Monday, September 29th, 2003
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Nine Inch Nails, KMFDM, and other bands the world over agree that the thing to do right now is to hit their fans with the angriest music they can muster. Well, Liquid Fluff is hopping on the bandwagon, so here's the angriest thing you've seen since Trent Reznor wrote that song with the phrase "fist fuck" back in the mid nineties.

Wednesday, September 24th, 2003
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Why didn't any of you guys tell me that Jim Varney died like three years ago? That's fucked up.

~~{Ode To Jim Varney}~~

Oh, Jim Varney,
I hardly knew ye,
As Ernest you were quite funny,
I hope you made a lot of money,
I don't remember you being in too many other movies,
Which kind of sucks, because most actors are known for a little more variety in their roles;
Oh well, at least you figured out that milk killed those trolls.

Tuesday, September 23rd, 2003
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Saturday, September 20th, 2003
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Contrary to popular opinion, my site is in fact not the awesomest site ever. That prestigious title goes to a site aptly named "The Awesomest Site Ever". Naturally, a site of this caliber deserves more than a simple text link, so I once again sacrificed a newborn lamb to Fho'Toshop, the terrible god of image manipulation, and in return I was blessed with a banner to add to my Links page. Clicking the aforementioned banner will result in you being ripped straight out of your boring ass world of Hot Pockets and internet bloggery, and carelessly dropped head first into a realm populated by a Quantum Mechaman, tigers with axes taped to their tails, and a million other hilarious horrors. Go now please, kthxdie.

Friday, September 19th, 2003
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I tend to make an effort to involve my personal life in my writing as little as possible, because I know the majority of you guys reading this are pricks. If I were to express even an ounce of kindness within these pages of pure literary hatred, you jackals would probably mistake it for weakness and devise a plan to kidnap me and have "teh buttsechs" with me in the back of a white van while some techno music was playing on the radio. Yeah, that's right. I'm on to your plan, you sick bastards. Here's a bit of friendly advice: don't ever get any ideas about sodomizing me, because I keep a live piranha in my ass at all times.

Anyway, I'm a natural born risk taker and regardless of the dangers involved I've decided to unveil the special image I lovingly crafted in Photoshop for my girlfriend's birthday today. Since artists like myself are never appreciated during their time, I figure I should explain my piece in detail, so as to make it understandable for the vast army of unrefined twits that populate the internet. Just follow the trail of bullet points and everything will be fine.

• First of all, make note of the fact that it says, "Happy Birthday!" in fat purple letters, because a birthday banner is just a bunch of shitty images layered over one another if the phrase "Happy Birthday" isn't in there somewhere. Now, I chose the color purple because it's her favorite color, and I went with that particular font because I'm hoping the fat letters subconsciously remind her of my penis, thereby granting me an opportunity for sex later this evening.

• As you may have already noticed, the background consists of a picture of sunflowers that I stole from some bitch's website with the assistance of Google. It's a little known fact, but women tend to like flowers, and since I'm too poor to buy my girlfriend real flowers I simply included a picture of some in her banner. It was either that or murder the local florist and steal a bouquet from their store. I think I made the right choice.

• Finally, into the foreground I placed an image of Ninja, also known as Grey Fox, from the smash hit Playstation game Metal Gear Solid. Now, I'm sure most of you reading this are commenting on what an unorthodox selection that image is for a female oriented birthday banner. Well, shut the fuck up.

That concludes our voyage into the mysterious work of art I call "Birthday Banner with Stolen Sunflowers and That Masochistic Ninja from Metal Gear Solid Who Gets Killed in the End". Happy birthday, Jennifer. The rest of you can go eat a bag of hell.

Thursday, September 18th, 2003
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Longtime fans of this belligerent site from hell might recall the short lived music page where I spent some time bitching about nu-metal bands. For reasons beyond my comprehension that section of the site never attained the popularity it deserved, possibly because you are all Linkin Park fans. If that is indeed the case, stop reading this at once, and go drown yourself in the nearest puddle of dog piss. Cat piss will work too. Thanks.

Regardless of the fact that I cut the music section from Liquid Fluff, I still feel compelled to chatter endlessly like a hyperactive teenage girl about "Thirteenth Step", the newest album from A Perfect Circle. Three words best sum up my feelings about said album: "Buy this shit".

I haven't really called an album brilliant since Nine Inch Nails released "The Fragile" back in '99, but "Thirteenth Step" is definitely worthy of the same honor. As you may or may not know, the latest incarnation of A Perfect Circle is made up of musical talent from a variety of well known and generally well respected bands like Tool, Marilyn Manson, and Smashing Pumpkins. And the majority of the songs on this album definitely showcase just how much was drawn from that pool of musical talent. Perhaps the only song that feels flimsy to me would be "The Nurse Who Loved Me", but it's not awful sounding, or anything. It just doesn't feel like it belongs here. That said, the rest of the album flows perfectly, with most of the songs starting out mellow, and building up into an abrasiveness that's almost closer to Tool than it is to APC's previous work. Maybe that's part of the beauty of this album; it's hard to categorize into a specific genre. One minute it's alternative, and the next it's one step away from full blown metal. Something that mixed up, with that kind of diverse manpower behind it seems like it should be a complete failure, but APC pulls it off without a hitch. Buy this shit.

I'm done playing "Rolling Stone critic" for today. Before I send you off to deal with whatever mundane bullshit you need to do, though, I demand that you check out this site. Hilarity can be found within it's greasy depths, just like how that one blonde chick found a dead girl within the greasy depths of a well in that movie "The Ring". Except Justin's site is funnier than dead girls. And maybe he won't crawl out of your T.V. and kill you in seven days. I'm not making any promises, though.

Wednesday, September 17th, 2003
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It's been less than 48 hours since I was required by law to return F-Zero GX to the local video store, and I can already feel the pains of withdrawal kicking in. It's hard for me to admit this openly, given how I typically hate the fuck out of racing games (with the previous notable exceptions of the Gran Turismo series and the original Mario Kart ), but F-Zero is a damn fine game. Fine enough to take to the prom and make out with in the boys' locker room, even if it is really your cousin in disguise. Nobody has to know. So yeah. Buy that shit and help Nintendo fill their pockets, you little peckers.

In other news, I stopped drawing realistic nipples on to pictures of naked Barbie dolls in Photoshop long enough to scrape together a banner for my newest affiliate: The Murphman Asspage. If you haven't gone to check it out yet, feel free to take this opportunity to lovingly stroke and poke John Candy's face with your mouse cursor. Maybe if you're lucky you'll be rewarded with more than just a massive erection.

Tuesday, September 16th, 2003
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As I was hanging a clock in the bathroom earlier today, I slipped off the toilet and hit my head on the sink. When I regained consciousness, I was blessed with two visions. The first: a device that could make time travel possible. Right now, I'm debating what I should call it; either the Flux Capacitor or the Chrono Dildo. Forget that, though, because the second vision was even better: the greatest work of fiction ever written... a tale of one man decending into the fiery depths of hell and settling shit with Satan once and for all. All I needed was a hero. And then it hit me. Who better than the late bad-ass country singer Johnny Cash? With the major players and story all in place, I immediately set to work crafting a fantastic tale on par with even the greatest anime fan fiction. But not Star Wars fan fiction... those fuckers are good. The problem is, I'm far too lazy to write the whole saga (which would be longer than the bible), so instead, I opted to write only the final episode of a fourteen part miniseries. I figure I could always get Stephen King to write the rest for me later.

Anyway, read it and weep. Or die.

And not that I need to justify anything to the people reading this, but no offense was intended to the fans and close acquaintances of Mr. Johnny Cash, nor any malice aimed at the man himself. He was a talented individual who will be missed. Brandon Vedas (a.k.a. "Ripper") who's primary talent was swallowing pills, will not be missed however. So fuck him, his fans, his friends, his family, and the horse they all rode in on. Thank you.

Monday, September 15th, 2003
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Well, I've learned a few things this weekend: F-Zero GX rules, George Clooney can't act his way out of a wet paper bag (aside from his voice work in the South Park movie), and I'm an angry drunk. You know, the kind you see on all those religious commercials where the guy comes home from the bar, bitches his wife out for not having his dinner ready and waiting, throws a lamp through a window, then pisses on the living room sofa. Typically, this sort of volatile situation is resolved when the man's son or daughter (who is constantly reminded that they are the direct result of a broken condom) wanders into the room and offers him a bible. Then a televangelist appears on screen and begs for money. Why spend your hard-earned cash on booze and whores for yourself when you can help your local church pay for much needed amenities, like... I don't know... let's say booze and whores? Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yeah, in a drunken rage late Saturday night I threw a stack of Uno cards through a plate glass window and proceeded to piss on the sofa in my apartment. I also think I might have called the Pope a "bitchface", but that part of the evening is a little hazy. But enough about that.

Recently I received an email from one of the many individuals on the internet who stumbled across my humble site while searching for either porn or that recipe for pot brownies they once saw in the Anarchist's Cookbook. Much to my surprise, the email wasn't yet another in the list of those who feel it necessary to lash out at me with phrases like "fuck you asshole" and "you're an asshole, fuck you". In fact, it was a simple request for me to link to the following site. Normally I tend to laugh in the face of people who ask me to do anything for them, because as previously mentioned, I'm an asshole. However, I went and checked out this particular site, and I laughed the same way that I laugh at the antics of Eric Cartman, and chicks who believe that guys actually give a shit about what they have to say. That is to say, I laughed a lot. At this site. Go now, bitches.

Saturday, September 13th, 2003
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Let's see here... It's approximately 2 a.m. on Saturday morning, and I'm currently sitting here wide awake in front of my girlfriend's "Hello Kitty" adorned PC. I'm doing my part to piss off the neighbors by blaring the fiendishly bad-ass musical stylings of Trent Reznor and his assembled Nine Inch Nails, while several shots of Captain Morgan and a handful of Peanut M&Ms spend some time getting acquainted deep within my churning stomach. How's that for information overload? All that's missing is the part where I make an ass out of myself by whining endlessly about the current absence of my "true love" and/or the even more pitiable absence of my favorite flavor of ice cream from the local grocery store. If I were compelled to toss a few sentences into this narrative about either of those subjects you'd have a bonafide LiveJournal entry sitting in front of you. So this is what I've become. How fucking terrific. I need to get laid.

Friday, September 12th, 2003
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(Sorry about not updating for the last month and a half. I forgot... FORGOT TO GIVE A FUCK!)

Yesterday, as I was coming out of Walmart with my weekend supply of caffeine-charged sugar water, I was verbally assaulted by some crazy old man waving Jesus oriented pamphlets around like a hobo who had just snagged himself a half-empty can of Pringles and wanted to show all the other hobos crowded around the dumpster that he would be the only one eating tonight. Being the tolerant guy that I am, I proceeded to load my groceries into the passenger seat of my car, all the while nodding along as he made note of my Wisconsin plates, and mentioned that he had a sister living in La Crosse. Eventually, he realized that my interest was fading (or perhaps he was disheartened by the harsh glare I aim at anyone who isn't a hot chick offering me sex) and he finished up his nonsensical speech before handing me one of those spiffy pamphlets which, much to my surprise, contained directions on how to avoid spending an eternity in Hell.

The phrase "DON'T GO TO HELL" was emblazoned in bold letters on the cover page. Had I been as quick-witted in real life as I am on the internet, I might have taken my Walmart receipt and scribbled "DON'T GO FUCK YOURSELF" on the back of it, then offered that precious bit of wisdom to him in return. I mean, if he's going to try and sell me on his crazy moon-man religion, it's only fair that he be willing to study the tenets of my personal beliefs, right? You know I'm right, honky.

Anyway, we finished up our little theological discussion, and just before leaving to pawn off his hip, Pro-Christianity themed baseball cap in exchange for money to buy booze, he smiled his toothless old man grin and said, "Have a nice day with Jesus". I actually thought that was kind of funny, considering that I had just spent the entire afternoon playing F-Zero GX on Gamecube with Jesus himself. And other than getting a little preachy every time he beat me in a race and I called him a cheating motherfucker, he was pretty cool to hang around with. He may suck at choosing friends and avoiding crucifixion, but that dude can pilot a fake hovercraft like nobody's business.

Breaking News: Holy frickin' crap! Johnny Cash and John Ritter both died today. For those of you who don't recognize those names, one has been a prominent figure in country music for decades, and the other spent the 70's living with a blonde airhead and a bitchy brunette. At least now that Wendy's guy has some friends to play Soul Calibur II with up there in celebrity heaven.