The Japanese say: "A con-man makes a great actor, but an actor makes a lousy con-man."

 I can now die happy, having (accidentally) seen Jeremy's penis.

- Watching a homeless gentleman having a very involved conversation about the 1977 Boston Celtics...with a parking meter.
- Seeing a very large person, who's been in the scene for awhile, getting on the bus dressed to the 9's with his Chinese grandma cart loaded with groceries.
- Evading the Muni Thought Police.
- Alien testicles. Yes.
- Confirmed critical hits!
- Hormell-brand canned beef mini-tamales in sauce.
- Physics
- Any and all the lines spoken by the Toecutter.

And, most importantly, our allmighty Lord of the Oceans, Slayer of Ships, Ruler of all Life, the Kraken. We should all take a moment to utter a short hymnal and offer a freshly slain virgin to the allmighty Kraken, so that his temper is sated for another year...

Howie said to post this or he'd shoot me in the dick...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dh6wtATgJRs

If given a decision, which would you choose:

A "dream deferred," or a "nightmare accepted?"

Dream Deferred: Something beautiful, perfect, that you knowingly shun, or;
Nightmare Accepted: Something abhorred, hated that you bring into your life?

Cats can be cute, bu sometimes they bug the shit out of me.

Always wanting food.
And oxygen.
And to take photos of you black-out drunk on th floor in front of the washer/dryer.
And meowing.

DNA 1/Jules 0, indeed.

I want to be a parkour.

...And I want a beef burrito...

Why does it not explode when thrown at small children?

Is god or the cat too lazy to sate my fecal-ordinance needs?

And what if the children have some sort of armour? Will the cat turd bombs penetrate said armour?

Fuck you, internet. Fuck you.

Once upon a time, in a magical place called Northern Mississippi, my father was born to a poor black family. Not "we can't afford to go to Raging Waters this summer, kids," but all 9 kids picking cotton to pay for food poor. Literally.

For whatever reason, my father was chosen as the runt of the litter. He wasn't the smallest or youngest, but it still ended up that way. They beat him. They degraded him. The stopped feeding him altogether, because they couldn't afford to have so many mouths to feed.

Until his grandmother Julia stepped in and said "no-one in my family is going to starve to death if I have anything to say about it." So, grandma Julia took my dad in, clothed him, fed him, and raised him until he graduated high school and went off into the Marines.

Hence why I was named Julian.

Life sucks. Eat waffles.

I think I might be PO'd/depressed enough to start writing again.

Might even get picked up by SLG. Yeah, it's that bad.

Fuck these stupid motherfuckers that think they can circumvent millions of years of evolution so they can be skinny as a rail and half as useful.

So youre not going to eat a little meat? Fine. But dont give me shit for utilizing human design. Those assholes will spend 90 fucking dollars on suppliments for the minerals theyre not getting. No shit. And exactly how healthy is injecting nutrients into a tofu block?

Know what? Go ahead and eat your fucking greens. Cuz you know what else is herbivorous? A sheep. And thats all you fucking are. A cowardly, stupid asshole who only feels safe around individuals of the same mindset. Have fun grazing and bleating and staring at the ground, motherfuckers.

The air tastes just like you, it's the smell of June
A sensory shock that jolts my spirit, I slowly swallow you
A spray of little droplets, a fragrance so refined
The spirit of nostalgia is passing me by

Opium and poison, jasmine and rose
Dream of ambrosia, all flavours glow, it's sensual, it's sensual, it's sensual, sensual

It all began so easy, with you on the floor
Against your willing flanks and knocking down your door
Until the day it crumbled, no game of win and lose
You told me nothing, you left me confused

Expelled like poison, a trim of the dose,
A limb disposed of, in a whim she chose,so rigorous, she's vigorous
she's vigorous, she's vigorous.

Heart of the hardest world, it's just the thought of you
All those variations, the air is full of you
The smell of summer rain, once more the scent of June
This sweet concentration, brings me back to you
Opium and poison
My taste of June, my taste of you
Inhale, inhale your trail
Opium and poison, jasmine and rose, dream of escape with me, all flavours go
It's sensual, it's sensual, it's sensual, it's sensual

What was ours will drift away, a simple breeze on a humid day

Oh, nothing lasts, nothing lasts, nothing lasts, forever

Why the fuck am I the sniper?

Im good at it apparently, good enough to get paid to do it, but it still makes me aggro. I CAN still be there, but come on, what the fuck?

Since when is it MY FUCKING ROLE IN LIFE? And I cant even just spot unless Im being completely aloof. Or inebriated. Or distracted, which happens a lot.

Moreover, if it was a deciding motivator in my being single in the first place, how can I really take myself seriously when I do it for fucking 8 hours yesterday? I hated myself for it when I got home, but I was fine while I was there.

Fucking headcrabs.

We need more old places.

Places that upkeep and tedium have forgotten, places tossed to the side and ignored, only to be visited every so often to remind us of the passage of time.

Offices, bedrooms, some entire houses. The sepia grip of antiquity bleeding through the sunlight, filtered by mouldy blinds. Mounds of yellowing paper, manila folders with blackened coffee stains. Cloth-bound books with silver letters and forgotten dogears. Photographs depicting family station wagons and prom dresses and Fourth of July barbeques. Cobwebs weighed down by age like flaccid bandages. Dust particles floating stilly in the air, frozen.

Brown carpets. Gout-ridden obese couches. Sixties art-deco. Faux wood paneling. The smell of sour coffee and long dead cigarettes, smeared with outdated newspapers and TV Guides.

I miss these places.

I want to drink until I cant feel feelings.

I think it would be appropriate. The knife Im about to drive into my eye will hurt a lot.

Cantilever.

Am I turning into that choade I despise? I think I am.

Perhaps for the good of humanity, I should be hurled into the sun and all records of my existence should be expunged; drawing reference to them being an infraction  punishable by death.

I only wish I could stop vomiting on my keyboard long enough that I can go shoot people and it wont be an issue.

- Deathguild
- The smell of fresh rain
- Good writing
- Seeing an insect writhing in a spiderweb
- People walking themselves out
- Stealth
- Stories
- Thatch's bike
- Waking up next to someone and having a nice conversation
- Free alcohol
- Well animated, well written anime with no stupid cute shit and an excellent soundtrack
- Orchestras
- Unagi Donburi
- Scaring the shit out of someone with one of your neglected open wounds
- Having +3d6 or higher sneak attack damage
- Nonsensical radio calls
- Destroying cardboard out of vengeance
- Making weapons out of cardboard in the name of vengeance
- Well-ventilated smoking rooms
- Science getting bitchslapped by magic
- Hard sexual intercourse to the point of exhaustion and severe physical trauma
- Kitties

Add-on 17-07-08:
- Piloted robots that kill shit with lots of screaming and badassery

    One thing about standing 8 hours a day applying stickers to products you will, in all probability, NEVER use in your lifetime, is that your mind will drift and you'll still somehow be able to do the job.
    Today I tagged actual sports equipment, as opposed to shoes or tracksuits and the like. Included in the order were two-person "Smashminton" sets.
    Oh, MY no.
    Not Badminton, Smashminton.
    There was a picture on the packaging of young boy of around 10 or so "smashing" into a - would you still call it a bird? Springing up onto his toes with utter conviction and poise, assaulting the "smash-bird" like an idiot trying to hammer a fly into the wall. He sprung in an endless grassy field, apparently by parents with a sick sense of humor who'd abandon a Smashminton-addicted autistic child to his fate in the bleak and vast wilderness.
    It also made one wonder about those who made these brightly-colored abominations of noble's sports. Apparently, the people of the fine town of Stoughton, MA had the honor of making the thrilling game of Smashminton.    But what of those people's lives? In those small Midwestern and apparently New England townships who's only means of gainful employment is to whore themselves out to the Franklin Sports Co., as there are no other options. There's a diner, and a general store, and the Sheriff's office, a Post Office two towns over, so your only choice is to pull a 9 to 5 at the ol' Smashminton factory.
    Do they go through the same typical small-town factory melodarma that befits small-town America?

*    *    *    *    *

    John O'Bradley arrived home in the early evening, at the normal time, so as not to attract attention, his large silhouette entombed in Carhart workclothes almost taking up the whole of the doorframe. The day had already been as off kilter as it could have been, he didn't feel like attracting attention. He fumbled with the lock a bit, as a result of hitting Patterson's Tavern on his way home, but John honestly didn't give a damn about his breath reeking of Coors for a State Trooper or for his family. He was greeted by the smell of cooking food and the kids in the next room watching the damn TV.
    Draping his brown denim work jacket on an old chair, he lurched into the kitchen.
    "Claire..." John said to his lovely wife of 17 years, a good housewife and acoustic guitarist with sound advice, a golden smile, and a religeous habit of watching Oprah Winfrey (in all of her Super-uteran glory) every day at 2:30pm with a half glass of cheap Merlot.
    "Oh, John," she replied as she moved to kiss the dour man on the cheek. "The chicken's in the stove. Almost done. The potatoes are already on the dinner table, could you get the salad out of the fridge for m-"
    "Claire, I...I was fired from the factory."
    Claire O'Bradley stopped dead. Wearliy, she turned toward her husband, "Bu-but, the fac- your job. They can't just..."
    Que violins.
    "Honey," He said. "They laid me off. Cutbacks. They, I don't know, they're replacing everything with-with computers. I can't believe this. Eleven years I gave myself up for this family. For Smashminton! Smashminton was my life!"
    Claire dropped the plates she was holding with an audible crash. "Hold me, John. Please, just HOLD me!"
    They embraced, weeping and sobbing. In lamentation of the loss of a career in Smashminton assembly. As John Jr., 16, and Danielle, 14, entered to see what the noise was, they were filled in on the day's monumentally unfortunate events and joined their beleagured parents in their grief-ridden exebition.
    Over the next six months, John found work in the next county at Wal Mart, but hardly ever broke even while he frequented the bar every day after work, and sometimes a beer or two before work, and eventually, sneaking a drink at work. His job stinks. He hates his 25-year-old boss. He's getting paid minimum wage. He bagan to blend in at the bar amongst the lost souls drowned in their whiskey and lonliness. He would come home and become more and more embittered and angry toward his family, lashing out verbally and almost physically.
    Claire had also started drinking more than usual, which made it difficult to find work, although the diner was glad to hire her as a waitress for 56 hours a week at $4.75 an hour. The stress of her ass turning into a pin cusion and her hands scalded with so much hot coffee was getting to her. Her strawberry blonde hair had lost it's shine, and she noticed grey hairs sneaking back from her hairline along her temple. Her only escape was two packs of cigarettes a day and the possibility of a few hours of unrestful sleep. She cried when she was alone in the employee washroom. It reeked of decades-old feces and lavender soap and mildew and she had nowhere else to cry.
    Junior decided to to escape witnessing his parents' downward spiral of fighting and alcohol abuse with his best friend, Kevin. They'd hang out at Kevin's house in his secluded room, more of small one room pre-fab house in the backyard, and play X-Box indefinitely or watch DVDs of slapstick teen comedys and all-too predictable recent horror movies. One day, while laughing aloud at a man having a sexual encounter with an apple pie, Kevin put his hand on Junior's thigh. Junior froze and looked around the room for an elusive answer, trying to avoid looing at Kevin. Then Kevin kissed him on the side of his lips. Junior didn't want to go back to his parents at each other's throats, so he stayed. He actually liked it. Eventually it became more intimate, after school, in the alley during lunch, and for an occaisonal 2nd base rondevous in the Boy's Room. By this time, it was easy for Kevin to convince John Jr to shoot up a little and zone out with him.
    Danielle found support in her friends. They were the good kind of friends who were all hugs and magazines and sleepovers. The kind who's parents "understood what you were going through" and offered her dinner, fresh pajamas, and the spare bed anytime she needed it. Such kind parents, those who give their children cars and freedom. The freedom to go wherever on the weekends and enough spending money to get there. Danielle would tag along, with no other options. One Friday night, the gang got wind of a frat party and, in all of their naiive gusto, showed up to have a good time. TOO good, in fact and the giddy, foolish, inebriated group left Danielle asleep in the frat house in the early morning. The Frat Boys assured them that it was okay, they'd help her get home the next day.  After all, College guys were adults, right?
    One day, John was fired from Wal Mart. He put down a half bottle of Bushmills on the way home and came home to John Jr. and some other boy in his bed. Furiously intoxicated, John Sr. went to the master bedroom to get his .38 special he had bought a few years before for self defense, went back to John Jr's room, and shot Kevin four times. The fifth shot missed and went out the window. He shot Junior with tears streaming down his face, the round hitting his son in the gut. John had only ever bought six bullets. He stood there, holding the hot sidearm and watching his naked son pointlessly clutching his stomache as the blood oozed out, crying and trying to mutter something incomprehensible.
    John O'Bradley Sr. walked out when John Jr stopped moving his lips and relaxed his grasp of the no-longer bleeding bullethole. The man went back into his room and swallowed a bottle of pain pills he had stolen from work. In a final act of hindsight, he wondered about Danielle.
    Danielle slit her wrists two months later. She had been hit by a car on her way from school, and was rushed to the hospital. The doctor told her that she would live, but that they could not save her baby. She never new that she was preagnant. Danielle only knew that she never wanted to have anything taken from her ever again.
    Claire O'Bradley still works at the diner to this day. She has neither the courage nor the will to take her own life.

*    *    *    *    *

    Wow. The absurdity of a recreational toy has suddenly turned to the anguish and eventual annihilation of a fictional Massachusetts family.

    I need a damn girlfriend.

Love is a cancerous invention proliferated by diseased schrotums.