Sunday, July 25, 2004

Something Happened...


It looks like Blogger changed the format while I was busy moving.  This is akin to someone coming into your crib when you are gone and just changing a few things about your setup.  Nothing major, but at the same time you notice a slight difference, neither good nor bad, just different.  By the looks of it, perhaps I will be able to post pictures now.  Don't hold your breath though, as I am verrry lazy today and do not think I will be exploring the intricacies of this feature. 

So what's new?  Well, in the last week I drank a 40 oz. of Colt 45 with my father while my younger brother drove us home via I-465.  There's nothing more satisfying than swilling a 40 oz. with your father as you ask questions you normally wouldn't ask, unless you were drunk, as I was.  Then, we split a 12 pack of the HIGH-LIFE and drank them in my driveway as my dad bummed a cigarette from my roommate.  Ah, good times those.  Sadly, I woke up the next day on the couch with my shoes on with no recollection of the last hours of the evening.  Later on I was able to deduce that I was staggering about speaking gibberish (as I am known to do when highly-intoxicated) no doubt, induced by the half-smoked bowl I found near my turntable.  Oh my. So remember, if you are ever chillin' with your aunt and uncle and they break out the red-wine, do not help drink 3 bottles of it with your dad, and then do NOT split a 40 oz. with him, and then a 12 pack, and then, whatever you do, don't smoke that bowl.  You are faded already.  Not to worry dear reader, I have saved you the effort of finding this out yourself.  You are welcome.

Fucking Emo Kids.
Check out this quote from one of the authors:
Emo boys are known to favor soft, floppy vintage T-shirts, flip-flops and low-riding women’s jeans that display a hint of pubic fuzz. "It’s like longer hair and introverted and sensitive," said Ms. Graubard. "Being skinny without muscles is a big part of it." 
What the fuuuuuck?  Now, I have been incorrectly identified as a hippy many times in the past, due to the long hair and (now deceased) beard, but that's the only reason.  I never ever ever wear tie-dyed clothing or smell like patchouli oil, or wear sandals, but I am generally aware that I look like someone you could approach and say "How much for a Thai stick?"  That's okay.  But I draw the line at being confused with one of these goddamn emo-kids.  Now I don't wear those fucking jeans or sandles but I would say that the quote in that paragraph is aimed at someone who looks like myself.  Fuck that noise Ms. Graubard.  I see these emo-boy/man types all the time and not ONE of them has long hair.  Never.  You can spot an emo kid by the short haircut and the excessive amount of hair-gel that is soaked into the mop, which may or may not be highlighted by pink or some other color ( it depends if it will wash out before work on Monday).  They do wear those jackets that are too small for them and they're usually decked out in black.  Also, they travel in packs.  Now they may be skinny with no muscles like yours truly, but they lack the tenacity that I posses.  For example, if confronted, the Emo-boy/man will attempt to talk his way out of a situation, or even (shudder) apologize.  I have witnessed this numerous times  in bars.  Very anti-climatic.  However, if I am to be confronted then I place two extended fingers into my confronter's eye sockets and pull down very quickly as my hand brushes past the leg I have then extended into my confronter's crotch.  No stinking hippie or Emo-kid would ever do that (the bouncers at bars, however, will).  If someone calls me Emo next time I'm out then I'm going to grab their heart from their chest like that dude in "Temple of Doom".  Really.  I swear.

And one last note:
Fuck all this nonsense where people use words to empower themselves.
"I'm not handicapped,I'm disabled (or my favorite, "I'm special")."
"He's not retarded, he's just slow."
Wrong mu'fuckahs.  If that withered claw you call a hand could open the door like everyone else you wouldn't need to glare at me as I press the blue-button that automatically opens the doors when I see you coming.  Don't stare at me like I'm sympathetic to your plight.  Don't be mad at me, be mad at God.  

And with that, I will probably be in a horrible accident soon which will leave me deformed and lame, if karma holds true.  If this happens I will post the pictures and I will use a Stephen Hawkings device to mock myself with the blog and I will include mp3's of my new metallic voice, which would, no doubt, sound exactly like my Old Speak N Spell as the batteries slowly die.
Until then...
*BAMF!* 


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