I'm not myself today

I'm not myself today
which is why I sent those drunk
Christmas cards out

I swallow buckets of
energy pills
disguised
as
caffeinated mints

people must think my breath stinks
which it probably does

Brushing the teeth is
a crime. I hope all you bourgeoisie do it.
I'm gonna let 16 year old's hug me all day at work let them squeeeze me
i feel their tiny tits
their little nubs and hard nipples
but i don't get excited

I write you perverse limericks
and I take the bus
to a psychiatrist who promises to let me drive again

If I can just give him a hundred and 20 dollars

"do you have any openings?" I ask the receptionist
and just for me -
she finds an opening

we know how you DUI guys want to get your license back

"can you come tomorrow?" she asks.
How about 12:30 or 1:30 or 2:30 or 3:30
Scott has to leave by 5 today
but normally we are open till 7

"You seem so busy" I remark
but she takes no offense
and writes my name down in her book

I plan my trip on google maps
and i'm warned the bus will cost me $3.75
Like i don't no anything about all day bus passes
what sucker ?? pays 3.75 ??
when he can get the all day pass for
3.50?

i know they try and keep a good man down,
so what will they do with me? but i'll pay the shrink
and then i'll lie
And promise not to drink again

but the first day
i get back behind the wheel
i'll run your ass over
chugging a bottle
of wild turkey down

tossing empty bottles
at homeless bums
and bike riders
and walkers
all the scum who can't drive

cuz there ain't nothin'
worse than
walking the streets
in this flat city

My name is Sarah Beth and I write this blog

I stopped posting on this site about six months ago because my roommates computer crashed. Something about me watching too much internet porn leads to viruses leads to me not getting to borrow his computer.

I'd like to blame this blogs lack of viewership on my lack of posting, or the fact that I don't use spellcheck. But I don't think those things have anything to do with my 6 blog authority on Technocrati.

The simple fact is this blog would be huge if it was written by a girl and not by a middle aged pervert. If I had pics on my sidebar of me as a hot 17 year old girl in a bikini, or as some sexy geek girl then the public would eat up my shit on a stick. I have the dirty sense of humor you love to hate because I think date rape is funny. But you wouldn't be worried if a girl told you date rape if funny. You'd spit your coffee latte out of you palm pilot holding iphone calling hand. Then you'd remind me that date rape jokes aren't funny unless you eat the girl afterwards. "You should eat what you kill." You'd tell me. Canabalism is great. Eating baby seals is great. Nothing tastes better than a baby seal sandwhich eaten on a private jet plane, but date rape jokes from 30 year old white guys is creepy.

If I really was Sarah Beth all the content you find objectionable would be magically smoothed over by feminine coyishness. So if it helps, think of me like my mother does, as Sarah Beth. My mom used to dress me in little girl skirts until I was 13, so I still feel a little confused about my sexuality. Mommie always told me how disappointed she was that I was born a boy. At my birth mom asked the doctor to be a little iffy with the circumcision. I think my mom's request confused the doctor, so instead of nipping the mushroom off, the doctor just took a bit off the the top. My penis is as confused as the rest of me, half circumcised, half-not. I guess what I am saying is you need to see what's left of my foreskin.

My name is Sarah Beth, and I write this blog.

Kant attack ad

The big news of the week was that Britnet Spears has a baby bump again. Let's just hope K-fed is the dad and Britney is actually pregnant. Just so Britney can't use the "quit calling me fat" headline that Party of 5 star jennifer Love Hewitt used to steal away Brit Brit's thunder.

Jenn, you are fat, and it couldn't have happened to a nicer girl. You seem Sweet, and kinda smart. And at one time you were the hottest thing going. But you've got issues. Girl issues. You just want to eat chocolate, be in a relationship, and feel all tingly inside all the time from tiny happy leprechauns dancing in your tummy. But those aren't leprechauns, jenny, those are tiny aborted fetuses that your boyfriend forgot to vacu-suck out of you after he fed you all those morning after pills. I'm sorry. I truly am.

Now watch an attack ad by Imanuel Kant vs. Nietzsche

Today's Bukowski

Here's why you gotta love him!

Why I can't eat at Wendy's anymore...

When I wasn't working, I ate at Wendy's a lot. But things have changed. Now that I am working again my budget for fast food has gone from 3 dollars a meal to 4 dollars a meal. That means I can eat at just about any fast food place I want. I work right near a Jack in the Box, so I think I am going to be eating there a bit more often.

It had been a while since the last time I eaten at a Wendy's. I stopped by today on the way to the library. And boy have things changed. Gone are all the $2.99 meals that I ate. Instead Wendy's has a new menu. The new menu is full of miniaturized hamburgers. Including one billed as a jr. double cheeseburger. WRONG. The jr. is actually a double burger with a slice of cheese. One slice of cheese, not two pieces of cheese as a double cheese burger implies.

The new menu is tiny. The 99 cent fries look like something from a happy meal, and the small soda is now 16 0z. If you recall my Wendy's does not have a self service drink counter. That means I have to go up to the slightly retarded 4o year old mother of 4 and ask her to refill my ice tea every 26 seconds. How fucking annoying, eh?

All these tiny foods coming form the purveyors of things like BIGGIE FRIES. It's discombobulating. The tiny portion size made me feel like I was eating in a restaurant back in 1956. So I ate slowly and read the newspaper instead of working down a large part of a cow. I still left the establishment feeling sort of full. I even forgot to order a chocolate frosty for dessert. But after getting to the library and thinking it over, I felt cheated. Wendy's had always given me much more food than I actually paid for. That's why it was such a good value. Now I feel like the 99 cent value menu, first started more than 10 years ago and constantly under threat from disgruntled CEO's and stockholders, has finally run its course. And I am worried about that. I may have to keep a job just to keep eating.

HALLOWEEN IS NOT MAGIC-THAT"S DAVID COPPERFIELD

Happy Halloween.

One of my worst memories as a child happened on Halloween. I lost a spelling bee, because I couldn't spell H-A-L-L-O-W-E-E-N. I still think about that loss to this day. It stings even 30 years later.

SCARY THOUGHTS.

I've spent the last hour "re"-searching "slutty pre-teen Halloween costumes" at the local library. I am sure that all the library patrons are ready to call the cops on me just because I'm a little creepy. At least I didn't title my article EYE CANDY like Newsweek Magazine did. Newsweek magazine better watch out. I just might zip their article over to Bill O' Reilly. Bill will go ballistic on them. After he's done masturbating to the photos that is.

SCARIER THOUGHTS.

David Copperfield is no CHOMO, but he might be a rapist. According to FBI at least. I find that hard to believe. I mean the guy owns 4 islands. He's an illusionist. A master magician. He can hypnotize small animals. There is no way in hell that any girl would ever remember being raped by him. Anyway, I hear his penis is so small it's real magic if his dick makes it to your vagina. He should get an award for being a real wizard. Not jail time with my boy Micheal Vick.

IF I MADE AN EFFORT WOULD YOU FALL DOWN FROM THE SURPRISE OF IT?

I have to say I am sorry. To all 20 of you. My readership that is. I haven't been posting. It requires me leaving work and taking a trip to the library, or it requires me to get up early and make an effort to write before going to work.

As you can see... that's asking a lot of me. It's been a month now of working and I have hardly posted about that at all. I figured I have been at this for 4 years and all I have got to show for it is a lousy 10 readers or whatever. Nobody cares, and nobody notices.

But then I read over this blog. And after an absence from the immediacy of writing I noticed that I really suck at blogging. And the fact that 5 of you have stuck around for this long speaks well of you. I should be shitting in my pants for you...or... well you get the point. You Rock! That's the point. You should get a blow job for all the hard work you've put in trying to decipher the gibberish that passes for insight on this blog. And if you don't have a dick, you should at least not have to swallow when you perform a blow job tonight. Again for all the hard work you put in. If your spouse (significant other) needs verification on this point-just send them over here. I'll vouch for ya. No need for the spit patoon today.

Oh. And I am gonna try again to write a bit more. I promise. Just like the last time I promised. But you know what they say about the cycle of abuse, I mean you read that flyer about domestic abuse the last time you volunteered with the Breast Cancer Awareness March. You read it cover to cover. So, I think you know the bad times we've been having are now safely in the past, and we are headed towards the UP CYCLE -you know-the good times. When the all those pleasant feelings and super emotions I will soon be giving you make up for all the times I've punched you in the head.

I don't mean to punch you in the head. It's just I've been drinking a lot lately. And you know how I am not myself when I drink. But I still love you. That's why I get angry. If I didn't care so much I wouldn't get so god damn mad at you. And start blaming you for shit that you didn't do. Like not trying to calm me down after my panic attacks. I bet you didn't know I was dying inside my head. How the fuck are you supposed to know that? I guess I just live in a fantasy world. A fantasy world where people can read my mind. Or even if they can't read my mind they take the time to consider things from my point of view. But who am I kidding? That's not how the world acts. I bet you don't even realize how scared of dying I am right at this exact moment. That I'm a bit panicked over it. I'm having a panic attack right now. But I'm going to be OK. And I don't need you to tell me I am OK. So stop looking at me like I'm the crazy one. You wouldn't even care if I died.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I know you'd care if I died. But it probably would take me dying before you'd ever got around to noticing something about me. I'm just saying.

Go pink!

I know how you are bored of hearing about Britney Spears' big ass, so go read this.

I've been at the computer at my local library this week. Today I have a few extra minutes courtesy of some glitch in the Library's software, it keeps extending my time by 10 minutes, so I guess I will take a couple of them away from applying online to present to you a great link.

I like Moral Philosophy debates and this a great one.

I'm still alive

Which I guess is OK. All I know is that since my computer doesn't work you guys have missed out on me defending Micheal Vick. I think most of you know my postition on animal rights and PETA lovers. I can't stand them.

I talk to an ant.

I had a conversation with an Ant
who mistook me for god.

"Whatya doing?" I asked the ant.

The ant replied that he had a plan to walk the entire length of the Universe.

"Did you know that the Universe is big?" I asked the ant. "It's 300 billion light years across. It will take you three days past eternity to walk that far."

The ant thanked me for the information, and excused himself so he could continue on his journey. "Seems like I've got a ways to go." Chirped the ant.

As the ant crawled over my foot, I picked him up, and squeezed his head till it popped like a pimple.

"God doesn't like gumption in little people." I explained to the headless carcass smeared on my sock, "Not one bit at all."

Hey Y'all computer is still down!

That's right
So you have missed
out on me yelling
a lot about
the supermodel
who survived the tsunami.

It made her a "better person."

I'm glad it took nearly getting killed, a few hundred thousands deaths, death of her fiance and the ruined lives of a few million people
to wake up a s skinny, hot, rich, supermodel and
get her to appreciate life.

I think she can now live life one day at a time.

I wonder if the Holocaust was for Paris, but just missed her birth by 40 years or so.

Three Little Words

Those three little words will get you into a lot of trouble in life. First, she will look up at you and say the words like she means it. Her mouth will part. Those sweet little red lips will move. They will tell you to do things. Things you would not do yourself. Those lips of hers move and then you find yourself burying bodies in the desert.

"I love you."

She stares straight into your eyes and you believe. She has on bright red lipstick and perfect white teeth to match. Her blonde spiral perm is blowing in the wind. She kisses at your bottom lip and then your chin. She moves the shovel out from in between you and presses against you.

"I bet you want me to dig this." You think in your mind. It's best to keep thoughts like that to yourself. After all you are burying little dead grey aliens in the Arizona desert. You hardly need anything else dramatic going on.

"After we're done I am going to show you Flagstaff, you'll love it." She tells you. You've been to Flag before and hung out at her old college sports bar and you didn't think it was such a big deal.

Are you going to remind her that that she's taken you there before? No. That would be a bad idea. The last time you were there another girl had tried to get your attention by standing in front of you and the big screen. And Rhonda got pissed. Made a big scene. Rhonda threatened to kick that girls ass. You had to plead with Rhonda to leave. That it was no big deal. That the girl had a big ass and you were in no way interested in her.

Rhonda was a bit nuts. Which is probably the reason you are standing 2 feet deep in a hole that you've been digging in for the last hour. The heat is killing you. The sun is near set, but it's still at least 96 degrees out.

Rhonda must be nervous, because she is chain smoking. Rhonda always chains smokes whenever she gets nervous. She's sitting in the jeep with the door open. Cigarette after cigarette. She's opened the door so you can hear the music playing. Rhonda thinks the radio will may you digg faster. If Metallica wants to hop out of the jeep and pick up a shovel- things might go faster. Otherwise this is going to be slow. You are not prepared for all this physical activity, even after all the fucking you've been doing lately.

I can't think of two clever ways of telling you I have no access to the Internet. My computer is broke. And it's not even my computer. --No I did not break it. One day after a trip Vegas it simply had a message on the screen about windows 32 file being bad. It wants windows to be reinstalled. I think. But I am not going to mess another person's computer.

I hope to return to the Internet soon, so that I can to attend to you, my rabid collection of wounded ducks.

Stay Freaky.

Cuddles.

Romius T.

Bathos WIKI

I've had this idea for a while. I wanted one of my readers to start a Wikipedia entry for me. So the rest of the world could find out about me. But I think Wikipedia is difficult to edit. You would have to sign up to post an entry. I know you won't do that.

My readers are lazy. Most of you don't even click my hyperlinks. I know this because I keep track of your visits with special software. I don't just warn you about the Surveillance Society, I actively particiapte in it. I can't even imagine life without caller i.d. anymore.

Maybe I should just encourage all my readers to write up Wiki posts about me that I can post right here on Bathos. Then you would not have to sign up for anything. The best WIKI entries about Romius T would be heavily opinionated diatribes about the minutia of this blog or The Self Help Center.

You could fill the blog with footnotes. Because we all know that post-modern meta aware fiction is loaded with made up footnotes. I suggest this only because my readers are the best blog writers out in cyber-land and I think you guys could have some fun with it. Also I won't have to write as much.

CyberLand. Sounds like some kind of Kinky adult chat room.

Cuddles.

Romius T.

I want to buy Dale Rippy a beer!

And I would make sure that I used that new Sam Adams beer glass. The beer glass is supposed to make beer taste even better. I don't think that is even possible. Another thing I never figured was possible was for a 62 year old man to defend himself against a rabies infested bobcat. But Dale Rippy did.

Dale Rippy (great name) is my new hero. He found himself in a battle, rabid bobcat vs. senior citizen. And he came out on top!

"A resident of Wesley Chapel, Florida, was pulling trashcans back to his house May 30 when he saw what he thought was a large cat. After realizing the animal was actually a bobcat, he set the trashcans down and prepared for an attack."

Boy did he.

“I started choking it when got a good hold,” he said. “I choked it ‘til he died. I got scratched up pretty good.”

Way to go old timer.

I love my McJob

Mc Donald's would like you to forget that they offer only low skill low paying jobs with few perks or benifits. They've even re-started an old attempt to get the dictionary to re-define the word McJob as something I guess we would all want to do.

I can't speak for Douglas Copeland, but I am pretty god damn pissed off about that. But no matter how pissed I was I figured no way in hell anybody is going to buy that idea from McDonald's I was wrong.

I was watching TV last night. There is a TV in the kitchen. I was making a grilled cheese sandwich. On TV was an all black situation comedy. I don't know how I was watching UPN. Maybe some kind of poltergeist was fucking with me.

At one point in the sitcom a women meets a man for a blind date. She finds out he works at Mickey D's. Before she protest he interrupts her. He gives her the corporate spill about how great it is to work at McDonald's. That one day he will own a few franchises and he will be rich. It won't be long before he can spread the bling bling.

Now I will have to admit to being a bit too white here. I can't recall the name of TV show. Or even what the situation of the show was. I do remember there may have been a couple of hot white girls on the show. Does anyone know what show I am talking about?

How about my minority friends. You guys probably watch this kind of crap. If it helps the girl talking to the Mickeys guy was in a relationship with another regular on the show, but she was trying to get him jealous. I really want to get this article digged, so I am going to need more facts. I want to expose the corruption of Mickeys, UPN, and shitty Hollywood writers who can sell out their souls for a few bucks.

I mean it's not like I would blog about thenew Police album for 10 bucks from pay per post .com

Why I Hate Danielle Dax and the Hipster Record Store Bitch that got me to buy her album

When I was a lot younger I used to buy a lot of new music. Then I discovered UFO. Since my discovery of the worlds greatest rock band I don't buy any other kind of music.

But there was a time when I did buy new music. I went out searching for it. I was young and impressionable. What I am saying here is that I was easy pickings for any cute record store worker with an agenda.

I met one worker with such an agenda. She must have been a Fem-Nazi and not just a hipster. Dax is known for calling powerful men "mean people." And by "powerful men" I mean record company executives who decided her music sucked. And I suppose the rest of the world, because her last album was called:

Comatose Non Reaction: The Thwarted Pop Career of Danielle Dax

And this recommendation for an obscure avantegarde artist came after I mentioned I like MSG and Queensrÿche. I took the Nazi-hipster's suggestion and to this day I regret it.

You need to hear this crazy women yourself.



Just for comparisons sake check out my favorite band in 1985. At least I think it is 1985. The only original band member I can spot is the lead singer, Phil Mogg. A review of the album they are promoting on this UK TV show suggested that it sounded worse than Karaoke.

"Wow. I'm stunned by how much I dislike this mid-80's offering by the once mighty UFO. It's more like Phil Mogg doing karaoke to some rejected Starship backing tracks. Sissy sounding eighties keyboards wash over everything and the guitar is treated like an afterthought."

And that review came from a FAN of UFO. Now push Play. If you dare.



The last video is a very rare live performance of one of my top 5 favorite songs from the "classic" period. The classic period included Micheal Schenkner. The classic period is regarded as the best by UFO fans though the "early years" features some great stuff that is highly underrated. The song featured on the video "Space Rock" was never given the kind of respect it deserved. Space Child marks a transition from the Space Rock of the "early years" to the Hard Rock and Metal of the "classic period."

What is so awesome about this song is the remarkable restraint and subtlety you find in it. Much of that subtlety is lost in the poor video quality of this video.

I read books you don't, then I blog all political

Greg Palast has a new book out. It's called Armed Madhouse. Greg Palast is a bald headed Ex-Pat reporter who now resides in Britain. Palast broke the story about Jeb Bush scrubbing the names of 40,000 black voters in Florida in the 2000 election. The fix was in then and in 2004 and Palast claims the fix is in yet again for 2008.

I can tell you a few things about this book because I've read it. For one, Greg hates Tom Friedman. I can see why. It's not a hard thing to do. I think everybody should hate Tom. Greg also hates thick armed women like Mindy Tucker Fletcher.

Palast describes Tucker as "thick-armed blonde woman sucking on a super sized slurpee." (p. 202) In the accompanying photo of her on the next page I can see that his description of Mindy is dead on. She is thick armed. You could say that Ms. Tuckers most salient characteristic is her thick arms.

Mindy's thick arms could not fit in the picture.

Now this may comes as a surprise to you. But I think Palast is plain wrong and stupid for saying mean things about the "condescendingly faux friendly public relations gal." You see when he isn't using such outrageous language Palast tells us a story about how Republicans use "caging lists" to challenge Democratic voters.


It's an important story. A story that could even piss off Republicans. When Palast tells the story he dresses like he just stepped out of an audition for Dragnet. All "Film Noir" in a suit and tie and hat. His "just the facts" look contrasts with his red meat delivery for added comedic effect. Only the effect is all wrong. He is a serious investigative reporter, but he comes of looking goofier than Jon Stewart.

His manner does a disservice to his message. He often gets blown off by major TV and newspapers in the U.S. And his outrage will never allow any self respecting independent or Republican to listen to him long enough to discover the truth.

And Palast has a lot of truth to share with you. He has a theory that "Oil" is what killed the Soviet Union not Reagan. His theory is backed up by "Yegor Gaidar is director of the Institute for Economies in Transition in Moscow. Between 1991 and 1994, he was acting prime minister of Russia, minister of economy, and first deputy prime minister." And By Thomas Friedman.

His final theory I'd like to tell you about may comes as a shock to my liberal friends... WE HAVE PLENTY OF OIL! In fact we have too much oil. So much oil that Exxon and OPEC conspire to "rev" up the price by sitting on the oil fields in Iraq. Which he claims is the "real" reason for the war. Not to secure more oil. But to manage oil production and price.

Saddam Hussein got invaded because he would mess with the oil market. One day Saddam would pump full out. The next day he would stop production. It was an instability in the price of oil. An instability not controlled by the Big Oil companies and OPEC that got Hussein in trouble. Not Weapons of Mass Destruction.

2 Ideas for Novels that I've had for years that better writers stole from me

The first great novel idea I had was about a future dystopia after a nuclear holocaust. In the aftermath of a collapse of society humans struggle to retain the knowledge of the former advanced civilization cultivated from an idiosyncratic collection of history, science and literature written down by a slightly smarter than average guy -just like me.

On a remote "island" a group of survivors finds "my" books and crib notes of knowledge. They attempt to write up a constitution based on my humanism and try and use what they can gleam from the "books of the past" to build bridges. a squared + b Squared = u get the idea.

I write down everything I know in hopes that future generations won't have to relearn the scientific method. People have really long discursive literary "battles" full of footnoted references to stuff I made up. Kinda like Idiotocracy only future people aren't stupid, just ignorant.

What kind of battles you ask? Should they start a religion based on me. Am I the originator of knowledge like Socrates or did I just borrow a bunch of ideas and try and pass them off like Plato.

Who stole my idea?

Will Self's Book Of Dave

"it tells the story of an angry and mentally-ill Cockney London Taxi driver named Dave Rudman, who writes and has printed on metal a book of his rantings against women and thoughts on custody rights for fathers. These stem from his anger with his ex-wife, Michelle, who he believes is unfairly keeping him from his son. Equally influential in Dave's book is The Knowledge -- the intimate familiarity with the city of London required of its cabbies.

Dave buries the book, which is discovered centuries later and used as the sacred text for a misogynistic religion that takes hold in the remnants of southern England and London following catastrophic flooding. The future portions of the book are set over 500 years after its discovery. No real indication of how long the book sat undiscovered is given."

How did he ruin it?

Now I have nothing but the greatest of respect for Will Self. He's one of my favorite authors of all time. But he invents his own language for the book and has to include a glossary so that you can make sense of it. The book is simply unreadable for an American (Self is English) because it uses misspellings and a peculiar ghetto English dialect.

The second idea from me for a great novel was whisked away by Christopher Buckley in his novel Boomsday.

Again my novel takes place sometime in the Dystopian Future where an advertising agency started by two 20somethings (I was watching thirtysomething too much-I guess that dates me-) gets hired by the government to create an advertising campaign designed to convince people to kill themselves.

I was going to call the novel Dying- "made easy."

How Chris Buckley proved he is a writer and I am just a blogger.

"[His] novel takes place a few years in the future, shortly after Boomsday — the day when Baby Boomers start turning 65 and begin sinking the Social Security system. Cassandra Devine — a 20-something blogger still angry at her father for investing her college savings in a dot-com startup — decides to declare war on that pampered generation."

I could never come up with a reason why the government wanted people to die. I tried to solve the problem by having all the "customers" who fell for the campaign placed in vast holding tanks. But why the hell would the the government want to hold people in tanks? To save energy to prevent Global Warming. Yeah....retarded I know.

Buckley's take is that a war gets started by Gen X to relieve the overpopulation brought on by retiring Boomers who don't want to work anymore. Genuis, Sir. Pure genius.

You need to be the pussy pilot over your vagina

Honor your pussy. This post is dedicated to Foxxylove. I hoped your blog would be a lot more like this. But you have not posted in months. Maybe you need Vagina Power. If you had Vagina Power you could blog away!

Best line of the video, "These men are given Dick away!"

If you think the nickel is missing, you're right.**

I'm sitting here drinking soda at 5:23 in the morning because I think it is a good idea to consume caffeine right before going to sleep. That way my brain can let me sleep, but only if it spits and spurts out the REM I need.
Sleep then drifts in and out. I wake by the hour. I stare at the clock. Am I dreaming, or am I just imagining that I am dreaming?

All I have to drink is R/C Cola which is way better than any Wal*Mart brand of soda. All that glycolic acid sweeps in to cut away at the sweetness of the liquid, otherwise I'd be vomiting from the 16 teaspoons of sugar just pumped into me. I drink all that soda because I can't afford beer most nights. Even dollar beers. Events always conspire against me.

All this soda is going to rot my teeth. I know it and I'll be working at Denny's soon. I nearly got sick off the B.O. from a Denny's waiter. My waiter is afraid to bathe because of all the unprotected gay sex he is having. If my Denny's waiter scrubs too hard he might chafe, and if he chafes he might bleed, and if he bleeds, he only increasing his chances of getting the AIDS.

I guess he could have less of the unprotected gay sex. Wear a condom, or get tested, but our waiter has a system. And who's to say mine is any better than his. His seems to be working. I mean other than the B.O. and the general listlessness. The dark circles that have unpacked their bags under his eyes. The tired thinness of his bones. His unpleasantness towards vegans. Other than that he seems ok. Iffy...but ok really. If you think about it. Which I have to now because my friend has freaked out about the B.O.

"You know he just made your sandwich."

And yours too I remind him.

**Of course it is quite possible that nobody thinks the nickel is missing. that's why the nickel stayed there for so long. Or maybe nobody ever needed a nickel at the same time they decided to pee in the bathroom. But they make a mental note. They tell themselves that if they ever need a nickel "all I got to do is go to the bathroom. I can geta nickel there."

It was probably bad luck to remove the nickel, you are thinking. But what do you know? There is no such thing as bad luck. When bad things happen to you it is because bad things are planned for you. Did you stop and think that bad things really only happen to you? That everybody else seems to get up in the morning and get by in life. They wake up and geta cup of coffee and a danish and kiss their boyfriends goodbye. The don't spill shit on themselves, and they are never late to work and even when they are the boss never catches them.

Stop worrying about the nickel, you've got a lot more things to worry about.

Jail Bait is the new (insert foot in mouth here) Zeitgeist

If you've been writing a blog as long as I have then you know how easy it is to run out of things to say. Unless of course you are one of those kinds of people who can never shut up. I'm not one of those people. I can ride in a hot car with you all day and never tell you to turn the A/C on. I am very sensitive to people's pain and I figure like me you are aware of my discomfort, but you just don't care. All my sensitivities get me in trouble. Like my sensitive defense of the jailbait zeitgeist.




And like all men called upon to defend jailbait, I have been tested. I have been crucified. Sure the TSHC can be relied upon to keep all you little minions informed. But sometimes even I let things slip past me. But all it takes is a nudge by Fredrick Schwartz an authority from Hell's little newspaper and I get back in the game.




Of course I am talking about 18 year old pole vaulter and hottie Allison Stokke. And unlike some guys I can be respectful. I would never put her picture on a mug and try and make money off of it. Hell this blog's entire income has been under $5.



Here are some hot photos of a girl still in High School.

Stop trying to think of keywords to add to your blog titles

A lot of people will tell you that you should eat the entire contents of any bag of M&M's you buy. But not me. I always leave at least one M&M in the bag in case a homeless guy goes through my garbage. That way he gets a prize. But that's just me. A nice guy.

I guest blog at the Needs of the FEW

So just in case you guys can't get enough of me at one of my three blogs here is another blog. My Guest Blogging as Medusan-in-a-Box at the Needs of the Few!

I guess my career choice as Guest blogger is a pretty good career move. other than the fact that it does not pay. I am going to be fixing that pretty soon though. I might start allowing paid posts on my blog. I know I am a sell out. So what.

At least I don't write to the author of an obviously satirical Self Help blog asking for advice about how to deal with the fact that I am sleeping with my step sister like this guy did:

"I have never done a "blog" or wahtever this is. I just need to let things air out that have been really bothering me..to the core of my being. Since the age of 15 i have had relations of the adult manor with my step sister..we are both in our 30s now....there are more details but I won't get into that now.....I feel horrible...can i can i talk to someone..I sure can't talk to family or friends!!!"

"My last post was about my step sister..if you any USEFULL advise e-mail me @trip20s@hotmail.com"

I am sure my helpful readers can come up with some advice. One reader suggested that if I gave him advice then my advice would not be "Self Help" therby defeating the whole purpose of the blog!

I am religious without being spiritual, but now I wish I could just marry me some Jesus

I was debating a friend of mine a while back on our philosophies of life. Most of the debate centered on how life is meaningless and absurd. Which I guess I use as a good excuse to not get a job.

All that debating gave me the idea to write a religious book for Atheists. I even started a blog post, but it got nowhere. So after 10 days of not posting about it I gave up trying to write down my religious ideas. Not that it matters anyway.

While I might not take the time to write down what I believe to in order to convince you that I know what I am talking about, I gotta believe the people over at the Children of God ought to consider not writing down so much the things they say and believe. Like their stuff on Bridal Theology.

Bridal Theology for the Children of God is basically kiddie sex mixed with Jesus fucking... (Play This Song from the Family while You read!!!)

"They take bridal theology further than other Christians by encouraging members to imagine that Jesus is having sex with them during sexual intercourse and masturbation."

A mother may instruct her children with stories like this:

"(Jesus speaking:) I am really there fucking you, and I really do fill your body with My penis and My seeds. I let you experience this and I have manifested Myself to you in this physical reaction that you've felt in your body. "

You tell that to a 12 year olds. Or you can wait till she is 14 according to the Family. Holy cripes. That's balls out ballsy. Of course lets not forget that men need to fuck Jesus too.

"Male members are told to visualize themselves as women, in order to avoid a homosexual relationship with Jesus:"

"In your lovemaking with Jesus you are not a man. You are making love to Him as His Bride, His spiritual wife. This is not a male-with-male relationship. It is a spiritual female, you, making love to a male, Jesus. He is the man, the Bridegroom, and you are the woman, His Bride, His wife."

Children of God even has a list of approved dirty words and sex talk to use with Jesus. But I have to admit that the song is kinda catchy. Don't ya think?

"I"ll lay down. I will strip all my garments off, I will strip off all my pride for you!"

I have to thank the wonderful podcast Distorted View for playing the Children of God's rock song (above) for inspiration for this post. Special thanks to x-family website for all the dirt.

Today's Fan Letter to Steve Nash's Wife is "I have Steve's Eyes"

Dear Mrs. Nash,

I don't like to brag. That's because I can get other people to do it for me. Even if those "people" are monkeys.

"The Self Help Center. Written by Romius T, who also blogs at The Needs Of The Few, this blog covers the banal and ordinary on any given day. Romius's posts on The Self Help Center are like haunting prose poems of the damned or they are a dry joke inflicted on a world that has no sense of humor." [my emphasis]

I couldn't have said it better myself. And I've tried. Like I said though I don't like to brag, but I did get to hitch a ride onto the NBA playoff game of the year yesterday. Suns vs. Spurs Game 5.

It was a heartbreaking loss for you and Steve I bet.

My Highlights included:

• Becoming Voiceless
• waving a towel for 2 hours straight-I can't lift my right arm now
• given a cardboard paper mask in the facial shape of steve nash with cut out card board eyes

I used the mask to go around pretending I was Steve Nash all night. I kept trying to get girls to go out on date with me as Steve. The result of my efforts were quite baffling. It appears that a lot of women walking around Us Airways Arena are too good for Steve Nash. They kept saying "no" to my requests for a "date with Steve."

I guess this is good news for you. Even if Steve wanted to cheat, I don't like his prospects. For fun I even tried telling girls "Steve Nash likes cleavage!" This statement garnered nothing but a few stares and giggles. In fact the only time that I got a response was yelling, "Make sure to put that on myspace" anytime I saw a couple of teenagers posing for camera phone pics.

Oh, well.

Cuddles,

Romius T.

Fiction for people who watch TV and read the gossip. Peppered with pop culture references and Meta Awareness for your protection.

"What's wrong with you?"

I tried explaining to the girl what was wrong with me. That I had just gotten used to calling Ricky Schroeder "Rick" Schroeder and now he 'd gone back to calling himself "Ricky" Schroeder during his guest shot on the TV action series 24.

I could tell she didn't understand why I was upset as I was. But at least I could tell she was concerned about me. I had seen concern before on an attractive woman.

My stepsister gave me the same look every time she caught me masturbating to one of my Playboy magazines in her room. Sis never wore the nice clothes like those on the talking girl in front of me. Though to be fair most of my memories of Sis are from the 1980’s. Hardly a time period known for its fashion sense.

The talking girl wore a pair of smartly tailored black slacks with a shiny top and metallic shoes that came to a point. I guess Stacy and Clinton had told her just what to wear. Because she knew how to dress. It was like this girl had jumped right out of an episode of What Not to Wear on the Learning Channel and had been given the 5,000 dollar credit card from Visa to go shopping and had followed the rules Stacy and Clinton had pointed out to her exactly.

Someone working at the fryer poured a bag of frozen fries into the super hot liquid fat. I could hear the popping of the water in the heat. I got a cold rush of air when the A/C clicked on that smelled like a biggie fry.

While the girl talked I avoided eye contact. After smelling that waft of air I looked down at my Bacon cheeseburger and side salad with Italian vinaigrette dressing in time to miss ordering fries. I was drinking a small ice tea with no sugar. I figured if I drank tea instead of coke, ate a salad instead of the fries, I could eat a small chocolate frosty for dessert. Wendy's used to only sell chocolate frosties. But now they sell both vanilla flavored frosties as well as the chocolate flavored ones.

Kim finally introduced herself. And she offered to shake my hand. I hesitated for a bit. I wondered where her hands had been.

Do I really want to shake hands with a stranger and then go back to eating with my food with my hands?

I must have because I shook her hand and offered her a seat. She glanced around at the busy restaurant and accepted. I was the only person sitting at my 4-person table. Busy people on their lunch breaks occupied the rest of the booths.

I could tell she was like me, the kind of person who sat at a large table when eating lunch alone. She sat down across from me and began eating her Chicken Fillet sandwich. After taking a few sips of her Diet Coke she asked, "So… what are you reading?"

"Sports section." I replied.

"Oh, really? You think I could get it after you're done?" She asked.

"I don't see why not. But it might be a while. There is a lot I want to read about the Suns playoffs." She went back to munching on her sandwich and picking at her fries. "You want the front page while I am reading the sports?" I asked her.

"Nope. I just read the sports."

I tried reading the sports page but my mind kept jumbling the words. I couldn't concentrate. I knew that I wasn't going to be able to read as long as this girl sat across from me. It was like peeing in a urinal when you've got 20 guys behind you in line. Just waiting for you to finish up.

My bladder would freeze up in those situations. And I would just sit there and pretend to pee. I hoped that no one would notice that they didn't hear any splashing. I would then quickly zip up and wash my hands. I would take my time about it though. Wash my face and look around the room pretending to look for paper towels.

Sometimes I took long enough for someone in a stall to leave. I would make a dash for the stall like I had just come over with a serious case of the diarrhea.

Not that my little trick ever worked. People realized what I was doing. And if they were drunk enough they would comment about it. I could hear the jocks and frat boys having a good time about me.

Little faggot has a small one I bet.

Can’t even pea in public.

What’s wrong with him?

Kim slurped loudly as she drew in air from her cup. She was out of Diet Coke. “Would you mind?” She asked of me as she twisted the cup in my line of vision. She wanted me to get up and refill her drink. For some reason this Wendy’s did not have a self-service drink counter like 99% of the fast food restaurants in the world today. I guess she didn’t want to walk up and ask for a refill herself.

I hated that about this restaurant. It was my one real complaint. You always had to walk up to the counter and demand a refill. And this restaurant was a busy one. So you had to dodge the new customers who thought you were cutting in line and cut in front of the paid customers who were never patiently waiting for their food and drinks.

“It’s just I hate to have to ask.” She tells me. “I get real nervous. Like for some reason I think I am not entitled to a refill or something. I always feel guilty.”

I understood. I feel strange guilt like that all the time. Even if the damn place tells me I can have all the refills I want. I still feel like I shouldn’t ask them for one.

I notice the woman at the counter when I walk over for Kim's refill. She is middle aged. She must be in her forties. This is her real job because I see her here every time I come in. The second reason I know it must be her real is she works the day shift. If it was her second job, she’d probably be working late night or during a mid-afternoon slot.

There is something that’s not quite right about her appearance. It’s a bit off putting. Like she might be a Mongoloid or something. Mentally she looks like she is always stuck in first gear. She takes just a second longer than necessary to process anything you tell her.

She doesn’t hear well either. And for some reason every time I talk to her I find myself whispering to her. Which I can guess only exasperates the problem. Because she can't hear she repeats every thing you tell her. Softly and to herself. Like she needs to reassurance that the outside world is asking something of her.

She refills the Diet Coke and hands it back to me. She asks me if I want a lid. I tell her no thanks. I’ve got one. I notice something is troubling her mind at work. It wasn’t so long ago that she filled my glass with iced tea. And she just did a refill of Diet Coke. Something is wrong here but she can’t quite make it out.

Now I am not sure if she remembers for sure that she gave me an iced tea. I can tell she is puzzled though. Like she added up a long column of numbers three times and came up with a different answer each time.

Are they spying on you?

Yes.

But you already knew that. You just don't care. You want the attention. That's why you never told on Uncle Ralphy. Who wasn't even your uncle. And he only touched you because he thought you were retarded and he could get away with it.

But just in case you do get pissed off at the government Glen Greenwald blogged about an upcoming Frontline special:

"Tomorrow night at 9:00 p.m. Eastern, PBS's Frontline is broadcasting a new documentary entitled Spying on the Home Front, which examines the numerous ways in which the government's domestic surveillance powers have been vastly expanded since 9/11. Most of that expansion has taken place in secret, with virtually no oversight of any kind, and has remained almost completely shielded from any public debate."

If my blogroll listed people other than my readers, friends, or fellow linkees, then it would definitely include him. He's awesome. He went from blogging to Salon.com which is also awesome. Speaking of Awesome. My Podcast News from the Surveillace Society has 269 dowloads even though I never got past the testing stage of it. Wow.

What isn't awesome is me saying awesome so much. I promise to stop.

More news on the Surveillance Society at TSHC.

BABY VS. COBRA PART 1 ATTACK OF THE COBRA

I don't know a whole lot about India. Other than it is far away. And Enron developed a nuclear power plant for like 20 billion dollars there. You know because people in India are so rich they want Nuke Power.

The only other thing I know about India is that they make movies. Some of the best movies in the world. If the whole world was India. And bad lip-synching mixed with goofy dancing made for a good movie.

But here is a good movie. It stars one of India's many homeless infants in a Clash of the Titans battle with a real live Cobra snake!



The best part of this video is that you can hear dishes being banged in the background. How on Earth can you be doing the dishes when an epic fight like "Baby V. Cobra" is going down?

Or at least somebody call 9-1-1. A baby is getting bitten by snakes.

Kirk Cameron Proves God Exists on ABC

I don't know what people did before the invention of powerful stimulative laxatives. I guess if they were constipated they just sat around the jungle. Cursing at the gods. Eating raisins. And wondering when they were going to take a shit.

Not a lot has changed for mankind in modern times. Now when I get constipated I just chew on some Ex-Lax and wonder when I am going to take my 5th shit of the morning.

I just got back from I-hop where I ate some pancakes. I have no idea if the laxative finally kicked in or if it's the wonderful food they serve at I-Hop that got my colon going again.

But either way my tummy is now grumbling and my excretions can't stop. I've decided not to wipe my ass. As there seems no point to it anymore. I am just going to defecate in a few minutes anyway.

I've wanted to write a post on Kirk Cameron and his attempt to prove god exists on the TV show Nightline. But I wanted to make it funny and not preachy. But I can't think of anything funnier than Ray Comfort and Kirk masturbating a banana as proof that God exists.



I have to applaud ABC for dedicating Network time for debating the the existence of God. Network time, a washed up has-been teen sitcom star, and the guy who caught Micheal Jackson in bed with a 7 year old for a moderator.

I mean if these guys can't figure it out who could? Maybe Kelly could. Kelly has huge boobs. Kelly doesn't see why she needs straps on her dress to hold those suckers in. Even if she is debating the ultimate question of philosophy. Frankly, I have always wanted to find a girl like that.

Poetry Month was Last Month, but I still have Bukowski on the brain.

This is for Katie. Since I can't get Bukowski out of my head. Now I am going to write poetry just like him.

Good news I got the book I wanted from the library. Post Office. But I've finished reading it already.

Here is my attempt at e-stalking Hailey Duff.

Straight from the horse's mouth.

Dear Hillary

I think you should read Charles Bukowski. He is a great American writer. I think you must have a crazy, but so interesting life. If you could capture it in realistic simple prose like him. It would be a document for celebrity in the modern world. Do you have the talent for that? I don't know. But you are self-consciousness. That is evident by your blog. I'd be fascinated by the minutia of your life as we all would be.

Yours Truly

Romius T.

And her reply went like this:

My name is Haylie. But thanks for the words of advice, I'll take them into consideration. :)

Here is what Hailey thinks of people stealing her picture. I think she took my advice and finally started writing poetry.

Haliey's Poetry.

Using someone else's

picture

and pretending to be them

is Identiy Theft.

You can be caught

and prosecuted

by the law for it

by tracing your

computer's IP address

back to you

SO THINKING OF STEALING SOMEONES PICTURES?

THINK AGAIN.

My second contribution to this week in National Poetry Month. 1 month too late.

What I am doing.

I walk into the kitchen

open the freezer

and pull out

two Circle K bags

that are wrapped around

a bag of ice

I plunge my hands

in

and grab what's left

of the ice

and throw it my

32 ounce tumbler

and shut the

door

then I open the

fridge

and pull out

a bottle

of RC

cola

and fill my glass

too much foam

I fill my cup

to the top anyway

she walks by

asks me "what I am doing?"

I'm

drinking soda

and listening

to the carbonation crackle

I'm

chewing

the crushed

ice

and not doing much

else

Not sure

why you'd ask

me that

that's what I'll answer

Cinco de Mayo is fun!

All I know is people are mean to me. I can just be sitting there taking a piss in a urinal and something bad can happen to me. I don't like pissing in a urinals because I have a shy bladder.

I know you are probably thinking that my shy bladder has some thing to do with my small penis size, but you are wrong. I don't care that you know about that. I have spent thousands of dollars on phone sex for women to talk about my small cock. Sure most of that money was secured from credit card withdrawals that I never paid back. But 50% of my income over the years has been borrowing money from credit cards and not paying it back.

Cinco de Mayo weekend was no different. Three guys were in the only stall in the bathroom at the club I went to. I am not sure what the name of that club is, but if three guys can sit in the only stall for over twenty minutes then I think you might have and idea about exactly how Westside this club actually is.

All I know is I was finally managing to coax the urine out from my bladder into the splash urinal when all at once the three guys decided to open the stall door and burst out towards me. I am not sure where I developed the cat-like reflexes to simultaneously stop pissing, zip up and dodge three men and and their exploding door only 6 inches from my ass, but I did. Maybe it's all the Spider Man movies I've been watching. So maybe it's not cat-like, but spider-like reflexes. But you get my point all the same anyway.

You would think spending Mexican Victory Day over the French (who hasn't had a victory day over the French?) with three of the sluttiest girls you've seen in years would make me feel OK. Or at least seeing all those other sluts that walked around in half shirts and small dresses with hard tits from the unseasonably cool weather-that none were prepared for-I guess no one watches the news anymore-would have at least gotten me off.

But it didn't. Instead I wrote poetry in my head.

Nazis
in high heels
walk past me

I don't remember the rest. Just that a lot of hot chicks are out there and none of them will screw me. It got me thinking again. And I probably don't need to do that. Spider Man wants me to be an Existentialist. He wants me to think that my choices define me. That we can choose to be good or evil. I swear to god he almost got me. But I am stupidly emotional like that. Choices are bullshit. I saw it on a Penn & Teller.

My Cinco de Mayo sluts all wanted to dance. That's why we left the Cinco de Mayo celebration. That's how we ended up at some ghetto Westside club. That's when I noticed how odd other people are. I don't know what comes over you guys. But some of you out there hear a base groove and get this orgiastic compulsion to shake your ass.

I compare that compulsion to dance the way that Freud thought about religion. I guess you are under some kind of oceanic feeling. Maybe that's why you dance. I have no idea. The white bread in me has so mutated out in me rhythm that it is impossible for me to comprehend what the big deal is about dancing.

At least 2 of the slut girls wore short skirts. And I am pretty sure one of them didn't care how many times her tube top fell down again to expose her fake tits. I can masturbate for years from that. And she can't take that away from me. Even if this crazy chick is not the "slutty sister."

The so-called non-slutty sister told me in hushed tones that "she hadn't had sex in three years." That she could "almost feel her virginity growing back." That's hard for me to believe. Your tube top fell down like six times. Almost as hard to believe she told me that she never touched herself.

"You haven't had sex is three years and you don't even touch yourself?" I asked her. "Yep." Was her reply. "I don't even care about it anymore."

I lost the chance to bond with her over that. I can't remember the last time I has sex, but I think it was when Reagan was in office. My friend may be getting his MoJo back. For that I am glad. I don't begrudge other people's happiness, no matter what you may think of me. But I have lost my MoJo for good. I am not getting any younger, or any better looking anytime soon.

I don't want to say that I smell death nearby. In fact I will probably outlive my desire to be alive. If that hasn't happened already. I guess you could say that I can't get a chick because I am not positive enough. Chicks always want some one positive and passionate about life. Someone with a plan or a purpose.

I guess I am passionate. I always tell chicks in my mind on Yahoo personals that I am not very passionate. But maybe I am. I am passionate about you not being so god damn passionate. I don't even know what the fuck that means. But you get my point. The point is stop fooling yourself and look around. There is nothing to be excited about. We are all going to die and there is probably nothing we can do about that. And there may be no point to living anyway after all.

I don't think you can make a philosophical case for life at least. But I soldier on. Because that is where we are at as a species. We have come to the ultimate awareness of our own absurdity. Absurdity is the only concept Existentialism got right. And for that we are eternally grateful. If by grateful I mean a thousand jumpers thank-you.

My stomach is upset. It feels all sicky. Like it collects bile. I can't sleep and I am tired and wired at the same time. I am not exhausted, I just feel spaced out. Like I took too many sudaphedrine. I have medicine head. My acid reflux if shaking and growling at me. Tums will not do the job. My stomach growl was louder than the movie I watched tonight. I hope none of you heard it. If you did you might have thought I was farting. But I wasn't farting.

When I close my eyes I see stars. Like a kid hit in the head with an aluminium baseball bat. But I'll try and spell better next time. Sorry about that. It's just that I see sparks. And I get so light-headed these days. All for no reason. The sparks look like grainy 1964 color home video. And I am Zapruder. And I am following around Anna Nicole Smith.

Maybe I will go bowling this week. But I don't think so. I know the library has misplaced the book they have on hold for me. I went sometime a few weeks ago. They said they had the book, but when I got there. No book. Why is that? What makes them think this time is going to be any different? I am going to go again today. To the library. And that book better be there. Or there just might be hell to pay. Maybe I will be that asshole guy for a change.

"I'd like to speak to your manager. Just where the hell is my book? I came all the way down here , because you guys said my book was ready. And now I get here and there is NO FUCKING BOOK IS THERE???"

"No fucking way! I can't fucking take this. What the fuck are doing? How do you run this kind of place? Why can't you just go look for it in the hold section? It's not in the new book section! I don't care what the computer says, I've looked there. I used to work in a library. This library in fact, so I think I can find my way around. OK!!? Get it? I think I know that it's not here!"

No it's not just going to appear. Otherwise it would already be here so don't put me on the list again. It will just cycle up and the book is lost and it won't be here when I get here and I will ride my bike all the way down here and the book won't be here. Do you know it's 90 degrees outside? Do you? It's fucking hot outside asshole and you made me walk all the way down here and now I am not getting my book what the FUCK?"

But you know I won't do that. I am not your fucking alpha male and I am not here to rescue you. Take some advice from me if you will. Follow some of the things I teach. You will get there someday. And I will be right behind you. Knowing the whole time you could do it! Because you are all so beautiful, man. Beautiful.

I drank way too much soda. What do you think? Maybe too much soda? That's all it probably is. Get away from the fucking computer. Quit it. Stop looking over here at me. Like I am the freak. Like just cuz I am a bit deformed. Fuck you. You're deformed too. Quit trying to get at me. Get out of my head.

The buzzing. The fucking buzzing. The fucking buzzing in my head. That's the problem. It won't stop. And writing isn't making it go away. You could just stop reading you know, stop having such a sick and adverse reaction. If you don't like it. Then stop reading this damn thing, OK? Isn't that simple? It's not DRAMA. Ok? You just pretend to get over me and go on defrosting frozen dinners. And picking up spilled shit off the floor.

You could just let it lie there. The whole world is just falling apart anyway. Second law of thermodynamics and all. This post could have ended a bit ago. But I don't like making things easy on you. Your life is already easy enough. The tall girls in high heels. With proud tits. Walking by me. Past me. Didn't you see me? Did you know I was there?

There are things I could do that could make you aware. I could make you notice me. I could make you aware after all. Stop walking around unconscious of me damn it.

No. That would be worse wouldn't it? Don't notice me. Please don't notice me. I don't want your judgement. Your appraisal. That negative energy. If you gave me any energy at all it would be negative. Because we hate the ugly? Don't we?

I do too. I hate them too. All the uglies. Those fuckers. some of them demand things. Not in crisis. Not from despair. They just want. They want to be able to want. Like they have some kind of entitlement to their desires. Their putrid ugly desires. When they have sex it is always grimy sex. Nasty sex. When they do it. They do it ugly and dirty. They don't shine they sweat. And it accumulates in their folds. Smells. Dirty diaper rotten smells while they fuck and they don't stop fucking they don't care they just keep fucking anyway dirty fucking and fucking unclean.yuck.

Today's Fan Letter To Steve Nash's Wife is "Worried about his nose."

Dear Steve Nash's Wife,

I just wanted to say I was watching the whole thing on TV and I totally thought that was a cheap shot by Tony Parker!

It totally looked like Tony just bent over and bumped his head on your dear husbands nose.

WOW!

I've never seen such blood before!

I mean it was really gushing!

Only a boxer's cut man could have done something about that!

Blood. Blood. Everywhere. Blood.

And just at the wrong moment. When the game was on the line. Steve couldn't get back in to the game because of that Magic Johnson rule.

Which by the way doesn't make any sense to me. I mean Magic doesn't even play anymore. And even if he did, I think he bought himself the celebrity cure for AIDS. So it wouldn't matter if Magic gushed his blood all over you. You totally can't get AIDS from him anymore!

Despite his nice smile Earvin Magic Johnson bought the AIDS cure for himself and probably woudn't sell it to you!

So I say let Steve play!

MAY DAY 2007

Once again it's nearly that time of year when anarchists and communists get together to celebrate the last victory of the working class - The 8 hour working day.

I am unemployed currently, so I don't have much right to gripe about capitalism these days. But in true Bukowski fashion I must celebrate my refusal to work. I won't even write a new post. I am just going to repost a blog entry from when the "Man" used to be able to keep me down.

My work blog for Labor Day 2006

Long Live the Revolution!

I only celebrate 2 religious holidays a year. May Day and Labor Day.

I will be working my religious holiday this year. I don't work Mondays normally, so I didn't think to ask for it off. So of course I get scheduled on Labor Day.

"I just treated it like any other day."

That's what the boss said when I asked her about why I was working on the only day working people shouldn't have to.

Of course you did. Why not? I thought.

Just like I treat the fact that I have been disfigured* and disabled** as just a "regular part of working for the capitalist pigs."

Lucky for me though, this is PalmGhetto. So a regular workday here is never just another "regular workday." Instead of spending my holiday trying to chant pro-union songs all day (I don't know any lyrics), I can spend the day trying to avoid white trash conversations at my lunchtime locker.

The following conversation is not verbatim:

After informing me that the "Bitch in the register next to me better watch her ass" because "she is talking a lot of shit," I overhear the middle aged cashier on her cell phone telling her drug buying prospects that she "had a little something if you are interested."

I try to change the subject from violence and drugs to my aching back. Crazy cashier girl busts out with her "tabs" and asks if I need any. I politely decline and mention I'd rather continue to vomit up my own blood from taking all that Aleve instead.

* I hesitate to place a picture of the hideous scar on the lower half of my thumb which I received from scraping it against the trash can bin.

** I've been vomiting liters of blood from all the Aleve I've been taking for the back pain I incurred whilst mopping an entire bakery floor with a kitchen sized mop.

Today's Fan Letter to Steve Nash's Wife is called "The NFL DRAFT"

Dear Mrs. Nash,

I just wanted to compliment you on your demeanor. I've noticed that whenever you are in the spotlight with your husband you behave yourself. Do you think public displays of affection are OK? You must. I mean you don't even have a problem speaking Paraguayan in public. But somehow you pull it off. I guess it's all about class. You've got it. Some don't.

I bring it up only because you probably saw that ugly display put on by that super tramp Lindy Slinger. She totally got caught by some bloggers "rolling" her eyes when Brady tried to kiss her. In addition, she basically set her man up for a pummelling by the Miami Dolphins when she opined that "Brady can't wait to face the Dolphins or any of the teams that passed on him. "

I won't point out the logic of getting angry at someone who doesn't owe you anything. Teams can choose whoever they want. Don't piss of the defenders who are going to be trying to decapitate your man. But you already knew that.

(Want more fun with Lindy? Try my post at the Need of the Few & Self Help!)