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6/26/05: So I woke up this morning wondering what kind of masochistic act to subject myself to today. I decided a leisurely 16 mile stroll along three of Shenandoah's nicest mountains was what I needed. So, up at 8 and out the door at 9; the route I'd made up for myself was basically a Limberlost/Robertson Mt/Old Rag Mt/worst loop hike ever loop. I arrived at Shenandoah NP around 11 and stopped at "Skyland" (read: rich-people-take-your-obnoxious-kids-here-land) to possibly find some Gatorade, energy gel, protein bars...you know, stuff that you would actually need in the mountains. The nice Polish girl at the desk pointed me in the direction of a dingy stairwell that led down to an eerily unvisited hallway, which contained therein, one single vending machine at which I had my gleeful choice of Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Pepsi One, Pepsi Two, Pepsi Owns the World, and something Tropicana. I chose the juice, all 5% that it turned out to be. I also got some Skittles, which I planned to fling at rowdy, obnoxious children hiking with their parents. Back up the stairs I go, walking through the pavillion restaurant that is so very unnecessary and ambiguously funded, most likely by some of my tax-money (of which I pay none). I get some interesting looks, as if they were thinking, "What's this guy doing? He looks like he's planning to go outside or something." Anyhow, the trailhead is only a confusing two miles away, and after performing a few signature U-turns I'm there. Immediately after the usual superfluous twenty-five wasted minutes of extra preparation and checking ten times, every three or four minutes, to see that I had remembered to place my car keys in the backpack. There they are. Okay, yes, still there. Still there? Yes. Great. So I begin, the Limberlost trail is handicap-accessible, which was a feature I'd readily make use of on my return trip. More strange looks from a group of older men who watch in confusion as I gallop along at a grossly inappropriate pace, using my hiking poles in a sick, strange way resemblant of a demented skier. The first mountain, Robertson, hasn't been maintained since the Lord formed it and so I discovered that only an exhaustive bushwhack would make passage possible. I arrive at the top, with a colony of mosquito bites and a bushel of poison ivy protruding from my wool socks that I had washed so deliberately the previous day. A nice cool breeze blows over the rocky summit, and along with it a handful of gnats conveniently lodge themselves in my eyeballs. Regardless, I continue, down the overgrown trail, periodically stepping through nettles and getting thorns stuck in places I don't even want to mention. Finally, my irrational paranoia that all plants are either poison ivy or nettles overcomes me and I launch into a full sprint down the mountain while I fitfully repeat, "I hate this mountain! I hate this mountain!" Good thing I was all alone--or so I thought.

As I neared the base of the bottom, still in an impassioned fit of fury, I am startled by a large bear/deer/chicken (successive misconceptions of what I was perceiving). The strange creature flutters out from a patch of indistinguishable brush (most likely poison ivy...or nettles) and begins running at me! It's a freakin' turkey! And now it's chasing me. I let out a characteristically emasculated yelp and take off in an equally shameful manner in the opposite direction, back up the mountain. About fifty feet later, and it's still chasing me. How the tables have turned on the traditional notions of Thanksgiving species-roles. At last, the beast has decided to forgo its conquest of hiker-meat, and I start back down the trail. As I arrive at the trail junction, only a few hundred feet from the trying incident, I notice another group of hikers approaching from a neighboring trail. In all my confusion and bemusement, in an absolute demonstration of social bravado, I announce to this group of ten strangers that I was just chased off of Robertson mountain by a turkey. They laugh, not suprisingly, and point to my hiking poles, "why didn't you use those?" Well, right, I guess I could have, instead of fleeing like a feeble gazelle from a pride of voracious lions. I suppose it was the PETA side of me, petitioning me to leave the bird of prey unharmed--or that I'm a big wuss. Either way, in my embarassment, I took off running, once again--now toward Old Rag.

Just when I think I'm safe, on a wide-open fire road, another predator surfaces in my field of view. A hungry-looking, curiously unfazed black bear, being watched and photographed by another group further afield. They point at the bear, point at me, and motion with their hands for me to come over. Great, they're in cahoots, and they want to feed me to the bear. Cautious as I am, approaching the bear did not seem like a winning prospect, at least not at this point: I observed the bear more from where I was. The crowd walked off, and so I began after them. Suprisingly, the bear barely made a move, except for a few adorable shakes of his head as he tried to fend off the same gnats that I'd been accosted by on Robertson. Good, I thought, we both hate gnats. As I catch up to the bear-gazing group, they give me the crucial update: "There's an even bigger one up the trail!" Wonderful, I thought, and decided to stay close to the group, in case they required my bear wrestling expertise to protect them from an imminent mauling. What's this? Now each one of the group is posing in front of the bear, and it's a cub. In pure astonishment, I stood away, far away, from where they were assembling, as I looked on in anticipation of a ferocious mother bear who would come lumbering through the forest, knocking over every tree in her way, and descend on the group, taking them back individually to be fed to her young. I only snapped a quick shot of the bear, and took off. Needless to say, by the time I began the climb of the third mountain, I was utterly exhausted. Standing by idly, I watched kindergardeners, wheelchair bound senior citizens, mannekins, all passing me at a fervent pace.

At this point, my backpack became a real problem. Allow me to diverge so that I can divulge some information about this infamous backpack. What it is, actually, is a few square feet of mesh and plastic sewn together cleverly to mimmic the appearance of a real backpack. In actuality, it's not a backpack, it's a huge physics experiment that crams more mass into a given space than was previously thought to be achieved by black-hole forming neutron stars. Even after I'd spent my gallon store of water, the backpack weighed more, than when I first donned it. How is this possible? Not to mention the unbearable discomfort, which I guess, is what I should expect when I buy a discount backpack that's two sizes too small, and not for my gender. Yeah, I'm cheap. But how can I spend $70 on a camelbak? It's basically a taut grocerry bag made of unnecessarily tough fabric that sports a comfortably fitting strap, perfectly adhering to your spine. Nothing more. If I could sew, which I can't, I'd sew one of these things for myself, for sure.

I continue up the mountain, taking gasps of air and expelling most of the water weight that my body had accumulated throughout my entire life. Nevertheless, I struggle and pass several groups en route to the top. Upon reaching the top victoriously, I do the first thing that makes sense: I lie down as near to the edge as I can and hope for a strong breeze to wisk me away, back to the comfort of my car, or the comfort of an ambulance stretcher--either way. After some very audible groaning, I writhe myself into an upright position and assess the damage. A terrible backache, and so I adjust the backpack, and I adjust, and adjust. Hike down to the shelter, take a seat, and make more adjustments. I run into a group that I'd seen at the top and they politely yield the way to my gravitationally-propelled bumbling. Sooner than I thought, I'm back at the bottom, and my long and exciting trek along a completely empty fire road begins. For most of the 8 miles back to the car, I was completely alone, save for the collective population of Virginia black bears that had all congregated in the woods to absolutely scare the crap out of me the entire way back. Or at least I suspected that they were the ones accountable for the rambunctious rustling coming from the dense forest brush that my vision could not penetrate. After several more torturous miles, the rustling subsided and I stopped to lay down in the dirt in the middle of this expansive horse trail, right there where I stood, probably in some heap of ancient dilapidated pile of horse shit--but I didn't honestly care, and for the first time all day since the pittance of oatmeal I consumed for breakfast, I had "lunch." I'm not sure what it is about having your heart rate elevated for uninterruptedly long periods of time, compounded with ceaseless sweating and a feeling that your stomach is completely in knots that is sufficient to take away an individual's appetite. So I delve into my bag of skittles, clumsily dropping each individual piece as they escape from my trembling hands, then subsequently picking them up and consuming them. The five second rule totally applies in the woods. Then a bite of my sandwich; it tastes like chalk to me at this point. As soon as I muster up enough energy to begin stumbling back down the trail, I run into another human! Yes! The first one in almost three hours. Perhaps he can summon a horse or emergency vehicle to come retrieve me from my pathetic state. Rather, it was a trail maintainer from the Center Hiking Club in DC. I try to feign fortitude, but I can't help asking him how far it was back to Skyline (where I was parked). "A long ways away. What the hell did you come all the way out here for?" I stopped, and thought, and realized I was in a conundrum. I didn't know, so I just told him I don't like the crowded parking lot at Old Rag. Some misunderstandings arise that I don't feel obligated to clear up with the man, as he was elderly, and I wanted to communicate my respect for his hard work. I told him how Robertson Mt had been engulfed by an impenetrable canopy of poison ivy, and he replied, "That's not my trail." Good response, I thought, soon I'd be back at the car.

I set off on the ride home, desparately searching through a dwindling supply of tolerable music, finally coming upon a burned copy of Calexjco. Yes! The cd that had spent a certain period of time wedged beneath my car seat. It had looked like someone had taken a pair of golf shoes and tried to scrawl their name on the underside of the cd with them. Radial spikes emanated from the hole, resulting in a cd that sounded like a derranged mix-tape, skipping from track 1 to track 14 back to 1, and so on. Oh well, I was appreciative of those couple of riffs that still could be heard, and so I drove all the way back to Northern Virginia, at which point I switched the radio dial to HOT JAMS! Yes, finally, the same ten ghetto beats that had dominated my world all week long were once again in earshot. Driving on route 66--which on Saturday nights doubles as the race track for the Drunken Daytona 500--is a lesson in enmity for all other human life. I watched as all these anxious, hormonal teens and twenty-somethings zipped by at speeds in excess of 90 mph. In front of me, one of these God-awful idiots swerved across six lanes only to nearly cause a certainly lethal high-speed collision with a car in an already occupied lane. They slam on the brakes, and retire to a slower pace for a time, hopefully to get a grasp on their astonishing stupidity. Five minutes later, another similarily suave ensemble, consisting of a guy driving with a blonde twenty-something, nearly swerves into the same innocent car that had almost been implicated in the previous accident! What terrible luck, I thought. I try to annex some justice for this poor older couple by quickly passing and cutting off the offending vehicle, while glaring at the driver. What's with these idiots? If I could just say one thing to them it would be this: YOU ALL SUCK. YOU CAN NOT DRIVE AGGRESSIVELY. YOUR TACTFULNESS BEHIND A STEERING WHEEL IS THAT OF A COLOBUS MONKEY!

The Colobus Monkey: Great parent, notoriously poor driver.

I really support the Metro, but not in the capacity in which it's currently operating. See, since it parallels route 66, I'd rather see it used as a traffic control device. Police could man massive turrets which would line the tops of the Metro cars from where they would periodically launch strategic missile strikes on unsuspecting stupid drivers below (where the strategy would be to KILL EVERYONE). So, you overprivileged, snobby, rich club-going teens and twenty-somethings in your MR2s and your C320s, get off your cell-phones, off the road, donate your car to me, and terminate yourselves before you cause another obnoxious collision. Anyhow, off to the store I go, to buy up all the Advil and turkey sandwiches I can find.

Ye olde shoe shoppe

1/31/05: During this latest snow-storm, I decided to try my luck at suicide once again, and wastefully left a warm, cozy house to venture out onto slick, snow-covered by-ways in search of nothing more pointless than a pair of shoes. My journey culminated in a visit to the mall, and some of the shoe stores therein. Upon entering this particular store, I was regaled with the melodious sounds of popular music as it reverberated throughout the store. Infused with poignant lyrics pertaining to the weapons cache of the singer, the amount of 'hoes' with which he is acquainted, and an informal tutorial on starting your own drug-importation business. As I approached the counter, several helpful, friendly store associates approached me, asking how they could assist me in choosing the appropriate shoe. This action, of course, was carried out in a manner befitting Wheaton Plaza, which consisted of three adolescent hoodlums who stared at me gawkingly from across the room, meanwhile discussing the latest trends in drugs, gangs, and various other facets of teenage pop culture (in PG county). Awkwardly I ambled toward this assemblage of ghetto riffraff, stopped, checked to see if my wallet was still there, and absent-mindedly asked them if they had anything in a size 10. What I should have asked them was if they had anything in a small ziploc bag, hypodermic needle, or percolating in their in-store meth lab. The answer came, a resolute and certain "uhh, I 'oknow." Sweet, I'm in luck--I thought. Or at least I believed I was until I began to peruse the myriad of choices I would encounter in their selection of shoes. Hmm, let's see: basketball shoes, street shoes, running shoes and "cross-training" shoes which mainly consisted of shoes that were a cross between street shoes and running shoes. I guess this combination makes sense if you're training to be a DRUG DEALER. Just the thought of inquiring about snow-boots in this uber-hip head shop masquerading as a shoe-store produced visions of Nissan hatchbacks, high-water sweat pants, the Beach Boys and my dad riding around on his Honda Goldwing blasting Boney-M as he cruises non-chalantly through the streets of downtown DC. If I were to even inquire about shoes that would not be implemental in my becoming a "dunk man" or escaping imminent incarceration, I would immediately become the epitome of whiteness--far whiter still than the snow in which I imagined trampling through with my non-available snow-boots, unless I planned on brandishing a pair of chiseled, deep black suede Timberlands. Since prolonging my stay, I would likely be impinging on some impending drug deal, ([email protected]) I decided to make my way towards the exit. I don't know how fitting the name "Foot Action" was to this particular establishment, perhaps the name "Legal Action" or "Pimp Action" might be more appropriate.

Thank you, for coming to my website!

12/09/03: If you've found this website through a link in my girlfriend's profile please take a minute to stop and thank her for casting you off on the most entertaining, intellectual voyage you may possibly ever encounter--unless you're a psychology major (in which case, intellectual = having to do with being smart). But seriously, we consider eachother's positions very carefully. This means that we end up agreeing on a lot of things, like, that I'm an asshole. This will be made evident to you by the content of this webpage. She also likes the bunny at the bottom of the next entry. In fact, it was her idea to put it there. If you didn't find this website through my girlfriend, you're technically not allowed to be here--so leave.

I'm kidding! Please don't. But if you haven't had the chance to get to know her, you're probably passing up an opportunity to get know one of the warmest, kindest people I've ever met. So, send her a nice message...the hate mail, you can just address to me.

Merry Holidays!

12/06/03: Well, it s that time of the year again. Time to go holiday shopping, put up a holiday tree, and have winter festivals. Perhaps you celebrate Xmas, where the X stands for cross, the traditional birthday of the cross. Crossmas is a holiday for anyone who enjoys things crossed. Whether it s cross-dressing or cross-burning, Crossmas has something for everyone. Crossmas (or Xmas), gives people the opportunity to enjoy the season by spending unhealthy amounts of money on their pets and sending their kids to their local alternative-lifestyle Santa. There s also that other holiday Christmas, which some rogue citizens of this country still defiantly choose to celebrate. Christmas is not the same as Xmas. Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ, not Jesus X or Jesus Cross. Fortunately, in this enlightened country we re living in, we have heroes like John Newdow and (a waste of) Time magazine who are thoughtful enough to evoke the spirit of Crossmas by combating the right-wing crusaders in this country who will still insensitively utter the words G*d and Jesus Chr*st in public (for shame!). Every politically correct, socially conscious citizen recognizes the inscrutable right of their fellow American to be absolved of ever hearing or seeing the words G*d or Chr*st anywhere, ever. Along with the flu, AIDS, and liberalism, there is a new and debilitating disease sweeping the nation and it s called Christophobia. Symptoms include joining the ACLU (Antiamerican Christ Loathers United), forcing the school of your ex-girlfriend s child to rewrite the Pledge of Allegiance, and starring in a Hollywood movie about Xmas. Christophobes feel guilty about all the terrible things ever done by God, Christ, the three wise men, and all of the animals from Noah s Ark. So to make things right, any mention of these individuals must be done clandestinely, only in the privacy of one s own home, only in the presence of two consenting adults. Christophobes argue the only reason that government offices set aside December 25th as a a holiday, and not some other day, is because people are compelled to stay home on December 25th in large numbers for some reason, which likely has to do with magnetic fields in the Earth and very little with Christmas (but a whole lot to do with Crossmas).
            As far as public schools are concerned, around December, concerts held at the schools are in commemoration of a) winter b) frost fairies or c) the basketball team. These winter festivals are appropriately held around the time of the year when most of the Northern Hemisphere is actually in a seasonal phase called autumn and coincidentally during a time when many religious deviants are insensitively celebrating Christmas. The school is forbidden from discussing Christ, or why the hell they d be having a winter festival in the first place, when they don t have fall or spring festivals. Anyhow, if the teachers spent all their time filling our students heads with dangerous religious facts, then when would they get time to teach the children to use condoms and decide on their sexual orientation? Nevertheless, winter-type songs can be sung if they are sensitive to all religions, countries, and blood types. We all know what destructive influences The Messiah, Bethlehem, and mangers can have on our children. It s obvious that Holy Night or Silent Night are quite innocuous as they are simply odes to living a nocturnal lifestyle. Songs like We Wish You a Merry Christmas , however, are insensitive because they do not pay homage to Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, lesbians, and toasters. If you re not familiar with the song, the actual, unabridged title is We Wish You a Merry Christmas Unless You re Not a Christian in Which Case You Can Just Go to Hell . Clearly, a Merry Christmas can not be wished upon someone who does not celebrate it, doing so will inevitably cause them to explode. Wishing a Jewish child Merry Christmas will undoubtedly cause him to grow up and become Hitler.
            I m sorry, but the last time I checked, this country was founded by Christians. The pilgrims didn t come here for a multicultural appreciation feast. They were giving thanks, thanks to God. Did the nation of Islam create the United States? Did Benjamin Franklin propose that every meeting he held with the founding fathers of this country begin with a prayer to Allah? Christopher Columbus actually wasn t looking to Mohammed for guidance on his voyage across the Atlatnic, and correct me if I m wrong, but I don t recall any Omar or Mustafa making his way here on the Mayflower. This isn t about whether Christianity is better or worse than any other religion, it s about heritage. This country was founded on Christian principles and whether you like it or not, you live here and you should respect the history, not change it to suit your own needs. Most non-Christians respect this, and that s what America is all about. The real Christophobes are usually just sad and lonely single men like Michael Newdow (who claims his wife date-raped him) and vociferous liberal feminists like California Sen. Barbara Boxer (who wanted to sell the skin of aborted children to cosmetic surgeons). I d like to ask them how many Muslim countries they think give a crap about offending Christian or Jewish citizens by making Ramadan a national holiday? They don t even have freedom of religion. Our country does. Our constitution guarantees separation of Church and State, not separation of State and its sanity.
            If our government actually had to compete with other governments in America, it would be getting its ass kicked, I promise. Retail stores know better. When was the last time they held a Hannukah Clearance Sale down at the Costco? When have any stores refused to display nativity scenes? Never. They know they d lose business. Shoppers have a choice. We re more or less stuck with our government pandering to every new-age cause. I say, if you re wiccan, and you want the government to celebrate the consumation of Gaia, then go and discover your own country, or better yet, just take over France. Then you can use rock currency, build your ten wiccan commandments monument, and still be a democracy. All I ask for is the same.

Updates

10/31/03: Here's my scary Halloween update. There's really nothing scary about it, except for the fact that there are websites devoted to counting ceiling tiles which get more hits than this page. Since it's Halloween, I've decided to do the scariest thing I could image: physics homework. Updates won't be so frequent now, since most of my jokes I'll just share with my friends (of which I have none). However, I really have little to gripe about, as far as life is concerned.

More complaining

7/25/03: I am in the worst mood ever. The apartment is filthy, the air temperature is at least that of any African country, and we have nothing to eat but more importantly: nothing to drink. The good news is I still had a car this morning, though I wish those thugs would come back sometime. The management installed two floodlights which would surely have deterred the thieves seeing as how the attempted break-in took place in BROAD DAYLIGHT. No worries, because I ve been thinking and I ve come up with some alternate methods for proteceting my car. For instance, I could stock pile the car with watermelon and dew rags, or anything else with intrinsic value in this ghetto neighborhood, and then sit by from my second story window with a grenade launcher prepared to blow any unsuspecting soul to a Hell far worse than the one in which they re living now. My dad recommended I buy a Club, which would work except I d need to get pretty close to the perpetrator in order to get a clean hit, and getting that close to anyone who lives around here almost guarantees you ll contract one or more undiagnosable ghetto diseases. Symptoms seem to include chronic staring, inability to drive less than three times as fast as the posted speed limit, losing a basic command of the english language, and confusing the posessions of others with your own. Other good news: earlier today I spotted two other white people who have likewise made the mistake of moving in here, who, if they re still breathing, I m certain aren t nearly as fly as we are. In fact, as they (two males) were walking their dog through the parking lot, I was able to witness an exchange between them and a bevy of ghetto scum who enjoy congregating in front of my apartment building, and it went as follows:

7/22/03: So somebody was trying to steal my car today. To have my car stolen, that s all I need to make my life complete: complete shit. This morning, while watching Regis and Kelly (possibly the best programming on television, ever), I heard a knock on the door. It was our neighbor from one floor down and many thousands of miles away. Apparently he had witnessed several gentlemen trying to break into my car. ([email protected]) Lucky for me, the perpetrators were the Three Stooges, and were stupid enough to both be trying to steal the car in broad daylight and right in front of my neighbor s window, as he watched them do it. Anyway, my awesome Nigerian neighbor called the Avery Park management, who, upon finding out that the car was not the property of the Avery Park management, did nothing. Just kidding, actually, they sent the maintenance crew over, who I m sure gave the culprits a mighty scare. Next time there s a liquor store or bank robbery taking place, just send in the old maintenance crew to take care of things. Too bad the culprits were able to escape before they could give a crap about the maintenace crew. Fortunately, they weren t able to make off with any of my outdated maps or vintage compact disc collection. The idiots couldn t get my cd-player out either, considering it s twice as large as the console in which it s contained. When we bought it, my dad, and master mechanic, had to jerry-rig the cd player to get it to fit. It s a piece of shit anyway, and I d have replaced it already if I could get the damn thing out. Either way, if I ever see anyone who isn t me even breathing on the driver-side door, they re going to be brutally killed on the spot. No joking, spinal cords torn from their bodies, fed their own genitalia, while I defecate on their dismembered corpse. As a matter of fact, most of the people living at this apartment complex probably deserve this treatment of their anatomy. That goes for that 10-year-old Eminem wannabe who stole my Juicy Fruit, too. Every kid here is an ADD case and people deal drugs on the playground like it s the goddamn Bronx. Anyone living here with their family is fucking nuts. It s not even affordable. This place is full of low-class ghetto scum, who, if they had computers and were literate, would drive-by my apartment if they saw this. Well, I m going to go strap some explosives to my car and hope I won t need to call a cab in the morning.

The Bottom of the Box

7/21/03: I realize the last update wasn t nearly as tantalizing as any of my others. It was actually crap, as even my girlfriend so euphemistically pointed out to me. So in keeping with the trend of increasingly worse updates and diminishing viewership, I m sitting down to write this lackluster update. It has no real topic or theme, and i m just writing about things that have happened to me, which have no real comedic value attached to them, making this more and more like an E-Journal. Well, to be honest, there is a theme, and it s how much my life sucks it s subtle, but my more clever readers should be able to pick up on it. Actually, I don't care if people pick up on it: I ll be glad if anyone even comes to this website anymore. Thank you, Kyle and my room mate, for continuing to read each new entry all the way through despite their poor quality. Please try and muster up at least one courtesy laugh. Okay, a giggle? Anything?

Here are some stupid things I ve had to put up with lately:
Apparently Netscape has uncovered the secret to marital success: Why Men make good husbands.

Hmm, well, according to Websters dictionary

hus band
n : A man joined to a woman in marriage; a male spouse.

Which pretty much rules out all other genders, species, inanimate objects as husbands. Just as foolish would it be to say, for example, why Netscape makes a shitty browser. Again, looking to Webster's

netscape
n : a worthless browser [syn: absolute shit]

If only that hapless Netscape staff had experienced the academically rigorous psychology program for which I m currently taking courses. In statistics, we learned today that this % is a percent sign. Professor Capo wasn t absolutely sure why it looks like that, but hypothesized that it might have something to do with looking like a face, a symbol people associate with friendliness. Seriously, the guy makes the class about as exciting as getting a piss test. He also learned us that probability ranges from 0 to 1. Where 0 is the probability of anyone finding this update funny, to 1, the probability of everyone hating Professor Capo, who, I m quite sure, was used as the inspiration for Elmer Fudd (in both looks, and intelligence).

The other day, I went to GNC for some more ephedrine to supplement my ephedrine-caffeine-aspirin stack (also known as speed). Unfortunately, too many pussies have keeled over because of ephedrine-related heart attacks, so I had to resort to buying some shitty substitute: Xenadrine, where Xena is GNC-speak for sugar pill and drine means big fucking waste of 40 dollars. Getting off in a porta-john gives me more of a high than this garbage. Thanks, but i ll be ordering all my ephedrine online from here on.

Speaking of substance-abuse, I ve drank all my expensive German beer, and am quickly reaching the bottom of my 5-liter box of burgundy. Box wine rules. There is a place where you can make a hole in the bottom of the box, so none of that sweet, precious nectar is lost. Once done, you can actually take the bag out of the box, cut it open and suck all those delicious drops of wine off the sides mmm Anyway, since i m poor and broke, I m taking donations to facilitate my burgeoning alcoholism. Simply go to my colleague s website: http://sdkh.tripod.com and click on the picture to the right where you can use PayPal to send us (me) money which I promise to only spend on alcohol.

So, I was supposed to go to the river today, where I planned to drown myself. Unfortunately I didn't get a chance to rats, another thwarted suicide attempt. Oh well, I don t really much mind spending the rest of the day sitting in my room, with the lights off, staring at the wall with tears running down my face, clenched fists, sobbing hysterically (yes, hysterically). Nope, not a big deal at all--it s not like I have any friends, a job, or anywhere to go. Well, I m going to go watch Dr. Phil. He s the best.

Another Day in the Life...

7/08/03: So I suppose it's time for an update, seeing as how the last I worked on this page America still had a GDP. Way to go, George Bush. Anyhow, don't get too excited. If you're really my friend then you've probably heard me make all these jokes already--and you probably won't find them funny the second time around, either. That's right, I recycle my jokes. All great comedians do it. And now so do I.
My colleague Tommy and I finally moved into our new apartment and we've been living happily together since, you'll find our "Announcement" in this week's paper. The first night was an interesting one, as I walked up the stairs to discover that the door had been conviently opened in anticipation of our arrival, or rather, the arrival of our valuables, into the apartment. Unfortunately, the people who were considerate enough to do this must have misplaced their keys, and in order to enter resorted to manipulating the framework of the door--by kicking it in. I, in my vast experience with gangsta living, seriously doubt the culprit was a construction worker who "accidentally bumped into the door", as some would have me believe. Considering the bang up job they did with the floors, walls, and vents, I wouldn't be suprised if Hector dumb fuck construction guy did lock himself out of the apartment and needed to break the door in to go use the john or something. Anyhow, I went back to the rental office and explained to the woman behind the counter, in my best spanish, that some asshole had broken into our apartment before we had even got a chance to make it worth his while and that she'd better send someone over to fix it post-fuck-haste otherwise I'd be making use of that '30-day money back guarantee' they so brazenly offer to all new residents. So they sent over the only other white guy living in the entire complex and he came and like his colleagues had done before with the rest of the place, did a half assed job with the door. Now we're collecting locks, we've got two so far, but we're thinking about installing a large metal barricade--or possibly a moat.
Apart from that, we haven't had any problems. The neighbors living in the back corner of the complex seem to be quite the car enthusiasts, as they have about seven different types of Escalades stopping by their building for a few minutes around 2 am every night. Yep, Avery Park is certainly the place, whether you're an experienced dealer or just a casual addict, we've got just the place for you! I'm not too worried though, they've taken incredible security measures to keep us secure. These include removing all lighting from outside, so that potentials criminals won't be able to spot the building; neglecting to put a fire extinguisher in the stair well, which was heavy and could have fallen and injured unsuspecting stair dwellers; and keeping the front door free of a lock, which could make it difficult for residents to flee from criminals that may be attacking them on their way into the building.
Apart from that, the police are in full force around the area. As a matter of fact, today, I was prevented from comitting a most heinous crime--riding a bicycle without a helmet, presenting numerous unspeakable dangers to society. Luckily, I didn't get a citation, but the officer warned me I should be holding the handlebars and not wearing head phones. File that with all the other dumb reasons I've been pulled over: using a telescope at night in a public place (she knew I was there, I know it), driving on the wrong side of the road, and misinterpretting speed limits. Before that, I was handed a brutal parking ticket from Officer Dickface of the College Park police department. Way to keep the crime rate down, tracking those felons who park at 2-minute expired meters. That's another 20 dollars I won't be stating on my next fucking tax return. Damn government. I mean, how was I to know a penny doesn't get you any minutes on the meter? My friend Joel, hippy and local carpenter, who being a government major I can trust in these matters, hypothesized that I was being watched, which I'm quite sure was the case, as I am Hungarian. I'm pretty sure I was the victim of racial stereotyping. Anybody have any good ideas for what to say when I go to court to contest it? I'm thinking "someone stole my car, then proceeded to park it at the expired meter." Yeah, that should work. Well, thus ends my terrible update, which is begining to look more and more like an E-Journal. If you didn't think it was funny, then too bad, the jokes were probably too sophisticated for you low-brows anyway.

The E in E-Journal doesn't stand for Entertaining, people

4/22/03: So this morning I had the pleasure of waking up to the soothing sounds of metal piercing metal. It was the apartment construction crew up to their usual antics. Apparently, this time they were having some kind of contest: see who could piss off more residents quicker. The lawn mower guys were competing too, like the guy struggling for so long with a particularly stubborn patch of grass, which just happened to be RIGHT UNDER MY WINDOW! Well, I don t know who won the contest, but I can definitely say I lost a lot of fucking sleep, that is.
On a more disturbing note, I ve had some people comment to me about the resemblances between this site and an E-Journal. They re not living anymore, but I swear, if this site becomes anything like an E-Journal, it s another reason for me to just end my life right now and I told myself once I got over a hundred, then well, you know
Seriously though, no E-Journal is capable of conveying all the profound commentaries and allegorical symbolism that I manage to squeeze into every syllable. Not to mention the fact that most E-Journals are devoid of periods or any punctuation, as well as being replete with spelling and grammatical errors, whereas all the ones that appear on this page are intentional, and are added for artistic expression.

My webpage as an E-Journal:
o k so like i was walking outside and my friend [name drop here] and was like hey and she came up so we hung out cause i like her. Um then i had this bowl of cereal that was real crunchy and i ate it in like 20 mins cause i eat real fast when im hungry for cereal and thats what i was eating this time. o so last night i went and saw [insert name of obscure local band here] and it was rockin cause i love [band x]. ok well i got to go peace.

Actually, now that I think about it, that s probably a lot more interesting to read than the crap I throw together. I wish my life were exciting enough for me to have an E-Journal. Something quasi-exciting did actually happen to me today, though. I was sitting in my car, obeying the pertinent traffic devices, when a homeless woman approached me and said, YOU LOOK TOO YOUNG TO BE DRIVING! Oh yeah? Do I look old enough to feed your out of control drug habit? No. Idiot. I should have told her about how my youthful inexperience makes it hard for me to finance troublesome pan-handlers. Go take your God Bless America sign and get a job with it, if that's possible. Everyone knows God hates homeless people anyway (trust me, it's in the Bible).
Finally, being serious, I want to apologize to people that are special to me whom I ve offended, in conversation and otherwise. I'm sure I ve probably offended more of you with my latest update, and I apologize for that too. In fact, let me just apologize for my entire existence. But seriously, just don t ever take me seriously again, ever, I'm serious.

Books not...WHAT?

4/08/03:Well, we knew this day had to come (by we, I mean the two other people reading this, and myself). It's again time for me to espouse more of the ultra-informed political insights that everybody so enjoys--this means if you're just reading this page for the pictures then I'm sorry to dissapoint you, there won't be any pictures. You can hit the back button on your browser now. Otherwise, provided you're in the pre-enlightment conservative mindset, you should be adequately prepared to absorb and agree with everything written here.
Walking through campus I like to keep my eyes fixed on the most appealing thing in sight. This is usually the ground. Today, however, I decided to take a look around and try to possibly spot some intelligent life. On the contrary, what I saw was one of those obnoxious messages that people enjoy scrawling onto the walls of buildings I have to enter. You'll never see them out in daylight, of course. What was this important message that it had to be received by half of the student body? "Books not Bombs." Now this can be interpretted in one of two ways: the person leaving this message thinks we shouldn't be going to war for some reason wholly unrelated to the subject of books. In which case, maybe if they would have taken the time to read one they wouldn't be wasting their time vandalizing school property by plastering inane political mantras over every building. However, this doesn't have to always be the case. The phrase "Books not Bombs" could easily be interpretted as one that advocates using books as a way to inflict pain on our enemies and accomplish other military objectives. Now is this person opposed to reading, or possibly illiterate, that he would want to waste important books on something like war? I suspect all three contribute to his lack of good judgment. Nonetheless, I'd question the capability of books to do sufficient structural damage, as well as their killing power. Two very important factors to consider when designing bombs. Books just aren't that heavy (or explosive). Granted, there are books written by people like Scott Ritter and Michael Moore that would certainly be worth dropping. But again, these books tend to be especially light. And what happens when some hapless Iraqi civilian comes upon one of those unexploded munitions? Well, if you thought Iraqi propaganda was bad...
Lower gas prices, here I come!

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