So, here I am sitting in front of my computer screen, and I’m not going to lie, it feels a little weird. No, not because I really don’t use one anymore… Because I’m actually using my Windows 7 HP laptop for something other than using it as a DVR. And to me, well, the keyboard is a little weird, the buttons are a little too spread out, but I guess I will get used to it in writing this, but the old not-so-trusty-anymore Macbook is so easy to navigate and type on. As it turns out, not only is the hard drive set to perpetual level 1 on a toaster, but now the battery has taken its last dump, and the laptop only works if it’s plugged in. Awesome! Funny story, I haven’t used this laptop in so long, the battery has died and am using this one currently plugged in, because I didn’t want to use my macbook plugged in… Makes sense, I guess, for in about 5 hours, when this thing fully charges, yes, 5 hours, stupid thing only trickle charges… Whoever invented that should be shot in the penis. Not to completely demolish all fabric and knowledge of it ever existing, but using a BB gun, and while having an erection, shot directly down the pee-hole from point-blank range. I don’t want massive amounts of blood or anything, maybe pain, maybe, more so just that somehow, magically preferably, they cannot hold urine, and as it is produced, will continuously leak drip by drip onto their pants. Forcing them to wear diapers and not be able to get blowjobs, unless the girl is into golden showers n drinkin pee, I guess. But I guess what is actually weird about this writing sesh is that, well, usually I think of something awesome, amazing, hilarious, life-altering, plain-old-silly, or something to those extents happens, and I feel the need to write a little bit about them, and ramble on for the other 96%. After being held captive by Kim Jong Il, between the dates of March 5 and June 17, I am back on my writing grind, and am willing and hopefully able to flex my literary muscles yet again. Well, while held captive, I was propaganda master of his “regime,” so I guess you could say I was writing, but that was all fiction bull-hockey, not the real-life situations that are my daily grind, that matter oh-so-much to everyone on Earth and are of utmost importance for both National Security and the fate of the free-world. Speaking of which, can anybody teach me how to properly eat an ice pop and type something on the computer at the same time. Apparently I no longer HOLY FUCKING BEETLE JUST JUMPED ON ME! have the ability to do that anymore. I seem to just be dripping lemon-flavored Dora the Explora (cuz she so gansta, yo) DIE FUCKING BEETLE! ice pop all over my white T. No, not the Dem Franchize Boys variant of “White Tee.” but rather a T-shirt that just-so-happens to be white, like the color of my skin. No, no, not the blinding “holy shit put on a shirt” white of my stomach, but rather… Yea, probably that one on second thought… Funny story, was outside MDW wearing no shirt, to “get my base tan on for the beach (because I go oh so frequently…lol)” and I got beater burn. Yes, that is how deep white trash is ingrained in my particular variant of DNA. Thanks mom n dad. Hearts! That and the fact that (what little of) my facial hair (if it can even be considered that) No, never mind, that’s all Mexican, haha, my little Sanchez goin on. It’s all good though, one day, I might be able to grow facial hair and get all the ladies, or I can still pretend I’m not yet 18 and get some underage girls… I like the second idea better, just hope nobody catches on and I def don’t wanna pull an LT on dem hoez. Speaking of which, I guess it now makes sense as to why I’m a pedo: My idol as a child is also a pedo. It all makes sense now! Lean wit it, Rock wit it! Sorry, was talkin about DFB before, and put them on shuffle on my iTunes. Damn snap music and its awesomeness… er, uh, I don’t know that words can describe exactly how it goes, but I can try: Have you ever seen a 900 lb man with a Chihuahua deep-throating his erect penis, a Doberman stuck in his asshole via its tail, running naked across 7 lanes of a highway to get to a broken-down ice cream truck? Neither have I, but I’m sure that I would be unable to look the other way. It’s so bad, yet, well, you just have to watch, and video record it too, of course, just in case he gets hit by a semi haulin 80,000 pounds of freight. Instant Kajillionaire! Yea, so it’s like that, except this has to do more so with the ears, and less so with the eyes. Because, if you could see music, well, it would be weird to say the least, and I would hope it wouldn’t be like one of those gay visualizer/equalizers that windows media player has (does anybody use that anymore(Does that exist anymore?(Should I close these three sets of parenthesis?)Meh, I guess I could.) Did I close them all out yet?) How about now?) I think by now, I’ve close too many.) I’m not gonna worry about it though.) All these sentence fragments are fun!) So, yea, “snap music,” very terrible, slightly entertaining, not sure why. Maybe someone will research this and get back to me, maybe.
What’s been going on in my life… Hmmm… Well, I had Lyme disease, that was awesome! Sleeping + arthritis = my idea of a good time! The other cool part about it, well, there are actually at least two, was the fact that I just had to walk out into the sunlight to get a sunburn, stupid Doxycycline. Was that what it was called? Sounds like it’s a drug, so it’s good enough for me… That’s probably some boner medication, and I just ruined my reputation by saying I took boner medication for 3 weeks straight. Nah, never mind, falso alarmo, I don’t have a positive reputation to be harmed. Haha, fail. Oh, right, an excellent question, what was the other God DAMNIT! Just switched pages and I completely blanked on what I was talkin about, hold up… Oh, right, …cool part about having Lyme and being on meds for three weeks was the fact that I couldn’t really drink much. And in being that I couldn’t really drink much, I couldn’t drink at all. Now, I wouldn’t go out and saying that I’m an alcoholic or anything like that, in fact I might even say I ain’t not none a dem dere alky-mc-holics not never no way. I don’t drink often, but when I do drink, it’s a lot. And let me tell you, I drank a lot the past week(ish), and somehow my tolerance wasn’t really affected at all. Guess it’s like riding a bike, you never forget it, just gotta remember how to do it. That doesn’t actually make sense, but I’m going to let it slide, because that’s how it seems to be, and it is the only logical explanation that I have for it. Is it bad that I’m too lazy to get up, and walk 7 (approximated) feet to the nearest ash tray and properly put out my cigarette, so I just placed it on the ground next to me? I know what you’re thinking, and it’s absolutely correct. I’m in the garage, in a camping chair, and the floor is concrete. (Did I mention that white-trash is deeply rooted in my DNA.?) I mean, think about it. I hadn’t drank for over a month, probably, I now weigh 180-185 pounds, which is a mere fragment of my former self (as high as 240 soph-junior year of college, whenever that was, during my prime.) and something else. Because everything should be in threes. Not sure why, but that’s the way it is. There were three wise men, but I really feel that they were not so wise. You ask why? Let me explain to you: Dudes traveled far far away (St. Matthews 2:11 says “young child” and not “new-born” so they must have come a from far, far away. Eat that shit and like it David Hasselhoff!) and gave the dude Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Now, I can’t knock ‘em too much, because without them, apparently, we wouldn’t be getting all sorts of awesome presents on Christmas, so that’s a +1 in my book, but come on, a kid, gold, frankincense, myrrh…? What the fuck are the last two things anyway…?!?! I mean, yea, gold kinda makes sense, it’s shiny and if the kid keeps it, he will have some money at some point, kinda like a trust fund in ancient baby jebus times. What the fuck is a little baby jesus gonna be doin with dried tree sap? Come on. If you’re so wise, why wouldn’t you realize that a fucking child does not want anything to do with dried tree sap?! Fucking idiots! Maybe get the Jew a dradle or something. Too soon? So yea, maybe it was just a “lucky week,” but I really feel that my drinking ability was outstanding, to say the least, and it culminated properly in a so-called “Beer Olympics.” I mean, Wednesday night, it took me 14 beers to get to buzzed status, that’s a little ridiculous. And at the “Beer Olympics,” I was drinking sometime around 11:30a-2a ish, walked to a bar, took a shot, drank 3 beers, and did a car bomb. No, not the drink, I Macguyvered the shit out of a car and turned it into a bomb, Hazzah! Maybe I just dreamed the Macguyver part, but it was still pretty sweet. Or maybe I was just so drunk that I couldn’t even realize that I was drunk, but I’d like to think that not the case. That is all for now, little update, little golden verbiage forever glorified into the anals of the interwebs. Enjoy.
Peace!
S(cott) dot M(iller)eezy
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
You fucked it, Bob!
So, I haven’t written in a while, and I’m sure my presence has been greatly missed. And if it hasn’t, fuck off, nah, I also forgot I existed for quite some time myself. For you see, this is not actually me, but rather a “reaching-out”, if you will, of my subconscious. For, as most of you know, that “know” me, I wouldn’t actually say any of these things in person, for I am quite reserved and rarely speak up, especially if it goes against someone. But, well, the “silicone courage” comes out and I say things that my brain tells me repeatedly that I shouldn’t say out loud. I like that phrase, silicone courage, does it exist? Only one way to find out, time out whilest I check out wikipedia and urban dictionary.
(Insert elevator music… if only, that would be so friggin awesome! Well, pretend it’s real… NOW!)
Nope, doesn’t exist, I should probably get on copyrighting that and making millions from it. Here goes:
Silicone Courage: Having a computer screen to hide behind and feeling out-of-the-ordinarily courageous, giving you the ability to talk to that person you normally wouldn’t among other things. Copyright S dot Meezy. Or would it be a registered trademark? I should probably get a lawyer on board for this one… Haha. Yea, you’re right… I won’t, at all. I can pretend though ☺
Anyway, use it, I’ll sue. Or, maybe, use it, and keep spreading it around, and then one day I’ll sue everyone for using it a be a kajillionaire. Yes, that’s a real word. Don’t believe me? It exists on Wikipedia (the real encyclopedia of the world.) And according to the Urban Dictionary, it is equal to 1000 bajillion (dollars in this instance). And once I have my kajillion dollars, my 1000 bajillion, well, I’m not quite sure what I will do with all that money, but I’ll do something like buy a taco bell franchise and put it in my house. Mmmmmm taco bell. Cheesy gordita crunch for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and 4th meal. Would they all be considered fourth meal? Eh, who cares about semantics, it would be sweeter than a lollipop dipped in an 18-year-old virgin’s pussy.
Anywho, so this weekend in speaking with Some Random Giraffe, we decided something, which I have made my actual facebook status, S Dot Meezy (which I’ve since gone back to my real name, to avoid confusion, on my own behalf, of myself), not my S. Me Z status. Something to the fact of responsibility and the fact that people do not accept it, at all. (Going through this again, instead of doing the actual work I’m supposed to do, of course, I realize that I don’t even remember this happening, lol. But I should probably get on that train myself, so as to not make myself one a dem dere hippy-crits. Long story short: How do you tell a man that you done did $4,000 worth of damage to his pride-and-joy, his livelihood, his bread maker? You can’t, without expecting to get punched the fuck out… And how do you tell that man that you did this when he is the one that puts the roof over your head? Any suggestions, I’m all ears, well, eyes, I guess, unless you want to call me. Reach me @ 382-5968. Yes, that is not my real number, it actually spells out “Fuck You” or “Fuc Kyou”, with the hyphen in its proper place… Important? No.) So, back to our regularly scheduled programming, after looking at this again, even though I don’t remember where I was originally going with this, I have found a direction to travel, and fuck, let’s see where it brings us! (The last time I played this game, I almost lost my car to the mud-covered hill due to a lack of LSD. No, not the drug, a limited slip differential… Watch my cousin vinny, or I can just copy and paste the quote, because at the current moment, I’m bored, and trying to get my mind off of my upcoming phone that isn’t out yet, nor is there a specific release date other than summer… GAY!… The last one I got was September, it’s been way too long!
Mona Lisa Vito: It's a limited slip differential which distributes power equally to both the right and left tires. The ‘05 tC had a regular differential, which, anyone who's been stuck in the mud in Alabama knows, you step on the gas, one tire spins, the other tire does nothing.
Obviously, changed the 64 skylark with the 05 tC, but I don’t own a 64 Skylark, do i?! Didn’t think so… What if I do, and am not aware of it? That would be weird…
Hokay, so… Fuck the parenthesis I forgot to add in, I’m not actually going to close this one, and hopefully, now that I’ve pointed it out, you will get uber pissed (where is the umlaut on Microsoft word? Too many efforts to insert a symbol, so you get nothing there as well. Another unclosed parenthesis. Ha!
Funny story, true story, but funny. So my one friend may or may not have a drinking/drug problem, and since I haven’t hung out with him (for reasons due to the upcoming story, if, knowing me it might not, it ever comes, you will understand, possibly, why) since this story took place, I have maybe drank, twice, in over a month, possibly pushing two months now. Time flies any more, even though it also goes by slow as shit… Can you believe this week is already over (almost.)? Can you believe it’s already (insert the current month here…) ?! So we were all hangin’ out, having a little chill sesh at mah buddy’s cribbage, drinking quite heavily. I was killing everyone in any game known to man (aka listening to Aziz Ansari and beer pong, probably most likely due to my partner (no, not in a gay way, you homophobe) “carrying me on his shoulders”) and getting all the fly honeys, cuz that’s how I do. HAHA. Yea, this is my world, I can make it up as I see fit. At least I point out when I lie, well, when it’s a blatant lie… maybe… So, we’re all drinking, having a good time, and I was NOT pacing myself at all. Not very surprising, I never do, if I’m gonna do something, you bet your ass I’m gonna put 110% into it. So 1:30 comes around, and I’m all, “Fuck this, I’m going to sleep.” Translation: I’m old as shit, and also super lame, plus waking up at 7 am M-F sucks a fat three (because it’s three times worse than sucking a fat one, in my mind at least…) So I probably find the couch and pass out mid fall into the soft, comfortability of the lovely furnishing which I have claimed my own for the night, without urinating on it, because I am not a dog or a cat or whatever else does that… Wake up the next morning, feeling AWESOME! Everyone else starts rolling out of bed all OH MY GOD I FEEL LIKE SHIT. Well, apparently they were all chugging Jack until 4 in the morning and decided waking up at 830 am was a good idea. So, come to find out my one friend, whose name will not be revealed, and something about innocent until proven guilty in a court of law (my dad seriously needs to stop watching cops, that is the dumbest show on earth, filled with the dumbest people on earth. Nothing against cops, but, wait, everything against cops. They are completely unnecessary in most parts of the world. Well, not completely, but whatever, stop distracting me. Come to find out this other kid, the one with the problem, which is kind of fueled by some people “concerned about his well-being” aka attention grabbing whores (in dudely form) drank way too much, fell down a flight of stairs, complete with a 90 degree turn after 6 steps, which in itself deserves some sort of medal, and was lying (laying? Idk.) at the bottom of the stairs, face down, laughing at himself. We go down to the basement to wake up problem-having child, clean up a little bit, and notice that the TV command center, which consists of a TV (no shit?!) an xbox, an xbox 360(yes, both… Why, who knows and or cares… They were seriously both there, and the original xbox is slightly redundant… not my chair, not my problem…), a VCR (probably the last known one in existence, no longer can I loop the princess bride in a VRC :’( and probably something else stuffs too was covered in some sort of clearish liquid. Well, as it “turns out” it was pee, the problem-having-kid was the only one downstairs alone, woke up w/ his pants unbuttoned, and all signs kinda pointed to him peeing all over this shit. Which makes sense, kinda. But well, it was never brought to court, and he was never formally charged, or had a chance to defend himself in front of his peers, so, we’ll call it a tie. How? IDK, shit! So guy whose house it was all gave him the chance to fess up, playing stupid like hey somebody spilled something on the VCR thing, or something, idk. At the time it was way more dramatic n sich, but looking back, it’s kinda wtvr, prob cause it wasn’t my shit that got pissed on.
Fuck, I had some serious gold, but I completely forgot all about it, I need to start carrying around a voice recorder or texting myself notes on what stupid shit I think about. God damnit sweaty, hairy monkey nutsack-filled plastic testicles!
Who do you portray yourself as? Do you want people to think you’re better than they are, better than you are, better than anything? Do you show people you don’t care so they think that’s why you do so poorly, do not achieve anything in life? Have you had so much potential and done nothing with it? Why do you feel that you need to portray yourself as someone other than what you actually are? Do you even know who you are? All of these questions might scare you, shit, they’re scaring me, partially because I don’t know who’s asking them, and partially because, well, they’re scary to think about!
No idea where I was going with that one either. If I remember, good for you, if not, it’ll just be something else that makes no sense. Surprise! No, it’s not your birthday, ?, we’re about to play a fun game. (yes, I just used a question mark in a appositive… technically not an appositive, but you can go lick Ron Jeremy’s decrepit, protracted, STI carrying schlong-a-dong for all I care with you getting all technical on me like that!) This game hasn’t even started, and I’m already calling time mother-lovin’ out!
So, I finally remembered I exist, again, months later, and do not remember the game we were going to play. Quite upsetting, actually, because with that intro to the game, reading over this again, I was like Shit yea I wanna play this game! But now it will never be invented and the world will not be a better place for its existence. :’( On a more positive note, I’m ending it here before I make it any worse than it already is. Seriously though, think about that question in the last “para-graph.” I sometimes have gems of wisdom, sometimes, maybe…?
Peace out nyuckas!
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
(Insert elevator music… if only, that would be so friggin awesome! Well, pretend it’s real… NOW!)
Nope, doesn’t exist, I should probably get on copyrighting that and making millions from it. Here goes:
Silicone Courage: Having a computer screen to hide behind and feeling out-of-the-ordinarily courageous, giving you the ability to talk to that person you normally wouldn’t among other things. Copyright S dot Meezy. Or would it be a registered trademark? I should probably get a lawyer on board for this one… Haha. Yea, you’re right… I won’t, at all. I can pretend though ☺
Anyway, use it, I’ll sue. Or, maybe, use it, and keep spreading it around, and then one day I’ll sue everyone for using it a be a kajillionaire. Yes, that’s a real word. Don’t believe me? It exists on Wikipedia (the real encyclopedia of the world.) And according to the Urban Dictionary, it is equal to 1000 bajillion (dollars in this instance). And once I have my kajillion dollars, my 1000 bajillion, well, I’m not quite sure what I will do with all that money, but I’ll do something like buy a taco bell franchise and put it in my house. Mmmmmm taco bell. Cheesy gordita crunch for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and 4th meal. Would they all be considered fourth meal? Eh, who cares about semantics, it would be sweeter than a lollipop dipped in an 18-year-old virgin’s pussy.
Anywho, so this weekend in speaking with Some Random Giraffe, we decided something, which I have made my actual facebook status, S Dot Meezy (which I’ve since gone back to my real name, to avoid confusion, on my own behalf, of myself), not my S. Me Z status. Something to the fact of responsibility and the fact that people do not accept it, at all. (Going through this again, instead of doing the actual work I’m supposed to do, of course, I realize that I don’t even remember this happening, lol. But I should probably get on that train myself, so as to not make myself one a dem dere hippy-crits. Long story short: How do you tell a man that you done did $4,000 worth of damage to his pride-and-joy, his livelihood, his bread maker? You can’t, without expecting to get punched the fuck out… And how do you tell that man that you did this when he is the one that puts the roof over your head? Any suggestions, I’m all ears, well, eyes, I guess, unless you want to call me. Reach me @ 382-5968. Yes, that is not my real number, it actually spells out “Fuck You” or “Fuc Kyou”, with the hyphen in its proper place… Important? No.) So, back to our regularly scheduled programming, after looking at this again, even though I don’t remember where I was originally going with this, I have found a direction to travel, and fuck, let’s see where it brings us! (The last time I played this game, I almost lost my car to the mud-covered hill due to a lack of LSD. No, not the drug, a limited slip differential… Watch my cousin vinny, or I can just copy and paste the quote, because at the current moment, I’m bored, and trying to get my mind off of my upcoming phone that isn’t out yet, nor is there a specific release date other than summer… GAY!… The last one I got was September, it’s been way too long!
Mona Lisa Vito: It's a limited slip differential which distributes power equally to both the right and left tires. The ‘05 tC had a regular differential, which, anyone who's been stuck in the mud in Alabama knows, you step on the gas, one tire spins, the other tire does nothing.
Obviously, changed the 64 skylark with the 05 tC, but I don’t own a 64 Skylark, do i?! Didn’t think so… What if I do, and am not aware of it? That would be weird…
Hokay, so… Fuck the parenthesis I forgot to add in, I’m not actually going to close this one, and hopefully, now that I’ve pointed it out, you will get uber pissed (where is the umlaut on Microsoft word? Too many efforts to insert a symbol, so you get nothing there as well. Another unclosed parenthesis. Ha!
Funny story, true story, but funny. So my one friend may or may not have a drinking/drug problem, and since I haven’t hung out with him (for reasons due to the upcoming story, if, knowing me it might not, it ever comes, you will understand, possibly, why) since this story took place, I have maybe drank, twice, in over a month, possibly pushing two months now. Time flies any more, even though it also goes by slow as shit… Can you believe this week is already over (almost.)? Can you believe it’s already (insert the current month here…) ?! So we were all hangin’ out, having a little chill sesh at mah buddy’s cribbage, drinking quite heavily. I was killing everyone in any game known to man (aka listening to Aziz Ansari and beer pong, probably most likely due to my partner (no, not in a gay way, you homophobe) “carrying me on his shoulders”) and getting all the fly honeys, cuz that’s how I do. HAHA. Yea, this is my world, I can make it up as I see fit. At least I point out when I lie, well, when it’s a blatant lie… maybe… So, we’re all drinking, having a good time, and I was NOT pacing myself at all. Not very surprising, I never do, if I’m gonna do something, you bet your ass I’m gonna put 110% into it. So 1:30 comes around, and I’m all, “Fuck this, I’m going to sleep.” Translation: I’m old as shit, and also super lame, plus waking up at 7 am M-F sucks a fat three (because it’s three times worse than sucking a fat one, in my mind at least…) So I probably find the couch and pass out mid fall into the soft, comfortability of the lovely furnishing which I have claimed my own for the night, without urinating on it, because I am not a dog or a cat or whatever else does that… Wake up the next morning, feeling AWESOME! Everyone else starts rolling out of bed all OH MY GOD I FEEL LIKE SHIT. Well, apparently they were all chugging Jack until 4 in the morning and decided waking up at 830 am was a good idea. So, come to find out my one friend, whose name will not be revealed, and something about innocent until proven guilty in a court of law (my dad seriously needs to stop watching cops, that is the dumbest show on earth, filled with the dumbest people on earth. Nothing against cops, but, wait, everything against cops. They are completely unnecessary in most parts of the world. Well, not completely, but whatever, stop distracting me. Come to find out this other kid, the one with the problem, which is kind of fueled by some people “concerned about his well-being” aka attention grabbing whores (in dudely form) drank way too much, fell down a flight of stairs, complete with a 90 degree turn after 6 steps, which in itself deserves some sort of medal, and was lying (laying? Idk.) at the bottom of the stairs, face down, laughing at himself. We go down to the basement to wake up problem-having child, clean up a little bit, and notice that the TV command center, which consists of a TV (no shit?!) an xbox, an xbox 360(yes, both… Why, who knows and or cares… They were seriously both there, and the original xbox is slightly redundant… not my chair, not my problem…), a VCR (probably the last known one in existence, no longer can I loop the princess bride in a VRC :’( and probably something else stuffs too was covered in some sort of clearish liquid. Well, as it “turns out” it was pee, the problem-having-kid was the only one downstairs alone, woke up w/ his pants unbuttoned, and all signs kinda pointed to him peeing all over this shit. Which makes sense, kinda. But well, it was never brought to court, and he was never formally charged, or had a chance to defend himself in front of his peers, so, we’ll call it a tie. How? IDK, shit! So guy whose house it was all gave him the chance to fess up, playing stupid like hey somebody spilled something on the VCR thing, or something, idk. At the time it was way more dramatic n sich, but looking back, it’s kinda wtvr, prob cause it wasn’t my shit that got pissed on.
Fuck, I had some serious gold, but I completely forgot all about it, I need to start carrying around a voice recorder or texting myself notes on what stupid shit I think about. God damnit sweaty, hairy monkey nutsack-filled plastic testicles!
Who do you portray yourself as? Do you want people to think you’re better than they are, better than you are, better than anything? Do you show people you don’t care so they think that’s why you do so poorly, do not achieve anything in life? Have you had so much potential and done nothing with it? Why do you feel that you need to portray yourself as someone other than what you actually are? Do you even know who you are? All of these questions might scare you, shit, they’re scaring me, partially because I don’t know who’s asking them, and partially because, well, they’re scary to think about!
No idea where I was going with that one either. If I remember, good for you, if not, it’ll just be something else that makes no sense. Surprise! No, it’s not your birthday, ?, we’re about to play a fun game. (yes, I just used a question mark in a appositive… technically not an appositive, but you can go lick Ron Jeremy’s decrepit, protracted, STI carrying schlong-a-dong for all I care with you getting all technical on me like that!) This game hasn’t even started, and I’m already calling time mother-lovin’ out!
So, I finally remembered I exist, again, months later, and do not remember the game we were going to play. Quite upsetting, actually, because with that intro to the game, reading over this again, I was like Shit yea I wanna play this game! But now it will never be invented and the world will not be a better place for its existence. :’( On a more positive note, I’m ending it here before I make it any worse than it already is. Seriously though, think about that question in the last “para-graph.” I sometimes have gems of wisdom, sometimes, maybe…?
Peace out nyuckas!
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
Friday, March 5, 2010
I Need a Hot Girl.
Sometimes I get to thinking, and sometimes that gets me into trouble. Notice I said sometimes. Because most of the time I do not think, and most of the times that I do ACTUALLY think, it does not get me into trouble. Therefore the coefficient for trouble from thinking is somewhat similar to .49 X .49 which = 24% at best. However unrealistic that number is, I guess by the use of my words it is possible to be occurred as such. Does that actually matter? Fuckin’ A Right! You’re so smart! How do you do it? You don’t have to answer that question, I don’t really actually care, I was just doing it to be polite and make you feel like you’re opinion matters, when we all know that only my opinion and that of Some Random Giraffe are the only two opinions on the Earth that matter. Anyhow, sitting in traffic this morning, “rush hour” traffic, if you will, I noticed something. Well, I noticed something that I had subconsciously noticed before but had never came to the forefront of my conscious brain power-ness until this morning. Maybe it was more of noticing something that I haven’t noticed, so I anti-noticed something(?). Looking at all of the cars, and the people driving those cars, I noticed that there are absolutely ZERO good-looking girls driving to work in the morning. NONE! What the fuck?! Do they not have to work because they are so attractive? Do they just not go in so early because they need extra beauty sleep? What exactly is going on here? Looking around at all of the cars, being bored as hell, I noticed that I have not once noticed a super-fine, oh-so-sexy, what-I-wouldn’t-do-to-her type of girl ever in my morning commute. Sitting in traffic in the morning, you would think you would see at least one. One?! Not a single one! Maybe there’s a road that exists that only beautiful women are allowed to drive on. Maybe we should employ sexy females to drive during rush hour traffic, to make the drive more pleasant. Which I then thought about and realized that there were pros and cons to this. Pros: Stare at hot chics, make eye contact, get a boner and not have the embarrassment of other people, except maybe a trucker, seeing it. Cons: Get a stiffy and have a trucker hit on you, stare at a hot chick and crash, get laughed at by hot chics, not see boobies., and get your hopes up for nothing.
Beautiful women don’t work. Don’t get me wrong; they do have jobs, but like as models and porn stars and such of the sort. And yes, they are really good at being bartenders, I guess, because who doesn’t want gymongous jugs staring at your eyes when you are ordering a drink (and drinking heavily), although they can really only be trusted to make girly drinks and open bottles of beer, we can’t ask too much of them, it’s still fine by me. But, you know what, good for them for being so attractive. Actually, another job they’re great at, receptionist and tanning salon employee. Oh, I’m sorry you pretentious prick of a douche licker, did I just name two things after saying “another”? Maybe they’re basically one in the same, and I wanted to elaborate. Maybe, just maybe you'll go out back and rub their sick crotch; he'll stick his hands down your pants. Meanwhile, your boyfriend's sittin' at home jerkin off to fuckin' gay porn. What, oh, Haggard, right, funny where your mind wanders when you say something silly like “Maybe, just maybe”. My mind is a big jumble of movie quotes and much other irrelevant bullshit that doesn’t matter to much more than this god awfully forsaken blog written about, well, what the fuck is it ever written about? Stupidity. Wait, awesomeness. Pure, unadulterated awe-inspiring, prodigiosity.
Giving up that extra cupcake in third grade, and leading to their proper eating behaviors, they probably deserve to not work. Wait, that’s not how it happened. The cutest girls in grade school are usually the ones that turn out to be all full of STDs and fatness come 5th grade. FIFTH GRADE?! Eh, probably by now. It was probably more like the loserly athletic/fit girl that wasn’t cool enough to be given a cupcake in 3rd grade for Timmy’s birthday, never getting to taste the delectability, the titillating, clit-tickling ability of deliciously sweet yum-yum cuppy cakes. Never figuring this out, with puberty, throw in a little luck, and continuing to play sports, but somehow not being popular even so, and all their hard work finally pays off! They are hot as hell, and people start noticing them. But, the “cool cats” that made fun of her and never had the time of day for her before get nothing from her, because one day she will go postal on their asses for all the torment and psychologist visits they brought upon her. The band-geek that was her friend no matter what because it was a human of the female variety that talked to him, will probably get first dibs. But it’s too late, because senior year is already over, and soon enough she will go to college, get into clubs and get served drinks, meet the wrong guys, and one day end up in Playboy College Girls. End up sleeping with a teacher, becoming preggers and dropping out of school, have MTV make a show about it, My Teacher Fucked Me In The Ass and Got Me Pregnant. What the fuck did I just talk about? You can’t get preggo from sodomy. Unless there is some form of disgusto that involves analinguis and then spittin the juicy yum cum back into the va-jay-jay. I’m sure there’s a word for that, I just haven’t been able to find it on urban dictionary or Wikipedia. A sort of modified felch + snowball 3X combo, if you will. Back to my previous direction. If they did have real jobs, there would be way more cars which would lead to way more traffic, and especially problematic, there would be more women drivers, which would lead to more traffic and more accidents, because as we all know women can’t drive, so it’s probably for the best.
Congratulations on being hot. You deserve all the attention you get. Stay off the roads and don’t get a job, just keep suckin’ that dick for all of your monetary needs. But, if for some reason, you decide you want to become ugly for some crazy reason, don’t depend on men to pay for anything for you anymore, unless you’re that good at givin’ it up and s’in that dee.
Someday, maybe, just someday, i hope, I will be able to do something useful, or something like that, I think.
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
Beautiful women don’t work. Don’t get me wrong; they do have jobs, but like as models and porn stars and such of the sort. And yes, they are really good at being bartenders, I guess, because who doesn’t want gymongous jugs staring at your eyes when you are ordering a drink (and drinking heavily), although they can really only be trusted to make girly drinks and open bottles of beer, we can’t ask too much of them, it’s still fine by me. But, you know what, good for them for being so attractive. Actually, another job they’re great at, receptionist and tanning salon employee. Oh, I’m sorry you pretentious prick of a douche licker, did I just name two things after saying “another”? Maybe they’re basically one in the same, and I wanted to elaborate. Maybe, just maybe you'll go out back and rub their sick crotch; he'll stick his hands down your pants. Meanwhile, your boyfriend's sittin' at home jerkin off to fuckin' gay porn. What, oh, Haggard, right, funny where your mind wanders when you say something silly like “Maybe, just maybe”. My mind is a big jumble of movie quotes and much other irrelevant bullshit that doesn’t matter to much more than this god awfully forsaken blog written about, well, what the fuck is it ever written about? Stupidity. Wait, awesomeness. Pure, unadulterated awe-inspiring, prodigiosity.
Giving up that extra cupcake in third grade, and leading to their proper eating behaviors, they probably deserve to not work. Wait, that’s not how it happened. The cutest girls in grade school are usually the ones that turn out to be all full of STDs and fatness come 5th grade. FIFTH GRADE?! Eh, probably by now. It was probably more like the loserly athletic/fit girl that wasn’t cool enough to be given a cupcake in 3rd grade for Timmy’s birthday, never getting to taste the delectability, the titillating, clit-tickling ability of deliciously sweet yum-yum cuppy cakes. Never figuring this out, with puberty, throw in a little luck, and continuing to play sports, but somehow not being popular even so, and all their hard work finally pays off! They are hot as hell, and people start noticing them. But, the “cool cats” that made fun of her and never had the time of day for her before get nothing from her, because one day she will go postal on their asses for all the torment and psychologist visits they brought upon her. The band-geek that was her friend no matter what because it was a human of the female variety that talked to him, will probably get first dibs. But it’s too late, because senior year is already over, and soon enough she will go to college, get into clubs and get served drinks, meet the wrong guys, and one day end up in Playboy College Girls. End up sleeping with a teacher, becoming preggers and dropping out of school, have MTV make a show about it, My Teacher Fucked Me In The Ass and Got Me Pregnant. What the fuck did I just talk about? You can’t get preggo from sodomy. Unless there is some form of disgusto that involves analinguis and then spittin the juicy yum cum back into the va-jay-jay. I’m sure there’s a word for that, I just haven’t been able to find it on urban dictionary or Wikipedia. A sort of modified felch + snowball 3X combo, if you will. Back to my previous direction. If they did have real jobs, there would be way more cars which would lead to way more traffic, and especially problematic, there would be more women drivers, which would lead to more traffic and more accidents, because as we all know women can’t drive, so it’s probably for the best.
Congratulations on being hot. You deserve all the attention you get. Stay off the roads and don’t get a job, just keep suckin’ that dick for all of your monetary needs. But, if for some reason, you decide you want to become ugly for some crazy reason, don’t depend on men to pay for anything for you anymore, unless you’re that good at givin’ it up and s’in that dee.
Someday, maybe, just someday, i hope, I will be able to do something useful, or something like that, I think.
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Who Knows, I Sure as F*ck Don't!
Who are you? Yes, you, lonely-type person sitting behind the safety of your computer screen, afraid of real contact with actual human beings, to the point of reminding me of a Justin Timberlake song. (Ayo Technology. Wait, 50 Cent ft J Tim and Timbaland… does it matter? Is this your story? Isn’t Justin Timberlake so much cooler, and hotter, than 50 Cent ever could be??!! He’s so dreamy, and I’m ain’t not no gay. If I were a chic, I’d totally bang him! WTF? Who just hijacked my blog? I digress.) I don’t actually know what it is about the song that made me think of it, but well, listen to it, and that is who you are. Maybe you are what that Dennis Leary song says you are, you know that popular song he had… People heard it from time to time, it may or may not be as popular as the Mona Lisa, who, apparently, was suffering from high cholesterol, not too sure where she got it from, but hey, apparently she loved animal meat if you know what I mean ;-). Ew. Perv! Haha, it’s okay, I thought the same thing. You know, cholesterol, the essential structural component of mammalian cell membranes, so I’ve heard through the grapevine, which contrary to popular belief are NOT mammalian, yes, you read that correctly, grapes and grapevines are NOT mammalian. Do grapes even grow on grapevines, or is that like, you know, ladybug sex which leads to ladybug eggs and ladybugs? As we’ve already learned, through the scientific method, which may or may not have been scientifically proven with science, that Ladybugs grow from shit, not ladies or bugs. Well, maybe if said lady or bug is covered with fecal monkey thrown matter, then they might grow ladybugs, otherwise, you are SOL, Shit-Ass-Out, up a crick without a paddle, or downright bent over backwards while being pounded in Federal Rape Me In The Ass Prison, surprisingly in the ass, by Bubbah, after you get caught jaggin off to kiddie porn. Well, actually, you thought you were downloading Girls Gone Wild, but instead got kiddie porn, and even though the download didn’t finish because you were downloading donkey shows and gay porn which was more important to you at the time, and you could have never viewed it, you still partially downloaded it and the FBI shows up at your door, taking you away, and sending you as fresh fish to Tiny, your 6’10” cellmate (why must you assume he’s black you racist POS?! haha, well he is… you were correct.) who has not had lovin’ in a long time and loves virgins. True story. Well, part of that story may have been made up, but the FBI part and jail really did happen, and I’m sure he found a whole bunch of new friends, because, as we all know, because we’ve all been to prison, kiddie molestor/porn watchers are the bottom of the barrel, or top, I guess, depending on how you want to look at it. Fucked up, isn’t it? Holy shit longest tangent ever, time out while I reread the bullshit I’m feeding you, spoonful by spoonful, unbeknownst to you, slowly turning you into my minions, all thinking just as I do, and one day taking over the world. Nah, never mind, I don’t want that responsibility, that was a dumb thought, do you want to rule the world? Even Hitler couldn’t do it, and there were WAYYYY less people in the world than there are now. Probably one of the greatest world leaders ever, up there with Saddam Hussein and that Cuban guy, what was his name…? Oh yea, Oswaldo Dorticós Torrado. Stupid people thinking I was going to put that other guy, uh, Fulgencio Batista Zaldívar, haha, jk, Fidel, but they were both pretty cool too, in their own way I guess. Nah, nevermind, they were losers, nobody has even heard of them, until I just googled them, well, more specifically “Cuban leaders.”
So, back to the point, even though I never actually have one, but hey, oh yea, I was going back to read WTF (mate) I was talking about, even though I think it took maybe half a second before I got side-tracked. Where were we, All right, all right, let's see. Uh, she was in the water, the Eel was coming after her. She was frightened. The Eel started to charge her. And then - (Princess Bride, anyone…?) Doesn’t matter, you suck either way, suck bag. That’s not true, you must not suck as much as a bag of suck because you’re cool enough at least to read my blog. Maybe you’re only a nickel-bag of suck. Time out again, time to drain the main valve. Time out on that time out, why do I keep timing out, for you have no idea that I’m pausing my literary genius putting onto paper, because each word is not timestamped. Haha, oh well, it’s more fun to throw that in there, because then it looks like I smarter because there are more words and such stuff of the sort. Ah, relief. Soooooooooooooo, 850 something words later, we finally might be getting to start scratching the surface of this post. The end of that sentence makes it 872. 880. Shit, this can go on forever, I had better stop it. 891. Haha, okay I’m done now, I promise. Eh, I’m done for the night, gotta wake up early kiddies, hopefully I can continue, sometime soon so I don’t forget my ideas. Well, never mind that, I’ll be gone on a magical voyage until Monday night, for Colorado and a beer rave await me. What is a beer rave you ask? Well, I’m not quite sure myself, but it involves beer, and raving. Doesn’t one usually rave when they are drunk? I sure as hell know I talk incoherently when I’ve been drinking. Ohhhhhhhhhh, yea, you’re probably right, it’s probably the glow-stick up your butt type of rave. Even better! Assuming they have lube, because otherwise, I don’t care how drunk I am, I will not allow my butt-hole to glow and bleed at the same time, I could get butt cancer, and I don’t know of anyone who would give me their butt. Butt transplant? Terrance and Phillip? South Park? Any of this doing anything for you? If not, you deserve butt cancer. Was it anal cancer, or was his butt just collapsing? Who knows, who cares… NIGHT!
Hello again!
And back to 950 words ago, not literally what is your name, but who are you? Why are you who you are? What things do you do that make you unique? Have you ever thought about any of these questions? Do any of these questions actually matter? They probably do, or have some relevance to where I am hoping to go, but probably will not considering how long it took me to get to the second sentence of the substance, the meat, the bread and butter of this post. (Bread and butter of this post? Haha, wtvr, it’ll work…) (just a little f-to-the-y-I for you, it might get a little serious for a minute, don’t be scared, it’s supposed to be, I think.) But, yea, no, seriously, it’s a fucked up time to be growing up. With college being a necessity any more, well, that whole delayed adolescence thing comes into play, and for me, it’s a little closer to home. My first cousins and my family included, it went in order through age, as to who would be getting married next. And well, as you guessed it, I fucked that one up. Big deal, I know! I won’t lie, I feel like I messed up, ruined the whole order of things, but, that’s why trends were made, to be broken. So that got me kinda thinkin’, you know, I mean, our parents probably met in high school or whatever, maybe one went to college right around the corner from home, and they stayed together forever. Now-a-days, couples break up going into college, because freshman year sucks when you are dating someone that doesn’t go to your school because you can’t have ANY fun. And then by the end, girls are all trying to settle down and hurry up to find someone to marry, because after you leave college, there really isn’t finding anybody else. Go to a bar and find some random slutty lookin loser and take them home to mom? No, there’s a reason why they are single and at a bar. Because they are either damaged goods or they’re crazy. And they know the only way guys will talk to them is if they are that drunk. Because if they weren’t crazy, they would already be married. (I’m the exception to that rule too, although I guess I don’t go out to bars looking for tramptastic women/girls/females. I gave up on that one after I got out of school. Well, even though I’m never going to technically graduate from anything, we can pretend.) Being that we have all this extra time to fuck off, catch STIs (no, not the Subaru, I wish you could catch those in the wild, the new name for STDs, because, they’re infections, not diseases.) , and sleep 20 hours out of the day due to the “vigorous schedule of college” we tend to lose ourselves and form new identities that aren’t really who we are. We figure out how much and how often we can drink, and do it every waking moment, because, imagine having an actual connection with someone other than genetalia touching? That would be insane; I don’t even know where that thought came from. People tend to lose the part of their brain that lets them have actual friendships with people not based on drinking because who cares why you like that person, as long as they will be there when you need a drink. And why do we form such a dependence upon such a terrible drug. Since we’re already napping 20 hours a day, why don’t we all just roll joints and sleep an extra hour. We have nothing better to do. Shit, most people don’t even show up to class if it isn’t required. So, for six years (yea, you’re quite an idiot and that’s how long it’s going to take you to graduate from a two year program) you’re “meeting” new people, having the time of your life, all the while completely throwing responsibility out the window. Who cares, if it takes me 6 years to finish what should take me 2, then 2 more years at a real school will take me at least 8, and by that point I’ll be 32, and I’ll wake up and be responsible. Well, yea, but then you have to go to the bar to find similar losers such as yourself who didn’t actually think ahead until it was too late. But, to be fair, even if you go right to a four year school, and graduate, sometimes there is a big work load, or way too big of a dude to chic ratio and you aren’t able to find anybody that you like more than just as a fuck buddy or whatever kids call it these days. And another thing that is fucked up about when we’re growing up is technology. Holy shit man, a computer named after a tampon, without a keyboard is coming out! What has the world come to?! Well, I’m not really too sure, but I’m going to buy one! Because the three laptops I own already are not enough, and, they all have keyboards anyway, lol. But seriously kiddies, the rate at which shit is “evolving,” how everyone has ADD and Apple is trying to fight this with shitty fuckin shit that only lets you do one thing at a time, except browse the web and talk on the phone, seriously, that is the one thing you are going to let people multi-task with… Something completely irrelevant to the Earth and God-himself, and completely useless, as I think I’ve ranted about in previous posts, is the one thing that they are going to let people multi-task with. Speakerphone and the Interwebs. Why don’t we just waste the battery even faster! Fuck, why even put a battery in, just plug it into a wall, and leave it there… It’ll be like a home phone, always having to be plugged in to be used, with a charging cord that is 50 feet long. And of course, this cord will be all curled like all home phones are, super awesomely sweetness. I want every cord I own to have a curly cord. I wish that my umbilical cord could actually be super curly, in the fashion of the home phone cords. Just thinking about it makes me hungry. No, I’m not Mr Conehead, and no, the thought of copper wrapped in plastic does not make me hungry either, it just makes me think of Arby’s curly fries. Delishiosityness to the maxxxxx!!!!! But not like when you go to a shitty one and they are wetter than a virgin on prom night. (does that even exist? Either one, or together. A virgin… Prom… ? Maybe somewhere in the south, possibly, or, uh, India… Does India even have high schools and proms? Do they still do that arranged marriage shit? Wikipedia is down, otherwise I’d let you know, but, since my most credible source of knowledge, well second, Snapple Caps do not cover such sensitive issues, for obvious reasons, I can’t let you in on the deal with that one. I’m pretty sure you have a better chance at seeing Bigfoot get eaten by the Loch Ness Monster while your plane is crashing into a meteor fragment because Bruce Willis did not blow up thoroughly and then your plane lands on the last unicorn in existence, that happened to be preggers. Way to go douche-fag. You just wiped out 3 species, and you were the only person to ever know they existed. And you didn’t take a picture, upload it to the Interwebs, and let everyone else know they exist. And now you’re dead. POWER THIRST! You should probably now take a time out to watch that video… it’s awesome... douche fag… ? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRuNxHqwazs And while you’re @ it, you should prob watch the powerthirst 2 as well… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-3qncy5Qfk&feature=related I’ll wait… Don’t worry, I have all day… Seriously, take your time… It’s cool.) They’re called fries for a reason, because they’re fried, not bathed in oil, so as to give your mouthal region 17th degree burns. Just thinking about it makes my mouth hurt. Or my frenulum. No, not that frenulum, sick-o, actually come to think of it, is that, eh, who cares? For all intensive purposes pertaining to this post, the frenulum will be defined as that thing on the roof of your mouth directly behind your two-front-teeth that gets decimated when you go all cannibalistic on a piping-hot-fresh-out-of-the-oven piece of 700 degree Celsius slab o’ bread cheese and tomato sauce. Just thinking about it brings back bad memories and flashbacks of ‘Nam. WTF? I wasn’t in Viet-fuckin’-nam, oh, nevermind, Forrest Gump was nice enough to bring me with him, so I guess I was.
Anywaysies, I think I’m finally getting on track! Hurray! (?) Partially because I’m sick and tired of writing and secondly because it’s been tooo long since I’ve graced the Interwebs with my literarical geniositynesstacity. The whole reason I started this post, I think, it’s been way too long ago since I have actually had time to come back to this, is because I got me to thinkin’ one day, which is usually trouble, also probably happened to be the day I started this post, which was God-knows-when, and all these people that are leaving college and looking for a job in the real world are all deleting and untagging themselves in all the photos where they are shown doing a keg stand or making out with some random in a bar (obviously, a skank. See above.) because employers these days have given themselves the power to look into these things to decide whether or not you are a good candidate for their employance. Who the fuck wants to join the real world, anyway, sounds stupid to me. I prefer the magical land called “Lives-with-parentsville.” Maybe that has something to do with why people don’t go out and get married. It costs too much to rent/own your own place, so you are stuck at home, and can’t have time to mold the schizo skankapotomous into a model citizen your mother would be proud of because you have to take her home right away. If only there were a school you could send them to to learn how to not be such a b-i-itch and send in your mothers criteria for being liked by the family. (note to self: look into brainwashing techniques for sluttasauruses) Because, as we all know, we all want a lady in the streets but a freak in the bed. Sheets rhymes, I know, but I don’t think it sounds as good, so fuck off wankah. But seriously though, what the fuck does how many beers I drink on a Mon-Sun night have anything to do with the way that I behave at work and perform for the company. And those hypocritical bastards are saying that they never did anything stupid in their time… pretty sure the invent of the digital camera would have been nice back then so I could have pictures of those fuckers being all wasted off of god knows what (sorry, didn’t wanna hyphen that one, or capitalize it either, take that one!) and when they ask to see my FB I’ll be like, set their picture as my default and then I’ll be VP in no time, assuming I probably delete the picture, forever. (note to self: look into time travel) (note to self: if you are going to look into time travel, just look at stock prices, buy them back then, sell them today, and not have to work) (note to self: you are a genius. I know… Am I now having a conversation with myself, through Micro-Soft wordage? It would seem to be true… ) But more seriously though, how is what I do on my free time any indication of how I work? Shit, if I party hard, I must have some sort of “Good work ethic” right? I mean, that probably means that I try my hardest at everything I do, and if it doesn’t, well, now it does. On a racist side note, why does everyone think that Asian drivers are the worst? They are quite bad at driving, but hey, out of the 4 billion of them, there are bound to be a few million bad ones. Lol. Seriously though, the worst drivers on the face of this fine planet I call America HAVE TO BE black women. Think about it. Have you ever been in a situation, walking in a mall or a place with a very tight, narrow walkway, and there happens to be a group of black people walking towards you? Well, if you have, you will know that THEY WILL NOT MOVE OUT OF THEIR PATH NO MATTER WHAT! And, if there are three of them, occupying a path that could in reality hold four or five people, they will make it so they are not near the edge on one side, but rather ¾ of a person away from the opposite side that you are on, and the one closest to you will not even turn their shoulders so you don’t have to go onto the soggy mud that is next to the path. I will kill all of them. They only know how to think about themselves, and I have had WAYYYYYYYYYYY too many experiences with black women merging, almost into me, into me had I not realized what they were doing, because they want to go where they want to go and they don’t care what is in their way, it is THEIR path. And they can’t even warn you with a blinker, no, you have to say hey, if I were that black lady driving that (insert luxury vehicle here, that they obviously use food stamps to pay for and can only afford for maybe the first week they own it) BMW luxury liner of a boat, would I merge directly into the car next to me because I don’t know how to use a blinker or mirrors, or turn my head to check if there is anyone next to me. That’s why they (don’t?) pay(at all actually) so much for insurance, it’s their problem. They want to go there and there is no stopping them. And once they do obviously run into you, somehow they will be black and say that it obvi wasn’t their fault, and you are just saying that because they are black. I fucking hate the race card. Like this morning, when I was halfway merged into a lane, and a negro bitch decided she didn’t like the left lane anymore. Why not? I’m not really sure, she didn’t exit for another 12 miles and the left lane was wide open. But, well, I guess it’s a good thing I check my mirrors and look as I’m switching lanes, or else black bitchface would have destroyed my pride and joy. No, not the one Stevie Ray Vaughan was singing about, but my Scion tC. Fuck black bitches, fuck black people, and fuck people in general for only being able to think about themselves, aka the reason for traffic in general. Yes, I have cured traffic (as if it were a pathogen) but it involves way too many people to not think about themselves. And that’s a story for a whole different day, with a different mood. That is a rant and a half post, all about stupidity and idioticallity.
Edit to post: Sitting in the library, trying to study, the two black females in the library apparently think they're whispering, but are definitely not. Black women are not good at driving or whispering.
Don’t lose yourself in a bottle. Strive to make yourself a better person today!
San Dimas High School Football Rules!
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
So, back to the point, even though I never actually have one, but hey, oh yea, I was going back to read WTF (mate) I was talking about, even though I think it took maybe half a second before I got side-tracked. Where were we, All right, all right, let's see. Uh, she was in the water, the Eel was coming after her. She was frightened. The Eel started to charge her. And then - (Princess Bride, anyone…?) Doesn’t matter, you suck either way, suck bag. That’s not true, you must not suck as much as a bag of suck because you’re cool enough at least to read my blog. Maybe you’re only a nickel-bag of suck. Time out again, time to drain the main valve. Time out on that time out, why do I keep timing out, for you have no idea that I’m pausing my literary genius putting onto paper, because each word is not timestamped. Haha, oh well, it’s more fun to throw that in there, because then it looks like I smarter because there are more words and such stuff of the sort. Ah, relief. Soooooooooooooo, 850 something words later, we finally might be getting to start scratching the surface of this post. The end of that sentence makes it 872. 880. Shit, this can go on forever, I had better stop it. 891. Haha, okay I’m done now, I promise. Eh, I’m done for the night, gotta wake up early kiddies, hopefully I can continue, sometime soon so I don’t forget my ideas. Well, never mind that, I’ll be gone on a magical voyage until Monday night, for Colorado and a beer rave await me. What is a beer rave you ask? Well, I’m not quite sure myself, but it involves beer, and raving. Doesn’t one usually rave when they are drunk? I sure as hell know I talk incoherently when I’ve been drinking. Ohhhhhhhhhh, yea, you’re probably right, it’s probably the glow-stick up your butt type of rave. Even better! Assuming they have lube, because otherwise, I don’t care how drunk I am, I will not allow my butt-hole to glow and bleed at the same time, I could get butt cancer, and I don’t know of anyone who would give me their butt. Butt transplant? Terrance and Phillip? South Park? Any of this doing anything for you? If not, you deserve butt cancer. Was it anal cancer, or was his butt just collapsing? Who knows, who cares… NIGHT!
Hello again!
And back to 950 words ago, not literally what is your name, but who are you? Why are you who you are? What things do you do that make you unique? Have you ever thought about any of these questions? Do any of these questions actually matter? They probably do, or have some relevance to where I am hoping to go, but probably will not considering how long it took me to get to the second sentence of the substance, the meat, the bread and butter of this post. (Bread and butter of this post? Haha, wtvr, it’ll work…) (just a little f-to-the-y-I for you, it might get a little serious for a minute, don’t be scared, it’s supposed to be, I think.) But, yea, no, seriously, it’s a fucked up time to be growing up. With college being a necessity any more, well, that whole delayed adolescence thing comes into play, and for me, it’s a little closer to home. My first cousins and my family included, it went in order through age, as to who would be getting married next. And well, as you guessed it, I fucked that one up. Big deal, I know! I won’t lie, I feel like I messed up, ruined the whole order of things, but, that’s why trends were made, to be broken. So that got me kinda thinkin’, you know, I mean, our parents probably met in high school or whatever, maybe one went to college right around the corner from home, and they stayed together forever. Now-a-days, couples break up going into college, because freshman year sucks when you are dating someone that doesn’t go to your school because you can’t have ANY fun. And then by the end, girls are all trying to settle down and hurry up to find someone to marry, because after you leave college, there really isn’t finding anybody else. Go to a bar and find some random slutty lookin loser and take them home to mom? No, there’s a reason why they are single and at a bar. Because they are either damaged goods or they’re crazy. And they know the only way guys will talk to them is if they are that drunk. Because if they weren’t crazy, they would already be married. (I’m the exception to that rule too, although I guess I don’t go out to bars looking for tramptastic women/girls/females. I gave up on that one after I got out of school. Well, even though I’m never going to technically graduate from anything, we can pretend.) Being that we have all this extra time to fuck off, catch STIs (no, not the Subaru, I wish you could catch those in the wild, the new name for STDs, because, they’re infections, not diseases.) , and sleep 20 hours out of the day due to the “vigorous schedule of college” we tend to lose ourselves and form new identities that aren’t really who we are. We figure out how much and how often we can drink, and do it every waking moment, because, imagine having an actual connection with someone other than genetalia touching? That would be insane; I don’t even know where that thought came from. People tend to lose the part of their brain that lets them have actual friendships with people not based on drinking because who cares why you like that person, as long as they will be there when you need a drink. And why do we form such a dependence upon such a terrible drug. Since we’re already napping 20 hours a day, why don’t we all just roll joints and sleep an extra hour. We have nothing better to do. Shit, most people don’t even show up to class if it isn’t required. So, for six years (yea, you’re quite an idiot and that’s how long it’s going to take you to graduate from a two year program) you’re “meeting” new people, having the time of your life, all the while completely throwing responsibility out the window. Who cares, if it takes me 6 years to finish what should take me 2, then 2 more years at a real school will take me at least 8, and by that point I’ll be 32, and I’ll wake up and be responsible. Well, yea, but then you have to go to the bar to find similar losers such as yourself who didn’t actually think ahead until it was too late. But, to be fair, even if you go right to a four year school, and graduate, sometimes there is a big work load, or way too big of a dude to chic ratio and you aren’t able to find anybody that you like more than just as a fuck buddy or whatever kids call it these days. And another thing that is fucked up about when we’re growing up is technology. Holy shit man, a computer named after a tampon, without a keyboard is coming out! What has the world come to?! Well, I’m not really too sure, but I’m going to buy one! Because the three laptops I own already are not enough, and, they all have keyboards anyway, lol. But seriously kiddies, the rate at which shit is “evolving,” how everyone has ADD and Apple is trying to fight this with shitty fuckin shit that only lets you do one thing at a time, except browse the web and talk on the phone, seriously, that is the one thing you are going to let people multi-task with… Something completely irrelevant to the Earth and God-himself, and completely useless, as I think I’ve ranted about in previous posts, is the one thing that they are going to let people multi-task with. Speakerphone and the Interwebs. Why don’t we just waste the battery even faster! Fuck, why even put a battery in, just plug it into a wall, and leave it there… It’ll be like a home phone, always having to be plugged in to be used, with a charging cord that is 50 feet long. And of course, this cord will be all curled like all home phones are, super awesomely sweetness. I want every cord I own to have a curly cord. I wish that my umbilical cord could actually be super curly, in the fashion of the home phone cords. Just thinking about it makes me hungry. No, I’m not Mr Conehead, and no, the thought of copper wrapped in plastic does not make me hungry either, it just makes me think of Arby’s curly fries. Delishiosityness to the maxxxxx!!!!! But not like when you go to a shitty one and they are wetter than a virgin on prom night. (does that even exist? Either one, or together. A virgin… Prom… ? Maybe somewhere in the south, possibly, or, uh, India… Does India even have high schools and proms? Do they still do that arranged marriage shit? Wikipedia is down, otherwise I’d let you know, but, since my most credible source of knowledge, well second, Snapple Caps do not cover such sensitive issues, for obvious reasons, I can’t let you in on the deal with that one. I’m pretty sure you have a better chance at seeing Bigfoot get eaten by the Loch Ness Monster while your plane is crashing into a meteor fragment because Bruce Willis did not blow up thoroughly and then your plane lands on the last unicorn in existence, that happened to be preggers. Way to go douche-fag. You just wiped out 3 species, and you were the only person to ever know they existed. And you didn’t take a picture, upload it to the Interwebs, and let everyone else know they exist. And now you’re dead. POWER THIRST! You should probably now take a time out to watch that video… it’s awesome... douche fag… ? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRuNxHqwazs And while you’re @ it, you should prob watch the powerthirst 2 as well… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-3qncy5Qfk&feature=related I’ll wait… Don’t worry, I have all day… Seriously, take your time… It’s cool.) They’re called fries for a reason, because they’re fried, not bathed in oil, so as to give your mouthal region 17th degree burns. Just thinking about it makes my mouth hurt. Or my frenulum. No, not that frenulum, sick-o, actually come to think of it, is that, eh, who cares? For all intensive purposes pertaining to this post, the frenulum will be defined as that thing on the roof of your mouth directly behind your two-front-teeth that gets decimated when you go all cannibalistic on a piping-hot-fresh-out-of-the-oven piece of 700 degree Celsius slab o’ bread cheese and tomato sauce. Just thinking about it brings back bad memories and flashbacks of ‘Nam. WTF? I wasn’t in Viet-fuckin’-nam, oh, nevermind, Forrest Gump was nice enough to bring me with him, so I guess I was.
Anywaysies, I think I’m finally getting on track! Hurray! (?) Partially because I’m sick and tired of writing and secondly because it’s been tooo long since I’ve graced the Interwebs with my literarical geniositynesstacity. The whole reason I started this post, I think, it’s been way too long ago since I have actually had time to come back to this, is because I got me to thinkin’ one day, which is usually trouble, also probably happened to be the day I started this post, which was God-knows-when, and all these people that are leaving college and looking for a job in the real world are all deleting and untagging themselves in all the photos where they are shown doing a keg stand or making out with some random in a bar (obviously, a skank. See above.) because employers these days have given themselves the power to look into these things to decide whether or not you are a good candidate for their employance. Who the fuck wants to join the real world, anyway, sounds stupid to me. I prefer the magical land called “Lives-with-parentsville.” Maybe that has something to do with why people don’t go out and get married. It costs too much to rent/own your own place, so you are stuck at home, and can’t have time to mold the schizo skankapotomous into a model citizen your mother would be proud of because you have to take her home right away. If only there were a school you could send them to to learn how to not be such a b-i-itch and send in your mothers criteria for being liked by the family. (note to self: look into brainwashing techniques for sluttasauruses) Because, as we all know, we all want a lady in the streets but a freak in the bed. Sheets rhymes, I know, but I don’t think it sounds as good, so fuck off wankah. But seriously though, what the fuck does how many beers I drink on a Mon-Sun night have anything to do with the way that I behave at work and perform for the company. And those hypocritical bastards are saying that they never did anything stupid in their time… pretty sure the invent of the digital camera would have been nice back then so I could have pictures of those fuckers being all wasted off of god knows what (sorry, didn’t wanna hyphen that one, or capitalize it either, take that one!) and when they ask to see my FB I’ll be like, set their picture as my default and then I’ll be VP in no time, assuming I probably delete the picture, forever. (note to self: look into time travel) (note to self: if you are going to look into time travel, just look at stock prices, buy them back then, sell them today, and not have to work) (note to self: you are a genius. I know… Am I now having a conversation with myself, through Micro-Soft wordage? It would seem to be true… ) But more seriously though, how is what I do on my free time any indication of how I work? Shit, if I party hard, I must have some sort of “Good work ethic” right? I mean, that probably means that I try my hardest at everything I do, and if it doesn’t, well, now it does. On a racist side note, why does everyone think that Asian drivers are the worst? They are quite bad at driving, but hey, out of the 4 billion of them, there are bound to be a few million bad ones. Lol. Seriously though, the worst drivers on the face of this fine planet I call America HAVE TO BE black women. Think about it. Have you ever been in a situation, walking in a mall or a place with a very tight, narrow walkway, and there happens to be a group of black people walking towards you? Well, if you have, you will know that THEY WILL NOT MOVE OUT OF THEIR PATH NO MATTER WHAT! And, if there are three of them, occupying a path that could in reality hold four or five people, they will make it so they are not near the edge on one side, but rather ¾ of a person away from the opposite side that you are on, and the one closest to you will not even turn their shoulders so you don’t have to go onto the soggy mud that is next to the path. I will kill all of them. They only know how to think about themselves, and I have had WAYYYYYYYYYYY too many experiences with black women merging, almost into me, into me had I not realized what they were doing, because they want to go where they want to go and they don’t care what is in their way, it is THEIR path. And they can’t even warn you with a blinker, no, you have to say hey, if I were that black lady driving that (insert luxury vehicle here, that they obviously use food stamps to pay for and can only afford for maybe the first week they own it) BMW luxury liner of a boat, would I merge directly into the car next to me because I don’t know how to use a blinker or mirrors, or turn my head to check if there is anyone next to me. That’s why they (don’t?) pay(at all actually) so much for insurance, it’s their problem. They want to go there and there is no stopping them. And once they do obviously run into you, somehow they will be black and say that it obvi wasn’t their fault, and you are just saying that because they are black. I fucking hate the race card. Like this morning, when I was halfway merged into a lane, and a negro bitch decided she didn’t like the left lane anymore. Why not? I’m not really sure, she didn’t exit for another 12 miles and the left lane was wide open. But, well, I guess it’s a good thing I check my mirrors and look as I’m switching lanes, or else black bitchface would have destroyed my pride and joy. No, not the one Stevie Ray Vaughan was singing about, but my Scion tC. Fuck black bitches, fuck black people, and fuck people in general for only being able to think about themselves, aka the reason for traffic in general. Yes, I have cured traffic (as if it were a pathogen) but it involves way too many people to not think about themselves. And that’s a story for a whole different day, with a different mood. That is a rant and a half post, all about stupidity and idioticallity.
Edit to post: Sitting in the library, trying to study, the two black females in the library apparently think they're whispering, but are definitely not. Black women are not good at driving or whispering.
Don’t lose yourself in a bottle. Strive to make yourself a better person today!
San Dimas High School Football Rules!
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Real Truth
“Who would have though that cigarettes were good for anything but cancer? Turns out some of the same stuff
in tobacco products repels cats and dogs, takes the hair off your back and can fly you to the moon!”
I don’t know about you, but I’m sold! This is what The Truth is trying to say about cigarettes, in an attempt to dissuade (remonstrate/deprecate) people from smoking. Honestly, claiming that a drug can fly you to the moon, get rid of unwanted body hair, and stop annoying domesticated animals from bothering you sounds like something that I really want.
The Truth is an anti-smoking company funded by the US Tobacco companies, using many forms of media to get its message across. Its message, a very simple one, but it is very highly skewed. “Don’t smoke!” Maybe they should just come out and say this, instead of their scare tactics which, do they really actually work? “Cigarette smoke contains rat poison!” Sounds kind of serious. Rat poison is also a prescription medicine; it’s called Coumadin. Coumadin is an anti-coagulant and is used to prevent heart attacks, strokes, and blood clots in arteries in veins. Call me crazy, but aren’t these things that we are told cigarette smoking causes? Sorry, I had to, they are for completely different reasons, obviously, but, well, you tell me. If I were to prescribe something for you for symptoms X, Y, and Z, and you ended up with symptoms X, Y, and Z, don’t you think that would be a little strange.
I feel as if the cigarette companies are on to something and are laughing all the way to the bank. Negative advertisements are still advertisements for a product. Just because there is a big fat “Don’t” in the beginning of the message, “Smoke” is still in the statement. Tobacco companies aren’t allowed to advertise to children directly, but thanks to “The Truth”, they now have the availability to do so. In the one commercial, the “ad” talks about fruit-flavored cigarettes or some such nonsense. Well, being that Big Tobacco can’t tell this to kids, why not have somebody else do it for them? And how the fuck are kids going to find out about these products, because I smoke cigarettes, and I’m not really sure that these magical goodies actually exists. Although, I do prefer my cigarettes to taste like straight up NASCAR, redneck, inbred, white-trash deliciosity. And the fact it can no longer be called the Winston Cup, come on, really, like people bought Winstons because that was the name of the NASCAR championship. That’s like saying that people buy any of the products that college bowl games are named after, just because their team played in that bowl. How many people have dropped their wireless service provider and jumped ship to Sprint, being that it is now the Sprint Cup? It is advertising, I guess, but as a little kid, I never put two and two together. Winston sounded redneck enough to me to allow it without question. But hey, being that I smoke Winstons, and well, nobody else on this fine planet we call “Earth” does, maybe their subliminality worked on one person. Damn them! We all know people that watch NASCAR smoke Marlboros, because when you are that many generations into your family’s gene pool, well, colors apparently don’t work too well, and saying that extra syllable, “Reds”, after saying such a difficult word as Marlboro, well, you deserve them just for saying that right. I used to smoke reds, and well, with all Mar-ul-burrows, Mar-burrows, however you would like to pronounce it, they leave a shit-ass taste in your mouth and throat after having like 5 or 6 packs. Granted, they are cigarettes, but still, I think it’s something in the paper, or quite possibly the paper itself that sucks giant donkey dee-hack.
Instead of wasting all this money on pointless advertising, why not do something useful with it. Advertising on television is quite expensive, especially when I don’t think I’ve gone a day without seeing a Truth commercial. What does all of this money actually mean to the tobacco companies? Having to pay more money out just makes the consumer have to pay more for the product, which they more than willingly do being that it is a highly addictive drug.
The most recent raise in cigarette prices, a federal tax increase from $0.39 per pack to $1.01, is starting to show a huge increase in people using state supported “quitlines” across the country. This money “will be used” to finance a health care insurance for children. Great, why not take that money and save it for when all us smokers are all fucked up and decrepit, like a savings account you never knew you had. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for this bill Doctor. Well, you’re in luck, because out of the 5,000,000 packs of cigarettes (is that a lot? Pack a day, 365 a year, add one, carry the two, 13,698.63 years, yea, not possible, lets try that again…) Well, you’re in luck, because out of the 15,000 packs of cigarettes you’ve smoked in your life (pack a day for 40 years, give or take a couple somethings), you’ve saved $9,300 dollars for your new testicles. Yes, that’s right, smoking cigarettes causes testicular cancer, even in women, especially in Jamie Lee Curtis and that runner that is a he-she, a hermaphrodite if you will. What’s that you say, it causes lung cancer?! Well, that’s news to me, because science has already proven that you get lung cancer from being a whiny-little-homosexual-faggot-ass bitch. Don’t believe me? Well, I read it on Wikipedia, so take that all you naysayers out there, it MUST be true, and, well, as soon as I post this, it will be on the Interwebs, and anything on the Interwebs is ALWAYS true, just like movies (including pornos) and the walls of public bathrooms. Fuck, use it in a paper, and cite my page, then have your teacher feel bad for you that you either A. know me or B. read my blog for entertainment, and then you’ll for suretainly get an A+!
Anyway, don’t believe the hype that smoking is bad for you. In the next two years, there is going to be a study that shows, using science, that smoking, is good for you, probably to the effect of one cigarette a day, but well, if 1 is good, 20 must be super good! Remember kiddies, moderation is for pussies. Unless you’re a whiny-little-homosexual-faggot-ass bitch, you have nothing to worry about, other than losing your balls, and, at age 60 or so, who needs ‘em anyways? I mean, I am quite attached to them at the moment (cheap pun, I know) but hey, at 60, if I am still breathing, I doubt that trying to sleep with 14 year old girls will be on the top of my list anymore. And hey, without testicles means without the problems of lots of STDs, and being that the above 55 age group is now the most predominant age to contract STDs, well, you won’t have to worry about that either. Ew! Horny old wrinkly sex.
PS: I apologize that there are not actually any more “Truth” ads, at least that I’ve seen, so this may not be completely up to date, but, well, I started this post a long time ago, and completely forgot about it, but I couldn’t let such literary genius go to waste, could I? That would be almost as bad as letting an already cold can of Natural Light get warm. PEACE!
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
in tobacco products repels cats and dogs, takes the hair off your back and can fly you to the moon!”
I don’t know about you, but I’m sold! This is what The Truth is trying to say about cigarettes, in an attempt to dissuade (remonstrate/deprecate) people from smoking. Honestly, claiming that a drug can fly you to the moon, get rid of unwanted body hair, and stop annoying domesticated animals from bothering you sounds like something that I really want.
The Truth is an anti-smoking company funded by the US Tobacco companies, using many forms of media to get its message across. Its message, a very simple one, but it is very highly skewed. “Don’t smoke!” Maybe they should just come out and say this, instead of their scare tactics which, do they really actually work? “Cigarette smoke contains rat poison!” Sounds kind of serious. Rat poison is also a prescription medicine; it’s called Coumadin. Coumadin is an anti-coagulant and is used to prevent heart attacks, strokes, and blood clots in arteries in veins. Call me crazy, but aren’t these things that we are told cigarette smoking causes? Sorry, I had to, they are for completely different reasons, obviously, but, well, you tell me. If I were to prescribe something for you for symptoms X, Y, and Z, and you ended up with symptoms X, Y, and Z, don’t you think that would be a little strange.
I feel as if the cigarette companies are on to something and are laughing all the way to the bank. Negative advertisements are still advertisements for a product. Just because there is a big fat “Don’t” in the beginning of the message, “Smoke” is still in the statement. Tobacco companies aren’t allowed to advertise to children directly, but thanks to “The Truth”, they now have the availability to do so. In the one commercial, the “ad” talks about fruit-flavored cigarettes or some such nonsense. Well, being that Big Tobacco can’t tell this to kids, why not have somebody else do it for them? And how the fuck are kids going to find out about these products, because I smoke cigarettes, and I’m not really sure that these magical goodies actually exists. Although, I do prefer my cigarettes to taste like straight up NASCAR, redneck, inbred, white-trash deliciosity. And the fact it can no longer be called the Winston Cup, come on, really, like people bought Winstons because that was the name of the NASCAR championship. That’s like saying that people buy any of the products that college bowl games are named after, just because their team played in that bowl. How many people have dropped their wireless service provider and jumped ship to Sprint, being that it is now the Sprint Cup? It is advertising, I guess, but as a little kid, I never put two and two together. Winston sounded redneck enough to me to allow it without question. But hey, being that I smoke Winstons, and well, nobody else on this fine planet we call “Earth” does, maybe their subliminality worked on one person. Damn them! We all know people that watch NASCAR smoke Marlboros, because when you are that many generations into your family’s gene pool, well, colors apparently don’t work too well, and saying that extra syllable, “Reds”, after saying such a difficult word as Marlboro, well, you deserve them just for saying that right. I used to smoke reds, and well, with all Mar-ul-burrows, Mar-burrows, however you would like to pronounce it, they leave a shit-ass taste in your mouth and throat after having like 5 or 6 packs. Granted, they are cigarettes, but still, I think it’s something in the paper, or quite possibly the paper itself that sucks giant donkey dee-hack.
Instead of wasting all this money on pointless advertising, why not do something useful with it. Advertising on television is quite expensive, especially when I don’t think I’ve gone a day without seeing a Truth commercial. What does all of this money actually mean to the tobacco companies? Having to pay more money out just makes the consumer have to pay more for the product, which they more than willingly do being that it is a highly addictive drug.
The most recent raise in cigarette prices, a federal tax increase from $0.39 per pack to $1.01, is starting to show a huge increase in people using state supported “quitlines” across the country. This money “will be used” to finance a health care insurance for children. Great, why not take that money and save it for when all us smokers are all fucked up and decrepit, like a savings account you never knew you had. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for this bill Doctor. Well, you’re in luck, because out of the 5,000,000 packs of cigarettes (is that a lot? Pack a day, 365 a year, add one, carry the two, 13,698.63 years, yea, not possible, lets try that again…) Well, you’re in luck, because out of the 15,000 packs of cigarettes you’ve smoked in your life (pack a day for 40 years, give or take a couple somethings), you’ve saved $9,300 dollars for your new testicles. Yes, that’s right, smoking cigarettes causes testicular cancer, even in women, especially in Jamie Lee Curtis and that runner that is a he-she, a hermaphrodite if you will. What’s that you say, it causes lung cancer?! Well, that’s news to me, because science has already proven that you get lung cancer from being a whiny-little-homosexual-faggot-ass bitch. Don’t believe me? Well, I read it on Wikipedia, so take that all you naysayers out there, it MUST be true, and, well, as soon as I post this, it will be on the Interwebs, and anything on the Interwebs is ALWAYS true, just like movies (including pornos) and the walls of public bathrooms. Fuck, use it in a paper, and cite my page, then have your teacher feel bad for you that you either A. know me or B. read my blog for entertainment, and then you’ll for suretainly get an A+!
Anyway, don’t believe the hype that smoking is bad for you. In the next two years, there is going to be a study that shows, using science, that smoking, is good for you, probably to the effect of one cigarette a day, but well, if 1 is good, 20 must be super good! Remember kiddies, moderation is for pussies. Unless you’re a whiny-little-homosexual-faggot-ass bitch, you have nothing to worry about, other than losing your balls, and, at age 60 or so, who needs ‘em anyways? I mean, I am quite attached to them at the moment (cheap pun, I know) but hey, at 60, if I am still breathing, I doubt that trying to sleep with 14 year old girls will be on the top of my list anymore. And hey, without testicles means without the problems of lots of STDs, and being that the above 55 age group is now the most predominant age to contract STDs, well, you won’t have to worry about that either. Ew! Horny old wrinkly sex.
PS: I apologize that there are not actually any more “Truth” ads, at least that I’ve seen, so this may not be completely up to date, but, well, I started this post a long time ago, and completely forgot about it, but I couldn’t let such literary genius go to waste, could I? That would be almost as bad as letting an already cold can of Natural Light get warm. PEACE!
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
Monday, January 18, 2010
If Quizzes are Quizzical, What are Tests?
So, with today being Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I felt that it would only be right if I didn’t go to work. Oh, you racist prick, not because it’s a “black holiday” and black people don’t work. Well, that’s part of the reason, I mean, fuck, they hate people to think that, but come on, your only holiday of the year was made so you didn’t have to work. Wait, do they actually work? That’s not nice. I’m sorry, I must be falling into this racist propaganda trap. They work, who else is going to be there to clean the shit off the wall of Wal-Mart’s bathroom when I give it a nice coat of Mahogany mud. Nope, nevermind, that’ll be a Mexican. Wait, wrong again, Mexicans don’t work at Wal-Mart, unless it’s a retarded Mexican. Do they exist? I mean, I guess they are from the south, so there must be some in-breeding there. …What? Oh, yea, wrong south. Hmmm… Well, Wal-Marts do exist in el May-he-co, so I guess I could travel down there to see if there really are retarded Mexicans, or if they are just like Unicorns, Zombies and Bigfoot, very hard to find. Did you think I was going to say mythical creatures? If you did you are just ignint! Wait, just because its MLK day doesn’t mean I have to speak their broken “Anglesh” too, but it’s oh so much fun! Try it out sometime, and tell me you don’t feel smarter that you don’t actually talk like that as per your vernacularity. Or you could sounds just as stupid and use sayings that doesn’t actually mean what you think they does.
While you’re sleeping like a baby, and you could care less about it, why don’t you go head over heels (stand up?), go have your cake and eat it too, and don’t even bother giving me a flying fuck or a rat’s ass. Really… really? Go to hell, in a hand basket, jerk-off.
I don’t remember seeing retards high on the top exports of the United States, and now that there’s a Wally World on every corner, well, we might even need to start importing them soon! And you may be thinking to yourself that I’ve hit an all-time-low picking on the mentally challenged. “Rain Man was a ruh-tard and he practically bankrupted a casino.” And, well, I don’t actually have anything wrong with them, not that anyone actually should, because that’s like hating an Australian rugby player in a wheel chair! “Oi, wood ja give us a poosh mait?” What? Not sure. So yea, today I had no desire to go to work at all. Not only was it “Do as the race of the person whose day it is does” day, but I seemed to have quite the hangover. Actually, I was still drunk when I got to work, and I stopped drinking around 7:30 last night, passed out by 8:45, missed Ax Men, pretty pissed about that, and woke up drunk as a skunk at 6 in the flipping morning. Who does that? Well, I guess it really doesn’t matter though, because I won and the keg lost. In the past few days, my facebook status updates have had to do with me, a keg, and a hangover, and well, I think that rock, paper, scissor is a little out-dated and needs to be revamped a little bit. “Scott, Keg, Hangover, Shoot!” It just has a certain ring of awesomeness to it. So here’s how it’ll go:
Scott beats Keg.
Hangover beats Scott.
Keg beats Hangover.
I think that works out to actually working. And it makes a lot more sense than that other stupid game I replaced it with. I mean, come on, paper beats rock? Maybe a gay rock! Pretty sure rock goes “Smash!” and beats anything, except maybe a jackhammer, which is not part of the game might I add. I’m going to see how many 5 year olds I can get to play this game. (I hope you’re listening Anheuser-Busch. I could use some extra funds, just think of all the children that will grow up to be alcoholics because of a kiddy game. And yes, we can switch it to “Scott, Bud Light Keg, Hangover, Shoot!” even though it may not have the same ring, I’ll accept it, for the right price.) So, going to work with a drunkover is not a fun thing. On the ride in, I noticed there were absolutely zero cars on the road, which I thought to be slightly weird, but I dismissed it, because I was still slightly very intoxicated and was only making sure I didn’t yomit.
On a lighter note, hopefully not going to insult any other, uh, stuff-thing-people-ma-jiggers, I’m going to talk on the holiday season, being that it is finally over (thank god!). Everyone’s favorite holiday of the year, sorry Jews, is Christmas. Well, you can go fuck yourself with that shit because I despise it. Not only Christmas, the whole “fakeness” involved with the holiday season, the shitty food, and being forced to give people shitty gifts to get shittier gifts in return. Save your 10$ and I’ll save my 20, and we can buy ourselves something we actually want. Thanks. Normally people pack on the pounds during the holiday season, and blame it on all the food, cookies, and desserts associated with it. On top of that, people spend way too much money on gifts they can’t really afford, but hey, that’s why there are credit cards right? And wow, since our credit cards aren’t entirely maxed out, and we’ve packed on “a couple extra pounds,” why don’t we get an expensive gym membership that we will use for maybe a week. Or, there’s something else I heard of. Bulimia, possibly anorexia., both viable options. I opt for anorexia, partially due to the fact I hate pretty much all foods that aren’t Taco Bell, and when for about a month straight there are “Holiday dinners” with family members that you don’t even want to see anyway, eating their leftover food that wasn’t good enough to be eaten the first time anyway, and they are forcing their pig feed on you. And you have to pretend to like it, and shovel down at least 2 plate fulls. Fuck that. I let people know straight up I don’t like food, and well, I don’t eat for about a month straight. Greatest diet invention ever. While everyone else is getting fatter, I’m getting skinnier, so I look double skinnier. But, yea, the holidays, I guess, were made with good intentions, but have turned out to be oh so shitty. And Christmas is by far the worst of all. Every year, I never get shit, because I usually buy something when I want it. I know, it’s my own fault, but you know what, fuck off piss face! So while everyone is opening up their awesome gifts, I get a pair of underwear and a package of 3 pairs of socks. Hoo-fuckin-ray! So finally, this year, I got fed up with all the bullshit, so I decided I was going to go to the top of the complaint department for the holiday season, a letter to Santa Claus. No, I didn’t send it before Christmas, because, well, I’m not going to ask Santa for a blow-up sex doll and butt lube. Gross. So, here’s my letter to Santa, you’ll probably see it before he does.
Dear Santa,
Fuck you.
Love,
S D0T M33ZY
Initially I was satisfied with that, but I decided Jolly Ole Saint Nick deserved a little more explanation than just that. Here’s my second attempt.
Dear Santa.
Fuck you a lot.
Love,
S D0T M33ZY
Haha, just kidding. Well, kind of. That wasn’t my final draft, still a little more editing to do.
Dear Santa,
Fuck you a really lot! Apparently you need to get your eyes checked. If your eyes were properly functioning, you would have seen that I was on your “Good List.” I don’t see the humor in what I got this Christmas, fuck, holiday season. Being that my birthday is technically part of the holiday season, could you please tell the Birthday Present Fairy that I’m still waiting on my fucking birthday presents, that fucking ginormous bag of douche. So I guess it’s not all your fault I’m taking this out on you, but you still fucked me pretty bad too. I mean, you got me a 500 GB hard drive for my PS3. That’s cool I guess. Maybe if you lost a little weight and finally realized you need to ditch your elves and get Mexicans, you would have been able to actually put the hard drive in a PS3 for me and given it to me as a package. (I know what you’re thinking, I don’t swing that way, unless it will help my chances for next Christmas ;-) ) So yea, 80$ so far, not like I’m counting. Next up, Hangover on Blu-Ray. Sweet, but not really cool. Christmas is all about going big or going home, and being that the Bday Present Fairy forgot about me, I figured you guys made some deal that I would get something awesome, and your elves would build it for me. Are there Mexican elves? You should probably look into that. So I’m sitting there, my dad is passing out the presents you left for our family, and I get nothing else. So I’m pretty pissed, and I feel that my parents are just hiding that big present you left me. Nope, nothing. My aunts bring me the presents you left for me at their house, and I thought that is where my big score would be located. No, nothing. They brought me the Hobo gloves and scarf you left at their house. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, and I don’t find it funny. Are you hinting that is where my future lies? With hobo gloves and a scarf? Why didn’t you throw in a 55 gallon drum complete with fire wood and newspapers. Maybe a shopping cart with a starter set of cans in it too? So, don’t make me call up the Tooth Fairy (who apparently has hit rock bottom, yea, wtf Duane?) and have him kick your ass. That is if he still remembers how to layeth the smacketh down. Maybe, you know what, being that I always get dicked on Christmas, instead of worrying about getting me anything, just give the Rock his balls back and stop having him embarrass himself in retarded kiddy movies. I mean, last year I got a PS3 which was sweet, but you made me wait until the end of February to get it so you didn’t spoil it for my brother. Come on! I only wanted it since it came out, I’m not even sure he knew that he wanted it… Dick move Claus, dick move. Hopefully by this Christmas you get your eyes checked, and I’ve made this font size 7 just so you would hopefully notice it, unless you have outsourced your letter reading to India already, and will realize that I have not been naughty, but rather nice, and I will actually get something cool.
Thanks in Advance,
S D0T M33ZY
That’s all I got today kiddies. Until next time!
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
While you’re sleeping like a baby, and you could care less about it, why don’t you go head over heels (stand up?), go have your cake and eat it too, and don’t even bother giving me a flying fuck or a rat’s ass. Really… really? Go to hell, in a hand basket, jerk-off.
I don’t remember seeing retards high on the top exports of the United States, and now that there’s a Wally World on every corner, well, we might even need to start importing them soon! And you may be thinking to yourself that I’ve hit an all-time-low picking on the mentally challenged. “Rain Man was a ruh-tard and he practically bankrupted a casino.” And, well, I don’t actually have anything wrong with them, not that anyone actually should, because that’s like hating an Australian rugby player in a wheel chair! “Oi, wood ja give us a poosh mait?” What? Not sure. So yea, today I had no desire to go to work at all. Not only was it “Do as the race of the person whose day it is does” day, but I seemed to have quite the hangover. Actually, I was still drunk when I got to work, and I stopped drinking around 7:30 last night, passed out by 8:45, missed Ax Men, pretty pissed about that, and woke up drunk as a skunk at 6 in the flipping morning. Who does that? Well, I guess it really doesn’t matter though, because I won and the keg lost. In the past few days, my facebook status updates have had to do with me, a keg, and a hangover, and well, I think that rock, paper, scissor is a little out-dated and needs to be revamped a little bit. “Scott, Keg, Hangover, Shoot!” It just has a certain ring of awesomeness to it. So here’s how it’ll go:
Scott beats Keg.
Hangover beats Scott.
Keg beats Hangover.
I think that works out to actually working. And it makes a lot more sense than that other stupid game I replaced it with. I mean, come on, paper beats rock? Maybe a gay rock! Pretty sure rock goes “Smash!” and beats anything, except maybe a jackhammer, which is not part of the game might I add. I’m going to see how many 5 year olds I can get to play this game. (I hope you’re listening Anheuser-Busch. I could use some extra funds, just think of all the children that will grow up to be alcoholics because of a kiddy game. And yes, we can switch it to “Scott, Bud Light Keg, Hangover, Shoot!” even though it may not have the same ring, I’ll accept it, for the right price.) So, going to work with a drunkover is not a fun thing. On the ride in, I noticed there were absolutely zero cars on the road, which I thought to be slightly weird, but I dismissed it, because I was still slightly very intoxicated and was only making sure I didn’t yomit.
On a lighter note, hopefully not going to insult any other, uh, stuff-thing-people-ma-jiggers, I’m going to talk on the holiday season, being that it is finally over (thank god!). Everyone’s favorite holiday of the year, sorry Jews, is Christmas. Well, you can go fuck yourself with that shit because I despise it. Not only Christmas, the whole “fakeness” involved with the holiday season, the shitty food, and being forced to give people shitty gifts to get shittier gifts in return. Save your 10$ and I’ll save my 20, and we can buy ourselves something we actually want. Thanks. Normally people pack on the pounds during the holiday season, and blame it on all the food, cookies, and desserts associated with it. On top of that, people spend way too much money on gifts they can’t really afford, but hey, that’s why there are credit cards right? And wow, since our credit cards aren’t entirely maxed out, and we’ve packed on “a couple extra pounds,” why don’t we get an expensive gym membership that we will use for maybe a week. Or, there’s something else I heard of. Bulimia, possibly anorexia., both viable options. I opt for anorexia, partially due to the fact I hate pretty much all foods that aren’t Taco Bell, and when for about a month straight there are “Holiday dinners” with family members that you don’t even want to see anyway, eating their leftover food that wasn’t good enough to be eaten the first time anyway, and they are forcing their pig feed on you. And you have to pretend to like it, and shovel down at least 2 plate fulls. Fuck that. I let people know straight up I don’t like food, and well, I don’t eat for about a month straight. Greatest diet invention ever. While everyone else is getting fatter, I’m getting skinnier, so I look double skinnier. But, yea, the holidays, I guess, were made with good intentions, but have turned out to be oh so shitty. And Christmas is by far the worst of all. Every year, I never get shit, because I usually buy something when I want it. I know, it’s my own fault, but you know what, fuck off piss face! So while everyone is opening up their awesome gifts, I get a pair of underwear and a package of 3 pairs of socks. Hoo-fuckin-ray! So finally, this year, I got fed up with all the bullshit, so I decided I was going to go to the top of the complaint department for the holiday season, a letter to Santa Claus. No, I didn’t send it before Christmas, because, well, I’m not going to ask Santa for a blow-up sex doll and butt lube. Gross. So, here’s my letter to Santa, you’ll probably see it before he does.
Dear Santa,
Fuck you.
Love,
S D0T M33ZY
Initially I was satisfied with that, but I decided Jolly Ole Saint Nick deserved a little more explanation than just that. Here’s my second attempt.
Dear Santa.
Fuck you a lot.
Love,
S D0T M33ZY
Haha, just kidding. Well, kind of. That wasn’t my final draft, still a little more editing to do.
Dear Santa,
Fuck you a really lot! Apparently you need to get your eyes checked. If your eyes were properly functioning, you would have seen that I was on your “Good List.” I don’t see the humor in what I got this Christmas, fuck, holiday season. Being that my birthday is technically part of the holiday season, could you please tell the Birthday Present Fairy that I’m still waiting on my fucking birthday presents, that fucking ginormous bag of douche. So I guess it’s not all your fault I’m taking this out on you, but you still fucked me pretty bad too. I mean, you got me a 500 GB hard drive for my PS3. That’s cool I guess. Maybe if you lost a little weight and finally realized you need to ditch your elves and get Mexicans, you would have been able to actually put the hard drive in a PS3 for me and given it to me as a package. (I know what you’re thinking, I don’t swing that way, unless it will help my chances for next Christmas ;-) ) So yea, 80$ so far, not like I’m counting. Next up, Hangover on Blu-Ray. Sweet, but not really cool. Christmas is all about going big or going home, and being that the Bday Present Fairy forgot about me, I figured you guys made some deal that I would get something awesome, and your elves would build it for me. Are there Mexican elves? You should probably look into that. So I’m sitting there, my dad is passing out the presents you left for our family, and I get nothing else. So I’m pretty pissed, and I feel that my parents are just hiding that big present you left me. Nope, nothing. My aunts bring me the presents you left for me at their house, and I thought that is where my big score would be located. No, nothing. They brought me the Hobo gloves and scarf you left at their house. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, and I don’t find it funny. Are you hinting that is where my future lies? With hobo gloves and a scarf? Why didn’t you throw in a 55 gallon drum complete with fire wood and newspapers. Maybe a shopping cart with a starter set of cans in it too? So, don’t make me call up the Tooth Fairy (who apparently has hit rock bottom, yea, wtf Duane?) and have him kick your ass. That is if he still remembers how to layeth the smacketh down. Maybe, you know what, being that I always get dicked on Christmas, instead of worrying about getting me anything, just give the Rock his balls back and stop having him embarrass himself in retarded kiddy movies. I mean, last year I got a PS3 which was sweet, but you made me wait until the end of February to get it so you didn’t spoil it for my brother. Come on! I only wanted it since it came out, I’m not even sure he knew that he wanted it… Dick move Claus, dick move. Hopefully by this Christmas you get your eyes checked, and I’ve made this font size 7 just so you would hopefully notice it, unless you have outsourced your letter reading to India already, and will realize that I have not been naughty, but rather nice, and I will actually get something cool.
Thanks in Advance,
S D0T M33ZY
That’s all I got today kiddies. Until next time!
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The Magical Deuce
Do you like to shit on walls? Yes, I just asked that question. Seriously. Do you like to take bitter, pungent, salty, amazingly prodigious dumps? After an obvious yes, answer the following question: Do you like to shit all over bathroom walls? That may not be something you think of everyday, so I’ll give you some time to think it over. Don’t just brush it off being all like, “Ew, why would I want to shit on a wall?” Come to think of it, I’m not too sure I’ve ever thought about it until I’ve asked this question. Upon further introspection, I feel as if that would be something I would like to accomplish before I die. I mean, how many people can honestly say they’ve gotten shit all over a bathroom wall? I only know of two instances in which this happened, one of which was a lot closer to home than the other. Wait, one of them was in my house, in my bathroom. Did I do that? I don’t think so, but I was quite intoxicated that fine evening. I can remember it like it was my 24th birthday. Weak, sorry, I wish I could be more creative but well, true stories involve no creativity, only truth. What’s that you ask? When was the first time i saw shit all over a bathroom wall? Well that would have been Dorney Park, not on my 24th birthday or in my bathroom. In the fine eating establishment that is housed inside the walls of Dorney Park, my brother and I needed to use their immaculate restroom facilities. So as we were making our way into the door, two little kids, they were Mexican or black, somehow my memory seems to not hold onto that part of the story, came out screaming, “Look in there man!” So, well, we were like, ok, we’re going in there anyway, and thought it was going to be a deuce in the urinal or something silly of the sort. What had these black/Mexican boys done? Well, shortly before the blaxican boys walked out of the restroom I remembered noticing a chode of a man, maybe 4’10” tall, probably 6’ around who was floating around in my short-term memory bank. It all made better sense after I walked into the bathroom to see the most amazing sight of my life. If you ever have the opportunity, please go to Dorney Park. Most, if not all of my childhood memories come from just one trip. Goat boy actually worked there on the super crazy super out of control chugga-chugga choo-choo of a train. I think it actually went 3 mph max, and I’m not really sure why we were riding on it, but the point is that goat boy at one time in his life worked at Dorney Park as a kiddie train operator. “If I fall on a man’s head, he be dead!” (Say that in ebonics and tell me it isn’t amazing.) We were in line for some shitty-ass water slide and that is what we heard. So two steps into the bathroom and nothing seems wrong. Something takes my attention to the corner of the b-room, directly above the handicapped stall, because well, I’m kind of surprised this guy fit through the doorway is how huge he was. Not in the jacked my shoulders are 5 feet wide way, obviously. So a dark patch in the corner of a white ceiling brings my attention to the corner. Holy shit! Well, maybe the opposite, or something pertaining to holiness. Possibly an exorcism brought on by dozens of Dorney Park 5 star burritos. When I say there was shit all over the place, it is the biggest understatement of the century. There was shit covering probably 90% of everything encompassed by the handicapped shitticle. That encompassment encompasses the ceiling as well, and yes, apparently it’s possibly. If my memory serves me correct, which it rarely does, but I’m going with it anyway, it was at least a 9 or 10 foot ceiling too. So dude was 5 feet tall, ass is 2.5 feet off the floor, obviously hopefully was not sitting on the toilet bowl at the time because that would be scary. So back to figuring it out, he shat with such a velocity that his squirty squirts made it 7.5 feet in the air, which means it could have been even higher if not given the constraints of the ceiling, obviously, just stating it for those of us that are not astrophysicists.
So back to the magical dumpnation. It was back in the day, a Saturday contrary to popular belief of it being a Wednesday, and I was having my 24th birthday party at my house. Everything is going great, a couple people puked, whatever, and I go to bed with a smile on my face knowing that it was a good time. In the morning, surprisingly I’m a little groggy, head downstairs first thing for some bagels, coffee, and a smoke. When I get downstairs I hear all this buzz about somebody taking a shit in my bathroom. I’m assuming something like Bigfoot himself dropped by after I passed out, left a baby Bigfoot of a shit clogging my toilet, whatever. You know, high five whoever it belonged too, hand them a plunger, and tell them to take care of their “business.” Pun intended, obviously, just clarifying for those of us that missed the quotation marks. Sorry. Well, so, I could not have been more wrong about my bathroom and the shit. Apparently there was puke on or around the toilet area, not really surprising. My bathroom has seen puke before, people have had sex in my bathroom, hell, a fight even took place in my bathroom once, a physical fight, a fistfight at that. Other than some random giraffe getting coldcocked by Casper the not-so-friendly-anymore ghost in my basement, my bathroom is the only part of my house where shit goes down. On top of the not so surprising pukenstein, there was apparently shit all over the walls, sink area, tub area, etc of my bathroom. Being that I was still feeling like shit from drinking so much, the last thing that I needed was to walk into fecal matter and vomit, otherwise I would probably add to the mixture with a little bit of both myself. Let me just say that again in case I did not elaborate enough. THERE WAS SHIT FROM ONE END OF MY BATHROOM TO THE OTHER. So I heard from my mother, God bless her soul for cleaning that shit up, and putting up with my friends and their shit. All these shit puns are making me hungry for Taco Bell. Random? I think not, thanks. What I wouldn’t do for a little fourth meal, a nice Cheesy Gordita Crunch. MMMMMMMMMM. Taco. So shortly after the shit was cleaned out of my bathroom, I noticed all these ladybugs in my bathroom. Like, WTF? And I never really thought about it or put it together until just now, well, before, when I was in the shower and a ladybug was flying all over the place around me. I then started to think about how not too long ago my belovedly cursed bathroom was covered in shit head to toe. And my mind began to wander to rainbows and pots of gold, unicorns, leprechauns, and other magical beings and things of the sort when it hit me like a freight train. Whoever took that shit on the wall must have eaten a whole bunch of ladybug eggs before they diarrheaed nastiness all over everything. Either that or the ladybugs were there before the shitcident and they magically shat the walls up little by little until the teenciest pooper made what seemed like nothing turn into a heaping pile of dumple. In retrospect, I really do wish that I got to see the shit covering the walls. Something about poop and being a dude, I’m not really sure the connection. Did I rent a monkey for my party and it flung pooey patooey on the wall?! I’m hoping that’s the case. Because those ladybugs are still there and I don’t need another mountain of ladybug dung chilling on my walls, I’m not going to rent a monkey again, not that I ever remember doing that before, and if I ever have a party again, I am renting a porta-potty and that’s the only place people can go because I’m sick of my bathroom getting fucked up. Fuck anyone that’s ever fucked up my bathroom.
So looking back at it, I truly believe from the depths of my heart that I would really like to shit on a wall. Not just like lean up against a wall, let a dangle slide down leave a little chocolate syrup streak running down the wall and a nice puddle of muddle at the bottom. I’m talking full on spackle the wall brown with chunky monkey Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. That would be a great story to tell to my grandkids when they're saying how my wearing adult diapers is gross. You think THAT'S gross!? Hopefully there will be some boys in that generation, and hopefully they won't be gay homosexuals and think that poop tastes good and shouldn’t be wasted as such. Ew. I can’t think of anything else at this moment that would be able to top that story. I caught a whale with a beer bottle. Oh yea, well I spackled an entire wall with ass kabobs, colon cannonballs, and creamy butt nuggets. Automatic Victory. End Game. Nice try, loser-face. Maybe it could be in the winter, I’ll leave the window open and create a shitsicle on the wall. A frozen wonderland of ass boogers, and hopefully the smell won’t happen because of the cold. Does cold actually trap things in? I know that heat makes smells amplified. Something about air moving, and cooking whatever is making that terrible stank. Even though it won't bear the same accomplishment of, say, being the first man on the moon, because well, to my knowledge, I'd be the third man on this moon. But I think I will just need to spice it up a little, make sure to eat corn for like a week straight and then see how it goes. Golden nugget will have a new entry as per Merriam-Webster, all because of my "talent." Maybe it could even become popular enough to be a Winter Sport. "Ladybug Breeding." Not only will it be the biggest deuce that wins, but the most ladybugs spawned from dropping the kids off at the super bowl. Except it won't be at the super bowl, but rather around, and preferably not touching. And well, sponsorshit, er uh, sponsorship would be easy, shit. Toilet paper, adult diapers, cleaning products (i can just see it now, "Do you have shit all over your bathroom walls? Then you need Poo-Be-Gone! Great for those chocolate stained bathroom walls!"), people with fecal fetishes (coprophiliacs?), I mean, how many people watched 2 girls 1 cup? It might ruin it, but maybe the contestants should be really hot, naked chics. Battleshits deluxe edition.
What have we learned from today's lesson, kiddies?
#1 I'm sick in the head (prob shoulda known that already.)
#2 Ladybugs are born after people shit on walls.
#3 If it involves a hot girl, even somewhat attractive at all, and nudity, people will watch it.
#4 I plan to live off corporate sponsorships from the toilet paper industry.
#5 Invest in monkeys to fling the poo, to reach out to a much larger fan base. (do monkeys fling poo that is not their own? eh, doesn't matter... they will or they will not get any bananas. Take that monkey!)
#6 Enough talk about poop.
Am I the only one that wants to shit on a wall and completely paint it brown? lol... ?
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
So back to the magical dumpnation. It was back in the day, a Saturday contrary to popular belief of it being a Wednesday, and I was having my 24th birthday party at my house. Everything is going great, a couple people puked, whatever, and I go to bed with a smile on my face knowing that it was a good time. In the morning, surprisingly I’m a little groggy, head downstairs first thing for some bagels, coffee, and a smoke. When I get downstairs I hear all this buzz about somebody taking a shit in my bathroom. I’m assuming something like Bigfoot himself dropped by after I passed out, left a baby Bigfoot of a shit clogging my toilet, whatever. You know, high five whoever it belonged too, hand them a plunger, and tell them to take care of their “business.” Pun intended, obviously, just clarifying for those of us that missed the quotation marks. Sorry. Well, so, I could not have been more wrong about my bathroom and the shit. Apparently there was puke on or around the toilet area, not really surprising. My bathroom has seen puke before, people have had sex in my bathroom, hell, a fight even took place in my bathroom once, a physical fight, a fistfight at that. Other than some random giraffe getting coldcocked by Casper the not-so-friendly-anymore ghost in my basement, my bathroom is the only part of my house where shit goes down. On top of the not so surprising pukenstein, there was apparently shit all over the walls, sink area, tub area, etc of my bathroom. Being that I was still feeling like shit from drinking so much, the last thing that I needed was to walk into fecal matter and vomit, otherwise I would probably add to the mixture with a little bit of both myself. Let me just say that again in case I did not elaborate enough. THERE WAS SHIT FROM ONE END OF MY BATHROOM TO THE OTHER. So I heard from my mother, God bless her soul for cleaning that shit up, and putting up with my friends and their shit. All these shit puns are making me hungry for Taco Bell. Random? I think not, thanks. What I wouldn’t do for a little fourth meal, a nice Cheesy Gordita Crunch. MMMMMMMMMM. Taco. So shortly after the shit was cleaned out of my bathroom, I noticed all these ladybugs in my bathroom. Like, WTF? And I never really thought about it or put it together until just now, well, before, when I was in the shower and a ladybug was flying all over the place around me. I then started to think about how not too long ago my belovedly cursed bathroom was covered in shit head to toe. And my mind began to wander to rainbows and pots of gold, unicorns, leprechauns, and other magical beings and things of the sort when it hit me like a freight train. Whoever took that shit on the wall must have eaten a whole bunch of ladybug eggs before they diarrheaed nastiness all over everything. Either that or the ladybugs were there before the shitcident and they magically shat the walls up little by little until the teenciest pooper made what seemed like nothing turn into a heaping pile of dumple. In retrospect, I really do wish that I got to see the shit covering the walls. Something about poop and being a dude, I’m not really sure the connection. Did I rent a monkey for my party and it flung pooey patooey on the wall?! I’m hoping that’s the case. Because those ladybugs are still there and I don’t need another mountain of ladybug dung chilling on my walls, I’m not going to rent a monkey again, not that I ever remember doing that before, and if I ever have a party again, I am renting a porta-potty and that’s the only place people can go because I’m sick of my bathroom getting fucked up. Fuck anyone that’s ever fucked up my bathroom.
So looking back at it, I truly believe from the depths of my heart that I would really like to shit on a wall. Not just like lean up against a wall, let a dangle slide down leave a little chocolate syrup streak running down the wall and a nice puddle of muddle at the bottom. I’m talking full on spackle the wall brown with chunky monkey Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. That would be a great story to tell to my grandkids when they're saying how my wearing adult diapers is gross. You think THAT'S gross!? Hopefully there will be some boys in that generation, and hopefully they won't be gay homosexuals and think that poop tastes good and shouldn’t be wasted as such. Ew. I can’t think of anything else at this moment that would be able to top that story. I caught a whale with a beer bottle. Oh yea, well I spackled an entire wall with ass kabobs, colon cannonballs, and creamy butt nuggets. Automatic Victory. End Game. Nice try, loser-face. Maybe it could be in the winter, I’ll leave the window open and create a shitsicle on the wall. A frozen wonderland of ass boogers, and hopefully the smell won’t happen because of the cold. Does cold actually trap things in? I know that heat makes smells amplified. Something about air moving, and cooking whatever is making that terrible stank. Even though it won't bear the same accomplishment of, say, being the first man on the moon, because well, to my knowledge, I'd be the third man on this moon. But I think I will just need to spice it up a little, make sure to eat corn for like a week straight and then see how it goes. Golden nugget will have a new entry as per Merriam-Webster, all because of my "talent." Maybe it could even become popular enough to be a Winter Sport. "Ladybug Breeding." Not only will it be the biggest deuce that wins, but the most ladybugs spawned from dropping the kids off at the super bowl. Except it won't be at the super bowl, but rather around, and preferably not touching. And well, sponsorshit, er uh, sponsorship would be easy, shit. Toilet paper, adult diapers, cleaning products (i can just see it now, "Do you have shit all over your bathroom walls? Then you need Poo-Be-Gone! Great for those chocolate stained bathroom walls!"), people with fecal fetishes (coprophiliacs?), I mean, how many people watched 2 girls 1 cup? It might ruin it, but maybe the contestants should be really hot, naked chics. Battleshits deluxe edition.
What have we learned from today's lesson, kiddies?
#1 I'm sick in the head (prob shoulda known that already.)
#2 Ladybugs are born after people shit on walls.
#3 If it involves a hot girl, even somewhat attractive at all, and nudity, people will watch it.
#4 I plan to live off corporate sponsorships from the toilet paper industry.
#5 Invest in monkeys to fling the poo, to reach out to a much larger fan base. (do monkeys fling poo that is not their own? eh, doesn't matter... they will or they will not get any bananas. Take that monkey!)
#6 Enough talk about poop.
Am I the only one that wants to shit on a wall and completely paint it brown? lol... ?
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Grammer Less Ins.
Back in the day, shit must ‘a’ been off the chain. (edit: rad, gnarly, tubular) We’ve all heard the stories, maybe, if you’ve been lucky enough to know someone that rattles on and on about how good the “good ole days” were. I really want to know how good they were. I mean, some things I believe, but certain things I feel have been created through such a phenomenon as “False Memory Syndrome.” And do not even get started on how many things have to be turned into a syndrome for people to feel better about themselves; that it is a more tangible problem because a name for it exists or a doctor needs to feel accomplished in their work by appointing a name to common sense. And yes, everyone reacts differently to things, most of the time they’re called pussies. Unless we’re talking about the military, PTSD is serious shit and anybody that saw the shit they saw and did what they did, fuck that. Thank you to everyone that served our country so stupidity can continue to reign. That’s fucked up. I don’t mean to belittle your actions, but, well, however much I love this country, it’s doomed. There is too much stupidity running rampant, and any idiot is allowed an opinion. Shit, they even gave me one! They should be like reproductive organs, hair follicles, and brains; removable without any serious ramifications to the "host" in any way. Congratulations to IBM for having the most patents in 2009, at 4914. Back off track. Wait I was just there. Back on track. God damnit Michelle Borth, you are too attractive for me to not pay attention to you.
Back to the, uh, point of this maunderance. Was there one? Hold on while I refocus…
Right, so, a good writer always introduces the topic using a definition of sorts so as to show what they are going to prove or disprove. I don’t know if that’s true or if I’m trying to prove anything but it sounded smart at the time… Time the fuck out! You know those stupid sensationalistic commercials for the nightly new? I just saw one that said “Something to consider before heading to your next spin class. Too much junk in the trunk may not be a bad thing after all.” And the words across the bottom read “Too much fat is good?” Across the screen danced the same video of swiss cheese arses in spandex And a whole bunch of front butts that was on the news 2 weeks ago for the problem with obesity we have in this country. Next week smoking is going to be good for you And I’m going to pick start smoking 5 packs a day because if its good A lot must be great! Fuck moderation, it’s for pussies.
So in order to prove my point, I’ve decided to head to the most credible source I could think of, Urban Dictionary.
back in the day
A time in one's life looked back upon with great fondness. Usually invokes a memory of a particularly memorable or traumatic incident.
A Wednesday a long time ago.
Obviously the second definition is more pertanic to my topic at hand than that stupid first one that sounds like it came from Wikipedia. That needs some cleaning up; they should probably cite that bitch up because it makes absolutely zero no sense for suretainly.
So I’m sick and tired about hearing about the good old days. Fuck them. I don’t like them. I want peoples fake memories of the “good old days” to be the nowadays. Which really brings me to my real point of this whole post.
Fuck the police.
I said it. I’m not saying there isn’t a need for police, in cities, where there is actual crime, or where I am not. Police mostly just generate revenue; as police increase, so does crime. How else are they going to pay for their salaries and shiny new Dodge Chargers? Why the fuck do they need a souped up Dodge Charger to catch a speeding Prius? 0-60 in 9.8 seconds. Don’t worry, your V-8 makes up for your small penis. What’s that, you don’t have one so you have to drive a white trash car and pick on poor people and teenagers. Oh, yea, and me. The amount of times I’ve been pulled over vs. the amount of times I’ve actually done anything illegal in my car is infinite. Undefined because it’s something about zero and divisionation? One or the other, both sound well to me. ha ha
Wait a minute. The good old days. Is that what I started this out about? So as any “old timer” will tell you, back in the good old days, everything was amazing. I can’t wait until I forget all the terrible things that happened and I make up cool things to tell my children and grandchildren. (Will I have either of those, who knows…? Similarly, just the thought of that is hilarious to me, and i hope you feel the same way, or you could have false memory of me syndrome.) I’m going to tell them all about how I invented the Internet and the cell phone. I’ll have crazy stories for them about how I made it through the first 17 years of my life without a cell phone, how I used a typewriter until around 1995ish, and how, with the way its going, I drove my own car, which ran on gas, and I used a clutch as well. Wow! Which brings me to my next point, what the fuck is happening to manual transmissions in general? Stupid greedy car companies decided one day, “Let’s prey on people’s stupidity, laziness, and wallets and charge them 1,000s of dollars for something they don’t need, but show them they do need it! Would you look at this, you can eat breakfast, read a book, drink coffee, and talk on your phone, all while driving.” Holy shit, where can I sign up? Wait… I can eat, drink, and talk on the phone while driving. Why anyone would want to read while driving CORRECTION Why anybody would want to read at all is just beside me. I mean, it’s boring, Jean-Claude Van Damme isn’t gonna kick anyone’s ass in a book, if he does, it will not be half as cool as if it were being projected onto a twelve foot plus screen onto your living room wall (well, at least for me he is… ), and movies are so much more funnerer. I guess technically you could magically convert whatever it is to an audio format and put it on an iPod, CD, or cassette tape. (WTF is a cassette, did I just make that word up? Probably, I think I’ve already made up quite a few in the post. ) Anyway, people need to learn how to drive in general, I might lighten up on the manual trans if people actually had a brain behind the wheel, but I guess that would involve having a brain and then thinking of others, and we all know that isn’t possible. Which brings me to traffic jams: Idiots trying to jockey for one more position in line, causing the 3,000,000 people behind him to stop and then start doing the same thing in order to try and get one position ahead that they lost due to the first asshole. It only takes one asshole to fuck everything, ever.
The future will be awesome, I will build a manual transmission for my hovercraft, I will talk on the phone and surf the web (Fuck AT&T for those stupid commercials, honestly, does anyone really need to do that, and wait, inside your own house, who doesn’t have 3 laptops conveniently placed around their house for maximum laziness purposes. Who’s finna wanna go online on a tiny ass screen with a slow as fuck connection and a tiny bandwidth that is being mostly taken up by the phone call itself. IDK if that’s true, but it sounds good enough to me. The bandwidth part, maybe, who knows, I’m no phone connection scientists.) at the same time, I’m going to be a multi-platinum watch owner, and I’m going to construct a building entirely out of a single diamond. It’ll be for ants, of course. The good old days of today will be fuckin’ sweet in my memory bank in twenty years when I’m senile and have Alzheimer’s. I can’t wait.
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
Back to the, uh, point of this maunderance. Was there one? Hold on while I refocus…
Right, so, a good writer always introduces the topic using a definition of sorts so as to show what they are going to prove or disprove. I don’t know if that’s true or if I’m trying to prove anything but it sounded smart at the time… Time the fuck out! You know those stupid sensationalistic commercials for the nightly new? I just saw one that said “Something to consider before heading to your next spin class. Too much junk in the trunk may not be a bad thing after all.” And the words across the bottom read “Too much fat is good?” Across the screen danced the same video of swiss cheese arses in spandex And a whole bunch of front butts that was on the news 2 weeks ago for the problem with obesity we have in this country. Next week smoking is going to be good for you And I’m going to pick start smoking 5 packs a day because if its good A lot must be great! Fuck moderation, it’s for pussies.
So in order to prove my point, I’ve decided to head to the most credible source I could think of, Urban Dictionary.
back in the day
A time in one's life looked back upon with great fondness. Usually invokes a memory of a particularly memorable or traumatic incident.
A Wednesday a long time ago.
Obviously the second definition is more pertanic to my topic at hand than that stupid first one that sounds like it came from Wikipedia. That needs some cleaning up; they should probably cite that bitch up because it makes absolutely zero no sense for suretainly.
So I’m sick and tired about hearing about the good old days. Fuck them. I don’t like them. I want peoples fake memories of the “good old days” to be the nowadays. Which really brings me to my real point of this whole post.
Fuck the police.
I said it. I’m not saying there isn’t a need for police, in cities, where there is actual crime, or where I am not. Police mostly just generate revenue; as police increase, so does crime. How else are they going to pay for their salaries and shiny new Dodge Chargers? Why the fuck do they need a souped up Dodge Charger to catch a speeding Prius? 0-60 in 9.8 seconds. Don’t worry, your V-8 makes up for your small penis. What’s that, you don’t have one so you have to drive a white trash car and pick on poor people and teenagers. Oh, yea, and me. The amount of times I’ve been pulled over vs. the amount of times I’ve actually done anything illegal in my car is infinite. Undefined because it’s something about zero and divisionation? One or the other, both sound well to me. ha ha
Wait a minute. The good old days. Is that what I started this out about? So as any “old timer” will tell you, back in the good old days, everything was amazing. I can’t wait until I forget all the terrible things that happened and I make up cool things to tell my children and grandchildren. (Will I have either of those, who knows…? Similarly, just the thought of that is hilarious to me, and i hope you feel the same way, or you could have false memory of me syndrome.) I’m going to tell them all about how I invented the Internet and the cell phone. I’ll have crazy stories for them about how I made it through the first 17 years of my life without a cell phone, how I used a typewriter until around 1995ish, and how, with the way its going, I drove my own car, which ran on gas, and I used a clutch as well. Wow! Which brings me to my next point, what the fuck is happening to manual transmissions in general? Stupid greedy car companies decided one day, “Let’s prey on people’s stupidity, laziness, and wallets and charge them 1,000s of dollars for something they don’t need, but show them they do need it! Would you look at this, you can eat breakfast, read a book, drink coffee, and talk on your phone, all while driving.” Holy shit, where can I sign up? Wait… I can eat, drink, and talk on the phone while driving. Why anyone would want to read while driving CORRECTION Why anybody would want to read at all is just beside me. I mean, it’s boring, Jean-Claude Van Damme isn’t gonna kick anyone’s ass in a book, if he does, it will not be half as cool as if it were being projected onto a twelve foot plus screen onto your living room wall (well, at least for me he is… ), and movies are so much more funnerer. I guess technically you could magically convert whatever it is to an audio format and put it on an iPod, CD, or cassette tape. (WTF is a cassette, did I just make that word up? Probably, I think I’ve already made up quite a few in the post. ) Anyway, people need to learn how to drive in general, I might lighten up on the manual trans if people actually had a brain behind the wheel, but I guess that would involve having a brain and then thinking of others, and we all know that isn’t possible. Which brings me to traffic jams: Idiots trying to jockey for one more position in line, causing the 3,000,000 people behind him to stop and then start doing the same thing in order to try and get one position ahead that they lost due to the first asshole. It only takes one asshole to fuck everything, ever.
The future will be awesome, I will build a manual transmission for my hovercraft, I will talk on the phone and surf the web (Fuck AT&T for those stupid commercials, honestly, does anyone really need to do that, and wait, inside your own house, who doesn’t have 3 laptops conveniently placed around their house for maximum laziness purposes. Who’s finna wanna go online on a tiny ass screen with a slow as fuck connection and a tiny bandwidth that is being mostly taken up by the phone call itself. IDK if that’s true, but it sounds good enough to me. The bandwidth part, maybe, who knows, I’m no phone connection scientists.) at the same time, I’m going to be a multi-platinum watch owner, and I’m going to construct a building entirely out of a single diamond. It’ll be for ants, of course. The good old days of today will be fuckin’ sweet in my memory bank in twenty years when I’m senile and have Alzheimer’s. I can’t wait.
S(dot)cott M(eezy)iller
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