March 29, 2007
I have a very real and growing concern that I am going to be adopted by Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Granted, I am hardly the human genetic equivalent of the Labradoodle that they seem to regularly target with their line-cutting, laser-guided adoption automaton. But they'll get around to the slightly less exotic pasty-white-guy type sooner or later. They're acquiring a standing children army faster than a thirteen-year-old girl from rural Alabama collects cigarette burns from her step grandpawpaw. I'm sure if anyone (say a bona fide social worker or whatever the equivalent is in a third-world nation... any entirely morally bankrupt government representative will do) ever calls bullshit on their adoption binge, Brad just tosses the cowboy hat he wore in Thelma and Louise on the table or Angela sprays the offender with one of her hundreds of vials of Billy Bob's blood to sweeten the deal.

Doesn't anybody make kids the ol' fashioned way anymore? Nuthin' fancy - just the basics. Enough to bring the romance. You know, you just take your standard bucket of castor oil, dentures and/or a pair of granny nylons, a Bedazzler, a shallow dish to catch the tears, quarter cup of pesto and an armful of German scat porn into the outhouse with your beloved.

Freaks.

March 15, 2007
This morning I desperately searched my phone for the voice recorder feature so I could capture the phrase "drop a gob of spit on it and smuggle it up their rumper" before it flew from mind. I didn't find the voice recorder, but I think the exercise cemented the gem in my short term memory. Of course, now I've forgotten the larger context; I have no idea what enterprise I intended to gingerly assuage with that bit of poetry.

It'll come to me.

March 14, 2007
I can't get enough Pinks lately. It's on the Speed Network. The. Speed. Network. It goes like this: Two corn-fed, inbred, marble-mouthed, triple-third-grade-attending, apoplectic-eyed, sweaty, smelly, Bush-loving, rat-felching, dirtbag douchebags race their cars. The 3-out-of-5 winner takes home the loser's car. I'm not sure what the hook is for me, since my understanding of locomotives goes something like this:

"Whee! Magic!"

Before the first race, both cars' stats are flashed onscreen to thumping Nü Metal. Sometimes a car will have a Holley carburetor. A Holley carburetor.

I knew a chick named Holley once.

First my fascination with gunporn kicks in, and now I'm watching muscle-bound shitheels win tricked out '82 Mustangs a quarter mile at a time. I should get hitched (again (again)) so I can start blackening some eyes and fattening some lips.

I think my townie is showing.

March 14, 2007
My aural sweet tooth is not deadening with age. And I'm getting up there. In age. Old. I don't mean, like, "ooff the back is tight this morning" type of old (although, more often than not, that is true), I mean fucking Staring at the Sea old. I don't consider myself especially vain (read: this means I spend a minimum of 3 hours gazing at mine reflection in the looking glass. That's daily, fruitcake.), but I noticed the other day when I squinted, you could land F-16's in the skingrooves my face made. Like, a lot of them. Like, a gaggle, or whatever the fuck you call a group of F-16's... Convocation? Flamboyance? Chattering? Skein? Poopload? Pretty sure it's a poopload.

Anyhow, I can't seem to get enough of the sweet poppy rock lately. Been listening a lot to The Feeling. They're kinda like Supertramp crossed with a metric ton of Splenda. I thrust their CD under my hand mixer and tucked the glassy shards into my inner ear.

Grampy likes.

March 13, 2007
I hate everybody but I love this guy.

March 7, 2007
Apple must've done something woefully, woefully wrong if I have absolutely no technolust for the iPhone. I mean, I should have enormous technowood in my technopants making gooey, gooey technomess. I can't actually use Applestuff for shit, but looking at their toys typically elicits, at the very minimum, a muffled "Mmmph" of approval. You know. Like when you're surfing the channels late, late night and you stumble upon Knight Rider.

Instead... iPhone? Feh.

It looks like a Creative Zen player to me. With a huge screen that is just waiting for pocket change, keys, my lamblet-eviscerating buck knife, etc. to scratch all to hizell. I mean, sure, you could throw a nubby neoprene cover on that thang, but that would be like wearing a rubber during anonymous sex with a transgendered Thai... person. Where's the fucking sexy in that?

It looks big. I likey candy bar phones because they remind me of candy bars. The phones R not so gud in mouth. But that thing looks honkin' big. Like I might need a holster for it. Like those douches running around packing a Blackberry like they're standing tall in chaps dead center in a dusty lane with tumbleweeds blowing by. Dicktards. The first and last time I strap a holster to my person is when I'm forced to because of the race wars.

Touchscreen! Touchscreen! Touchscreen! I would like to take your touchscreen, slather it with axle grease and make it my prison shower buddy. Me cornhole touchscreen long time. You know what's great about my fully-buttoned cell? I can make use of it when it's still in my pocket. Cause I can feel my way around it. Touchscreen means I have to unsheathe that asstardedly oversized Creative Zen-looking beast every time I want to stop|start|fast|forward|rewind my music (pipe-delimited for your pleasure). I don't want that.

It's like the Notorious D.U.G. said many moons ago... he was talking about his bitchin' Camaro at the time. He said, "The more moving parts, the more shit there is to break." Or something. Granted, a touchscreen may not qualify as a moving part, precisely. But you get my drift. I'll wait for the 7th generation iPhone that will be small enough to snort and store both my contacts safely in my nasal cavity. With nostril-flaring speed dial.

March 6, 2007
Sean's back! This, of course, warms the cockles of my cock... holes... (and other dirty nether bits).

Ok, so that's the textual version of the hero shot. All well and good. The sad news is the content seems to be primarily aimed dick'eads 'ho want to build the next Web 3.0 application or some shit. Ajax n' Rails n' Ruby n' whee lookit me I can make a douchey egbo logo with a soft pastelly color and subtle gradient.

Fuck all that noize. I'm in the market for sites with really good content about doodie. I'm talking premium grade shit about shit. Talk about doodie and make me laugh GOD DAMN YOU. That's all I ask. This is one of those rare occurences where Google am letting me down. Gently.

March 3, 2007
Who's the fuckin' assbo who decided to roll with a vertical orientation for all the new video game consoles? I mean, the Xbox 360, PS3, Wii... All stand tall. Tall and fuckin' retarded. Show me how many entertainment centers accommodate vertical components. There's a reason your cable box, dvr, dvd player, receiver, every console since the Atari 2600 all lie flat. I blame the PS2 since the 2nd generation PS2 could be made to stand on end. But of course no one actually did it. Me? I keep it real. Real horizontal.