Accidently Like A Martyr

For the fella's (or ladies, whatever floats your boat);

I'm guessing Victoria's Secret, Spring catalog, 2009

I cannot think today as I have not been able to sleep for the past 5-6 days. I am starting to hallucinate, as pictured below:

Property of the great Tatsuya Ishida of the greatest webcomic, Sinfest.

Ambien works as well as turning off the news to feel like you were helping the fight against the Nazi's, unless you are Mel Gibson and/or his dad, in which case you probably still have your signed copy of Mein Kampf sitting on your bookshelf of other anti-Semitic literature. Assholes.

Anyway, my brain has now entered the "Quantum Entanglement" stage of Schrödinger's Cat Thought Experiment. My brain is neither alive nor dead, but it is arguing with me and it is winning. By the way, I use Wikipedia (Which I hate) for links as it is often the easiest way for those who do not understand some of the terminology I use to achieve a basic understanding of what the fuck I am talking about. Just a convenience, not an insult to anyone's intelligence. Except you, Michelle. (Yeah, you, the Michelle that "claims" she is my sister and actually from this planet, but I only do this because she is incredibly smarter than I am so I take the childish road. It's a moral victory.)

I would like to thank Cass and her friends for spreading the word about my little rambling sight here, as readership has increased quite a lot and that just inspires me to write more, which is something I need to do, so please comment what you love, hate, fear, offended by, or are aroused by (it's my grammar, I know. It's ok ladies, you don't gotta lie to kick it). Thank you to all the new readers and future new readers, and of course the old ones who never left.

PS - Cass...PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD when you go to this page, SIGN OUT. You are logged in as me and it makes me look like I am arguing with myself when you post comments. Which occasionally, I am, but really it's just the principle of the issue ;)

-B

Accidently like a Martyr.

Biohazard Warning

I am currently helping Cass write an essay, as some believe I have magical powers...which I do, but if I told you...I've already said to much. People, grab your tin-foil crazy hats and sit back and wait for the Ragnarok. Also, I am attempting to help clean the place up, as a fav0r and for this I fear for my life. I am trapped in a personal hell which could only be compared to the Devil himself rising from the depths of his dominion, take one look, and say "Fuck this, you're fucked dude" If I do not return, I beg of you, bury me on House-Cleaning-Heavenly-Hill cemetery Bar Grill (WET T-SHIRT FRIDAYS!) so that I may rest in peace with my other fellow fallen heroes who have attempted to clean the house. There is nothing anyone can do, so I ask you to pray for me, tell my story, and tell my Mom I love her & sorry about most of my teenage years.

-B
Because of the shame that I associate with vulnerability, I am numbing myself completely.

The Killer And The Star

As you may have noticed, I tend to write about a lot of different stuff. Usually, whatever is going through my mind at the moment I sit at the keyboard, those thoughts of madness are leaked from the bowels of Hell, ripped through your worst nightmares and splashed onto the screen like the hallway scene in The Shining. Often, it involves the Swedish Chef, my balls, crepes, and/or duct tape. However right now, I am listening to the solo album by Scooter Ward, the front man of the band Cold. His album, The Killer and the Star, is unlike anything released last year. It has a haunting feel, with tragic and haunting vocals/lyrics that just make it standout above anything else I have heard in the last two years, save for the two highly underrated albums by Sirens Sister. So, as my mandatory musical recommendation from time to time, I suggest you pick up The Killer and the Star, and immerse yourself into some great music.

Streetsuss Serenade

What A Shame

Don't ask, don't tell, commonly referred to as DADT, is stupid. No bother arguing this point, this will get you know where. The sad fact that we have the balls to ask our soldiers to die in wars they may or may not agree with but ask them to hide their true self's from their fellow soldiers is appalling to say the least. The funny (or not funny if you are one of the many personally affected by DADT) thing about DADT is that, speaking from a strictly psychological point of view, the policy has zero effect. Allow me to propose the following 2 scenarios as a demonstration, in the simplest way possible, as to how DADT does not work:

Scenario 1:

Soldier #1 (heterosexual)
Soldier #2 (Homosexual)

S# 1 - "Are you gay"
S# 2 - "Yes"

Combat - while being shot at from all angles, possibly about to die, neither is thinking of being tea-bagged by the other. They are thinking about working together to fucking survive.

Scenario 2:

Soldier #1 (heterosexual)
Soldier #2 (Homosexual)

S# 1 - "I will not ask you if you are gay as long as you don't tell me"
S# 2 - "I will not tell you, even though we both know you already think I am since you felt the urge to mention it in the first place"

Combat - while being shot at from all angles, possibly about to die, neither is thinking of being tea-bagged by the other. They are thinking about working together to fucking survive.

You see if you feel the urge to ask a fellow soldier if he is gay, the seed in your mind is already planted anyway, so you wouldn't need to ask. But the outcome is still the same; you both fight for not only your country but for your lives as well, and you trust each other. Neither of you is thinking about manberries and pork spears. DADT is nothing more than a useless and pathetic loophole for insecure Military personal and politicians to throw American heroes out on the streets because what they do in their personal lives makes them feel "icky". There are some stupid fucking rules in this country, but in my opinion, this one takes the cake. How dare we, as a country, insult and humiliate decorated war heroes who fought and died for our right to live our lives the way we choose while we simultaneously tell them they have no right to live their lives the way they choose. It's called "Freedom", look it up.

-B
What a shame, to judge a life that you can't change

...And Don't Call Me Shirley

Leslie Nielsen sadly passed away last night at the age of 84. His brand of comedy can never be duplicated, and his classic roles never outdone. He will be missed.

-B
Break up the concrete

Sometimes the Hardest Thing and the Right Thing Are the Same

"So tell me now if this ain't love then how do we get out?
'Cause I don't know

That's when she said I don't hate you boy
I just want to save you while there's still something left to save
That's when I told her I love you girl
But I'm not the answer for the questions that you still have"

-B

Even God Hates Glenn Beck

It is 4 am, and I cannot sleep. I fear that this is not medically nor psychiatrically related, but merely a case of Glenn Beck haunting my worst nightmares. Let's face it, he does not have the eyes of a sane human being, and that chalkboard haunts my dreams. Freddy Krueger would kill me, but I think he as well fears the chalkboard of madness drawn from the clawed fingers and melted mind of a true sociopath. I am going to try and sleep now. Maybe Freddy and I can take him if we work together, me with my murderous rage and him with his claws and one-liners. If we fail, I fear the Ragnarok shall occur. If this happens, I am sorry, please forgive me and do not kick my ass while we all burn in hell for eternity.

-B
Stand in the corner and scream with me

Tickle My Elmo

Somewhere, right at this very moment, two grown female parents are punching each other in the face; or the baby maker. Either way, this makes me happy. The Christmas tradition that has now become the economic clusterfuck of materialism and Touch-Me-Here dolls has reached staggering levels. It is because of you psychotic bitches that I cannot leave my house today. Not even for a cup of coffee, due to the fear of some crazy soccer mom assuming I have a hot new toy stashed in my truck and she is going to impale me with a stir straw to get it if she has to. I hate this day, but bitches are boxing each other out, and that does kind of help. Guys, just heal the hangover, watch some porn, eat leftovers and prepare for the heart attack you will receive when your next credit card bill arrives.

-B
Hush my love a train now, but it takes me away from you

Handyman

I think I gave my new soap dispenser a handjob yesterday. I'm not completely sure yet as to what transpired, but for some reason I feel like a whore. I bought a new soap dispenser, whom I would have named but he probably would have given me a fake name anyway, and filled it with liquid soap. I sort of have a thing with washing my hands; like all the fucking time.

Anyway, once I filled it with its joy juice, I had to pump it a few times to get the "soap" up the "tube" and out the "spout". This took far too many pumps than should have been necessary. So I began to pump harder and faster. This is where the "Dear Penthouse, I never thought it could happen to me" moment occurred.

As it finally blew its load of what I still pray was soap, I swear I heard a sigh of relief from somewhere in my apartment. My bathroom stank of sex and shame, and I washed off what I now doubt was really soap and more likely millions of tiny swimming dispensers. I then turned around and noticed a lit cigarette in its spout. I don't smoke, I live alone, and there are no cigarettes in my house. There was also what appeared to be cab fare on the counter.

So I did the only thing I could; I hung my head and did the walk of shame out into my living room, and I left my number on the counter. I doubt he'll call.

PS - This is the first, and hopefully the last time I will ever have to Google "Funny Handjob".

-B
I created the sound of madness

They Just Keep Getting Better

-B
Sing it for the world

Thanks For The Dysentery

So as everybody but me knows (I am seriously the last to know anything), Thursday is Thanksgiving. My family has decided to have everybody bring a dish, that way we can all share the workload and/or all get food poisoning. Now my parents, my sisters and my brother (ok, more specifically his wife) are good cooks. My job, as it was described to me in my message that would self-destruct in 5 seconds once I chose whether or not to accept the mission, was to bring something not made by my hands.

Now they probably didn't mean biscuits made by God or Gordon Ramsay or the Swedish Chef, but they sure as hell know they don't want to eat anything I attempt to concoct. Simply put, I cannot cook. Not even Top Ramen. And I don't want to go to Safeway and have to pull a 'Is-Wayne-Brady-Gonna-To-Have-Smack-A-Bitch' to some poor woman over a can of generic cranberries. So what am I going to bring? I have but one idea;

Fritos. Fuck yeah!

-B

The only thing that I still believe in is you, if you only knew