Thursday, November 28th, 2002
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Having mentioned it several times in the past, it shouldn't come as news to you that I've been preparing to move in with my girlfriend. And tomorrow, the long awaited day will arrive. It's time for me to bid a fond farewell to the Liquid Fluff midwestern branch office, and begin my grand, possibly dangerous and snake-filled, journey to the land of Oklahoma. With that said, it is my not-so-sad duty to inform you that there won't be any updates for several days, primarily because the Liquid Fluff Super Computer will be stuffed haphazardly into a cardboard box. Fear not though, my devoted peasants, for regular updates should resume within a week, at most. That is, unless I end up buying that Gamecube I've been wanting, in which case, you can all kiss my black ass. Adios.

Tuesday, November 26th, 2002
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When he was still alive, my grandpa often used to say, "Give a fucking asshole access to the internet, and he'll continually annoy you, until you crack his skull open with a claw hammer". At the time, I just dismissed it as the ravings of a crazy old man, but guess what? My grandpa was right on the money with that clever adage of his. The poster child for idiocy, a certain fuckwit we shall refer to as "Wizza", has apparently felt the need to pester me once again, and I'm about ready to head on over to Builder's Square, so that I can take a serious look at their wide assortment of hammers, and hammer-related paraphernalia. My loyal fans might remember Wizza from his previous email, wherein he proclaimed that his page was a veritable factory of non-stop laugh production, and that my modest site was in fact, shit. However, he neglected to actually offer a link to his site at the time, so I was forced to wonder if he was indeed the funniest person in the universe, and if I would be better off ridding the world of myself by repeatedly slamming a car door on my genitals, until I finally collapsed and died.

Well, today that all changed. Wizza, for some reason I simply cannot fathom, decided to send me an email containing a link to his site, along with such absurd bullshit as, "The Site has never looked better!!!". So, being the curious individual that I am, I clicked the provided link, and prepared for a rollercoaster of laughs! Talk about disappointment. I feel I must say that it's pretty fucking hard to imagine anything more visually unappealing than this eyesore of a site. Now, I'm not an arrogant man. I know that my site isn't exactly the sexiest bitch on the internet, but at least I don't rely on a color scheme that causes epileptic seizures in children and the elderly. Aside from a horrid layout and sickening array of neon colors, his site also contains an unrelenting arsenal of pop-up advertisements, one of which was for a place called "Funny Pictures". And you know what the funny part was? About 99% of the pictures that assaulted my senses there were hentai related. Maybe I'm just frighteningly abnormal, but the only thought cruising through my brain upon seeing these images was, "Pictures of Japanese cartoon characters fucking each other are NOT funny".

Sadly, I couldn't spend very much time checking out Wizza's inept creation, mostly because I value my sanity, and I could actually feel it slipping away with each passing moment spent gazing upon "the main humor site". My advice to aspiring webmasters like our buddy Wizza would be something like: Don't waste your time with the internet. You'd be better off drowning yourself in the nearest toilet bowl. Oh, and stop emailing me, you retarded twits.

Monday, November 25th, 2002
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Save your breath. I'm well aware of the horrid lack of updates around here lately, and, surprisingly, I don't really care. You see, none of you have offered me any sexual favors or monetary donations in exchange for access to this haven of hard-hitting hilarity, so daily updates aren't exactly my highest priority. For some reason however, I still feel like it's my duty to keep this site afloat, so check back in the next couple days, when I should have finished my new movie review, and perhaps devised a way to bring about world peace. Don't get your hopes up, though.

Monday, November 18th, 2002
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Today I decided to dust away some of the cobwebs that have taken up residence around the Movies section of this wonderful site. So go ahead and read my brand new review. That means now, damn it.

Sunday, November 17th, 2002
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Ah, football season. The time of year when even the most moronic of my neanderthal coworkers drums up the effort necessary to utter the words, "Duh... Don't the Packers play today?". This query is almost always followed up by an excessive amount of drooling, and a few more stuttered syllables. Eventually though, the blank stare and half-hearted shrug I offer as an answer is enough to send them on their way, hopefully toward a painful death at the hands of machete-wielding, wheelchair-bound children. Now perhaps I'm merely some sort of turncoat, Koran-reading homosexual Communist pinko bastard, but I don't get this country's obsession with sports. Sure, football is fun to play, but how someone can park their sweaty ass on a couch and simply gaze vacantly at the TV for three hours, while other people play sports, is beyond my comprehension. Note to football fans: You're wasting your fucking time.

While you're commending Brett Favre on that excellent pass he just threw, (and staring longingly at his ass, no doubt) other, much more interesting things are taking place. Hell, watching the fucking paint dry on the walls of the "Stronghold of Boring Shit Where Nothing Interesting Ever Happens, EVER" would be a more rewarding experience for any rational human being. And don't go claiming that because the majority of this nation's citizens enjoy watching professional football, it must be normal. You fucking halfwits also watched the "Survivor" television series religiously, and scrambled to be the first one on your block to master the choreography to the "Macarena". God, you people make me sick. When are those Heaven's Gate cult aliens going to get here, so that they can take me away from this planet on their space travelling Comet of Love?

Instead of spending your Sunday in front of the TV, screaming like a Terret's-afflicted midget when "your team" (who you probably don't own) fumbles a pass, go perform an act of public service that would benefit all of mankind. I would personally suggest tying your entire family to yourself with a length of unbreakable chain, donning a pair of cement shoes, and going for an extended aquatic adventure, deep beneath the surface of your favorite lake, swimming pool, or septic tank. There's no room for you god damn, jersey-clad, face-painting football fanatics in my war-torn world of the future. Now go away.

Saturday, November 16th, 2002
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A certain ground-breaking revelation has been on my mind for most of the afternoon, and I would very much like to share it with you, my devoted readers. And by "readers", I of course mean "slaves". Anyway, here it is: People that use the internet are total intellectual fuck-ups. Every single one of them. How did I arrive at this conclusion, you ask? Well, here goes.

After work today, I proceeded to log into the online nerd bonanza/computer game we commonly refer to as EverQuest, which I've been known to do on occasion. Those occasions pretty much being any time I've exhausted my supply of illegal narcotics, and have lost all will to live. With the assistance of my brother and his in game avatar of ungodly geeknitude, I went about my business killing imaginary Ogre Princesses for both "ph4t l00t" and "h3ll4 3xp". Not too long after our polygonal massacre had commenced though, we accidentally incurred the wrath of some local fuckwit, who must have sworn a sacred blood oath upon the grave of his father to exact an infinite amount of revenge upon us. I make this assumption because he simply would not pull the broomstick out of his ass and continue on with his business. Oh, no. That would be far too easy, and dare I say, fucking normal. Rather, he insisted on crying, attempted to resort to laughably horrible puns, and pretty much made it impossible for us to resume killing monsters, due to his use of cheating tactics. So I quit playing.

Now, I know that the three of you who possess the reading skills necessary to delve this deep into my rambling tale probably don't give a shit, and that's perfectly understandable. Deep down, I really don't give a shit either. What I found funny about the whole situation though, was just how often internet geeks rely on acronyms to convey thought. Granted, I've been guilty of the occasional "Lol", but some people really can't seem to communicate unless it's through a string of letters crammed together in a nonsensical fashion. During my brief conversation with the aforementioned asshole, I saw the following acronyms. As a side note, the number in paranthesis represents the amount of times he used each "phrase".

Lol - (4)
Lmao - (6 or 7)
ROFLMAO - (3)
SMFCB - (1, and I still have no fucking clue what this means.)
SEEHOWSTUPIDTHISLOOKS?IAMABRAINDEADFUCKTARD! - (1)

Well, ok. He didn't actually use that last one, but I imagine that's what would have been next, had I continued subjecting myself to his mindless babble. Of course, being the benevolent soul that I am, I suggested that perhaps this whole dispute would be best settled if he would merely shut the fuck up and go strangle himself with his mouse cord. Surprisingly, he didn't find this to be an acceptable solution, and in fact, seemed to grow even more irate. It was pretty much at this point that I gave up. This was obviously a hopeless struggle, and unless I could somehow devise a way to travel through time and space, thereby allowing me to punch this whiny bitch in his esophagus, nothing would end this stalemate. So I said something earth-shatteringly witty, before finally departing from the world of EverQuest for the evening. End of story.

Yes, this was perhaps my most inane, pointless update since that one way back when I posted the Michael Jackson "Moonwalker" animation file, but you know what? Too fucking bad. Maybe I'll bless you with a work of pure literary excellence tomorrow. Or maybe I'll simply get drunk, eat a large bag of Skittles, and collapse from some kind of heart defect, or something. Who knows.

Friday, November 15th, 2002
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For several months, my girlfriend and I have been planning on me moving in with her. The problem with our seemingly simple goal is the fact that she and I currently reside in two seperate states, with many miles of space between us. Even that wasn't so difficult to overcome, primarily because I hate the entire region of the United States that I currently live in, and was more than willing to leave it all behind. No, my dear, mildly retarded readers, the dilemma that kept our plans in question was whether or not the folks in charge of her apartment would allow me to live there. You see, they have all kinds of crazy prerequisites for their prospective tenants, mostly to keep people like myself from ever setting foot on the property, unless I was (A) wearing a nametag, and (B) getting ready to clean the pool.

Anyway, my reputation as the "Supreme Overlord of Internet Sarcasm" must have preceded me, because I fit... let's see here... none of the requirements, but they're allowing me to live there, nonetheless. Naturally, I'm in a pretty damn good mood because of this, and therefore will not be writing one of those seethingly pissy, awesomely hateful articles that I'm so well known for. But, just so that you sissies don't think I'm going soft, I'll leave you with this pearl of wisdom: "8 Mile is a movie for stupid suburban white kids, who are trying desperately to be urban black kids". Discuss.

Thursday, November 14th, 2002
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Where to begin...

First off, yes, it's true. I suck. I am a lazy son of a bitch. I'm a talentless hack and a worthless human being. I'm horribly sorry for the lack of updates, and have already chopped the thumb off of my right hand, so as to punish myself accordingly. Anyway, I swear upon the slightly defiled grave of Pope Vladimir XXI of Uruguay, that I'll post some more articles and junk soon. Seriously.

Next up, I recently received an email from yet another one of my three loyal readers. John asked me a simple, yet valid question: do I get paid for this site? Well, John, that's a difficult question for me to field. I could go ahead and say all kinds of spiritually uplifting, highly untrue shit like, "Writing for Liquid Fluff, and being able to share my thoughts and feelings about the idiocy of my fellow human beings is it's own reward, and until Donald Trump decides to mail me a big, fat check for all of my hard work, it will have to be my only reward. And I know you're reading this site, Trump, you greedy son of a bitch, so don't act like you don't know me. I still remember that night when I tried to say 'Hi' to you in Atlantic City, and you had your fucking security goons rough me up, before tossing me into a nearby gutter. I was so embarassed. Also, I think one of those guys grabbed my ass". Or, I could simply cut to the chase, and give you the short answer: "No". Thanks for asking though, John. Oh, and here, I made you this:

(Now all of your internet friends will know that Jasie thinks you're one hip cat, dude!)

Lastly, due in no small part to my ability to manipulate HTML like Play Doh, the site has undergone another minor change. Namely, I've added a links section, which is where I'll showcase my assortment of, you guessed it, links to other sites. Unfortunately, this means that the previous Liquid Fluff "Ambassador of Links", Donkey Kong, will no longer be acting as your guide to the internet, when he's not busy threatening to kidnap your beloved white women. However, he threatened to kidnap my white woman if I didn't leave him on the payroll, so I've put him to work in the Liquid Fluff "Office of Obscurity". There he shall mine for coal, go on sorority panty raids, or do whatever the hell it is that the rest of my fictional staff does, when they're not coercing me into shooting at homeless people with the discarded MP5 I found behind the local Toys 'R' Us.

Monday, November 4th, 2002
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It's not often that we here at Liquid Fluff receive feedback from the unwashed masses, and even less often that it's negative. I think that's primarily because most of you people know that I'm clinically insane, and will totally track you down, come to your house, and kidnap your family dog if properly instigated. In spite of that, one useless internet drone who calls himself "Wizza", which I'm pretty sure is the British slang term for "homosexual fuckwit", decided to make me aware of his opinion of my site. Never let it be said that I don't respond to email from my fans, so here goes:

"You call that site funny?"

Why yes, as a matter of fact, I've referred to this site, and my writing in general, as awesomely fucking hilarious on numerous occasions. But anyone who actually reads my stuff would know that by now.

"I dont. and not many more do either..."

Perhaps in some kind of far out, half-baked alternate dimension where Hitler was a Jewish bagel vendor, the fact that you're unamused by my site might actually upset me. Here in our reality though, I think it's fucking hilarious. And unless you're Barbara Walters, I doubt you've had a sit down chat session with the "many more" who read this site, so I wouldn't waste my time speaking for others if I were you, which thankfully I'm not.

"Get more funnier sites,"

It would be so easy to verbally castrate this sorry sack of shit and his pathetic grasp of the English language. I could, for example, say something like: whatever train of thought he had cruising down the rickety rails of his mind must have smacked into a wall of pure stupidity at mid-sentence. But of course I'm too nice to stoop to those kind of insults.

"my site is one of the main humor sites,"

It's kind of "humorous" that someone who runs one of "the main humor sites" neglected to send me a link, so that I could perhaps take notes, and hopefully someday transform Liquid Fluff from the metaphoric snaggle-toothed girl in the back of the bus that it is now, into the imbecilic blond prom queen who's been fucked more times than she's been stumped by questions on a Trigonometry quiz. Unfortunately, "the main humor site" that this Wizza operates, must be far too classy for peasant trash like me. Or maybe he's just too fucking stupid to post links. Either one.

"and even running off geocities."

Well, hot damn. There's only like three million other assholes on Geocities. That's not something to brag about.

"Im linked with all major humorsites to."

And I'm sure every single one of these "all major humorsites" is just tickled pink to have you providing them with so many new readers. It obviously takes people of only the highest caliber to decipher and laugh along with your brand of humor, and what webmaster wouldn't want folks like that flocking to their site? By the way, from what I can tell, your brand of humor must be the literary equivalent of having a vasectomy performed on oneself by a drunken butcher wielding a plastic spork, without the usage of any form of anaesthetic.

"Mark."

Well thanks for the email, Mark! Although, next time you decide to write to me in a feeble attempt to insult my site, please make it a bit more challenging for me to showcase your idiocy to the rest of the world. This was far too easy. Just like your mother, if what that nasty limerick scrawled on the wall in the local Burger King bathroom says is true.

Keep those opinions coming, people!

Friday, November 1st, 2002
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It may or may not come as a surprise to you, but the internet is a cesspool of retardation. A raging vortex of utter stupidity, laced with perversion, and topped off with an assortment of anime fanfiction so awful, that it'll make you feel as if you're being skull fucked by a jackhammer while you're reading it. That's if you possess the coveted ability of literacy, or any cognitive skills for that matter, which most internet junkies tend to lack these days. There was a time when the only people who used the internet were nerds who generally had the mental capacity required to form a coherent sentence, and could get two computers to dial up together so that they and a buddy could play co-op Doom. Alas, those days are long since behind us, and every John Q. Fucktard and Susie Q. Dipshit not only uses the internet, but also clutters it up with their little internet diaries and websites that chronicle the exploits of their Boston Terrier, whom they've dubbed "Mr. Snugglesworth". Somebody fucking kill me. No, wait. Kill them instead. Yeah, that's a better idea.

So now if you're one of these people, and you most likely are, you're probably muttering something assinine like, "Well, you're taking up precious bandwidth just to bitch about things that have no impact on my life, or the life of Crunch 'n' Munch, my adorable little Golden Retriever. I just bought him a new sweater, and it's so cute!", to which I must reply with the following: FUCK YOU. Do you know why my site is so vastly superior to about 95% of the rest of the internet? Because it's not about my life, or my dog, or how much I love my girlfriend, or my favorite song/musician/sexual position/sports team. It's about brutal, heart-wrenching, mind-numbing sarcasm! It's loaded with seething wit so razor sharp that it'll make you and your dog cry if you're exposed to it for too long! Besides, my dog died several years ago, when a combat situation over in Cambodia turned sour. I'll miss you, Sergeant Sprinkles. You handled an M16 like a "real American hero".

And now I've completely forgotten the point of this whole tirade. Oh yeah, all of you who have websites that suck ass, please go die. You know who you are. Also, there won't be an article today, because I don't think any of you deserve one. Stuff that in your pipe and smoke it, Cheech.