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[11 Feb 2004|02:48am]
"the place just above point b"

What happened?

The night feels so young, but ages quick as death. There's a song, not an oldie but close to it, it was playing on the radio at the comic shop I work at earlier today. It is in my head again . . . sort of. The fading echo of a note's peak, going from point a to just above point b, imprinting its impact onto the frontal lobe, ready to hit the cerebral cortex or what the fuck ever whenever the night says, "Go."

Its peaking in my chest right now, the point just above b. That's the only part of the song I fully remember. Not even the lyrics. I'm sort of building a new song around it, with my own sporadic and improvised lyrics that certainly must hold some meaning to me, or I otherwise would not utter them. But God knows I'll never remember them. Nor do I wish to. They fit the moment, and when the moment is gone, so will the song I've built around point a to just above point b, and the lyrics with it.

It seems pointless, but I'm sure there's something more to it.

I don't want to sleep, not while the point just above b hums through my head. This isn't the kind of song you sleep to. Its the kind of song you don't wake up to, and I want to be able to want to be able to get up tomorow. And no, that was not a typo.

Some stirring of punk rock restlessness skitters around in my shoulders, sliding from the collarbones back and forth, hitting the curved walls of my shoulder blades, and, with the help of physics, causing my arm to twitch and jerk with the impact. It isn't too hard to tap into. Thank you President Bush, for that.

I'm eighteen and of legal age to vote, and as with everyone else with a pair of eyes and a pair of testicles, literal or metaphorical, I am going to vote for whatever fuck is going to get the Thief out of that office. But I can't help but think about it. It certianly is a quandry. Bush has gotten us in some shit, and it will take a serious mother fucker to pull us out of it. What if the fucker who wins the primaries is sme kind of titty-fuck retard who can't get us out. Perfectly likely. Most of them are running just to be sure that Bush will be out of the fuckin' office, too.

At any rate, Bush will be gone, but how do we know we aren't welcoming in a new dumb-fuck to take over dumb-fucking around where the last dumb-fuck fucked up? The republicans thought they'd pick the lesser of two evils by voting for Gore over Bush, and now look. They got shit and lies on their face while they wave a flag around that means nothing because IT has shit and lies smeared all across each and every stripe and star, too!

But enough about me. Really.

And you know, my shoulders my supply the force to type tyhe words, but they're just over-compinsating for the point just above b, which floods incomprehensibly every other thought I might have.

Fuck, man. What am I doing? What have I done? What haven't I done.

What haven't you done?

I seriously want to just close my eyes. Which is something I've always objected to when you're getting fucked in the ass. You can close your eyes when someone's fucking you into the ass, but they'll still be fucking you in the ass. And all the pretty colors and fake sensations you instill upon yourself won't change the fact that you'll open your eyes to a gaping asshole with a stranger's cum dripping out of the rim.

Oh I'm sorry, was that too much for you? My bad. I only wanted to illustrate the fact that when you're bent over and someone's fucking you in the ass, you should reach back, grab the prick, pull it out, cut it off, and shove it down their fucking throats while skull fucking them. Which is where you gouge out their eye and fuck them through the skull, penetrating their brain with your throbbing, veiny member.

That's all I wanted to illustrate.

My point being (yes, gentile reader, there is a point) I don't know where I am, any more. The point just above point b is a serious point to be at, especially when you're eighteen and confused about everything there is to be confused about except for your sexuality. No no, there's no question here about what my sexuality is: frustrated.

Let me sum it up for you, oh for-some-reason-still reader. Because here's why point b is just below where I'm at, why my arms reek of rage, why my body aches and snags, why my eyes linger just above open, and why I have reverted to the whiny, depressive pussy I once, not so long ago, was so over-qualified as:

Life- A fucking joke. No jobs, no homes for anyone. Clock in, circulate, clock out, go home, watch TV, debate on Micheal Jackson's face, Janet Jackson's nipple, Kobe Bryant's rape-ee, and why those democrats have it in for poor ol' Honest Bush. Sleep and dream about a fucking life that never was, never will be, and never wants to be, dream of fucking nothing served on a plate of bills and eviction notices. Dream of a lost loved one, dream of that which was and can never be again, dream of everything you love, and wake up hating yourself for it. As for myself, personally, live in a void, a constant state of dreaming for that won'ts and shant's and never will be's, never doing anything active, dreaming as I file away the comics I dreamed over in third fucking grade when I'd bash myself in the head cause I thought it was funny and felt good. Live within this incessant state of no possibilities, encouraged to go to a college and become a proactive member of a functioning economy, encouraged to keep a steady paycheck, maybe screw college, get a roomate and continue to barely meet ends, working all the damn time so that I can buy shit I don't need and go home to watch Jon Stewart make me feel like maybe I'm actually engaged in politics when in fact I'm sitting on my couch, clocking in, clocking out, sitting on my ass, and debating over a FUCKING NIPPLE.

Liberty - And if you thought Life was an interesting forray into pessimism, Liberty's got it beat. Sure, Lady Liberty can see, shit, she and Justice party. But they BOTH left fucking town without so much as a nore, a phone call, my Tired, my Poor, my Huddled fucking Masses, or fuck, not even a goddamn scale. An enhanced police state that encourgaes the kind of apathetic contribution to the status quo that swallowed souls, destroyed happy lives, and forced a group of people to get on a boat, find another island to live on, and call it the United States to begin with. Liberty's worse than Life, because Liberty isn't there to defend Life. She's not there to hold up the Torch, to light the way for those of us who want more, who see more on the horizon, and who want to pursue it. Who want to stand up, and show us our own ways so that we may become a better society, community, and a more enlightened bunch of people. Only thing left of Lady Liberty is a copper statue, given to us by a country we've turned our back on for oil, standing against a gash in our hope, the deepest wound to the very fabric that clothed Liberty in the first placed, the deep well of blood that swallowed the lives of our people, a travesty allowed to happen by the very person who condemns us to solemnity and shit and lies on our fucking valor, our hope, our truth. Liberty's fucking gone. All we're left with is a Constitution that no one who has sworn to uphold has or ever will actually uphold. Freedom is a right, not a privelage.

The Pursuit- the biggest gag of all. All of this, this is hardly even so much a political thing. This is all people's lives. People's freedoms. Inherant human rights denied to us, as we are regulated. Told to "watch our backs." What's worse, not even by the inherintly evil Man, but by each other. Jingoism and religion fucking on an flag-draped altar, smothering us between their sweaty bellies. No Lives, no Liberites. So we have each of us removed that which allows us to pursue that Happiness. Instead we are provided with choices set within specific guidelines. Its okay if we have Happiness, so long us it falls within this criteria. Dr. Garcia of the Metro Davidson School System, oh he's for sure part of it. His intentions are to train people for the business market, and eradicate anything that stands in the way. Create good contributing typists. No artists. No sports. Not shit but you and a computer, typing. And I know he's not the only one. We're being trained to sit on an assembly line. Because that's what good Americans do. They can pursue happiness all they want, so long as they go to college and get a job typing. Otherwise they can work serving all those people who went to college and type for a living. It really doesn't matter. So long as you're serving somebody.

There's a local graffit artist. Their stuff is ultra-simple. No tags, no shit. Just a message. A "fight the power"style fist with the word "LIVE" as in the verb "to live," not "live from new york" written on the fingers, and underneath a message. My favorite of theirs is one done here in the Madison area, right next to the building where Patrick works. It said "YOU ARE NOT A SLAVE." I used to drive by it all the time, just to remind myself of it.

Its long since been painted over by the local shops, maybe Patrick's shop. Who knows. But its gone. It was replaced only briefly by "NEVER SURRENDER" but has since long been gone. And now it remains gone. It makes me wonder what happend to the LIVE Fists. I wonder if they're planning something bigger, biding their time, waiting for just the right moment to spring out and bomb the place. Or maybe they're just caught up in the whirlwind of life, too busy to replace the blank wall with new words. Or I wonder if they've been caught. Arrested, maybe, incorporated into the machine. Or maybe they just stopped believing their own words.

Perhaps I'm a bit pessimistic, tonight. Perhaps it being at the point right above b, just after point a, not quite point c. I think maybe so. I think maybe I'm just too tired. I think I'm just too worn out in general; I honestly don't even have the will to masturbate, anymore. I think maybe I'll have to close my eyes.

But maybe I'm not thinking at all.

I really don't know what the point of this little ramble was, if not to indulge in my own cynicism. Honestly, I'd say its me ignoring the issue that genuinely bothers my heart. Lord knows I've never been one to take it in the ass, nor will I ever take it in the ass, nor will I ever concede to the possibility of a serving job for all my life, or a typing job for all my life, or being anyone's slave, ESPECIALLY not my own.

But the night feels so young and ages so quick. Here and gone. Its hard not to watch the clock sometimes.

Wonder what happened?
2 rat bastards| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

yes, I know "precautiosly" is not a word. [07 Nov 2003|01:20am]
I wrote this sitting on the living room floor, on the spot, on a typewriter. It is much more effective in that medium, but this article brought me too much joy not to put on writememydog. (NOTE: as you may or may not know, livejournal does not allow indention, so the big clunky seperation of paragraphs is how I distinguish a change in them. Ya know, just in case you're stupid and didn't know.)

"Existentialism as a Way of Passing Time"
by Josh Danger

I think I was at the grocery store buying a Pepsi, when I realized that my life held no meaning.

Or perhaps I was buying a Mr. Green outside of my local We-Have-It-All-And-Will-Drown-Local-Businesses-And-Eradicate-Any-Sense-Of-Community-You-Have-Left-Mart at the vending machine just out-side of the EXIT doors. You know, those vending machines that are there to convince you to spend just a little bit more before you go on your merry way.

Anyways, I'm not entirely certain where I was, to be honest, but it really doesn't matter. Here I was, eighteen years old, just graduated high school, no future and no prospects, and already I had no story. Certainly by now I should be writing my first novel or making my first feature film. Orsen Welles made "Citizen Kane" before he was twenty-five. I live in the age of non-stop technological progress; according to the math, I should have made my "defining work" about a year ago.

But there I was, standing outside of Wal-Mart, or inside of Kroger (Fuck it, who knows) clutching desperatly to some kind of carbonated drink, whenby now I should be arguing with RKO Studios, battling over whether or not my film will see the light of day, just cause it is loosely based on the life of the guy who created Starbucks Coffee.

So I decided to make a legacy for myself. I'd write about it, and what I write will be some kind of defining landmark work, representative of an entire generation. That would be cool. It would be one of those "immense unadaptables" screenwriters always talk about (and somehow always end up adapting them, anyway). A work so baffling in scope and style that any attempt to effectively transpose it onto the big screen would be for naught, because the narrative and the language is such a major part of what makes it so eloquent, even though the words are really just too fancy for anyone in Hollywood to properly decipher.

it would be seemingly filled with errors, but would be, in truth, flawless. Ironic, but critical of its own irony, because irony is, after all, a dying mainstream scene, which in and of itself is ironic. it would be minimalist, almost mediocre looking, but every word would be of utmost importance in understanding the true meaning that underlies the complex simplicity of its structure. Every word, every sentence would be part of the emmence hyperbole that ultimately stands for much greater ideas than a book could ever truly convey; the sentiment of an entire generation and time.

This would be brilliant. I am a syntax God. The potential prodigal son of the book with literary merit. But to begin, I would need a story. I need a means by which to get across the sentiment of an entire national mood among American youth of this time. This book would be a beacon for future generations, so they will see what it was like. It will represent the general ambience of the period.

Fuck, man, I'm halfway finished writing the damn thing already, I thought.

But then it occured to me, that perhaps the lack of dramatic struggle and the ever-looming shadow of over-powering apathy is what would define my masterpiece as a pillar of the times. A generation of watered down mindsthat want nothing more than to be entertained, rather than mentally stimulated, would be far better represented by a lack of dramatic exaggeration.

But then I thought, Nah, that would suck some serious fucking ass. Too boring.

So I decided to begin my legacy by calling my friend Patrick. When he answered his phone, I asked, "Do you want to do something?"

"I guess," he said precautiously. "What do you want to do?"

"I dunno," I responded with relative ease. "I figured this whole creating a legacy would be more of a stream of consciousness thing. I'm making this up as I go along."

"Oh," he said precautiously. "Okay."

There was an awkward pause.

"Okay," he said precautiously. Patrick is a predictably precautious person, on the phone.

"I'm writing the defining novel of our generation," I explained.

"How's that working out for you?" he asked.

"So far I've thought about it extensively, but have yet to write a single word."


Another awkward pause. We cherish moments like these, I assure you.

"Why?" he asked warily, in what I feel was most certainly an attempt at throwing me for a complete loop, as I was completely expecting him to say something precautiously. "I thought you were a filmmaker?"

"I am. But I like to write, too. And I want to write a landmark novel that is representative of our life and times that everyone will admire and adore and praise for years to come."

"But . . . why? he asked, clearly now either just trying to fuck with my head by asking cautiously instead of a full precautiously, or he was just too lazy to put in that extra bit of effort to ask me precautously. Bastard. "No one in our generation reads," he continued. "We are trained to produce and consume, fueling and feeding the machine that forces mediocrity upon us and convinces us that it is contentment. We settle for mediocrity in every aspect of our lives, from government to our own personal standards, compromising our happiness for a fictional 'greater good.' We search, not for meaning in our lives, but for a niche, a place in a society so that we can buy and consume and watch our T.V.'s that just make us want to buy and consume more and then we let our sitcoms laugh for us on the laugh track. On top of all that, that education system that we spent twelve years of our lives convincing ourselves that it was so important and crucial, when all it taught us was how to successfully settle for less, how to get a job that will allow us to be contributing members to a mediocre way of life that discourages individual thought and keeps people in their places, all the while convincing us that this is what we need in our lives to be happy, and there's no other way, and if we don't comply we're doomed to a life of being unable to buy shit we don't need and thus unable to be happy. We're a generation of complacent trained dogs."

I opened whatever fucking drink I had in my hand, and if I was in Kroger, this means that I probably payed for it by now.

"Well shit," I said, taking a big swig. I don't need to write a book to represent a generation of apathy. Not writing one seems a lot more effective."

But fuck, man, I thought. I started out writing a book, and I didn't want all that introspection going to waste, so I decided to write an article, instead. But I put it off for a real long time and just used a shitty cop-out of an ending. But it could be worse, I guess. it was a fairly accurate, if somewhat anti-climactic representation of modern society.

Though, come to think of it, that last part didn't have much hyperbole to it. It was fairly literal and straight-forward . . .

Well fuck, there wasn't much point to any of this shit, then, was there.

But maybe that's the point.

Which makes this either the worst article I've ever written, or the very best.

My head hurts. Fuck this.

Oh, and hey, yeah, it was Kroger, cause I walked down to Patrick's house, after that.
1 rat bastard| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[06 May 2003|05:58pm]
This was written quite some time ago, I think in the winter early on, back when I had a girlfriend, and was published in the local zine Porcelain Bullet. But its appropriate home . . . is right here.

"The Evolution of Technology and Your Mom"
by Mr. Danger

To say that this is the digital age, or the time where technological progress went warp speed, is just about as big of an understatement as implying that maybe Micheal Jackson's gotten a little work done. We live in a world where we all have bloodshot eyes from staring too long at the eery iridescent glow of the computer screen. We live in a country of people with our hair falling out from keeping that god damn cell phone nailed to our ears at all times. We live in a society where community is not defined by the people you live near and interact with, but by how many people are on your fucking buddy list.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the era of infinite progress. Fasten your seat belts and keep your eyes on the pretty colors. Those seated in coach will have to hang on tight, cause we'll be moving way too fast for your poor asses to keep up with the technology. Just sit back and enjoy your Starbucks, you complacent sheep.

In short, we live in what can undeniably be referred to as the digital age.

The purpose of technology, as it has always been since Adam invented the ladder, is to make the lives of people easier. Suffice to say, with such an encompassing purpose such as this, the advancement of just about any kind of technological progress should have many advantageous prospects to it. For instance, the focus of technology over the past ten to fifteen years has primarily been on communication. Cellular technology and the internet have brought connection to the people, free of the burdens of human interaction. Body language used to compose a great deal of our day-to-day communication. However, no doubt some study could show that nonverbal communication's piece of the pie chart has been gobbled up by semi-colon smiley faces and "lol."

We have become a web. The internet has helped us all to be a global-spanning corporate-run community. It has connected us to people from all over the world, regardless of location, language, race, gender, or age. Even if some of us lie every once in a while about being seventeen-year-old girls with the figures of a pornstar and the libidos of a fourteen-year-old boy. The internet has made life simpler and simultaneously more productive, making it possible to present a business proposition to a board of directors while taking a shit, without the worries of having to clean up the conference table, later.

The bottom line is that technological progress is moving as rapidly as human evolution, allowing us to embrace apathy with open arms.

And it is this that poses a problem.

One can no doubt make appropriate comparisons to the dinosaurs. These gigantic behemoths watched with glee as what were previously mere afternoon snacks evolved into tall, lean, full course meals. Oh how they must have celebrated when they finally had that finished homo sapien to chow down on, with less fur and more meat than ever before.

Top of the food chain, the dinosaurs were.

And then what happened? The humans enslaved their scaley asses and Fred Flinstone used them for fucking construction equipment!

Perhaps you see where I'm going with this.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the era of technological domination. Fasten your seatbelts while we take advantage of your reality-television-rotted minds and enslave your stupid asses. Please take note that the captain has turned on the "No Revolutions" light, not that it matters cause you're all too damn busy drooling on each other cause you're too damn lazy to close your fucking jaws. Drink your fucking Starbucks! DRINK IT!!

Incoherent ramblings aside, we are speeding rapidly towards a future that will no longer need us. After all, at this rate, what will we have to offer the world? We kick back, click the mouse or the remote, pollute the earth, start some wars, watch "The Osbournes." We discuss our favorite commercials, and we pay money to see Maid in Manhattan (don't deny it, you swine; it got to the top of the box office somehow).

Wake up.

We don't even realize we've created a monster. Much of the labor that required the inquiring mind of a human in the past has been taken over by more cost-efficient and cost-effective technology. Machines are running the world now (along with republicans . . . but hey, same difference) and they're getting smarter by the second. How much longer before someone invents a HAL 9000 or a Terminator that realizes it doesn't need us?

How much longer before the Matrix has us?

In the film The Matrix, Keanu Reeves' character, Neo, is freed from a false reality created by machines to enslave mankind. The machines in the film were originally created during what is known as the Second Renaissance, when man created artificial intelligence in an attempt to make the lives of humans even easier. The machines didn't like this too much, and eventually made it known. Like the dinosaurs, humans underestimated what they thought was beneath them on the food chain. And what happened to the dinosaurs?

They're fucking EXTINCT! And WE'RE all fucking BATTERIES!!

You know what else humans underestimated? The Matrix. The film. I mean, it obviously made an enormous impact on cinematic pop culture, but most people only see it for the special effects. The effects were used purely to facilitate the plot, and not vice versa, which is more than I can say for most modern science fiction. In fact, it is superbly dense in philosophy and raises interesting and engrossing questions about reality that are inspired by great minds such as Plato and Lewis Carroll. In fact, it is near impossible to walk out of that movie without eyeing things differently. It is truly an effective and wonderful work of cinema that is overlooked because of the clich�s expected of such a genre.

Fuck, where was I?

Technology is evolving rapidly. Human apathy is increasing with it, as ease becomes our lifestyle. We are willing to settle for banality and mediocrity as long as we don't have to get off of our comfortable spots on the couch. We're willing to accept anything the T.V. shows us, and everyone on the outside looking in knows it.

Politicians know it. That's how they can say one thing and do another and still get re-elected. People watch them talking the talk on Larry King Live and Hardball and don't want to be bothered with the boring details of whether or not they actually walked the walk.

Corporations know it, and hell, they rely it. They know you'll buy their product if their commercial is funny enough and they plaster their name everywhere. Why? Because you're too damn lazy to look for something better when that thing you've heard of that has the commercial where the guy does that thing with the stuff is convenientally located around the corner and every other corner in the country with the big-ass sign with the gigantic green letters. Why do you think Enron and Worldcom thought they could get away with it?

And Hollywood? Hollywood knows it and fucking counts on it. That's why they release the same shit with the same look and the same plot and the same "moments" with the same marketing campaign as that movie that made them a billion fucking dollars last summer. Cause they know you'll eat it up. Pizza Hut delivers more surprises and diversity than Hollywood does.

Although, I must say, 2003 seems like a decent year, in terms of blockbuster-type movies. I mean sure, there's gonna be Terminator 3, and Shanghai Knights, and the blasphemy that is Biker BoyZ (Morpheus, how could you?). Still, I think there are gonna be some gems, as well. I think The Hulk will surprise some people, and X-Men 2 is gonna rock. Daredevil is probably my favorite Marvel super-hero, but Ben Affleck? Christ, I'd rather be shot in the groin than watch him fuck up my favorite hero in the Marvel Universe. Its gonna suck. Christian Bale would be a perfect Daredevil, and David Fincher would be the ideal filmmaker, not the jackass who made Simon Birch and is clearly just trying to rip-off Spider-Man.

And then there's of course the final Lord of the Rings movie in December. 'Nuff said, right there. Identity with John Cusack and Ray Liotta looks breathtaking. And Kill Bill? Come on, Quentin Tarantino making a samurai movie? That's all I fucking want in life is a Tarantino samurai movie, and then I can die a happy man. Sometimes, mentioning that "Quentin Tarantino is making a samurai movie" is the only way, as of late, that my girlfriend can get me to calm down about anything. Just mention it and I just go straight for cloud nine.

Then there's the two Matrix follow-ups, Reloaded and Revolutions. Oh Christ, I don't know where to begin. When I saw the issue of Newsweek on the rack with Neo flying through traffic on the cover, with those shades, and that trench, I creamed my pants. Which means I'm not allowed in Walgreens anymore. They got real mad when I yelled, "Clean up on aisle four." They must get that a lot. At any rate, I'm psyched. Everyone says that the movies just get better with each one, which doesn't surprise me. I mean, it was originally conceived as a trilogy, and the Wachowskis (the writers/directors) are determined to revolutionize cinema, and make everyone bend over backwards in awe. No pun intended. Okay, pun intended. (Come on, do you get it? "Bend over backwards?" Like Neo dodging bullets? Work with me, people.)

Honestly, I just can't fucking wait. I need a blockbuster that will get me all giddy and intrigued and thinking like a truly great independent film would. Fuck, man, I have wet dreams about these movies.

Jesus, did I write that, or just think it? Wasn't I writing about something else? Am I writing anything at all? Is anything real?

Fuck, sorry, had a moment there. What was I saying? Something about technology and apathy and The Matrix and Daredevil . . .

Ah, who gives a shit, I'm gonna go play "Grand Theft Auto: Vice City."

Oh wait, fuck, a conclusion. I suppose I should tie this ramshackle little package together somehow. Uhm . . .

Uh, technology is evolving, people are stupid, The Matrix has you, and Holy Jesus, Quentin Tarantino is making a samurai movie. Thank you for flying the era of infinite fucking progress. Please remain seated until the captain turns off the "No Spoons" light. Enjoy your evil Starbucks, you complacent sheep.
holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[13 Aug 2002|05:10pm]
[ mood | crappy ]

As you may or may not have been able to guess, this journal's function has been sometimes a place for Mr. Evil and I to occasionally bitch about larger issues in society and so forth that annoy/concern/intrigue/whatever us, but has primarily served as one huge ass blinking contest for he and I. A sort of "who can be more absurd and knock the other one off his rocker first", type thing. For laughs, homies! We blow things out of proportion and add little things to make it funnier and even throw in completely absurd random (and even disgusting things) to see who will blink first. You think I honestly want to have sex with an anime girl? Fo shizzle, peeps, I have too much respect for the animators to defile their works of art like that. Its a running joke.

Everyone knows manga chicks are hotter, anyway. Oooooh yeah.

Bottom line? Our sense of humors are respectively stupid and schizophrenic, and we'll say just about anything absurd, just cause it makes US laugh and disturbs a surprising amount of people.

My psychiatry teacher beat a possum to death with a baseball bat. And since he wasn't sure if it was playing possum or not, he beat it while it was unconscious till blood spurted out of his mouth and splattered all over his jeans.
He hates possums. He intentionally runs over them. Even if they're already dead, he hits them.
My psychology teacher is in desperate need of zoloft or some shit. Or maybe a fucking horse tranquilizer.

I got a job at Ben and Jerry's. And could you believe it it? Its twelve hundred times harder for me to fucking SCOOP ICE CREAM, than it is for me to handle millions of dollars worth of film equipment at my internship where I DON'T get payed. When I work some more, I'll be sure to delve a bit further into the subject matter.
"It can't be that hard, its scooping fucking ice cream," you say?
Goddammit, you just wait when I think of a good comeback! It'll be so clever and hurtful, you'll wish you were born a DOG so you wouldn't have to drag on your ASS to walk home with your TAIL between your legs!
Or something!
Trust me. There's a reason it pays more than minimum wage. Cause its fucking hard. So blow me.

I think Mr. Evil needs to write more in here. Who else votes for that?

I could really go for "A Clockwork Orange" right now. Reeeaaally seriously.
And honestly, people, Kubrick really isn't that great. I love that movie, and I don't think anyone could have done it better the way it was done, along with most else of what I've seen of his.
But he's not a fucking genius, dammit. Shut up, already.

You may be getting more society-related entries, soon, as I'm working on stuff for the zine Mr. Evil and I are pioneering, a little electronic project called "burn this magazine." Its aaaallll about the arts and is actually more of an expos of writings and comics and videos and such, but is very much fueled by anger, so you will see plenty drafts of the various letters from the editor on here.

But worry not, readers. There will be plenty more old fashioned writememydog absurdity on the way. There's too much sobriety on here, now.

Viddy well, brothers,
Mr. Danger

holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[11 Aug 2002|04:54am]
[ mood | *bashes head on rage against the machien CD* ]

My very serious anger makes me laugh, despite being entirely serious. Does that make me a masochist?

And even bitter angry sarcasm makes me laugh, just cause its sarcasm. So, I'm sorry, but signing it "Mistress Indecisive and Insecure" made me laugh a hard one.
Sorry. honestly. I do take it all very seriously.

And yes people, Mr. Danger has been found out. In the words of that famous french poet, Voltaire, "I knew that was gonna come back and fuck me up the ass."
...or maybe that was Socrates...

Mr. Danger

holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[01 Aug 2002|10:15am]
When nature calls, don't let the answering machine get it.

Mr. Danger
1 rat bastard| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

this SEEMS like a rather sober entry. but cat shit is a metaphor [01 Aug 2002|12:46am]
Today defies normal journals. It absolutely has to be a writememydog. (parts, anyway).

My day, as most do, began with Brad Pitt and the smell of cat shit.
I woke up to the screaming of my dear mother. As usual (or at least, as what had over the past few weeks become usual) she was railing at me to get my ass up and get a job. That seemed to be the primary purpose of my existance, with my parents. Get work so you can get money so you can get out of debt with all that car related shit (damn Mr. Evil. it was peer pressure, I swear ;P ). So eventually I woke up, and the very very very first thing I did was put 12 Monkeys in the DVD player. I'd bought it the night before without ever having seen it, and suffice to say, I am glad I took the risk. Already, I'm taking mannerisms from Brad Pitt's role (which is a scary scary thing). I seem to do that a lot. I take lots of stuff from Brad Pitt and incorporate it into my own personality. Sometimes I wonder if my anti-consumer ideas stem actually from my own observations or from Tyler Durden.

Anyway, so I'm filling out applications and watching 12 Monkeys when I fall asleep. I wake up an hour or so later, when I catch a whiff of what smells like cat shit. Great, I think. First they spray everywhere, despite their balls getting lopped off since we first had 'em, and now they shit in the deepest darkest corners of every room. I love cats. So I went a-searching for the mysterious steamy pile of poo that was somewhere in the room, but despite my nose, I was unable to find it. I looked everywhere. Under futons, chairs, computers, even the dormant empty cans lying everywhere. No sign of any cat shit. And eventually my nose got used to the scent, so it went undiscovered.

So I fill out more applications, and then head out. I first go to P.F. Chang a "China bistro," which is basically a Chinese O'Charlie's with an ego. I sit around and wait for an extended period of time for someone to come talk to me. I tap my feet, fiddle with me fingers, stare at the ugly mongul statues, all in anticipation of this skinny guy with icy blue eyes named Sonny to come talk to me. And talk to me he does. In fact, the interview goes quite well. I make him laugh and so forth, and even though I cannot legally serve alcohol, methinks the guy was thinking of breaking a few federal codes. :D And then he sniffs.
"Do you smell cat shit?" he asks me.
The interview was pretty much over right there.

So then I went over to Cafe Coco, which is where the Carrie-Anne Moss SUPERbabe with tattoos works. Nono, I don't have a crush on her, she's just my fuckin DREAM GIRL, physically. She looks like Carrie-Anne-Fuckin MOss!! SHE HAS SEXY TATTOOS!! SHE LOOK LIKE CARRIE-ANNE-FUCKIN MOSS!! Nuff said?
*drowns in a pool of own drool*
Ahem. So anyway, I walk in there, and I'm chilling with my homie Emily, whose one supercool girl. She's real shocked by my haircut, but then again, I'M the one that screamed the first two mornings I woke up and saw myself in the mirror. So I can't exactly blame her. No one else really seems to notice, but she's sorta the only one I know well. I'm working my way up to becoming a regular.
So I briefly seperate myself from Emily, to get myself a drink, where Gillian (that's the unbelievably gorgeous server's name) is serving. Now, I'm not expecting too much from her aside from the usual, "What can I get ya, hun?" She has never been particularly personable to me, and I could never quite figure out why. Haven't complained too much, though; its a rather shallow crush, so I don't particularly mind her being bitter.
So I go up and give her my drink order, and she asks me "For here or to go," and all that jazz. So she's getting my order ready, and she says, "You got your hair cut."
Can you say, holy mother FUCK.
This means she has taken notice of me before, which I had observed, but figured (and was probably right at the time) was more of a contemptable noticing look. But she has noticed my existance, and, not only that, but has recognized me even without all the hair in my face. That's more than I can say for most FRIENDS of mine.
And of course, I'm no Fonzi or anything, I'm not cool AT ALL (I don't know if you've picked up on that). So I say, "Woah, you remembered." And she smiles. SHE SMILES. I'm not sure I've seen her smile before. But she has SMILED and it was in response to ME SAYING SOMETHING.
And she pours my drink, and says, "I like short hair."
She says, "I like short hair."
She says, "I like short hair," as she pours a drink for me.
Her hair is black with a couple of purple streaked hairs. Its held up on either side of her part in true messy but sexy rock fashion; sort of like an anime character. Her eyes are contrasted to her skin with dark eye liner, and the piercing blue of her pupils. Sort of like Sonny's, only sexy instead of heartless. Her tattoos move with her heartbeat, live an endlessly flowing passionate dance. She looks down into the glass as she presses a button on her Bartender 2000 gun, flooding the glass with Dr. Pepper.
She says, "I like short hair."
Okay. So maybe I make a bigger deal out of it than it was.
"Yeah, I'm kind of liking it too," I say, in true FUCKIN DORKUS fashion. And she takes my moolah, gives me change and I walk away.
"Sherri?" I hear her say behind me. "Do you smell cat shit?"
I sit with Emily and we complain about a girl that's obsessing over me.

heh, actually, Emily and I talk about a lot of things. She's a cool kid. She';s going to be making a documentary on an Angry Hobo that hangs out in front of the Ben and Jerry's where she works. IN fact, She's helping me get a job at that wonderful Ben and Jerry's. $7.00 an hour (more than minimum wage) PLUS tips, not to mention the uncensored satellite radio that plays over the intercom system, and often times plays songs like Nine Inch Nails "Closer" to warp the fragile pliable minds of small children eating ice cream cones.
I can't wait to work there.
And the smell of waffle cones managed to overwhelm the smell of cat shit, so I probably will do well. :D

And that's all that is fit to write about. Plus its late, and this is already too damn long.

And on a sidenote, me and a friend are gonna open an auction website where people can make joke auctions. We're calling it e-Spray. The first items for bid will be the amateur wild sex video tapes we made with Carrie-Anne Moss and Brad Pitt. And also midget porn.

Dear God give me a shower,
Mr. Danger
2 rat bastards| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

*smashes keyboard against skull and molests a dolphin named Willie* [20 Jul 2002|01:22am]
[ mood | i pee in your general direction ]

I love where I work. That's not something you hea everyday from someone who works someplace where he doesn't even get payed. but I do. I love my work. Not all the time, of course. Insane I may be, but sadistic and stupid I am not. I prepare and clean film equipment, clean all around our facility, take out all the trash and make sure our coffee pot stays full. I clean so goddamn much, I never have to use soap again; fuckin' soapy foam comes out of my pores anytime I hold my hands under water. I constantly have the taste of orange cleaner on my lips (that shit gets EVERYWHERE) no matter how much fast food I shove down my pie hole. If I never have to touch another bottle of 409 again in my LIFE and have sex at least once with Carrie-Anne Moss I can die a happy friggin man!!
But I do love my job. Despite all this, entirely for the sole purpose of learning about the equipment, my job is cool.
What makes it so cool, aside from being around all this film equipment, is the people.
They're insane.
Yes, all of them.
If there weren't so many days where there was next to nothing to do, and if I didn't fucking HATE reality t.v. and t.v. in general, I'd go to Hollywood and pitch an idea for a new reality t.v. show taking place where I work. (They'd probably bastardize it and include something about a killer whale. Hollywood loves killer whales.)
Robert goes outside the office on a weekly basis with his golf club and a ball (and the rest of the company, crowding outside, grinning like idiots), and knocks them across our parking lot, two lanes of traffic, another parking lot and on top of another building like ours-which has a metal roof. We all dash inside and laugh hysterically at the people who come outside and try to figure out what the fuck just bombed their roof and made them all piss their pants. We're waiting for them to catch us running inside, and retaliate.
Charles is the cliche Brooklyn Italian in everyway, with a violent homicidal streak similar to my own. He abuses the most the people he likes the most. Namely, myself and J.T. There's a rather notorious story around the office about how Armanda was in a meeting with some people, and Charles chased J.T. through the room two or three times. Armanda didn't bat an eye. The guests were a bit freaked out and asked who the hell they were. "What?" she said. "Oh, that was just J.T. and Charles."
Armand (not to be confused with Armanda, his older sister who runs the joint) is on drugs. I'm sure of it. There's no way anyone can be the way Armand is without the assistance of something very illegal. His SUV reeks of potsmoke. I'm tellin ya, dude be trippin.
I get mocked at work quite a bit, for being so damn quite. I hear, "Jesus, would you shut the hell up?" a lot. I can't help it! I mean, I know I'm generally a pretty quiet guy, opting instead to obsevre, mostly, but I can't help but go overboard with that in the presence of these psychos. Its fuckin better than t.v.! All I can do is stare with my jaw slack and barely blinking, the way my 14 year old brother watches "Wild Thornberries."

In otherwords, I don't even get paid and my job is still better than Mr. Evil's.

In other news, one of my two cats, despite both of them having been relieved of their testicles through the miracles of castration long ago, is spraying shit around my house. And the other one is being extremely affectionate, like he wants something. Probably he wants his balls back. The other one got his back, somehow, why the fuck can't he get his?

I am going to writer's camp on Sunday. But not before commiting suicide on this goddamn CD yearbook.

And I fucking hate Avril Levigne. She's like a Britney Spears for gullible pop punk skater kids. And I fucking hate Britney Spears and gullible pop punk skater kids.

Goddammit, I'ma kill somebody.

So my ex, the Mistress of Indecisive Insecurity, who is now dating a former friend of mine (a 21 year old anal retentive internet junkie who lives in New York, and who ended our friendship when he started dating her) that she's never met, is going to be at writer's camp, too. Despite how one of our final arguements was over her deciding NOT to go to writer's camp. And I believe Captain Anal is coming to visit her the week after. Maybe I'll kill him. *ponders on the matter*
And there's another girl that actually DOES like me. She's a cool girl and I wanna be friends, but I do not want to date her. Even if I WAS ready for a relationship, which I am NOT, I'm just not interested. But she's getting to be fucking OBSESSED. And so I e-mailed her telling her all of this. Straight forward. I don't want to lead her on and break her heart later when she realizes I had no romantic interest the entire time. And what does she right in her internet diary?
"he emailed me back! it was an "i'm not ready for a relationship but i'd love to hang out with you" email. *attempts to decipher this boy-code*."
I swear, if it weren't for some really cool girls (examples: Chris hip_hop, Pookie uptownsunrise, Meghan distraught and nuymerous others) I'd write the entire female gender off as conspirators, each and everyone out to get me to jump off a fuckin high rise. And since I'm not gay, that would make it a hell of a lot easier for me to become a Buddhist monk.

And the girl also said I look like goddamn Rufus Weighnwright. I fucking hate looking like Rufus Weighnright. I also look like Skeet Ulrich, Guy Pierce, Brad Pitt, Wes Borland and every other guy whose name you've heard of on earth. Lately, its mainly been Rufus. And the first person to say it was Misstress Indecisive and Insecure. So I don't have many fond memories of being called that.

Goddamn. As Mr. Evil said, "I wish I had a gun so I could almost shoot myself."

Ya know, God, if you're gonna make rules against stuff like killing people and suicide, perhaps you should provide a little fucking INCENTIVE.

I've been saying "fuck" a lot more than I usually do, today.

Goddamn. Times like these I wish I really could have sex with a cartoon character. Or Rivers Cuomo. He's a straight hottie.

And I hate CD yearbooks.

Forever really kind of peeved,
Mr. Danger

2 rat bastards| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[17 Jul 2002|02:17am]
[ mood | apathetic ]

There's nothing like almost dying. Absolutely nothing like it in the world. I believe, in fact, that it is only when I am close to death that I actually feel alive. Ask Mr. Danger about this, everyone else is afraid to verify anything I say; afraid it'll kill them, I suppose. And it very well might! Gerbils don't grow on trees, you know. Verify that! Oh God, I need a gun so I can almost shoot myself.
Apparently, in the brief interval since my last post (brief being entirely relative, you understand) we have gained a fan by the name of "The Unabomber". Now, I ask you, ladies and gentlemen who are foolish enough to give a damn, why me? Of all the people in the world, the Unabomber chooses to admire Mr. Danger and I's prophetic hilarity. Why couldn't I have attracted Mr. T, or Elmo, or a Republican midget that looks like Al Gore but with no legs? Ah, but on a serious note (how rare is that?) the Unabomber is a very funny man...however, so is an 27 pound mole growing off the side of your mother's ass, which could be very serious indeed. As a matter of fact, you MIGHT want to have that checked out.
It strikes me as strange that I never bother to edit these god forsaken posts. I look up and I see so much backwoods silliness that I want to pluck out all my nose hair and feed it to a stray cat, but I never bother to delete anything I write. Shakespeare did the same thing, said he could afford it. Never scratched a line, the bastard. And somehow I don't think it was because he was afraid to. I believe he was just too lazy to bother with editing. Once something is written, rewriting it is worse than eating a rotting blowfish. Oh fuck it, I'm sick of thinking. Don't do much of that any how. Over and out.

Sublimely Dirt,
Dr. Evil

2 rat bastards| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[12 Jul 2002|04:54pm]
[ mood | pet peeved. heeheehee! I am the pun god. ]

Pet peeves mean you can laugh after bitching someone out for doing something they weren't aware they were doing wrong.
"THERE'S NO FUCKING COMMA IN 'ISN'T' SO STOP PUTTING IT THERE!!!! JESUS, PEOPLE, IS THIS SHIT SO GODDAMN HARD???!!!! ....HAHAHAHEH aHAHEH Hehheh aheh heh... sorry, that's just my pet peeve. *giggle*"
Goddamn pet peeves.

My mom called me a very violent person, the other day. I don't get it. Just because I talk about using various violent acts to fix just about every problem? Come on. I'm only violent when I actually kill people and set houses on fire and stuff. Which is probably rarer than you may think. You fucking retarded assholes.
Heheheh. Sorry. Just that whole, "you're violent" thing is a pet peeve of mine. Makes me just wanna fucking gut somebody. You know?

Mr. Danger

holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

a tour of the beauties of internet pseudo-communication [12 Jul 2002|12:49am]
[ mood | amused ]

Suzanne: Hey
Mr. Danger: Hi there
Suzanne: I'm gonna show my aunt how aim works
Mr. Danger: Ahhh
Suzanne: mind if I use you as an example?
Mr. Danger: If those wacky scientists can do it, I don't see why you can't
Suzanne: lmao
Suzanne: she told me to pick somebody really hot
Mr. Danger: Ahh, I see. And I was the only person on, right?
Suzanne: exactly.
Suzanne: lmao
Suzanne: actually I have 15 people on now. my friends dont sleep
Mr. Danger: heheh
Mr. Danger: Don't pay attention to Suzanne, ma'am, she's crazy. I know all there is to know about AIM. First you go to the chat rooms, and you annoy the crap out of people by constantly asking for their "age/gender"
Mr. Danger: And then hopefully some pervert will send you an Instant Message, which is what this window is, and you'll have a friend that can send you hacker files and pornography for the next two months
Suzanne: hehe
Suzanne: *finds another example*
Mr. Danger: lmao
Suzanne: heh, shes actually not in here yet
Suzanne: shall we bring her in?
Suzanne: I think its time
Mr. Danger: Ooh yes, be sure to show her that example
Suzanne: lol, okay, sure josh, I'll show her
Mr. Danger: Woohoo!
Mr. Danger: So how about that offer I made? I give you a "The Crow" Zippo for a nickel bag of your best grass?
Mr. Danger: Sound like a fair trade? Its an expensive Zippo
Mr. Danger: And I know how much you like Brandon lee in "The Crow"
Suzanne: yeah, thats right
Suzanne: say hi to Catherine and Kathryn
Suzanne: (we're creative with names in my family)
Mr. Danger: lol
Mr. Danger: Can I just call them both kitties and save me having to type some of the same letters and vowels twice?
Suzanne: No.
Suzanne: Bye
Mr. Danger: Nuts.
Mr. Danger: Bye Catherine and Kathryn!

holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

"he fired my on my birthda--*SPLAT*" "quit whining!" [09 Jul 2002|08:34pm]
You're both wrong. Faygo kicks the shit out of BOTH Coke AND Pepsi. (But then Pepsi makes a comeback and karatisizes Faygo's more-for-less values into 7/11 Hell: open all eternity long. no shirt, no shoes, no damnation.)

I hate trends. Stupid temporary obsessions that captivate--as in, entrap--the minds of youngsters and fill them with the desire to buy the most bombastic version of whatever and be as over-the-top about their support of the latest stupid piece of shit object or idea or clothing line or musical genre, and mock anyone who doesn't support said trend.
I hate trends.
But unfortunatly for people like me, it is becoming trendy to be ANTI-TREND. Which means you have to watch your step about what you wear and what you say, in fear of someone pointing out how oh-so trendy you are. One of the worst parts about trendy anti-trends is that they die quicker than regular trends. So the other anti-trend trendy people always mock you if you're still wearing the horn-rimmed glasses everyone and their coffee-slurping grandmother was wearing last week.
Hell, I got accosted by one such person when I used the word "counter-culture" in reference to the underground electronic magazine that Mr. Evil and I are producing, burn this magazine.
"Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"It's trendy."
"I never hear it."
"I DO."
Does anyone else see what is wrong with this picture? Counter-culture stands for everything that is anything BUT trendy. And somehow its meaning got mixed up in the flury to be the next person to point out how completely trendy someone is being. I can't even walk into a coffee shop without every one of those neo-Nirvana fucks staring me down trying to decide if I'm a poseur or not. JESUS CHRIST, PEOPLE! I JUST WANT SOME COFFEE AND TO CHECK OUT THAT GIRL WITH THE TATTOO SLEEVES THAT LOOKS LIKE CARRIE-ANNE MOSS IN "MEMENTO"!!!!!!!
What the fuck is WRONG with people? I realize its part of human nature to classify things and believe that we are the only ones with the right answers. That's the bitch of being a "reasoning" creature. But seriously, people. You shouldn't have to think about what people are gonna say if you aren't trying hard enough to be YOURSELF.

There's a guy where I work named Charles Gambino. Charles is the cliche Brooklyn Italian. That's why I love him. the guy rocks. He'll walk in the room when I'm not talking, tell me to "Shut the fuck up," and walk out the other door. He'll threaten to slap me. He mocks the hell out of me.
He likes me a lot. :D
He told me a story once about how he was having a shitty day, and was driving home and talking to his wife on a cell phone. He told her that the only way this day could be really really great was if he ran over something beautiful. And just as he hung up the phone
He stopped the car and went back to what he had run over. It was a squirell. Its head was smushed and it was runnin around in circles. And then it just fell over. Ppppppfffftttt. Dead.
He called his wife and said, "I'm havin a great fuckin day."
Moral: If you're gonna hit something, it better be something beautiful and it better be bloody afterwards.
Charles is a real charmer.

In the latest issue of "Deadpool" (number 68) he begs someone to kill him, rants about peanut pornography, drives through one skyscraper window in his 100% Manly scooterbike and crashes into another skyscraper window, procedes to kick ass, starts from the top, and ties a guy's shoelaces together and kicks him out the window.
I love this guy.

And I love Fench bread.

Mr. Evil is on a date. He thinks he's ssoooooo much better, now. Well FUCK HIM IN HIS BIG SWOLLEN DATING ASSHOLE!!!!
I really need to meet some girls. The brooding over heartbreak shit sucks major ass.

And I'd kill to have sex with an anime girl. Like literally, an ainme girl. A cartoon.
but then again, I don't think the animators would appreciate that.

I tried renting a bunch of movies today. But she wouldn't let me, despite how I'd rented there twice before. So I set her on fire.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHEH AHAHEH HEHEH Ha heheh haheheh heheh aheh heh hheeehhhh......
Okay. So maybe I just ran over a squirrel on the way home.

The all too trendy,
Mr. Danger
3 rat bastards| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[08 Jul 2002|02:05am]
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have returned. Sinful, deranged, deliciously apathetic, and carelessly delicious. Remember the antagonist from the movie "SeVen"? He lives with me. What about Hannibal Lecter, you say? You're right, he lives with me as well. In fact, every serial killer that has ever lived, that has ever probed the depths of your unconsciously, shamefully twisted imagination and created themselves and their dark passions with which to frighten you when the lights go out and the night begins to whisper. Yes, I know them, they live in me. All of them. But they live in you as well. The only difference between you and I, reader, is that I understand that the nature of this beast, this thing we call life. The nature of the thing is it cannot be understood. This I understand. Submersion in Chaos is our only hope for understanding.
"We see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it, we tolerate it because it's commonplace, it's trivial; we tolerate it morning, noon, and night" But how deadly is a deadly sin? And what inspires it besides our fear of it? Besides our shame? Our willingness to hide from our pseudo-moralities and face the reality of Chaos, of Nature. For isn't that what we were meant to do? Return to Nature? Return to Chaos?
The answers to the problems that we face everyday will not be found in the sources of yesteryear, in the sources that have constantly misled generation upon generation of faithless ascetics, whose only faith lies in the fear of Hell, of the unknown, of the Natural, of the Chaos where truth lies. When we look within the Chaos within our selves, that is our Natural Instinct, we will find our answers, but they will not be universal. There is not a universal solution, only an individual one. As a nation we must disband in order to band together more strongly. This is only a dream, the world is composed of fools, and I dream only of impossibilities. Impossibilities for the masses, but not for the individual. We, as cells of the larger organism which is society, may find our answers, our bliss, and our calling, in the solitude of Chaos. The world of the unknown is that world which spans beyond doctrine, beyond trend, beyond what is precise, and into the world of intuition, vagaries, and dreams. In the world of solitary Chaos, all paths are newly trodden, and all dreams are yours alone. Chaos was the first frontier, and we must realize that it is the last.

---For we are the music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.

Dr. Evil
1 rat bastard| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[08 Jul 2002|01:47am]
Like momma always said: a little delusion never hurt anyone. But a big delusion stepped on a buncha people and humped a skyscraper.

Mr. Danger
holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[08 Jul 2002|12:58am]
Reality hates me. Reality fuckin' hates me. I suppose it wouldn't seem that way if I believed in coincedences, but all these warped twists on the fabric of everything going on around me--seemingly based on things that I think of--is leading me to the conclusion that reality fucking HATES me and wants me to kill a monkey in my insane stupor.
Fuckin monkeys. All I need is a handgun, some gas money, an Atlas, and Pringles and I'm set.
Note to self: Next time, kill the 21 year old monkey who tends to fall for minors BEFORE he develops something for the girl you've still got a major feeling or two for.
Fuckin Pringles and an Atlas. Screw the gun. I'll run him over where he lives (in front of the monitor). No gas money? Fuck, I'll just set him on fire with this not-so-spankin-new "Crow" Zippo and a can of spray paint. I'll walk. trek across the face of mother earth with a bag full of spray paint and Pringles. Like Kane in "Kung Fu." only less peaceful and with Pringles and an Atlas.
Fucking monkeys. Fucking self-promoting, self-absorbed, John Hughes watchin' mother fuckin monkeys.
Reality hates me.

For some reason, I have a fascination with James Dean. Not an obsession--I wouldn't fuck him--just a fascination--I might pay money to watch someone fuck him.

I need to buy me some goddamned Pringles. I'll go to Kroger and make Mr. Evil bag it for me (and pass him some cyanide pills on the way out the door. or maybe get him to push the cart full of nothing but Pringles out to my car and then throw him in the trunk and kidnap him. He can watch my back while I'm setting that goddamned monkey on fire and then kicking Reality in the balls and then bashing Irony's head in with a bat. I think this expands beyond the point allowed in parenthesis).

Maybe my skewed sense of reality has something to do with my sleep scedule. As in, I don't have a fucking sleep scedule. I never fucking sleep. And when I do, its at weird times in eird increment at weird moments. Often, I forget if what I'm remembering really happened or if its a dream. Each day merges into the next and I have no sense of time. Nothing is real. Nothing matters. Its either like a heightened sense of awareness or LSD. Things all melt into your vision and stuff happens just because you thought about it.
It has its high points.
But all in all, insomnia is a desease. You lay awake in your bed with a pillow, pretending its the girl you like and fantisizing that she's come back to you after all that bullshit she put you through, and thinking of how you're going to kill that goddamned monkey on your back and you CANNOT SHUT YOUR EYES. It hurts. It hurts worse the next day when you have to work.
I really do want to sleep. you'd never think so, considering how I'm almost always on the computer, but the way I see it, if I'm not fighting to keep my eyes open, why bother trying to close them? Waiting is wasteful, anyway. I got things I could be doing instead of waiting for the sleep that won't come for three or four days, anyway.
Things like typing this.
Someone kill me.
But hey. That's okay. That's life; It bites off your balls, spits them in your eyes, and then tells you about the millions of pirahnas that raped your mother AND your father and then ate them both.

Am I the only person on Earth that thinks anime girls are really really sexy?
That might have something to do, tho, with the anime girl I actually dated, tho. The one before the girl I dated that only looked like an anime girl.

If I ever got a tumor in the brain, I think I would name it Malthy.

JEsus CHRIST. REALITY IS TWISTING AGAIN. I was JUST thinking about typing the letter "y" when all of a sudden, I USED IT IN "MALTHY!"

Fuck you, Reality! Fuck you in your big swollen asshole!!!

Always yours,
Mr. Danger
4 rat bastards| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

[07 Jul 2002|10:40pm]
Day One: The lives of madmen are easier than this, they have the benefit of madness to cover the madness, the filth and disgust, that they're living in. Ah well, live and learn, toss and turn, and gradually grow more fucking insane--hopefully just enough to cope, but not so much as to propagate the madness further. I don't believe I've ever gasped for air when I wasn't a bit insane. Damn, might be the air itself, but then, why aren't we ALL insane? Too much to think about for a madman. Pass the limes. No limes? Bound to happen sooner or later.
All right, so I might not be quite as insane as I let on, but that's keep that on the down low, I've been bumming off the government for years on claims of such. No, not really. In reality, I'm a fucking 17 year old maniac who works at Kroger's but has no job. How is this possible, you ask? Be a fuckin' genius and work at Kroger's, and you'll understand completely. Reality ceases to exist for 8 hour stretches at a time, all for the astounding amount of $5.15 an hour. God damn, I love America. You want to go insane? Amaze your friends, confound your relatives, frighten your enemies into sleeping with the lights on...in the middle of the day? All this and more can be had from working at Kroger's, and fuck, you might even be able to afford a fuckin' bullet to put through your worthless scalp at the end of the week. This is insanity. This is my life. Please, tell me that I'm wrong, I'll buy another bullet next week, this one's got a portrait of you carved right into the homemade hollow fuckin' point. Do it, and bring your own trash bag, to catch the mess, you silly fucks. People say working at Kroger's is easy--and it is, but it will drive you fuckin' insane. Just see. There's a couple of naysayers here with me now as a matter of fact, tied down, gagged. They didn't bring their plastic bags. What a shame, I'll just have to do something less messy, more painful. Oh, what insanity will do for your creativity. Damn, I just told you I wasn't insane, didn't I? Better you believe that anyhow. Safer for you.
No ideas now, just homicidal tendencies. God help the world, save them from the wretched lizard Kroger employees.

Living in Fear and Loathing,
Dr. Evil
5 rat bastards| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

mr. danger and ideas [04 Jul 2002|09:26pm]
I have an idea for a really truly psychotic film. Well, kind of an idea. A simple premise.

Whatever works.

Oh, by the way, I am mr. danger and will share this journal mr. evil, who is not experienced in livejournal and thus will probably not use this as much as I. But this is to record both of our exploits, and where we try and be funny. its also where we can alert each other of ideas we have, so we don't forget about them.

and obviously, we share a similar obsession with "fear and loathing in las vegas."

that's all.

crash/mr. danger/yo momma.
1 rat bastard| holy jesus! what are these goddamn animals?!

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