Category Archives: drugs

The New World Order Games

So you know that one topic every blogger everywhere has complained about at least once? I know you do, the dreaded “too busy to blog for a while” syndrome. I gots it. Or I has’d it, whatever, I’m not an English major OK? I’ve had a wicked case of real life distractions keeping me busy. And not even cool ones like partying a lot over the Labor day weekend (sike) but more like really ass-chappy ones such as working overitime way too much and keeping up with one’s own personal responsibilities like laundry, cleaning, studies, and porn. Although the porn wasn’t really ass-chappy for me so much as all those lovely ladies in the adult entertainment industry.


I'll take some of that vice now Mrs. Palin

Sadly enough, even having been retardedly busy, and not being able to be the total web addict, stat-whore, ass-sitter-onner I’ve dreamt of being since those days of yore when I was supposed to be paying attention in Sunday school, I’ve still had time to get really annoyed with everything going on in the world. I’m not even talking about politics people. (Although I will say that milf from Alaska who looks like Tina Fey needs to seriously think of running for Vice President of my balls, cause even if she’s spitting out retards she’s still hot as hell, and if this wasn’t already a run on sentence wildly out of control I’d fit in some oval office joke, but you get my drift) The thing that’s been giving me nervous ticks every time I turn on the television is the friggin Olympics.

With their retarded costumes, five dumb circles printed on everything, and idiotic location. Grrrrrrrrrrr! I hate the Olympics. OK, hate is a strong word. I find the Olympics boring as hell and irrelevant, and wish they would stop taking over every channel on television and the entire internet once every two years. I mean they are over and they’re still all over everything. Could they not find a shittier place to hold them than Beijing? Was Chernobyl taken? What about Skull island? On second thought, that would kind of rock, but that’s not the point. China sucks, there, I said it. Nobody moves to China, cause it’s a shitty place to live. It’s smoggy, and evil empirey, and chock full of SARS, and bird flu, and three foot women shouting the shrillest language on earth at the top of their lungs as if completely incapable of comprehending inside voices with their eastern logic. That’s why there are Chinese food restaurants on every block in the Western world, because anyone with any skill whatsoever gets out as soon as they can.

Any skill that is besides training their twelve year old daughters to flip around like fruity ninjas with hula hoops and jump ropes. (and making our toys of course) Good lord, I had to watch about thirty minutes of one of those gymnastics events where they randomly bust moves around this big ass padded square holding random objects. I mean throwing a hula hoop up to the ceiling and catching it is cool, but I did that in friggin middle school, albiet poorly, and I just don’t consider it a real sport. I’m sorry. It’s not. Not even if you’re wearing a flamboyant onesie with feathers and scale-looking-sequin patterns.

This is a circus act, not a sport.

This is a circus act, not a sport.

Many of the events weren’t actually sports in my opinion. Anything with a judge for instance. Jumping real far or high, that’s a sport. Running or swimming real fast is a sport. I would say fighting is a sport, but I don’t like judges to be involved in who wins. Hurling things real far, meh, alright I’ll give it to you. lifting heavy things, sure. But not twirling ribbons or swinging around on bars. That’s bull shit. Diving is total crap. Water polo is a sport, but it’s so dumb that nobody cares. Simply being difficult doesn’t make something an Olympic event in my opinion.

So I got to thinking, what should be in the Olympics. What would I want to see. I mean, surely if we’re going to include dumb shit that’s judged on opinion, then we can come up with more interesting events than gymnastics! Here’s how the Olympics would go down if I were in charge:

First of all hold them somewhere cooler, like Vegas, or Amsterdam. Or have them all in a haunted mental hospital, like the one they filmed the House on Haunted Hill in. (the remake) Second, less retarded unitards, more topless ladies! And not the Chinese twelve year olds or those hairy, mannish, fanged boner killers from Eastern Europe. I’m thinking more along the lines of at least the women’s volleyball teams. I mean that sport is already basically Olympic camel toe. And if we can’t find super hot chicks to play on the teams, then they have to bring buxom, morally bankrupt college coeds from their respective countries to act as ring girls for each event. While I’m on it, Olympic pole dancing sounds pretty cool. Or take it one step farther and have Olympic kegels and Olympic bukake.

In the Olympics, you get pumped full of Astroglide, and these are made of lead.

In the Olympics, you get pumped full of Astroglide, and these are made of lead.

Beer should be a main focus of the games. Nothing brings a bunch of random strangers from all over the world together quite like booze. Beer pong would be an obvious choice, as well as quarters, chugging, keg stands, and bar top wet t-shirt contests. In fact, a lot of games would be a lot cooler if a certain chemical level were manditory before every event. I’m talking drunken bowling, beer chugging track relays, and drunken javelin. Make that javelin catching. Or how about an even where you have to get really high and watch Grandma’s Boy without laughing. Greco Roman wrestling is way too homoerotic, let’s change that to alligator wrestling and thumb wrestling.

There should be some sort of giant robot fights, although Japan would clearly be the winner. It would just be cool to see what kind of crazy shit they can build when they put their minds to it. And in the same veign of violent sports, in celebration if China shitting all over that hippie country witht he llama, there should be Olympic protestor ass-kicking. (that would be professional MMA fighters kicking protesters asses, not the other way around) Perhaps even cage fighting with bears, or gorillas, or midgets. In fact, take all the protestors, not just from the Olympics but in general, and have them all duke it out gladiator style in melee death matches with animals and robots and boobie traps all combined. There would be no medals, but I think everyone would win that event.

Competitive eating should be in the Olympics. I know it’s horribly gluttonous and disgusting, but I love it. In fact, there should be an Olympic comittee to have an entire series of new games designed for the seven deadly sins. Sloth would be challenging to make interesting for viewers, but lust would totally make up for it. (back to my competitive bukake idea) Wrath could be a demolition derby, I enjoy those. Maybe with monster trucks instead of normal junked cars. Greed could just be reruns of the price is right. (with Drew, not Bob, he sucked and annoyed me with his stupid microphone) Envy could just be the rest of the world player hating America like they already do. (oooooooh! Snap! Sick burn!) (not really) So we would lose Envy, but clearly win in Pride. (Too bad jack-assery or political ineptitude aren’t cardinal sins, we’re pretty good a those too)

Like this but with fireworks for the crowd to shoot at the arena.

Like this but with fireworks for the crowd to shoot at the arena.

And then at the end everyone would just build a fake city and film it being blown up along side a montage of the best looking women from around the world dancing to Girls, Girls, Girls by Motley Crue, cause what’s cooler than TNT with T&A. Now that could be on every channel without pissing me off. USA baby! Bring on the pointless global regionalism!

PS – Go to hell Wheaties, you taste like shit.

Crimes Against Nature, and Other Sunday Morning Kicks

So I was a little vague about my own record, and ended up looking through the law books for a while today. While I was in there I realized there’s a friggin ton of kick ass stuff to do that’s against the law. I mean, everything fun is pretty much against the law. So in the spirit of my criminal founding fathers here in the USA who said fuck the police and bugger the King, I present to you my list of crimes I want to commit before I die. Crank up ACDC in your stolen cars and kiss your cousins y’all, it’s crime time on the highway to hell!

§ 14-8 Rebellion against the State: Who doesn’t want to one day be part of a rebellion that overthrows the shitty ass government we have now and starts fresh with a clean slate. Screw all these sweet ass laws I want to break, lets start with the one that ends them all!

§ 14‑12.3. Certain secret societies prohibited: As defined by the law, any secret political, military, or any other society aimed at violating or circumventing the law. I just love the sound of that, sign me up please. It would be like an actual black market with discount membership cards and everything. You can bet I’d be hitting up the produce, the pharmacy, and the hardware section, but the meat section is where the real surprises are.

§ 14‑16.6. Assault on executive, legislative, or court officer: I bet even all y’all well behaved folks can think of a government official or two you’d like to assault.

§ 14‑34.8. Criminal use of laser device: I have no words for how awesome this charge would be. It almost brought a tear of joy to my eye thinking about it.

§ 14‑43.2. Involuntary servitude: Dude. Heh … heheh ….. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!


§ 14‑72.4. Unauthorized taking or sale of labeled dairy milk cases or milk crates bearing the name or label of owner. What the hell, why is taking milk crates illegal? Fuck it, add it to the list.

§ 14‑79. Larceny of ginseng: this one’s for Emerald, and yes, it’s a real friggin law on the real law books. Go fig.

§ 14‑149. Desecrating, plowing over or covering up graves. Holy crap, these just keep getting funnier and funnier, I would never have thought of this one, although I did dance on a grave once. (an old ass one, so as not to piss off any young ghosts)

Article 26 – Offenses against Public Morality and Decency: With the notable exception of any of the crimes against minors in this chapter, I think pretty much every single one should be dropped, even if I don’t particularly want to break it myself. For instance, I wouldn’t want to break any bigamy laws, cause I have my hands full with one woman. But if you dig it, go for it Holmes. Likewise incest isn’t my thing, but I think it’s very entertaining (Jerry springer eat your heart out) and should be allowed, if that’s what you’re into. But at least half the laws in this chapter are just puritan Christian morals seeping unconstitutionally into the law books.

If you want to be a hooker, knock yourself out, impress me. Strippers should be able to do whatever they want. Porn should be able to do whatever it wants. (and clearly does, thank you internet) Cussing should be allowed encouraged in public, on television, and especially on the motherfucking radio you FCC cock suckers! Let the artists decide what they want their music to sound like. When Jesus starts recording again, I’m sure his singles will be very popular. I want to be allowed to run naked through the streets shouting FUCK at the top of my lungs while carrying a burning cross made of donkey porn. I hate it when other people force religious morality on me. Fuck you, who the fuck do you think you are? Oh yeah, the government.

My number one favorite law to break in this Chapter of the law would be so called “Crimes Against Nature”. So vaguely defined that even Wikipedia isn’t sure what the fuck they meant. It’s an open door for the government to tell me what I can and can not do in my own bedroom. Butt sex here I come, and if anyone sees Nature walking around, tell her I have some anal lube for her too.

§ 14‑202.11. Restrictions as to adult establishments: again, retarded. (by the way the law was really confusing here, so I could be misinterpreting it. You would think the laws here in America would be written in English, since we allegedly speak it and all, but no) Why can’t I buy vibrators at a strip club? What the fuck hell? What if I want to? What then huh? I’m already at a friggin strip club for Christ sakes. Maybe I should try and combine my secret society for the purpose of violating the law and this one, that would rock. What does your club do? You help the homeless? What a faggot, I sell sex toys in a strip club. Why would you restrict my adult entertainment? I purposely haven’t died yet just so I can enjoy all this shit. Damn!

§ 14‑256.1. Escape from private correctional facility: What? I can dream!

§ 14‑269.3. Carrying weapons into assemblies and establishments where alcoholic beverages are sold and consumed. Every little boy in the world dreams about this from his earliest days watching cowboy movies. Apparently being cool and protecting yourself is illegal. Lame, I wanna do it anyway.

§ 14‑277. Impersonation of a law‑enforcement or other public officer. I act like an asshole every day at work, does that count? I think it should, all I’m really missing is a badge. I already have a gun, and a propensity for beating people who don’t deserve it. Babies, the elderly, cripples, minorities, all must fear the long arm of the anti-law.

§ 14‑288.6. Looting; trespass during emergency. Ok, technically I would like to combine Inciting a riot, failure to disperse, and looting. Basically I want to be Bender from Futurama, but less robotic and more awesome, kind of like I already am, thank you very much. On second thought, maybe I’ll keep the robot thing, that does rock.

§ 14‑329. Manufacturing, trafficking in, transporting, or possessing poisonous alcoholic beverages. Now I’m not sure exactly how they define poisonous alcohol as opposed to regular “poison” alcohol, but I want to make moonshine, and if that isn’t poison it’s damn near the closest thing I’ve ever drank, and it’s illegal.

§ 14‑362. Cockfighting: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Awesome!

§ 14‑381. Desecration of State and United States flag: Now I am very patriotic, not only to the United states, but to Dixie Land as well, and if I want to hang my flag upside down and backwards as a general statement about the condition of our government then I should damn well be able to. I have before, and I will again, kiss my ass Uncle Sam, you’re not the boss of me.

§ 14‑395.1. Sexual harassment: Here I come bitches, best have some fun with that T and A before you’re too old and gross!

§ 14‑400. Tattooing; body piercing prohibited: Now if I’ve been present whilst one minor was tattooing another minor, does that pretty much violate the spirit of the law, cause it’s a bit late to get tattooed underage.

§ 14‑401.6. Unlawful to possess, etc., tear gas except for certain purposes. Again, weapons? I want them, I thought I had the right to bear arms you rotten pig fuckers. Give me tear gas or give me death! (preferably tear gas, that wasn’t an invitation)

§ 14‑401.20. Defrauding drug and alcohol screening tests: I so did that while in drug class and on probation! And I made a killing!

§ 14‑444. Intoxicated and disruptive in public. Again, been there, done that. And yet somehow didn’t get arrested for it yet.

§ 14‑460. Riding on train unlawfully: I just might be a hobo if I damn well please. What if I am tired of being a slave to money and working all the time and just want to see the country? I mean I don’t, but maybe when I’m old and all my friends and family have been killed in the revolution. Who knows. I hear the hippie movement is big into that, being vagrant and all. Why not? There’s not much in this world hotter than a woman with a facial tattoo covered in dirt and sweat, and I so wish I was joking when I said that.

So now you tell me, what law would you like to break? Hell make it a meme or something, post your own list. But come back and let me know if you do cause I’ll probably be too busy looting with hookers to surf the whole net for blog updates.

Frankie the Weed Man

I’m gonna tell y’all a little about my drug dealer. We’ll call him Frankie the Weed Man. Now Frankie and I have been close friends for a very long time. We know each other very well. And good old Frankie just got himself a new house. Well, it’s not a new house, and it’s not really his. He has three other room mates, but you get the idea, he just moved in. And Frankie is a younger fellow, so this is the first time he’s lived away from his family. I’ve kind of been procrastinating about going over to visit him. There’s no easy way to get there on my scooter. It’s either balls to the wall speeders on highway 40, or it’s pissed off rednecks in gigantic trucks down little old skinny ass, crazy winding Old Garner Road. Either way spells probable death for yours truly. Plus I’ve been busy as hell anyway, between work, studying, chores, alcohol classes, and spending way too much time on Facebook and looking at porn, well I’ve been pretty well swamped for time. But he came over last night and told me I had fifteen minutes to get ready, cause we were going to hang out at his house. So I got my ass off MSN messenger, cleaned up a little, and hopped in his car to go have some fun.

Now, I don’t really need a good weed connection. I’m what you might call a light weight. But as any of you who have spent any time purchasing drugs will know, dealers tend to be kind of like Cheech and Chong. They get really into their pot scene, and sometimes go a bit overboard with it all. First of all, on the way to his house we stopped at a country gas station for some booze. Since he’s underage I told him to chill in the car while I got my Budweiser, and of course he promptly forgot all about it and walked right in to buy some blunt papers. It’s a small store with these ancient country folks running it, and they know we came in the same vehicle, especially when we end up right next to each other in line. So Frankie gets his mango-strawberry-cool whip-hickory smoked blunt wraps, or whatever those freaks have come out with this week, and the old man is just scowling at him like he ran over his dog or some shit. He’s clearly one of those old school baptist country boys, who frown on things like smoking weed and getting drunk and saying fuck really loud when you accidentally knock over a bunch of beef jerky. Anyway, old man river is looking right pissy when I set my twenty case up on the counter. He just scowls at me, not saying a word. So I scowl right back at him, and very very slowly pull out my wallet. We have our little stare down and then the transaction continues and I walk the hell out of there before he goes vigilante justice on my ass. Me and frankie laughed about it on the way out. Apparently he was giving the old man a hard time too. Surly bastard.

Anyway, so right before we get to his house he warns me not to have sex with Blondie. Now, I’ve never met Blondie before, so I appreciate the lookout, but normally I pretty much trust my own judgment on what sort of strangers I meet at my drug dealers house I want to sleep with, and which ones I want to avoid. (mainly all of them) So I asked him why exactly should I pass on Blondie’s tang if it was available. Apparently she has herpes. Good call Frankie, I’ll make sure to never ever bang that chick. Close one, sort of.

We go in and flick on the lights and he tells me that none of his room mates are home right now, but one of their moms is going to be stopping by later for some pot, so not to freak out if she showed up unannounced. I thought I could manage that. Now this house is a very old farm house. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a hundred years old or more. All the rooms have weird angles. It’s full of those twists and turns, and surprise nooks that you only find in old houses that have been built on to over the years. And it turns out that this house is also racist. No joke, the living room is covered with murals of old plantation life. At first glance it just looks like some pleasant pictures of people riding horses and having picnics. But then you look a little closer and all those people are rich white folks. The rest of the mural is black slaves leading the horses back to the barn, and I’m not kidding one single bit, picking cotton. Bahahahahaha! Cotton picking slaves! That’s so horrifically politically incorrect that it blows my mind. I can’t believe no one has painted over it in all these years. It’s clearly been there for a very long time.

So we head on up to his bedroom, and I’m telling him how I love old houses. He said he liked everything but the ghosts. “Ghosts?” Well apparently there’s some sort of cellar where he thinks black slaves were tortured. I think he’s just been smoking too much reefer. So he whips out his bud, consisting of several very large bags of different grades, and picks the one he wants to pack up Camel Tits with. (Camel tits is a zig zag shaped bong with a picture of a camel that has tits for humps) Now, I haven’t smoked out of a bong for years. Like I said before, I’m a lightweight. So of course upon hearing this he packs up his hairiest heady dank, and even pulls out some dank crystals he had been collecting from his dank only grinder. Skip ahead a few minutes as Frankie is hollering down the hall at me, “if you’re gonna puke do it in the sink! The toilet leaks into Nicks room!” I didn’t puke, but I did take one hell of a dank ass bong hit, followed by a few more. What the hell right? I mean life is short, I might as well have some fun with my dealer. Who needs functional lungs?

So he hands me a purple marker and tells me to draw something on the door paper thingie. After closing the door to get to the back side I was greeted with a big sheet of paper across the back labeled “door paper thingie”. Me thinks I have found what I was looking for. I started drawing a dragons head, but quickly realized that dragons drawn in purple are inherently non-badass, so I gave up on the whole gnarly death lizard thing and gave him black-face lips and a corn cob pipe. At this point I notice the naked chicks at the top of the door. “Sweet, nice pussy dude” was my first reaction.

Now I did not know it at the time, but apparently these two posters of fine young women putting on display what the good Lord had given them was more than just two posters of naked chicks. Turns out it’s their secret gay test. Apparently Frankie and his room mate across the hall have had some guys come over and they weren’t sure if they were ….. digging in the oyster ditch or playing the meat flute, so they devised a gay test that was a secret between the two of them. They would seat said individual on the couch facing the door and casually swing it shut. If their first reaction was something about the ladies, they were straight. If they didn’t say anything about the girls, they were fags. Not that they hate fags or anything, they just like to know. But I passed. I asked Frankie if he had to deal with a lot of gay folks and he just laughed. Apparently right before he had come to pick me up he had accidentally found a butt plug at one of his gay clients houses. I can’t write down his reaction because it was just a long series of faces and guttural sounds, but let me assure you it was funny as shit. Kind of like Earnest P. Worrell.

We had some really funny stuff go down, and I can’t even remember all of it, mostly because of the dank bong hits and the beer, but just a few more stories of interest. I saw my first hydroponic setup. They’ve got a wicked little grow room hidden away in part of their roof. And they’ve got a bunch of little seeds germinating from five different kinds of dank strains. I am excited to see that take off. He had another bong he called the Nintendo. Probably like myself you are wondering why they named it that. Well apparently it only takes cartridges. If you don’t know what cartridges are, don’t feel dumb, neither did I. Apparently you roll up a blunt, dry it out, and cut it into four pieces. These can be inserted into the slider on a bong, and give you four hits or so of premium blunt flavor. And each little section of blunt looks like the cartridges that Spider man uses to shoot web. Cool name but lame application. I hate blunts. I think they taste like dog shit and should only be smoked by the ghetto ass urban bitches who came up with them. I think respectable potheads should smoke from pipes and bowls and bongs and shit, and limit their rolled up smoking to joints like God intended, but apparently I’m the last person on earth who thinks that, so too fucking bad for me. (I don’t like 50 cent either, and I think corn rows look retarded) Plus it’s almost impossible to pass around a blunt with half the people you-know-what lipping it. Bah! I hate blunts.

He had a tit ball. This is even more kick ass than whatever you are thinking of. Imagine a rubber ball filled with some sort of liquid, so it jiggles like a tit. And on one side, is a nipple. It’s all painted to look like a human tit and everything. And they invented a game to go with tit ball. Basically you have to make a basket out of your hand and keep the tit ball jiggling, then pass it back and forth. Whoever drops it, or accidentally stops jiggling it looses.

So anyway, we had gone down to the kitchen for some more beer, and I asked him where this torture dungeon cellar was where apparently he had said they got their ghosts from. I mean, you can’t just tell me you have a haunted dungeon under your house and not show me the damn thing. He opened this door that lead down to the cellar, but the light wasn’t working. So he went off looking for a flashlight to show me. He couldn’t find one. So instead we pulled out our lighters and headed down the staircase into the pitch black cellar. You could feel the cold air blowing past you as we descended the rickety stairs. I had to duck to avoid hitting my head, and the bottom stair was broken, which I found out right about the same time I found out the hand rail was only barely attached. In the blackness I could smell that stale dirt smell that really old cellars have. There was a light bulb, but it was blown out. It was a short room, looked to be the size of the house, but honestly I couldn’t see more than seven or eight feet ahead of me with the tiny flame as our light.

The ceiling, built low to begin with, was made even lower by the air ducts that had been added onto the house some time after electricity was invented. You had to stoop over to walk around, and old cobwebs hung from every beam and duct. The house above us creaked and groaned from the wind, complaining of old age to anyone who would listen. Frankie lead me to the back wall of the cellar where there was a door built into the block wall. It appeared to be a very sturdy door, with those old hand wrought hinges, and a large metal beam that locked it shut. It was stuck in place, so Frankie had to push on the door as I slid out the cross bar, in the dark since neither of us could use our lighters for this. I set the bar up against the wall and pulled on the door. It was heavy, and groaned at me as I opened it. One of the air ducts had been placed close to the door, so it only opened enough to barely fit one person in if you squeezed. Frankie told me this is where they had kept the slaves who were bad, and tortured them when they tried to escape. So I held up my tiny flame and peered inside, but saw only cobwebs and falling dust from the door. So I put my flame hand in first and slid my body in sideways between the door and it’s frame. I stood there just inside the tiny room, trying to make out images in the flickering light. Right then Frankie screamed and grabbed me.

I am not going to lie, I hollered something awful loud. He got me good on that one. There were never any ghosts. The lights worked just fine. He had actually brought it all up at the beginning of the night trusting that my own curiosity would eventually lead me down into the basement for a good scare. One day I am going to own a house with a creepy ass basement and scare the living shit out of people all the time. It was priceless. And the lighter part, that was pure genius. I should have seen it coming, in fact the thought had crossed my mind that he was going to try and scare me when we got down in there, but still he completely surprised me. The timing, the scenery, every part of that practical joke was executed perfectly. So here’s a tip of the hat to Frankie the Weed Man for scaring the crap out of me, I loved it dude. That was like watching all two hours of the Devils Rejects for the first time, except cramming all the fear into ten seconds. Cheers you hilarious asshole. You’ve got it coming.

Outlaw life in suburbia: the mild mild west.

Good old Emerald, being the daughter of Rock and Roll incarnate, has recently mentioned how much she hates the suburbs. And that’s all good, except almost every memory I have is from the suburbs, where I’ve lived my entire life. So in todays post I want to address some of the pro’s and cons of Suburbia, the land of manicured lawns and one thousand drug stores.

First off I want to say that I can’t speak for all of the suburban sprawl across the planet. I realize that there are vastly different cultures in vastly different areas, and that will have a big impact on how life in Suburbia is for you. But I will tell you about my own experiences, as I saw them, in my little slice of Earth culture.

I was born in Florida, not that it matters much. I only lived there as an infant, although I spent a good deal of my childhood living there on vacation with my extended family. After Florida, my family moved to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love. More like the city of filth and crime. And even there we were in the suburbs. I remember some great memories from my life in Philly, but I also remember the constant threat of city violence and crime. It was livable, but not really good. I remember the snow the most. We had this kick ass park with what seemed like a gigantic hill that got covered in snow every winter. We weren’t allowed to play there by ourselves, but I remember sledding on that hill all the time. I still miss snow to this day. Also I remember this pizza joint in our neighborhood. Every time we went there this old Italian yankee dude would greet us and take our order. He remembered our names every time, and I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the best pizza in the whole freakin world. I mean this family could cook up some delicious shiznit. Fo sho. But that’s about all I remember about living there.

So my family ended up in Raleigh, North Carolina. This is where I have almost all of my memories. All my life can be summed up in the suburbs if Wake county. And I don’t really think that’s a bad thing. I had a lot of good memories in Suburbia. So here’s some of the good and bad things I remember from living here.

Something about Suburbia has always felt really weird, like it shouldn’t exist in real life. It’s always had a certain Alice in Wonderland feel to the entire experience. The way the carefully landscaped lawns and gardens laid across the land like checkerboards at night. Rabbits and cats prowling the shadows and the occasional night bird. Fairy circles in the grass, and the symphony of a thousand cicadas trying to drown out the crickets and frogs. The flickering orange light from the street lights, illuminating empty streets occupied only by the occasional dog walker and cop, and of course the random scurrying societal misfit sneaking hither and thither on some black market mission. That’s why I always liked taking a lot of drugs and wandering around at night. My favorite was hallucinogenics, but you can take whatever you like the most. It’s all fun. I recognize this may be perceived as a bad idea, but I wasn’t ever in any danger, except from the ever vigilant pigs. There are a lot of cops in Suburbia, but you can artfully dodge them if you know you neighborhood, and have two licks of common sense. Trust me when I say that cops are much, much less intelligent than criminals. (me at least) If you can get away with it you deserve to. And boy did we. Almost every night in my later high school years, I would carefully slip open the window, ease my body out into the hot air of the night, and hit the road for some nocturnal suburban chemical voyages.

The general hub of travel for our neighborhood was South Garner Park. (that’s right, South Park) Located between the two subdivisions next to ours, it had a seemingly endless array of dark forest paths to escape through. All the bad kids would eventually meet up in this park. And at eleven every night a police officer would drive in, scope the place out, and lock it up so no cars could get in. After then you were safe. We climbed the soccer goals, threw rocks at the lights, raided the shack for candy, started fires. Whatever destructive activities our minds could come up with, we could do it, and all whilst higher than a fucking kite. And if the cops ever did show up, none of them knew the paths well enough to run down them at night. Even with the added advantage of flashlights, we could out run the cops in the dark. At one point we constructed this massive, MASSIVE fort in one section of woods between some trails. I mean, the walls were made of logs dug into the ground and placed as vertical posts. The exterior was camouflaged so well that even in the winter with no leaf cover, you still couldn’t see the damn thing from twenty five feet away. We carried some benches into it, along with a cooler and some lawn chairs, even a grill from the park. We had a fire pit. It was awesome. I couldn’t ever find it without help, since I was absent during the construction phase. But I had this friend named Scott, and I would follow him down these forest paths at night, only barely perceptible patches of moonlight sifting down through the branches to light the way, and he would simply glide down the path. Scott was a kind of creepy guy anyway, because besides being extremely large, and having green hair, he almost never spoke. Still to this day getting him to say more than three words is like pulling teeth. But Scott would silently, I don’t know how to explain it, levitate through the woods for a few minutes, then suddenly stop at some secret marker, and walk right into the forts secret door just a few paces away.

Eventually though, we started getting cars and could branch out and find newer, cooler places in suburbia to fuck around. There was a closed down strip mall about ten minutes up towards Raleigh, and all the bums lived in the woods behind it. At the time, the only thing that was open in the mall was a black night club, and it was only open at night. So we would head back to the loading docks out of view of any pigs and skate around getting drunk and having fun. Occasionally we would have to chase off some homeless fucker who thought the sheltered dock belonged to him, but usually we would leave each other alone.

We discovered this dirt utility road that lead back into the woods on highway fifty. It wound past a condemned house that had been grown over, and around to this really sweet pond in the middle of the woods. I guess the city built it there to access the water lines that had man holes farther on down the road, but at the time we just hung out at the pond. I didn’t discover the man holes till a few years later when I slept in my car at the end of that road for a month or so. But this pond was completely hidden from all view. No houses around at all. And it was just as pretty as you could ever ask for. The duck weed grew thick and healthy, and the woods looked pristine, even though we were really just between developments. We rolled some concrete pipe down the road about a hundred yards and made a trash barrel so we could keep our new spot nice and clean. We called it “the cut”. But eventually word started to spread that there was a new safe place to pull off a car and smoke up or get drunk with plenty of people, and the city chained off the road. Too many dip shits found our secret cut, trashed the place, and brought the heat.

I remember the first time we climbed the towns water tower. It was located right behind one of the police substations, so you had to be really careful. Well, we should have been really careful, but we didn’t really give a shit back then. We would steal the antennas from the police cars and give them to our friends. They get really good reception I hear. For some reason stealing antennas from in front of a police substation on the historic main street seemed perfectly safe, but screwing that sucker on my own vehicle seemed way too risky. Once you parked your car and snuck back to the lot, you had to get in this huge fence with barbed wire. But the idiots who locked it up left enough chain to slide in between the gates. Then you had to turn a palate up on it’s end to reach the bottom of the ladder. And someone had to carry the beer up, usually a 24 pack. That was harder than it sounds cause you’re climbing hundreds of feet straight up a ladder. Maybe thousands of feet, I’m not sure, I am what you might call a ground person.

It gets scary at about thirty feet, cause you realize that if you do fall, you will probably get killed. Once you get up above the pine trees you can see out across the town, and your arms start to get a little tired. Then you realize that if anyone above you on the ladder slips, you’re probably going down too. When you pass the tree tops, the wind starts to pick up and whip at your body. Somewhere around fifty feet before you reach the top, the ladder actually starts to lean out a little, so you’re climbing up a ladder waaaay off the ground, carrying 288 ounces of beer, leaning back, and your arms feel like they’re going to give at any minute. Sometimes people would panic right about here and just freeze. Not cool. But somehow we made it all the way up and back down every time. We’d sit up there looking out for what seemed like the whole span of the planet, sipping our beers, pissing down on the trees below us, and staring out at the moon and stars and the big buildings over in Raleigh.

Eventually the cops caught on that we were fucking around there too. Again, too many dumb fuckers making too much racket and tearing shit up. We had a few close calls where we had to hoof it from the police. They never caught us climbing the tower. But eventually this dickless sack of monkey shit narked out me and my two little brothers by name, alleging that he was meeting us there later that night for a big drug deal, which wasn’t true. They stationed two police cars at each of the water towers in Garner that night. It just so happened that one of the guys in my car lived on that tiny road that went past the police substation and the water tower. When we went to drop him off, they pulled us. That was on Independence day, 2001. The police were so proud of themselves for catching such vile public enemies. That was the first time I ever caught a charge, possession of an alcoholic beverage by persons under the age of 21. If I ever see that rotten mother fucker who narked out me and my brothers to try and save his own ass, who made up some bull shit and had three fucking separate police stings going to catch us, I swear on my fucking testicles I’m going to stomp a mud hole in his ass and walk it dry. Snitches get stitches Brandon fucking Stancill, and if I ever find you, you’d better have a fucking gun, cause no amount of kung fu or muscles is going to stop the tirade of hate I rain down on your sub human ass. Fuck you, you wigger bitch.

Ahem. Sorry about that.

I suppose that pretty much sums up my life in the suburbs. If we need anything special, you can find just about anything you want up in Raleigh, Durham, or Chapel Hill. We didn’t have all the crazy shit people living in big cities have available, and that meant we often had to find our own ways to have fun, but we were good at that. Because kids in the suburbs are often a lot of fun. I had many more good experiences than bad. I met a lot of good people, and only a few scum bags like Brandon. Sure, in the suburbs you can’t ride the subway, but that means everyone owns a car and therefore has more mobility. And maybe if you get a craving for falafels at two in the morning there isn’t any place to get them. But this is North Carolina, there aren’t any places to buy falafels in the first place. If you get hungry in the middle of the night, and you don’t feel like getting off your ass and cooking, then just head on down to the Waffle House, or the Country Kitchen and grab some good old fashioned souther cookin. I promise the tea will be just as ice cold and sweet as you can imagine, and the waitresses will be gnarled and burly country women, just like they should be. We may not have the Broadway nights, but you’ve probably never tasted any shine. And we may not have huge museums, but have any of you downtown big city folks ever picked psilocybic mushrooms from a cow field fifteen minutes from your house? I can be in the capital building in twenty minutes and feed deer in the back yard every night. I can head to Raleigh and watch the Carolina Hurricanes stomp your asses for the Stanley Cup again, or I can head the other direction towards Benson for Mule Days. Nobody gets to have everything in their life, and sometimes I wonder what it’s like to live in a huge urban metropolis, but honestly I really love the suburbs, and I really love the south. I’m happy with my place here on earth, and if you don’t like it, you can kiss my rebel ass! (no offense Em, I’m not directing that at you, even though you inspired this post. Although if you really got the hankerin’ for a little booty smooch, well, we could play that by ear)

Now in the spirit of doing stupid, crazy shit, just for fun to pass some time in the suburbs, (like right before the Super Bowl for instance) here’s a few pictures of me riding my scooter while holding a pirate flag stapled to a pick axe.

Outlaw life incarnate.

There goes the neighborhood

I realize this is probably the most bad ass thing you have ever seen. Mr. Redshirt felt the same way about it. Please note that I am clearly standing up while driving downhill at top speed, with one hand, and no helmet, with not only a pirate flag in my hand, but a skull and cross bones on my Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt. I apologize if you just came in your pants, I assure you that was not the only purpose of this photo shoot.

No more Mr Nice Guy

I really liked this last photo. It was actually a crappy shot of me riding around in circles in the cul de sac, but you can see the entire family of red necks sitting across the street watching me screw around. I kind of like to think of my beer fueled antics as a public service, curing the boredom epidemic. Have a nice hump day, or plague day, whatever you call it.

Parents: keeping psychotic fears alive and well in the new millenium.

Wow. I just finished watching a Frontline report titled Growing up Online. It delved into the various aspects of a generation who’s always had the internet and the various dangers they face in a new digital world. All the old familiar fears that the media has been bellowing at the top of their lungs since the first high school kid logged onto the first chat room back before social networking sites ruled the planet. Will your kid leak photos that make them look like the jackass they are? Will they find porn and become weirdos who make the Jergens stock skyrocket in value? Will predators find your kid, become obsessed with them and abduct them to take back to their kiddie porn dungeons? Can the internet make your kid worship Satan and commit suicide while binging and purging, drinking underage, and breaking national copyright laws?

It was basically an entire hour of conservative suburban parents freaking out for no reason. And I stayed to watch every second. Now there were some good points about safety on the internet. One kid ended up hanging himself because he was being bullied, online and off, and he hooked up with another suicidal kid who basically showed him online tutorials for how to kill yourself, and even encouraged him to end everything. That sucks. I’m sure that is a devastating event in any parents life. But the internet was at most a catalyst for a depressed kid with serious problems he was trying to deal with. The problem wasn’t that there are sites that show you how to kill yourself. The problem is that the kids in his school were making his life a living hell, and no one stood up for him. Life’s a bitch.

Likewise, an anorexic girl who went online to network with other anorexic females. She found sites promoting and glamorizing eating disorders, and lots of other people who had the same baggage she had. The internet did not cause this. Neither did television. The fact is that our entire society is pretty fucked up. Every kid faces a mountain of pressure and stress that other generations just plain didn’t experience. Going through high school almost all my friends were fucked in the head one way or another. If they weren’t raped or molested as kids, then they burned and cut themselves. If they didn’t have an eating disorder, their parents beat them. Everyone got bullied. Everyone got picked on and treated like shit. Not just a few loners, the vast majority. And trying to blame these things on the internet is not only retarded as hell, but it completely ignores the actual source of the problems: real life bull shit.

Guess what, I’ve got problems too. I suffer from depression. I have a serious drinking problem. I’m socially awkward and insecure and I poke my fat in the mirror just like everyone else. And I have to deal with my shit without going overboard just like everyone else. But none of my problems have jack shit to do with the internet.

The best part of the program though was when they interviewed this suburban PTA mom from Jersey. I felt so sorry for her kids. She was overbearing and overprotective in a way that truly creeped me out. She only allowed one computer in the house, and it was in the kitchen, where she could hover and watch as her kids tried to surf the net and talk to their friends in peace. And she had the balls to get pissed about the fact that they were shutting her out. Maybe this will explain why.

One of her sons went to a concert at Madison Square Gardens with a bunch of his friends. While they were out, a lot of the students got wasted. There was photos and video posted on MySpace the next day, and some vigilant asshole let the Nazi Mom know about it. She was appalled. There were kids passed out, and kids puking, and kids generally having a kick ass time going to a concert with their friends in NYC. So this bitch sends an email to every parent in the school. Mayhem ensues, and now her kids accuse her of ruining their high school lives. And she’s all choked up because they are shutting her out. Well no shit Sherlock. You think that helped them get along better with the people they have to see every day? You know what happens to narcs in school? Bitches get stitches, that what.

Maybury doesn’t exist. Leave it to Beaver is not how America is, never really was. Kids drink now. Kids do shit you didn’t do, or maybe did do and don’t want to admit. My parents think they know all about how my life is because they listened to the Who and smoked weed while their parents were still listening to Pat Boone and Harry Bellafonte. But quite frankly I’ve done and seen things they never even had to think about when they were young. I’m not always proud of what I’ve done, I honestly have done some rotten, gnarley, dangerous, rebellious shit. But partying and rebelling doesn’t make you a bad kid. It makes you a normal kid questioning the values you’ve been presented in life.

Now her kids won’t even get online at their own home because their mom is so controlling, they can’t even have a private conversation with their friends. All this in the name of internet safety and parental responsibility? Fuck that. Her kids aren’t ten years old. They are in their late teens. Not babies, but half grown adults. You can’t force an adolescent kid to let you listen in on every phone conversation, read every email, and let you shake it off when they take a piss. Of course they will shut you out of their life. You’re fucking it up. Teens need some freedom to become individuals. Restricting their personal freedom will only make them push you and your psychotic rules out of their life, or worse, stunt their social development so much that you have adult children running around asking mommy to help them with everything. Double fuck that.

And when the kids were interviewed, they pretty much said their mom was a fucking idiot. Every single kid they talked to said they knew not to tell people where they lived. Every single one said they deleted and blocked creepy sexual advances. And you know if even one kid had admitted to talking to predators online, they would have put it in the program, because fear sells. Even the experts they interviewed agreed that the threat of predators online has been blown out of proportion. They said that in most of their studies, there was much less sexual advances than they expected. And in addition to that, most of the advances were not the sort of creepy big fat hairy guy in a basement that people associate with internet predators. Mostly it was the nineteen year old hitting on the seventeen year old, which honestly shouldn’t be against the law anyway. Not that I want to hook up with young chicks, but honestly, a two year difference is not a big deal. In fact, in my state, it isn’t illegal. The age of consent is sixteen, with a four or five year age difference limit until you turn 18 and become a legal adult.

But forget my legal tangent. My point is that I understand that there are dangers online. I know this. But I also know that if you just explain this shit to your kids, they will probably protect themselves very well. The internet has created a generation gap even wider than the previous ones. People no longer have to keep their families in the loop. Kids can log on and tune out their parents while interacting with people across the world. My generation is comfortable in a digital world that the previous one is struggling to adapt to. But you gotta trust your kids to know the right thing to do. Kids aren’t stupid. Wait no, kids are stupid, but they know how to behave online so stop flipping out. Just think, you are more likely to crash your car and kill them than they are of being abducted by an online predator*.

(*not actual statistic, conjured from thin air to prove point)

The internet can be a beautiful technology. I know it’s opened up a lot of new things for me. I’ve made friends across the globe. I’ve found new hobbies. I am constantly learning new exciting things about the world that I never would have if it weren’t for the internet. I am probably going to make a career working on the internet one day. So mothers, love your kids, but release the strangle hold. It’s really not necessary. Talk to your kids. Find out what’s going on in their life. But don’t smother them or they will turn out like me. They will get pissed and reject everything you’ve ever taught them, eventually sprinting to hell.


I wrote this a few weeks ago and wanted to come back and add a little bit about the general vulgarity of the internet that makes me chuckle every day. Anyone out there who has a WordPress blog (WordPress is the best, switch now) will know about your blog stats. It’s a fun side page that lets you know a little about the traffic you blog is getting. My particular favorite is the “Search Engine Terms” section which shows you all the terms people have somehow used to find your blog. Now for me, almost every visitor I get has come here looking for either drugs and alcohol, or something sexual. Hands down, 95% of my visitors. And this is every single day. I took a screen shot yesterday just to kind of give you an idea.

You’ll notice the only two searches that weren’t about drugs or sex were “retarded daughter”, which is hilarious, and “DONKEYS” which is kind of weird. Hell, just today I got eight hits for “how to put cock in butt without hurting”. Eight freaking hits. Apparently there’s a lot of people out there who have never heard of Crisco. And “how to find weed at burning man”? Really? Try closing your eyes, spinning in a circle, and asking the first person you see if they have some to sell. Odds are they won’t but they will instead dose you on acid and give you a sweet discount on peyote infused X. Dumbass. I’ve kept a list of all the results that stood out for one reason or another. Here’s just a few selections from said list:

“fun to swear”

gas motor vibrations clit

spicy coon/coon pussy

Wendy farts a lot/broccoli farts/donkey fart/shit locker

man accidentally fucking donkey (as if that’s even possible you dip shit)


make someone look like they are on fire


let me tell you why he should be the emp (a double whammy. Both insanely long for a search and completely nonsensical)

Best stuff to do when high on weed/doctors who smoke weed/how much weed can one person smoke/do vegetarians smoke weed (I don’t know, ask Em)

“baby oil”

real life she hulks