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.