Will the large Pumpkin Heads stop staring at me from across the way?

Some people seem to think that the world behaves like a Stanley Kubriack film, where everything you see on the screen has a purpose. Maybe black cats do walk backwards, but maybe you wern't supposed to see that,...and no matter which pill you take...you'll never wake up.

So maybe Parker Posey's portrayal of a Frankenstein hunting journalist isn't a betrayal of her indy film roots, as her recent turn in the made for TV movie from USA networks would suggest.

The movie, Frankenstein, also features the actor who portrayed the creepy roommate who moves in and replaces Joey in Chandler's apartment for a few wacky episodes on the Friends Show.

Aside from all that, I have a suggestion for the earnest lady who appears in the ads toughting "a better internet" from America Online. The actress likes to jump up on board room desks where she expouses her ideas for the internet conclomerate like spam blockers and 24 hour customer service. My one bit of advice for her is, go get your child a better hat, I take child abuse to be a serious problem , even when it's off of the the internet.

Finally, if I knew how to add photos to this blog , I would show you those damn pumpkin heads. I shit you not.

Wil Wheaton is an ASSHAT!!

Wil Wheaton is an asshat. Wil Wheaton does not like Saturday Night Live. Wil Wheaton thinks Ash Simpson sucks, and probably lip syncs. Wil Wheaton think SNL hasn't been funny since it stopped being countercullture. Wil thinks SNL is "just another predictable, corporate, unimaginative stop on the flavor of the month's publicity tour."

Way to go Wil, B-I-N-G-fucking-o. I'd say. That's great annaylsis, 'Mr. I left a huge corporate tv syndicated program so I could go on to big movies' (oh wait nobody wants me in big movies, guess I will make a blog about what a counter-nerd I am.)

Shut up, Wil Wheaton, go sell a few autographs at a nerdcropilis show full of trekkie geeks.

Dignity does not come cheap.

Dignity never comes cheap. You admit you had been under that assumption for quite some time, but dignity manifested in the form of cheaply made French automobiles often affords one that illusion.

French made automobiles have a magical ability to transport you back to a realm of happiness unknown since the playful years of childhood. At the very least dignity for you will not come to you in the form of a 400 dollar Buick with transmission trouble.

You'll have to come to terms with what little dignity you can find walking back to McDonald's at 4:00 am to prevent Ronald 'The McDonald' from towing your vehicle off his parking lot, your thoughts turn naturally to the difficult logistics required of your situation.

You hope that the transmission fluid has settled back into the transaxles, so that your recent purchase will now glide back into reverse and traverse the three quarters of a mile distance back home. Otherwise your feelings of worth will be worth less than those carried by the homeless guy rummaging through your apartment's garbage cans.

It's only a matter of time before the car gets towed anyway. You just hope the apartment manager fails to notice the missing tags and license plate not attached to the 3300 hundred pound behemoth of American-Know-How.

When you finally make it back to the parking lot you are clap, clapp, clapping. Clapping like a three year old, who has just been told that cookies are for dinner and cake is for dessert. A three year old who still believes in Santa, never mind that the fat, jolly, old elf with his smarmy fucking Norwegian smile won't be sharing his cookies, won't be sharing his milk.

Never mind the 10 inch butcher's knife protruding from Santa's sack that he's been saving for Daddy. Never mind Santa chopping into Daddy's neck and storing daddy's blood in stockings designed especially for all the bad boys like your brother Sammy. Mean old Sammy who likes to hold your face under the mudd till you're just about to breathe.

"Don't worry" Santa says. "I take care of fuckers like him. I cut off their balls and then I serve them raw to little girls like you. I call them cherry bombers. Now just swallow it down with one big gulp like a good girl, till it pops out your ass and grows a bush in that filth you forget to wipe away each morning."

A bush your Uncle Billy would sure like to stick his fingers into. Unlike stickin' it to your Aunty Ann, who hasn't had his attention since you were born. Auntie Ann's been too busy to notice. Too busy arguing with Oprah, too busy fingering her crotch with her newest toy. Toys you won't be get for some time. Toys you wouldn't wanna be caught dead playing with.

The walk back has made you feel so lightheaded, dizzy. And the stifling bark of Effexor is pulsing in your head. You can feel the neurotransmitters ping ponging back and forth in your skull. You can taste the bile in the back of your throat and you can barely swallow. You can feel the vomit bulging in your neck, ready to explode. To burst forth with a comedic force. Showering the memory of old Santa in a prism hue of pink and chunky.

You can do all that while staring at the plate of missing cookies you were promised for dinner. You can look up at Santa with your child eyes with such innocence Uncle Billy feels ashamed. You can then glance side ways down the hall into the bedroom that Momma once shared with Poppa. You can almost feel the heat from his released blood spilling out into space.

The laws of thermodynamics then take over, and you can rest assured that whatever warmth Poppa once gave to you, he is now sharing with the whole universe. A cold universe, made only a smidgen warmer by the lactose intolerant carcass that now rests at just the particular angle needed to provide the backside view of your father's ass.

An ass covered with ingrown hairs protruding forward with a vulgar urbanity, spewing forth carbuncles of puss that wait to be popped like Britney Spears vulva in a Florida trailer park restroom floor. A floor covered in the grime of white trash piss and stink, the piss and stink of men who don't care where they piss, or what they piss on.

"Stop staring at your father's arse you little whore."

Who knew a Norwegian Saint would speak in a British accent, and a lower Cadsden one at that?

Send me my T-shirt Bitch

The Rabbit has yet to send me my T-shirt. I am quite upset about this. I went to all the trouble of e-mailing her. I spoke of my involvement with the "get out and vote" site at www.native-poll-ooza.com and everything. Maybe Rabbit prefers to continue the White Man's game of destruction against American Indians? I guess she does not like 1/4 Cherokees. Then again, does anybody like one quarter Cherokee white guys? We are probably the least understood humans on the planet.

Google me bathos. And carving fuck you in my 5 o'clock shadow.

God bless google and it's search engine. Despite possessing an apparent empty page rating, if you google "bathos" this humble blog pops up second on that list of queries from God's favorite search engine.

I am sure it has nothing to do with the google ads I once placed on this blog, in what can only be described as a rather pathetic attempt at making money.

I wonder how many times do I have to mention google to get my page rank higher than Lando Calrissian hopped up on roofies and dangling perilously close to the edge of SKY city?

Other than musing mindlessly over the status of my blog and rechecking my blogstats every three minutes, my only other plans this week involve not shaving so as to grow out my beard and then carve the letters FUCK YOU on my face.

If anyone asks me about it, I'm just gonna be like... "what, that's just how my hair grows out. I've got some natural bald spots, whats a boy to do?"

Or maybe I could just be like... " Damn, I wonder how that happened? Must have missed a spot. Maybe.."Oh that bitch!"

My apology for the Spam Mail you have been getting.

I'm really sorry, but I had to make some money somehow. In just one week I collected a cool $9.20 from inboxdollars.com.

And frankly if just some of you bastards I signed up through email would join the club, I would be rolling in the dough. Can you say $5 bucks a head?

You wouldn't need to buy me any more beer when we go out, or take me for those "don't worry breakfast is on me" trips. By the way, who says the 99 cent value menu at McDonald's counts as Karma in this life or any other?

And I just know I am getting that FREE Dell computer the pop up ads keep insisting is on the way. I just fill out one more survey, add your e-mail here, get your friends to vote for Bush, send us a DNA sample, and how do you feel about a microchip implant?

Who needs to worry about infections from Trojan Horses and hacking toolbars when you've got me knocking at the door? I feel bad, but what can I say? I still haven't won the lottery and spam mail pays money, big money. Money I need if I am ever gonna reach my goal of riding in the air conditioned comfort that defines French built automobiles.

$350 dollars short of dignity.

My walkman's battery dies out without much of a warning. One minute your jamming to UFO's newest CD and the next second your thrust into the afternoon sounds of traffic and city life.

Now I've got to decide, "are you gonna get on the bus and go to the 99 cent store for more batteries. It's not like you couldn't also use a muffin pan and some Jiffy Mix. "

This set of mental calculations acquires a sudden urgency, as the Route 72 bus pulls up to the rest stop that I have used as a respite from the fall's unnaturally toasty temps.

"Let's see I do have 6 more rechargeable batteries at home."

Though only the two currently housed in my Emerson Research portable cd player (with wireless signal transmitter) seem to be functioning properly.

"I wonder if the 99 cent store sells rechargeable batteries or just those cheap knock offs of Eveready. Damn Bunny. Those knock offs will only last long enough to get me home anyways. And do I really need a muffin pan? "

The point becomes moot as I am brought back to live action. My ride lunges forward without me. A blast of heat and diesel smoke chocking my lungs. "If I just had the three hundred fifty bucks to buy that nifty little Renault Alliance advertised from the craiglists."

Now that my decision has been made for me, I guess I can walk home now.

$350 dollars short of dignity.