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When I need to write something funny but I can't think of anything, I just poke my finger in my wife asshole.

It doesn't help me write anything funny, but she yells like Donald Duck and that that's always good for a belly laugh.

I don't actually do this, mind you. But I did need to write something funny, and I always get the job done. :)

Current Mood: amused amused
Current Music: B-52's (their first album)

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Before there was...

...Trinity, Aeon Flux, or Lara Croft...

...there was Vasquez.


Current Music: 1000 Homo DJ's / "Supernaut" EP

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The eye atop the pyramid is the Leviathan after it has eaten the golden apple.

The world will end in 3 1/2 years time.

This was the image I saw. I was told where to find it.

When I looked for it, it was there.

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I spelled the word "renaissance" correctly on my first try today, while posting on the Christian message boards frequented by the small number of people from our bible study that meets every other Tuesday.

I did it by accident. I was trying to get the spelling close enough in hopes that the spell-checker would know what I was talking about, only after typing it, no red line appeared under the word.

I blinked, then looked closer at the word. It was right, and I knew just by reading it.

"Hah!" I laughed, astonished. "In your FACE!"

This message has been sponsored by the Read-To-Succeed program, the American Ad Council & a conspicuous amount of pot.
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To anonymous,

You're accurate that it isn't smart to talk of such things online, especially when confronted by someone who, as far as I can tell, makes thinly veiled threats of determining where my case is and forwarding the material to whichever prosecutor is handling my case. Because I don't think it would be an instance of either someone from MADD, nor any other person for that matter, who happened to stumble across my journal, took exception to what I've said and then decided to do something about it forwarding it to the authorities.

I think that if my posts were to wind up damaging me in court, it was because you did it.

I think you tipped your hand a bit, though, in the fact that, unless you already know who I am, you don't know who I am, and it would be hard for you to put those words to the man that wrote them, in spite of determining county, court & judge.

No. But I think you do know who I am, and after my initial suspicions as to who you are, I realized tonight while I went for a drive that perhaps my initial suspicion was wrong, but instead you are closely connected to who I first thought it was. Specifically, I think you both live under the same roof.

Regardless, let me tell you that you accomplished your mission: you've made me feel the sensations of anxiety, and of fear; you've also forced me into pulling my posts from my own journal with your words. But most of all, you've adequately displayed that you have a capacity for letting things get ugly, and I wouldn't want to fuck with you, whoever you are.

Because regardless of WHO you are, I haven't done anything to you. I have not tried to harm you, I have not tried to slander you, or in any way tried to diminish the quality of your existence. I have not put my hand against you.

But you've chosen to place your hand against me with a marginally restrained venom that is at BEST misguided in origin.

And do you know what? I forgive you for that. I forgive you because Christ tells me to, I forgive you because I no longer want there to be drama in my life, I forgive you because I don't want to see ugliness in the world anymore, and as Gandhi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."

So please, I ask you only for this: you be merciful to me. I have a wife & an 18 month-old child at home that needs me here. I have a heart that struggles in it's relationship with God, and were you to subvert me, my anger towards you would be a shadow of the resentment I would direct towards Heaven, and I don't need such stumbling blocks.

But most importantly, you be merciful to me because you know that it's the right thing to do--if you truly believed you were righteous in the statements you've posted here, on my Live Journal, then you would not post anonymously because you would have the strength of conviction to know that you could identify yourself, secure in your position, instead of hiding yourself as you do.

Again, I forgive you of all this, I've taken your advice and pulled my posts, and I've felt fear at your hands, troubled by what could come of my future by your actions.

But in the name of Christ, you give me mercy, and leave me and mine in peace.
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Tiny and pissed off
From earth, you threaten heaven.
Black leather, so evil.
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(originally posted July 12th, 2002, 01:43 am)

Dear Diary,
I think that there is still a fanbase for rutger hauer.

he needs to lose some weight and play characters with gritty personalities from now on;

like an alcholic detective on the take who mistakenly shoots up a car full of asian students,
then must stay one step ahead of a miscast adam arkin, who vows to "...get to the truth,"

or perhaps a union underboss who handles the rough stuff for a politically ambitious treat williams.

he should do a scene where he and christopher walken get so close to each other to mutter threats of finality with their odd tic style that they just lean in and lick each others eyebrows.

christopher walken would be all: "you...DECIDE....that you....will walk in here (shrugs one shoulder)
....in HERE...now, (claps hands)
...now you're gonna hear your mother weep..."

and then he leans in and licks one of rutger hauer's eyebrows.

to which rutger hauer blinks a few times, jaw clenched in non-chalance, sucks cheeks in with contemplation;

reaching out slowly, a demi-god toying with one of the faithful, he places a paternal hand over christopher walken's ear,
brushing the hair slightly with the tips of his fingers, looking at him like he's a fascinating new thought,

before he mutters quietly,

"I came in here today...(draws chin up into the air)
sensing that you, you would be here..."
(rolls eyes in ponderance, the corners of the mouth turn up slightly in amusement, before his eyes narrow)
"...and now you will see how deep this thing is gonna go...." he says in a snarling whisper, and he then leans forward, pauses, eyes flicking between walken's in contemplation, then continues in, licking him over one eyebrow in with a tender and deliberate stroke.
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(originally posted July 13th, 2002, 03:11 am)

"The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side." - Hunter S. Thompson

"What are you doing here?" Neil the bartender asked, plunking down a well glass and pouring three fingers of whiskey into it; Elvis boogied forth from the jukebox, 'A Little Less Conversation'.

"Violating my probation," I stopped, grabbing the glass and taking a swallow. Wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my cheap brown polyester suit, I asked, "Manny around?"

"Naw, he's kicked the bucket," Neil sneered.

"No shit?" I grinned. Lighting a cigarette, I moved towards the back, looking at the pool tables distractedly as I passed them. "His heart?"

"Sort've," he answered. "He caught terminal V.D. from his favorite whore."

"It's all about the ladies," I said. "Open casket?"

"Hell, we've got his corpse propped up in the back," Neil said over his shoulder as he reached under the counter for the buzzer. "Take a look for yourself."

I knocked three times anyway, then once more before entering.

"Manny," I said, standing in the doorway, cigar smoke startled into moving away. "You poor dead fuck. That undertaker did a hell of a job; You look great."

"Fuck you, you asshole," Manny replied over piles of white slips. "People that schmooze the dead are creepy."

"As long as I'm still in the will," I exhaled, plopping into the creased leather chair.

"Sure," he affirmed, waving my smoke out of his face. "Creepy people are family to me." I inhaled and blew more smoke at him, looking at him with resignation.

"Fuckin' asshole," he said, waving more frantically.

"I need $50,000," I said to him.

"Don't you owe me $50,000?" he feigned.

"No, Manny, I fucked your wife for you, remember?" I pleaded, wounded.

"Well, as long as you're squared up," he shrugged, rolling his chair over to the safe; it was unlocked already, and he swung the door open silently. "I'd boil your loins after that," he warned.

"Does a burning sensation count?" I asked as he wheeled back towards me in the chair and dropped two neat stacks of cash in my lap. "Aww, Manny, you're gonna make me get it all over the money."

"You're sick," he glared as he rolled away to behind the desk. "You have three days to pay me back."

"Or what?"

He glared harder, then shook his head.

"Fucking smart-ass fucker, ain't he?" he asked the hanging cigar smoke. "Get the fuck out of here," he then said to me.

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(originally posted June 27th, 2002, 01:37 am)

red diesal in the gray engine
stabbing at the keyboard like a switchblade poet
who's swiping to take the queen of the hot rod punks home
for some pulp paperback escapades.

short order sweat in a soul kitchen
have the names changed to protect the backbeat
or am i just a cannibal memory?

bare the fanged letter
thrash in the air a bit
scootch my crotch and inhale an ill-will flow, think of the words i will say
when someone tries to flex against my angry blue sunset,
the verdict of shovel blades under full-bloomed flower eclipses in my heart.

cast down and cut
red wine and judgment
the prophet's edge pushes that this may be the last time
but the echoes tell of heartbreaks to come
and theirs.

bring it to my generic cigarette doorstep, and
light it against my flame of neglect.
your day came and went.
all there is left is the burial cloths you lay over what you hoped for
opium rubber and the groan of the trips that never escaped your slumber.

fear drowns those who leave their dreams keys in the ink of another beast
hopes frozen in a waiting never like the cracked glass of a loss on the radio
or the steady ringing on the other end of the phone.

don't mind the loaded pistol laying on top of my psyche
i'm just blowing word carbon like a '57 chevy
painted with the colors of history and war;
burning the pipes of a resurrection glow
bourbon-flavored mob rules, size 10.
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(Originally posted June 17th, 2002 10:20 pm)

she said this

i said that.

she got chippy

i got personal.

that split the atom.

the downstairs neighbors just turned up the volume
on the idiot box,

trying to drown out the sound of megaton and hydrogen.
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