Some people have alter egos... mostly personality disorder patients, but it's also something "hip" people can have.
Like Eminem, he has a cool alter ego, Slim Shady. I'm not sure what the difference between them is... but that isn't relevant. The point is this alter ego thing is badass.
I have an alter ego too, Sir Chris - level 30 Paladin. See, not quite as badass, but an alter ego nevertheless. The big difference is that Eminem can talk about his alter ego and it's cool. I start mentioning Sir Chris - level 30 Paladin and I'd be savagely beaten. Life is so unfair.
Sir Chris - level 30 Paladin is a lot like me. He tells jokes too. Maybe he multi-classed as a bard... anyway here's part of his routine:
I've been having a horrible time with relationships lately. My last girlfriend was a necromancer. Why do they call them necromancers? There's nothing romantic about bringing people back from the dead, let me tell ya! That shit is frightening. I'm no half-orc, I got out of that relationship so fast you woulda thought someone cast haste on me!
I dated a rogue before that and it was just as bad. We had a messy breakup... she stabbed me in the back!
But enough about relationships. I got this great piece of armor recently, the resists are amazing.
30% slash resist helps with all those sword-carrying psychos out there
35% fire resist works well with the dragon hunting
and then an amazing 40% blunt resist, for when teens pressure me to try drugs.
But seriously folks......
The other day I was in a pub relaxing after a hard days ogre-slayings when I overheard these two clerics talking about a troublesome fire breathing monster. So I tell them "hey, I'll lend you my sword to kill this dragon" and one of them goes "I don't have any dragon trouble! It's my mother-in-law!" Ain't it the truth...
I'll tell you what's a hard class to be... druids. Yeah, they can talk with animals and those conversations have got to suck. I dunno what I'd say to my pets... "how's your ass taste? pretty good? that's wonderful." If I was a druid though you know the first thing I'd do? Tell these birds to quit shitting on our steeds. It's ridiculous.
It's hard living nowadays... everybody wants to get into a fight! Just today I was imbibing me ale and some rowdy elf comes in and tells me I killed his father. The guy defied Tyr, what was I supposed to do? Ya know? Then the elf starts shouting to everyone in the room, "I want this man's head!" So I say "slow down sugar, why don't you buy me a few drinks first and see where we go from there?"
Everyone had a good laugh and then I eviscerated him. Tyr's will, whatcha gunna do?
Monday, July 6, 2009
in search of wisdom
As often happens in the lives of young men, I was once confronted with a crossroads. Coerced by the fates into making a decision, I did not trust my own judgment. My previous attempts at logic and reasoning had left me an unemployed virgin with chronic nosebleeds - I was beyond a square; I was a rhombus - my only real accomplishment being a Level 50 Paladin in an online gaming community. Sure, I had cybered with that druid a few times, and it was awesome, but who on the server hadn't? She'd do a half-orc in half a second.
But my purpose is not to weave erotic tales of e-debauchary; it is to enlighten to you of my quest for knowledge.
I had heard of a wise man living atop Mt. Mipleez, and worked up the courage to make the trek up to its great summit. Knowing I couldn't do it alone, I acquired the help of a local tribesboy named Lawrence. Sadly, Lawrence's presence was fleeting. Lawrence and I went our separate ways when I was seen feeding squirrels with his "trail mix." I argued that the Better Cheddars I had brought were enough for both of us, and it was silly to think we could subsist off squirrel-food. It was to no avail; Lawrence stomped off spouting jibberish in his native tongue that, while indecipherable, was hurtful nonetheless.
Now without my trusty Lawrence, I went on. For days I journeyed up the snowy cliffs, passing by the vulture-pecked skeletons of those with less constitution than I. Through avalanche I continued, through aching hunger I strove onward, till finally I reached the peak.
With the many crossed obstacles behind me, the feats of strength and determination conquered in my wake, I felt like a character from Greek mythology. And there, at the pinnacle, was the wise man of legend, masturbating. It was an awkward moment to end all awkward moments as he tucked his genitals back into his sheepskin loin cloth.
"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "The one time in twenty years I get bored and whack off, somebody shows up!"
"Oh my God, that's always how it works isn't it?! And nobody knocks anymore! Nobody!" I said, comiserating. We proceeded to exchange tales of interupted privacy. After an intense bonding session that revealed a mutual love of waffles, I turned around and contentedly left my mentor.
As I trotted down the slopes, a detectable perkiness in my gait, I slowly realized I left my Better Cheddars at the top (though, to be honest, they were dead to me the moment the wiseman dipped those grotesque fingernails straight into the box). And furthermore, I had forgotten to request the invaluable good judgment for which I had so desperately sought.
Some would say that I left without advice, without being enlightened, with no more wisdom than that with which I had began my pursuit. But I now know what that old coot knew then - it was through the journey itself that I learned all that I need to know:
Bigfoot is real, and he will rape you in a heartbeat.
But my purpose is not to weave erotic tales of e-debauchary; it is to enlighten to you of my quest for knowledge.
I had heard of a wise man living atop Mt. Mipleez, and worked up the courage to make the trek up to its great summit. Knowing I couldn't do it alone, I acquired the help of a local tribesboy named Lawrence. Sadly, Lawrence's presence was fleeting. Lawrence and I went our separate ways when I was seen feeding squirrels with his "trail mix." I argued that the Better Cheddars I had brought were enough for both of us, and it was silly to think we could subsist off squirrel-food. It was to no avail; Lawrence stomped off spouting jibberish in his native tongue that, while indecipherable, was hurtful nonetheless.
Now without my trusty Lawrence, I went on. For days I journeyed up the snowy cliffs, passing by the vulture-pecked skeletons of those with less constitution than I. Through avalanche I continued, through aching hunger I strove onward, till finally I reached the peak.
With the many crossed obstacles behind me, the feats of strength and determination conquered in my wake, I felt like a character from Greek mythology. And there, at the pinnacle, was the wise man of legend, masturbating. It was an awkward moment to end all awkward moments as he tucked his genitals back into his sheepskin loin cloth.
"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "The one time in twenty years I get bored and whack off, somebody shows up!"
"Oh my God, that's always how it works isn't it?! And nobody knocks anymore! Nobody!" I said, comiserating. We proceeded to exchange tales of interupted privacy. After an intense bonding session that revealed a mutual love of waffles, I turned around and contentedly left my mentor.
As I trotted down the slopes, a detectable perkiness in my gait, I slowly realized I left my Better Cheddars at the top (though, to be honest, they were dead to me the moment the wiseman dipped those grotesque fingernails straight into the box). And furthermore, I had forgotten to request the invaluable good judgment for which I had so desperately sought.
Some would say that I left without advice, without being enlightened, with no more wisdom than that with which I had began my pursuit. But I now know what that old coot knew then - it was through the journey itself that I learned all that I need to know:
Bigfoot is real, and he will rape you in a heartbeat.
suits
Yesterday I was in a bathroom and there was a guy in a suit in there also. Once he gets done peeing, he just leaves. Doesn't flush the urinal, doesn't wash hands, just leaves.
I think if you're a guy in a suit, you've got a reputation to uphold. There's an image that you have live up to. And going around with penis on your hands does not correspond with this image.
C'mon people with suits, the world needs you, don't let us down.
"But Chris, I'm a person in a suit, what am I supposed to be doing?!?!"
*Slap* Calm down man! I can help!
First off, if you haven't already, put on leather gloves. Unless you are participating in an activity that requires fine manipulation of the fingers (unlikely, you've got poor people to do those things for you), your hands should be safe inside of the dead hide of a cow - pleather is unacceptable.
After relieving yourself, you should exclaim, with a certain air of satisfaction, "my, that was a fine bit of urine."
Next, you should promptly grip the flushing lever with confidence, and pull. Following a succesful flush, you should then throw away your gloves and replace them with new ones. If you're feeling whimsical, now is is a convenient time to challenge someone to a duel, since you'll be taking off your gloves anyway. As an added benefit, slapping an unsuspecting knave in the face with penis-y gloves is much more satisfying than doing so with clean, ordinarily gloves.
If you choose to bypass the duel, you should then begin combing your hair. Followed, of course, by combing your eyebrows. Do not neglect the eyebrows. A suited man with unruly brows is no better than a bedraggled homeless man shitting in public.
Finally, before departing the bathroom, you should smile into the mirror, whereupon a giant twinkle should eminate from your teeth. If you cannot achieve proper twinklage, it is good to point out to the other bathroom-goers, "my, did you see that blindingly bright twinkle? My teeth are like diamonds!" And they'll believe you, because you're in a god damned suit.
I think if you're a guy in a suit, you've got a reputation to uphold. There's an image that you have live up to. And going around with penis on your hands does not correspond with this image.
C'mon people with suits, the world needs you, don't let us down.
"But Chris, I'm a person in a suit, what am I supposed to be doing?!?!"
*Slap* Calm down man! I can help!
First off, if you haven't already, put on leather gloves. Unless you are participating in an activity that requires fine manipulation of the fingers (unlikely, you've got poor people to do those things for you), your hands should be safe inside of the dead hide of a cow - pleather is unacceptable.
After relieving yourself, you should exclaim, with a certain air of satisfaction, "my, that was a fine bit of urine."
Next, you should promptly grip the flushing lever with confidence, and pull. Following a succesful flush, you should then throw away your gloves and replace them with new ones. If you're feeling whimsical, now is is a convenient time to challenge someone to a duel, since you'll be taking off your gloves anyway. As an added benefit, slapping an unsuspecting knave in the face with penis-y gloves is much more satisfying than doing so with clean, ordinarily gloves.
If you choose to bypass the duel, you should then begin combing your hair. Followed, of course, by combing your eyebrows. Do not neglect the eyebrows. A suited man with unruly brows is no better than a bedraggled homeless man shitting in public.
Finally, before departing the bathroom, you should smile into the mirror, whereupon a giant twinkle should eminate from your teeth. If you cannot achieve proper twinklage, it is good to point out to the other bathroom-goers, "my, did you see that blindingly bright twinkle? My teeth are like diamonds!" And they'll believe you, because you're in a god damned suit.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
shut up and kiss me
I've been to a few wedding ceremonies but I've never really paid attention to what goes on. I got no idea what that priest guy is yammering on about.
The things everybody knows though are the "Do you take blabla" - "I do" - "Do you take blablabla" - "I do" - "I now pronounce blablabla, you may kiss the bride."
I think it's funny that this priest guy gots to give people the permission to kiss. He's running this shin-dig and there will be no kissing without his approval. The only situation in life that comes close to being similar to this is having a restraining order expire.
But as weird as this is, I think these priest guys would be pretty handy. I haven't been in a whole lot of kissing situations outside of my dogs, and they can't object anyway... but to me it seems deeming a moment in time kissing-appropriate would be a very hard decision to make. I've said before I have enough trouble picking what kinda ice cream I want at Baskin Robbins, and these kissing decisions have to be made on the spot, I'm not up for that kinda pressure. I need a few hours to analyze the pros and cons... weigh the possible consequences.
So having a priest around would be a huge help. You're sitting there, staring, not sure if this is a kiss moment, then bible-boy chimes in "You may now kiss the date" and you go for it. It could be five minutes into the first date, after you accidentally run over her pet cats, and if this priest gives gives you the go ahead... you can't really argue it. This is what he does for a living. It's practically God telling you to lock lips.
The things everybody knows though are the "Do you take blabla" - "I do" - "Do you take blablabla" - "I do" - "I now pronounce blablabla, you may kiss the bride."
I think it's funny that this priest guy gots to give people the permission to kiss. He's running this shin-dig and there will be no kissing without his approval. The only situation in life that comes close to being similar to this is having a restraining order expire.
But as weird as this is, I think these priest guys would be pretty handy. I haven't been in a whole lot of kissing situations outside of my dogs, and they can't object anyway... but to me it seems deeming a moment in time kissing-appropriate would be a very hard decision to make. I've said before I have enough trouble picking what kinda ice cream I want at Baskin Robbins, and these kissing decisions have to be made on the spot, I'm not up for that kinda pressure. I need a few hours to analyze the pros and cons... weigh the possible consequences.
So having a priest around would be a huge help. You're sitting there, staring, not sure if this is a kiss moment, then bible-boy chimes in "You may now kiss the date" and you go for it. It could be five minutes into the first date, after you accidentally run over her pet cats, and if this priest gives gives you the go ahead... you can't really argue it. This is what he does for a living. It's practically God telling you to lock lips.
my accents are impeccable
I’m big in Austria. I suppose it all started with my guest starring role in that X-Files episode... I was the “freak” of the episode, a guy who could, through the power of his mind, compel others to do the jitterbug. The climax of the episode came as I shouted “Dance Mulder! Dance you sullen sonofabitch!” And as my character was shouting in glee, the intrepid FBI agent managed to make the dance his own and turn it against me.
There was no stunt double or special effects... that bastard Duchovny insisted on using me as a dancefloor in a most savage manner. I think it was revenge for me sneaking into his trailer and stealing his jelly donuts.
A little advice to all you would-be actors out there... don't get between Duchovny and his jelly.
Anyhow, this episode sparked a cult following in Austria. “Dance you sullen sonofabitch!” became a catch-phrase, the jitterbug re-emerged as a national pastime... I was a hit. This of course propelled my subsequent tv-project, a cooking show called “Sausage and Wafers.” It bombed in the U.S. as censors deemed by near constant "manipulation of sausage in a sexually explicit manner" unsuitable for audiences ... but the Austrians know quality programming when they see it. There were only seven and two-thirds episodes made (I attempted to make explosive sausage, accidentally igniting the studio with only 1/3 of the show left to do), but you can always catch the reruns there; I’m the Lucille Ball of Austria.
With my fame firmly established in the fine land of Austria, I was clearly the go-to choice for the starring role in the upcoming Austrian film “Noodles and Poodles” - a true story about Austrian cultural hero Werner Von Glockspleffpht, famed Poodle groomer of the 1930's who died a tragic death.
After beef stroganoff (the noodles) had been dumped on him (a traditional Austrian practical joke) by his comrades, his poodles unfortunately mutilated him. There was a lot of dispute over casting an American to play such an important Austrian historical figure... some doubted my acting ability and claimed the studio was just trying to cash in on my "Sausage and Wafers" fame.
To the disappointment of many, the film was canceled. I'm not sure why... it could have been the recent decline in popularity of poodle grooming, the amount of controversy that now exists over "stroganoff-ing" (apparently its a problem for Austrian fraternities), but I suspect it was the work of Duchovny.
There was no stunt double or special effects... that bastard Duchovny insisted on using me as a dancefloor in a most savage manner. I think it was revenge for me sneaking into his trailer and stealing his jelly donuts.
A little advice to all you would-be actors out there... don't get between Duchovny and his jelly.
Anyhow, this episode sparked a cult following in Austria. “Dance you sullen sonofabitch!” became a catch-phrase, the jitterbug re-emerged as a national pastime... I was a hit. This of course propelled my subsequent tv-project, a cooking show called “Sausage and Wafers.” It bombed in the U.S. as censors deemed by near constant "manipulation of sausage in a sexually explicit manner" unsuitable for audiences ... but the Austrians know quality programming when they see it. There were only seven and two-thirds episodes made (I attempted to make explosive sausage, accidentally igniting the studio with only 1/3 of the show left to do), but you can always catch the reruns there; I’m the Lucille Ball of Austria.
With my fame firmly established in the fine land of Austria, I was clearly the go-to choice for the starring role in the upcoming Austrian film “Noodles and Poodles” - a true story about Austrian cultural hero Werner Von Glockspleffpht, famed Poodle groomer of the 1930's who died a tragic death.
After beef stroganoff (the noodles) had been dumped on him (a traditional Austrian practical joke) by his comrades, his poodles unfortunately mutilated him. There was a lot of dispute over casting an American to play such an important Austrian historical figure... some doubted my acting ability and claimed the studio was just trying to cash in on my "Sausage and Wafers" fame.
To the disappointment of many, the film was canceled. I'm not sure why... it could have been the recent decline in popularity of poodle grooming, the amount of controversy that now exists over "stroganoff-ing" (apparently its a problem for Austrian fraternities), but I suspect it was the work of Duchovny.
women's underwear
Pardon the typical observational comic introduction, but what is the deal with guys smelling women's underwear?
It seems to me that whenever a male is in the presence of female undergarments, he cannot resist the urge to pick them up and smother his face with them. When did underpants become something you want on your face? From my experience, underpants come into close contact with sweaty nether-regions. Sure, the mental patient will occasionally don his britches on his head... but generally speaking, these are filthy articles of clothing.
Why then do guys have the sudden inclination to smear this filth all about one of the most bacterially-susceptible areas of their body? Is there something I don't know about the female anatomy?
Maybe the crotches of women are miniature paradises. They're full of a magical love-force, previously only tapped into by Care Bears... flowers sprout up spontaneously, without nutrients, simply by the sheer beautiful power of the vagina.
Who would ever have thought that the beauty of a pearl could be elicited from a seaweed-laden, odorous bivalve. Is it so far fetched then to conceive that fairies are spawned from female genitalia? I think not!
Men aren't rubbing panties on themselves for some base reason; they just want to fly like Peter Pan.
"But Chris, this is all poppycock! It's completely and utterly false!"
Silence!
I don't want to know the grim truth about what really goes on down there. I've got to believe what I need to believe. Now let me smell this mis-placed thong in peace.
It seems to me that whenever a male is in the presence of female undergarments, he cannot resist the urge to pick them up and smother his face with them. When did underpants become something you want on your face? From my experience, underpants come into close contact with sweaty nether-regions. Sure, the mental patient will occasionally don his britches on his head... but generally speaking, these are filthy articles of clothing.
Why then do guys have the sudden inclination to smear this filth all about one of the most bacterially-susceptible areas of their body? Is there something I don't know about the female anatomy?
Maybe the crotches of women are miniature paradises. They're full of a magical love-force, previously only tapped into by Care Bears... flowers sprout up spontaneously, without nutrients, simply by the sheer beautiful power of the vagina.
Who would ever have thought that the beauty of a pearl could be elicited from a seaweed-laden, odorous bivalve. Is it so far fetched then to conceive that fairies are spawned from female genitalia? I think not!
Men aren't rubbing panties on themselves for some base reason; they just want to fly like Peter Pan.
"But Chris, this is all poppycock! It's completely and utterly false!"
Silence!
I don't want to know the grim truth about what really goes on down there. I've got to believe what I need to believe. Now let me smell this mis-placed thong in peace.
hyperactive
What is with all the goddam energy drinks nowadays? First it was just the Red Bull... then in the last year I've noticed Sobe's Adrenaline Rush, Sobe Nofear (with Creatine!), Full Throttle, Mountain Dew X, Vault, Rockstar, Monster, and some goofy Von Dutch thing.
What do people need all this energy for? I thought I understood the Von Dutch one, because Dutch people have to be ready to swim to Denmark at any moment. But it turns out Von Dutch is a clothing brand that decided the people sporting their threads need to be hopped on the vitamins.
People like to think that these energy packed beverages are going to turn them into superheros, but that doesn't happen.
"I just had two Full Throttles in ten minutes, and I think I can see the future. This is the shit Yoda was on."
Sadly, your idea of the energy drink's capabilities reaches far beyond its actual potential. When I drink one of these things I don't notice an energy boost powerful enough to facilitate my running a mile, punching people over the age of eight, or masturbating more than once. Instead, I just talk really fast about phenomenally boring shit. Yes, it basically turns me into a woman.
Am I right guys?! *High Five*
The reason I continue to try these bullshit beverages is probably the hardcore names. Adrenaline Rush! Rockstar! Monster! They could package grape kool-aid and call it "Crazy Sonofabitch Juice!" and I'd go for it. Because it's not like these products actually live up to their names.
Adrenaline Rush! it's like being chased by a delicious Puma.
No, I've been chased by Puma's and it's not even close. Chipmunk foaming at the mouth, maybe. Puma, no.
Rockstar encourages you to party like a Rockstar. Apparently this is the liquid equivalent of ecstasy and hookers.
No, even if I'm swigging a Rockstar, I'm still leather pants and a dozen love-children shy of being a rock and roller.
And Monster - it's what sustains Boogeyman - the tears of frightened children.
I haven't tried this one yet... it could be serious.
Even so, I think I'm going to stick with the tried and true method of energizing. No, not cocaine and twinkies.... coffee! If for no reason other than "wake up and smell the taurine" sounds fuckin stupid.
What do people need all this energy for? I thought I understood the Von Dutch one, because Dutch people have to be ready to swim to Denmark at any moment. But it turns out Von Dutch is a clothing brand that decided the people sporting their threads need to be hopped on the vitamins.
People like to think that these energy packed beverages are going to turn them into superheros, but that doesn't happen.
"I just had two Full Throttles in ten minutes, and I think I can see the future. This is the shit Yoda was on."
Sadly, your idea of the energy drink's capabilities reaches far beyond its actual potential. When I drink one of these things I don't notice an energy boost powerful enough to facilitate my running a mile, punching people over the age of eight, or masturbating more than once. Instead, I just talk really fast about phenomenally boring shit. Yes, it basically turns me into a woman.
Am I right guys?! *High Five*
The reason I continue to try these bullshit beverages is probably the hardcore names. Adrenaline Rush! Rockstar! Monster! They could package grape kool-aid and call it "Crazy Sonofabitch Juice!" and I'd go for it. Because it's not like these products actually live up to their names.
Adrenaline Rush! it's like being chased by a delicious Puma.
No, I've been chased by Puma's and it's not even close. Chipmunk foaming at the mouth, maybe. Puma, no.
Rockstar encourages you to party like a Rockstar. Apparently this is the liquid equivalent of ecstasy and hookers.
No, even if I'm swigging a Rockstar, I'm still leather pants and a dozen love-children shy of being a rock and roller.
And Monster - it's what sustains Boogeyman - the tears of frightened children.
I haven't tried this one yet... it could be serious.
Even so, I think I'm going to stick with the tried and true method of energizing. No, not cocaine and twinkies.... coffee! If for no reason other than "wake up and smell the taurine" sounds fuckin stupid.
statistics
I think there's a lot of stereotypes concerning pirates. Like how pirates always drink rum. Why not pina colodas? That's a tropical drink, and pirates are always visiting these islands with mangos and coconuts and bra-less natives, right?
Well I decided to get to the bottom of this, so I surveyed a randomly selected group of pirates and it turns out 72% prefer new Dr. Pepper Berries and Cream over any other beverage on the market.
Of course nowadays the pirate population is not as focused as it once was on pillaging ports and generally causing mischief out on the open sea. So my randomly selected group of pirates were comprised of rougly 87% ass pirates, 13% software / music pirates, and a negligible percent of sea-scavenging swashbucklers.
The overwhelming presence of ass pirates in my survey pool had an undeniable effect on the results of my research. It would seem that my impeccable study, which was fabricated off-hand, tells just as much about pirate drinking habits as it does about the dr. pepper company's newest ad campaign - which, incidentally, is absolutely nothing.
The slogan for this product, "get berried in cream," undoubtedly appeals to the ass pirate community as it appears to be ripped straight from a gay porn site I used to visit. From this we can assume that marketing in the modern world is the culprit that has lured pirates away from the standard bottle of rum and into the seductive arms of berries and cream.
Well I decided to get to the bottom of this, so I surveyed a randomly selected group of pirates and it turns out 72% prefer new Dr. Pepper Berries and Cream over any other beverage on the market.
Of course nowadays the pirate population is not as focused as it once was on pillaging ports and generally causing mischief out on the open sea. So my randomly selected group of pirates were comprised of rougly 87% ass pirates, 13% software / music pirates, and a negligible percent of sea-scavenging swashbucklers.
The overwhelming presence of ass pirates in my survey pool had an undeniable effect on the results of my research. It would seem that my impeccable study, which was fabricated off-hand, tells just as much about pirate drinking habits as it does about the dr. pepper company's newest ad campaign - which, incidentally, is absolutely nothing.
The slogan for this product, "get berried in cream," undoubtedly appeals to the ass pirate community as it appears to be ripped straight from a gay porn site I used to visit. From this we can assume that marketing in the modern world is the culprit that has lured pirates away from the standard bottle of rum and into the seductive arms of berries and cream.
too stoned to talk
I never know how to break off conversations.
It isn't that I don't enjoy talking to people, I do! But the people that talk to me aren't so much people as they are firbys or talking baby-dolls that've been possessed by satan because they seem to go on and on regardless of whether or not I pulled the string in their backs.
The real problem is that the talking only needs to go on for so long. Sometimes I have maybe two things to say and that's it - time to cut off the life support to this vegetable of a discussion, it's gone on longer than was necessary. But no, they've got to watch the poor sonofabitch hang by the last threads of his life. If we'd have killed him off sooner we could say "ah... now that was a good conversation." Instead we're forced to watch him spontaneously bleed and shit himself, inevitably leaving us to say "god damn, what's the point of it all?"
But no, they always want more than my two immaculately phrased gems of sentences. It's the verbal equivalent to premature ejaculation. I'm all out and they're expecting more. So I've got to start making up things for their pleasure. That's why I'm a Biology major now.... it sounded good in complete shams of conversations.
See how dangerous this is? So be satisfied with a few mumbles out of me, or I may just end up committing myself to an expeditition to the center of the Earth led by exquisitely dressed Space-Nazis in jumpsuits.
But I know the problem won't end. I need to have a way out. So perhaps anytime I'm stuck talking to someone I'll cry "Oh no! The kidney stones are back!" and violently grab my crotch.
If they start asking questions I've only to say "can't you see I've got minerals tumbling out my urethra?" and hop away. But they won't ask questions, because nobody wants to be involved with kidney stones.
If I passed a stone, and hadn't been informed of this explanation, I'd probably think there were gnome parasites in me, mining away in some kinda salt mine.
People say kidney stone pain is like giving birth for men. Which isn't fair. Women get to bring life into the world, while men maybe add another pebble to their fish's aquarium. If rock is going to tear away the lining of your ureter, I think it would be nice if it was a diamond.
It isn't that I don't enjoy talking to people, I do! But the people that talk to me aren't so much people as they are firbys or talking baby-dolls that've been possessed by satan because they seem to go on and on regardless of whether or not I pulled the string in their backs.
The real problem is that the talking only needs to go on for so long. Sometimes I have maybe two things to say and that's it - time to cut off the life support to this vegetable of a discussion, it's gone on longer than was necessary. But no, they've got to watch the poor sonofabitch hang by the last threads of his life. If we'd have killed him off sooner we could say "ah... now that was a good conversation." Instead we're forced to watch him spontaneously bleed and shit himself, inevitably leaving us to say "god damn, what's the point of it all?"
But no, they always want more than my two immaculately phrased gems of sentences. It's the verbal equivalent to premature ejaculation. I'm all out and they're expecting more. So I've got to start making up things for their pleasure. That's why I'm a Biology major now.... it sounded good in complete shams of conversations.
See how dangerous this is? So be satisfied with a few mumbles out of me, or I may just end up committing myself to an expeditition to the center of the Earth led by exquisitely dressed Space-Nazis in jumpsuits.
But I know the problem won't end. I need to have a way out. So perhaps anytime I'm stuck talking to someone I'll cry "Oh no! The kidney stones are back!" and violently grab my crotch.
If they start asking questions I've only to say "can't you see I've got minerals tumbling out my urethra?" and hop away. But they won't ask questions, because nobody wants to be involved with kidney stones.
If I passed a stone, and hadn't been informed of this explanation, I'd probably think there were gnome parasites in me, mining away in some kinda salt mine.
People say kidney stone pain is like giving birth for men. Which isn't fair. Women get to bring life into the world, while men maybe add another pebble to their fish's aquarium. If rock is going to tear away the lining of your ureter, I think it would be nice if it was a diamond.
it's high time
Drugs.
We all know there's plenty of situations when you shouldn't be high. Like when you're operating heavy machinery, or before taking a drug test.
But sometimes you should be high! Sometimes, being sober could be a bad thing!
What? Don't believe me? Well here's ten examples right off the top of my swirling, tripped-out head - as narrated to me by a purple midget whose nipples appear to be Werther's candies.
10. When defending the political platform of Independent gubernatorial candidate Spunky McRainbowpants - local Jelly Bean Baron.
9. When Eugene Levy, coked out of his gourd and suffering from a mental breakdown, is holding you hostage with an AK47 and a half-eaten banana, demanding that you laugh heartily at one of his "comic masterpieces".
8. When you’re asked to explain the color red.
7. When stuck with a group of Republicans for a period of time longer than 5 minutes.
6. When your husband begins explaining to you that your horse, Mr. Ed, can talk... and he's interested in a threesome.
5. When your name is Snoop Doggy Dogg.
4. When your bear-trap reveals that your quaint garden's missing radishes were absconded with, not by rabbits, but by savage gnome-people.
3. When you're fucking Larry King.
2. When your life depends on how well you can fingerpaint.
1. When your friend Bob, the reformed cannibal, makes the ambiguous statement that the brownies you just ate had "a little Mary-Jane" in them.
We all know there's plenty of situations when you shouldn't be high. Like when you're operating heavy machinery, or before taking a drug test.
But sometimes you should be high! Sometimes, being sober could be a bad thing!
What? Don't believe me? Well here's ten examples right off the top of my swirling, tripped-out head - as narrated to me by a purple midget whose nipples appear to be Werther's candies.
10. When defending the political platform of Independent gubernatorial candidate Spunky McRainbowpants - local Jelly Bean Baron.
9. When Eugene Levy, coked out of his gourd and suffering from a mental breakdown, is holding you hostage with an AK47 and a half-eaten banana, demanding that you laugh heartily at one of his "comic masterpieces".
8. When you’re asked to explain the color red.
7. When stuck with a group of Republicans for a period of time longer than 5 minutes.
6. When your husband begins explaining to you that your horse, Mr. Ed, can talk... and he's interested in a threesome.
5. When your name is Snoop Doggy Dogg.
4. When your bear-trap reveals that your quaint garden's missing radishes were absconded with, not by rabbits, but by savage gnome-people.
3. When you're fucking Larry King.
2. When your life depends on how well you can fingerpaint.
1. When your friend Bob, the reformed cannibal, makes the ambiguous statement that the brownies you just ate had "a little Mary-Jane" in them.
icing is enticing
I'm not going to circumnavigate the globe on a gay orgy cruise ship. I'm going to tell it to you straight.
That's right. Directly from the barrel of my knowledge revolver, through your cerebral cortex, on an unwavering path to your hippocampus, whereupon it will either become a new memory or trigger an epileptic seizure.
I want to discuss a phenomenon... Lectures: the soup kitchens for collegiates.
At the University, whenever there's some sort of speech or event that is assuredly boring as fuck, people will tack on free snacks to the end of it.
"Today we have guest lecturer Dr. Wilford Prinkmeyer, who will be discussing feeding habits of a now exctinct sea urchin and the impact of their absence from modern ecosystems. You are encouraged to attend... there will be free pizza after!"
Free pizza?! Well that changes everything! Chanellos has transformed this unbearable snoozefest into the party of the century! I'm busting out my agenda book and putting this bitch in bold, cuz there is no way I'm missing out on this shindig. Fuck! I might even get laid!
College students are pigeons, herding toward whatever old broad is throwing bread crumbs. Free food motivates us to such a degree that you'd think we're all one poorly placed bet at the dog-track away from blowing sailors for bagels.
C'mon people. You didn't hop in the Camaro when Terry the neighborhood pervert offered you a Butterfinger. Now is not the time to degrade yourself for warm pepsi and brownies.
That's right. Directly from the barrel of my knowledge revolver, through your cerebral cortex, on an unwavering path to your hippocampus, whereupon it will either become a new memory or trigger an epileptic seizure.
I want to discuss a phenomenon... Lectures: the soup kitchens for collegiates.
At the University, whenever there's some sort of speech or event that is assuredly boring as fuck, people will tack on free snacks to the end of it.
"Today we have guest lecturer Dr. Wilford Prinkmeyer, who will be discussing feeding habits of a now exctinct sea urchin and the impact of their absence from modern ecosystems. You are encouraged to attend... there will be free pizza after!"
Free pizza?! Well that changes everything! Chanellos has transformed this unbearable snoozefest into the party of the century! I'm busting out my agenda book and putting this bitch in bold, cuz there is no way I'm missing out on this shindig. Fuck! I might even get laid!
College students are pigeons, herding toward whatever old broad is throwing bread crumbs. Free food motivates us to such a degree that you'd think we're all one poorly placed bet at the dog-track away from blowing sailors for bagels.
C'mon people. You didn't hop in the Camaro when Terry the neighborhood pervert offered you a Butterfinger. Now is not the time to degrade yourself for warm pepsi and brownies.
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