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 358: 11/18/2009
This past week was so shitty I thought that I had to treat myself to a shitty movie featuring shitty people having shitty things happen to them while the world around them blows up in a shitstorm. So I went to see the Roland Emmerich movie 2012 with Bob From the Future. Yeah, the movie is indeed pretty fucking horrible (holy shit, it made the American Godzilla movie look like Schindler's List), and if you thought watching a man outrun a weather pattern in The Day After Tomorrow was bad, wait till you see a limo outrun an earthquake and a city full of angry, toppling skyscrapers, a Winnebago outrace a giant volcanic eruption, and a super carrier outrun Mt Everest. No, I am not making up that part about Mt. Everest.
Anyway, so after we witnessed the global destruction and tidal waves and entire cities falling into mile-wide cracks in the Earth's crust I asked Bob From the Future if he'd ever traveled to the End of the World himself. He said no, he hadn't, and so we went.
I gotta tell you despite the film makers' vast imaginations, they really had no idea what they were talking about in the 2012 movie — or any apocalyptic flick for that matter. First of all, no, the world does not fucking end in 2012, that's just when the Mayan calendar runs out. Believing that that's a prophecy for global annihilation is like looking at a modern calendar and seeing that *GASP!* there's nothing after December 31st! Holy shit!
Anyway, so we time-skipped to 2013 to see the first (of many) cases of worldwide destruction. The cataclysm of 2013 all begins when a holographic disembodied head of the late Bea Arthur appears over the capitals of all the countries of the world (except for Zimbabwe and Australia, 'cause as Bea says: "FUCK 'EM!"). He/she/it then decrees that because the planet mocked her and her penis her entire life she was the first being in the entire universe who chose "E" on the final exam that one apparently has to take in order to pass on into the afterlife (you know it's gotta be one gigantic fucking test if it took her 4 years to get through all 2,009,421 questions — both essay and multiple choice). The question in question is this: If I had my choice in what I would do now, it would be...
A) Go on to Heaven/Valhalla/Shangri-La/Wherever the fuck my pissant "religion" claimed I'd go if I was good in life
B) Go to Hell/Hades/A place with NO virgins whatsoever
C) Haunt the living as a ghost until the end of time
D) Fade into the fabric of the Universe and become one with everything
E) Become responsible for the deaths of 95% of my world because I was openly mocked about my tranny penis my entire life
or F) Become the next "GOD" and have to deal with all that shit myself from now on.
Her gigantic head appearing above the many megalopolises of the world alone caused over 50,000,000 simultaneous heart attack-related deaths, but then her grating and shrill cackling laugh — as she explained that all of humanity was "Doomed! Doooooomed, I say!" — caused major fault lines to rupture, swallowing up entire cities and islands; Jellystone National Park to turn into a giant volcano that melted the western half of the US; tsunamis to blanket all land within 80-miles of the sea the world over; and Godzilla to erupt from the ocean, covering his ears and stomping around Tokyo in a hissy fit trying to get the terrible sound to stop.
But, I feel I must reassure you that although close to 7 billion lives were snuffed that horrible day, humanity did live on... Well, until the Robotacalypse wherein the cybernetic organisms that mankind created to help them rebuild after the "Day of Bea" rose up and started crushing hu-man skulls with spiked cleats... But that robotic rebellion was eventually quelled too, and humanity then began populating the entire solar system, then the Milky Way... Until the Kralogs from Ventura 7 united with their enemies, the Q'the-PtVrgs of Gamma Quandrant 7-7-B-3 to almost wipe us out again. We did defeat them at the cost of the entire center of the galaxy, and we lost the lives of two of Earth's bravest heroes in the process, but even though most of the night sky is black after that, man lived on.
Until the spherical death beings known as the Vumble-Tazks showed up a few thousand years after that, but that was inevitable.
Note to self 357: 10/28/2009
Karen is awesome. She may have done it just to shut me the fuck up, but regardless, I thank her for her gift. See, for the past few years (10 actually) I've been bitching like crazy every time the Halloween season rolled around. It had been a little more than a decade since I last tasted the sugary, marshmallowy, ultra-sweetness of any of the General Mills Monster Cereals from my childhood. Count Chocula, Franken Berry, Boo Berry, Fruit Brute, Yummy Mummy... I missed the hell out of them all.
Well, anyway, this year Karen went out, scoured the stores, and apparently gave a bj to a genie, because this past Sunday she came over with gifts of monster delight!
So it turns out that they're still making this shit, just not year 'round like when I was a kid, and they just stick to the big three now too — no more Mummy or Brute — but that was good enough for me! So Karen dressed the boxes up in old costumes and set them all up for a picture for posterity's sake. Then she made me swear to Buddha that I would only open one at a time and spread my bowls out so that they would last for a few weeks. I swore.
Then she went out to get something else from her car.
I thought this above shot would be just silly fun... but the temptation was just too much for me (well, actually pretty much any temptation is too much for me, and I think I knew what I was going to do within seconds of first seeing these glorious boxes on my counter)... And... well.....
I raped my Monster Cereal boxes just like they were Japanese schoolgirls who got in over their heads and flirted with a group of horny yakuza who were pissed at the world after just getting painful full-body tattoos who also knew that they'll have to go home to their bitchy wives at the end of the night. It wasn't pretty...
By the time Karen came back inside the damage was done. Half of Count Chocula was in my stomach (the other half on the floor), Franken Berry couldn't walk right, and Boo Berry couldn't look anybody in the eye anymore. I had gone through a half gallon of milk too (at least I HOPE that was milk on my upper lip). Karen didn't beat me too terribly because of my weak will (she knew to buy another three sets of the stuff and hide them around my house for their own safety), but I did have to promise to watch Poltergeist with her on Halloween night for my patheticness... That movie scares the shit out of me, and has ever since I first saw it when I was six years old in the theater (seriously, my parents were sadists!).
It was worth it.
Note to self 356: 09/30/2009
Joss Whedon is reading my mind or my private diary. He must be. That's the only way he could have possibly have come up with his idea for one of the greatest TV shows of the past few years: Dollhouse.
Yes, I admit it; when Dollhouse first premiered earlier in the year I gave it 10 minutes to prove itself, and it didn't. It failed me. I mocked everything that was Dollhouse to everybody I talked to. I complained that the once infallible Joss Whedon — the man who gave us Once More with Feeling, Restless, and all of Firefly — had finally fucked up and did the impossible: he created a shitty show based on a really shitty premise. I had lost faith.
But then, the Megaplayboy (with whom I used to share "Buffy Tuesdays" with back in the day) started busting my chops for jumping ship and claiming that "Joss was a pedophilic hack whose newest show was something straight out of a diseased raccoon's anus." He told me to give it one more chance, and at least watch the short 12 episode season with an open mind. Well, I did, and now my mind is considered BLOWN. I should have known better... I forgot the first rule of the Church of the Whedon: In Joss We Trust.
Yeah, the first few episodes of the series are not terribly impressive, but the giant over-arcing storyline is apparent from the very beginning — Alpha, Whiskey, the reason for the actives and the tech... it's all there. And all the missions that Echo (my gorgeous Eliza Dushku) goes on where she goes all dominatrix, or simply gets naked and bones some guy — most excellent. But the last half of the season, and then the straight to Blu-ray episode, Epitaph One, well, that's what really made me see that this truly was a Whedon show. The back story, the pace, the scripts... It led me to understand that Dollhouse is right up there with Firefly. Yes, big words I know, but it is true. The second season premiere just took place this past week, and it looks like they're actually taking things even farther than I had hoped they would. If this thing lasts a few more seasons (despite Fox doing its best to bury it like Firefly before it), we are bound to see some serious shit (to misquote Doc. Brown). Everything is becoming clearer, but because of that everything's becoming very complicated too... In a good way.
Anyway, as I was saying, Joss seems to have read my mind in his making of this show. I had just kidnapped Eliza Dushku and had Dr. Dave hook up one of his many brain scanning/swapping doohickeys to both me and her, and then I transferred my essence into her body (and hers into a used mayonnaise jar... Sorry, Eliza). I then spent one of the most glorious 24 hours alone in a locked room filled with mirrors that I, or any man, could ever hope to. After switching our souls back to our real bodies I then ran back to the same locked room (previously a bomb shelter) while my dear Eliza went ape shit and did her best to tear the good Doctor's lab down piece by piece (due to the memory residue left inside her noggin of what was previously done and done and done to her shell while her ghost was sitting inside a gooey plastic container with "Hellmans" written on the side), despite his assurances to her that "it was all just in the name of science!" Two elephant tranqs later and we
dumped dropped her sleepy form back off at her Malibu mansion with temporary amnesia and a smile on her body's face that also must have been left over by me. Good times....
Note to self 355: 09/02/2009
Another year older and what do ya get? Well, apparently another parachute jump and deeper in debt. In celebration/defiance of yet another birthday, I took it upon myself to fly to 14,000 feet and hurl myself out of a perfectly good airplane and into oblivion again. My GOD, what a rush!
Nobody was willing or able to join me this year (especially due to the last-minuteness of my endeavor), but I made a few new friends at the jump school, and a good (expensive) time was had by all. This time it was an absolutely beautiful morning when I got to the small airport (despite the fog that overran the area by my house); the sky was blue, the wind was calm, and it wasn't as blisteringly hot as it had been for the last few weeks prior to the jump. Also, no nerves shaking me like a little girl covered in spiders this time either; I knew what to expect, and was just full of adrenaline based on anticipation of the free fall. Honestly, the buildup this time was almost as much fun as the actual ju-... No, that's a lie. But at least my stomach wasn't doing a dance and trying to get me to puke before climbing into the plane. So that's a positive thing.
After I got fitted for a jumpsuit (had to wear one this time, but I thought I looked like an honest to God superhero in it), I started walking around the skydiving company's hangar, watching people bag the chutes, and laughing at all the first-timers shiver in their shorts. One group of 4 frat guys was walking around, acting all tough, ragging on everybody else, and raising up (what had to have been their 8AM whisky intake) mini-canteens in order to toast themselves for having such gigantic balls. I chuckled, but left them alone.
At 8:15 my tandem jumpmaster (Michael Chiklis, who's apparently seen a big decline in roles offered to him after The Shield ended [and especially after casting agents saw The Fantastic Four movies]) started harnessing me up and giving me instructions on what I'd have to do in order to not kill us both at 3 miles up. I assured him that I knew what I was doing, and despite his look of pure incredulousness, he seemed to accept me at my word when I told him and then showed him everything I remembered that I had to do from the first jump. Actually, he may have just been backing away from me out of pure awe when I started showing off all my awesome poses I planned to make as we floated on down to the bull's-eye in the grass. Or he was just too impressed with my manliness when he saw my "Superman" enacted.
After all my interview questions with Sandra (the girl who was recording the whole event, and trying to find out if I left a will, where it was, if I had any valuables in my house, where I left my house keys, etc), I got my heavy-duty harness strapped on, and away we went. I believe that it only took about 10 minutes to get up to 14,000 feet, but it seemed like nothing due to the jokes the pros pulled on us newbies (like goading me into asking if the burly diver in the purple jumpsuit with pink wings was gay because of his color choices [of COURSE he was, and he thankfully knew I didn't come up with that on my own as it was apparently a running joke], and letting huge, skunk-like bombs loose in the small enclosed tin can and blaming others [Sandra completely denying any were hers since any by her would have "smelled like roses"]). Thankfully we made it to out jump height before I knew it and got sick from the stench.
The flimsy plastic door in the back of the plane went up like a garage door (filling the plane with much needed oxygen), and Mr. Pink-wings and some other pro jumped out like they were just out for a 3-mile stroll. I then put on my goggles and waddled over to the opening (waddling being the only way to maneuver with Michael Chiklis attached to my ass) as Sandra stepped out of the plane (hanging on to a handlebar just outside the door), helmet camera capturing me as I sidled up to the opening. THAT'S when my first taste of fear hit me that morning... But I remembered my jump line and said it right into the camera: "Wait!.... I still function!" It was perfect. I even had Michael Chiklis say "Wanna bet?" as he pushed me out. I doubt he had any idea what it meant or where it was from, but it was cool of him all the same. And yes, I am an uber-geek child of the 80s. My line was much better than Carl's suggestion that I quote Keanu Reeves from Point Break with his "So are we gonna jump or just jerk off?!" Carl's a perv.
The fall was incredible. This time I had full control of myself and got to appreciate every glorious second of hurtling at the Earth at 120MPH. It is the greatest feeling on the planet, let me tell you... Well, the greatest feeling fully clothed at least. The wind pushing against you, the feeling of leaving your stomach a mile above, looking down at the planet and seeing houses and trees growing larger and larger, and honestly feeling like you're flying. When Sandra video-recorded me as I fell I couldn't help but smile — it wasn't just for the camera. It's just a fucking fantastic sensation...
Soon though, the free fall was over and Michael Chiklis informed me (with a vigorous wave in front of my face) that he was about to pull the chute. 120MPH worth of thrust was forced onto my crotch harness, and we came to a standstill in the middle of the sky. The weirdest part was looking down and seeing Sandra continue to hurtle toward the ground. She took so long to rip her chute that I would have sworn she was about to become impaled on a pine tree. Watching her video later, it was clear to see that she was still really high up when she herself stopped in midair.
The parachute part down was pretty fun too. You're not "weightless" at this point, but you still feel like you're floating — like Superman coming in for a soft landing. We had about 4 minutes of chute time where I asked a ton of questions about all Michael's jumps, what can go wrong, if he'd ever "done it" in the air (don't look at me, HE was the one who brought that bit of bragging up), and then just some small talk about the weather that we were smack dab in the middle of. The landing was nice and easy too, though I almost didn't get my legs up enough before the final approach (it's hard to do leg raises in that whole harness set-up). Man, if I ever get the funds I am verily taking this up as a hobby.
After that I went and did a bunch of other shit, but I retired for the night with a nice big bite of my new BSG Blu-rays... Yet another birthday gift for me, from me. Seriously, I just spoil myself way too goddamn much all the time.
Note to self 354: 08/19/2009
My family wonders why I never tell them when I'm dating somebody (well, if you can call an average of 4 dates per woman "dating"). They haven't had a clue about the last ten ladies I've taken out... Well, that is until now.
I made the mistake last week of telling my brother that I was going out with this girl I met at the Barnes and Noble (mostly because he wanted to do something the previous Friday night and I was scheduled to take her out on our first date), and now I don't hear the end of his questions, and even my parents' interrogations after he told them... Curiosity is one thing, but it's a constant "So where are you taking her this week? What did you talk about at dinner? Does she have any family? What's her religion? Did she vote for Obama?! What does she like to do in her spare time? Does she go to the dentist at least once a year? Has she ever killed anyone? If it was an accident, did she still report it? Does she like to watch those gay Japanese animated shows like you do? Does she cook? Have you slipped her the tongue yet? (That one was not my parents' question.) Does she talk to her parents often? (That one was.) Does she like college football? Where did she go to school? When do we get to meet her?" I saw her ONE time before that last question came up. Honest to Christ, for all they know she could be a prostitute I met on Craig's List, and they're already picking out curtains for our love nest, and stockpiling newborn diapers.
Anyway, as for Rita (the girl in question), she was alright, but we really had nothing in common. NOTHING (except we were both hot). Our first date I took her to a very expensive and chic Mexican restaurant. The bill was huge, and she seemed nervous the whole time: barely making any eye contact (constantly looking over my left shoulder while talking to me, and never even glancing at my face); fidgeting with her hands like Lady Macbeth; and acting just kind of "off" the whole evening. The fact that even on our second date she would only talk to me by staring way over my shoulder — never directly into my eyes — kind of made me think that it wasn't nerves, but some sort of major internal complex or psychological condition. And then I really wondered about her choice of movie: 500 Days of Summer. She was all eager to see it after hearing all about it from her friends. She said she usually hates sitting down for "long and boring things like movies" (which made me think she was a keeper!), but this one was "supposed to be fantastic!" Well, 500 Days was decent enough, but not an ideal 1st or 2nd date flick. It's a romantic comedy without any comedy where the unlikely couple breaks up halfway through, and it drives the male lead into a deep depression for the entire second half of the movie where he almost completely self destructs his entire personal and professional life. Fun time for all.
Rita came out of the theater glowing and all smiles... I had to explain to her, "Hey, Rita-babe. You remember that movie was just saw?"
"500 Days of Summer? Yeah! That was the best movie I've seen in years!... Well, it was the only movie outside of taking my nephews to G-Force I've seen in years, but it was so great!"
"Mmmm-hmmmm.... Yeah, you know how the entire point of the whole thing was: Not everybody is made to be with everybody else on the planet? Yeah. Well, guess what...."
Now I feel like when I explain to my siblings and parents that I'm not going to see her again it's going to feel like I'm telling them I'm divorcing my wife of 30 years.... Honestly, they won't know about my next relationship until we have 3 kids.
Note to self 353: 08/12/2009
One more Vision Quest down, and another year under my belt... Oy vey, thank Christ that I haven't had to start using a new notch on my belt for a while now. If that ever frickin' happens I'm switching to suspenders. Fuck it. I'll just give up.
Back to the Quest. This year I got to the mountain pretty dang early — I knew I'd have a lot to think about, and I wanted to make sure that I got all my ponderings done before having to meet Dr. Dave at the usual all-you-can-eat Brazilian Steakhouse, where I would indubitably force myself to become intoxicated by beef once again. I made it up the slope in good time despite the rain clouds that kept threatening, and my worries that I left my plastic parka in my car a mile down below. I didn't care; I got myself all juiced up and trippy by listening to old Duran Duran and Aerosmith on my iPod, and dancing around on my side of the mountain, breaking wind at the storm clouds and daring them to get me wet.
Before I knew it the dream coyote came. I tried to ask him for direction in my meaningless existence, but he kept looking away, and when I tried to confront him he yelped and ran to the other side of the mountain where a few other hikers screamed and booked it. Then Mr. Coyote started humping and biting the leg of some ultra-chubby woman whose fat son was finally able to knock the thing off after pelting the poor foaming critter with rocks. By the time it probably took her kin to roll the woman back down the mountain I figured she was looking at half a dozen rabies shots, and an amputated leg... But if that coyote was real, then where was my Vision Quest beast this year?
My answer came almost immediately when I heard a giant ROAR behind me, and turned to face a pretty damn impressive manticore... Really, the older I get the more bizarre and psychedelic my head trips become. Maybe instead of ingesting MORE roots each year I should cut back a little? Meh. I guess I'm just subconsciously hoping that I do O.D. some year before I become some pathetic old choad who can't even make it all the way up the giant rock unassisted, but I digress. My great manticore told me that this was my year. "Grrrrrrrrrrrr," he said in a voice that reminded me like a mix of Ron Pearlman and Paul Reuben. "Rrrrrossman.... This is yourrrrr yearrrrrr."
"Really?" I questioned like a baboon whose ass was finally about to turn all shiny and red for the first time. "Details! Give me details! Are you talking about that giant orgy I've been planning after turning the swimming pool at the 'Y' into a giant Jell-O bowl? Or do you mean that Just Kidding and I finally get back together and rock the world so much that we knock California into the sea? Tell me, oh all-knowing beast! Tell me!"
"What? Errrr, no," said the manticore. "Ummmmm, sorry, Rrrrrrossman, I didn't mean to get yourrrrrr hopes up... Ummm, this sounds really kind of lame after all that. Really, ummmm, this is just going to be the year that you find a ten dollar bill on the ground.... Rrrrremember back when you were 10? And you caused your first Vision Quest by almost dying by accidentally strangling yourself by getting your shirt stuck on that Tilt-O-Wheel at the traveling carnival?"
".....Yeah. That's when I first began experimenting with autoero--.... Yeah. Uh, I remember...."
"Well, in your daze you wished that you could find ten dollars on the ground so that you could go back into the tent of freaks to ogle the muscle woman two more times."
"Hey! She was HOT! Cut me some slack," I said. "Wait, so I finally find $10 on the ground?"
"Well......" the manticore began. "Really, you kind of steal it from that fat woman's fanny pack... The chubbo who just got jumped by that rabid coyote... But yeah. Just remember to take that $10 and buy a lottery ticket tonight with the following numbers! 10 - 14 - 25 - ....."
"TEN BUCKS?! Gotta run, manticore! Woo-hoo! That'll pay for the tip at the Steakhouse!"
I then tore down the mountain, found that the tubby's fanny pack was still on her by the time I easily caught up to her (seriously, it was going to take the giant waddler 4 times as long as a normal [non-obese] person to make it down the rock before getting her leg all chewed up), but figured I was just speeding up my prophecy by snatching it off her equatorial waist and running away while doing my best Woody Woodpecker laugh.
I made it to the Brazilian Steakhouse a good hour before I told Dr. Dave I'd meet him there, and just began eating as much beef, pork, lamb, and chicken that I could. The good Doc came out of the kitchen and joined me at my table 50 minutes later, and whispered to me "not to eat the filet mignon." I learned a long time ago not to ask questions, but I did see him constantly looking around at all the gaucho waiters, and following the one with the juicy beef wrapped in bacon on their skewers. Then he'd whisper almost to himself, "Yes!... Yeeeeees... Eat it! EAT it!" to whichever table had been unfortunate enough to summon that specific gaucho.
After lunch I wished the Doc good luck on whatever experiment he was conducting on the customers in the restaurant, and then booked it to Mehve's place where Mehve, the Weasel, and I watched bad movies till late in the night. REALLY bad movies. I'm talking My Name Is Bruce bad. I challenge you to watch that piece of dog shit and not get that one song stuck in your head! "Guan-you, Guan-me, Guan-di." Fuck! Now it's back in mine.
Note to self 352: 07/08/2009
I am a fucking idiot.
Yeah, that may not come as much of a shock to you guys, but trust me, I really had no idea until this past weekend. It all started out on last Friday. I had gotten up early (11AM) even though it was a day off, and decided that my lawn needed edging and mowing, the shrubs needed trimming, and the dead pile of carcasses of neighborhood animals really needed to be moved out of my backyard (and hopefully into Jimmy Jammer's). Anyway, even though I hadn't planned on it being such a chore, the whole ordeal took over 4 hours (thanks in large part to that family of illegals that moved into my wine/bomb cellar [hey, when the end comes I'm getting sauced] that I had to smoke out).
Anyway, 4 hours in the stifling Southern sun on my shirtless back caused me to feel something that I've NEVER felt before: MY SKIN ON FUCKING FIRE. It's one thing to know that you're going to burn eternally in the afterlife (I've got several priests' assurances on that), but to actually FEEL like somebody doused your back with hydrochloric acid is another thing entirely. Those pictures to the right? Yeah, there's no color manipulation at all going on there. That was the actual color of my skin until just yesterday (now it's maybe a half a shade of "neon red" lighter). It looked like my back was actually glowing... In the top one you can even see unaffected Rossman skin just above my belt.
I could not lay down on my back or on my arms for three whole nights, and whenever I moved my arms in my sleep the stinging pain would jerk me awake where I'd then reflectively move some more which caused me to have to assure the police who came to my door that I was not torturing anybody in my house, and that it was just me cursing the uncaring gods in my sun poisoned despair. I also told the pigs that if anything was amiss in the neighborhood it was my nosey and annoying as fuck asshole neighbors who liked to bury hobos in their backyard (I had decided that Jimmy Jammer's place was just too far to drive to with a Ford Explorer filled with decaying animals and homeless, so I opted to just chuck all the bodies in the thick grass and unkempt hedges in my neighbors' lot).
Terrible pain is still with me, so I've signed up for an entire backside skin graph at Dr. Dave's tomorrow. Oh man, the excruciating anguish ends tomorrow!... I'll be happy as long as the donor's skin isn't the remains of Buffalo Bill's special coats again... There's a reason I've never let anyone take a photo of my ass since the April Fool's Day prank Carl played on me with the scorpions and my tighty whities. Anyway, apparently the cowboy really didn't care if they put the lotion on their skin as his entire wardrobe looks like tanned leather now.
Note to self 351: 06/24/2009
I'm writing this from a secret bunker in Dr. Dave's underground lab. I don't think that Dr. Dave himself even knows about this place... And you know what? Fuck 'im! It's his fault... It's all his fault.
It all started last Tuesday when I had to go to the good doctor's for a limb reattachment. As I sat in his waiting room, patiently reading a book while my physician/quack finished up sewing Jimmy Jammer's head on a chimp's ass, I must have gotten drowsy (that or there was another ether leak), for the next thing I knew Dr. Dave was standing over me with my book in his bloody hands.
"What's this?" he asked like a child seeing a live goat for the first time. "World War Z? Was there another one?... It's been so long since I've seen the sun." Then I (mistakenly) explained to him that this was a fictional documentary about the global zombie war/epidemic that the survivors referred to as the African Rabies War, or Zombie War I, or, just like the title, World War Z. It's all about how the zombie pandemic originally began and quickly overran the civilized world, and how both the victims and those who never got bitten were both royally screwed. Unfortunately I didn't think much about it after that and just continued reading while Dr. Dave gave me one of the previously mentioned chimp's arms in place of my snake and badger-shredded original (which I brought along in a giant freezer bag just in case — which I think he kept in order to try and turn it into an elephants dong, which I felt honored about so I didn't argue).
Anyway, things went alright for me and my new simian arm until this past Sunday when I woke up to the sounds of meaty thuds against my front door, and the voice of Jimmy Jammer yelling for help amid a lot of guttural moans. I asked "Who iiiiiiis it?" and only got the reply of "Brrrraaaaaains....." Oh, that and Jimmy Jammer screaming that "they" were "eating [his] brains." Goddammit... Zombies.
I looked out my window and saw half a dozen of the fuckers either bumping up against my door or tearing Jimmy Jammer and his chimp body to bits. I fucking HATE zombies. I sighed, grabbed my shovel/battle-axe (my Lobotomizer), a bottle of Gatorade, and my iPod, and then I snuck out my back door and got to work cutting up Zacks as I made my way to Dr. Dave's place. There was no other destination in mind.
There were a shit-ton of zombies out and about. My entire college town was completely overrun. Along the way I saved 10 hottie coeds (4 were already bitten, but we still had time before they turned full-on walking dead for me to get some sweet reward from them for my efforts... before I had to chop their heads off), the Skipper (who thought all the crusty, stumbling, and scabby guys approaching him were just his old pirating and drinking buddies), and a puppy (for one of the rescued girls... Unfortunately it was already a zombie puppy and I had to put both down with a good slice-n-schlop). I ran into Carl, who was doing well beating the ever unliving tar out of a terror of zombies with just a pair of brass knuckles (and brass cojones), and I saw the Wolfman slowly walking around with another group of the undead, biting folks and stepping on babies. If I didn't know any better I'd have suspected that he had been turned too, but then I remembered that it was Sunday.
Anyway, I made it to Dr. Dave's place after hacking up a grand total of 1,682 walking dead, and I used one's decapitated skull to pound on the good doc's basement lab door. He answered with a cheery "Who's there! I have a gun and herpes!" But when he found out it was me (and about 3 remaining buxom beauties) he let us in. He openly admitted to starting the whole "zombie thing," but he considered the entire experiment to be a failure. I asked what the fuck he was talking about, and he told me that his zombies weren't really dead, and that they usually self-cured and returned to normal with full memories of what occurred while "zombie-flued™" within 48 hours... No tidal waves of the damned destroying civilization quite yet. That's about when the girls started shrieking and pointing at me and calling me "murderer," and "sexy killer!" After Lobo-ing them and giving their hot bods to Dr. Dave to experiment (or whatever) on as a bribe to keep him quiet I then found this sub-sub bunker in his underground lab and made myself at home. Holy shit... I even did a little dance in front of a security camera at the police station while pretending to skull fuck that zombie head... And then I really did skull fuck that one babe before carving her head open in order to save her from a horrible zombie death... It's gonna be at least a week before I can show my face around town again.
Note to self 350: 06/10/2009
This past weekend was glorious! I did nothing but veg out and watch movies. And eat. I ate a lot. And drank. Lots of drinking. And some piddling on neighbors' porches... But let's focus on the movies.
First of all, I rewatched Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children with Karen on Friday (she'd never seen it, and I wanted to see the extra 30 minutes they pumped into the final product on Blu-ray). Christ... Never watch anything video game-related with somebody who has never played the game before. Every 10 seconds came a new question along the lines of "Who's he?" or "How can he lift that GIANT sword up with those toothpick arms?" or "What the hell just happened" or even "Why the hell are we watching this again?" That ended soon enough though and we began watching the Blu-ray version of Band of Brothers in honor of D-Day on the 6th. We'd each seen BoB many times before, but the extras featured on the Blu-ray really made me happy. The interactive timeline with Pop-Up Video-like info bubbles that educated us on everything from ranks and actual map locations of certain scenes to what was happening behind the scenes of certain events and what happened to characters in between a cut. Absolutely fascinating!
Anyway, Saturday rolled around and Chi-Chi and I realized that two movies that we had both wanted to see had come out this weekend, and that it would be a perfect opportunity to movie hop an afternoon away. As luck would have it I was able to find a movie theater in town that had both movies aligned perfectly so that we wouldn't have to wait 30 - 60 minutes in the men's room (in between the end of one and the seating of another) in order to pull off our movie heist. Ugh, flashback to one movie hop where the manager of the theater sat down in the stall next to me and let loose with some earth-shaking bowel movements that smelled worse than rotten eggs twice recycled out of a cow's intestinal tract. I couldn't leave the stall either, because I could hear that there were at least two theater employees right outside the door who would have spotted me and definitely noticed if I had tried to sneak into my second movie of the day (Shoot 'Em Up, iirc) an hour later. You can't just hang out in the lobby in between two showings unless the workers just don't really give a shit or are dumb as a box of dildos, but I digress.
So Chi-Chi and I went to first see The Hangover (with Andy from The Office, Heather Graham, Mike Tyson, and some Asian dude with the world's tiniest pecker), and we laughed. And laughed. I don't remember laughing this hard since I first saw Kentucky Fried Movie back in high school. Pretty much every line and every action in this thing was funny. I won't ruin any of the jokes (there are just too many of them, and in order to do this flick justice I'd have to go into way too much set up and exposition in order for you to appreciate either the visual aspect and multi-layers of each joke or the perfect comic delivery by any of the Shakespearean-trained cast... just shitting you, I'd just fuck them up if I tried), but I will recommend that you see it in a crowded theater with at least 4 drunk people. And goddamn you better watch the slide show through the credits. Best ending credits sequence I've ever seen. Possibly the best part of the movie too.
We came out of that movie in fantastic spirits, and deftly maneuvered into the theater showing the next feature of the day (whose previews were just ending as we hustled in and found some seats): Will Ferrell's Land of the Lost. Never before have I been so sucker-punched in the mangos by a movie as I have with this one... I usually enjoy Ferrell and his man-child persona on the silver screen (Anchorman and Step Brothers being some of his best work ever), but this thing... this, this abomination known as LotL was just crap. It was supposed to be a comedy (I think), but I don't believe I laughed once... No, I did chuckle at that one joke... The very last punchline in this 90-minute shitfest: When Will's character goes back on the Today Show in order to prove to the heckling Matt Lauer that he's now a world-renowned scientist, and he unveils the cover of his new book (Matt Lauer Can Suck It) and states that he can't believe Matt's lawyers greenlighted the title... That got a laugh out of me... My only laugh in this entire flick. The CG dinosaurs were kind of crappy too, but whatever.
After that I went home, watched The Good, The Bad, The Weird, tried watching the new anime series known as Yozakura Quartet (but I didn't hate myself quite enough to finish it), and then just settled in for some more Band of Brothers late that night. Sunday was a bit more of the same, except with a lot less activity, more laziness, and a conversation/argument with Carl about the fate of the recently deceased actor known as David Carradine. Despite the fact that the 72-year-old moron was found dead in his Bangkok hotel room (naked in the closet with a curtain cord strangling his neck and his pecker and mansack) Carl swore to me that it was suicide. I tried to explain to the big lug that it was beyond obvious that the retarded septuagenarian just died accidentally from autoerotic asphyxiation, but I don't think that Carl had ever even heard of that term before as all he could counter with was "He wasn't found in a CAR, dipshit! He was naked in the closet!" Man, Carradine was a shitty actor (honestly, he's worse than Christopher Lambert, and he slurs hith etheth like a puthy), but I feel really sorry for his family. If I were in that clan I'd try to cover this up as fast as possible, but apparently they thought there was foul play involved seeing as they pushed for the FBI to oversee David's autopsy... I guess the 2 pints of semen underneath his dead, erect, kung-fu cock (attached to his naked self with a smile 10 miles-wide frozen on his face) wasn't a big enough clue. Honestly, fuck you, you horny poor-man's Bruce Lee you... Fuck you, David Carradine, and burn in Hell. You were the worst possible choice for Bill and you almost ruined Part 2 with your terrible lithp and your inability to even do any action scenes (beyond sitting in a chair opposite Uma). Thank you for becoming An Hero, and I'm only really pissed off that you didn't do it before Quentin hired you for that otherwise awesome movie.
Oh, then Sunday I finished up Band of Brothers. Great series that.
Note to self 349: 05/20/2009
This past Saturday my sister Jaime graduated college... Again. Dammit! Now she's more educated than I am. Fuck... Now it looks like I'll need to either go back to college and get my masters degree myself, or just beat her at something else in our competition of sibling dominance... I hated school, so I guess I'll have to settle for something else. I already have the higher body count, but that's not something I can openly prove without facing hard jail time. I have more hard core pr0n collected, but nobody wants to verify this fact so that's no good either. I guess I'll just have to try my best to father more illegitimate children than her (which is going to be tough seeing as she already has 9 and I only have 6).
Anyway, as much as I wanted to be there for Jaime on her celebration day, I was not looking forward to it for the following obvious reasons: it was to take place in Tuscalooooosa, AL (home of the University of Alabama and its mascot, the Crimson Aunt Flo); it was 4-plus hours away; and graduation ceremonies in general take between 2 and 4 hours just to get through (and 4/5ths of the formal ritual is always just one long roll call). Ugh. My dad got out of going by having an appendectomy the night before... I'm not so sure that I believe him though, seeing as he had his appendix out 3 years before when my mom wanted to visit her spinster sister in Houston. He claims it grows back every 2 or so years, and if everybody else in my family believes him, then I guess that'll be my excuse next time another Ross Family Reunion pops up and the whole clan expects me to watch over cousin Jeremy and keep him and his retard hugging to a minimum, and hopefully keep the waterhead from crippling any more children.
Back to the U of A DOA Gradua.....tion. There was only one speaker, and it was some old fart who spent his entire 15 minutes of podium time telling the grads that "now that you're out, there's this thing called 'The Alumni Association.' I know you and your parents just spend tens of thousands of dollars sending you to this redneck school for the past few years, but now you OWE US BIG! Give us money! LOTS of money! GRRRRRRRRRR! RUFF!" It was kind of pathetic. What was even more pathetic was that there was no valedictorian speech. No student speech whatsoever. No special speaker speech either. Sure, UofA was no Notre Dame or Harvard, but they couldn't get anybody?! They almost took the National Championship in college football last year, and they couldn't get the guy who wrote Forrest Gump, or Jim Neighbors to motivate their pupils to do their best in the real world?! That was just really sad.
In order to pass the time between Jaime walking up on the stage to get her diploma (she was 14th) to the last person waddling across the stage in a robe with enough material to cover a small circus (the last person being the 2,106th and 2,107th), my brother and I listened to 2 hours and 40 minutes of one of my recorded Opie and Anthony shows on my iPod. There were at least 4 instances when I think we interrupted the ceremony by blurting out shit like, "Ha! You go, Jim Norton! You show Club-Soda Kenny who's a mongoloid!" and, "Oh God no! Ewww! Don't sniff that cyst behind Vos' ear! Urk! I think I just puked a little!....." Good times. I only (accidentally) killed 2 babies and one graduating student too. Oh, and I think I may have illegitimately impregnated two more hot mommas too. I'll catch you yet, Jaime!
Note to self 348: 04/29/2009
This has been a week of strangeness — Lots of unforeseen ups and weird downs. First of all I got news that UGA's star quarterback, Matthew Stafford, signed a fucking HUGE deal to play for the Detroit Lions for forever. Most people I know try to make a joke out of this to me ("Har har! Your UGA fella is on the WORST TEAM EVER!"), but they forget two key points in their argument. Number 1: Matthew Stafford just signed a six-year contract that "reportedly contains $41.7 million in guaranteed money (the most guaranteed to any player in NFL history) and carries a total value of up to $78 million" with the Lions. And Point Number 2: Ever since I lived in Michigan (from kindergarten to 2nd grade) I have been a die-hard, life-long, fuck-you-if-you-mock-them Lions fan. I have never turned my back on them (even after last year's record breaking season of being the only team EVER to lose all of their games), and now they have one of my favorite college quarterbacks ever on their roster... If only they got Knowshon Moreno or Mohamed Massaquoi too. My point: didn't see this one coming, but this is not bad news but awesome news. Go Lions!
The second moment of strange ups and downs came when Cartoon Network finally showed Warren Ellis' finished GI Joe mini-mini series, GI Joe: Resolute, this past weekend. Being a child of the 80s who has yet to grow up I was at first tickled pink to the point of "Lizzing" myself... But then I saw it. No, GIJ:R isn't bad really, but it's not that much of an improvement over the cheezy original 80s cartoon. I could have made another GI Joe Vs Physics page about the 60 minute presentation — and I'm positive that my list would have been longer than the ones for the earlier mini series and the movie — but I'm just lazy as all hell lately. That would have been too much work. Not that being cheezy and filled with bullshit science is a bad thing really, but it just wasn't the "adult version" of GI Joe that Resolute had been pimped to be. Yes, no more colored lasers, Cobra Commander actually kills 10 million people (all of Moscow, yay!), and lots of characters (Cobra and Joes alike) die horrible, painful, and most of the time bloody deaths... but the whole thing played out like a laughable episode of the children's cartoon it was supposedly improving upon, only with a lot more red paint. And honestly, what the fuck was up with the Snake Eyes/Storm Shadow story? They took the SE and SS background from the exquisite Larry Hama comic (the two were good friends who trained at SS's uncle's ninja training camp together), but then they turned SS into a total douchebag and made their supposed rivalry an absolute joke. Stormy's all pissed that his uncle never taught him the "seventh step to killing a man in seven moves"? Storm Shadow proved in the opening 5 minutes that he could kill a giant, burly man with his bare hands without leaving a mark on him. He probably did it in 1 or 2 moves too! Why the fuck does he get his ninja panties in a bunch over not being told how to do the exact same thing in a secret seven-step program?! The other thing that pissed me off to high hell was Scarlett choosing anime voice actor Duke over Snake Eyes... After reading the original comic (wherein SE got his face all fucked up, and vocal chords all ripped out because he was saving Scarlett from certain death) I just get ticked like a monkey with no shit to throw whenever a glorified shipper like Warren Ellis breaks SE and Scarlett apart in order to shove her down golden boy Duke's tighty whities. That's just cold, man.
Last weird bad thing that happened this week was some impotent, faggy, psychotic asshole of a professor at UGA realized that his dick was tiny and went out and killed his ex-wife and two of her friends at a playhouse in town. As of now he's yet to be found, but we can hope that he's already put a shotgun with a toe attachment to his gaping hippie mouth and done the world a favor. Honestly, we don't need to waste hundreds of thousands of dollars on trials and a lifetime in prison for this shrivel-dick scrote. Burn in Hell, hippie douche.
This past Saturday I saved a baby bunny's life. Twice. Granted it was a stupid bunny, but regardless the dumb thing owes me a life debt now. I named her "Little Fucker" for the obvious reasons you'll see below.
It all started with the first lawn mowing of the season (and first mowing ever for my new property). The front yard was quick and easy (with it being sodded), but the back needs to be reseeded by my builder (which he'll get to eventually.... I know where he lives) because in place of actual grass in the 1/4 of an acre of backyard is crabgrass. Fucking FORESTS of it. There were some patches which were two feet high and two feet wide... But I didn't let that stop me.
So with my iPod on I started speed walking my mower through the wilds, slowing down only to tackle the bigger groups of weeds a bit more methodically so as to not break my goddamn lawnmower (again). About ten feet away from my house I'm doing a job on the biggest group of weeds out there when all of a sudden a brown blur of something sped out of it and into yet another large formation of vegetation that I had yet to trim. My first reaction was "Holy goddamn shit!?! What the fuck was that little fucker?!" I initially thought it was a giant toad brought in from the Amazon like the super spiders in Arachnophobia, but when I looked closer I saw that it was just a baby bunny (that was hyperventilating with gulps of air like a machine gun). Knowing that I still had to run the mower over the little fucker's new hiding spot in just a minute or two, I went to the other side of the patch and started stomping my feet while getting closer to it in order to chase the thing into the area of my yard that I had already cleared. It kind of worked seeing as the goddamn little fucker tore off in that direction, but then turned around the corner of my house and out of my site.
I slapped my forehead thinking that the little fucker was running smack dab into the street and all the construction vehicles driving up and down the lane for my new neighbor's under construction house, so I gave chase. She was nowhere to be seen on the driveway or in the street, and so I nonchalantly turned my head and looked into my open garage. There she was, cowering in the far corner, thinking I couldn't see her brown fur against the grey-speckled, treated floor and white paint of the wall. I crept up and was able to pick the little fucker up relatively easily, and then I took her out a bit past my property and into the no-man's land between my house and the woods that it borders on, and let her go. She just sat there, so I went back and continued to mow.
About a half an hour later I noticed something kind of strange: A big-ass hawk was circling almost directly above where I was then standing. I sighed, looked around, and there, just five feet away (not even in a mini-crabgrass forest, but just next to one) was that goddamn little fucker. After a small chase in which she pretty much didn't even try anymore, I caught her and carried her back to my garage... The small and feeble "Nyaaa! Nyaaaa!" sounds the little fucker was making were quite fucking adorable, I must tell you. Anyway, I found an empty moving box and put her in, adding a small saucer of water and bits of a cut-up apple, and then I finished the lawn and then shaved and showered for a date. There were now two evil dick hawks outside (probably hunting the little fuckers' even dumber brothers and sisters), so I left the cowering bunny in its box at the back of my garage (after taking some pictures) and left. I was afraid that if my lawn mower didn't frighten her to death my GIANT MONSTER GROWLING CAR would, but I didn't let that stop me: hot date!
I had told Lisa about the bunny at dinner and she then became adamant about seeing the little fucker for herself. She kept making small and feeble "Awwwwww!" sounds throughout my incredibly heroic story, so I took her back to my place to let her "free the cute, widdle snuggle-bunny" into the wild herself. It was now dark, and I didn't want to scare the shit out of the little fucker with the garage door screaming to life, and the GIANT MONSTER GROWLING CAR charging toward the big box in the corner, so we parked in my driveway and entered quietly through the side door into the carport. I turned on the light and took Lisa over to the box... But the bunny wasn't there anymore. She DID leave me some presents though... All in the water dish and near the apple pieces... Ungrateful little fucker. Honestly though, by the way she was running around the yard before, and the way she only clumsily attempted to jump out of the box when I first put her in it, I thought the two and a half foot walls would have easily contained the beast.
We spread out to find her, and I soon caught a glimpse of the little fucker hiding behind a spare kitchen fluorescent light casement (one of those long glass dealies). When I reached down to grab the scruff of her neck she let out the goddamn cutest squeak and tried to squeeze under the fixture. I tried to grab her quickly, but she then got out of that self-imposed trap and started jumping up and off the garage walls like a monkey on crack. She was easily reaching three and a half feet in the air. I was quite impressed with her mad hopping skills. She quickly got too terrified to think though, and apparently tried to go in two directions at once. I picked the little fucker up and then brought her around to show Lisa (who was then craning around me to get a good look). I held the creature up so that Lisa could get a close view of the fucking adorable creature, and then my date started making the craziest baby sounds and weirdest faces at the little fucker, as if she just couldn't help it. She'd "A-goo goo goo!" and "Who's a pwetty baby bunny?! Who's a pwetty baby bunny?!" right in the cute widdle bunny's face... I've never seen the eyes of a rodent get so goddamn HUGE. Then I looked down and saw that there was a fucking puddle on the ground. I scanned the rest of my almost empty garage and saw that there were some more pellets over by the garage door too. The little fucker pissed and shat its way around my entire garage.
After Lisa got her jollies petting and fawning over the little fucker, I carried the scared as hell thing out into the night. This time I walked all the way down to the woods and fucking HURLED the varmint as hard and far as I could into the trees. Nah, I'm just fucking with you: I put her down into the shrubbery and watched her tear off into the forest. Goddamn cute little fucker — I wouldn't harm a hair on her precious little body... Well, I wouldn't until I had Night of the Lepus inspired nightmares that night, and then accidentally stepped in some of her hidden gifts for me the next day when I was trying to clean out all of her little messes. NOW, next time I see her I'm thinking hasenpfeffer. Little fucker...
Note to self 346: 03/18/2009
Since everybody is apparently Irish on St. Patrick's Day, I convinced Carl that it was alright to beat up everybody he passed on the street yesterday if he wanted to, just like it was okay to slug an Irishman on any normal Tuesday and Thursday. But I made him promise that he'd say "Hey, McFly! Your shoe's untied!" just before connecting fist to face or abdomen.
After the cops took him away for assaulting a minor (well, 22 of them, each a 2nd grader as they were getting off of the school bus to see the St. Paddy's Day Parade) I went and found myself a midget to get drunk and dress up in a wee little shamrock hat and green pointy boots in order to celebrate MY St. Patrick's Day tradition. All in all a good year. I only had a mild headache this morning, I remember most of the previous night, I know for a fact that the green vomit on my shirt was indeed mine, and I'm only missing one and a half limbs. Now to start getting ready for Cinco de Mayo. I think I'll try to convince Carl that he's really Mexican that day... Doctor up some fake Spanish birth certificate and the like... Should allow for some fun.
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