Haikus dedicated to my favorite finger
Mood:  blue
Amputated, gone
Ten fingers overrated
Now nine and a half

Turn my hand around
Middle finger now half gone
Permanent shocker

Losing fingers sucks
It could have been much, much worse
Could have been my dick

Having ten fingers is overrated.
Mood:  accident prone
Hi everyone, for those of you who haven't heard, my middle finger on my right hand was recently crushed off. To make a long story boring, I had an 800lb. safe on a dolly and due to the mud underneath my feet my hand ended up between the dolly and the safe.

Right now the doctors aren’t sure if I'm going to be able to keep it... It all depends on how it heals. In the event that I lose it, the finger will be amputated half way down to allow for enough healthy skin to grow over the nub. As of right now the bones in the tips of my two fingers have been shattered into roughly 12 pieces each and that is where most of the pain is currently emanating from. It is too early to do surgery to reconstruct the bone because the doctors are afraid to damage the tissue further, and there is no point reconstructing the bone if the tissue isn't going to heal because the finger will be coming off anyway.

When the accident originally happened, my two fingers were actually flat. The bone in my middle finger was sticking out of the finger "pad" (right where your finger print would be). I screamed for about three seconds at which point I just sat down and tried my hardest not to pass out. People think that you go into shock and can’t feel what’s happening… that is bullshit. Because 95% of the nerves in your finger are right down at the tip, this was the most physical pain I have ever experienced in my life to date.

Here are the pictures of my bloody nub a few days after it got sewed back on. Trust me; the pictures make it look better than it actually is.

I will do my best to keep you all updated on the situation. So check back here for weekly updates.

This is Too Much for me to Handle
The pain is unbearable. If you took the amount of raw stupidity in my apartment at this very moment, and physically manifested it, it would be the size of texas and denser than a neutron star. I was forced to listen to an ex-couple bitch at each other for just over an hour, and had I not been driving at the time, Mike and Lisa would have produced a couple-sized hole in the window as I aimed for the sun and punted the fuckers right into it. My friends then staggered their inebriated asses into my apartment at three in the morning as gracefully and noiselessly as pregnant, tap-dancing ballerinas with bricks strapped to their feet. At this point I was tired as hell and said fuckitall, walked to my bedroom, shut the door and plotted their murders.

Sweet, sweet nectar…when I walked into my bedroom I saw ray of light sent from the heavens and descending on my unoccupied bed. This was like the equivalent of someone bringing a recovered heroin addict a box full of clean needles and a gallon jug of freshly cooked dope, only without all that “addiction” crap. I was just about to lay down for a long winters nap when the unmistakable sound of puking emanated form the bathroom…

My sleep pattern has been off recently and I haven’t been able, as of late, to get a decent night’s rest. This became exponentially worse when the fuckle gang moved in right above me, cramming 5,000 pounds of moron and wailing toddler into a one-bedroom apartment. The other day I saw the male of the trio, whom I call “lumpy”, outside in the hall. At any given time you will find the neighbors from hell wearing any or all of the following: a neon tank top, Jams shorts, and some kind of horribly idiotic hat or sunglasses which the Salvation Army would refuse to accept on the grounds that it would make them seem cheap and tacky. Every night when I park my car I am momentarily petrified with fear as I exit my vehicle and am staring face to face with their phalanx of nappy cats who seem to lurk in the shadows and plot my demise. As I run and scream like a retarded school girl from my car to my door I am confronted by a smell that hits me like a punch in the face, and it’s coming from the apartment upstairs. From what I can gather lumpy was beating his girlfriend with a whiffle ball bat and slipped and knocked over the pot of whatever-the-fuck they made for dinner. Thus causing the apartment to smell like boiled cat urine and sneakers for the following nine decades.

This is too much right now, I’m going to sleep.

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You can also drive a car with your feet, that dosn't make it a good fucking idea.
The fridge was damn near empty. "Drat!" I said in my mind, which came out of my mouth sounding like "FUCK!" My stomach was growling, and the supersized McDonalds lardbiscuit McCholesterol combo meal I polished off earlier had just made it into my arteries. This is when I decided once again that it was time for me to try and conquer my fear of the stove.

TARGET FOOD: Frozen Hash Browns.
RESULT: Hash browns somehow turned into what I called the "Sweaty Bird's Nest of Failure." The outside was really brown, the inside was really white, and cooking oil dripped off it in blobs large enough to lubricate industrial pistons. Somehow all the potatoes, instead of acting like the friendly hash browns at Denny's which can be separated into individual slices of potato, welded themselves together to form the Sweaty Bird's Nest of Failure, which was so congealed and impenetrable that it could deflect pistol fire.

HOW IT WAS DISPOSED OF:
Hid it in my next door neighbor's closet. Occasionally I would stop by, make comments like, "Jeez, you smell like SHIT!" and walk away, but I couldn't do it too often or he would've suspected sabotage.

TARGET FOOD: Ravioli.
RESULT: Stove caught fire and I shrieked like a retarded schoolgirl until somebody dumped 20 pounds of baking soda onto the stove. The odd part was that I was simply boiling water when the stove caught fire. I still can't figure out how I managed to burn the stove while boiling water, but it happened regardless.

HOW IT WAS DISPOSED OF: Since I didn't dare boil another pot of water (under the Fire Marshall's explicit orders), I put the ravioli back in my freezer, where it will reside until the day before I move out of the apartment. I believe this will be the year my friends and I hold a "Farewell to Food" celebration and throw it out the fourth story window of my complex.

TARGET FOOD: Steak
RESULT: Don't ask. Let's just say that people who can't successfully boil a pot of water shouldn't be allowed within a 50-mile radius of uncooked beef. I think everybody in my building can vouch for that.

HOW IT WAS DISPOSED OF: Both the steak and the frying pan, which was damaged beyond repair, were given a burial at sea (a large fountain) and a 21-gun salute.

I No Longer Want My MTV
Good work to the programming directors at MTV who seem to be obsessed with shit that sucks. I'm not even going to make a joke about that channel's love of never playing videos, that complaint is as old as the moon, but if they're going to replace their music videos with shows they could at least pick a couple that aren't the most loathsome trash ever to trot out of a dying dog's asshole. If you can sit in front of the TV and fondly recall "The Grind" then something is cosmically wrong in the world. Yet there it is; inane scavenger hunt with annoying good-looking spoiled 20 year olds, and fabricated drama that is about as real as the confessionals they give on their hair care products. It's not even Hollywood-style reality TV on MTV, it's some sort of bizarre dreamlike world where twenty year olds repeatedly get oversized checks for competitive bungee jumping in the desert. Then we get to see the inside of Ja Rule’s house and wonder how the world has gone so wrong that a no-talent rapper with a Band-Aid on his face has enough money to build a fusion reactor out of diamonds to power the subwoofer in his swimming pool. I'm sure some steel mill worker is thanking his lucky charms that he gets to get up at 4 AM and go to work to make payment on his 2 bedroom duplex while Sugar Ray explains why he has a pair of slippers made out of human skin.

The intellectual shows "Dude, This Sucks" and "Harassment" hardly seem like the next wave in the evolution of hilarity. As a result, I have come up with a few great new ideas for MTV shows which I hope they adopt as soon as possible and give me all the money. I feel these shows are the true "next generation" and can only spell out financial success for MTV's quality network.

SHOW #1: "Woah, I'm a Hostage, Dude!" (Fridays at 8:00 PM) - Popular music artists such as that one band that made that one song kidnap teenagers from the mall and drive them to an undisclosed location. Using an untraceable cellular phone, the kidnapper phones the parents and leads them on a wild goose chase to find their captive child who is having human shit thrown on them the entire time. At the end of each episode, the parent is given the address of the warehouse where their child is being held, and has ten minutes to get there before the kid is shot in the face with an assault rifle. However, the jokes on them; their kid has been dead since the first phone call! The look on the parent's face is then recorded, printed out, and sent along with their home address to the jail cells of sex offenders throughout America.

SHOW #2: "Let's Give Brian AIDS" (Mondays at 9:30 PM) - Each episode features a crew of wacky pranksters equipped with AIDS-infested needles, searching through malls and homes for people named Brian so they can force them down upon the ground and inject the deadly (and hilarious!) tainted needle into their veins. These zany guys will stop at nothing to give Brians across the globe AIDS in the most humorous and clever ways possible, ranging from "breaking and entering" to "assault with a deadly weapon," both of which have proved to be popular in such shows as "COPS" and "COPS in New York."

Don't be a Fool, Stay in School!
Eastern Michigan University: a double edged sword. I have chosen the righteous path of the computer scientists before me and hence eradicated any chance of ever having a single attractive woman in any…ANY of my classes. It is not as if I don’t believe that an alluring female could grasp, and flourish in the courses handed to me by the Beelzebub himself. But it seems that when people start to talk of the differential equation and Mach Assembly programming language to them that their beautiful eyes in the beautiful heads seem to gloss over right before they slip into a coma.

The mechanical assembly programming language: Originally dreamt of in 1563 by Vlad the Unholy during an opium hallucination while on crusade near Jerusalem, the overall specifications of "Mach Assembly" were tattooed on the back of a nun turned whore. My classmates are all carbon copies of Nick Burns your company’s computer guy. These yiff'ing chucklefucks who spends their free time masturbating into golfing shoes at K-Mart, have perfected the technique of getting a maximum stench from a minimum area of armpit space. During the short intervals in which I regain consciousness from the smell-induced blackouts I suffer from, I try and focus on the prof. My lecturer resembles Bill Gates, and sounds like my favorite Muppet: the Swedish chef. This was quite entertaining until I realized that I did not speak “gibberish”, or “Dutch”, or “whatever-the-hell-it-is”. I will now petition that there be a mandatory language test that all faculty must pass in order to educate the masses. This test would include things like “A Grasp on Verbs” and “Moving your mouth at the same speed as which you are talking”. Well, enough of my bitching. Next time I’ll try and write about happy things like puppy dogs and ice cream. This place is dead anyways

They're Nuttier than Squirl Turds...
Well, let me start off by saying that despite my vast, and almost incomprehendible knowledge of computers, my journal’s website still insists on disobeying my commands. I try and update, and my journal informs me of an error. So I call one of my friends that I assume would be able to facilitate me in my time of need. He said to me, “Steve, you don’t need to call me up… you must consult the…..WEB MASTER!!!!”. So, I called up Spiderman, and he said, “mmwwff mmm mmwww wwwffm”. Cause he’s a friggin idiot and forgot to cut a hole for his mouth!

But that is not tonight’s topic of discussion. Recently I learned to what degree, all women are in fact, “batshit insane”. A close friend of mine, while at the bar ended up making out with some random, who as it turns out, enjoys choking the living hell out of guys while in passionate embrace. And after careful consideration, I concluded the following: Never get romantically involved with a crazy woman. This important lesson repeatedly surfaces in my life, much like how dark clouds gather before an acid rain storm in southern California, or as Robert Downy Jr. appears before the SWAT Team arrives equipped with an assault team of U-Haul moving vans large enough to comfortably relocate his current fix of cocaine and tar heroin. However, no matter how carefully I investigate potential mates, despite the amount of time I spend "getting to know them better" (or as the authorities refer to as "stalking them by hiding in the bushes and furiously masturbating outside their garage"), and regardless of whom I eventually grow romantically linked to, their brains eventually collapse into a Biggie-Sized bowl of wacko chili.

There’s the rub… I like women, and I want women. But that’s about as far as I’ve thought it through. Well anyways…. Big day tomorrow and I gotta either get to studying or buy a Chinese kid, and I can’t even scrape the 20 bucks together it takes. So peace out.

I'll see you in hell
Wow...Tonight is quite possible the GREATEST night of my life! That, only the exact opposite. Tonight I have slipped into the seventh circle of hell. My only refuge is my online journal, so…. Here is what was produced after I drank too much and ending up throwing things around my living room while fighting off the stun gun prongs from state police officers.

I am done. I have decided to stop trying. I walked onto the freeway hoping for the sweet, warm embrace of death but alas my wishes for fishes remain unfulfilled. I Possess a White-Hot Hatred for the police. They are breedhappy fleshsacks with the cumulative intelligence, common sense, and politeness of a fire hydrant that sprays shit instead of water and is perpetually broken. It is my belief that the “man” has been after me since I was a fetus. I was pulled over, in my boss’s truck, for turning left on a yellow light. Now normally, this would be overlooked. But instead, my employer decided that it would be a good idea to dispatch me off on a job with his license plates completely expired. When the officer approached the truck, he looked at me as if I had just gotten done beating an orphan to death with the bloody corpse of a dead baby seal. I tried to explain that the light was in fact not red but yellow and he responded by screaming, at the top of his lungs, “Burn the Infidels!!!” At which point I was issued not one, but two tickets. One for the genocide of the Jews in 1943, and one for the expired tabs. But fear not reader, according to the law of averages, everyone in the entire world other that me, must have had the best day of their lives to make up for the shit I have had to deal with today. This was just the icing on the cake of destitution that was August 19th, 2003. As much as I would like to enlighten your minds on the events leading up to a day that can only be referred to as “black Tuesday”, I fear that if I continue typing, my ferocious key strokes will pulverize the only keyboard I own. So tune in next time, depending on my mood, I might just tell you “the rest of the story”.

HSN
Recently I contracted some sort of cortex-melting brain disease and consequently suggested to myself, “hey self, it’s three in the morning… what the hell should we do? How about watch the home shopping network!” The product which they choose to promote on this particular night was the “Be-Dazzler”.

At last my dream has been realized! This was a hand held rivet gun that was used to attach shiny pieces of plastic to whatever article of clothing you saw fit. Who in the name of all that is Holy bought the "Be-Dazzler"?!?! Those "As Seen on TV" style ads have hocked a lot of vile shit onto the American public in the past but even the most abhorrent fever dream of Richard Simmons is nothing compared to the Be-Dazzler. The fucking product might as well have been called "The Clothes Ruiner" because that was all it accomplished. Got a perfectly good t-shirt? Run the Be-Dazzler over it a few times and you can cover it with thousands of faux-metal stars that make your bloated torso look like the underside of a patriotic turtle. Jean Jacket not white trash enough? Cover that bitch up good in multicolored plastic beads. Hey check this out, I spelled my fucking name out on the back with "gems" and now people think I'm rich! Yeah, I've got a whole bank vault full of stupidity because I won the fucking moron lottery. Thank you Be-Dazzler for saving my sex life!

I cannot even fathom heavily medicated grandmas buying into the "Be-Dazzler" concept and they're the most gullible demographic on the planet. Well, here’s to the slack jawed, 900 pound, swamp-water hillbillies that will relish the new found ability to make their wardrobe shiny. I’ve been thinking about this damn thing so long that my head feels like it’s about to explode, and I’d better lay down before it does. This place is dead anyways.

Damn the Man!
A pox on anyone associated with the seedy underbelly of money management. I have recently found out how much the “bank” from which I took out my student loan plans to bend me over and take full anal advantage of me. Did you know, that it is quite possible and even probable that you will end up paying more than twice the amount of money you barrowed? I did not. I took out a loan for $5,000, and then was sent a bill for $10,700.80. Apparently my depository of choice was a recently acquired venture of an organized crime family. So as would any concerned consumer, I went to the phone and dialed the brotherhood of darkness that is Comerica bank. I was promptly connected with a man sporting a thick Italian accent who proceeded to tell me that resistance is futile and if I struggle it will only make it harder. The conversation ended with him threatening to shoot me in the face with a staple gun until my eyeballs are so full of metal that they could be used as bizarre paperweights. Apparently, cement shoes just aren’t their style anymore. With this exciting abundance of new found melancholy, I found a dumpster in which I planned to curl up and die. But with an eleven thousand dollar debt, I cannot really afford funeral costs and have been driven to find a suitable method of payment. But not tonight, tonight has just been too long and I gotta jet, this place is dead anyways.

The trees are comming....
The daily grind. Or more accurately, the bi-weekly grind. That’s right, my boss has had me working the “Anna Nicole Smith” shift and it’s really beginning to rile me up. I realize that work is not always available, and cannot be fashioned out of a toothpick and some used chewing gum as in MacGyver, but I don’t think my landlord would accept that excuse as a rent payment. As it turns out, my bills don’t magically disappear when I don’t work as previously thought by my employer. It appears that the lucrative field of floor maintenance is headed for a recession, and I find myself contemplating a new profession. Yesterday I picked up some extra work putting in blue spruce trees at the home of a lovely gay couple. Now for those of you who are unfamiliar with the Picea pungens Engelm have yet to experience true happiness. The spruce can best be described as the bastard child of a porcupine and a crucifix, both being able to establish horror in the very soul of the unclean. I now fear the blue spruce. Every tree that we had looked at me as if to say, “I am the angel of death. The time of purification is at hand”. After six hours of cuddling with the devil’s hairbrush I was approximately 50,000 puncture wounds richer. Next time I think that landscaping is the answer to all of my woes, please remind me of Siegfried and Roy’s house of perpetual suffering…. We’ll I got things to do tomorrow and it’s time to turn in, so till next time, burn every spruce you see so that they will not unite and gorge vampire-like on the bloody nectar of unlimited power.

Rules For Living in the Apartment Above Me.
Thanks to the "Bonus Gravity" provided by the apartment complex, whoever moves in above me will weigh approximately nine times their normal weight. To remind me that you got the "Bonus Gravity" deal, please make sure to stomp your huge, ham-filled feet every step you take. If I cannot track your current location to within a centimeter, you aren't doing your job.

When not watching television, you should take it off the TV stand and face it, screen down, at the floor. Make sure to turn the volume up as loud as possible. If I cannot hear what lesson Kimmy Gibbler learned today on "Full House", I will petition for your eviction.

The best time for your idiot friends to come over is between 2:00 and 8:00 am or whenever I'm sleeping. Once you see my lights turn off, make sure your crazy pal Eddie is on his way over with that DVD of "The World's Largest Explosions - Caught on Film!"

All of your phones must have their ringer hooked up to a bass guitar amplifier. This way, when your phone rings for the 10,000th consecutive time without you picking it up, I will realize you must've accidentally tripped over and broke your 1500-pound skull on the coffee table and I should probably alert the proper authorities.

When shutting doors, pretend the Grim Reaper himself is chasing you throughout your house. Slam them as hard as possible to prevent him from sneaking into your place causing the hundreds of filthy plants you own to die.

Taking a shower at 3:00 am is perfectly acceptable. Since my apartment is lined with hundreds of different pipes which carry water to approximately 17 different countries, make sure to urge your friends to take showers at the same time.

Every day at 8:00 pm, you should drop something large and heavy such as:
A refrigerator
A wheelbarrow full of lead and concrete
A month's collection of all the Slim Jims and yahoo you consume
The entire world

If you don't have access to any of those items, then just trip and fall over. Try to at least be holding some cinder blocks while doing so.

When speaking to a friend who has come over to visit and toss bowling balls around your apartment, make sure to use a megaphone whenever laughing at something he says. This way I'll know your friend is a very funny and witty man (who cannot catch bowling balls).

The "bass" knob on your stereo stands for "Better Acoustic Sounding Songs" and should be cranked up as loud as possible to reflect quality. Try to listen only to rap, techno, and anything which features a kick drum the size of a delivery van. If the song has lyrics, you should turn the bass up so high that it sounds like the the singer is repeatedly chanting, "mwog bbblrrgm gwaf."

Don't ever leave your apartment. Ever. Ypsilanti air is known for its trace amounts of cyanide floating around in it, so it's safer for you to simply hibernate in there for the next nine years.

Much like in exciting video games, hitting surrounding objects with a hammer may reveal magic prizes hidden inside. Smack everything you can find with a hammer or large wooden board. Then smack the wooden board with a hammer because, who knows, it might be a trick.

When the power in the entire complex goes out at 10:00 PM and you notice everybody else's lights are off, be sure to shout, "DID THE POWER GO OFF?!?" out your window. There could be a family a few miles away that still has power, in which case you could go over to their house and borrow a cup of electricity so you may operate the jackhammer you've got going in your kitchen.

Paint the Town
So… the blind date. The only words in the human language that can strike both fear and excitement into the heart of the naïve, at the same time. I’ve had blind dates in the past where the young lass isn’t even in the ballpark of sanity. Not only that, but I feel like I’m the umpire at this disturbing sport. I’ve been doing this so long that I could be a tour guild in hell. This next excerpt from an actual past blind date I’ve been on.

Girl: I never told anyone this, but I got raped last summer.
Me: Strike ONE! (I know it’s a horrible thing, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but common, this is the first time we’ve ever hung out! What the hell am I supposed to do about it?)

Girl: So I’ve been in therapy for about five years now.
Me: Strike TWO! (At this point I’m wondering if I should ask her for a ride back to my car, but I worried she’ll offer to pick me up in her space ship, or ask me if I have change for a booger)

Girl: I’m so lucky to be with you….
Me: WHOA! Strike THREE! I’m out.

Fortunately for me, last night’s encounter was nothing more than painless fun (formerly: painful fun). To my surprise this meet lacked the soul-destroying pestilence of the last one. We drank; we danced and had a good time. I would say that the chances of us seeing more of one another are strong to quite strong. However, we will never go back to the karaoke bar from hell. I first realized that the temperature of the room was just under the boiling point of lead when I rose to get a drink and realized my jeans had melted to the wooden chair which was now on fire. But my attention was quickly abstracted by the "thug life" dancing with the wooly mammoth. Now I’m not one to rain on anyone’s parade, but as a card carrying member of the male species It was my duty to heckle him into sitting down, for no other reason than I was concerned for his safety. But my warnings we disregarded, and I was force to watch as the bearded lady engulfed him into her ham roles. Well, ya win some and ya lose some… more importantly, my pillow is calling my name, and this place is dead anyways.

Party Central
Big festivity last night. In fact, I’ve been partying like a rock star for almost 72 hours straight. Well, when I say rock star I actually mean backup rhythm guitarist. But until all my friends reach their 21st, I am forced to settle for mediocrity as far as the social engagements are concerned. Because my apartment was the axis on which the wheel of merriment spun, I was once again given the job of “not getting any tail”. A responsibility which I took on, and thrived at. I’m not sure if it was the fact that it was my apartment, or that my allure towards women is in short supply. Well, I’m not going to worry about it, because if the good Lord wanted me to be with a woman right now, He wouldn’t have let my mail order bride get stuck in customs. What a tragedy that was. The first time I talked to her, she was really excited to move here and escape the iron hand of communistic China. She was also very curious whether I owned a cat or not, she just wouldn’t let it go. So I was like, “Hey! Take it easy! If you’re hungry I’ll make you a sandwich!” Well…. pillow’s a callin my name, and I gotta be out like the contents of Kurt's stomach after one shotgunned beer. This place is dead anyways.

Not my problem.
Last night I awoke to something fairly unnerving. I had originally arisen from my slumber only to alleviate the pain of my swollen bladder, but when I returned to my bed my thoughts swayed to another subject. I found myself thinking about someone I used to be involved with, and furthermore, worrying about their well being. Now I know that this doesn’t sound like the rantings of a madman, or unnerving in the least. But, she is no longer my concern, my problem, or my responsibility. So when my obsessive compulsive disorder starts cutting into “sleepy” time, it’s a good idea to employ the powers of chemistry. Word to the wise: when attempting to chloroform yourself, do it lying down, otherwise you’ll wake up well rested, half slung over a metal chair, with a stomach ache that feels like a gunshot wound.

I found myself tonight thinking more and more about the individual at hand and came to the conclusion that it was in fact a test of my sanity. I found it mind numbingly interesting. Oh wait, did I say interesting? I ment the other thing....tedious. So with that, it’s getting late and I gotta be out like a crack addict in the suburbs, I got work tomorrow and I’m a workaholic….I’m addicted to workahol. That, and, this place is dead anyways.

Adventures In the Kitchen: Why I Should Not Be Allowed to Cook Anything
Let me cut to the chase: I don't know shit about cooking. I don't know shit about making meat, I don't know shit about choosing cheese, I don't know shit about baking bread, and I don't know shit about birthin' no babies. I don't know shit about shit. If the good Lord had wanted me to use that mysterious cube called "the oven," then he wouldn't pay Mexican people to make microwavable entrees which come frozen in a rectangular box for my pleasure. I lack the time, patience, skill, and intelligence to properly prepare any meal which requires a more elaborate procedure than "thawing," and I've proven this fact time and time again like in the following actual example:


CULINARY DISASTER Food I Attempted to Produce:

Blueberry pancakes

Items Used in Preparation of this Food: Pancake batter, milk, a pan, blueberries, eggs (maybe?), water, fire extinguisher, Ypsilanti fire department.

Description of Food Preparation Experience: I woke up really hungry one Tuesday morning in July, so I decided to go the the grocery store and buy pancake mix. I was feeling particularly adventurous and manly that morning because I had sex the night before, or at least masturbated while I thought about having sex, or maybe I was too lazy to masturbate so I instead thought about masturbating shortly before falling asleep on a pillow damp with my own drool. "What's a better way to say, 'hey world, I'm the boss, applesauce!' than by making my own breakfast?" I muttered to myself that morning. "After all, people have been making their own breakfasts since the invention of breakfast in 1793 by Sir Thomas Yorkshire Saint-dianne De La Quette!" Let me tell you, there's a few hundred thousand million billion things in life which could easily be considered "much better ideas" than me making breakfast, and some of those items include drunkenly driving a pickup truck through a crowded church, and attempting to murder the President. After picking up the "ingredients" from the "store," I looked at the back of the pancake mix box and "kind of" followed the directions on it. See, it is my belief that the instructions on the back of any food product consist of lies and half-truths which try to make us, the ignorant consumer, purchase things we don't really need such as cooking oil and milk so the manufacturer's buddies will get rich while we wallow in our own consumer naivety. When preparing a recipe, you can safely cut out half the ingredients and still essentially end up with the same meal. I mean, who the hell actually uses garlic powder? Garlic powder is one of those things that you buy, never open, and just keep in your spice rack until the holocaust. It's merely a kitchen decoration, like a bell or ornament on a Christmas tree... er, in the kitchen. The only spice you ever really need is salt, and lots of it. I guess "ketchup" is a vital spice as well, but that's only if you're some kind of fancy lad who lives in a solid gold house and drinks liquid platinum for dinner or something.

To make a long story boring, I kind of threw everything into a bowl, beat the contents with some kind of metal implement which happened to be casually laying around in one of my drawers, dumped all that crap into a pan, and prayed. My prayers fell on deaf ears that particular morning, as my dreams of a pancake-filled breakfast were soon beached upon the rocky shores of reality. I somehow inadvertently created a chemical compound which not only bonded to the pan itself, but was inexplicably able to fuse its molecules to the actual stove and permanently transform into a piece of the surrounding environment. In the process of its mutation into proto-pancake, giant plumes of burnt carbon were sent floating throughout my apartment and set off nearly every smoke alarm within a six-mile radius. I know the fire department actually came by because my fucking alarm wouldn't shut off no matter how hard I hit it with a broken chair leg, and I have strong suspicions that the National Guard was called in to contain my apartment complex and keep an eye on it to ensure the growing mass of titanium-hard faux pancake didn't start overtaking the apartment rental office. Once your breakfast conquers the rental office, it will have absorbed hundreds of names and addresses, thereby giving it an open invitation to infiltrate the surrounding neighborhood and eventually run for a seat in Congress under the promise of lower taxes and more flexible gun control laws.

Lesson Learned From This Disaster: The government should allow me to own a flamethrower so I can combat my own culinary disasters and therefore prevent them from spending millions of dollars sending out armed Comanche helicopters every time I drunkenly combine items in a bowl.

Well those are my words to the wise. But it's time to be getting on, and I gotta be out like a cat in china town....cause this place is dead anyways.

The Blue Men.... not as depressing as they sound.
Tonight I had the opportunity to see the Intel "Blue Men". Those guys from the pentium commercials that are blue-er than smurfs and have the facial expressions comparable to a carpet sample. The guys did amazing things with PVC pipe that I belive are still illegal in 48 states. Their preformance was exceptionally good, and they had better visuals than I've ever seen at a concert. In conclusion, great show, I give it a thumbs up. Now it's time for me to be out like R. Kelly at a junior high... this place is dead anyways.

There's the rub.
It has come to my attention that there are some changes in my approach towards women, that need to be made. I, as anyone would tell you, am nothing but a big teddy bear. And as it would seem, an all around nice guy. But wouldn't ya know, it turns out that women, despite their constant reassurance, don't want a nice guy. There's the rub. Women as a whole, seem to say one thing and want something completely different. I know what you're thinking, "Women?!?....Say one thing and mean another?!?....surly you jest". What they actually want usually includes at least two of the following: 1)Money 2)The charm of Robert Redford and 3)Money. But alas... although I forwarded the chain letter I was e-mailed, to everyone I know, I have yet to see a dime for it. So until my ship comes in, I'll have to rely on pure charm. But since my charm-O-meter is reading in the negatives, it's back to the drawing board. Well, I'm out like Anna Nicole in a spelling bee. This place is dead anyways.