and mass murders in America are committed by a predominantly white crowd, and an Asian doing this is virtually, if not actually, unheard of. However, once you start saying “he’s Korean! He’s Korean!” you’re just giving a target for the dumbasses in America to hate. And I love Koreans, so I wish people would just forget about it. He’s been in America since he was eight.
As for the school’s response, yeah, they were probably too late in responding, but then again, you need to weigh the options of causing a panic vs. protecting people. Because, if they had just sent out announcements over the loudspeaker, there may have been a panic, there may have been people running through the quads, and maybe Seung would have shot more people. Maybe not. Of course, they did have a double homicide on campus with no suspect, and they didn’t do anything. Furthermore, there was a convict a few months earlier near the campus and they completely shut down the whole thing. But, the bottom line is that they weren’t trying to have anyone get hurt, they were just trying to go about the matter in a way that was the best and smartest, and were probably overwhelmed by the scope of a double homicide in the first place. I’m sure they should have done more, but whatever it is, in hindsight it’s easy to say what they should have done, and it is probably important to have protocols for situations like this, but people must understand that the university did not shoot those students.
Finally, as for gun control laws, there are a few things going on here. First of all, I hate guns, I think they should be very hard to get and very regulated. Of course, I don’t want King George knocking down my door and putting a pistol in my face without any way to protect myself. I do believe that giving the population guns is a surefire way to protect against a militaristic state. That being said, I don’t think gun laws were the problem here. The students in the classrooms were not all wishing they had guns on them, but were forbidden by the university. If guns were as easy to get as say, iPods, I don’t think that even one more student would have had a gun on them. Second of all, Seung, got the guns legally. Don’t forget that. And, if he hadn’t, he would have found a way. When you want to kill a bunch of people that badly and are planning it carefully, not much can stop you from doing it. Third of all, he did it with pistols, not semi-automatic guns, so much of the arguments for gun control are thrown out the window. Seung was a man on a mission, and there was very little that the government could do, short of actually arresting him.
I have been reading about it and thinking about the victims and how they felt, especially during the actual rampage, pretty much non-stop since it happened. I hate being all mushy like this, but my heart truly does go out to them. They were human beings like the rest of us, and they all had stories, futures, loved ones, and dreams. Even Seung was a human being, and had all those same things. Perhaps he will not be awarded a posthumous degree, but it is still sad that he had to add another body to the massacre.
You might want to check out this stuff, because I read it too. The first one is a reconstruction of the events of the day:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/18/AR2007041802824.html?hpid=topnews
http://www.vt.edu/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Tech_massacre
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6564075.stm
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/18143312/
http://virginiatechvictim.com/
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/20/AR2007042000185.html?hpid=topnews
Anyway, it’s a very sad thing and I am trying my hardest not to joke about it. But, after all, I am a comedian.
Shits:
So, I was just in the bathroom. Actually, I was in the bathroom like an hour ago, and then I came back and wrote about it and then my stupid fucking computer shut off and I lost everything I wrote about it and I am unbelievable pissed off about it, because I lagged in saving every two minutes, even though I usually do just that. Actually, this paragraph, except for this sentence, was written yesterday, but I am too much of a lazy fuck to post a blog. Actually, this paragraph, except for this sentence and the last sentence, was written two days ago, and the previous sentence was written yesterday, but I am way too much of a lazy fuck to post my goddamned blog. Fuck! Anyway, I’m sitting in the bathroom, in the farthest stall over of the four stalls—the one closest to the wall—with the other three stalls empty. So, I’m sitting there, minding my own poop-business, when some douche-bag decides to sit right next to me and do his thing, instead of picking one of the other stalls like any sane person would do. Listen, you goddamned moron, when you are in that situation, you put at least a stall between you and the other guy, ok? I don’t need a shit buddy, all right? I don’t need to be looking at your dumbass shoes while you prove to me how you aren’t shy to be crapping right next to another man. Well I am, and I don’t appreciate you bathroom raping me like that.
Finally, my life!
Here we go.
Graducal Schools:
Dear Evanites, I regret to inform you that I have not been accepted for the Fall 2007 Creative Writing program at any of the schools—except for fucking CCNY! And LIU! And maybe Fordham, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet. And, as I said before, I was wait listed at The New School, so they might let me in eventually as well. Sweet Jesus’ Huge Hairy Balls, thank you! I am so grateful! I’m going to grad school! And CCNY has a good program! That’s right! Eat that up, all the schools who didn’t accept me! CCNY believed in me. CCNY saw the potential I had. CCNY wants me to learn, not to have already accomplished! So, I’m not sure which school I want to go to yet, but I am leaning toward CCNY as heavily as I can, much in the way that Michael Jackson leans in the “Smooth Criminal” video. Now, if I could only learn to read and write, I’d be all set. I’ll keep you updated, ok? OK?
Herby-snerbies!
I did it. Last Monday was the last day of habitual smoking for me ever. It may not be the last time I smoke, but it was definitely the last time for at least three months, which is the time it takes to get over an addiction. I will probably have to smoke at my friend’s bachelor party. But I might not. And even if I do, I am not going to be doing it every day. It would be a one time thing every now and then. The bottom line is that I am never going to buy it again, which leaves me more disposable income. You know what that means: whores! Anyway, this means that I have quit basically everything except for drinking, and I do that rarely. Just once every fifteen minutes. As for the weedies, so far, I’m feeling great, and I don’t quite hate everybody yet. But, if last time I quit is any indication, about three weeks from now I will probably be slightly irritable. But for now, I’m fine. So, shut the fuck up!
Little Glasses!
I did it. I got soft contact lenses, which I never thought I could have. I’m even wearing them right now. I think they make me look gay. I think they gave me women’s contacts by accident. After all, they’re called Accuvulvas. The last time I had contacts was ten years ago, and they were RGP contacts. In case you don’t know what that is (and are therefore dumb, because everyone knows what that is), those are Rigid Gas Permeable lenses, otherwise known as shards of glass you are sticking right in your fucking eye. These soft ones are much more comfortable, and now I don’t have to worry about getting cum on my glasses anymore! By the way, I now refer to my glasses as my “Big Contacts.”
New Dokka!
So I’ve recently been going to see a new psychiatrist/shrink/quack. He’s been doing a nice job psychoanalyzing me and giving me new meds, like Cymbalta. He helped inspire me to quit the herbos. I like him a lot, especially because he’s kind of a nutcase himself. I guess it takes one to know one. I hope he doesn’t read this, but I am going to give him the web address. Anyway, he’s a nice guy. A real nigga.
Comedy!
Still doing it, still working on it, still bombing sometimes, still killing other times, still not moving forward that much, so stop fucking asking!
iPod!
I have a fucking iPod now that works wonders! I love it I love it I love it! Did I mention I love it? So stop fucking asking!
Job!
I’m fucking permanent now! Holy fucking horseshit! That’s why I haven’t been posting my blog though. They look at my internet and see what websites I’m going to, and I, for some reason, think that this blog would be inappropriate.
Girlfriend!
She hasn't figured out that I'm a loser yet, so she's still around! Yay! I love her I love her I lover her! She's the bestest and the biggest boobest!
For Christ's Sake, Enough Already!
I think that’s enough for today and for the last few days. So, enjoy it, you douchebags!
Seacrest Out
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The Blog is back! It fucking happened!
Hey Guys! So this will be the first new entry in the new blog. I’ve gotten backed up here, so for this entry, I’m not going to talk about my life just yet, that will be coming soon. I will, however, discuss current events. So, this entry will contain the news over the last few days. I will just include items, some funny remarks about them, and now the new feature, a short joke about the subject that it in the style of a late-night talk show monologue joke, just for fun, just for the exercise. So here we go, jerks!
Various News Items Over The Past Week
Ver-sawch-ee!
Donatella Versace’s said her daughter, Allegra, was suffering from anorexia. So, she’s obsessed with being thin, eh? I wonder where she got that idea. Hmm… is there anyone she knows that seems to put importance on thin women? Hmmm… is there someone she knows that might glorify waifshly thin female super-models? Hmm… is she perhaps acquainted with anyone that worships starving girls that look like they were just released from Auschwitz? No offense, Donatella, but I hope your daughter dies because it’s your fucking fault, you image-obsessed, ugly-clothes-making, greedy, holocaust-denying bitch. Ok? You did this to her. You did it. It’s your fault. So stop holding press conferences and whining about Anorexia like your daughter isn’t the typical person who would have it. Besides, she’s probably fat anyway. You hear that Allegra? You’re fat! Keep working at it! Your buttcheeks are still touching each other! That’s fat!
Now, the joke: So Donatella Versace had a press conference yesterday to say that her daughter, Allegra, was anorexic. Now, she’s worried that this will spread to her other daughters, Claritin and Benadryl.
Hillclint
Clinton said recently that she is a feminist, and if you were to look up the word “feminist” you would find a picture of her. Having read Bill’s book, it is obvious to me that Hilary Clinton is very much behind women’s rights, but I don’t know if I would go so far as to call her a feminist. I mean, that name has connotations. If she’s a feminist, then where’s the flannel shirt? The short hair-cut? The other feminist whom she has regular sex with? The hairy legs? The hairy vag? We all know that Hilary has a nice Brazilian. So, the bottom line is that she’s not a feminist because she’s not a carpet licking dyke. However, she is for women’s rights.
Now, the joke: Hilary Clinton said recently that if you were to look up the word “feminist” you would find a picture of her. She said it’s the same picture they used for the word “pantsuit.”
Leave me alone, Houdini!
So recently, people have been trying to dig up Houdini’s corpse to determine whether or not he was murdered by poison, or died by being punched in the stomach, as was previously thought. However, the wife came out recently saying that digging up Houdini reeked of sensationalism. Sensational, eh? That’s right. Nothing incenses people thse days more than Houdini! I don’t think so. In a efw days, this story will disappear fast that say, oh… you know.
Now, the joke. Couldn’t think of a joke for this one.
I love you, the Netherlands!
Ok, so this one is just the joke. So a dutch fisherman, convicted of drug smuggling, could deduct the cost of buying and shipping the hashish on his tax forms, said the Dutch government. When asked for comment, the fisherman said “deductions? What? Man, I’m so high right now.”
Milk Jesus
So this artist made 200lbs of chocolate into a sculpture of a completely nude and anatomically correct chirst being crucified. Now, usually, I don’t give a shit about art, and this is no exception. However, a lot of other people are giving a shit about this one. One asshole, Bill Donohue, said “This is one of the worst assaults to Christian sensibilities ever!” Oh, boo hoo. And the three hour movie where Jesus is tortured the entire time is wholesome, family, fun, right? I know why you don’t like the Candy Christ, because it’s chocolate. Because that implies jesus was black, eh? Well, you have nothing to worry about. If Jesus had been black, he wouldn’t have turned water into wine, he would have turned it into malt liquor! Ha! BLACK PEOPLE: THAT WAS A JOKE, DO NOT FIND AND SHOOT ME! I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU LIKE TO DO THAT, BUT JUST THIS ONCE, PLEASE TRY TO CONTROL YOUR ANIMALISTIC INSTINCTS! THANKS, BLACK PEOPLE!
Now, the joke. Christian groups are up in arms about a sculpture of jesus, who is naked and anatomically correct, completely made out of milk chocolate. The group said, yeah, we’re ok with most of the sculpture. We were just insulted by the use of the two Cadbury cream eggs and the snickers bar.
Take my wife, please! Then kill her.
So this NYPD recruit was caught recently for trying to have his girlfriend killed. No biggie, right? But here’s the thing. She’s standing by him! She’s sticking by his side throughout the trial. He must have a huge cock, or something. But seriously, is she an idiot? I mean, I understand going back to lover that’s abusing you. There is a strong psychological attachemtn and fear of leaving. But this guy skipped the whole middle man and just went for the final product. And besides, you don’t have to fear him anymore because he’s going to jail! So why stand by him? Oh yeah, huge cock. Anyway, what an idiot.
Now, the joke. The girlfriend of an NYPD recruit stood by him as he went on trial for trying to have her killed by an undercover police officer posing as a hitman. Apparently, she hasn’t read the part of “he’s just not that into you” where it says “he’s just not that into you if he tries to have you killed!”
Welcome Back, Potter
You might think this is a clever Harry Potter reference, and I’m sure later on it will be, or already was, but now, it refers to the fact that three city high school teachers were arrested for smoking weed in front of some Friday night concert, and were moved to other schools. These guys are awesome!
Now, the joke. Three city high school teachers were arrested for smoking marijuana. Hey, whatever keeps their hands off the students.
A quick one. Jennifer Lopez said recently that she wants to drop the J. Lo moniker and simply go back to being Jennifer Lopez. No word yet if she has asked her ass for permission.
Less Jokey items.
Former Bush aide Tommy Thompson said he is going to run for president. I don’t care.
The lone woman on the FBI’s most wanted list was arrested recently. First of all, the FBI is sexist! There should be a fifty/fifty split of women to men on the FBI’s most wanted list. Second of all, without her on the list, when is the Women of the FBI’s most wanted list calander going to come out?
James Doohan’s ashes were fired into space with like 200 other people. He played Scottie on star trek. I want go like that.
Various News Items Over The Past Week
Ver-sawch-ee!
Donatella Versace’s said her daughter, Allegra, was suffering from anorexia. So, she’s obsessed with being thin, eh? I wonder where she got that idea. Hmm… is there anyone she knows that seems to put importance on thin women? Hmmm… is there someone she knows that might glorify waifshly thin female super-models? Hmm… is she perhaps acquainted with anyone that worships starving girls that look like they were just released from Auschwitz? No offense, Donatella, but I hope your daughter dies because it’s your fucking fault, you image-obsessed, ugly-clothes-making, greedy, holocaust-denying bitch. Ok? You did this to her. You did it. It’s your fault. So stop holding press conferences and whining about Anorexia like your daughter isn’t the typical person who would have it. Besides, she’s probably fat anyway. You hear that Allegra? You’re fat! Keep working at it! Your buttcheeks are still touching each other! That’s fat!
Now, the joke: So Donatella Versace had a press conference yesterday to say that her daughter, Allegra, was anorexic. Now, she’s worried that this will spread to her other daughters, Claritin and Benadryl.
Hillclint
Clinton said recently that she is a feminist, and if you were to look up the word “feminist” you would find a picture of her. Having read Bill’s book, it is obvious to me that Hilary Clinton is very much behind women’s rights, but I don’t know if I would go so far as to call her a feminist. I mean, that name has connotations. If she’s a feminist, then where’s the flannel shirt? The short hair-cut? The other feminist whom she has regular sex with? The hairy legs? The hairy vag? We all know that Hilary has a nice Brazilian. So, the bottom line is that she’s not a feminist because she’s not a carpet licking dyke. However, she is for women’s rights.
Now, the joke: Hilary Clinton said recently that if you were to look up the word “feminist” you would find a picture of her. She said it’s the same picture they used for the word “pantsuit.”
Leave me alone, Houdini!
So recently, people have been trying to dig up Houdini’s corpse to determine whether or not he was murdered by poison, or died by being punched in the stomach, as was previously thought. However, the wife came out recently saying that digging up Houdini reeked of sensationalism. Sensational, eh? That’s right. Nothing incenses people thse days more than Houdini! I don’t think so. In a efw days, this story will disappear fast that say, oh… you know.
Now, the joke. Couldn’t think of a joke for this one.
I love you, the Netherlands!
Ok, so this one is just the joke. So a dutch fisherman, convicted of drug smuggling, could deduct the cost of buying and shipping the hashish on his tax forms, said the Dutch government. When asked for comment, the fisherman said “deductions? What? Man, I’m so high right now.”
Milk Jesus
So this artist made 200lbs of chocolate into a sculpture of a completely nude and anatomically correct chirst being crucified. Now, usually, I don’t give a shit about art, and this is no exception. However, a lot of other people are giving a shit about this one. One asshole, Bill Donohue, said “This is one of the worst assaults to Christian sensibilities ever!” Oh, boo hoo. And the three hour movie where Jesus is tortured the entire time is wholesome, family, fun, right? I know why you don’t like the Candy Christ, because it’s chocolate. Because that implies jesus was black, eh? Well, you have nothing to worry about. If Jesus had been black, he wouldn’t have turned water into wine, he would have turned it into malt liquor! Ha! BLACK PEOPLE: THAT WAS A JOKE, DO NOT FIND AND SHOOT ME! I KNOW HOW MUCH YOU LIKE TO DO THAT, BUT JUST THIS ONCE, PLEASE TRY TO CONTROL YOUR ANIMALISTIC INSTINCTS! THANKS, BLACK PEOPLE!
Now, the joke. Christian groups are up in arms about a sculpture of jesus, who is naked and anatomically correct, completely made out of milk chocolate. The group said, yeah, we’re ok with most of the sculpture. We were just insulted by the use of the two Cadbury cream eggs and the snickers bar.
Take my wife, please! Then kill her.
So this NYPD recruit was caught recently for trying to have his girlfriend killed. No biggie, right? But here’s the thing. She’s standing by him! She’s sticking by his side throughout the trial. He must have a huge cock, or something. But seriously, is she an idiot? I mean, I understand going back to lover that’s abusing you. There is a strong psychological attachemtn and fear of leaving. But this guy skipped the whole middle man and just went for the final product. And besides, you don’t have to fear him anymore because he’s going to jail! So why stand by him? Oh yeah, huge cock. Anyway, what an idiot.
Now, the joke. The girlfriend of an NYPD recruit stood by him as he went on trial for trying to have her killed by an undercover police officer posing as a hitman. Apparently, she hasn’t read the part of “he’s just not that into you” where it says “he’s just not that into you if he tries to have you killed!”
Welcome Back, Potter
You might think this is a clever Harry Potter reference, and I’m sure later on it will be, or already was, but now, it refers to the fact that three city high school teachers were arrested for smoking weed in front of some Friday night concert, and were moved to other schools. These guys are awesome!
Now, the joke. Three city high school teachers were arrested for smoking marijuana. Hey, whatever keeps their hands off the students.
A quick one. Jennifer Lopez said recently that she wants to drop the J. Lo moniker and simply go back to being Jennifer Lopez. No word yet if she has asked her ass for permission.
Less Jokey items.
Former Bush aide Tommy Thompson said he is going to run for president. I don’t care.
The lone woman on the FBI’s most wanted list was arrested recently. First of all, the FBI is sexist! There should be a fifty/fifty split of women to men on the FBI’s most wanted list. Second of all, without her on the list, when is the Women of the FBI’s most wanted list calander going to come out?
James Doohan’s ashes were fired into space with like 200 other people. He played Scottie on star trek. I want go like that.
Archived Blog Mar 28 2007
March 28, 2007
Just the news again! (I love you Adie!)
Hey guys, this is a blog entry that was written after the day that I am claiming to write it on. I’m just going to talk about news stories, and keep it short, because I have some good stuff in the works. Here we go, assholes!
Dead Cop!
A retired cop shot died of a self-inflicted gun-shot wound today. However, they haven’t determined if it was accidental or suicide. How hard is that to figure out? I mean, did he shoot himself in the leg or something? Was there a note? Was the gun in his mouth? If the gun was in his mouth, I’m gonna have to call that one a suicide.
Subway Snatch!
So there is this robber who would rob women on subway platforms. He would get on the train and stand between the two train cars, then when the train started to pull out of the station, he would lean forward, take some woman’s purse, and then be on his way. The perfect crime, no? Well, it would have been, if the dumbass burglar hadn’t been convicted of that exact same crime at the EXACT SAME STATION twelve years earlier. So, they caught him. And I cared, but barely.
Boo Hoo!
So to make room for the Atlantic Yards, the city wants to tear down the Ward Bread Bakery on Pacific street. No biggie, right? No. Huge biggie. Guess what happened? That’s right, stupid protesters came and said “you can’t tear down that bakery, it’s historic!” Listen, hippies, New York City is a confined space, and we don’t have the resources to keep every abandoned old building that no one cares about until it is torn down. No one’s heard of this bakery, and no one cares about it, and no one cares about you.
Why?
People gathered around some place in Greenwich village to commemorate some sort of 96th anniversary of some fire that killed 146 people. That’s right. 96th anniversary. Who cares anymore? These people would be dead anyway! Are you commemorating Pompeii? Why don’t we commemorate the death of the dinosaurs. Oh, I remember why, because it happened sixty five fucking million years ago!
Sorry, when I started writing this blog entry I stopped before I was finished, and this is the end result. Enjoy it!
Just the news again! (I love you Adie!)
Hey guys, this is a blog entry that was written after the day that I am claiming to write it on. I’m just going to talk about news stories, and keep it short, because I have some good stuff in the works. Here we go, assholes!
Dead Cop!
A retired cop shot died of a self-inflicted gun-shot wound today. However, they haven’t determined if it was accidental or suicide. How hard is that to figure out? I mean, did he shoot himself in the leg or something? Was there a note? Was the gun in his mouth? If the gun was in his mouth, I’m gonna have to call that one a suicide.
Subway Snatch!
So there is this robber who would rob women on subway platforms. He would get on the train and stand between the two train cars, then when the train started to pull out of the station, he would lean forward, take some woman’s purse, and then be on his way. The perfect crime, no? Well, it would have been, if the dumbass burglar hadn’t been convicted of that exact same crime at the EXACT SAME STATION twelve years earlier. So, they caught him. And I cared, but barely.
Boo Hoo!
So to make room for the Atlantic Yards, the city wants to tear down the Ward Bread Bakery on Pacific street. No biggie, right? No. Huge biggie. Guess what happened? That’s right, stupid protesters came and said “you can’t tear down that bakery, it’s historic!” Listen, hippies, New York City is a confined space, and we don’t have the resources to keep every abandoned old building that no one cares about until it is torn down. No one’s heard of this bakery, and no one cares about it, and no one cares about you.
Why?
People gathered around some place in Greenwich village to commemorate some sort of 96th anniversary of some fire that killed 146 people. That’s right. 96th anniversary. Who cares anymore? These people would be dead anyway! Are you commemorating Pompeii? Why don’t we commemorate the death of the dinosaurs. Oh, I remember why, because it happened sixty five fucking million years ago!
Sorry, when I started writing this blog entry I stopped before I was finished, and this is the end result. Enjoy it!
Archived Blog Mar 27 2007
March 27, 2007
I Love My Life –or—I Hate My Life!—Or, Happy Birthday Spock!
Just the news for this entry.
But first, the news.
Death: New York Assholes Want to Grade Restaurants.
So, in the last couple of months, there have been major health things going on after a Taco Bell/KFC had rats running around in the basement. As far as I understand, there was construction going on, and the rats came out in response to the tremendous vibrations affecting their homes. It got caught on video tape, so NYC shit a brick, and now they are going nuts with the health code violations, because they are idiots and don’t realize that there are rats in every building in the entire city. What a bunch of douchebags. So, what do they do?
I’ll tell you what they do. They’ve come up with the retarded idea that they should grade these restaurants and make the restaurants display their grades prominently on their facades. Yeah. That’s gonna happen. You want to give people the truth? Well, people can’t handle the truth!
Worst of all, here’s the quote from State Senator Jeff Klein about the new proposal: “It will certainly rat out the bad restaurants.” Ha ha, Jeff Klein! You are so funny! That wasn’t a forced pun at all! Why am I struggling to be a stand up when there are people with such massive talent out there as you? I can never be that funny!
Happy Land
So, in 1990, there was a fire at the social club, Happy Land, where 87 people died. The survivors, yesterday, decided to give out their condolences to the 10 Malians who were killed recently in another Bronx fire, where there was the great tragedy of one man losing his wife and his children. So, let me respond for him, as he’s in Mali right now.
Listen, Happy Land, don’t lord your higher body count over those poor Mali saps. Just because they had a fire too doesn’t mean you have to come in and be like, “oh, we had more dead people! You guys suck.” No, you guys suck! You suck, Happy Land! And I am probably the first one to point it out, but to be trapped in a fiery inferno where you burn to death inside a place called “Happy Land” is slightly ironic.
Congratulations, President Edwards!
So John Edwards today (Monday) said “Do not vote for us because you feel some sympathy or compassion for us. That would be an enormous mistake.” Bravo John! That’s get people to vote for you because they feel sympathy or compassion! Reverse psychology is king! Oh man, I want to vote for you and the missus so much now. I have so much sympathy and compassion. I don’t know, but I think I have a little empathy! Oh wait, I’ve never had cancer. Never mind.
Two things though. First of all, you used “for us” twice in the first sentence, and that makes it redundant. That would be like if I had just written: It is redundant for you to use the redundant phrase “for us” redundantly twice in the same redundant sentence, which is redundant. You’re such a redund. Second of all, is it just me, or did you say that voting for you would be a huge mistake? That’s reverse psychology, I guess, but take it easy man. You know how that sentence can be screwed with now, just will ellipses or brackets? You don’t? I’ll show you! Here’s the ellipsis version: “Do not vote. . . . That would be a an enormous mistake.” What? You don’t want us to vote at all. Here’s the bracket version: “Do [vote for me, because to] not vote for us because [don’t] you feel some sympathy or compassion [makes you a baby killer!] For us[, giving up Satanism is something] That would be an enormous mistake.” See? He loves Lucifer.
Where’s the beef?
So in Texas, this dude, Timothy Wayne Shepherd, and this girl, Tynesha Stewart, 27 and 19 respectively, were going out, and they kind of got into a little fight. And things got kind of heated, and Timothy Wayne Shepherd kind of sort of maybe killed her a little bit. And then, you know, one thing led to another, and people weren’t thinking, and hurtful things were said, and Timothy Wayne Shepherd may have by accident just dismembered her and chopped her up into pieces, purely accidentally. And then, almost in a comedy of errors, after a series of misunderstandings and miscommunications, Timothy Wayne Shepherd just got a little scared, and completely in self-defense, he may or may not have barbecued her body parts for two days straight.
And now, they want to prosecute this guy. First of all, don’t you think he’s gone through enough? I mean, his girlfriend just died! Also, he just killed someone! Also, it was completely by accident! Also, hacking of limbs is a grueling task, not to mention slaving over a hot barbecue for two days where nobody thanks you for the hard work or good food. Second of all, what ever happened to self defense? Has anyone looked into this? She probably threatened his life somehow, and then, without even thinking, he just reacted quickly, by killing her, cutting her up, and burning her body parts. And, she happened to die in the process, probably because of some pre-existing medical condition. What ever happened to our civil liberties? Am I not allowed to protect myself if I am being attacked! For shame, America, on your treatment of this saintly man.
Splinter Taught Them To Be Ninja Team
TMNT is number one at the box office last weekend! Good job guys! Good job, Monet, Manet, Degas, and Botticelli! I think that’s their names. Oh yeah, and the rat. What’s his name? Anal Mucus. That’s his name, right?
Marvin Bernard is Tony Yayo
So Marvin Bernard was released form jail a few days ago being he had assaulted a 13-year-old boy last week. Apparently, the boy was just walking on the street, when Yayo and his posse pulled up along side him, jumped out, and pushed him up against a wall. Then jumped back in the car and drove off. Later, Marvin Bernard, rapt with guilt, turned himself into police.
My question is: what the hell is that about? You’re a crappy rapper, why do you need to be beating up thirteen year olds? Pick on someone your own size. I nominate myself. I could use a good ass whooping. Come on, Marvin, bring it on, you little bitch!
Don’t actually bring it on!
Despite what I just said, please don’t come and beat me up. Thanks.
Hermione is back!
So, it seems after I posted that letter to Hermione/Emma Watson that she must do the next Harry Potter movies, she finally agreed to do it. Coincidence? I think not. She definitely read it. Man the world revolves around me so much.
Snoopists!
So, snoop has been denied a visa for doing a whole bunch of shown in the U.K., most likely because he was arrested at heathrow airport last year after he got into a fight. Listen, United Kingdom, if that is your real name, you have no right to keep Snoop out of anywhere. Just because he lieks to carry around guns and drugs and get into fights doesn’t mean you need to get all up in his grill about it! Besides, what better publicity for you and heathrow airport is that anyway? You should definitely let him in and perform music for your snaggle-toothed, smelly audience. Besides, isn’t this a little hypocritical? I mean, you get all upset at snoop for fighting in the airport, but when you decided to invade our country in 1776, we didn’t complain! You guys are jerks. Minge.
Britney is on the loose!
Watch out everyone! Britney is out of rehab. I’m sure she’s fine, because she did spend six hours there. That’s enough to stop addiction, right? Oh, all the experts in the world says it takes at least three months? Well, what do they know anyway? So, britney’s out, so be careful. Watch out for you umbrellas, your babies with driver’s licenses, and of course, your penises.
That’s all for today
Evan out.
I Love My Life –or—I Hate My Life!—Or, Happy Birthday Spock!
Just the news for this entry.
But first, the news.
Death: New York Assholes Want to Grade Restaurants.
So, in the last couple of months, there have been major health things going on after a Taco Bell/KFC had rats running around in the basement. As far as I understand, there was construction going on, and the rats came out in response to the tremendous vibrations affecting their homes. It got caught on video tape, so NYC shit a brick, and now they are going nuts with the health code violations, because they are idiots and don’t realize that there are rats in every building in the entire city. What a bunch of douchebags. So, what do they do?
I’ll tell you what they do. They’ve come up with the retarded idea that they should grade these restaurants and make the restaurants display their grades prominently on their facades. Yeah. That’s gonna happen. You want to give people the truth? Well, people can’t handle the truth!
Worst of all, here’s the quote from State Senator Jeff Klein about the new proposal: “It will certainly rat out the bad restaurants.” Ha ha, Jeff Klein! You are so funny! That wasn’t a forced pun at all! Why am I struggling to be a stand up when there are people with such massive talent out there as you? I can never be that funny!
Happy Land
So, in 1990, there was a fire at the social club, Happy Land, where 87 people died. The survivors, yesterday, decided to give out their condolences to the 10 Malians who were killed recently in another Bronx fire, where there was the great tragedy of one man losing his wife and his children. So, let me respond for him, as he’s in Mali right now.
Listen, Happy Land, don’t lord your higher body count over those poor Mali saps. Just because they had a fire too doesn’t mean you have to come in and be like, “oh, we had more dead people! You guys suck.” No, you guys suck! You suck, Happy Land! And I am probably the first one to point it out, but to be trapped in a fiery inferno where you burn to death inside a place called “Happy Land” is slightly ironic.
Congratulations, President Edwards!
So John Edwards today (Monday) said “Do not vote for us because you feel some sympathy or compassion for us. That would be an enormous mistake.” Bravo John! That’s get people to vote for you because they feel sympathy or compassion! Reverse psychology is king! Oh man, I want to vote for you and the missus so much now. I have so much sympathy and compassion. I don’t know, but I think I have a little empathy! Oh wait, I’ve never had cancer. Never mind.
Two things though. First of all, you used “for us” twice in the first sentence, and that makes it redundant. That would be like if I had just written: It is redundant for you to use the redundant phrase “for us” redundantly twice in the same redundant sentence, which is redundant. You’re such a redund. Second of all, is it just me, or did you say that voting for you would be a huge mistake? That’s reverse psychology, I guess, but take it easy man. You know how that sentence can be screwed with now, just will ellipses or brackets? You don’t? I’ll show you! Here’s the ellipsis version: “Do not vote. . . . That would be a an enormous mistake.” What? You don’t want us to vote at all. Here’s the bracket version: “Do [vote for me, because to] not vote for us because [don’t] you feel some sympathy or compassion [makes you a baby killer!] For us[, giving up Satanism is something] That would be an enormous mistake.” See? He loves Lucifer.
Where’s the beef?
So in Texas, this dude, Timothy Wayne Shepherd, and this girl, Tynesha Stewart, 27 and 19 respectively, were going out, and they kind of got into a little fight. And things got kind of heated, and Timothy Wayne Shepherd kind of sort of maybe killed her a little bit. And then, you know, one thing led to another, and people weren’t thinking, and hurtful things were said, and Timothy Wayne Shepherd may have by accident just dismembered her and chopped her up into pieces, purely accidentally. And then, almost in a comedy of errors, after a series of misunderstandings and miscommunications, Timothy Wayne Shepherd just got a little scared, and completely in self-defense, he may or may not have barbecued her body parts for two days straight.
And now, they want to prosecute this guy. First of all, don’t you think he’s gone through enough? I mean, his girlfriend just died! Also, he just killed someone! Also, it was completely by accident! Also, hacking of limbs is a grueling task, not to mention slaving over a hot barbecue for two days where nobody thanks you for the hard work or good food. Second of all, what ever happened to self defense? Has anyone looked into this? She probably threatened his life somehow, and then, without even thinking, he just reacted quickly, by killing her, cutting her up, and burning her body parts. And, she happened to die in the process, probably because of some pre-existing medical condition. What ever happened to our civil liberties? Am I not allowed to protect myself if I am being attacked! For shame, America, on your treatment of this saintly man.
Splinter Taught Them To Be Ninja Team
TMNT is number one at the box office last weekend! Good job guys! Good job, Monet, Manet, Degas, and Botticelli! I think that’s their names. Oh yeah, and the rat. What’s his name? Anal Mucus. That’s his name, right?
Marvin Bernard is Tony Yayo
So Marvin Bernard was released form jail a few days ago being he had assaulted a 13-year-old boy last week. Apparently, the boy was just walking on the street, when Yayo and his posse pulled up along side him, jumped out, and pushed him up against a wall. Then jumped back in the car and drove off. Later, Marvin Bernard, rapt with guilt, turned himself into police.
My question is: what the hell is that about? You’re a crappy rapper, why do you need to be beating up thirteen year olds? Pick on someone your own size. I nominate myself. I could use a good ass whooping. Come on, Marvin, bring it on, you little bitch!
Don’t actually bring it on!
Despite what I just said, please don’t come and beat me up. Thanks.
Hermione is back!
So, it seems after I posted that letter to Hermione/Emma Watson that she must do the next Harry Potter movies, she finally agreed to do it. Coincidence? I think not. She definitely read it. Man the world revolves around me so much.
Snoopists!
So, snoop has been denied a visa for doing a whole bunch of shown in the U.K., most likely because he was arrested at heathrow airport last year after he got into a fight. Listen, United Kingdom, if that is your real name, you have no right to keep Snoop out of anywhere. Just because he lieks to carry around guns and drugs and get into fights doesn’t mean you need to get all up in his grill about it! Besides, what better publicity for you and heathrow airport is that anyway? You should definitely let him in and perform music for your snaggle-toothed, smelly audience. Besides, isn’t this a little hypocritical? I mean, you get all upset at snoop for fighting in the airport, but when you decided to invade our country in 1776, we didn’t complain! You guys are jerks. Minge.
Britney is on the loose!
Watch out everyone! Britney is out of rehab. I’m sure she’s fine, because she did spend six hours there. That’s enough to stop addiction, right? Oh, all the experts in the world says it takes at least three months? Well, what do they know anyway? So, britney’s out, so be careful. Watch out for you umbrellas, your babies with driver’s licenses, and of course, your penises.
That’s all for today
Evan out.
Archived Blog Mar 23 2007
The Absolutely True Ball Story
Prologue:
I am a hypochondriac and always have been and always will be. On the other hand, I have many legitimate ailments, and as one doctor told me, "the difference between you and a hypochondriac is that you actually have stuff wrong with you." It is also worth noting that I have a "healthy" addiction to marijuana and exercise, although not at the same time. Finally, at the time of this storry, I aws living in Washington heights in the most northern part of New York. The closest hospital to me and the one in the story was Columbia Presbyterian. The events that follow took place circa. March of 2006.
The Story:
It was late Thursday night and once again, I was in my room lifting weights, specifically performing the bent-over row, when my testicles decided to swap spots. The bent-over row is when one stands with legs straight and separated, lean over and pull a large barbell up to one's chest. To clarify, I was lifting the barbell with my hands, not my testicles. As my muscles contracted during one of the repetitions I could feel my testicles cross over each other inside my scrotum as if they were performing a Chinese fire-drill. At that point, there wasn't much I could do about it, because it was cold, and when the testicles switched, they were somewhere between my lungs and my liver. I had no access until several hours later, after a hot shower.
Sitting on my bed, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, I quickly took a couple of hits from the marijuana pipe I keep on my bed stand. I turned on the television and began watching an episode of South Park I had seen the day before. The jokes were still fresh in my mind, and as the pain in my now relaxed scrotum began to well, I was still laughing, engrossed in the episode, oblivious to the intense pain I was about to feel. When the pain finally came to the point where I could no longer ignore it, the idea that my testicles had indeed switched positions re-entered my mind, and I sent my hands down there to investigate.
As my hands took their well-traveled trip to my crotch, the pain was steadily increasing. Going by feel alone, my hands were able to untangle the knotted mess that had been my two spermatic cords. Lying on my back, when the testicles were untied, I experienced a feeling of relief so massive, it was if I had defecated after holding my fecal matter in for a number of years. That feeling multiplied by one thousand.
I sighed and exhaled. The sensation of relief from this kind of testicular pain was sensational and all-encompassing, as if I was melting into a puddle of pure contentment. Far off in the background, I could hear the tinny voice of the pain still lingering, reminding me of the ordeal I had just survived. The lingering voice did not dissipate, however. Growing from a small vestigal yelp to a blood curdling scream, the pain rushed back to my testicles. The pain was similar to the one before, but this one was sharper, deeper, and throbbing. My eyes opened as I thought that perhaps a microscopic nuclear device had been detonated inside my bladder. I forced myself up and off the bed. Blood began rushing from my head, and I became dizzy. Reaching for my phone, I began calculating the price of having an ambulance come. Having not died yet, I decided not to call emergency and call the next best thing: my father.
It was now around one am on Friday morning, and as my dad picked up the phone, I realized I had once again broken my own rule of not talking to my parents when I'm high. However, the testicular pain took first priority, and the conversation had to happen. While I lay in bed moaning, he went onto the internet and did some quick research on testicular pain and the crossing of spermatic cords.
The reaction was not as I had hoped. "Well, maybe you should go to the hospital." Although to me, it sounded much more like he was saying, "Well, maybe you won't have kids." Great. Just great. I asked him if I should get an ambulance, but my father, a loving man said, "No, just take a cab."
I walked up the street towards the intersection that was a veritable cornucopia of cabs. I no longer felt like a single entity. It wasn't only me walking up the street, but it was me with my testicles. The pain was still immense, and I couldn't help but wonder why the testicles had decided to pull such a stunt as that. "Come on, guys," I thought. "What did I ever do to you?" I had never let them get kicked or punched or sucked on too hard. Maybe they were angry that I had recently been giving them regular haircuts. Maybe they were just jerks. Either way, I they needed to get in line.
It was around this time that I noticed how much my stomach was hurting. Of course, there was the lower stomach pain that is associated with testicular trauma, but there was also a bloating gas pain.
For the last few weeks, I had been drinking weight loss shakes at night that are effective only because they are filled with air, and fill you very easily. The drawback is that they increase anal output to an exponential degree. On top of the testicular pain, nature was calling with vehemence.
I got in a taxi cab and told the driver to take me to the emergency room, which was four blocks and literally one minute away. I gave him five dollars and went into the hospital's ER waiting area. After discussing the unfortunate circumstances relating to my testicles to three surprised people, I was admitted into the ER.
A cute nurse around my age came up to me and asked me what the problem was. At this point, I had two choices: lie to her or ruin my chances of ever having an intimate moment with her. Although my brain pleaded with me to lie, my testicles won the argument. It was quite a role reversal. Immediately, I was hooked up to an IV, which delighted me because it confirmed that I was not being my usual hypochondriac self. I was asked to give a urine sample, which I refused. Given the nature of my affliction (the brewing volcano in my stomach, not the nuclear wasteland in my scrotum), I was worried that if I urinated, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from passing all of my waste and then all of my internal organs, or at least, the two organs which had landed me in the hospital in the first place. She put me in a hospital bed and told me to wait there. Before she left, I asked her a question that had been plaguing the back of my mind.
"Considering I just ate, if I had to go into surgery and receive anesthetics, am I going to shit myself?" She told me that we would cross that bridge when we came to it. Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one about to drop a load in her pants.
I sat back and tried to relax. Half the time I had to close my eyes and ignore the intense testicular pain. The other half, I had to close my eyes and ignore the intense gas pain. Then the doctor came in.
He was a young, attractive, twenty-something Jew. His appearance was so surprising to me that my first question was if he was a student or a nurse. "No, I'm a doctor," he replied. But then he added, "I'm in my first year of residency." As much as I didn't want this punk rookie handling such sensitive organs, I was sure that one wet-behind-the-ear, gumshoe quack was better than no wet-behind-the-ears, gumshoe quacks. I described the problem to him, in my own words.
"So I'm working out, right? Doing bent-over lat pulls, right? Then, my fucking balls get twisted together! But I couldn't do anything at first, 'cause they were still way up inside my body.
Finally, a few hours later, I was able to untwist them, and man, you don't know relief until you have untwisted your balls!" And of course I then described to him what happened afterwards and why I was now in the emergency room. He asked me about some of medical history and looked in my eyes and questioned me about my marijuana usage. I explained to him that I had been smoking everyday for the last six years and knew what the fuck I was doing and that it had nothing to do with the testicles. He seemed to understand.
He then told me to drop my pants so that "we" could have a look at them. Now, most of the time, when a grown man asks if he can look at my nuts, the answer is going to be "No." Or perhaps a firmer, "No. Not on the first date! What, do you think I'm a slut?"
The examination was as short as it was embarrassing. He told me to get back on the table, and then the real fun began.
"Ok, Evan. We're going to need to get a stool sample."
Ahhh… Finally, relief!
"Ok, so should I just go the bathroom or…"
"No, I can just do it right here," he replied simply.
I heard what he said, but it took a second to register what he meant.
I had recently been working on a comedy bit about my anus, and the fact that nothing had ever entered it. I had done research on this, including calling both of my surprised parents and asking them about the first six years of my life. As far as I could tell, I was an anal virgin, and I planned on keeping it that way. Suddenly, this 24 year streak would be broken. Not by a fellow inmate or an imaginative girlfriend, but by a trustworthy male doctor. I voiced my opinion.
"Oh, God damn it!" I thought about refusing it for a second, but it was clearly the only choice.
"Fine! Be gentle."
Before I was anally penetrated, I had a fear that, because I was so gassy and backed up and was clenching my sphincter tightly, any insertion to disturb the tender balance would result in a spray of feces not unlike Old Faithful. I clenched my body in anticipation.
The greasy finger slid in and wiggled around like a curious earthworm—with knuckles. While it was inside me, I realized that it wasn't nearly bad as I had thought. All my hydrocarbons were still in my system, there were no leaks, no flesh was torn, and, if I had been a different person born in a different place in a different time, it would have felt good. The finger came out, along with a large amount of my dignity, and apparently, a small amount of feces to analyze. The streak was broken. I had lost my "bumginity." Dejectedly wiping my butthole as the doctor left, I said the only thing I could think to say:
"Call me!"
Still, that guy's finger was about eight and a half inches long. And it was really veiny too.
Minutes later the doctor came back with good news. I didn't have any hemorrhoids, polyps, or symptoms of colon cancer. Of course, I hadn't though that I did have these things, but I trying to find the silver lining from the situation. The man who had put his finger in my anus told me that there was another step to take. I was going to have to get an ultra-sound done to my nutsack. I thanked him, and he put in the order for me to be wheeled over to the ultrasound.
I moved into the wheel chair and sat there, alone with my thoughts and my searing gas pain, thinking about how much had changed about me in the last few minutes. The testicular pain, however, did not want to be ignored, and I became distracted. I looked around to see the young nurses talking with each other about such mundane things as their own lives. I found myself furious that they weren't in deep mourning for the traumatic events that had just taken place. Furthermore, I was angry because, in an ER, there is a certain amount of professionalism you must maintain in front of patients. I didn't care what they do in their spare time, whether it's monopoly in the OR, spin the bottle in the supply closet, or naked twister in the pharmacy, when one is in front of a patient, one must pretend that one cares about ones job.
At some point, after just sitting there, the cute doctor-man looked around the ER.
"Hey! Is someone going to take this patient to Ultrasound?"
Yes, the cute doctor was my hero. He was my knight in shining armor. My savior. My Christ. And in that instant, I was a homosexual. I wanted nothing else than to make love to that doctor for being so kind and caring to me. It was too bad I couldn't because of my severe genital pain.
The nurses looked at each other, obviously trying their hardest to not acknowledge my presence in the room.
"I don't want to take him."
"Me neither."
"Don't look at me."
The doctor was getting angry, and pointed at someone and told him to take me to the Ultrasound. He was a young Hispanic man in a large black T-shirt that had a skull on it. He walked over and grabbed the back of my chair, obviously hating his job or life, or whatever it was that made him into such an aloof creep.
He pushed my and my chair for what seemed to be miles to the other part of the hospital. The whole while, I tried to make small talk with him, but my efforts at easing the awkwardness went unanswered. It was around three am, and the hospital halls were empty, so as he pushed me around, it was only we two, with no one else to walk by or make me feel like I wasn't in some sort of horrible nightmare where up is down and left testicle is right testicle. The nice young man dropped me off in the Doppler Imaging area, and went back to doing whatever it is he actually does. May Jesus (read "hey zeus") bless him.
So, there I sat, waiting to be ultra sounded, as a couple nurses and janitors came to the area, sat down in the couches of the waiting area, and proceeded to watch a movie. Apparently, this is what happens late at night in hospitals. People watch movies while millions are without health insurance. After about fifteen minutes of "jarhead," a youngish, also attractive man came and took me into the ultrasound room.
I relayed the story to him for what seemed to be the billionth time. He told me to take off my pants and pull out my wiener and nuts. I was surprised that the ultrasound couldn't see through fabrics and clothing, even though it could see through skin. I told him that, and he informed me that it couldn't, I would have to remove my wiener. To which I responded that I had thought the ultrasound would be a stronger device than that, expressed in the words "Damn, that shit is weak as fuck!" He laughed, and we proceeded.
So, I was to take out my penis and testicles and lay on my back. Then he gave me one towel to go under my nuts, so as to prop them up for the best vantage point, as if they were being displayed in a museum, and another towel to put over my penis, which was laying against my stomach, pointed towards my head, like a checkmated chess king. Of course, I was very thankful that he had given me this other towel to cover my penis. He was thoughtful enough to make sure I wasn't embarrassed, because talking at length about my junk to everyone in the hospital for two hours and them showing him my balls and letting him touch them like he was shopping for produce was fine, but if he had accidentally seen my penis, then I would have been embarrassed.
He did the test, and of course I asked the question: "Is it a boy or a girl?" He laughed. Then I asked him if he'd every heard that one before, and he told me that he had only heard it about a trillion times. Of course, I wasn't on my A material, because I was in severe testicular pain.
The young Hispanic man magically appeared and took me back to the ER. The trip back was almost identical to the trip there in every aspect, instead this time we were going the other way down the hall. He then left again, going back to doing whatever it is he actually does.
The cute doctor was back. My love told me the prognosis, and it was good. There was blood flow to both my testicles, and it seemed that they had come out of this unharmed. He that if this type of thing happens again, they might have to sow the balls to the sides of the sack, but even though that procedure sounded very, very attractive, it probably wouldn't have to occur. There was only one thing left: the urine sample. I nodded that I understood, and then shook hands with the doctor—the doctor who had violated me and stolen my heart—and said goodbye to him forever. He still haunts my dreams.
The attractive nurse, who had, by now, told all her friends about why they should never date me, asked me if I was ready to give my urine sample. Still reeling from the gas pain, I agreed, but asked the simple question of whether or not I could lock the bathroom door. She said that I could, and it was the best news I had heard all night. I got out of the chair, headed for the bathroom, waddling like a penguin in order to keep my buttocks from literally exploding.
I sat down on the toilet and urinated into the cup and put it aside. Now was the moment I had been waiting for. I unclenched my sphincter and let nature take its course. What followed next was a fart. Not just any fart, mind you, but the longest fart I have ever experienced, heard of, or thought was possible. The fart lasted about twelve seconds. Now, that doesn't sound like a long time, but read the following out loud. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. Fiev Mississippi. Six Mississippi. Seven Mississippi. Eight Mississippi. Nine Mississippi. Ten Mississippi. Eleven Mississippi. Twelve Mississippi.
Good. Now realize that that whole time was one powerful, relieving fart. It was a fart for the ages. It was like World War II, but a fart, like World Fart II. Or Fart War II. Or World War Fart. Or Fart Fart Fart. Yeah, the last one.
The urine test was complete. The gas was passed. The balls were fine, and I was discharged around 3:30 am. I walked out of the hospital, feeling much better, and headed back towards my apartment. The cold air whipped through my hair, and brushed lightly on my recovering testicles, reminding me of the intense pain I had felt so soon before. There was still a dull, throbbing pain, but it was manageable. The darkness of the sky and the brightness of the street lights underlined the dichotomy between life and death, sleep and lucidity, truth and lies, and left testicle and right testicle.
Epilogue:
The next few days I spent a lot of time playing with my testicles, and not how I usually play with them. I was analyzing them for damage and compulsively checking that they hadn't been twisted. In fact, I was acting rather rough with them, almost like someone picking at a scab. I kept flipping the left one over and over again, and in my mind, I felt like I was playing tether ball, but instead of the tether ball pole it was spermatic cord. The pain remained for a few days. Maybe I shouldn't have used that hammer.
I saw my primary care physician, and she referred me to a urologist. I set up an appointment with him, and waiting. When one is in testicular pain, it is surprising to see how many times you are reminded about the existence of the testicles. It is virtually not stop. People were referencing testicles left and right, it seemed, and sometimes it wasn't that blatant. As I got on the train platform to go to my urologist, a man walked by my with a plastic bag that continued only two oranges. I wanted to look skyward and say, "Yeah god, I get it. Ok?"
So it turned out, after many anonymous people fondled and caressed my balls, that there is nothing seriously wrong with me, and I will be able to have kids. I still get some pains today, but it seems that everything is doing well with them. I have made some changes to my life to accommodate my testicles. Actually, I have only made one change, and that is I no longer perform the bent-over row, the exercise that got me in trouble in the first place. I hope you have enjoyed this story, and for the love of god, please don't tell anyone about it, it's very embarrassing.
Prologue:
I am a hypochondriac and always have been and always will be. On the other hand, I have many legitimate ailments, and as one doctor told me, "the difference between you and a hypochondriac is that you actually have stuff wrong with you." It is also worth noting that I have a "healthy" addiction to marijuana and exercise, although not at the same time. Finally, at the time of this storry, I aws living in Washington heights in the most northern part of New York. The closest hospital to me and the one in the story was Columbia Presbyterian. The events that follow took place circa. March of 2006.
The Story:
It was late Thursday night and once again, I was in my room lifting weights, specifically performing the bent-over row, when my testicles decided to swap spots. The bent-over row is when one stands with legs straight and separated, lean over and pull a large barbell up to one's chest. To clarify, I was lifting the barbell with my hands, not my testicles. As my muscles contracted during one of the repetitions I could feel my testicles cross over each other inside my scrotum as if they were performing a Chinese fire-drill. At that point, there wasn't much I could do about it, because it was cold, and when the testicles switched, they were somewhere between my lungs and my liver. I had no access until several hours later, after a hot shower.
Sitting on my bed, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, I quickly took a couple of hits from the marijuana pipe I keep on my bed stand. I turned on the television and began watching an episode of South Park I had seen the day before. The jokes were still fresh in my mind, and as the pain in my now relaxed scrotum began to well, I was still laughing, engrossed in the episode, oblivious to the intense pain I was about to feel. When the pain finally came to the point where I could no longer ignore it, the idea that my testicles had indeed switched positions re-entered my mind, and I sent my hands down there to investigate.
As my hands took their well-traveled trip to my crotch, the pain was steadily increasing. Going by feel alone, my hands were able to untangle the knotted mess that had been my two spermatic cords. Lying on my back, when the testicles were untied, I experienced a feeling of relief so massive, it was if I had defecated after holding my fecal matter in for a number of years. That feeling multiplied by one thousand.
I sighed and exhaled. The sensation of relief from this kind of testicular pain was sensational and all-encompassing, as if I was melting into a puddle of pure contentment. Far off in the background, I could hear the tinny voice of the pain still lingering, reminding me of the ordeal I had just survived. The lingering voice did not dissipate, however. Growing from a small vestigal yelp to a blood curdling scream, the pain rushed back to my testicles. The pain was similar to the one before, but this one was sharper, deeper, and throbbing. My eyes opened as I thought that perhaps a microscopic nuclear device had been detonated inside my bladder. I forced myself up and off the bed. Blood began rushing from my head, and I became dizzy. Reaching for my phone, I began calculating the price of having an ambulance come. Having not died yet, I decided not to call emergency and call the next best thing: my father.
It was now around one am on Friday morning, and as my dad picked up the phone, I realized I had once again broken my own rule of not talking to my parents when I'm high. However, the testicular pain took first priority, and the conversation had to happen. While I lay in bed moaning, he went onto the internet and did some quick research on testicular pain and the crossing of spermatic cords.
The reaction was not as I had hoped. "Well, maybe you should go to the hospital." Although to me, it sounded much more like he was saying, "Well, maybe you won't have kids." Great. Just great. I asked him if I should get an ambulance, but my father, a loving man said, "No, just take a cab."
I walked up the street towards the intersection that was a veritable cornucopia of cabs. I no longer felt like a single entity. It wasn't only me walking up the street, but it was me with my testicles. The pain was still immense, and I couldn't help but wonder why the testicles had decided to pull such a stunt as that. "Come on, guys," I thought. "What did I ever do to you?" I had never let them get kicked or punched or sucked on too hard. Maybe they were angry that I had recently been giving them regular haircuts. Maybe they were just jerks. Either way, I they needed to get in line.
It was around this time that I noticed how much my stomach was hurting. Of course, there was the lower stomach pain that is associated with testicular trauma, but there was also a bloating gas pain.
For the last few weeks, I had been drinking weight loss shakes at night that are effective only because they are filled with air, and fill you very easily. The drawback is that they increase anal output to an exponential degree. On top of the testicular pain, nature was calling with vehemence.
I got in a taxi cab and told the driver to take me to the emergency room, which was four blocks and literally one minute away. I gave him five dollars and went into the hospital's ER waiting area. After discussing the unfortunate circumstances relating to my testicles to three surprised people, I was admitted into the ER.
A cute nurse around my age came up to me and asked me what the problem was. At this point, I had two choices: lie to her or ruin my chances of ever having an intimate moment with her. Although my brain pleaded with me to lie, my testicles won the argument. It was quite a role reversal. Immediately, I was hooked up to an IV, which delighted me because it confirmed that I was not being my usual hypochondriac self. I was asked to give a urine sample, which I refused. Given the nature of my affliction (the brewing volcano in my stomach, not the nuclear wasteland in my scrotum), I was worried that if I urinated, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from passing all of my waste and then all of my internal organs, or at least, the two organs which had landed me in the hospital in the first place. She put me in a hospital bed and told me to wait there. Before she left, I asked her a question that had been plaguing the back of my mind.
"Considering I just ate, if I had to go into surgery and receive anesthetics, am I going to shit myself?" She told me that we would cross that bridge when we came to it. Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one about to drop a load in her pants.
I sat back and tried to relax. Half the time I had to close my eyes and ignore the intense testicular pain. The other half, I had to close my eyes and ignore the intense gas pain. Then the doctor came in.
He was a young, attractive, twenty-something Jew. His appearance was so surprising to me that my first question was if he was a student or a nurse. "No, I'm a doctor," he replied. But then he added, "I'm in my first year of residency." As much as I didn't want this punk rookie handling such sensitive organs, I was sure that one wet-behind-the-ear, gumshoe quack was better than no wet-behind-the-ears, gumshoe quacks. I described the problem to him, in my own words.
"So I'm working out, right? Doing bent-over lat pulls, right? Then, my fucking balls get twisted together! But I couldn't do anything at first, 'cause they were still way up inside my body.
Finally, a few hours later, I was able to untwist them, and man, you don't know relief until you have untwisted your balls!" And of course I then described to him what happened afterwards and why I was now in the emergency room. He asked me about some of medical history and looked in my eyes and questioned me about my marijuana usage. I explained to him that I had been smoking everyday for the last six years and knew what the fuck I was doing and that it had nothing to do with the testicles. He seemed to understand.
He then told me to drop my pants so that "we" could have a look at them. Now, most of the time, when a grown man asks if he can look at my nuts, the answer is going to be "No." Or perhaps a firmer, "No. Not on the first date! What, do you think I'm a slut?"
The examination was as short as it was embarrassing. He told me to get back on the table, and then the real fun began.
"Ok, Evan. We're going to need to get a stool sample."
Ahhh… Finally, relief!
"Ok, so should I just go the bathroom or…"
"No, I can just do it right here," he replied simply.
I heard what he said, but it took a second to register what he meant.
I had recently been working on a comedy bit about my anus, and the fact that nothing had ever entered it. I had done research on this, including calling both of my surprised parents and asking them about the first six years of my life. As far as I could tell, I was an anal virgin, and I planned on keeping it that way. Suddenly, this 24 year streak would be broken. Not by a fellow inmate or an imaginative girlfriend, but by a trustworthy male doctor. I voiced my opinion.
"Oh, God damn it!" I thought about refusing it for a second, but it was clearly the only choice.
"Fine! Be gentle."
Before I was anally penetrated, I had a fear that, because I was so gassy and backed up and was clenching my sphincter tightly, any insertion to disturb the tender balance would result in a spray of feces not unlike Old Faithful. I clenched my body in anticipation.
The greasy finger slid in and wiggled around like a curious earthworm—with knuckles. While it was inside me, I realized that it wasn't nearly bad as I had thought. All my hydrocarbons were still in my system, there were no leaks, no flesh was torn, and, if I had been a different person born in a different place in a different time, it would have felt good. The finger came out, along with a large amount of my dignity, and apparently, a small amount of feces to analyze. The streak was broken. I had lost my "bumginity." Dejectedly wiping my butthole as the doctor left, I said the only thing I could think to say:
"Call me!"
Still, that guy's finger was about eight and a half inches long. And it was really veiny too.
Minutes later the doctor came back with good news. I didn't have any hemorrhoids, polyps, or symptoms of colon cancer. Of course, I hadn't though that I did have these things, but I trying to find the silver lining from the situation. The man who had put his finger in my anus told me that there was another step to take. I was going to have to get an ultra-sound done to my nutsack. I thanked him, and he put in the order for me to be wheeled over to the ultrasound.
I moved into the wheel chair and sat there, alone with my thoughts and my searing gas pain, thinking about how much had changed about me in the last few minutes. The testicular pain, however, did not want to be ignored, and I became distracted. I looked around to see the young nurses talking with each other about such mundane things as their own lives. I found myself furious that they weren't in deep mourning for the traumatic events that had just taken place. Furthermore, I was angry because, in an ER, there is a certain amount of professionalism you must maintain in front of patients. I didn't care what they do in their spare time, whether it's monopoly in the OR, spin the bottle in the supply closet, or naked twister in the pharmacy, when one is in front of a patient, one must pretend that one cares about ones job.
At some point, after just sitting there, the cute doctor-man looked around the ER.
"Hey! Is someone going to take this patient to Ultrasound?"
Yes, the cute doctor was my hero. He was my knight in shining armor. My savior. My Christ. And in that instant, I was a homosexual. I wanted nothing else than to make love to that doctor for being so kind and caring to me. It was too bad I couldn't because of my severe genital pain.
The nurses looked at each other, obviously trying their hardest to not acknowledge my presence in the room.
"I don't want to take him."
"Me neither."
"Don't look at me."
The doctor was getting angry, and pointed at someone and told him to take me to the Ultrasound. He was a young Hispanic man in a large black T-shirt that had a skull on it. He walked over and grabbed the back of my chair, obviously hating his job or life, or whatever it was that made him into such an aloof creep.
He pushed my and my chair for what seemed to be miles to the other part of the hospital. The whole while, I tried to make small talk with him, but my efforts at easing the awkwardness went unanswered. It was around three am, and the hospital halls were empty, so as he pushed me around, it was only we two, with no one else to walk by or make me feel like I wasn't in some sort of horrible nightmare where up is down and left testicle is right testicle. The nice young man dropped me off in the Doppler Imaging area, and went back to doing whatever it is he actually does. May Jesus (read "hey zeus") bless him.
So, there I sat, waiting to be ultra sounded, as a couple nurses and janitors came to the area, sat down in the couches of the waiting area, and proceeded to watch a movie. Apparently, this is what happens late at night in hospitals. People watch movies while millions are without health insurance. After about fifteen minutes of "jarhead," a youngish, also attractive man came and took me into the ultrasound room.
I relayed the story to him for what seemed to be the billionth time. He told me to take off my pants and pull out my wiener and nuts. I was surprised that the ultrasound couldn't see through fabrics and clothing, even though it could see through skin. I told him that, and he informed me that it couldn't, I would have to remove my wiener. To which I responded that I had thought the ultrasound would be a stronger device than that, expressed in the words "Damn, that shit is weak as fuck!" He laughed, and we proceeded.
So, I was to take out my penis and testicles and lay on my back. Then he gave me one towel to go under my nuts, so as to prop them up for the best vantage point, as if they were being displayed in a museum, and another towel to put over my penis, which was laying against my stomach, pointed towards my head, like a checkmated chess king. Of course, I was very thankful that he had given me this other towel to cover my penis. He was thoughtful enough to make sure I wasn't embarrassed, because talking at length about my junk to everyone in the hospital for two hours and them showing him my balls and letting him touch them like he was shopping for produce was fine, but if he had accidentally seen my penis, then I would have been embarrassed.
He did the test, and of course I asked the question: "Is it a boy or a girl?" He laughed. Then I asked him if he'd every heard that one before, and he told me that he had only heard it about a trillion times. Of course, I wasn't on my A material, because I was in severe testicular pain.
The young Hispanic man magically appeared and took me back to the ER. The trip back was almost identical to the trip there in every aspect, instead this time we were going the other way down the hall. He then left again, going back to doing whatever it is he actually does.
The cute doctor was back. My love told me the prognosis, and it was good. There was blood flow to both my testicles, and it seemed that they had come out of this unharmed. He that if this type of thing happens again, they might have to sow the balls to the sides of the sack, but even though that procedure sounded very, very attractive, it probably wouldn't have to occur. There was only one thing left: the urine sample. I nodded that I understood, and then shook hands with the doctor—the doctor who had violated me and stolen my heart—and said goodbye to him forever. He still haunts my dreams.
The attractive nurse, who had, by now, told all her friends about why they should never date me, asked me if I was ready to give my urine sample. Still reeling from the gas pain, I agreed, but asked the simple question of whether or not I could lock the bathroom door. She said that I could, and it was the best news I had heard all night. I got out of the chair, headed for the bathroom, waddling like a penguin in order to keep my buttocks from literally exploding.
I sat down on the toilet and urinated into the cup and put it aside. Now was the moment I had been waiting for. I unclenched my sphincter and let nature take its course. What followed next was a fart. Not just any fart, mind you, but the longest fart I have ever experienced, heard of, or thought was possible. The fart lasted about twelve seconds. Now, that doesn't sound like a long time, but read the following out loud. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. Fiev Mississippi. Six Mississippi. Seven Mississippi. Eight Mississippi. Nine Mississippi. Ten Mississippi. Eleven Mississippi. Twelve Mississippi.
Good. Now realize that that whole time was one powerful, relieving fart. It was a fart for the ages. It was like World War II, but a fart, like World Fart II. Or Fart War II. Or World War Fart. Or Fart Fart Fart. Yeah, the last one.
The urine test was complete. The gas was passed. The balls were fine, and I was discharged around 3:30 am. I walked out of the hospital, feeling much better, and headed back towards my apartment. The cold air whipped through my hair, and brushed lightly on my recovering testicles, reminding me of the intense pain I had felt so soon before. There was still a dull, throbbing pain, but it was manageable. The darkness of the sky and the brightness of the street lights underlined the dichotomy between life and death, sleep and lucidity, truth and lies, and left testicle and right testicle.
Epilogue:
The next few days I spent a lot of time playing with my testicles, and not how I usually play with them. I was analyzing them for damage and compulsively checking that they hadn't been twisted. In fact, I was acting rather rough with them, almost like someone picking at a scab. I kept flipping the left one over and over again, and in my mind, I felt like I was playing tether ball, but instead of the tether ball pole it was spermatic cord. The pain remained for a few days. Maybe I shouldn't have used that hammer.
I saw my primary care physician, and she referred me to a urologist. I set up an appointment with him, and waiting. When one is in testicular pain, it is surprising to see how many times you are reminded about the existence of the testicles. It is virtually not stop. People were referencing testicles left and right, it seemed, and sometimes it wasn't that blatant. As I got on the train platform to go to my urologist, a man walked by my with a plastic bag that continued only two oranges. I wanted to look skyward and say, "Yeah god, I get it. Ok?"
So it turned out, after many anonymous people fondled and caressed my balls, that there is nothing seriously wrong with me, and I will be able to have kids. I still get some pains today, but it seems that everything is doing well with them. I have made some changes to my life to accommodate my testicles. Actually, I have only made one change, and that is I no longer perform the bent-over row, the exercise that got me in trouble in the first place. I hope you have enjoyed this story, and for the love of god, please don't tell anyone about it, it's very embarrassing.
Archived Blog Mar 23 2007
Friday Blog. Read This Before You Read the Ball Entry!
So, I Need Help! –or-- So, I'm not feeling very funny today.
So, I was watching MTV and I saw some teens affected by a condition that I have known about long before I had seen this show, self mutilation. People who do this are often called "Cutters," because they cut themselves to relieve anxiety and depression. It's an addiction, like drugs, or vomiting up food, and it is a psychological disorder. Anyway, I've realized something.
So, I'm a Pisser! When I'm in times of stress or depression, often times, I will go to the bathroom and urinate. Currently, I'm up to about five times a day! It's interrupting my life. Whenever I get sad or stressed out and I've had a lot of liquids, I start pissing! I need help! I need an internvetion. I need to stop urinating!
The Newsies!
Dead potential first lady walkin'! or Congratulations, President Edwards!
So, it has been released that the wife of the ever beautiful and yummy yummy John Edwards, Elizabeth Edwards, has had a reappearance of cancer, and this time it's incurable metastatic breast cancer that has spread to her bones. The New York Times said that only 26% of people who have this live for more than five years.
And guess what? John Edwards is going to go forward with his campaign! And guess what? You're screwed Hilary and Barack! You are totally screwed! Who are you going to vote for, America? A black man, a white woman, or a poor, attractive, white man who's attractive wife that he loves very much is dying of cancer? What? You're going to vote for Barack? So you're for cancer? That's what I thought. Voting for anyone other than Edwards is a vote for cancer. And you know who loves cancer? That's right. The terrorists.
Poor John and Elizabeth. I say this for the following reasons. 1. Elizabeth is going to die. That sucks. I feel bad for her, and almost feel too bad to make light of her situation in my blog. Almost. 2. What is John supposed to do? When your wife has cancer, do you stop running for president to be with her? If you do that, you end up resenting her because she has cancer. Then everything is screwed. Then you sleep with 12 year old asian boys. And what if you do run? Then you can't be there all the time unless you don't win the presidency. But what if you do win the presidency? Then you're wife has to die while you eat burritos with the president of mexico. I don't know.
Here's what he should do: use her cancer as a political football! It's not that bad to do that. Republicans do it with 9/11 all the time, and John Edwards wife is 9/11 divided by 3000, which is approximately .3. Is .3 that bad? No way! It's less than one! And if that doesn't work, he should slit her throat. Put her out of his misery. I mean her misery.
At least at some point, this hot young lawyer will be back on the market with all his scrumptious juiciness, and I get first dibs! I called it ladies. (Sorry Adie, I love you!)
Screw the Newsies!
Ok, so I shouldn't force it, right? I wanted to talk about the government giving the go ahead for children to stare at porn all day, or the fertility clinic that gave a white couple a black baby, or the fact that Houdini is going to exhumed and sodomized, but I don't wanna talk about this stuff today. Instead, I'm gonna regale you all with the tale about how I almost gave myself a vasectomy. That's in the next entry. Enjoy it, and realize, it's the rough draft.
God, I'm tired.
Have a nice weekend, Evanites. Enjoy the tale of my testicles!
Evan
So, I Need Help! –or-- So, I'm not feeling very funny today.
So, I was watching MTV and I saw some teens affected by a condition that I have known about long before I had seen this show, self mutilation. People who do this are often called "Cutters," because they cut themselves to relieve anxiety and depression. It's an addiction, like drugs, or vomiting up food, and it is a psychological disorder. Anyway, I've realized something.
So, I'm a Pisser! When I'm in times of stress or depression, often times, I will go to the bathroom and urinate. Currently, I'm up to about five times a day! It's interrupting my life. Whenever I get sad or stressed out and I've had a lot of liquids, I start pissing! I need help! I need an internvetion. I need to stop urinating!
The Newsies!
Dead potential first lady walkin'! or Congratulations, President Edwards!
So, it has been released that the wife of the ever beautiful and yummy yummy John Edwards, Elizabeth Edwards, has had a reappearance of cancer, and this time it's incurable metastatic breast cancer that has spread to her bones. The New York Times said that only 26% of people who have this live for more than five years.
And guess what? John Edwards is going to go forward with his campaign! And guess what? You're screwed Hilary and Barack! You are totally screwed! Who are you going to vote for, America? A black man, a white woman, or a poor, attractive, white man who's attractive wife that he loves very much is dying of cancer? What? You're going to vote for Barack? So you're for cancer? That's what I thought. Voting for anyone other than Edwards is a vote for cancer. And you know who loves cancer? That's right. The terrorists.
Poor John and Elizabeth. I say this for the following reasons. 1. Elizabeth is going to die. That sucks. I feel bad for her, and almost feel too bad to make light of her situation in my blog. Almost. 2. What is John supposed to do? When your wife has cancer, do you stop running for president to be with her? If you do that, you end up resenting her because she has cancer. Then everything is screwed. Then you sleep with 12 year old asian boys. And what if you do run? Then you can't be there all the time unless you don't win the presidency. But what if you do win the presidency? Then you're wife has to die while you eat burritos with the president of mexico. I don't know.
Here's what he should do: use her cancer as a political football! It's not that bad to do that. Republicans do it with 9/11 all the time, and John Edwards wife is 9/11 divided by 3000, which is approximately .3. Is .3 that bad? No way! It's less than one! And if that doesn't work, he should slit her throat. Put her out of his misery. I mean her misery.
At least at some point, this hot young lawyer will be back on the market with all his scrumptious juiciness, and I get first dibs! I called it ladies. (Sorry Adie, I love you!)
Screw the Newsies!
Ok, so I shouldn't force it, right? I wanted to talk about the government giving the go ahead for children to stare at porn all day, or the fertility clinic that gave a white couple a black baby, or the fact that Houdini is going to exhumed and sodomized, but I don't wanna talk about this stuff today. Instead, I'm gonna regale you all with the tale about how I almost gave myself a vasectomy. That's in the next entry. Enjoy it, and realize, it's the rough draft.
God, I'm tired.
Have a nice weekend, Evanites. Enjoy the tale of my testicles!
Evan
Archived Blog Mar 22 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Evan-erotic Asphyxiation
I Put a Lot of Work Into These Blogs, So Read Them, You Filthy Ingrates! –or– Happy Birthday Kirk!
Hey guys! Here's my third blog in as many days! I like this whole not cursing thing, but it makes it harder for me to be funny. I guess I'm just not that talented. I guess I should just take my unfunny self and jump off a bridge. Onto anther bridge. And then jump off that bridge. And then after I land, shoot myself. And then throw the water gun out and use a real gun. And then, finally, shoot the first nun I happen to walk by. And then hang myself. Cry for help people! Save me from suicide! Save me now!
But first, the news:
Boo Hoo, My Doggy Died!
Princess was a bullmastiff. Notice, I use the term "was" because she is no longer a bullmastiff, now she's a rotting corpse slash thing I would like to dig up and have sex with. (Did you like how I write the word "slash" instead of just using the term "/"? You didn't? Oh. Well, what about next time—no? You'll never like it? I thought we were friends.) And I say, aww, boo hoo! Your doggy died… awww… she was poisoned by dog food. Oh no!
Well, let me tell you something about that bitch, Princess. She was dog-Hitler! It is written all over her. You could tell. Whenever you "shook hands" with her, she would bark a muffled "Rik Reil!" That, if you don't know, is dog for "sic heil." Now, if she was saying that all the time, that would be one thing, but only while shaking hands?
And what about the fact that she denies the holocaust? They tried showing Schindler's list to her, and she just fell asleep! That's denial if you ask me. Anyway, kudos to this dog food manufacturer! You have saved countless jew-dogs.
You Hate White People? Well They Hate You Too!
Steven Johnson of New York took hostages in an East Village bar a while ago and said that "white people are going to burn tonight!" In the end, everyone got out safely, and he was arrested. So, what was his charge? Community service? A couple months in the slammer? Nope, not that. Think higher. A few years in prison? Not quite a few. Life in prison? Think higher. Two hundred forty years in prison? Bingo!
That's right, they sentenced him to 240 years. Now, don't get me wrong, this is a crime, but murderers only get like 20 years anyway. This guy didn't murder anybody. He just said white people are going to burn. That doesn't even mean he hated white people. I'm sure there were a few fires in the world and in the US that night where white people were burned alive. That was probably what he was referring to. It's just like saying, "Asian people are gonna eat rice tonight!" That's not a racist statement, it's just fact. Somewhere, in the world, Asian people will be eating rice tonight. There are a billion people in china, some of them have to be eating rice!
Besides, if you start sentencing all the black people who hate white people to 240 years in prison, we're just going to be left with Whoopi Goldberg, Jaleel White, and Barack Obama, and he's not even black! You know what I'm saying? And then how would I know what was cool?
Land Marshals
So they want to put air marshals on trains now, in case of something going wrong. This is a great idea, because air marshals have stopped so many terrorist attacks so far! I mean, they've definitely stopped at least one, right? I mean, I think they have. Anyway, let's put them on trains, because terroirts are hijacking those.
Al Gore Stop Running For President And Accept That Global Warming Is A Scientific
Conspiracy!
So Al Gore went into congress to whine and moan about Global Warming, all while obviously trying to run for president. I think it's time to write a letter.
Dear Al, First of all, if you are going to run for president, make up your mind! Don't just run around pretending to care about some imaginary issue and pretending to care for the good of humanity just to get votes, ok? Be a man! You are just using this "concern for the environment" as political leverage! No one actually cares about the environment. The only people who have opinions on it are politicians and hippies, and the hippies are just high. Second of all, don't run for president. You don't have a chance at all! Nobody likes you, you have no experience, and the last time you tried, you got defeated, even though you won both the popular vote and the electoral college. Don't you know it's who you know? Do you know jeb? I don't think so. Only the person who knows Jeb can win. This has been proven many times. Third of all, we all know that Global Warming doesn't exist. It's just a vast scientist conspiracy. They want grant money so they can do their research (crack/cocaine). If the planet is getting hotter, then why did it snow this winter? Why haven't I been using my air conditioner? Why does my refrigerator still work? And sure, I know that Global Warming has been proven, but proven by who? Scientists? With cold hard data? Please. And, oh, I should believe it because every other person in all other countries in the world want it to be true? Just because only super right-wing Americans don't believe it? Please, Al. Do some research. The only reason that Republicans know the truth is that it's written in the bible. Don't you remember the eleventh commandment? "Thou shalt not not use Global Warming as a political football when it should be taken with the utmost seriousness." That's right, bitch. That's right.
Love,Evan
P.S. Lose some weight!
Ayatollah Assahollah!
So Senor Khamenei says that Iran will not stop doing the nuke thing, even if they have to do it illegally. Can we just invade already? I'm sick of everyone speculating about it. Let's just invade and get it over with. Can't we just have all our soldiers in iraq just take a few steps east? Then we'll be in Iran. Simple solution, let's do it.
Angelina, Shubafo!
First of all, in case you don't know, "Shubafo" means "Shut up before I punch you." I got it from my friend Makeen. Now, the issue at hand.
Angelina spoke about her new gay baby, Pax. You know, like K-Pax? Here's what she said about her new homosexual child. "You can imagine what it takes to be in all new surroundings, with new people and a new language. He is very strong."
Ugh. For Christ's sake, he's three, you idiot! He's three years old! He's not strong, he's just a damn baby! It's not like he has a choice, you kidnapped him! Brad, please break up with her before her pretentiousness kills you. I love you Brad.
Now, me.
iPoop!
My loving girlfriend surprised me with the gift I demanded that she buy for me, a nice iPod case that will protect the iPod completely and can be submerged in up to three feet of water or horse-semen. Thanks, Adie! I love you, sweetheart! And, if any other of you jerks even looks at her, I will tear your skin off.
Comedy!
Well, I'm doing comedy tonight, and I need to get started on fixing it up, because I only have two hours before the show and not that much new stuff to show for it. So, today's entry is almost ovah! I'll keep you all updated, because I know you are so obsessed with my life.
DVD Recorder and Digital Camcorder!
I need to buy a DVD recorder so I can store various files (porn) I have. Any suggestions? I also need a digital camcorder so I can record my comedy, video diaries, and perhaps intercourse. Any suggestions for a cheap digital camcorder that's cheap and is also inexpensive?
That's all for today, Evanites!
Stay Gay!
Evan
Evan-erotic Asphyxiation
I Put a Lot of Work Into These Blogs, So Read Them, You Filthy Ingrates! –or– Happy Birthday Kirk!
Hey guys! Here's my third blog in as many days! I like this whole not cursing thing, but it makes it harder for me to be funny. I guess I'm just not that talented. I guess I should just take my unfunny self and jump off a bridge. Onto anther bridge. And then jump off that bridge. And then after I land, shoot myself. And then throw the water gun out and use a real gun. And then, finally, shoot the first nun I happen to walk by. And then hang myself. Cry for help people! Save me from suicide! Save me now!
But first, the news:
Boo Hoo, My Doggy Died!
Princess was a bullmastiff. Notice, I use the term "was" because she is no longer a bullmastiff, now she's a rotting corpse slash thing I would like to dig up and have sex with. (Did you like how I write the word "slash" instead of just using the term "/"? You didn't? Oh. Well, what about next time—no? You'll never like it? I thought we were friends.) And I say, aww, boo hoo! Your doggy died… awww… she was poisoned by dog food. Oh no!
Well, let me tell you something about that bitch, Princess. She was dog-Hitler! It is written all over her. You could tell. Whenever you "shook hands" with her, she would bark a muffled "Rik Reil!" That, if you don't know, is dog for "sic heil." Now, if she was saying that all the time, that would be one thing, but only while shaking hands?
And what about the fact that she denies the holocaust? They tried showing Schindler's list to her, and she just fell asleep! That's denial if you ask me. Anyway, kudos to this dog food manufacturer! You have saved countless jew-dogs.
You Hate White People? Well They Hate You Too!
Steven Johnson of New York took hostages in an East Village bar a while ago and said that "white people are going to burn tonight!" In the end, everyone got out safely, and he was arrested. So, what was his charge? Community service? A couple months in the slammer? Nope, not that. Think higher. A few years in prison? Not quite a few. Life in prison? Think higher. Two hundred forty years in prison? Bingo!
That's right, they sentenced him to 240 years. Now, don't get me wrong, this is a crime, but murderers only get like 20 years anyway. This guy didn't murder anybody. He just said white people are going to burn. That doesn't even mean he hated white people. I'm sure there were a few fires in the world and in the US that night where white people were burned alive. That was probably what he was referring to. It's just like saying, "Asian people are gonna eat rice tonight!" That's not a racist statement, it's just fact. Somewhere, in the world, Asian people will be eating rice tonight. There are a billion people in china, some of them have to be eating rice!
Besides, if you start sentencing all the black people who hate white people to 240 years in prison, we're just going to be left with Whoopi Goldberg, Jaleel White, and Barack Obama, and he's not even black! You know what I'm saying? And then how would I know what was cool?
Land Marshals
So they want to put air marshals on trains now, in case of something going wrong. This is a great idea, because air marshals have stopped so many terrorist attacks so far! I mean, they've definitely stopped at least one, right? I mean, I think they have. Anyway, let's put them on trains, because terroirts are hijacking those.
Al Gore Stop Running For President And Accept That Global Warming Is A Scientific
Conspiracy!
So Al Gore went into congress to whine and moan about Global Warming, all while obviously trying to run for president. I think it's time to write a letter.
Dear Al, First of all, if you are going to run for president, make up your mind! Don't just run around pretending to care about some imaginary issue and pretending to care for the good of humanity just to get votes, ok? Be a man! You are just using this "concern for the environment" as political leverage! No one actually cares about the environment. The only people who have opinions on it are politicians and hippies, and the hippies are just high. Second of all, don't run for president. You don't have a chance at all! Nobody likes you, you have no experience, and the last time you tried, you got defeated, even though you won both the popular vote and the electoral college. Don't you know it's who you know? Do you know jeb? I don't think so. Only the person who knows Jeb can win. This has been proven many times. Third of all, we all know that Global Warming doesn't exist. It's just a vast scientist conspiracy. They want grant money so they can do their research (crack/cocaine). If the planet is getting hotter, then why did it snow this winter? Why haven't I been using my air conditioner? Why does my refrigerator still work? And sure, I know that Global Warming has been proven, but proven by who? Scientists? With cold hard data? Please. And, oh, I should believe it because every other person in all other countries in the world want it to be true? Just because only super right-wing Americans don't believe it? Please, Al. Do some research. The only reason that Republicans know the truth is that it's written in the bible. Don't you remember the eleventh commandment? "Thou shalt not not use Global Warming as a political football when it should be taken with the utmost seriousness." That's right, bitch. That's right.
Love,Evan
P.S. Lose some weight!
Ayatollah Assahollah!
So Senor Khamenei says that Iran will not stop doing the nuke thing, even if they have to do it illegally. Can we just invade already? I'm sick of everyone speculating about it. Let's just invade and get it over with. Can't we just have all our soldiers in iraq just take a few steps east? Then we'll be in Iran. Simple solution, let's do it.
Angelina, Shubafo!
First of all, in case you don't know, "Shubafo" means "Shut up before I punch you." I got it from my friend Makeen. Now, the issue at hand.
Angelina spoke about her new gay baby, Pax. You know, like K-Pax? Here's what she said about her new homosexual child. "You can imagine what it takes to be in all new surroundings, with new people and a new language. He is very strong."
Ugh. For Christ's sake, he's three, you idiot! He's three years old! He's not strong, he's just a damn baby! It's not like he has a choice, you kidnapped him! Brad, please break up with her before her pretentiousness kills you. I love you Brad.
Now, me.
iPoop!
My loving girlfriend surprised me with the gift I demanded that she buy for me, a nice iPod case that will protect the iPod completely and can be submerged in up to three feet of water or horse-semen. Thanks, Adie! I love you, sweetheart! And, if any other of you jerks even looks at her, I will tear your skin off.
Comedy!
Well, I'm doing comedy tonight, and I need to get started on fixing it up, because I only have two hours before the show and not that much new stuff to show for it. So, today's entry is almost ovah! I'll keep you all updated, because I know you are so obsessed with my life.
DVD Recorder and Digital Camcorder!
I need to buy a DVD recorder so I can store various files (porn) I have. Any suggestions? I also need a digital camcorder so I can record my comedy, video diaries, and perhaps intercourse. Any suggestions for a cheap digital camcorder that's cheap and is also inexpensive?
That's all for today, Evanites!
Stay Gay!
Evan
Archived Blog Mar 21 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Gumbo
Disclaimer! If you are from a grad school evaluating me, don't read this blog!
Here we go:
My pee is cloudy! --or-- My pee is smelly!
Hey racists and racistettes! Welcome to the third installment of my new blizzog! Wondrous excitement, fantastical adventure, abundant enjoyment, and tremendous entertainment can all be yours! But, those things can only be yours if you read this blog. Or was that refrain from reading this blog? Whatev, same diff.
So, it has occurred to me and my brain that I may use profanity too--how should I put this?--much. So, for now, I am going to try to curse less and use much less vulgar language. I need support from you guys on this, because it might be hard. But so far, I'm clean as a baby's anus. Oh twat! Stop, Evan. Stop. You can do this. Ok, here we go!
A Boat that is More Heroic than a Cadaver Dog!
So the fire boat, the John J. Harvey was built in 1931, decommissioned in 1995, and added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2000. It's a cute little red boat that has a whole buncha hoses that shoot out water, much like one of those fountains that are stupid. You know the ones I'm talking about. Those stupid fountains? Yeah, those.
Anyhoo, on Nine 'Leven. The boat was de-decommissioned, and helped aid in giving water to the first responder teams so they could put out the fires. In all, the boat probably saved a whopping two or three lives.
Anyway, now the boat is totally screwed up, and is about to sink, because it's 75 years old. Now there is a fund-raising campaign to save the boat. It needs about a million dollars to save it. I think this is a great use of money! Why try to combat Aids in Africa when you can keep an ancient, worthless boat around for nothing? I mean, you have to save it. After all, the boat is a hero! That's right! That's what people are calling the boat. A hero. Because you wouldn't want to call the people who worked on the boat that day heroes. They're not heroes! They're losers! They tried to hold the boat back, but the boat wanted to fight terrorism. Shame on those firefighters! How dare they stop the boat from being the hero it truly is. Hey, I have an idea, after the boat is fixed, have it star in some action movies! Maybe it can play Hermione in the last two Harry Potters! It would certainly be a better actor. Or, here's an ever better idea! The public should get a hold on reality and stop wasting money on this worthless garbage! Well, maybe that idea's a little crazy.
T Twain!
So work on the second avenue "T" line in New York is going to start soon, and everyone is so happy because it will be completed by 2020. Great! Just in time! I was planning on going to the Upper East Side on March 23 2021, and the train will be ready by then! I don't need a second avenue line right now at all. And, the plans certainly are newsworthy. We'll have to start rethinking the morning commute, in thirteen years. Thank god there was a story about the line today. I don't want to let it get by me. Hopefully, there will be constant updates on its status from here on out.
Conflict Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend!
I was reading an article today about how the movie "Blood Diamond" has now shed some light on the horrible diamond industry where many in Africa are slaughtered and put into slavery to collect diamonds called "conflict diamonds" that sell for cheaper. Anyway, that's not the point. The point, is a quote from Martin Rappaport, publisher of the Rappaport Diamond Report.
He said this "You give a girl a fair-trade diamond, she's going to love you more because you're also altruistic."
What do I think of this, you ask? Well, if I may be serious for a moment here, as long as a girl is getting a diamond, she doesn't care where it came from. She certainly isn't going to "love you more," you idiot. She might postpone the break-up or divorce longer in hopes of more diamonds, but she's not going to love you more, you vapid moron. Also, it's not altruistic to not buy a diamond that's from the conflict areas just to buy some other diamond. "Oh man, you are so giving and charitable! I can't believe you got me a not-conflict-diamond! Are you Jesus? Seriously, are you Jesus? Cause you sure act like him!" You know what is altruistic? Not buying any diamond at all and then giving that money to charity. I mean, I wouldn't do it, because I hate charities and helping people, but then again, I'm not altruistic.
Good Job, American Voters!
So this is from the AP: "A defiant President George W. Bush warned Democrats yesterday to accept his offer to have top aides testify about the firings of federal prosectors only privately and not under oath or risk a constitutional show-down from which he would not back down."
That's right, good job, American voters! You elected a president who is completely cooperative with the public in helping us to rid this government of all corruption. Now, I know what you're probably saying, that "hey, can't those people just lie and say whatever they want because they won't get in trouble for it?"
Well, that's a tough one to answer. You see, first of all, we need to have the questions private. Lord knows that if they were public hearings, the top aides would be swamped with hoots, air horns, bras being thrown towards them, naked women mounting and getting impregnated by them, and so on and so forth. Thus, we need to make it private because these people are mega stars.
Secondly, of course they shouldn't take the oath! Taking the oath makes you a part of this justice system, and because we're trying to figure out who is firing people within the justice system, taking the oath would be a conflict on interest! That's why they can't take the oath! I'm not worried, though. These guys are swimming in honor and integrity, so I'm sure not one lie will be told. Next!
Good Job, American Americans!
So Reps and Dems are mad at the FBI, and here's what Darrell Issa, R-Calif said to them after threatening that they will not be able to use telephone and e-mail records to hunt terrorists. "From the attorney general on down, you should be ashamed of yourself. We stretched to try to give you the tools necessary to make America safe, and it is very, very clear that you've abused that trust."
Excuse me, Mr. Issa, but have you forgotten that we're at war? That's right. You want to take away those powers, then you are taking away the ability of us to hunt terrorists like Osama bin Laden who is currently using our telephones and banks, and e-mails. Like, just the other day, I had this conversation.
Evan: Hello?
Osama: Hey buddy.
Evan: Oh, hey Obielle! What up with my favorite terrorists mastermind?
Osama: Shhh… don't call me that.
Evan: Naw, don't worry dog, the FBI can't track this stuff anymore.
Osama: Oh, so I can be candid about everything?
Evan: You sure can, friend for life. Come on, Obielle, tell me about whatever it is you need to. Terrorist attacks, hating America, your location, go nuts!
Osama: Well, if I can be candid, tell me this: what are you wearing?
Evan: A tight white t-shirt and my pink cotton panties with the little bears on them.
Osama: Mmm. That's sexy.
Evan: Whatcha doin?
Osama: Touching myself.
Anyway, it goes on from there, but now that the FBI can't get records, how are they going to catch this man? Damn you congress! 9/11 is your fault! How are we supposed to live in a big-brother society now?
Uhhh, Maybe Second Place is Better
So congratulations Katharine Tuck! You are the cute, little, seventh-grader who beat out six other kids to win the 32nd annual National Odor-Eaters Rotten Sneaker Contest. Apparently her shoes were so bad the judges were wincing. Anyway, again, I want to say congratulations, and I wish you a very happy future of never attracting a man ever, and dying lonely! Kudos!
Free What? What Speech?
Ernst Zundel was sentenced to five years in prison for denying the holocaust. The person who represented him, as I understand it, was Sylvia Stolz, who has now been charged with the same crime after she ended one of her legal filings with "Heil Hitler". A few things on this. As a jew, I think we should take all people who deny the holocaust, round em up, and send em off to be gassed! Yay extremes!
They Didn't Listen to my Blog!
Saddam's aide, who I mentioned yesterday, done got hangded.
You've Got to be Freaking Kidding Me!
A Hooters is opening up in Israel. Need I say more? Oh wait, I guess I should. First of all, Hooters is the stupidest place on the universe. I mean, who likes wings? They're half bones anyway. Wings are dumb. They get you all messy. Why not just have a breast? No pun intended there. Anyway, we shouldn't be spreading this filth around the world like this, and Israel? I mean, I just, I guess, I don't know anymore.
Clitney Queers is Better Than Ever!
So she's leaving rehab this week, has reportedly been there since Feb. 22, and has said to have "made a lot of progress." I heard her kid is going to pick her up and drive her home, so she can pour liquor up her un-covered twat. Oh, damnit, I cursed. Sorry. Apparently, she also agreed with Federline to split the kids, with Clitney eventually getting primary custody. That's what these kids need: An insane alcoholic hairless slut who forces them to drive everywhere and also shakes them when they cry. Good job, universe!
J.K., I love you! (Sorry Adie)
It has been announced that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows will be 784 pages! Sweet Jesus that's wonderful! I was hoping it would be longer, but you know, I'll take it. I'm so excited. As of today, it is exactly four months before the book comes out. Get ready everybody!
Now, Me!
Ugh. I can't write anymore. I spent all damn day writing this blog, trying very hard not to curse, and I have to say I did a good job so far. Fuck Twat! Damnit. I cursed. Ugh. Forgive me. Anyway, I'm tired, so just enjoy this new survey for now, so I can work on some much needed comedy stuff. Until tomorrow, friends!
Love,
Evan
The Strange Questions Survey
What's the largest age difference between yourself and someone you've dated:
Dated or had sex with? Dated? Fifty years. Had sex with? A couple minutes. That was the age difference and the length it took for me to climax. That means ejaculate. Not a curse! Not a curse!
Ever been in a car wreck?:
No, but I was once in this helicopter that crashed over Somalia. Long story short, Josh Hartnett played me in a movie.
Have you ever been on a blind date?:
I've been on dates where I wished I were blind. Does that count?
Are looks important?:
They are not only the most important thing, they are the only important thing. Screw personality! By the way, my girlfriend has both the looks and the personality, but I don't really pay attention to the personality part. I love you Adie!
Do you have any friends that you've known for 10 years or more??:
Yeah. You jealous? Loser. Nobody likes you!
By what age would you like to be married?:
Five.
Does the number of people a person's slept with affect your view of them?:
Considering I am the Wilt Chamberlain for ugly girls, I really can't fault anyone for being promiscuous. Let's leave that up to Maury.
Have you ever made a mistake?:
Noep. Oh no! Typo! My first mistake! Also, one of those hobos I killed turned out to be a congressman!
Are you a good tipper?
Here's a tip: kiss my ass! Whoops! Not a curse! Otherwise, yes I am a splendid tipper. Now, kiss my a- butt. Kiss my butt. Phew.
What's the most you have spent for a haircut?:
Man, these questions are better than most surveys. They aren't as stupid, and I'm not getting as mad answering them. However, I refuse to answer this question based on the presumption that nobody cares either way.
Have you ever had a crush on a teacher?:
All my teachers were ugly.
Have you ever peed in public?:
I'm doing it right now! But seriously, who hasn't? Find me someone that hasn't done this, and I will show you someone that I will lock up in my closet and feed cream of wheat to until they agree to be my personal slave/concubine.
Would you tell your parents if you were gay?:
Well, they told me they're gay, so I guess I would return the favor. And, for the record, I'm not gay. I just like having sexual intercourse with males.
Beatles or Stones?:
I wish I could come up with a funny answer to this one. Oh, wait, I have one! Suck my balls!
If you had to pick one person on earth to die, who?:
Maya Angelou! I hate her!
Beer, wine or hard liquor?:
No, no thanks. Just a diet coke. I don't drink on the weekdays. But thanks for the offer. Maybe a different time. Just a diet coke for now. That's diet!
Do you have any phobias?:
I'm afraid of being too good in bed. And so far, my fears have been realized!
What are your plans for the future?:
Some success, a little bit of love, Spider-Man 3, some hobo murders, comedy, writing, and finally, full-scale alien invasion.
Do you walk around the house naked?:
Only when the cable guy is over.
If you were an animal what would you be?:
A human being, dumbass! Whoops! Not a curse!
Hair color you like on someone you're dating?:
Dark Brown highlighted with semen.
Do you have any special talents?:
Nope. I'm a waste of atoms.
What do you do as soon as you walk in the house?:
Urinate then contemplate that night's upcoming hobo murder.
Do you like horror or comedy?:
I hate everything, damnit! Not a curse!
Are you missing anyone?:
Saddam.
If you weren't straight, what person of the same sex would you do?:
Every last one I could find. You, baby.
Where do you want to live when you are old?
Nazi Germany.
Who is the person you can count on the most?
Osama bin Laden
If you could date any celebrity past or present, who would it be?
Nefertiti. She's hot.
What did you dream last night?:
Oh, you know, the usual. Rivers of blood and fire. Laughing skulls. Deformed infants. Dying. Death. Destruction. Disease. The usual.
Are you named after anyone?:
I was named after Hillary Duff.
What is your favorite alcoholic drink?:
Horse semen with vodka.
Non alcoholic drink?:
Horse semen without vodka.
Do you sing in the shower?:
If I showered, I might.
Have you ever been arrested?:
No comment.
What is your favorite Holiday?:
September 11th!
Would you ever get plastic surgery?:
I'll probably be needing several penile reductions as my life goes on.
Have you ever caught a fish?:
Yes, if by "fish" you mean "sexually transmitted disease."
Gumbo
Disclaimer! If you are from a grad school evaluating me, don't read this blog!
Here we go:
My pee is cloudy! --or-- My pee is smelly!
Hey racists and racistettes! Welcome to the third installment of my new blizzog! Wondrous excitement, fantastical adventure, abundant enjoyment, and tremendous entertainment can all be yours! But, those things can only be yours if you read this blog. Or was that refrain from reading this blog? Whatev, same diff.
So, it has occurred to me and my brain that I may use profanity too--how should I put this?--much. So, for now, I am going to try to curse less and use much less vulgar language. I need support from you guys on this, because it might be hard. But so far, I'm clean as a baby's anus. Oh twat! Stop, Evan. Stop. You can do this. Ok, here we go!
A Boat that is More Heroic than a Cadaver Dog!
So the fire boat, the John J. Harvey was built in 1931, decommissioned in 1995, and added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2000. It's a cute little red boat that has a whole buncha hoses that shoot out water, much like one of those fountains that are stupid. You know the ones I'm talking about. Those stupid fountains? Yeah, those.
Anyhoo, on Nine 'Leven. The boat was de-decommissioned, and helped aid in giving water to the first responder teams so they could put out the fires. In all, the boat probably saved a whopping two or three lives.
Anyway, now the boat is totally screwed up, and is about to sink, because it's 75 years old. Now there is a fund-raising campaign to save the boat. It needs about a million dollars to save it. I think this is a great use of money! Why try to combat Aids in Africa when you can keep an ancient, worthless boat around for nothing? I mean, you have to save it. After all, the boat is a hero! That's right! That's what people are calling the boat. A hero. Because you wouldn't want to call the people who worked on the boat that day heroes. They're not heroes! They're losers! They tried to hold the boat back, but the boat wanted to fight terrorism. Shame on those firefighters! How dare they stop the boat from being the hero it truly is. Hey, I have an idea, after the boat is fixed, have it star in some action movies! Maybe it can play Hermione in the last two Harry Potters! It would certainly be a better actor. Or, here's an ever better idea! The public should get a hold on reality and stop wasting money on this worthless garbage! Well, maybe that idea's a little crazy.
T Twain!
So work on the second avenue "T" line in New York is going to start soon, and everyone is so happy because it will be completed by 2020. Great! Just in time! I was planning on going to the Upper East Side on March 23 2021, and the train will be ready by then! I don't need a second avenue line right now at all. And, the plans certainly are newsworthy. We'll have to start rethinking the morning commute, in thirteen years. Thank god there was a story about the line today. I don't want to let it get by me. Hopefully, there will be constant updates on its status from here on out.
Conflict Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend!
I was reading an article today about how the movie "Blood Diamond" has now shed some light on the horrible diamond industry where many in Africa are slaughtered and put into slavery to collect diamonds called "conflict diamonds" that sell for cheaper. Anyway, that's not the point. The point, is a quote from Martin Rappaport, publisher of the Rappaport Diamond Report.
He said this "You give a girl a fair-trade diamond, she's going to love you more because you're also altruistic."
What do I think of this, you ask? Well, if I may be serious for a moment here, as long as a girl is getting a diamond, she doesn't care where it came from. She certainly isn't going to "love you more," you idiot. She might postpone the break-up or divorce longer in hopes of more diamonds, but she's not going to love you more, you vapid moron. Also, it's not altruistic to not buy a diamond that's from the conflict areas just to buy some other diamond. "Oh man, you are so giving and charitable! I can't believe you got me a not-conflict-diamond! Are you Jesus? Seriously, are you Jesus? Cause you sure act like him!" You know what is altruistic? Not buying any diamond at all and then giving that money to charity. I mean, I wouldn't do it, because I hate charities and helping people, but then again, I'm not altruistic.
Good Job, American Voters!
So this is from the AP: "A defiant President George W. Bush warned Democrats yesterday to accept his offer to have top aides testify about the firings of federal prosectors only privately and not under oath or risk a constitutional show-down from which he would not back down."
That's right, good job, American voters! You elected a president who is completely cooperative with the public in helping us to rid this government of all corruption. Now, I know what you're probably saying, that "hey, can't those people just lie and say whatever they want because they won't get in trouble for it?"
Well, that's a tough one to answer. You see, first of all, we need to have the questions private. Lord knows that if they were public hearings, the top aides would be swamped with hoots, air horns, bras being thrown towards them, naked women mounting and getting impregnated by them, and so on and so forth. Thus, we need to make it private because these people are mega stars.
Secondly, of course they shouldn't take the oath! Taking the oath makes you a part of this justice system, and because we're trying to figure out who is firing people within the justice system, taking the oath would be a conflict on interest! That's why they can't take the oath! I'm not worried, though. These guys are swimming in honor and integrity, so I'm sure not one lie will be told. Next!
Good Job, American Americans!
So Reps and Dems are mad at the FBI, and here's what Darrell Issa, R-Calif said to them after threatening that they will not be able to use telephone and e-mail records to hunt terrorists. "From the attorney general on down, you should be ashamed of yourself. We stretched to try to give you the tools necessary to make America safe, and it is very, very clear that you've abused that trust."
Excuse me, Mr. Issa, but have you forgotten that we're at war? That's right. You want to take away those powers, then you are taking away the ability of us to hunt terrorists like Osama bin Laden who is currently using our telephones and banks, and e-mails. Like, just the other day, I had this conversation.
Evan: Hello?
Osama: Hey buddy.
Evan: Oh, hey Obielle! What up with my favorite terrorists mastermind?
Osama: Shhh… don't call me that.
Evan: Naw, don't worry dog, the FBI can't track this stuff anymore.
Osama: Oh, so I can be candid about everything?
Evan: You sure can, friend for life. Come on, Obielle, tell me about whatever it is you need to. Terrorist attacks, hating America, your location, go nuts!
Osama: Well, if I can be candid, tell me this: what are you wearing?
Evan: A tight white t-shirt and my pink cotton panties with the little bears on them.
Osama: Mmm. That's sexy.
Evan: Whatcha doin?
Osama: Touching myself.
Anyway, it goes on from there, but now that the FBI can't get records, how are they going to catch this man? Damn you congress! 9/11 is your fault! How are we supposed to live in a big-brother society now?
Uhhh, Maybe Second Place is Better
So congratulations Katharine Tuck! You are the cute, little, seventh-grader who beat out six other kids to win the 32nd annual National Odor-Eaters Rotten Sneaker Contest. Apparently her shoes were so bad the judges were wincing. Anyway, again, I want to say congratulations, and I wish you a very happy future of never attracting a man ever, and dying lonely! Kudos!
Free What? What Speech?
Ernst Zundel was sentenced to five years in prison for denying the holocaust. The person who represented him, as I understand it, was Sylvia Stolz, who has now been charged with the same crime after she ended one of her legal filings with "Heil Hitler". A few things on this. As a jew, I think we should take all people who deny the holocaust, round em up, and send em off to be gassed! Yay extremes!
They Didn't Listen to my Blog!
Saddam's aide, who I mentioned yesterday, done got hangded.
You've Got to be Freaking Kidding Me!
A Hooters is opening up in Israel. Need I say more? Oh wait, I guess I should. First of all, Hooters is the stupidest place on the universe. I mean, who likes wings? They're half bones anyway. Wings are dumb. They get you all messy. Why not just have a breast? No pun intended there. Anyway, we shouldn't be spreading this filth around the world like this, and Israel? I mean, I just, I guess, I don't know anymore.
Clitney Queers is Better Than Ever!
So she's leaving rehab this week, has reportedly been there since Feb. 22, and has said to have "made a lot of progress." I heard her kid is going to pick her up and drive her home, so she can pour liquor up her un-covered twat. Oh, damnit, I cursed. Sorry. Apparently, she also agreed with Federline to split the kids, with Clitney eventually getting primary custody. That's what these kids need: An insane alcoholic hairless slut who forces them to drive everywhere and also shakes them when they cry. Good job, universe!
J.K., I love you! (Sorry Adie)
It has been announced that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows will be 784 pages! Sweet Jesus that's wonderful! I was hoping it would be longer, but you know, I'll take it. I'm so excited. As of today, it is exactly four months before the book comes out. Get ready everybody!
Now, Me!
Ugh. I can't write anymore. I spent all damn day writing this blog, trying very hard not to curse, and I have to say I did a good job so far. Fuck Twat! Damnit. I cursed. Ugh. Forgive me. Anyway, I'm tired, so just enjoy this new survey for now, so I can work on some much needed comedy stuff. Until tomorrow, friends!
Love,
Evan
The Strange Questions Survey
What's the largest age difference between yourself and someone you've dated:
Dated or had sex with? Dated? Fifty years. Had sex with? A couple minutes. That was the age difference and the length it took for me to climax. That means ejaculate. Not a curse! Not a curse!
Ever been in a car wreck?:
No, but I was once in this helicopter that crashed over Somalia. Long story short, Josh Hartnett played me in a movie.
Have you ever been on a blind date?:
I've been on dates where I wished I were blind. Does that count?
Are looks important?:
They are not only the most important thing, they are the only important thing. Screw personality! By the way, my girlfriend has both the looks and the personality, but I don't really pay attention to the personality part. I love you Adie!
Do you have any friends that you've known for 10 years or more??:
Yeah. You jealous? Loser. Nobody likes you!
By what age would you like to be married?:
Five.
Does the number of people a person's slept with affect your view of them?:
Considering I am the Wilt Chamberlain for ugly girls, I really can't fault anyone for being promiscuous. Let's leave that up to Maury.
Have you ever made a mistake?:
Noep. Oh no! Typo! My first mistake! Also, one of those hobos I killed turned out to be a congressman!
Are you a good tipper?
Here's a tip: kiss my ass! Whoops! Not a curse! Otherwise, yes I am a splendid tipper. Now, kiss my a- butt. Kiss my butt. Phew.
What's the most you have spent for a haircut?:
Man, these questions are better than most surveys. They aren't as stupid, and I'm not getting as mad answering them. However, I refuse to answer this question based on the presumption that nobody cares either way.
Have you ever had a crush on a teacher?:
All my teachers were ugly.
Have you ever peed in public?:
I'm doing it right now! But seriously, who hasn't? Find me someone that hasn't done this, and I will show you someone that I will lock up in my closet and feed cream of wheat to until they agree to be my personal slave/concubine.
Would you tell your parents if you were gay?:
Well, they told me they're gay, so I guess I would return the favor. And, for the record, I'm not gay. I just like having sexual intercourse with males.
Beatles or Stones?:
I wish I could come up with a funny answer to this one. Oh, wait, I have one! Suck my balls!
If you had to pick one person on earth to die, who?:
Maya Angelou! I hate her!
Beer, wine or hard liquor?:
No, no thanks. Just a diet coke. I don't drink on the weekdays. But thanks for the offer. Maybe a different time. Just a diet coke for now. That's diet!
Do you have any phobias?:
I'm afraid of being too good in bed. And so far, my fears have been realized!
What are your plans for the future?:
Some success, a little bit of love, Spider-Man 3, some hobo murders, comedy, writing, and finally, full-scale alien invasion.
Do you walk around the house naked?:
Only when the cable guy is over.
If you were an animal what would you be?:
A human being, dumbass! Whoops! Not a curse!
Hair color you like on someone you're dating?:
Dark Brown highlighted with semen.
Do you have any special talents?:
Nope. I'm a waste of atoms.
What do you do as soon as you walk in the house?:
Urinate then contemplate that night's upcoming hobo murder.
Do you like horror or comedy?:
I hate everything, damnit! Not a curse!
Are you missing anyone?:
Saddam.
If you weren't straight, what person of the same sex would you do?:
Every last one I could find. You, baby.
Where do you want to live when you are old?
Nazi Germany.
Who is the person you can count on the most?
Osama bin Laden
If you could date any celebrity past or present, who would it be?
Nefertiti. She's hot.
What did you dream last night?:
Oh, you know, the usual. Rivers of blood and fire. Laughing skulls. Deformed infants. Dying. Death. Destruction. Disease. The usual.
Are you named after anyone?:
I was named after Hillary Duff.
What is your favorite alcoholic drink?:
Horse semen with vodka.
Non alcoholic drink?:
Horse semen without vodka.
Do you sing in the shower?:
If I showered, I might.
Have you ever been arrested?:
No comment.
What is your favorite Holiday?:
September 11th!
Would you ever get plastic surgery?:
I'll probably be needing several penile reductions as my life goes on.
Have you ever caught a fish?:
Yes, if by "fish" you mean "sexually transmitted disease."
Archived Blog Mar 20 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Lick Balls!
Two Blogs in Two Days? This is Getting Tiresome. I Hate You, Evan Jacobs!
or
320, Man!
Hey Evanites! Here's a second blog entry! Crazy, eh? I'm so prolific. Well, let's just get down to this festering bullshit.
First, the news:
Naomi Campbell is Christ!
So Naomi "Bitch" Campbell started her first day of community service on this date. If you'll remember correctly, she is serving time because a while ago, her maid was unable to find Naomi's jeans, so Naomi took her cell phone, and hired a man to kill the maid and the maid's family. After the man was done the murders, Naomi, if I remember correctly, beat the murderer to death with the same cell phone she used to call him. The irony is incredible. I think at that point Naomi decided to destroy the planet earth and did so successfully.
But, alas, apparently these are "crimes" so Naomi has to now pay for it. I mean, come on! There is not one person that I know who wouldn't resort to violence because they can't find a pair of pants. Naomi's maid should be lucky that she was only shot in the head! It could have been much worse if it had been Russell Crowe's pants. That guy's an asshole. But, is Naomi an asshole? No way! Just because she acts and thinks like an asshole all the time doesn't make her one. No, she is not an asshole. She is a martyr for all of us that have used our cell phones to beat to death the murderers of our maids who couldn't find jeans. I mean, those jeans looked so great on me! God, I'm pissed.
And it's not like Naomi could just buy a different pair of jeans, or wear a different set of pants. No! She's not rich! She can only afford the one pair! Leave her alone, you racist bastards! Attica! Attica! (I've never seen Dog Day Afternoon.)
Anyone Who Destroys the Airbus 380 is Christ!
So the Stupid-Dumbass-Mobile landed safely at JFK yesterday, without everybody on board dying. This, I think, is a great tragedy. Now that these assholes lived, more and more people are going to start thinking that it's a great idea to get on board this giant, flying, Auschwitz. And, to top things off, I said that it seats 550 passengers yesterday. Turns out, when those elitist fucks aren't deciding to have a first-class section so they can keep down the lower class, the plane can fit around nine hundred people. Nine hundred! People! Someone needs to blow up this plane while it is still on the ground so we don't have to worry about it crashing! Somebody do something, Goddamnit!
How the fuck did this shit happen? Probably something like this.
Scene: Some yuppie-fuck office with two business guys in a meeting. The FAA guy is giving a presentation and the Airbus Executive is half-listening, staring into his black coffee. Neither is naked, but wouldn't it be funny if they were?
Act I
FAA: So, we've been having a lot of problems with safety aboard planes and hijacking in the recent decades.
Airbus Executive: Uh huh.
FAA: We need to come up with a plane that is much safer, less attractive to terrorists, and is extremely efficient in its fuel expenditure to ticket price ratio.
Airbus Executive: Sure, sounds good. Great coffee, by the way.
FAA: So, we want to commission a plane from you that can make long flights, but is small, and for the first time in human history, can crash while leaving most of the passengers alive.
Airbus Executive: Sure, sounds good. Where's the creamer?
FAA: So, what do you have for me?
Airbus Executive: Uh huh.
FAA: Yes?
Airbus Executive: Oh, you're asking—oh! Ok! Sure, we got this great plane! It's like a 747 fucked the Astrodome! It can fit 900 people! Also, it's the biggest plane ever! Let's just hope nothing ever goes wrong with it.
FAA: Perfect! Make a thousand!
Exeunt
People Who Didn't Win the Lottery are Christ!
So this jack-ass dip-shit couple in New Jersey claimed their millions today. I just want to be the first to say, fuck you couple! I never liked you anyway! You can suck my balls. I wanted to win that money, you fucking cock chuggers. Go suck a dick, you assholes! Unless you want to donate some of that money to me. I mean, you're not going to use all of it, right? You're in your late fifties. Let me have some of the money. Ok? That would be awesome. What do you say? Fuck. I knew you wouldn't! Fuck you!
Christ is Christ!
So this dumbass high-school senior decided, in 2002, to show a banner across the street from his school that said "Bong Hits 4 Jesus". Now, we are in the midst of a free-speech case over whether or not his sign was an experiment in free speech or it was an invitation to use drugs. Want to know what I think? Well? You don't? Tough shit!
First of all, this thing was both an experiment and an invitation. It's not the "Bong Hits" part, or the "Jesus" part, it's the "4." Any kid who uses the number four instead of the word "for" is definitely high.
Second of all, anyone who knows anything knows that Jesus was more a fan of 'shrooms. Sure, weed was around in the olden days, but considering that my boy Jesus thought he could turn water into wine after walking to it, could come back to life, and was constantly talking to god, he must have been fucked up on the mushies! I mean, when he was walking around, while everyone else saw desert, he was probably seeing a level from Super Mario Brothers. Man, that son-of-god was fucked up.
Anyway, in conclusion, fuck this guy!
Dead Woman is Christ!
So some old chick died on a flight from New Delhi to London, and the asshole airline, British Airways, moved the bitch to first class! First fucking class! God, you are such assholes! Why not shove her way back in coach and give the first class seat to the poor asshole that had to sit next to her, you fucking limey fucks? Worst of all, they put her next to another first class passenger! This rich piece of shit didn't shell out 3000 bucks just to sit next to a dead girl! At least let him screw her, you know? Oops. Shouldn't have written that.
Saddam is Christ!
So Saddam's aide, Taha Yassin Ramadan, who was sentenced to life in prison, got screwed over by the appeals process and now the Iraqis get to hang him. That's right. That'll teach him for murdering! In this world, if you're a murderer, you get murdered! Take that, logic!
Pax Thien Jolie is Christ!
So Angelina Jolie went to 'Nam yesterday to rescue her newest cunt-baby. I have no problem with that, but she's naming the little cocksucker Pax. You know, like roman for "peace" or like that movie with Kevin Spacey that sucked balls, K-Pax. Well, congratu-fucking-lations, you dumb bitch! Now you have three kids who are going to lead surreal, ridicule-intensive lives. Maddox, Shiloh, and now Pax!
"Hi! I'm Maddox. My mom is Angelina Jolie!"
"Fucking off, you fucking loser! Get a mom who isn't a whore. Why don't you go fuck your uncle like she did, you shit-eating douchebag? Get out of my sandbox."
That's how it's going to go down. I've already come up with some nicknames for the kids so you don't have to think of them.
Shiloh: Shit Hole. My Pole. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's gay baby.
Maddox: Mud Cocks. Maggots. Mad Ox. Buttox. Asshole. That poor bastard that Angelina stole.
Pax: Fag!
Sound good?
Evan Jacobs is Christ!
Ok, now for my news.
Gum!
I'm chewing gum right now.
Work!
I'm permanent at my job now. I probably shouldn't be writing this. Please don't tell anybody. Please. I'll do anything. Anything.
Girlfriend!
I wuvvy wuvvy wuv my baby Adie!
Tired!
God Fucking Damnit I'm tired!
Almost Forgot!
Yeah, I almost forgot. I was walking from my apartment to the subway today and I sneezed. There was a middle-aged black woman walking behind me by about twenty feet who said "bless you" but I didn't really hear her. How do I know she said "bless you"? Because she then proceeded to start saying: "Did you hear me? Did you hear me? Excuse me, sir? Did you hear me? I said bless you." So, I turned my head around, smiled, and said "thanks."
Was I really thanking her? No! I just wanted her to leave me the fuck alone. First of all, it's ten am, and I just got up! Don't even fucking talk to me! I don't care if I'm sneezing blood and urine, ok? Bless me? Fuck you! Second of all, damn it! Can't I just sneeze in peace without you having to bring religion into it? Goddamnit, leave me the fuck alone, god! I don't need to be blessed! I don't need goddamn anything! Just let me fucking sneeze and have that be the end of the goddamned story! Finally, you said "bless you!" good for you, you did a good deed. Oh, wait, no one saw you do the good deed? Oh, my bad! I forgot you were only being nice to serve your own selfish purposes. That's why when I give money to charities (which I don't), I say, hey, this money is from me! Evan Jacobs! I am giving you this money! Aren't I great? Hello? Excuse me, sir? Did you hear me? Did you hear me? I said I gave you this money!
Conclusion is Christ!
Well ladies and gentlemen, that, as they say, is that. See you next time I post something, which, at this rate, should be rather soon.
Queef!
Evan Jacobs
Lick Balls!
Two Blogs in Two Days? This is Getting Tiresome. I Hate You, Evan Jacobs!
or
320, Man!
Hey Evanites! Here's a second blog entry! Crazy, eh? I'm so prolific. Well, let's just get down to this festering bullshit.
First, the news:
Naomi Campbell is Christ!
So Naomi "Bitch" Campbell started her first day of community service on this date. If you'll remember correctly, she is serving time because a while ago, her maid was unable to find Naomi's jeans, so Naomi took her cell phone, and hired a man to kill the maid and the maid's family. After the man was done the murders, Naomi, if I remember correctly, beat the murderer to death with the same cell phone she used to call him. The irony is incredible. I think at that point Naomi decided to destroy the planet earth and did so successfully.
But, alas, apparently these are "crimes" so Naomi has to now pay for it. I mean, come on! There is not one person that I know who wouldn't resort to violence because they can't find a pair of pants. Naomi's maid should be lucky that she was only shot in the head! It could have been much worse if it had been Russell Crowe's pants. That guy's an asshole. But, is Naomi an asshole? No way! Just because she acts and thinks like an asshole all the time doesn't make her one. No, she is not an asshole. She is a martyr for all of us that have used our cell phones to beat to death the murderers of our maids who couldn't find jeans. I mean, those jeans looked so great on me! God, I'm pissed.
And it's not like Naomi could just buy a different pair of jeans, or wear a different set of pants. No! She's not rich! She can only afford the one pair! Leave her alone, you racist bastards! Attica! Attica! (I've never seen Dog Day Afternoon.)
Anyone Who Destroys the Airbus 380 is Christ!
So the Stupid-Dumbass-Mobile landed safely at JFK yesterday, without everybody on board dying. This, I think, is a great tragedy. Now that these assholes lived, more and more people are going to start thinking that it's a great idea to get on board this giant, flying, Auschwitz. And, to top things off, I said that it seats 550 passengers yesterday. Turns out, when those elitist fucks aren't deciding to have a first-class section so they can keep down the lower class, the plane can fit around nine hundred people. Nine hundred! People! Someone needs to blow up this plane while it is still on the ground so we don't have to worry about it crashing! Somebody do something, Goddamnit!
How the fuck did this shit happen? Probably something like this.
Scene: Some yuppie-fuck office with two business guys in a meeting. The FAA guy is giving a presentation and the Airbus Executive is half-listening, staring into his black coffee. Neither is naked, but wouldn't it be funny if they were?
Act I
FAA: So, we've been having a lot of problems with safety aboard planes and hijacking in the recent decades.
Airbus Executive: Uh huh.
FAA: We need to come up with a plane that is much safer, less attractive to terrorists, and is extremely efficient in its fuel expenditure to ticket price ratio.
Airbus Executive: Sure, sounds good. Great coffee, by the way.
FAA: So, we want to commission a plane from you that can make long flights, but is small, and for the first time in human history, can crash while leaving most of the passengers alive.
Airbus Executive: Sure, sounds good. Where's the creamer?
FAA: So, what do you have for me?
Airbus Executive: Uh huh.
FAA: Yes?
Airbus Executive: Oh, you're asking—oh! Ok! Sure, we got this great plane! It's like a 747 fucked the Astrodome! It can fit 900 people! Also, it's the biggest plane ever! Let's just hope nothing ever goes wrong with it.
FAA: Perfect! Make a thousand!
Exeunt
People Who Didn't Win the Lottery are Christ!
So this jack-ass dip-shit couple in New Jersey claimed their millions today. I just want to be the first to say, fuck you couple! I never liked you anyway! You can suck my balls. I wanted to win that money, you fucking cock chuggers. Go suck a dick, you assholes! Unless you want to donate some of that money to me. I mean, you're not going to use all of it, right? You're in your late fifties. Let me have some of the money. Ok? That would be awesome. What do you say? Fuck. I knew you wouldn't! Fuck you!
Christ is Christ!
So this dumbass high-school senior decided, in 2002, to show a banner across the street from his school that said "Bong Hits 4 Jesus". Now, we are in the midst of a free-speech case over whether or not his sign was an experiment in free speech or it was an invitation to use drugs. Want to know what I think? Well? You don't? Tough shit!
First of all, this thing was both an experiment and an invitation. It's not the "Bong Hits" part, or the "Jesus" part, it's the "4." Any kid who uses the number four instead of the word "for" is definitely high.
Second of all, anyone who knows anything knows that Jesus was more a fan of 'shrooms. Sure, weed was around in the olden days, but considering that my boy Jesus thought he could turn water into wine after walking to it, could come back to life, and was constantly talking to god, he must have been fucked up on the mushies! I mean, when he was walking around, while everyone else saw desert, he was probably seeing a level from Super Mario Brothers. Man, that son-of-god was fucked up.
Anyway, in conclusion, fuck this guy!
Dead Woman is Christ!
So some old chick died on a flight from New Delhi to London, and the asshole airline, British Airways, moved the bitch to first class! First fucking class! God, you are such assholes! Why not shove her way back in coach and give the first class seat to the poor asshole that had to sit next to her, you fucking limey fucks? Worst of all, they put her next to another first class passenger! This rich piece of shit didn't shell out 3000 bucks just to sit next to a dead girl! At least let him screw her, you know? Oops. Shouldn't have written that.
Saddam is Christ!
So Saddam's aide, Taha Yassin Ramadan, who was sentenced to life in prison, got screwed over by the appeals process and now the Iraqis get to hang him. That's right. That'll teach him for murdering! In this world, if you're a murderer, you get murdered! Take that, logic!
Pax Thien Jolie is Christ!
So Angelina Jolie went to 'Nam yesterday to rescue her newest cunt-baby. I have no problem with that, but she's naming the little cocksucker Pax. You know, like roman for "peace" or like that movie with Kevin Spacey that sucked balls, K-Pax. Well, congratu-fucking-lations, you dumb bitch! Now you have three kids who are going to lead surreal, ridicule-intensive lives. Maddox, Shiloh, and now Pax!
"Hi! I'm Maddox. My mom is Angelina Jolie!"
"Fucking off, you fucking loser! Get a mom who isn't a whore. Why don't you go fuck your uncle like she did, you shit-eating douchebag? Get out of my sandbox."
That's how it's going to go down. I've already come up with some nicknames for the kids so you don't have to think of them.
Shiloh: Shit Hole. My Pole. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's gay baby.
Maddox: Mud Cocks. Maggots. Mad Ox. Buttox. Asshole. That poor bastard that Angelina stole.
Pax: Fag!
Sound good?
Evan Jacobs is Christ!
Ok, now for my news.
Gum!
I'm chewing gum right now.
Work!
I'm permanent at my job now. I probably shouldn't be writing this. Please don't tell anybody. Please. I'll do anything. Anything.
Girlfriend!
I wuvvy wuvvy wuv my baby Adie!
Tired!
God Fucking Damnit I'm tired!
Almost Forgot!
Yeah, I almost forgot. I was walking from my apartment to the subway today and I sneezed. There was a middle-aged black woman walking behind me by about twenty feet who said "bless you" but I didn't really hear her. How do I know she said "bless you"? Because she then proceeded to start saying: "Did you hear me? Did you hear me? Excuse me, sir? Did you hear me? I said bless you." So, I turned my head around, smiled, and said "thanks."
Was I really thanking her? No! I just wanted her to leave me the fuck alone. First of all, it's ten am, and I just got up! Don't even fucking talk to me! I don't care if I'm sneezing blood and urine, ok? Bless me? Fuck you! Second of all, damn it! Can't I just sneeze in peace without you having to bring religion into it? Goddamnit, leave me the fuck alone, god! I don't need to be blessed! I don't need goddamn anything! Just let me fucking sneeze and have that be the end of the goddamned story! Finally, you said "bless you!" good for you, you did a good deed. Oh, wait, no one saw you do the good deed? Oh, my bad! I forgot you were only being nice to serve your own selfish purposes. That's why when I give money to charities (which I don't), I say, hey, this money is from me! Evan Jacobs! I am giving you this money! Aren't I great? Hello? Excuse me, sir? Did you hear me? Did you hear me? I said I gave you this money!
Conclusion is Christ!
Well ladies and gentlemen, that, as they say, is that. See you next time I post something, which, at this rate, should be rather soon.
Queef!
Evan Jacobs
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