The Daily Rossman (est. 1975) is the world's oldest web B.L.O.G.G. (Bitchin' Legendary Online Godcomplex Gazette). Not that I live an extraordinary life or anything (the government hit squads and the Ninja Assassins Guild have all cut back on their programs directed at ME lately, mostly thanks to a couple of well-placed letters in Jimmy Jammer's handwriting threatening all of their mothers), but sometimes I do accidentally maim a couple of dozen people, or unwittingly have my robot kill an assload of old folks; and I find that I want to share these happy stories with you, the general public.
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ONIcon 1998: The Con Of The Century!
Note to self 345: 02/18/2009
The Valentine's Day Massacre '09 was something incredible to behold. It was an absolutely beautiful sight. It all started on the night before the big day: Friday the 13th. Carl and I checked out the new Jason Voorhees remake that just opened, and all the on-screen killin's and butcherin's made us laugh with glee. But that goofy flick did more than just entertain, it put a tiny bud of an idea in our heads... We both knew that Valentine's Day sucks, but we had tried for years to find ways to point this scientific fact out to others, both friends and strangers alike. This year it seemed we'd finally get our chance!
We started by calling up a bunch of news crews on V-Day morning and told them all (by using that awesome new Christian Bale Voice Board) that "Many fucking dogshit ass-fucking dicksucking cockfest butt-pirate dick-gobbling sons-of-bitches retarded goddamn assholes" would die in a bloodbath that night downtown. Then we rolled.
We ran over to the Sports Authority to pick up a couple of hockey masks, and then to the hardware store to buy some chainsaws and machetes, then we went to the butcher shop on the corner of Broad and Meridian Ave in order to get some juicy pig organs for the right effect. Carl and I then took some time to "get messy" by hacking up some of the meaty piggy bits in the back alley behind the butchers (getting our clothes, utensils, and masks all disgusting), and then we went downtown to make our move.
We had previously recorded some of the theme music from the Friday the 13th movies (that "chi chi chi, ha ha ha..." especially), along with some quiet woodsy sounds like crickets chirping (which Lord knew I had plenty of chances to tape in the past) and frogs ribbitting and owls hooting. Luckily it was unseasonably warm this year, and tons of couples were eating their romantic dinners outside on every patio and sidewalk that had some tables in front of every open restaurant. Carl and I hid in the bushes outside of The Last Resort and cranked up our boom box with the sound effects. At first everybody thought that some insects and amphibians were just out enjoying the pleasant night too, but a few started looking around when the quiet "chi chi chi... ha ha ha....." started getting steadily louder and louder. But we waited.
Soon though our full audience arrived when the network (and even CNN!) news crews started scouring the streets looking for the prophesied bloodbath. And with the final (and loudest "CHI Chi chi... HA Ha ha..." Carl and I sprang out of the shrubbery, chainsaw a'buzzin', and machete a'swingin', flinging blood and bits of pig every which way while we screamed out in guttural howls and barked at the moon.
People freaked. Awesomely. Well, at first they did. When Carl and I started chucking chunks of intestines on people while shaking our heads psychotically for the cameras everybody around us pissed their pants and shrieked like frightened little lambs. But then... It happened. People who hated their lovers (which by the looks of it was 2/3rds of our audience) started using their apparent imminent deaths as a good reason to voice their bottled hatred or anger towards their significant other, or just as an excuse to stab them in the face with a salad fork. Carl and I stood there in shock for a few minutes while the pandemonium took on a terrible life of its own, then we quietly backed away back into the bushes as the real limbs started flying and the bodies started hitting the ground, and we ran and dumped our gear in Jimmy Jammer's and Kuni's garbage cans before anonymously calling in some tips to the media again (fuck the cops! They wouldn't do jack shit). What a waste... I never even got to deliver my 3 page Dr. Seuss-like poem on the horrors of Valentine's Day. There's always next year I guess...
Note to self 345: 01/28/2009
This has been a week for the ages... Well, a "month and a half" for the ages really, but this past week especially. Things started out on last Thursday when I closed on my new house. The closing was at 10AM and lasted till 11 (fairly smooth and not as painful as I remembered them being... Though the blood sacrifice and the eating of the live serpents was a bit theatrical for my taste). Then I took all my stuff (clothes, toiletries, DVDs that I originally brought out with me when I started living in my new boss' basement) and dropped them off at my new place before hitting the road again for the 5 hour trip back to my old house (which I still unfortunately own as well) in order to get ready for the movers, who would arrive at 8AM the very next day.
Well, I have terrible foresight apparently, seeing as I left about 6 hours of packing for myself to do at this late last minute. I arrived at my old home at about 6, and finished my last packing at around 2AM that Friday morning (with some breaks and such sprinkled throughout when dust and forgotten and moldy lost body parts just got to be a little too much), and just as I was finished washing the sweat and grime from my body with a nice hot shower I found that I didn't bring any deodorant with me. Friday was going to be a really physical day, and I would REEK if I didn't have anything strong enough for a man on my pits by the time the heavy lifting and disassembling of furniture began (I left as many desks and other pieces of furniture in one piece waiting to see just what the movers would and would not move without taking apart... and I knew that if that shit had to be reverted to its base elements it'd probably be up to me to do it). So I ran out to the gas station around the corner to see if they had any Old Spice sticks in stock... They did, but by the design of the canister (and the dust that covered it) it was apparent that the product was more than 6 years old. I took the cap off to see what it smelled like (because I'm a masochist) and was pretty much floored by the odiferous results. It smelled like Old Spice all right, but only after it was ingested by a dog who'd just eaten half a pot of chili and some rancid meat and threw it all back up on a pair of Chi-Chi's patented "double-use, reversible underwear" that'd been sitting in the corner of the bus station's most heavily-sat-upon toilet stall after an outbreak of a rather nasty stomach bug within the homeless community.
After Rajul the gas station clerk woke me up with some smelling salts I left as fast as I could and soon enough found a 24-hour pharmacy just a bit further down the street. I quickly located some (within expiration) deodorant, and then figured, hell, while I was there I might as well pick up a few other things, so I got a carton of Double-Stuf Oreos, some Pringles, rubbing alcohol, a rectal thermometer, a crushed Halloween devil's mask for 99-cents that I found under some crappy 1990s toys in the back row, and some Maxi Pads (those last four just so that I could see if the cashier would say anything about the 2AM combo I was bringing her. Nothing. Not even a raised eyebrow. I guess the graveyard shift's seen it all already). After that I crashed hard, and got up at 7:30 for breakfast and to wait for the moving crew.
The crew showed up at 8:30 and consisted of a tall and skinny guy, and a shorter, more rotund Jamaican. Both were awesome and equally hilarious, and they threw themselves into padding and wrapping everything in my house like mad men. MAD men I say! After seeing how cool they both were I thought it was kind of dicky of me to expect them to take apart shit like my giant L-shaped computer desk and my torture rack with all the cabinets and hooks for all the candles and whips, so I got started disassembling all that shit on my own. We got everything loaded from my place (and I vacuumed the whole house as we left each room), and then we traversed over to my parents' house where I had been storing the 2-dozen boxes of DVDs and books, as well as a new bed set and dining room set that I'd need in the new place. My mom made us all turkey sandwiches for lunch (which was one of the most hilarious lunches I'd eve been a part of). My mom hovered over all three of us, refilling Cokes and bringing over mustard and mayo when requested, and we all got lectured on the ins and outs of pro-football by Mr. Jamaican while his skinny partner (who in hindsight reminded me a whole helluva lot like Snoop Dogg, both in looks and demeanor) just shook his head with disbelief and disgust at all of Mr. Jamaican's predictions and thoughts on the final play-offs and the upcoming Super Bowl. At one point Mr. Jamaican made a very off-colored comment to Snoop about his choice of the Cardinals taking the championship and then stammered an apology to my dear sweet mom as she did her best to convince him that she did not hear anything. After they got back to work she turned to me and said, "What, did he think I'd never heard a fucking curse word before?"
Everything was packed and ready to go by about 3 that afternoon. I gave the two guys the names and phone numbers to a few hotels in the new town I was moving to after Mr. Jamaican seemed to hint that they wouldn't mind crashing at my new place if they got there early enough. Then they left. I packed up my SUV with a bunch of boxes and shit that I planned to take (things that I would never entrust a stranger to handle, like my computer and back-up hard drive, and some of my out-of-print DVDs and irreplaceable books and signed models of my favorite pr0n stars' genitalia), and I was off by 3:30 myself. I hit terrible Atlanta traffic which slowed me down for at least an hour and a half, stopped for a DQ meal and Blizzard at the halfway point, and finally pulled into my new driveway at around 10PM that night. I was crazy exhausted, but so giddy about the new place that I just started unpacking shit, and then at around 1AM I decided that a trip to the local Super Walmart was in order.
Let me tell you something, 1AM is the best time ever to go shopping at a Walmart — the stockboys and stockgirls are fascinating people, and they tend to look for ANY excuse to stop putting up diapers and motor oil on the shelves. I went through EVERY goddamn aisle in the place in order to make sure that I didn't miss anything that I needed for the new place. I even spent 10 fucking minutes trying to decide if I wanted the inch and a half or the inch long tan-painted nails in the hardware section. That's not a joke. Both boxes were only $2.50, and yet I had somehow convinced myself that it was only one or the other... I could not buy them both... I was soooooo sleep deprived and utterly exhausted by this point that it was just sad. I ended up putting both boxes back on the shelf when I remembered that I already had a tool box full of crap like that back at the house, then I cursed myself for wasting 1/6th of an hour debating nails instead of using that time to sleep (which I was then becoming a major proponent for).
Anyway, after trolling the entire mega-mart once and not finding a few items, I enlisted the help of several stockpeople to help me locate what should have been very easy to find products. It took 2 people about 15 minutes of looking to come to the conclusion that they didn't sell any plastic mats to put under one's computer chair so that the carpet didn't get ruined. I had to first explain the super-science behind such a device to the chick in the [what they refer to as] furniture department, and then once she comprehended the awesomeness behind the idea we then went looking in the computer section, and I again (with Ms. Furniture's interrupting help this time) had to re-esplain the concept of the piece to some bubba unpacking blank DVDs. He had no idea what the fuck either of us was talking about, which I totally understood seeing as I was so overtired, and Ms. Furniture was such a dingbat, that in hindsight it sounded like I was trying to buy "a see-through plastic chair, just a couple of centimeters thick, with some bristles on it so that I don't go sliding off when looking up pr0n."...
The record for number of employees brought in to help me find something stupid and insignificant had to be when I found myself looking for a large plastic spray bottle. I had been looking for one during my first wandering through the store, and yet nothing. Then I got some stockgirl in the pharmacy section to help me look.. Then she suggested kitchen items, and we raced over to the Tupperware aisle like a redneck in cammo had just started playing that banjo theme from Deliverance in the opposite direction. In the kitchen plastics we came across another stockgirl who helped us tear the place apart, and when we couldn't find anything she suggested automotive parts... This didn't make any sense to me even as tired as I was, but I went with the flow. All three of us rushed over to the car section, and the stockboy there said he had no idea what we were looking for. That's when I acted out how I would use the spray bottle (by wetting my hair in the morning in order to comb it), and that just confused everybody even more. Then I shut up and let all three of them lead me and my over-flowing cart all the way back over to the cleaning supplies in the supermarket side of the store. We all looked and couldn't find jack shit, until the second stockgirl asked the closest supermarket stockboy if he knew of any spray bottles in his area. Thank Christ he did, or somebody would have died (don't freak out... It probably would have been me). It was a $.98 giant spray bottle.... And it's still sitting unused on my kitchen counter since I already had one in a box that the guys would bring with them at 8AM that day.
ANYway, after Walmart I went back to my empty new house, took a shower, and then crashed in my sleeping bag at around 4:30AM. I woke up at 7:43AM to the sound of a very large truck honking its horn right outside my house. Panic set in as I thought "Holy fuck! I didn't set my alarm!" But then I noticed that not only was my clock radio on at full blast (and had been for a half an hour), but my cell phone right next to my head was ringing like a banshee (and in hindsight I remembered the tone of my cell phone actually infiltrating my dreams as a very weird song at a dance club I was at). I ran outside in my jeans and t-shirt to wave to the movers that "Yeah, I'm here! Stop fucking honking!" but I never got to say a word seeing as the 8-degree Fahrenheit morning sucked all the air out of my lungs and kicked me in the scrotum with an icy boot of pain. I ran back inside and quickly threw on about 4 layers (all the sweatshirts I had brought with me), found a knitted hat, and then went out again in order to orchestrate the unloading and tell Mr. Jamaica and Snoop Dogg where all my shit was to go.
Jeezus, this is the longest Daily I've written and I'm only up to Saturday morning. I'll try and just hit the highlights from here on out. The unpacking went well, but took almost as long as the wrapping up the furniture and packing the truck in the first place. I did not complain seeing as they were taking extreme care of all my stuff, but while unloading the truck my front door was wide open the whole GD time! It dropped to 33 degrees in my house that day, and it's only thanks to my brand new, jumbo AC unit that it didn't get any colder. The guys left after I gave them both huge tips, some cans of Coke, and some fruit, and then I jumped right into the unpacking. Oh, but soon after I found out that my cell phone was fucked (one too many drops from my shitty, swiveling carrying case) and the screen wouldn't show anything (so I couldn't use my personal phone directory, nor could I see who was calling me whenever it rang), so I went out, reupped my plan with AT&T, got a new (cheap as fuck) phone, and then went home, put together my 150-piece computer desk by myself (with no instructions and pretty much zero sleep... sometimes I impress myself!), ordered some pizza, sliced my middle finger open on the tip by retardedly aiming my pocket knife right at it while trying to open up more taped boxes, and then I crashed at around 10PM... I figured drawing blood was the last straw. My day was done.
Sunday was spent cashing in about a dozen Bed, Bath & Beyond 20% off coupons for new black-out drapes in the master bedroom, some new bathroom and hallway rugs, and a bunch of other odds and ends. It would hopefully be the last time I ever set foot in a BB&B for the rest of my time in my new house so I figured I better make it count. After more unpacking I finally set up my giant TV and my PS3 (which had both been in storage for a month and a half) and watched some of my Blu-ray movies that I had stockpiled over the last 45 some odd days. Then, before crashing that night, I hung something up I'd kept in a closet for 6 and a half years in my favorite room of the house. Then (unfortunately) I had a dream in which I was 5 months pregnant and (even more unfortunately) had no memory of the tawdry night that put me in that predicament in the first place. Needless to say, it looks like my life is back to some sort of normalcy after way too big a break. And thank Christ that both Lost and Battlestar Galactica are back on. That always helps too.
Note to self 344: 12/24/2008
Yes, it's Christmas Eve, and all the little non-heathen children of the world are getting ready to welcome the big fat man into their houses in order to perpetrate the biggest B & E ever recorded with open arms, and milk and cookies in some cases. Honestly, I've looked into the whole "Santa Thing" in the past, and my scientific conclusions showed definitively that something was up (and very creepy) with how the jolly one runs his operation. But despite my best efforts to bring the truth to light, more and more children every year actually hope and pray that the Claus will break into their abodes tonight and feast on their baked goods like a sexy succubus on the horny dreams of men.
Anyway, my point was that since I plan to be busy tonight and tomorrow (parties, massages, public drunkenness), I figured I might as well rob Kuni's house while dressed like Saint Nick a day early this year. So I got my Santa hat, my big, black boots, my ski mask, and my giant burlap sack, and late last night I silently crept into Kuni's living room and began surgically unwrapping all of his presents under the tree. You see, Kuni's parents and sister (the only people who ever give the slob any gifts every year) still don't seem to get the idea of "Christmas" itself. Sometimes, yes, they do get him video games, movies, iPods, and Harry Potter books... but more than half the time they'll wrap up dildos, puppies (with no air-holes), cooked soup, monkey paws, and toenails. So overall it's worth the added effort to check this shit out ahead of time in order to save room in my big sack for looting some of his neighbors houses if there's time and space left at the end of the night.
This year though, as I was halfway done with my gift investigation, I heard a slight snore just feet away from me. I looked up slowly after making sure that my mask was still covering my face, and saw Kuni all curled up on his barcalounger, wrapped up in a blanket, next to a plate of fortune cookies and a cup of soy milk, with a big ass shotgun cradled in his arms. I froze. I guess he finally figured out that my "What are you talking about? Of COURSE Santa steals presents from people who don't deserve them, and he leaves a steaming pile of Santa poo on their kitchen table! EVERYBODY knows that!" explanation of the Claus was a fib, or he was just playing it safe this year in the hopes of warding the ancient elf off. Seeing as it was the night of the 23rd I wondered just how long he'd been keeping watch over his presents. I thought I hadn't seen him around the office for a couple of weeks... This would explain it.
Anyway, Kuni was apparently so wiped out from his nightly vigil that he didn't see or hear me dressing his gay little lap dog up in my Santa hat and a cotton ball beard, and hanging him by the scruff of his neck on a nail above the chimney with a sock stuffed in his mouth. He also didn't stir when I stuffed two corks tightly down the barrels of the gun he was snuggling with.
This morning Kuni called me up at 8AM screaming and rambling on and on about how Santa came early, bit his dog and turned him into a Santa too, blew up his gun, and shit all over his milk and cookies. I said, "Yup, that fucker does that all the time. You should have seen what he did to my cousin Jen... Jesus, Kuni, do you know what a 'rim-job' is? She's been in therapy for 5 years now."
In the end Kuni didn't have any good gifts this year (other than a few self portraits that his sister took in a mirror with two cans of whipped cream as props), so I just took his 60" LCD TV and all the passwords to the good pr0n sites he keeps in a not-so-secret folder on his computer. When I logged in on those sites when I got home I changed all his passwords to "theRossmanismyhero." He'll never guess it, and I now have a year's worth of access to high-class digital poon. All in all it was a rather good end to a strange year.
Note to self 343: 11/20/2008
This past Tuesday night my Angel of Music returned to town for a special serenade just for me... And a few thousand of my closest friends. What confuses me so about Sarah Brightman is the games that we end up playing with each other. For example, every time she comes to my city for a show I always end up getting a restraining order placed upon me either during or after the performance, but curiously enough they always expire just before her next concert comes to Atlanta. She just loves to keep me guessing. I like that in a woman. It's like I never know whether to expect lingerie and lace, or mace in my face.
Anyway, after the whole "cloning incident" a few years back, I was ready for round 6 with my gorgeous soprano, but this time I thought I'd do my nightingale a favor and I promised myself that I wouldn't act up, I wouldn't try to kidnap, and I wouldn't try to sniff her hair (or any other part of her or any clothes that she may have worn during her performance that night). I would just sit there with Karen, and stare at Sarah on the stage with my high-powered binoculars for 2 hours.... Well, that was the plan anyway. Little did I know that I would be accused of Murder One before the night was done (well, that's always a possibility I guess, but I just had higher hopes for this night), but I'm getting a little ahead of myself.
The concert started off with a bang (my Sarah always puts on a helluva show, and this time she utilized a really fancy, giant, mirror-like backdrop that was used to create an ever-flowing stream of CGI backgrounds and foregrounds, along with costume changes with almost every other song), but the complete douchebag couple two rows behind us was making things almost unbearable. He was a tall and skinny, drunk-off-his-ass frat boy with a goofy, messy bowl cut, and she was a hot blonde, also drunk off her ass, and with a voice that put "nails on a chalkboard" to shame. Neither would shut the fuck up during the performance (sometimes singing along [horribly, and with the wrong lyrics]), and both would wolf whistle or shout out something like "A-ri-ri-ri-ri-ri-ri-ri-ri-riiiiiiiiii!" after every song (and sometimes during). Honestly, even at a rock concert that kind of shit is simply annoying and gay. Or gayly annoying. Or both.
During Sarah's 5th number of the night the tardies started arguing about the best way to record the concert on their camcorder that they snuck in (I can't make this shit up). Honestly, I don't know why they bothered what with their loud running commentary drowning out the star's efforts. Fuck me they were annoying. The woman to my direct right (who seemed to be even more aggravated than I was) got up and left after the scrote couple kept raising their voices to be heard above Sarah's singing. I just grit my teeth and concentrated on the person on the stage, but others around me started throwing popcorn and cups at the assholes — Karen instigated this. After a few direct hits the unwashed guy (who it turned out was wearing the faggiest Crocs I'd ever seen) jumped to his feet and started yelling "Who the fuck is throwing that?!?! HUH!?!?!? HUH!?!?!? GODDAMMIT!!!!!" That's when Sarah stopped singing and motioned for the band to stop as well.
In the darkness of the auditorium, and with a spotlight right in her face, she used her left hand like a visor and started looking up at our upper balcony to see what the distracting as all hell commotion was about. "What the bloo'y 'ell!?" she sang. "Section 222, Row D, seats 17 and, I think 18! Is that the Rossman up there making that bloo'y stinkin' noise?!"
I quickly blurted out, "Nope, it's not me!" But I don't think she believed me because my voice came from the same general area.
"Quit bein' such a bloo'y dick!" she yelled out with her melodious voice. The douche couple started making their wolf whistles again, though I wasn't sure if they were directed at me or at Sarah. My Angel of Music then ordered, "Somebody PLEASE shut those arseholes up! By whatever means necessary!"
I took that as a direct order, shrugged, walked up to the drunkies, lifted the frat boy up by his collar while he chuckled to himself and claimed he'd "sue my pants off" (a little too eagerly), and proceeded to bitch slap the dick as loudly as possible while he started crying for his girlfriend to save him. The whole auditorium applauded when they heard the sounds of a pussy being smacked like a bitch over and over again. It was an amazing feeling to receive all that accolade and it made me understand why some people go into show business... It also made me wonder for a second if I could make "beating up douchebags" a profitable production — at least I thought about that up till the dick's girlfriend got to her unsteady, blitzed feet and got ready to hit me with her purse. I turned around to see what she was doing but my hand was still raised in a "ready to pimp slap" position, and in turning I accidentally (but pleasantly) backhanded her. She stumbled in her classy 3-inch heeled leopard-print pumps, and then tripped down the stairs a bit, and then toppled over the balcony At that point I figured "what the fuck," and just snapped the dick's neck with a sickening, yet extremely satisfying, *CRACK!* But just as I let the still warm body fall back into its seat the lady who sat next to me had reappeared from the entranceway with an usher carrying a flashlight, and a security guard.
"Ah," I said. "That would have been another way to deal with it, I suppose." I looked at Karen in the still dim theater, gave her the "let's get the fuck out of here" nod that she does so well, and then I yelled out "Sic semper tyrannis!" and jumped off the upper level balcony myself and landed softly on the dead whore below. Then I ran away like a little girl from a spider.
From what I hear the concert continued after that, seeing as nobody in charge knew that two people had died violently in the seats during the performance. I like to think that those who remained (including Karen, that traitor!) were actually able to enjoy the music and singing from then on. What I do know for certain is that Sarah's tour bus is really easy to break into, and that my Angel talks sweet murmuring nothings in her sleep.
Note to self 342: 11/12/2008
This has been a long, strange week. We (America... Well, a percentage of America) chose a new president last week, and as usual half the country is happy as pigs (with lipstick) in slop, and the other half is seething like a hungry Tyrannosaurus that hasn't had a good meal in a while and is feeling cranky about loosing that mathematician in the underbrush. But whatever. Neither candidate really did anything to float my boat this year — I figured we were screwed either way. But fuck politics, the real story is what happened this weekend.
This weekend Team Greenwood and a bunch of other random individuals were invited to Joe Body's house for a little soiree (I crashed the place dressed like a pirate because it was Saturday). Things were going well for a while, the food was good, I met some new people (like that annoying food critic who wouldn't shut the fuck up about cheese, that artist chick who could only draw stick figures, that wannabe Speed Racer guy, that zombie-fearing survivalist, that strange psychic who only got "feelings" off of people, that pr0n starlet who played the role of Hermititty Grange-Her in Hairy Butt-Her and the Sorcerer's Man Stones, that Lola chick whose car broke down just outside the house, and Mr. Body's hottie neighbor), and I found that I couldn't account for the last few minutes of my time just before Joe Body turned up dead and everybody started turning on each other like rabid female hyenas on the rag. This unfortunately is a bit natural and habitual (me blanking out after a few dozen shots of whiskey and ending up in the vicinity of a corpse, AND people turning on each other in times of stress), but nevertheless annoying.
I stuck to my pirate shtick and tried to hound that freakish food critic into a confession before the cops arrived. When he wouldn't budge I then started trying to BEAT a confession out of him — with a rubber hose, a baseball bat, and even my car. Bastard kept his lip zipped like a pro — that or he was swallowing his tongue. I gave up on him either way, and after a few fun minutes of trying to slap a statement out of the survivalist I took it upon myself to play Gil Grissom and study Mr. Body's body myself (hoping to plant some evidence against that race car driver guy if I got the chance). His face was blown off by a shotgun (shells still nearby), his neck was snapped like he was in the way of a retard looking for a big mongo-sized hug, and he had bite marks all over his body. I've been to some fun body-findings in my day, but this one was just so awesome!
In order to clear my name I confirmed that the teeth marks were not my own (and let me tell you, Mr. Body is one salty as all fuck body! What, did he bathe in brine?), but I didn't even need to do that to clear me as a suspect; everybody already knows that when I [accidentally] kill a man/woman/child/possible vampire I tend to just use my fists or a broken beer bottle... Or that one time a loaded bear. Fucker didn't see that one coming, and I learned that you don't necessarily need a wooden stake to kill a[n] [alleged] creature of the night — bear paws work just as well.
Anyway, after I eliminated myself as the killer (well, of Mr. Body) I started investigating the other suspects... Especially the pr0n star and the hottie neighbor. And by "investigating" I mean taking pictures of. And by "taking pictures of" I mean drugging and filming a full-length porno of them featuring handcuffs and midgets... in case my day job at the Doritos factory doesn't work out (if they catch me skinny dipping in the "cheeser vat" again).
Soon though, everybody started getting really testy, especially when the body started to stink after SOMEONE had the bright idea of "keeping it fresh" by putting it under some portable heat lamps (hey, I knew it was either cold or heat that kept corpses from decomposing... I had a 50/50 shot at getting it right), and soon tempers and accusations were flying. Apparently Mr. Body had left a bunch of files just lying around his place, locked up in his water-proof safe in his piranha fish tank, and in these files were oodles upon oodles of blackmail material... All on me. Everybody was arguing over how to profit from my eventual arrest and the news of all my misdeeds and illegalities hitting the wire (there were talks of movie deals, books, appearances on Oprah, a porno starring me and the hotties [well, that was my pick at least], etc.), but everybody there seemed to forget one important detail: Hiding or locking up the whiskey.
After I came to the next morning I went back to Mr. Body's house and questioned the firemen and policemen as to what might have possibly happened there the night before in order to cause so much damage. They told me that they found the burnt (yet obviously badly beaten) corpses of at least 10 humans and one Cylon in the wreckage of what remained of the house. Since I wasn't wearing my pirate garb anymore (it was apparently very flammable) they let me go without even questioning me. In fact they just laughed at a crazy neighbor when she insisted that somebody of my height (dressed like a pirate) was the one who caused all the death and destruction in the first place.
"Oh, ho, ho, ho, there, missy, settle down now," one cop said. "What would a pirate be doing this far inland? Yeah, maybe if this was a seaside brothel — Lord knows I've covered many a gory piratey crime scene at one of those — but HERE, in Georgia? Book her, Bubba! The charge is 'Pissing Me Off.' That's a goddamn felony."
The only real downer about the whole ordeal is that I must've left those tapes I made with the midgets inside the house when it went up in flames... Oh SHIT! AND the midgets!
Note to self 341: 10/29/2008
People are stupid. I just found a web site that takes snapshots of people's blogs, MySpace pages, Facebook listings, and LiveJournal entries wherein the writer openly states that they did something illegal or just incredibly stupid. Most even post pictures of themselves doing said retarded thing. What is WRONG with these mongoloids?! Even if they're just high school or college kids now, and they don't think that they'll ever have to be responsible for anything in their lives (like employment, or their knocked up girlfriend), they look like absolute faggots and douchebags while they ghost ride down the road on the hood of their cars, or as they shove a beer bottle or a lit bottle rocket up their bare asess... Do other kids really want to be friends with these freaks?
Oh, and the illegal shit that they brag about and post videos or snapshots of... This crap would blow your mind! Some show pictures of themselves robbing convenience stores, some post movies of themselves beating up young kids, and one even had video of some Jersey scrote pointing a loaded gun at some poor chump he was trying to intimidate. Yeah, he intimidated the crying kid, I just hope the cops get to do just as much (if not more) to the douchebag in question when his own taped evidence lands him in big boy jail.
And what surprised me the most about this site was the so-called adults posting shit that they did or planned to do... Right next to their real names and photographs most of the time. Some college professor in Michigan was bragging how he Molotov cocktailed somebody's house with a "McCain/Palin" sign on their lawn; one redneck freak had an online video album documenting his friends' and his drag race through the crowded downtown streets of Knoxville one night; and the animal lover who took pictures of his drunk buddies doing that thing to that stray dog was simply vomit inducing. Really. I could barely watch it 7 or 9 times before having to look away.
My only point is it is absolutely the pinnacle of retardation to openly admit to being stupid or doing arrestable deeds on a public forum (like a website) — it's the same as taking an ad out in the paper stating that you've been skipping out on your taxes for the past 20 years. So when I tell you that SOMEBODY spray-painted "I Eat Hairy Cocks and Ballz" on the side of Jimmy Jammer's car, and lit 45 bags of dog shit (and 3 cats) around his house last Saturday night, you can be sure that it wasn't me... No matter HOW awesome and funny the video was when Jimmy Jammer came busting out in a panic and proceeded to stomp out EVERY doody bag and flaming cat with his bare feet. Nope, I was at Marksy's Halloween party... there in the corner, in my Scream-killer full-body costume, hardly moving the whole night except to laugh every few minutes like one of those novelty laughing machines as if it was preprogrammed to start up when my cell phone rang. Oh, and whoever knocked me down, ripped off my head, and stole my shoes, I'm going to find you and KI.... I mean, somebody might make you pay for that someday... Not me, but somebody big... With a baseball bat.
Note to self 340: 10/08/2008
Last week I was feeling a little frisky and thought I'd play a little prank on Angry Amy. So I put her car up on blocks, stole her tires, locked her dog up in the back seat (I put in some water in a bowl and cracked the windows, I'm no animal), and then when she came out of the office at the end of the day I waited until she was 10 feet away from it and then BLEW IT THE FUCK UP with some C4 I had planted on the fuel tank. Oh my GOD, you should have seen her face! No, it wasn't blackened with her hair shooting straight back like when cartoon characters get a faceful of TNT, but the instant before it was forever scarred by sizzling shrapnel she had this look of "What in the world is going ON here?!" I had it captured on high-speed film in order to watch over and over again and maybe make a YouTube video out of it, but Robot Pedro taped over it in order to record a little lap dog taking a huge crap on my front lawn.
Anyway, Carl and I went to Hasselhoff Memorial Hospital to try and tape Angry Amy in maybe another comical situation in order to gain some 15 minutes of internet meme-ness, but we were told by the doctor there that she was dead — some bits of carburetor had imbedded themselves into her aorta or her kidneys or something and she slowly bled to death in apparent excruciating pain... Well, that didn't stop us.
Carl and I took the corpse to the top of the 5-story hospital parking deck and set up an even more hilarious movie! We had previously stolen Jimmy Jammer's shitty '95 Corolla (well, I shouldn't be too hard on myself seeing as I really just "borrowed" it about 2 years ago, but simply forgot to give it back), placed the last of my explosives underneath it (about 6 handfuls of putty-like stuff), and then parked it right next to the 5-story deck. Then we did out best to stand the rigor-mortised body of Angry Amy on the edge of the edifice (we ended up having to use a broom stick handle and... well, the less you know the less nightmares you'll have) and began filming. We pretended that Angry Amy was really Carl's sister and that she was going to jump if I didn't declare my love for her and start banging her right then and there... We had to keep retaping that opening scene though because I kept cracking up during my lines. We were originally planning to make these gigglefests into an outtakes feature, but I kept messing it up for about three and a half hours. Yeah, it was still funny after all that time, but just watching two guys rolling on the ground in front of a body hoisted up on a broom handle for anything more than an hour might have gotten old for other viewers. You've got to understand your audience first and foremost.
We finally got through the explanation scene and then I was to run to Angry Amy and attempt to embrace her, only to accidentally knock her over the ledge and onto the car. This worked perfectly in one take, but what we didn't know was that in the time it took me to get my lines right without laughing, Jimmy Jammer found his car and was just about to drive it away... That's when Angry Amy smashed into the roof and Carl hit the detonator switch. I'll tell you something... It really confused us at first to see TWO charred bodies go flying with the big bang. And since we also damaged some of the parking deck and a good portion of the maternity ward (too much *ka-boom*. Now I know for next time) the authorities just blamed Al Qaida.
In the end YouTube pulled our video after we had gotten over 500,000 hits and 7,230,000 complaints... We can't repost it on Crunchyroll or Redtube or anyplace else though because Robot Pedro taped his "live cat autopsy" over the original, and then wiped my hard drive clean with an industrial-sized giant magnet and hydrochloric acid, like he does every Friday. Sometimes life just ain't fair.
Note to self 339: 09/17/2008
GODDAMN cricket! 5 to 6:30AM.... All I could hear was *Chirp! Chirp!! CHIRP!!!* That fucking insect had to have been massive, and RIGHT OUTSIDE my bedroom window. I ran outside three times to fucking find the shitbug and stomp him.... I stomped all around where the sound was coming from — and eventually half of my entire backyard just in case he was some sort of ventriloquist bug!... He'd go silent for a while, but as soon as I'd get back inside he just start up chirping again like a fucking demon vermin from HELL.
I have no idea where that fucker was hiding! And he had to have been a big one. My entire fucking ROOM was vibrating with every chirp! And the worst part was he was a goddamn retard bug! If he had kept a constant steady rhythm I possibly may have eventually slept through it like some extreme form of white noise... But he would go for about 50 to 60 seconds of constant *CHIRP!!!*, and then STOP....... He'd then wait for about 10 to 20 seconds and then give a tentative *Chiiiiiiiiiiirp!*... Then wait. Then maybe another test *CHIRP, Chiiiiiiiirp!!*, and then one to two minutes of constant singing. I just wanted to RIP both its hind legs off and then throw him in my toilet and take a giant deuce on him, let it ferment for a few minutes, and THEN maybe flush it all away!!!
I even tried some real white noise to block him out. I turned on my radio to a blank station for the repetitious static, but in order to drown out Senor Grillo's one-bug orchestra I had to turn the volume up so damn loud that my ears were ringing. Then I was so pissed off I ran outside again and started yelling as I smashed my baseball bat into the grass around my house for about 15 minutes until the cops came. I almost went to jail since the little fucker kept quiet the whole while the fuzz was there, but after I proved to them that I lived there they let me go with a warning. As soon as they pulled away that fucker started up again. I fucking HATE nature! All her creatures are pricks!
Just as I was tempted to call in to the office and tell them that I wouldn't be in due to blowing my head off today, the bug stopped its serenade for good. It was 6:30 — the time I usually get up... I slept for a half an hour, skipped my shave, and then COATED my entire backyard and the side of my house with a gallon of pesticide. Fuck you, hippies! I am by no means above a little chemical warfare! If it was good enough for the Kaiser, it's good enough for me!
I swear to Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, if that fucker tries the same thing tonight I'm just going to run outside and start screaming the most annoying sound in the world right back at him! *EEeeiiIIIiEEEEaaaaaAAAAAAaaahhhhh!!!* Just like from Dumb and Dumber. Every chirp will be followed by it. Neighbors be damned! This fucker will learn its goddamn place!
Note to self 338: 09/10/2008
Late last week I had become absolutely SICK of shitty anime. Movies, OVAs, TV series... Everything I've tried to watch lately has been either uninspired or absolute crap. In the past month there were at least 10 shows or movies I began that I just couldn't bring myself to finish — not even for the opportunity of writing a wrathful review about them. Anime like Heroic Age, Rosario + Vampire, Hundred Stories, Library Wars, and Straight Jacket were just full of boring repetitive suck. I knew exactly how each would end one or two eps into them. And the characters either filled me with rage (for their stupidity or their annoyance factor [Especially Library Wars]), or simply put me to sleep. My faith in the Japanese animation industry was waning fast, but then the MegaPlayboy offered me a cure. A little cure wrapped up with Valkyrie fighters, idol singers, and political intrigue out the yin-yang. I of course speak of Macross Frontier.
Now, I had been downloading each Mac Front episode as they came out for a while now, but my habit is usually to wait until a series is totally complete to view it, mostly because I love to marathon good shows and hate to wait for hyperly dramatic cliffhangers to resolve themselves (thanks to an unfortunate TWO YEAR wait between Giant Robo episodes 6 and 7 that tainted my perception of "patience" for life). And if the show is bad, then I want to get it done, over with, and written about as fast as possible too. But with 3 episodes left to air with Macross Frontier I basically just said "Fuck it," and I started cruising through the season.
I finished what I had fairly quickly (all 22 eps in about 24 hours this weekend past), then my withdrawal kicked in... I needed more Macross. I needed my fix! So I put in Do You Remember Love? Then when that was done I watched Flashback 2012, and then jumped over to Macross Plus - Movie Edition... It still wasn't enough, but I had to go into work at about that time, it being Monday morning and all. All I could think about that day though was catchy J-Pop, bouncy idol singers, and lots of 'splosions! That night (in the middle of my Macross DTs), I had the strangest fucking dream I've ever had. God I wish I recorded it!
I found myself aboard the Macross Frontier city-ship getting in line for a Minmay concert. The whole crowd was rowdy and rambunctious, seeing as things didn't get started until an hour after they were supposed to. Isamu and Lucy sat next to me, but they just spent the whole time making out.
Anyway, after an hour the concert began, but instead of Minmay coming out the opening band hit the stage. The opening band was Fire Bomber. The riots began almost instantaneously (once the audience realized that this wasn't a terrible joke). That's when the giant Zentradi crashed through the city-spaceship's enormous dome and attacked (they were apparently watching the concert via stolen TV transmissions, and they hated Fire Bomber more than even me, seeing as they started shooting people in protest — I only punched out Lynn Kaifun and then Basara once he left the stage, running and screaming like a scared little girl on fire... Which he was). After I fled the death, destruction, and dismay of the violent pandemonium that was to have been the concert, I flew away with a macro-sized Meltrandi woman back to Earth (she was a monster in the sack!), and got there just in time to see the end of the Sharon Apple/Sheryl Nome concert that celebrated the launch of the Megaroad-01. When the Megaroad-01 made its first appearance it just defolded right above our heads. That's when the Chief (who just appeared) and I turned to each other and shouted "Excellent! The motherfucking Megaroad!" After staring up at the giant colonization ship for a little while, I looked behind me and noticed a cute little raven-haired beauty struggling to lug a giant suitcase alongside her. I quickly ran to her aid, flashed her a dazzling smile, and lifting the suitcase up I grabbed her hand with my free one, and we booked it for the last transport ferry to the Megaroad-01. The instant we got onboard Captain Hayase Ichijo announced over the PA that we were launching, and that's when my companion "revealed" herself to be Minmay... I thought it was pretty obvious, what with the glow-in-the-dark white, foofy dress and the matching pink boots, gloves and sparkling head scarf, but I made it look like I was amazed. She gave me a backstage pass for her real concert that night (which was awesome, seeing as she sang nothing but my favorite, "Cinderella," for 2 hours), but just as she finished the show and ran towards me while stripping off all of her apparently very tearable clothes my alarm went off. After I shot my clock with my Lüger P08 (that I keep under my pillow for just such an emergency) I of course tried to recapture the phantasmogorically awesome dream experience, but this time I found that I was dating a cross-dressing Britai who was two-timing me with Exedol when he was on duty on his ship's command station.
For those of you who have NO GODDAMN CLUE what my dreamscape was all about, you really just don't get it. That was the most incredible dream where I never got it on with a 25 year-old Nicole Kidman EVER. The first dream that is... Not the horrible, horrible pick-up dream. That one was the worst dream since being forced to bang a 104 year-old Nicole Kidman.
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four... ONE, TWO!-- (was so tempted to just go old school and put in a Minmay midi file here)
I've been.... Intoxicated by Beef. It's a bit of a story, but here goes.
This weekend was my annual walkabout up on Stone Mountain. I go there every year to think about the previous year, and the upcoming 12 months that I'm about to enter. Usually I have a pretty good fever-dream or revelatory zen-like vision to help me understand my past and see my future relatively clearly... But this year Tropical Storm Fay fucked me over big time... Just as I got to the mountain (well, they call it a "mountain," but it's just a genital wart on the outlying bush of Atlanta), the winds started. At the foot of the rock it wasn't that bad, but as I marched up I noticed it getting stronger and stronger. Then I reached the peak; it was a goddamn wind tunnel. Every loose bit of my clothes were strung out behind me, my cheeks were flapping, and I lost my hat the instant I let go of it. Last I saw it it was heading for Buckhead at about 1,000 feet up.
Anyway, I had the top of the mountain to myself (the rope-tram was closed due to the overzealous winds, and nobody else was as dumb or determined as I was to get whipped around like nature's ragdoll), and I stayed there (on the less windward side... but truth be told there was no true leeward side of the rock this day) for about an hour and a half... But I wasn't able to achieve my typical enlightenment since I was exerting all of my energy into holding onto a rocky outcropping to keep from getting flung off the peak by the man-hating breeze of the damned. So it was with heavy-heart that I slowly descended the summit. Slowly that is until the heavy rain started. Then I found myself at times running, sliding, falling, skidding, and bouncing all the way down to my car. After that I called up Chi-Chi and had him meet me at my other yearly tradition: Lunch at the greatest restaurant in the world. I love Fire of Brazil (and its gaucho dining!) — more so than even Uncle Otto's European Cuisine... I wouldn't lie about that. Fire of Brazil is all about unlimited 4-star cuts of beef, lamb, chicken and pork, and a fancy salad bar that I actually use, and lots of fantastic brews from a certain South American, party-themed, third world country (oh, it is... Don't let any Brazilian tell you otherwise).
It wasn't until my 16th serving of — well, it was some kind of meat, I lost track — that I turned to Chi-Chi and stated, "I... Am... Intoxicated... By... Beef..." Then, at the exact same moment both of us thought of the exact same genius idea, and my purpose for the next year was decided for me: We would make a series of the world's greatest pornos, and we would name them Intoxicated by BEEF. They would star some super hunk who would be called Peter Protein, and the skin flicks would be all about his adventures around the world where-in he'd bang the absolute living shit out of all the hot chicks he met until they became completely intoxicated by his beef. And that would be the last line of every movie: The girls would all scream out "OoooooooOOOOOh! I am INTOXICATED by BEEF!"
Intoxicated by BEEF Part 1 would have Peter Protein just discovering his powers of beefy inebriation accidentally, after spying on two hot chicks eating a couple of messy hotdogs and burgers on their back porch (Peter initially being the poolboy/plumber/pizza delivery guy who originally thinks he has to hide in the bushes to keep from being seen in the buff because he was skinny dipping in the chicks' pool after unclogging the filter of 5-pounds of semen and hair). Soon Peter Protein just gets too horny after Jill Grill and Sally Shishkabob start licking the ketchup and relish off each other's bodies, and as he jumps out and starts reaming them harder and harder, Sally's little sister, Fricassee Frita comes out and starts lathering everybody up in barbeque sauce, then the real feast begins!
Intoxicated by BEEF 2: Hot Beef Injection would follow Peter Protein as he travels the country devouring all the hot honeys who cook him the best meaty meals he can possibly imagine. The jubbulous Fay Fry, and Marie Marinated would be the chief fuckbunnies in this tale. Intoxicated by BEEF 3: B3 - Big Beef Blowout! would have Peter Protein visiting the Orient and getting his exotic nourishing freak on with the help of Helen Hibachi and Wendy Wok. Then he'd hit Europe in the fourth part, Intoxicated by BEEF 4: Beefeaters Battleground, where he'd help a hot British set of twins, Tessa and Tina Tenderizer, stop a hot set of blonde German triplets, the Spanferkel Sisters, from trying to take over the international food court in downtown Paris. This episode would end with a magnificently choreographed orgy on the top of the Eiffel Tower.
This would bring us to Intoxicated by BEEF 5: Bigger, Bolder, Burlier, Beefier and more BOUNTIOUS Than EVER. Intoxicated by BEEF 5 would bring all of Peter Protein's busty babes back for one grand and final food showdown. The sex and the feeding frenzy would build and build until every chick that Peter had plowed before was involved, and then it would all spill out onto the streets, just like that giant fight at the end of Blazing Saddles! The last act of the movie would show every hot chick and manly man in the world eating and fucking like starving rabbits who caught the fever and said, "FUCK the diet and the abstinence! I'm Intoxicated by BEEF!"
It will be glorious!.... And it's already trademarked, motherfucker. If anybody beats us to the punch in making this epic series you owe us shitloads of residuals... And at least some cameos in the last scene of Intoxicated by BEEF 5.
So.... It's time for the Olympics again. For me that means "excitement, wonder, and a little bit of jingoism in cheering for the home team." Not at all bad things or ideals when taken in small doses. What twists my titties when it comes to the Olympics however is that (this year especially) my friends are usually very polarized on the issue: More than half (actually, more like 80-90%) either brush the Games off as a giant, boring waste of time, and the rest throw themselves so completely into the spectacle to the point of blindly thinking that in the midst of all the glitter and awe the host nation must be Shangri-la... And after seeing nothing but the shine and polish of the new athletic facilities, and the smiles on all of the Olympic booth bunnies and foreign spectators (who more than likely never step foot out of the official Olympic avenues) I can see where they might be tricked by the illusory experience. But really, just dig a little deeper. Please. Take one step past the freshly paved streets into REAL Beijing and you'll see the real city, warts and all. Not that this is a bad thing — I personally endorse checking out the real city behind the facade of any place one may travel to — but it is a communist thing.
No, this entry isn't going to turn into a "Fuck the Reds!" rant on the horrors of socialism (and really, the People's Republic of China is the most commercialismized commie government ever), but it is a reminder that the spit and polish that you see on the TV is pretty much just a special effect... Kind of like the fireworks during this year's opening ceremonies.
The one thing that foreign journalists are discovering while over there (like it was a huge-normous secret and a surprise) is that the Chinese government is putting the clamp down on free speech (on its own citizens AND all the visitors. *GASP!*). Who'da fucking thought?! They're not allowing access to certain websites and they're keeping people from speaking out about certain items (like Tibet, human rights violations, and, well, communism in general). When (moronic) people hear this their first reaction is (I swear to God), "What?! In America?!" (I actually overheard this exact exclamation in a Wendy's this past Sunday). Listen up, you stupid fatties out there: China is not (repeat, NOT) America. They ain't even a democratic republic. They don't even pretend to be one (like Cuba or Russia). They're Communisticfied. Like when they looked at the map of Beijing a few years ago and said, "Hmmmm, the stadium should go here, and it should look like a bird's nest... The aquatic center should go heeeeeere, and be a giant cube..... The gymnastics facility where our yet-to-be-born underaged athletes will compete and dominate should go... right... here. Perfect!"
And then somebody else said, "Ummmm, but over one million people live in all the places you just said those sports complexes should go... Will they just live in the new buildings? What about them?"
To which the first commie bastard said, "..............Fuck 'em. Level their houses, take all the bricks to be re-used, and, I dunno... Do we still shoot peasants anymore?"
"No, sir... The world is watching us now, sir."
"Hmmmm... Dammit, I dunno. Tell them it's closing time and they don't have to die, but they can't stay here."
"Very good, sir... And sir? What about all the pollution? After all, Beijing is one of the top 3 polluted shitholes in the world."
"Ummm, tell all the industries in and around town that they have to shut down for 3 months. Oh, and no more cars. Now, phone my private copter and have my concubines and rolled-$1,000 dollar bill cigars waiting for me in my mansion. Wait, what am I saying? This is China, so make sure they're rolled-whatever-our-currency-is pieces of money."
"Very good, sir."
I'll be the first to admit that the 08/08/08 Opening Ceremonies were unbefuckinglievable, and they blew my fucking mind with the scale and time put into them — what with over 15,000 dancers, drummers, and singers involved, over 23,000 costumes, a 200+ by 70 foot LCD screen on the center of the stadium, constantly flowing from one giant, impressive piece of imagery to the next, a 1/4 mile long LCD ring-screen at the top of the stadium, the goddess Sarah Brightman herself capping everything off by actually belting out some Chinese tune (and making that lyrically-challenged language actually sound melodious and beautiful), and hundreds upon thousands of fireworks (real and computer generated [see image at right]) within the span of a few minutes. It was quite easy to see that they really did spend over $300million on the 2-hour production. And then we had the 2-hour parade of nations. Most people I know who tuned into the Op Ceremonies put in a movie or went to bed when they started marching out the 2 competitors from East Boloquitia, and the 3 man Greenland Hand Ball team... But not me (I did lose my controller last week, which would have made it more difficult to change the channel, but I did stick with it on purpose). And then, at around midnight, the torch-bearers came running into the stadium, and a torch-lighting pomp that made every previous one look pathetic, and every future one unnecessary (since nobody will be able to top it unless they set a giant orgy of writhing, sweaty, oil-covered men and women on fire and continuously throw fresh copulating sacrifices onto the blaze to keep it up for 2 weeks), took place.
Yes, it was quite a show — a commie show — meant to let the world know that "Hey, we're fucking CHINA, and we're not to be fucked with." Pure propaganda. Pretty much what Hitler did in the '36 Games in Berlin (yeah, I went there), and what the USSR did with the '80 Games in Moscow (I went there too)... Except 3/4ths of the world didn't boycott the 2008 Beijing Games. But the amount of repression that the Chinese are still forced to live under was/is still very plain to see, even by the hyper-liberal press that are over there praising every aspect of the competition, culture, and regime. But you know what, despite all this, Tibet is safer and still more free under the Chinese than it was under the old Tibetan government (ruled by the surprisingly dictatorial Dalai Lama)... Except for the purported mass genocides and rape (figuratively and literally) I mean. (Was I trying to make a point, or was I just rambling again? You decide.) So there's your controversy of the day: Did China deserve the Olympics? You could also ask if the free nations of the world should be watching the commie games at all and continue supporting the communist country like we are. And I ask myself every night if Sarah Brightman is indeed a goddamn goddess. The answer to the last one is "yes."