Spring Cleansing

Here's some shit that's accumulated on my computer lately, prettty much just aborted entries. Enjoy it or don't.

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One of the few things people don't know about me is that I'm an excellent dancer--one of the best, in fact. And, as most women will tell you, the way a man dances is a good inicator of how he will perform in the sack. The problem for me is that, like sex, I consider dancing to be a very intimate act between two people and, like sex, I have to be extremely drunk to do it in front of a crowd. But seriously, folks, I was driving around today, and I saw a restaurant on the corner of Olympic and San Vincente called, "Hunan Taste." In my book, that's similar enough to "Human Waste" to verge on the eerie. To that I say, NO thank you! Seriously, am I right?

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LINKS:

http://www.soufoaklin.com/tattooartistbehindbars.html

http://www.amcgltd.com/archives/002392.html

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I think I'm stealing the premise (and not just the format) from an old Letterman top 10 list, but here are som of the least commonly used hyphenated words (inspired by an article I just read in which Belgium was described as "Maryland-sized")

walrus-powered

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Nicknames:
The Archduke of Archery
The Viscount of Violence
The Duke of Early Warning Systems
The Prince of Prance
America's House-Bound Uncle
The King of the Conga
The Human Flume
The Littlest Giant
The Curate of Cured Meat

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The 2004 Worsties

Worst Election - The 2004 General Election
Worst Thing - The Scissor Sisters

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I'm halfway tempted to turn this into an all sports chat site, ideally to be anchored by beloved San Diego radio personalities, Stoney and the Dooch (hosts of "Sportsgab," "Chargers Chat," and The Padres "Hot Corner" postgame call-in show), but I'm not sure. On the one hand, I enjoy sports. On the other hand, I enjoy other things. So you can see where I'm torn. Still it's hard for me to ignore what's happening in Washington, D.C., a city that I'm proud to call not very far from one of the places I've called home.

The story is that some politicians in Washngton (not the important kinds of politicians they have in Washington, but, like, the mayor and stuff) eagerly agreed to a deal that promised the city government would completely finance the building of a half-billion dollar stadium on the banks of the mighty Anacostia, smack dab in the middle of what is perhaps the worst neighborhood in a city frequently at or near the top of the yearly per capita homicide charts.
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Guess what! I'm gonna have a baby! Don't ask me how it happened, 'cause I don't know--it's been ages since I let a man have his way with me. What matters is that something beautiful is happening inside of me, and I couldn't be more excited if the entire original Broadway cast of "Chess" (my favorite!) were right here in my living room beside me.

Fon du Lac Slim
Meat Machine
Pudd'n'head
Bonecrusher

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cartoon ideas:

the amputeens
uncle grandpa
the ku klux klowns
old scumbags
the potty bears
transvestite dentist

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(Various spams I've recieved):

fuck like when you were 19 isomer
Fuck YOU - if YOU WANNA TO LOST UR MONEY ---> INVEST US -->>>
lolol... no way.. your joking right... your own cousin suckling
Young Latvian girls live from Riga ,Latvia
love fried food?
pump your mother with semen! business
Stupid Will Only Buy Softwares From Shop, lol miscreated blintz adherent
Pacheco <> Info you requested
an asshole-date one today navajo
Mature woman needs to talk to a girl
i have this arms problem
Get nominated for a degree
Censored GangFacials rob
hi bro-watch me rub my pussy diploid
How would you like PERMANANT penis growth chambers
Picked up at a bus stop and pumped full of cream!
love peanut butter?
maam,does your man need support? conspirator
complex nose information
CamContacts Confirmation: You are win our girl for 1 hour free of charge
earring phytoplankton galactic storeroom
Im delisha, check out my pics
How is your male member doing? rmgomor
dont you like teen assholes? irritate
Can You Last 36 Hours E|R|E|C|T|I|O|N? qrwo
lick virgin vulvas semitic
fuck like a angel



helo

Sorry for not msging you before hand. I had a wonderful time looking at your profile
online. My real name is Kristy Hopknes, though I usually like to be called by my
nick name Candy. It's a long story how I got this name so it isn't important right
at this moment. What is important is that I would like to get in touch with you.
I am usually up for chatting, or talking. I love a good smart conversation, where we
can communicate to one another with simplicity. I have made this website for you
http://www.notifiedyung.info/tbo/cc/index.htm take a moment of your time to wonder
around. I have some pictures taken of me by my model photographer. I love showing my
body, it's one of the things that g-d has given me to show off.. Wink_wink

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So, I've been taking care of this dog, Claude, for the last couple weeks while my friend Ruben is out of town. Claude is a good dog. He is a bit dim and a bit crazy, but I consider him a dear friend and I would trust him wih my life. I feel bad for him, because he's locked up in the house all day. I'd let him stay with me, but my building doesn't allow guests, so I've just been going over to visit once an evening*. I've been spending a lot of time with him, trying to entertain him as best I can. Unfortunately, the novelty of driving uptown through a sluggish flow of bad Mexican traffic to see Claude has well worn off by now, and my energy tends to flag pretty quickly once our intial playful greeting is out of the way, but I still do my best to brighten the dog's day.

Claude and I have gone on several long walks that have nearly killed me, that's how much like excercise they were. Today, though, I didn't have it in me to walk down a huge, steep hill and back up another one, and Claude didn't seem much interested in going for a relatively pleasant walk through the shitty park (which is also hilly and just kind of brown and dusty), so after he went potty, I decided to take him for a drive down the hill and then back up the other one. He seemed to enjoy it a lot. Actually, he was so happy just to get in the car, he got a boner. Which is disgusting. The fucking dog gets boners all the time, that slimy-looking red thing... yuck. Fucking dog, you play with him in a vigorous way, he pops wood. Hideous, hideous. I have to walk away and find something else to do until it goes back inside. It's just gross. And I don't think it's even a sexual thing with him, because he's not, like, trying to rub it against me... actually, that reminds me of another story.

I think I was a junior in high school, though maybe I was a senior. It really doesn't fucking matter. Anyway, a bunch of us were over at this guy Mark Ganzglass's house. This must have been junior year, because Mark was a year older than me. These were kind of beatnik kids I was hanging out with, though I'm pretty sure there were no drugs involved, nor poetry. Whatever. So we were just hanging out in his living room, watching cartoons or something, and I'm sitting next to his dog, this pretty big old black mutt or something, I believe named Chewie. So I'm pettin' the dog, and the dog is kind of wiggling around behind me, and I don't think much of it other than the dog is enjoying being petted, so I keep petting him, and all of a sudden I notice there's a huge wet spot on the back of my shirt. I felt it to see what it was, and it was slick, so I thought the dog had just drooled. Then I kind of turned around and looked over my shoulder at the wet spot, and somehow I knew immediately that that was no drool. Mark was kind enough to lend me a fresh shirt. It was kind of a cool shirt, and I never gave it back to him. I think it may have really pissed him off, but I was a jerk and never gave it back to him, and someone eventually stole it when I was a freshman at college.

The end.

* This past weekend, I did sneak Claude into my apartment.

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When I was a boy, growing up amidst the hillocks and bramble bushes of the western part of my state, I occupied my time by teaching myself how to do things. The first thing I taught myself was ventriloquism, when I was about eight. I wasn't any good, but I was still damn good for an 8-year-old.

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"100% High Octane Pathos!"
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Were there a facile answer or a well-regarded guide
had the women in Edgar Allan Poe's life not fallen ill and died
there would be no heads on pikes
and we'd all ride tandem bikes
but for now there’s only Struggle or Abide

Shuffling grey humps disembarking from their transports
on a fuel of mocha java and competitive consumption
and there's no telling if it's distraction or if it truly is our function
to climb that hill like Trump, plant a crampon in each back
to say you only buy the finest, and never ever off the rack
to make love to only models
to need never talk to losers
to divide the world in segments, all out there waiting to be used
to intimidate politicians
(in whose most fantastical ambitions
never strove to be half as great as you)

Maybe, in the end, it really is best to settle down,
move to the suburbs, and be happy with what you've got.
Because really, my dear friend, when we measure out the magnitude
of our actions, I guess it turns out not to be a fucking lot.
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For most of 1998, I lived in an apartment building that was next door to the Russian Embassy and within easy walking distance of the Naval Observatory, where the vice president lives. It was a nice enough building, but it was a grim era in my life. For most of my time there, I was working for a shitty temp agency that placed me in exciting positions like stock clerk at Filene's Basement and janitor at Washington Hospital Center. The summer was the worst. I remember getting home from long days of mopping and mass transit (janitors were not allowed to use any of the hospital lots, which meant having to catch a bus at 6:30 to get me to the Metro in time to make the shuttlebus that would get me to the hospital by 7:30), peeling off my hospital-infected clothes, smoking as much weed as my lungs could hold, showering off whatever bacteria and diseases clung to my skin, blasting the air conditioner at top setting (utilities were included), so cold that it sometimes rained inside on especially muggy days. Then I'd eat some mac and cheese or something and watch TV or fuck around on the computer until it was late enough to merit taking a couple Tylenol PM and going to sleep. I had no bed, so I'd either sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor, or on the sofa I'd borrowed from my parents' basement. There's really no story in this; just setting the scene, and maybe reminding myself that as bad as things may be right now, they could always be (and usually have been) worse

Where this all leading is: in my desperation these lonely days, I convinced myself that any intimacy was better than no intimacy at all, and I began exploring parts of the city that aren't mentioned in any guidebook or featured in any episode of Murphy Brown (or, for that matter, D.C. Follies).

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Last week, this site's two year anniverary passed quietly, in part because I forgot about it until the last second, but possibly more so because the traffic it recieves is relatively tiny and stagnant. Undeservedly so, for sure, but tiny and stagnant nonetheless, like some sort of miniscule, electronic swamp.

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Hello, morons! It is I, your old friend Rob, here to tell you that I despise each and every one of you. Perhaps not actually all of you--many of you are good, nice, intelligent people with fine taste and commendable hygiene. Some of you, though, are dangerous babies with the mental agility of slugs and the poor breeding of Serbs. It is you dirty pudding heads I now address: idiots, pig mothers, garbage eaters, and toilet brains! If I ever find out who you are, I will personally tear your throats out with my fingers and punch you in the lungs. I will carve your spines into toothpicks and poke you in the eyes with them until you are crying tears of blood. I will force you to eat your own bowels while I prod you in the kidneys with a railroad spike. Then I will rape your parents and children and force them to eat your remains, and then each other, until there is only one left, and her or she I will pack in a suitcase, which I will then sink in the ocean.

¡Hola, tontos! Es yo, su viejo amigo Roberto, aquí decirle que desdeñe cada de usted. Quizás no realmente usted -- muchos de usted son gente buena, agradable, inteligente con gusto fino e higiene recomendable. Algo de usted, aunque, es bebés peligrosos con la agilidad mental de lingotes y la crianza pobre de croatas. Es usted que el pudín sucio me dirigió ahora trata: ¡idiotas, madres del cerdo, comedores de la basura, y cerebros del tocador! Si descubro siempre quiénes usted es, me rasgaré personalmente las gargantas hacia fuera con mis dedos y le perforaré en los pulmones. Tallaré sus espinas dorsales en toothpicks y le empujaré en los ojos con ellos hasta que usted es rasgones gritadores de la sangre. Le forzaré comer sus propios intestinos mientras que le pincho en los riñones con un punto del ferrocarril. Después violaré a sus padres y niños y los forzaré comer su restos, y entonces, hasta que hay solamente uno permanece, y él o ella que embalaré en una maleta, que entonces hundiré en el océano.

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There you go. More of the same sometime next year, maybe.