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!