Today I had to drop off two packages at my parents house. They're out of town so naturally, I have to do all the work they would normally do themselves. Bullshit, but I digress. I drop off the packages and am heading out of the neighborhood. It must have been 10 years ago, but some asshole in the neighborhood council decided our subdivision needed a stop light at the entrance. This stop light has been nothing short of the bane of my existence since it was put up. You see, I'm what some would call an "aggressive" driver. All that really means is I'm not afraid to shoot into a gap of oncoming traffic, where most people would just wait out the traffic. I don't do waiting. So where I used to have no troubles merging with traffic, I'm now obligated by law to wait until that fucking miserable light says it's appropriate for me to turn. In the wilder days of my youth (ahem) the light showing red didn't necessarily stop me from turning. Now, as I've matured, the fear of getting a ticket outweighs the benefits gained in running the light. So, the ultimate joy now is to be nearing the light and find another car already waiting there, thus allowing you to glom on to their wait and potentially hit the light just as you get to it. Now that you understand all that, let me tell you what happened today. Like I said, I was leaving my parents house and I was nearing the dreaded light. Ahead I saw two cars already waiting. My pulse quickened and I mashed my foot on the accelerator. The light turned green and with dizzying pleasure I realized I would hit the light at exactly the right time. That is until the second car didn't move. In a panic I slammed on the brakes. There was a woman driving the car and she didn't seem to be paying attention. I hit the horn as sweat started popping out on my face. She looked into her rear view mirror, I saw her eyes, and there was nothing there. She was a mindless drone and I knew I was doomed. Her car inched forward as I pushed on my steering wheel wishing her to move faster. The light turned yellow, she turned right, and my ass was sore from the rough fucking it just received. To say I was seething with hate would be a dramatic understatement. I was extremely close to jumping out of my car, running into the closest lawn, and pulling up any plants I saw. This fucking woman really did me in and I'm convinced she was so stupid as to not even know she had done anything wrong. Well done bitch, you've challked up another reason why I hate society at large. The ignorance is limitless, fortunately, I think my hate may be limitless as well.
7.18.2003
The What
I say The What.
The What, The What, The What.
And Then The What.
The What. The What, The What, The What.
I say The What.
The What, The What, The What.
And Then The What.
The What. The What, The What, The What.
7.17.2003
Someone had the genius idea of opening up a Chic-fil-a near where I live. I'm an enormous fan of Chic-fil-a because it's fucking delicious! Anyway, the joint opened on July 11, everyday since then from opening til closing the place is fucking packed. I mean PACKED! The drive thru actual wraps completely around the building and they have to have cops outside making sure no gets their ass beat and their sandwhich stolen. Inside its a fucking madhouse. There are never any available tables. People who already have their food are waiting near the exits like packdogs, looking for a table that appears almost ready to leave. Every register is stacked with customers. Some lines even go out the door.
All this I don't mind. I love Chic-fil-a so much that I even associate with these people who I would normally stear way clear of because I hate them. What pisses me off is the people working there. It's not really the individual employees, they're nice and helpful, it's the manager and what he makes the employees do. Firstly, these people are stacked behind the registries like cord-wood. There's seriously, 2-3 staff persons per register. All this is certainly due to the enormous demand the resteraunt is experiencing now but it makes what the manager does that much worse. This asshole stands behind the employees and gets himself all worked up, I mean he's pissing on his fucking haunches, and every 5 minutes or so he starts yelling, "How are my employees feeling? How are my employees feeling?" You can immediately see the agony in these poor people's faces as the have to reply, "We're feeling happy! H-A-P-P-Y! Yeah!" It's disgusting. The whole resteraunt gets quiet, I know everyone is thinking, "what the fuck was that? Jesus..." At least, that's what I'm thinking. I consider this a personal affront to my privacy. I'm already forced to beat my way to the front of a line, kill the weakest family I see for their table, and post up to anyone trying to horn in on my territory, I don't need some asshole making people scream at me while I'm trying to eek out what little joy resides in my sandwhich. It's not exactly like the manager is hitting his employees with a whip, but it's very, very close.
All this I don't mind. I love Chic-fil-a so much that I even associate with these people who I would normally stear way clear of because I hate them. What pisses me off is the people working there. It's not really the individual employees, they're nice and helpful, it's the manager and what he makes the employees do. Firstly, these people are stacked behind the registries like cord-wood. There's seriously, 2-3 staff persons per register. All this is certainly due to the enormous demand the resteraunt is experiencing now but it makes what the manager does that much worse. This asshole stands behind the employees and gets himself all worked up, I mean he's pissing on his fucking haunches, and every 5 minutes or so he starts yelling, "How are my employees feeling? How are my employees feeling?" You can immediately see the agony in these poor people's faces as the have to reply, "We're feeling happy! H-A-P-P-Y! Yeah!" It's disgusting. The whole resteraunt gets quiet, I know everyone is thinking, "what the fuck was that? Jesus..." At least, that's what I'm thinking. I consider this a personal affront to my privacy. I'm already forced to beat my way to the front of a line, kill the weakest family I see for their table, and post up to anyone trying to horn in on my territory, I don't need some asshole making people scream at me while I'm trying to eek out what little joy resides in my sandwhich. It's not exactly like the manager is hitting his employees with a whip, but it's very, very close.
Work is bullshit. I'd rather be a mindless Eloi than a fucking automaton. If there were a fucking island where I could go and just be an Eloi...man oh man I'd have it made. All the girls with the titties and the loin cloths, booya! But alas, I remain a pawn of the machine, a victim in this fucked up conspiracy called life. I'd like to blame Mary Lou Retton for all this, but I suppose the government is actually more responsible.
7.16.2003
I'm fucking sick and tired of valets. When I pull up to an establishment that provides a valet I expect that mother fucker to open my and my guest's doors. Just because I drive a fucking Bronco doesn't mean I'm so classless that I don't deserve my door opened for me. When I tip the mother fucker my money should be going towards the comfort I was provided. Anymore, it seems like the fucking valet feels he's obligated to the tip I give him. Fuck You valet! You're not worth a shit! Open my God damn door for me, park my fucking car, then you deserve five bones! I guarantee you the fucking valet is thinking, "this guy's my age, he drives a Bronco, I don't need to open the door for him...." That shit just won't stand. I subjugate my ass every day to assholes who think they're better than me because they're older than me, this fucking valet can do his fucking job and open my car door even if it makes him feel like he's beneath me. Shit, if he doesn't like it get another god damn job!
If you don't live in Texas, Houston in particular, then you probably didn't see much news about Hurricane Cunt that slapped the Texas coastline around a bit yesterday. Well, the news footage they showed was stunning. Every station had to have an asshole down on the coast leaning into the wind and shouting, "Look at this! Look at the way I'm leaning into this! This is incredible! I can't believe there are people out in this! This is crazy!" Of course, they looked like fucking idiots. There were people standing on their porches, hardly affected by the wind at all, staring at these assholes. I hate the fucking news media. They're all idiots. I don't mind the lies so much, hell, I'm a big fan of lying. I hate that their lies are so transparent, put some fucking effort into it you degenerates! God damn!
7.15.2003
I get so fucking bored sometimes. All god damn day I sit at work waiting for 5 o'clock to roll around so I can get the fuck out of there. As soon as I get home I have all of about 2 things to do: scratch my worthless cat and re-download all of todays emails. I'm glad that I can now add writing to whatever assholes stumbles upon this useless site as an afterwork acitvity. I hate Mary Lou Retton. I wrote a great email about her the other day, I'd post it but I'm slightly afraid of legal retribution. God knows no one reads this drivel but the moment I post something slanderous about Mary Lou...BAM...lawsuit.
Well, I guess the next revision of this fucking site is up. While the "blog" format of the site certainly makes it easier for me to update, I'm still not certain this is the best format. Scouring days of content without an index seems shitty. Obviously, it's not a problem now since there virtually zero content. Fuck it.
~0930, Saturday, April 5, 2003
Royal St. James Hotel, New Orleans, Louisiana
I awoke in a cold sweat. It wouldn't have been a cold sweat save for the unreasonably chilly temperature set on the hotel thermostat. Under normal circumstances I would have been bathed in a warm lather of liquor infused wetness. But why did I awake? Was it the rhythmic, devastatingly loud snoring of Big Steve? Perhaps it was the bright neon of the Hustler Cabaret Gentleman's Club sign which skillfully angled its way through the crease in the curtains to rest on my eyes. Was it the pounding drum beat in my brain that hinted of massive dehydration? Or was it something more sinister? Something awful; something so terrible only my dead insides could pronounce?
I tried to remember what happened the night before. The more I thought about it, the more nebulous my memories became. I knew I had been following around a 60 year old oil rig worker for a time. “If you ever need a place to stay in New Orleans you got one”, he had told me. Then I had been with a group of Marquette students. Was there a fat girl involved? Had there been a proposition to eat ass? Hmmm. Then everything becomes a jumble. I don't know when I left the bar, I don't even know what bar I was at. I do know that I was utterly lost. I think I wandered about the streets of New Orleans for more than an hour. My elbows were raw; I must have fallen or stumbled into a building. I remember asking directions from a lot of people, scared people. Were they scared of me? Did the security guard I asked have a hand on his night stick? The directions they gave me were all the same: nonsense. Why didn't I have the good god-damn sense to know that the Royal St. Charles hotel was on the corner of Royal and St. Charles? I'll tell you why, liquor most foul.
None of the night’s twisted memories helped my situation. I turned away from blurred memories to scour my insides for the answers I sought. My insides were quick to respond. My stomach churned, my mouth began to water, and in no uncertain terms I knew what was coming. I must get to the lavatory! The sheets tightened around my legs as I tried to escape. Hurry! My legs came free. I stood slowly. How much time did I have? 5 seconds? 10 seconds? Could I get to the growler or did I need to find a trashcan? Big Steve woke up, "What are you doing boy?" "It's go time", I responded with a point towards the bathroom. I found my way into the bathroom, and flicked on the switch. Fuck me! The lights were tantamount to the sun resting on my naked cornea. Off with the lights. Damn my eyes. My knees thundered to the ground. I rested my face inches above the shitter. The timing was impeccable. I opened my word hole, my throat convulsed, my stomach screamed. My lips quivered, I thought, just like the rim of my bungus during a shit. Indeed, my face hole was taking a shit. Thick, lasagna like worms of puke jettisoned out of my face. My stomach wanted more than my mouth and he took it as my nose began to fill with terrible vomit. Like a dry African river bed just as the rainy season begins, my nose filled up and then spilled out vomit. I began to cry. There was honor in these tears though, these tears were a defensive response from my eyes to keep vomit from pouring out of them as well. As the seconds wore on I began to realize what my stomach intended. My body was the Iraq to my stomach's United States. The United States of vomit. In reverse, I was deep throating a vomit tube. Would the vomit tap me on the shoulder before climax? Probably not, this was more like a vomit-deep-throat-rape. Suddenly I heard a roar, a vacummous roar. God? Was it my time? I would have relished death at that moment. My insides were dead, why not my outsides? Sweet, cold death. Unfortunately, the Grim Reaper did not come for me, he merely laughed and laughed and laughed. The roar I heard was the toilet flushing itself. The vomit had filled the toilet to the flushing point and saved me the trouble. It was a good thing too, in the dark I wouldn't have been able to see how close the vomit was coming to overflow.
Apparently, the toilet flushing itself was a signal to my stomach to halt its onslaught; that or my stomach had emptied itself in a single devastating blow. The last of the vomit rolled off my tongue which hung out of my mouth. Like a man who has been underwater a few seconds too long I gasped desperately for breath. One of those deep, throaty gasps that sound so funny. I rested my sweating brow on the rim of the shitter, my forehead lay right where the cleft of my ass would normally sit. I closed my running eyes and listened to the vomit drip out of my nose. My throat burned fiercely as the effects of the stomach acid were first felt. Did I taste copper in my mouth? Jesus. Blood? I waited for the nausea to pass and the delicious yet brief euphoric feeling to wash over my brain. I was waiting in vain. I needed the euphoric respite, but my body had other things in store. I have two major holes on my body, and only one had spoken, the other hole had plans for me yet. I felt familiar stirrings in my bowels. At that moment, with my head resting on the rim of the toilet, I knew fear and the tears began to flow once again.
Could my vomit-racked body sustain a second beating, an anal beating?
...Stories for another time....
Royal St. James Hotel, New Orleans, Louisiana
I awoke in a cold sweat. It wouldn't have been a cold sweat save for the unreasonably chilly temperature set on the hotel thermostat. Under normal circumstances I would have been bathed in a warm lather of liquor infused wetness. But why did I awake? Was it the rhythmic, devastatingly loud snoring of Big Steve? Perhaps it was the bright neon of the Hustler Cabaret Gentleman's Club sign which skillfully angled its way through the crease in the curtains to rest on my eyes. Was it the pounding drum beat in my brain that hinted of massive dehydration? Or was it something more sinister? Something awful; something so terrible only my dead insides could pronounce?
I tried to remember what happened the night before. The more I thought about it, the more nebulous my memories became. I knew I had been following around a 60 year old oil rig worker for a time. “If you ever need a place to stay in New Orleans you got one”, he had told me. Then I had been with a group of Marquette students. Was there a fat girl involved? Had there been a proposition to eat ass? Hmmm. Then everything becomes a jumble. I don't know when I left the bar, I don't even know what bar I was at. I do know that I was utterly lost. I think I wandered about the streets of New Orleans for more than an hour. My elbows were raw; I must have fallen or stumbled into a building. I remember asking directions from a lot of people, scared people. Were they scared of me? Did the security guard I asked have a hand on his night stick? The directions they gave me were all the same: nonsense. Why didn't I have the good god-damn sense to know that the Royal St. Charles hotel was on the corner of Royal and St. Charles? I'll tell you why, liquor most foul.
None of the night’s twisted memories helped my situation. I turned away from blurred memories to scour my insides for the answers I sought. My insides were quick to respond. My stomach churned, my mouth began to water, and in no uncertain terms I knew what was coming. I must get to the lavatory! The sheets tightened around my legs as I tried to escape. Hurry! My legs came free. I stood slowly. How much time did I have? 5 seconds? 10 seconds? Could I get to the growler or did I need to find a trashcan? Big Steve woke up, "What are you doing boy?" "It's go time", I responded with a point towards the bathroom. I found my way into the bathroom, and flicked on the switch. Fuck me! The lights were tantamount to the sun resting on my naked cornea. Off with the lights. Damn my eyes. My knees thundered to the ground. I rested my face inches above the shitter. The timing was impeccable. I opened my word hole, my throat convulsed, my stomach screamed. My lips quivered, I thought, just like the rim of my bungus during a shit. Indeed, my face hole was taking a shit. Thick, lasagna like worms of puke jettisoned out of my face. My stomach wanted more than my mouth and he took it as my nose began to fill with terrible vomit. Like a dry African river bed just as the rainy season begins, my nose filled up and then spilled out vomit. I began to cry. There was honor in these tears though, these tears were a defensive response from my eyes to keep vomit from pouring out of them as well. As the seconds wore on I began to realize what my stomach intended. My body was the Iraq to my stomach's United States. The United States of vomit. In reverse, I was deep throating a vomit tube. Would the vomit tap me on the shoulder before climax? Probably not, this was more like a vomit-deep-throat-rape. Suddenly I heard a roar, a vacummous roar. God? Was it my time? I would have relished death at that moment. My insides were dead, why not my outsides? Sweet, cold death. Unfortunately, the Grim Reaper did not come for me, he merely laughed and laughed and laughed. The roar I heard was the toilet flushing itself. The vomit had filled the toilet to the flushing point and saved me the trouble. It was a good thing too, in the dark I wouldn't have been able to see how close the vomit was coming to overflow.
Apparently, the toilet flushing itself was a signal to my stomach to halt its onslaught; that or my stomach had emptied itself in a single devastating blow. The last of the vomit rolled off my tongue which hung out of my mouth. Like a man who has been underwater a few seconds too long I gasped desperately for breath. One of those deep, throaty gasps that sound so funny. I rested my sweating brow on the rim of the shitter, my forehead lay right where the cleft of my ass would normally sit. I closed my running eyes and listened to the vomit drip out of my nose. My throat burned fiercely as the effects of the stomach acid were first felt. Did I taste copper in my mouth? Jesus. Blood? I waited for the nausea to pass and the delicious yet brief euphoric feeling to wash over my brain. I was waiting in vain. I needed the euphoric respite, but my body had other things in store. I have two major holes on my body, and only one had spoken, the other hole had plans for me yet. I felt familiar stirrings in my bowels. At that moment, with my head resting on the rim of the toilet, I knew fear and the tears began to flow once again.
Could my vomit-racked body sustain a second beating, an anal beating?
...Stories for another time....
