Celebrity Crushes: Episode 3, Almost Famous

I’ve met a lot of cool people on the internet. More importantly, I’ve found a lot of really hot chicks on the internet. The internet provides a bizarre voyeuristic atmosphere where you can peek into the lives of complete strangers. And on the flip side of that coin, for the attention whore exhibitionist like myself, you can share your own life with relative impunity thanks to the anonymous nature of the webzorz. Bloggers and vloggers tend to span the full spectrum of personalities, so you can always find someone new and interesting to read or watch.

Now, some people like to watch from the shadows, never interacting. I was never content to be the voyeur. From the first time I came across this stuff I was jumping right in the middle, commenting and interacting with people from all around the world. I thought it was such a cool way to broaden my horizons. And I’ve found that generally people love the feedback. If you stick around with one site long enough you can get to know people on a level somewhere between acquaintances and real life friends. And occasionally you even get to be real friends out of it. So today I will celebrate the ladies of the web who I’ve had fun internet crushes on. Sort of like celebrities in the sense that I haven’t really met them, just watched them on screen. But also for the most part people I have interacted with personally through messages, comments, and all around digital poppy cock. (poppy not puppy you sick freaks)

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YouTube

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Brookers: Judging by her latest video, Brookers is clearly on drugs, which I honestly suspected from the start, but it’s good to know for sure. A long ass time ago I didn’t get online much. But one day my friends showed me a website called Ask a Ninja. Through that site I found YouTube and became the cave dwelling, mouth breathing, internet addict you now know. The first person I ran across on YouTube was Brookers, and I had my first e-crush. Sure, she may not be the typical picture of pretty, and sure, she has a big ass gap in her teeth, but I think she’s cute as hell, and she makes me laugh, which not many women do. She may be half retarded, but that’s how I like em.

If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have started making videos. And if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have started blogging, and therefore not started this blog, and then your life would suck. So make her some cake or something. She ended up getting semi famous on YouTube (6,995,078 views) and Carson Daily offered her a job doing some sort of advertising crap for somebody. Anyway, that made me realize that I could make a career doing internet stuff, which I would like one day, when I grow up. The best part is, she has an even hotter sister. Two more for the spank bank! Cha-ching!

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SeeVeeBee/VeeBeeLicious/RoobyJuice: Aka Sara Louise: I can’t hardly keep track of what account she has. It seems she can’t keep her filthy mind from getting her YouTube accounts deleted. Which is great, I love that she refuses to clean her subject matter up. Veebs is the sort of kick ass chick that I would be if I were a chick who kicked ass. She had one video where she was holding an egg and telling all sorts of random trivia about eggs, until she pulled it out of her sleeve, and it was really a fucking vibrator. That was kick ass. She lives in England with her ridiculously cute children and her husband. She’s the sort of free spirit that makes interacting on the internet fun. If you want to know how to get me to send you naked pictures of myself, just ask her, because she beat you to it. I can’t help it. I love big women, especially delicious ones like her. Her home is basically a zoo, with about twenty pets. Anything that you can think of that is cooler than you, she does it. For instance, she collects old surgical tools and photos of deformed folks. Unfortunately for me, she’s taken, so I guess I’ll have to love her from afar. Maybe next life Veebs.

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Kimberleigh: Once again, a very funny chick. Apparently you have to either be dirty and badass, or funny for me to find you attractive. See, I learn new things about myself every day. Anyway, Kimberleigh has the added attraction of not only being funny and cute, but also being a total dork, and therefore in my male mind, she becomes accessible. Frankly, I don’t go for the normal chicks, never have. Sort of like Brookers, her vlogs started off being borderline sketch comedy which was heavily edited and really contained zero actual vlog content. This appeals to me because even entertaining people aren’t entertaining all the time, and as a proud member of the ADD generation, I need my entertainment to pander to my ten second attention span.

And what the hell, I might as well throw Paperlilies in the same entry. These two were inseparable for a while. I have no idea if they are still bff’s and send each other videos all the time like high school cheer leaders. I’m not on YouTube so much these days. But I do kind of like the idea of these two in cheer leader uniforms. (save the cheer leaders, save the web) Right-o. Well, Bryony is the other half of the power twins, and she’s British, which means one thing: sexy ass accent! Also, she’s an artist, or something, I don’t really know what the hell she does, but I know she likes to paint. All that really matters is that she’s hot and she made one of the coolest videos of all time.

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Blogs

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Sundry, aka Linda: Ok, so everyone who reads this blog should know that All and Sundry was the first blog I ever read. I realize it’s kind of weird for me to enjoy a blog about family life and raising kids and shit. I know this. I’m not a mother. I don’t live in Seattle. I’m not even a chick. I’m way, way, way the fuck outside her target demograph. But I really like Sundry’s sense of humor, and she is a fucking great writer. And exactly like with YouTube, I stuck around observing something I enjoyed long enough, and I decided I should have a go at it myself. Her crack cocaine belly laughs seduced me to put together words and pictures on my own. Just when I was happily sitting on my ass, I had to go and do something. Anyway, she’s the shit, plus she’s good looking. Somewhere along the line (I believe right between the husband and the way-too-much-gross-ass-info-about-pregnancy) I lost the crush, but she still makes my list because she was a big inspiration for me. If you read this Linda, thank you for rekindling my love of writing. I had almost forgot what it’s like. You da woman dawg.

(edit: please note Sundry is actually twelve months pregnant with triplets, not morbidly obese as you may have mistakenly assumed. And no, it’s not one of those shit weasels from Dream Catcher, I asked)

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Romi: Ah, where to begin? Have I mentioned ten or twenty times yet that I like women with a sense of humor? Well I do. And Romi delivers in spades. She may not be normal, or legally sane, but she knows how to make me laugh. Between her offbeat sarcasm, and her open willingness to reveal the most embarrassing stories she has, She takes her readers on a roller coaster of love laughs and grimaces every time she posts. I can’t get enough. And talk about a spicy slice of ethnic heaven. I’ll go ahead and post the one existing picture of Romi in existence, (I can word it however repetitively and redundantly I feel like I want to word it) but in my head I always imagine she looks like baklava tastes. Perfect.

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And of course I saved the best for last.

Green Metropolis, aka Emerald: Of all the people I want to move around the world and stalk, Emerald is probably number one. Let’s quickly review the reasons she is kick ass. She loves animals, and her house is a menagerie. She pokes smot. She was basically cloned from rock and roll itself, constructed entirely of rocking genes. Purple hair, ’nuff said. She’s too fucking hard core for just tattoos, she’s got a fucking flower carved into her ass. With a knife. Carved. Flesh. ……. She hates people, aka the public. She’s secretary core, trust me, it’s hot. I almost forgot, her name is Emerald. That’s one of the coolest names ever. At this point, even if she had no personality or looks, she would still be pretty cool. But thanks to some miraculous gift of the internet Gods she actually does have a great personality, if she’s had her meds, and isn’t pissed. And she manages to look stunning whilst having it. Never a dull moment with Auntie em, the giant walking contradiction. She loves being a surrogate Auntie, yet doesn’t want to get married or have children. She’s got a flower scar, yet she knits. She’s Canadian, yet she’s cool. Just kidding people, only a joke. I meant she’s a vegetarian, yet she’s cool. Put down your torches and pitchforks, I was only playing about Canadia. I would go on, but I think y’all get the picture. She’s the number one most crushable chick on the net. (edit: not the anvil kind of crushable, big difference)

So is nine pictures worth nine thousand words?

Holy guacamole Batman, it’s been over a week since I posted. Time flies when your are completely swamped with important real life shit you have to do but don’t really want to. Or when you’re having fun, I suppose it depends on how your week was. I’ve had a lot of new exciting things happen since my last post. I got a new Dell computer, which is awesome, shiny, and only took two days to arrive. Two freaking days! WTF? That’s fast! I’ve waited longer than that to go to the bathroom. Technology is amazing. Well most technology. Microsoft Vista isn’t amazing. More like suck-tastic and shitty. Hate. I seriously want to go find Bill Gates and punch his nads in vengeance. Who the fuck writes an operating system that randomly shuts down all the time to update itself. I’ve got important shit to do, don’t go interrupting my porn time you cock smoking code monkey.

But yeah, so the ‘puter has a bad ass set of speakers and a BFS. (big fucking subwoofer) Also a wide screen monitor. I haven’t yet figured out how to adjust the monitor to not stretch all the images to fit the screen. Like I said, or possibly didn’t say before, Vista is a piece-of-shit pie and I hate it with a passion. It does tell me what temperature it is outside though, and that’s kind of cool.

Also new, I got a Yamaha scooter. So for the first time since September, when the state of NC decided to seize my car, I’ve got my own form of transportation. (minus the old feets, which were getting tired of trooping about everywhere) If you’ve never owned a scooter let me briefly describe the joys of putting around on one. First of all, you get the sensation that you own a motorcycle, but a really dorky uncool one that people laugh at. Generally things like water, sand, and potholes, which are of no concern to a four wheel driver, become life threatening obstacles which must be frantically avoided at the last second. If it’s winter, which it is, you have the added bonus of being able to freeze sperm samples while still in your nuts. There’s a large storage compartment capable of holding such items as, a loaf of bread, a helmet, or your shattered dignity. (one at a time, it’s not a sedan) Also, for those of you who enjoy safety and continued existence, you will rest easy knowing that those crazy bastards driving past you at sixty mph will get speeding tickets one day, while you probably won’t since you average cruising speed is 35-40 mph. (56-64 kph) Unless of course you hit an uphill stretch, when you will be cruising at 25-30 mph. (40-48 kph) And last but not least, parking will be much easier than it was before.

You all remember my sister in law, Sami? You know the really normal, not crazy one?

Well she has spent a long time planning the yearly holiday party for her company. It’s a big hoity toity affair with ties and cumberbunds and curly grey wigs. Not my cup of tea, but she got to spend ten grand worth of someone elses money, so that was probably fun. Anyway, with my parents being upper level types, (mom’s the company artist, dad runs one of the departments) Sami and Nate will be rubbing elbows with the bigwigs and throwing cutlery at the servants and all that good rich people stuff. So in the fine tradition of our esteemed family, Nate has found a way to make the whole thing a little ridiculous. Sami of course made him go buy something nice to wear to the event, seeing as how he didn’t actually own anything nice enough. Here he is trying to look cool in what he has dubbed his “pimp suit”.

Not too shabby. I’ve seen sharper looking guys (mostly in the mirror) but I guess that will do for a corporate event. But wait. To really appreciate the full ensemble you need the close up of his uber classy belt.

Oh how our family just reeks of class. Nothing like a pirate belt buckle to go with your thrift store suit and your facial piercings. I’m so glad we were raised poor. Poor people have so much more fun. I swear, we rock. And speaking of rocking, my little brother picked me up a bowl piece when he was working at the flea market last weekend. Check out this wicked awesome little number. I haven’t named it yet, but I’m thinking it will be something relating to the sweet twist the glass master put in the stem. I’ve never seen one like it before.

I can’t wait till it gets all resined up and the colors get brighter. Oh I love new glass pieces. I came up with a really great name, but then I forgot it, cause I was high. Holy shit! The magic of blogging has allowed me to remember. I shall call thee: Twisted Sister. (I wanna rock!) I would say she’s even prettier than old Baby Blue. You know what else is pretty? (not my sorry ass segues, that’s for sure) SNOW MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!!

Maybe not impressive for those of you who live above the arctic circle in Toronto, but for down here, that’s not too shabby. Unfortunately, that was all we got, and it’s pretty much gone now, a whole two days later. By the way, kneeling in the snow mostly naked is still not as cold as riding to work on my scooter when it’s twenty or less. Fuck that. Anyway, I’m done writing for the night. The Nyquil is kicking my ass and I have court in the morning. I’ll leave you all with one last random photo of me and Nate.

Holy shit, I almost forgot. Many thanks to Trena who sent me the Rachael Ray cookbooks. I would link to her blog here, but unfortunately switching homes and getting a new computer has left me without all my old bookmarks, which I’m trying to find again. Anyway, she rocks, and so does Rachael Ray, and so do I. What the hell, you rock too for sticking around this far through a boring shitty post. Oral sex for everyone! Unless you don’t want any. Then I suppose you could have anal or something. You know what, I don’t want to leave anyone out. How about instead of MLK Jr. day, (some dude gave a speech day) I declare this day Josh day, in celebration of me winning, and everyone gets all their holes filled, courtesy of me. You are welcome Earth. Have a good one.

Noise Therapy

I moved yesterday. Things changed and I couldn’t stay back at Nate and Sami’s house anymore, so I spent Saturday packing all my crap, washing all my clothes, and moving it from their house back to my ‘rents house. I’m not super siked about living here again, I would really like to live … anywhere else, but I got myself stuck up shit creek without a paddle and now I have to accept the financial repercussions and deal with it until I pay for all my legal misfortune and save up enough to buy a tent and move out behind the WalMart or wherever is cheap.So I’m sick as a dog, feeling ass-tastic, and I had to spend the whole day moving. It’s not really that bad because I only own enough stuff to fill one room. I can fit everything I own in one car load, and the bed of a standard F150, so it’s a one trip affair as long as I get everything packed well. But when I got over here my little brother, who just moved out, had left this gigantic monster desk in my room, and we had to get it out. This involved taking the door off it’s hinges, flipping the fucker on it’s side, and waddling slowly out into the hall and down the stair. Several migrant workers were killed in the desk move, and I would like to request a moment of silence for their families who are now fatherless, and will be deported back to their countries of origin since without a man to work for me they are all useless and I reported them to INS.

This desk, besides being gigantic, was heavier than a mother fucker. No joke, it had to weigh all of three hundred pounds. And we had to carry it down stairs. I shudder at the thought. I’m pretty sure the side I got, which was the top side, was made of solid lead, or possibly adamantium, I’m not sure. But it was heavier than wood. Much heavier.

So towards the end of the move I got a call from my good friends Rachael and Kenny. Much like Jesus would have done, they invited me out to a heavy metal show in Raleigh for some noise therapy. And I really needed to get out of the house and do something fun. See I just started alcohol treatment classes (post coming soon) and they are on Thursday nights, which means no more thirsty Thursday for eight weeks. This rehab shit is a real buzz kill.

But back to the metal, we went to this metal bar called Volume 11, and they weren’t joking. I can say in confidence that noise was brought, and volume was delivered. I still can’t hear very well and my ears have been ringing loudly since I woke up. They rocked so loud I could feel it in my dick. There were plenty of long haired metal heads and sexy ass rock and roll bunnies. One of my friends is dating a drummer, and his band was headlining, so a bunch of people I know were there. I had fun.

First of all, since all my crap is packed up, I had to skip the traditional metal head uniform. The only black t-shirt I could find was a Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt, and I didn’t want to be the Skynyrd guy at the metal show, so I went with my TP shirt instead. It’s got a roll of toilette paper, and it says “That’s how I roll.” I love it. Plus it gives me an excuse to say it all the time. (yeah, I a total dork. I know. That’s how I roll) When we got there, there was this grumpy lesbian bartender who couldn’t remember what I was drinking all night. (no tip bitch) And I don’t mean to toot my own horn here, but my lady friends are really really hot. I mean, most of the dudes I hang out with are ugly as sin, but for some reason, my crowd has ridiculously attractive women in it. I’m not sure how that works, but I like it. Eye candy is sweeter than ambrosia.

The first band was lame. Very very lame. I died a little inside because of how retardedly lame they were. But they did jump around a lot, which made it slightly more entertaining to watch. And the bass player was swinging his bass around like a mad man, and I couldn’t help but wish that he would fuck up and drill the singer in the face on accident. Now that would have been a kick ass show. Also I found some humorous irony in the fact that there were probably a hundred white people in black shirts, and the one black guy in the joint had on a white shirt. It made me smile. The singer made out with one of the gargoyles on top of the speaker towers. It wasn’t nearly as cool as it sounds.

But they suffered from a lot of the same problems that most crappy local metal bands have. Their singer couldn’t sing at all, so he just growled and screamed with no melody. I’m sorry if you like that kind of shit, but if you don’t have any melody in your vocals, then pack up and go home cause there’s nothing for you here but my scorn. Don’t get me wrong, I love the growling and screaming, but not without melody to balance it out. If you look at any good metal band, even the really heavy ones, there is always melody in the vocals. Sing dammit! Sing you stupid growling no talent bastards.

The second band was different. There was none of the stage show that the first band had, but in it’s place was a little something I like to call talent. Plus all the guys in the band were really big, so you can tell they were cooler than the first guys, even from a distance. (big = cool) (except for Ronnie James Dio and that dude from Iron Maiden, who were tiny and still rocked the Casbah) But nothing very memorable from the second band either. I do remember that during their set I had to drain the snake, so I headed to the John. But instead of weaving through the crowd like usual, I got stuck behind this crippled guy. He had those cane-brace things, like Jimmy from South Park. So I had to walk all the way across the establishment, incredibly slowly, and try not to look conspicuous. It was weird. So when we got to the bathroom, which was gigantic and clean by the way, I pissed really fast and hoofed it out of there so I didn’t get stuck behind him again. And yes, I washed my hands.

The third band was a weird mix. There were two lead growlers this time, and neither one really seemed to be using any kind of actual words or language. Just screams. And not really in any pattern that might indicate their screams were planned out to go with the music. Just random nonsensical screaming. I could have shat out better vocals. But their drummer was kick ass. He was tearing it up. The guitar player seemed like he was holding back some, that is until I realized he was deformed and only had three fingers on each hand. And between the ninja turtle hands (yes I know they only had two fingers on each hand) and his freaky mongoloid face, he was instantly bad ass.

After that there was a band with a bass player who looked like Screech from Saved by the Bell. Not much else to tell about them. And last of all came the headlining band. I’m not going to mention them by name, because I thought they sucked, and I don’t want to piss off my friends. What I am going to say is a little bit about the fashion of different scenes. I really don’t care much about fashion. You can wear whatever you want for the most part and I probably won’t notice or care. But there are a few rules for heavy metal fashion that need to be addressed. More like anti fashion rules.

Let’s just start with what I thought was common knowledge: no fucking hair product. If you are a dude, don’t style your hair. You know what I think when I see a guy who styles his hair? I think he probably enjoys sucking dick, that’s what I think. Grow it long, cut it short, do whatever, but for the love of God, please don’t imitate Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. This rule also applies to tight/pre-faded and/or ripped jeans. Just stop it people. Guys shouldn’t wear girl pants. Emo bitches do it because they suck, and you don’t want to suck do you? Get some normal jeans like every other guy on the planet, and wear them until they are faded and ripped up. This may take several years, but that’s what you have to do. And there’s no law that says jeans need to be faded or ripped at all. Just put on a random pair of pants and go play some fucking music. No one cares what you have on except you slutty girlfriend and her desperate groupie friends, so just stop trying so damn hard.

Also, don’t wear dress clothes when you are playing rock and roll. It’s not ironic. You just look like a dip shit. Pretty much anything with a collar is out. No fucking ties. This isn’t the office. Also those faggy Kevin Federline hats. I don’t know when exactly these became cool, but it needs to end. Especially hats with plaid. Plaid does not belong on your head you trendy cunt. Same thing for those rapper sunglasses. You know those big ass retarded ones that P. Diddy and Kanye West wear. Don’t wear them. Ever. And I know it’s heavy metal and all, but I distinctly remember a time (back in the day, aka high school) when girls would occasionally die their hair something besides jet black. Somebody please bust out some blue or red or pink. Purple even, I don’t care, but black is getting old.

And that was my night. It was fun. Rock and Roll is not dead, it’s just kind of boring and lacking in talent. Tell me what you did this weekend. Did you wrestle aligators? Did you rape and pilliage? I’m sure you did something exciting, and I want to hear it. So pony up already.

The tragic mudslide of ‘07.

You may not know this, but I am a guy, meaning I have a wiener and two gigantic brass balls. One of the ways you can tell I’m a guy is how I am never ever sick enough to go to the doctor. Men don’t have to you know. First of all, our manly immune systems basically run on hard liquor and testosterone, so we burn off most harmful organisms. Anything that may sneak past our white blood cells is probably not important anyway, I mean, if my body thought it was cool enough to join the party, then who am I to say no. Also, pain makes us manlier, so suffering through sickness and injury actually grows our peen, making us even gnarlier than we already were, and attracting women to us on a subliminal level.

I figure, if my problem isn’t bad enough to kill me, then I don’t really need a doctor in the first place, and seeking help for an issue I could grit my teeth and soldier through would make me a girl. And if it is a fatal problem, then I still don’t need a doctor because I’m going to die. At that point all I need is a few hookers, a drug dealer, and a mortician. My list of really bad ass shit I’ve dealt with without the aid of so called “medical professionals” could fill entire volumes, but we don’t have time for the entire saga. Here are just a few examples.

When I was working on a construction crew in Charlotte I dropped a box of metal strips on my hand, bending the last knuckle of my ring finger until it broke the bone where it connects to the ligament. Did I cry? Hell no, men don’t have tear ducts, I cut up a metal strip and duct taped my finger to it and kept working for the rest of the week. Now my finger is crooked and knobby, but I still have my manhood, so I win. Me one, medicine zero.

I was driving a scooter down the highway one night when some punk ass rednecks ran me off the road in their truck. I crashed and rolled for a while in the gravel. Did I get a doctor? No, I did not. I got back on the scooter, drove the hour back to my house in sub freezing temperatures, and bandaged myself up. Half my chin got the skin ripped off, along with several other severe lacerations and general meat removal. I’ve got some sick scars from it, but I lived. Me two, medicine zero.

For the last month or so I’ve been getting some pretty intense stomach pain. The sort that starts like heart burn, and quickly turns into your heart actually bursting into flames, and hellfire and brimstone spewing from my mouth and nose, and occasionally even my eyes. (Back to the manly tear ducts thing. It’s complicated medical stuff, you wouldn’t understand) Well the other night I woke up with a wicked burning in my belly and the feeling like my dinner might be about to jump ship. So I got up and went to the bathroom, and lo and behold my stomach was full of blood. I don’t know if you’ve ever vomited a bunch of blood before, but it can be disconcerting. That is if you aren’t a total bad ass like me, I know no fear. (except for jelly fish and clowns) (and spiders) (and heights, but whatever) I am fairly sure I have an ulcer, but screw the doctor, Josh needs no assistance. I figure lots of people had to deal with ulcers before medicine conjured up some new magic sugar pill to heal them, so why can’t I. By the way, if anyone knows how to cure ulcers without a doctor, let me know, cause this one really is starting to be a pain in the ass. So uh, me two and a half, medicine still zero.

This brings me to my tale involving one of the few times it is ok to seek medical help. That being, it involved my … um … beef steeple. Now when your junk is in peril it is perfectly ok, nay, highly advisable that you seek medical treatment. If it falls off you will become a eunuch. Or maybe that’s just when you lose your balls. So you become a man loving fairy. Actually, I think they still use their wieners, though I’m not sure what for since they don’t like vaginas or chick porn. Anyway, like I said, you turn into an ugly chick and have to move to a penal colony (no pun intended) of shame where healthy guys who still have their junk will fly over head in zeppelins and hurl rotting produce at you as they chant catchy slogans about how much you suck.

I’ve got this terrible suspicion that God hates me enough to curse me with kidney stones. Now from what I had heard about them they are basically mineral rocks shaped like razor wire and covered in lemon juice. They are roughly the size of cantaloupes and slowly rape their way down the old pisser until they eventually plop out in a shower of blood, instantly killing you.

So I was laying in my bed one night, sleeping like a baby. (This was back before I cut back on drinking and was still able to actually sleep well) I remember feeling this throbbing pain in my gut. It would come like a wave, starting with a faint murmur of discomfort, and growing in intensity until I was doubled over. I somehow managed to roll back over and sleep again for a few rounds of my internal tug of war, but quickly it escalated to the point where I was wide awake and beginning to suspect a medical emergency was befalling me. The pain would be gone for a minute or two as I regained my breath and composure, but sure as the tide it would return with even more fury than the previous wave.

The pain was low in my belly, right about mid happy trail, and didn’t really seem to be coming from one spot. More like an entire area. I had to do something, and I was already up, so I threw on some pants and cripple walked to the bathroom. I might as well pee if I had to suffer right? So I did, I peed long and hard, and as I sat there doing my best Austin Powers impression (minus the standing, which was impossible at this point) I seriously pondered whether I should call 911 and get some medical professionals there to hold my hand as I passed these terrible stones of evil. I decided against it, since I already felt emasculated enough and public agony outside of combat is almost always a wussy thing to go through.

So I sat there and waited, and waited, and continued waiting for a very long time. The agony in my innards was almost too much to take and I was, I will admit it, a little bit scared. I mean, who wants to die on the toilet? Even Elvis looked like a douche, and he was rich and famous. How would some poor nobody look when they found his grimacing corpse plopped on a crapped full of blood, and possibly entrails? Stupid, that’s how. And fuck that, Josh doesn’t ever look stupid involuntarily.

So I gritted my teeth and dealt with the pain. The searing never ending pain. Then I heard a noise, just a little gurgle in the intestine area. Almost nothing. And I thought to myself, “That almost sounded like diarrhea. But there’s no way, I mean you know what diarrh…”

BLAM!!!!! The last months worth of food exploded out my ass. It was a tirade of hell. The substance I encountered can’t even be called poo. It was poo water. I began to miss my precious anticipated kidney stones. I can’t even explain to you the force of the mass exodus, nor can I truly relate the pain and discomfort. I would compare it to childbirth, but at least then you kind of like what comes out. And it wouldn’t end. The seconds stretched into minutes. The minutes stretched into weeks. At one point I had to cut off the beard I grew because owls and field mice began using it as a home. Sad thoughts started to cross my mind.

What will they put on my tombstone?

If I survive this, my Maxim calendar will probably be out of date.

This must be what that hunter from Dream Catcher felt like right before he released that evil weasel-eel thing that killed the guy from Mallrats, except he went quick.

Dear God, I know me and you don’t always see eye to eye on anything everything, but please just end this now. “This” being my life, I’m not asking for much here dude. Seriously, like maybe a pillar of fire, or some lightning, or a swarm of killer bees. I don’t care just make it stop.

And eventually it did stop. After what seemed like eons of pain it finally ended. It took me a few minutes to recover enough to move, and when I did it was to the shower because nothing solid was coming near my butt again for a long time. (ie: toilette paper) After I got cleaned up I went back to bed and the sweet release of sleep swept over me. To this day I have no idea what caused the tragic mudslide of ‘07, but sometimes when a foul wind blows I can almost feel that deceptive little gurgle in my belly that was the war horn of the commode battle. I shudder at the thought and sincerely hope you never, ever, ever have to experience anything like it. I’m still scared of kidney stones, but there is no way they are worse than the horrors I have seen.

Fuck you Montezuma, fuck you hard with no lube you sick son of a bitch.

Do I look like someone who would smoke … marijuana? (pt. 1)

The answer is hell yeah I do. Cause I am someone who smokes marijuana, and I’m not the least bit sorry for doing so. In fact I think you should smoke it too, preferably with you mom and your children. Because getting high on life sucks, and you know it.

I kind of have to give a little summary of my drug related life up to this point. You see, for a long time I was as straight as an arrow. I proudly clutched my bible to my chest every Sunday as I gritted my teeth through the increasingly irritating services. I tried my damnedest to walk the straight and narrow, because that was what all the people around me were saying was good and proper, and holy shit I was scared of burning in hell.

Well, that just wasn’t the life I was supposed to lead. I had a little too much free thinker in me to be a good boy. And wouldn’t you know it, I began making friends who thought like me. My Junior year in high school, or living hell as I like to call it, I had completely surrounded myself with the bad seed of society. Those kids who your mother tells you not to hang out with, they were my people, and we all knew it. And it wasn’t long before I began to question exactly why I was following a moral code which so far had nothing to back it up.

I mean, everyone I enjoyed, all my friends, every person I didn’t think was a total douche bag, was already heavy into drugs and rock and roll. But on the other hand I had this pious gathering of religious tyrants who made my life a suck fest, and told me that everything I thought was fun was in fact the epitome of sin. And naturally I began to wonder if what I had been taught my entire life was in fact truth, or just a big lie to keep me in line. I started fucking with the heads of the good children around me, and to my surprise, they were very easily influenced. So if all the good kids that I knew who said drugs were bad were just puppets, and all the kids I thought were fun were free thinkers, then why the hell was I still a sober puppet?

It just so happens that some of my coworkers at the time had been trying to get me to smoke weed for several months. They had promised me a dollar if I just opened my mind and tried it. So one night I surprised them with a yes, and it was on. They never gave me that dollar, but what I got that night was ten thousand times more valuable. (twice that if the dealer you got it from stepped on it) I learned that what you are taught, by the people closest to you, is not necessarily true. You need to make your own decisions and do what you think is right. And what I thought was right was smoking as much weed as possible to catch up for all the years I had spent as a tool.

So I set out on a journey that took up the next four years or so. I got as high as is humanly possible. I tried every drug on the market, with the exception of heroin, cause I hate needles, and LSD cause every time it came around I missed it. And I eventually ended up on the idea that you can be as good as you want, but every person needs something bigger to open up their minds. For some people that thing is God. Not everyone is meant for drugs and fun and free living. But for many many good people like me, that thing that will free your mind of society’s restraints is a good old fashioned joint.

Skip ahead to the present and you will find a guy who’s not really a pot head, but also would really appreciate it if the whole world just backed the fuck up three steps and let me toke up in peace. I’ve got a lot of stress and bull shit going on in my life. And I’ve spent most of the last five years abstaining from pot because of all the various drug tests I’ve had to take. I swear to god, I can’t turn around without some ass hole I don’t even know forcing me to piss in a cup for them. If I want to smoke weed in my free time, why the hell shouldn’t I?

Forget that it’s illegal for five seconds and tell me just what exactly my smoking has to do with me performing my job, or being a responsible member of society? I am basically a construction worker. I fix mobile office trailers. How would me getting high stop me from painting, or replacing a toilette? How exactly am I a danger to anyone when I smoke? I’m not even a danger to myself. Damn, I just sit around and grin and munch on crazy shit I cook up. Where’s the crime? Is society afraid I might grow crappy white boy dreadlocks and start selling incense and tie die shirts from a stand in the flea market? Or would I mutate into some sort of criminally insane musician and travel the world singing my lies of love and peace? Will I transform into Bob Marley or Bradley Nowell, or every other musician in the history of good music? I mean, how many great rock stars can you name who weren’t high as hell when they made their best stuff? Ted Nugent, and that’s it. And he was only sober because he’s balls to the wall, bat shit crazy without drugs.

What I’m trying to say to the world in general with all this, is just try and have an open mind. If you don’t smoke, well good for you. Try it, maybe you’ll like it. Maybe you won’t. I don’t really care. Just don’t tell me what to do with my life. I resent the fact that I have to take a piss test if I get injured at work. I resent the fact that as a recreational marijuana enthusiast, I get thrown in the same prison as rapists and murderers. I resent that a prohibition on the much more dangerous drug alcohol was found to be unconstitutional, but somehow the prohibition on marijuana is still in full effect. I resent a generation of hippies who grew up to be tight ass politicians and cops and judges. I resent a state that in my opinion is still ruled by the church. I want my freedom. No fuck that. I demand my freedom to smoke weed if I want to. And if the government won’t give it to me, then I’ll just have to keep breaking the law. It’s what I do best anyway. And now that I’m smoking weed again, it doesn’t even stress me out, so everybody wins. (everybody = me)

Hell, you could even argue that America was founded on the principle of flipping the bird to the establishment and doing whatever you want. So basically if you are against the right to smoke marijuana, you hate freedom. And you are probably a communist who burns puppies alive for fun. It makes sense to me, but what do I know, I’m high right now.

And you may be wondering why I threw in a bunch of pictures. Well I started out with one or two topical ones, but then realized I have this huge selection of art I’ve found online, and I really enjoy art, so why not share some of it with you people. Happy 2008 everyone, I hope you all get laid a lot and win the lottery. Here’s a few more.