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.
Newest Dailies (#429 - ?)
Archive 38 (#417 - 428)
Archive 37 (#407 - 416)
Archive 36 (#398 - 406)
Archive 35 (#386 - 397)
Archive 34 (#380 - 385)
Archive 33 (#370 - 379)
Archive 32 (#359 - 369)
Archive 31 (#346 - 358)
Archive 30 (#336 - 345)
Archive 29 (#323 - 335)
Archive 28 (#313 - 322)
Archive 27 (#304 - 312)
Archive 26 (#294 - 303)
Archive 25 (#284 - 293)
Archive 24 (#271 - 283)
Archive 23 (#259 - 270)
Archive 22 (#247 - 258)
Archive 21 (#233 - 246)
Archive 20 (#222 - 232)
Archive 19 (#211 - 221)
Archive 18 (#201 - 210)
Archive 17 (#191 - 200)
Archive 16 (#179 - 190)
Archive 15 (#163 - 178)
Archive 14 (#149 - 162)
Archive 13 (#137 - 148)
Archive 12 (#124 - 136)
Archives 1 - 11 (Suck ass)
Or visit the rest of my shit:
Rossman Reviews & Ratings
The Rossman Chronicle
The Rossman Examiner
the Daily Rossman
What Is New
ONIcon 1998: The Con Of The Century!
Note to self 385: 09/07/2011
This. Weekend. Was. Sweeeeeeeet! Labor Day weekends typically mean me working my ass off because we're way behind on a project (we never learn), but this year I used up every sympathy card I had at my disposal to get everyone to work late nights and weekends before the three day holiday weekend, and although we were still behind (we always will be), we got this past Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off for good behavior! So I did the only thing any normal geek would do with a free extended weekend in the South: I went to Dragon Con.
It's been YEARS since I'd been to the DC — I don't even remember how long ago it was, but I do remember that at one point I was hanging out with Team Greenwood, drunk of course , and James Marsters walked past with an entourage and I pointed at him (5 feet away) and yelled out "Holy sssshit! James Marsters?! You, sir, ROCK!" To which he saluted and winked at me and said "Thanks, babe!" I never washed my eyes or ears after that.
Anyway, my point is that I wanted to party nerdy style this holiday weekend, so I drove down to Atlanta on Saturday morning, arriving at the Sheraton (one of 4 or 5 hotels hosting the event) at around 8:30AM, and promptly got into the line for day passes that quite literally wrapped completely around the goddamn block (out one door, down to the street, then around and down the block, around the other corner, then the other, and finally back to the original side of the hotel, and the opening of the ticket door again).
It took an hour and a half to get my Saturday pass, but nothing big had started yet, so no real time was wasted in line. Soon I met up with Chef Jax and Good Lenin, helped them get into a few things they wanted to see with my pass, so they didn't have to blow $50 themselves for the panel or two they needed to be in, or to get that special autograph from Johnny Fever that made their lives complete (seriously, I understand Christopher Lloyd, Stan Lee, Felicia Day, Eliza Dushku, and the cast of Battlestar Galactica signing shit in the autograph room at Dragon Con, but Howard Hesseman and Loni Anderson? Wha?). Then they bought me lunch at an awesomely scrumptious back alley noodle shop with 40% more cat in the "Thai Meat" bowl than anything one could find back in Athens. Then they left in order to go home and watch some vintage Dr. Who pr0n or to try on their new T-shirts with witty sayings from Firefly or Buffy on them. Bah! Who needs them! I had a whole con full of freaky deakies to keep me company. That's when I bumped into my old personal physician (who I haven't been to see for a check-up in over a decade).
He told me in order to make up for my unhealthy lifestyle all I'd need were two little pills.
So not worth it. I'd rather die of Hyper-Fatal Herpes Chlamydia (trust me, it exists... It's how the MegaPlayboy went) than to have to reverse-suck those pills into my colon again...
I stopped walking funny after a couple of hours, checked out the artists' alley (after bumping into my friend's friend Yaya "the Costumor!" a few times, in different outfits each bumping [and yes, the bumping/groping was intentional... on HER part!]), and saw the hottest Felicia Hardy in her Black Cat costume I'd ever seen!... But I daren't not approach her for fear of being mocked for having those faerie wings super glued to my back (if I EVER find out who put those on me I'll.......). Which is a terrible shame since that Felicia turned out to be UGAnime's very own Estaflowne herself! Let this be a lesson to all you nerdlings out there: if you see someone in a hot cosplay outfit at a con, approach and bug the SHIT out of her. You may know her and she just may not slap you if you try to see what their costume is made of by grabbing her butt. Message.
After that, I wandered around for a bit, but then I found out that the Wolfman wasn't coming down to the DC till Sunday, and after having Psycho Weasel not return any one of the 25 texts I sent him I decided to hang out in the anime wing and jump in on a few panels to kill some time before figuring out my next plan of action. There was a fairly entertaining discussion already in session featuring 5 English voice actors (I didn't know any of their work, but they mocked the fattest of the dorks in the audience mercilessly, and for that they had my undying affection), and that led way into about 30 minutes of AMVs and then a panel on "Why Tokyo Always Gets Annihilated in Anime and Manga."
This presentation was run by some pipsqueak Brit national who had lived in Japan for the past ten years. It was a very interesting historical lesson on the creation of Tokyo, its utter destruction in the real world at least twice in living memory (the Great Kanto Earthquake, and the fire bombing [not the shitty rock group in Macross 7... it wasn't THAT devastating] during WWII), and how popular culture feels that because there's no real permanent skyline or "feel" of the megalopolis that it's fun to just burn it down or blow it up completely in everything from Godzilla to Bubblegum Crisis to Evangelion... Well, it WAS an interesting lecture until the mouth breathers in the audience got their turn to interrupt the poor guy.
Honestly, I'm not sure if the fat fucks in the room were actually mentally handicapped or simply some of the greatest trolls I'd ever seen in action. Whenever a picture of some anime would appear on the intelligent-sounding professor's Powerpoint screen one of the three tards would raise his sausage-fingered hand and (without being asked) tell the teacher his impression of that anime, while doing his best to misinterpret the show/movie in question, mispronounce words like "manga" or "Evangelion," or simply state shit like "Ghost in the Shell is the most awesome show ever, because it had that talking tank in it, and that was awesome! If our soldiers had that tank we'd so kick ass in Iran and India right now!" Or my favorite, "They blew up Tokyo like 3 times in Eevan-jelly-on, which is why it's now called like Tokyo 3... Why do you think Shinji jerked off on Asuka in that movie? I never jerked off in front of a girl before, even when I had the chance and she was passed out like Asuka too." You think I'm making that shit up. I am not, sir. And man, I was SO fucking impressed at how the professor kept his cool and never once tore the mongoloids a new one for being sooooooooo utterly stupid. I was too busy laughing and pointing to do anything myself, but oh man, I hope to Christ they were just trolling. Otherwise, we're DOOMED as a species.
At least Pam loves me...
I walked through the many dealers' rooms then, hurried past all the basement dwellers who took the opportunity to talk to a real person for the first time in a year (since the last Dragon Con), even if it was just a poor vendor trying to hawk a T-shirt with Moss from The IT Crowd's face on it for $15, who only said "Hi, would you like to buy a comic book or a plastic light saber?" to instigate the pasty skinned one's life story (and his theory as to why taun-tauns would make better pets than tribbles), then my phone rang.
"WHO IS THIS!" was my answer I used, since I didn't know the caller.
"Ummm, Rossman? This is Psycho Weasel. You at the con? Want to meet up? We just got here."
"Yeah, if this is PW, then why didn't you respond to any of the 30,000 texts I sent you today?! HUH!?"
"Ummmm, did you send them to this number?"
I looked at the number I sent them too... It was one digit off. "Hey!" I then said, "Let's go hang out now! Yay!"
I then got to meet the Weasel's girlfriend, and I must tell you, she was the first person ever to come up with a picture idea that I would NOT have taken of me. She even said she'd give me a dollar if I asked a particularly scary-looking furry to yiff me for a photo.... I would probably pretend to blow those dudes dressed up as those Zardoz freaks (in their red diapers and all) for a pic with the proper motivation, but no furry yiffing for me. *Shudder!* So needless to say she was awesome.
Unfortunately it was around that time that I got pushed in the crowd and accidentally stepped on somebody's metal boot. I turned to apologize, but before I could say anything I was told in an authoritative and commanding voice "DOOM DOES NOT LIKE LITTLE FAGGOTS STEPPING ON HIS FOOT! RICHARDSSSSSSS!" Oh fuck, I thought. My old boss, Dr. Doom was there, and I just made my presence known to him.
Before I could respond though, I then saw who Doom was talking to before I interrupted him: Cobra fucking Commander himself.... Shit! I accidentally killed 5 of his cats over the past year with golf cleats! I thought fast, and before either of them could remember that they both promised to shiv me like a pinata if they ever saw me again, I blurted out "I just killed Lion-O, and that loser Matt Trakker.... With a fucking crowbar! Fuck yeah! We are so evil and awesome! YEAH!" That's when this next photo was taken. Doom is screaming "Richardsssss!" and CC is speech impedimenting "Yesssssss! Next, that parrot on that gay ssssssailor's shoulder! I alwayssss hated that goddamn cockatoo!"
Unfortunately Doom then spied my patented Rossman hat and began having a seizure while pointing to it in pure rage. Cobra Commander then caught on pretty quickly and things devolved into chaos, and the following picture, within a heartbeat.
Psycho Weasel then jumped on Doom's back, and they both tumbled over the edge and onto Pimp Vader on the floor below. I turned to clock Cobra Commander one for letting his cats crap on my front door mat like a Thundercat-sized litter box all those times, but he was already running away through the crowd, yelling hysterically "Zartan! Sssssssave me! Zartaaaaaaaaaan!"
Oh, on a different note, later that night I witnessed one of the coolest things ever while watching the UGA Bulldogs get humiliated and ass-raped by Idaho State on the 20-foot TV above the bar in the Hyatt: Three guys dressed as a pretty in shape Zartan, Buzzer, and Zandar, came across two guys dressed as Torch and Ripper, and after the shock wore off they all embraced as brothers and started singing the Cold Slither song for an applauding crowd before they went their separate ways again... Dragon Con rocks.
Anyway, Psycho Weasel was dead (I assumed... I always assume), and I hung out for another few hours while hiding in plain sight wearing a stolen Firefly Jayne's hat, admired a few Rule 63 super heroes (including a fucking GORGEOUS Rule 63 Captain America, and a Rule 63 Cyclops), and then left the giant party at halftime in the UGA game when it was obvious that Coach Richt gave up and wanted to start looking for a new job before the season's first game was even over.
Sunday then brought about a pretty cut-ass-rugged afternoon/night, hanging out at Mehve's place and just shooting the geek shit with Mehve, Mikey, and the Chief until 2 in the morning. I hadn't had a fanboy weekend like that in ages. And it was good. Except when Cobra Commander came by Monday night and had a faceless minion shit on my front porch. Jesus... He must have only eaten curry for 3 days before that.
Note to self 384: 08/24/2011
This past weekend was a rough one — the kind that makes you appreciate the quiet, slow ones where you're not expected to do jack shit beyond watching movies or possibly mowing the lawn. I had to work from 7AM till noon on Sat (eh, sometimes shit's gotta be done, no complaints), then I spent the rest of the day in the blazing 98 degree Southern heat watching my nephews in little league football and soccer games. This is usually a fun thing, but everybody was fucking MELTING out there that day, and the football game was an hour and a half late getting started because the dicktards in charge of everything have no goddamn idea how to keep a few games involving 7 - 10 year-olds on track, even though the kids themselves understand the rules and regs more than they do. Those poor fucking kids too... Two passed out due to heatstroke (after waiting around for 90 minutes in full pads before even hitting the field). I stopped sweating due to dehydration after an hour in the outdoor sauna myself, and that was after downing two Gatorades.
The game with my nephew eventually started and went on without a hitch, but then 4 minutes into the second quarter my 4 year-old nephew (the youngest) tells us he needs to go potty. His mother told him to hold it, but he started getting VERY fidgety, so I said I'd take him (and hit the concession stand for another drink afterward).
So we get to the filthy rest room (untouched by mop for at least 5 seasons), and the little guy makes a bee-line for an open stall. I use the stand-up model next to it. I then notice under the stall wall that his feet turn around and point the wrong way before his pants hit the ground, and I groan in comprehension and anger (at myself, for not asking earlier)...
"Hey, buddy," I started off with. "Are you going number one or number two in there?"
"Ummm, which one's number one?" he asked back.
At this point I felt a little relieved thinking "I've taught him the difference between 'number one and number two'... This is a good sign. He's just sitting down 'cause the seat's too high. Whew!" I answered him with "Number one is pee."
"Oh yeah," he said. "I'm doing number two."
"(under my breath) Fffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck....... (out loud) Oooookay. You know how to wipe yourself, right?"
"Mommy always does it for me."
"Well," I said with absolute assurance, "you're learning today."
"Oh!" he then exclaimed. "I guess it's a little bit of one and a whole lotta two."
"Goddammit so much....."
Needless to say that doesn't really cut it with a four year-old, and when he claimed he was all done I had to go into the danger zone myself... The SMELL... How can a kid that small make an odor like that? Anyway, I kept waiting for him to get off the can to show him how to do the "wipe of champions," but he just sat there looking back at me like "Well, what are you waiting for?" So I took a loooong piece of toilet paper and folded it up, and passed it to him. He then reached behind him while still sitting (he was on the edge of the rim, and had a lot of open space behind) and proceeded to wipe wipe wipe wipe wipe with the same piece of paper, explaining to me "Mommy only wipes twice and says I'm done."
I handed him another piece of fresh TP and said "Yeah, we're gonna go for a new record here today. Keep wiping, but use this new one." That confused him, but he complied. After one more new folded piece after that (and 20 more wipes) I figured that must have gotten it. He hopped off and before I could flush I got a look at what he dropped.... Jesus. Fucking. Christ... He must have been storing that thing for half a fucking month! The turd was bigger than his arm! He must have lost 10 pounds in 2 minutes! I'm surprised the porcelain didn't shatter on impact! Holy shit... I was so glad it didn't clog the toilet as I flushed and then dragged the kid over to the sink (he tried to just run outside to see what the crowd was cheering about).
I made him wash his hands for 3 minutes, reapplying soap every 10 seconds. This was bad enough but some 7 year-old with crazy eyes (think "Ogre" from Revenge of the Nerds, only not intimidating in the least), in full football uniform and pads was using the sink next to us and he wouldn't shut the fuck up. At this point we were the only three people in the facility, and I kept looking around to see if anybody would witness me grabbing the player's helmet and smacking him upside the head with it.
"Why do they make these helmets so big?" he asked nobody in particular. My nephew was about to answer (with God only knew what response), but I shushed him and told him not to talk to insane people with eyes that don't focus on the same thing. The peewee player laughed, put his helmet on, held his hands up like he was a bear ready to attack, and he started growling and giggling. I grabbed for some paper towels (turning away for only an instant), and I heard another growl, then a yelp of pain, and a plastic helmet hit the tiled floor. I whipped around and saw my nephew with his right fist extended at 7 year-old crotch level, and the football player grabbing his junk and unmoving on the ground. I quickly dried off my nephew's and my hands, gave him a high five, then picked him up in a fireman's carry and RAN out of there. I even forgot to get another Gatorade, and spent the rest of the game suffering from the heat because I dared not go back near the concession stand lest I be ID'd as the "guy with the nut-punching child."
Sunday sucked even more, what with those fags burning crosses on my lawn and using up all my buried land mines in my yard. Those fucking things are expensive!
Note to self 383: 08/03/2011
Nature is a cruel whore of a bitch sometimes. A few weeks ago I noticed some bird was starting to build a nest in my 12-foot tall oak tree in my front yard. "Not too secure," I thought, as I saw that she only built the thing 5 feet off the ground, on close to the lowest branch, "but I guess she knows what she's doing. We humans don't know to build outside of flood plains, so I can't criticize too much."
I checked on the nest the following weekend while mowing my lawn, and found that it was already completed, and there were 4 speckled, light-blue eggs in it. I remember thinking that these poor fucking eggs were never going to hatch seeing as we were in the middle of one of the longest, hottest heat waves the South had ever fallen under since the previous summer. "Those poor fuckers are going to be hatched sunnyside-up," I so wittily surmised.
A few days later I checked on the nest again and found four of the UGLIEST wrinkled and blind baby birds I'd ever seen, all stretching their necks up for someone to feed them by puking down their throats. A robin had flown away out the other side of the tree the second I stepped from the driveway into my yard toward the oak (great mothering... "I'll fly away, so he can't eat us all!" Unlike that mother swallow I had that one year that would dive-bomb the shit out of me [if I got within a football field's length from her nest above my front door] until I ran away, screaming like a little girl), but those hideous little fuckers just kept stretching and struggling, as if the first to have his or her head pop off would win.
After that I would go out every evening and peek into the nest to see (and take photos of) how the once bald, then down-covered, then partially-feathered chicks were doing. But then a few Saturdays ago I came out to find the most pissed off female mockingbird going absolutely ape shit, flying in and out of the lower branches of my oak, squawking like that annoying girl that I used to date in college did whenever anybody insulted her horrible fashion sense. I ran over to the tree, chased that cunt of a bird away, and noticed that only three of the chicks were still alive — the fourth was lying there lifeless in a heap. I then spent the rest of the night on vigil, throwing acorns, pinecones, and pebbles at the mockingbird when she kept trying to get close to the nest again. She'd be all like "Whoa! What?! I'm way the hell over here! I'm nowhere near that robin nest..... *Sneak, sneak, sneak* (thrown acorn) Holy shit, man! I was just looking for a worm or something! Seriously! That had nothing to do with the baby robins! Jesus! Just everybody calm the hell down." Soon she gave up for the night, and I went inside, hoping the momma robin would stop being such a pussy and come back to feed her chillun.
The next day I found the three living babies all huddled down close together, but the dead baby was gone... But it wasn't under the nest or anywhere to be found. I thought it odd (did the psycho-territorial mockingbird actually carry it off? A cat would have gone for fresh kill if it had attacked...). At least the remaining chicks still looked alright. At this point they were still mostly down-covered, but their feathers were coming in well enough. That Monday after work though, I came home to find the whole nest was empty. All the little chicklets were gone, and I didn't see the momma at all that night. Then came Tuesday.
I came home on Tuesday and found a dead baby bird in the middle of the driveway. It was like it was a message, like the horse head in The Godfather. Like the mockingbird or something was saying "Stay out of it. It ain't your fight." Then I got pissed. I got a little disgusted too when I tried to scoop the dead body up with a gardening spade and a plastic grocery bag and it began to move. That's when the giant maggots starting going all wriggly and writhing and making a break for it. They were not faster than my shoe though. I gave the bird a burial in my garbage can by the street, and as I approached my front door I noticed a little dull-colored grey bird (with speckles on its breast) underneath one of my bushes just staring at me. I approached it, making wild arm gestures and hoots and hollers that probably scared my neighbors and convinced them I WAS some sort of pervert, or worse, a performance artist like they always feared, but the bird just twitched its head to the side. It didn't move till my hand was about two feet away from it, then it squeaked and ran back behind two more bushes (right into a brick corner under my dining room window).
I followed the bird, hoping that it was indeed a refugee baby robin, but I couldn't be sure. This bird looked like it was fully feathered and big enough to fly; my babies were far from that point last I had seen them... But that was a few days ago. So as the winged creature stood in the corner I approached it again, but a lot quieter and smoother this time. It cheeped at me, but didn't move. I was actually able to gently pick it up. That's when it started squirming, but that's also when I noticed its wings were really tiny, and it was still about 1/5th covered in down. It was cute in its terrified panic, but thankfully it never shat on me, and I put it down in the same place, just as softly as I had picked it up. All that night I kept watch on the baby robin from my dining room, and scared that goddamn mockingbird away 2 times as it tried to attack the youth. To my astonishment my little baby was now sticking up for itself though. Whenever the mockingbird landed closer than 3 feet from the robin, the little guy would puff out all his underdeveloped feathers and wings and SCREECH at the invading murderer. Eventually the mockingbird would always fly away (usually after I threw stuff at it), baby birdy unmolested. I was so proud.
Soon it was getting dark and I started to call it a night, but then I noticed that my bird was beginning to let loose with a high-pitched chirp every 5 to 10 seconds. I thought he was calling for his mother to feed his sorry ass, but soon I began hearing return chirps. Within minutes two other babies joined the original, and they all scurried off across my front walkway and into the larger shrubs and bushes on the other side.
The next day I found the original baby in a shrub and took his picture a few times (see above). Then I went inside, opened up the window a bit, and waited for that goddamn mockingbird to come back and try and terrorize my robins again. I didn't have to wait long. As soon as my baby got down from his bush and started his chirping for his brothers/sisters again while walking around my mulch, that mockingbird flew in and landed within two feet of it. The robin put on his best show of puffing up and screeching at the older, bigger bitch-bird, but then the mockingbird started mocking the poor, frightened baby. It started raising its feathers, flapping, and screaming back at my bird (who proudly did not back down). That's when I had enough, aimed the pellet gun that I borrowed from Johnston in Accounting, and blew that goddamn cunt of a mockingbird away, right in front of my baby robin. Feathers actually flew and then floated to the ground. I was positive that my baby bird must have thought he was fucking Superman or something after that. He just tilted his head and cheeped before running off though.
After a few more days I stopped hearing the cheeps from my bushes, and I swore I saw a tiny bird fly off from my main baby's favorite shrub one afternoon. I had a tear come to my eye in the knowledge that I saved and helped 3 baby robins grow into adulthood (with no thanks to their cowardly mother!).
Soon I started showing off pictures of the day-old babies, and then the two week-old juvenile bird in my shrubbery, to the people in my office. All the women would "Oooooo," and "Ahhhhh" over the pics and my story, but then I got to Frank...
"Yeah," Frank said after a quick glance at my iPhone pictures, "Those are cute baby mockingbirds there." Then he went back to typing.
I felt I had to correct him. "No, no, no, no... You see, these are baby robins. I SAVED them FROM a mockingbird that was terrorizing them though."
Frank glanced up again. "Ummm, nope. Those are mockingbirds. See the breast plumage of the one in the bush? Mockingbird. It's all speckled. Mockingbird."
"But, but, but, the eggs!" I told him in desperation. "The eggs were speckled blue! Robin eggs! EGGSSSSSSSS!"
"Speckled? No, robin eggs are like bright, bright blue. Mockingbird eggs can be light blue with speckles of brown."
You know, I always used to laugh at that South Park episode where Eric Cartman killed Scott Tenorman's parents, cooked them up into a chili, and made Scott eat them in front of the town.... Not anymore. Not anymore.
Note to self 382: 07/13/2011
Dream time: Last night I had a dream that my sister thought it would be a good idea to have a picnic with the whole family in a "really cool" park she found about a half an hour away from my house. I agreed to meet everybody there, and as I got outside I was pissed to see that it was night. "What kind of yahoo wants to have a family picnic at night?!?" I screamed to the heavens. But not wanting to be the one to ruin a family gathering (I typically leave that up to the in-laws) I got in my truck with my printed out Google Maps directions and headed towards the park.
Soon though I came upon a small town (kind of like Mayberry), all lit up like Christmas, with cops (real cops, not Andy Griffith or Barney Fife) stopping traffic everywhere, searching everybody's vehicles. As one officer came up to my truck I asked what was going on.
"Oh, see," he started, "there's this escaped murderer out in the woods. We're trying to catch him, but he's quick, and he's already killed 4 more people since his escape."
"Out in the woods?!" I exclaimed. "Oh shit! He'll kill my family! They'll all blame me! Fuck!" That's when I tore away from the pig and started flying towards the park we were supposed to meet at. Unfortunately I had my windows down and my directions blew right out into the night. Now, at that time I was already down some country road I had never been on before, it was pitch black, except for my headlights, and there was a goddamn killer with Olympian sprinter abilities on the loose... I was NOT about to get the fuck out of my truck to look for several pieces of paper in the darkness. That's how idiots in horror movies die.
I must have gotten hungry by then because I found a Wendy's and went inside for a burger and some fries and a Frosty. I sat next to two friends I used to know in grade school (Joe and Chris), but Chris took offense when I asked if he was the killer people were looking for (I was semi-serious, as he was a bit of a trouble maker in the day), and he left in a huff. Then Joe and I went back to my place and we played some Call of Duty on the PS3 (which is bizarre, because I loathe first-person shooters) until my ex, Lisa, came over with her little girl. Then I got pissed and started yelling at her.
"What the hell are you doing here, you whore?!" I asked politely. "Why don't you just go over to your boyfriend's house and suck his dick! Don't bother me! I'm playing Playstation with Joe!" I pointed to where Joe had been, but he was gone, and Lisa started to laugh.
Holy shit... I had never been so mad in a dream before. It took everything I had to keep from swinging at her. So instead I picked up her daughter (who was laughing at me too, though I was sure it was only because she was imitating her mommy) and threw her out the window. She was lucky it was open, though Lisa didn't seem to think so.
As Lisa continued to pummel me with her fists and her purse I tried to assure her that there was a lake outside that window (there never was before, but I just knew it was true at the time), but then she started raking my face. I ran because the Rossman does not hit women (though apparently he's not opposed to chucking children out of windows).
The next thing I knew I was in bed with Lisa, but I think she was dead. It was just like the opening scene of Sin City in Marv's story with Goldie; I knew I didn't kill her, and I had some faint recollections that I had a good time before passing out. Then I woke up.
Any dream analysts out there? Does this mean I need a dog or something? Do I need to take up heavy drinking again?
Note to self 381: 07/06/2011
I picked up the new Lord of the Rings: Extended Edition Blu-ray set this past week, and spent the 4th of July weekend chilling out with my Middle Earth bros from Friday night till early Sunday evening... But that's when the greatest idea of all time came to me in a Morgothy dream of POWER! I would control all of Athens, GA by creating some rings of awesomeness of my own, distribute them to the leaders and most influential fuckers in town, and then create a bad ass Uber Ring of my own to manipulate them from the shadows and get me out of parking tickets and bar tabs and shit. It would be glorious!
I started out by breaking into the local second-hand jewelry shop in town and
stealing borrowing 3 rings of real gold for the Mayor and the City Council Lords, 7 glittery rings for the leaders of the hottest sororities in town, and 9 plastic gumball machine rings for the most powerful of my friends/enemies! I then spent the night casting my spell over all the rings (which included a lot of chanting, a lot of Red Bull and antacid tablets, and a whole lot of urinating my essence onto the jewelry in question... Just like Sauron did). Then I dipped my won-in-a-poker-game Super Bowl XXVI ring into the mix and cackled like an evil lord who just pulled a fast one on the world at large.
First thing the next morning, I went to the Mayor's office and presented her with the prettiest pearl ring I had. Well, I tried to present it to her, but her aid and her bitchy secretary kept telling me she was in a very important meeting, but I could clearly see in her door that she was just passed out at her desk with her panties on her head and some naked old guy hanging from the chandelier. The secretary promised me she'd pass the ring along though.
Then I went to the Secretary of the Treasury and the Chief of Police (who were both at the Sea Wench Pub getting soused at 10 in the morning... Seriously, I think my town has a pretty bad drinking problem). I slipped the emerald ring onto the Secretary, and the ruby ring onto the Chief as they were busy talking The Skipper's wife into letting them do "titty shots" with her titties.
The glittery rings were the easiest to give away, as I just went down to sorority row, attached a garden hose to Tri-Delt's spigot (if you know what I mean), and put up a big sign in the front yard declaring it the "4th of July Wet T-Shirt Contest of Freedom!" I then spent about 4 hours hosing down hot college girls (I would use the FIRE HOSE on the Omega Mu's when they'd try to get into the action) and passing out rings to the hottest presidents of the hottest chapters. A grueling task.
After that I braced myself as I went about handing out the plastic flower and unicorn rings to my personal acquaintances. I gave the first one to Angry Amy after flattering her on the lovely tent she was wearing (she said "mu-mu", I said "circus tent"... same diff), and watched her promptly drop it into a pile of wet dog crap on her lawn (actually, it was a pile of me-crap, seeing as I left it on her yard not 4 days prior... I was actually still impressed it was still that moist!... I need to see a doctor about that). Then I tried to chloroform Carl and force a nice pink ring on his finger. After I came to in the hospital with 12 stitches and only one eye (and missing 5 of my remaining rings), I decided to force the rest on Jimmy Jammer and Kuni. I used a brick and super glue to make sure the task got done.
After all that was sorted out I placed the Super Bowl XXVI ring onto my own finger, praised the deviant god Heccubus, sacrificed a yapping lap dog to Alice Cooper, and bent the wills of those with the lesser rings to do as I commanded! Unfortunately I got some of the spell incorrect (two of the pages of my Necronomicon were stuck together due to me lending it out to the Megaplayboy earlier so that he could get "a better look" at some of the sexy wood carvings set in human blood in the margins of chicks doing it with satyrs and centaurs and shit), and all the sorority girls either killed themselves with spatulas or butter knives, or they got it on with Kuni and Jimmy Jammer, who I then killed with a screwdriver out of jealousy. Oh, and the Secretary of the Treasury and the Chief of Police ran off to Bora Bora with the remainder of the town's yearly budget, but I'm not sure that I had anything to do with that seeing as they were sucking each other's dicks when I left them at the Sea Wench pub earlier before I cast my spell. Oh, and the Mayor never got her ring, seeing as her secretary tried to hawk it at the same jewelry store that I borrowed it from. She's doing two to five now, that dirty, dirty whore. Next time I'll just use a Balrog to take over this shitty town.
Note to self 380: 05/11/2011
This past Saturday of Madness all started out with me going computer shopping with my father. I had not been able to convince him that his only 2 year-old Mac (that he maybe uses 3 times a week, has 300GB of storage space on it with only 30GB used up) was still perfect for him until he saw for himself the prices of any of the possible replacement iMacs and Mac laptops at Best Buy. I believe his exact words were "What the H?! Were they always this expensive?! I could buy your mother a Puerto Rican to do all her online shopping and pay her bills, and still have enough left over to buy the grandkids a pony for the price of one of these!" So we left, and to cheer him up I took him to go see Thor — I was looking for an excuse to as there was no way I was going to miss that movie this weekend.
Thor was good and fun and all that jazz, but it was a bit longer than I had hoped it would be, only because I had promised Dr. Dave that I would meet him at a classic car show near his lab at around 3. Because we missed the first movie of the day, and the second didn't start till much later than I thought it would, I didn't get over to the show until around 4, though the Shady Dr. Dave didn't seem to mind. In fact, I found the doc already poking his head around and under the hoods of a bunch of well-maintained beauties (Mustangs, Cameros, 'Vettes, and a Charger or two) as I pulled up. I asked him what he was doing, and if he needed some old tubes, belts, or engine parts for a new Frankenstein monster or something, but he just hushed me up quickly, reminding me that the last Frankenstein monster he made that got loose and ate that cub scout troop was made from one of MY old, recycled dead bodies, and "if the cops ever found out where we buried it and all his stool samples, filled with 7 to 9 year-olders' teeth, they'd—"
I cut him off there, and told him that I was just wondering what was up with him poking around all these cars. Dr. Dave informed me that he had a nice, cherry, classic muscle car that he was just getting ideas for, then he handed me the rebuilt engine of a yellow Stingray Corvette to quietly trudge over to the green-grey '66 Mustang he pointed out to me on the other side of the parking lot. I don't know what those mechanics always bitch about; those engines are really pretty light. Or maybe that "shot of vitamin C" the doc gave me was another hyper injection of some of his potent anabolic steroids again. I really wish he'd lay off those things on me already. My testicles were about the size of frozen peas after the last time. Whatever.
We soon got to adding in the new engine, stereo, surround sound, tires, headlights, seats, and fuzzy dice when I thought to ask Dr. Dave when he got his Mustang in the first place, since she was a real beauty. He glanced at his watch and said, "In about 5 minutes from now... Now help me siphon off some gas from this Viper into it." We were gone within 60 seconds after that.
We cruised around Atlanta for a while, hit the Pony, The Vortex, and then I remembered that I had a couple of tickets to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra's presentation of Nobuo Uematsu's FINAL FANTASY - Distant Worlds concert! We were on the top-end Perimeter when I told Dr. Dave about this, and we made it to the Atlanta Symphony Hall in two minutes flat, despite the ever present bumper to bumper traffic that encircles the city, and because of the NOS.... Oh, and the hyper-drives installed on the Mustang's undercarriage powered by the anti-matter stasis field plugging into a black hole from another universe through a wormhole in the trunk.
We hit the Hall after making it to about Mach4, but those airbags worked like gang-fucking-busters! It also helped that a large group of very rotund video game geeks dressed in black T-shirts and Cheeto-stained jeans was just crossing the street as we pulled up. The twenty of them and their cheezy beards really cushioned the hell out of our landing.
We got inside and found out, to my complete surprise, that I did not need those binoculars that I borrowed from my old man. It turns out that row BB is not the 28th row, but it is in fact the very second row in the Atlanta Symphony Hall... Honestly, Ticketmaster, you really need to fucking come up with a better online map of your venues other than having one color cover the entire first floor of seating and say that Row BB, Seat 4 is somewhere in the giant orange block. But I digress, I was pleased, and I'll tell you why. Yes, they tell you that you want to sit further back from a full orchestra in order to let all the sounds blend into one symphonic blob of muzak, but that's fucking retarded. There's a reason they separate the violins from the brass from the cellos from the choir in the first place. I'm telling you, I may be an uncultured, uncouth Midwest-raised hayseed, but I found it fucking awesome to hear almost every individual violinist on my left, and the deep, rich cellos on my right, and to have the woman singing Maria's part in the FFVI Aria (Yes! They played a 12-minute version of the goddamn opera scene in Final Fantasy VI! And it was the greatest thing I ever heard other than Natalie Portman screaming my name in ecstasy in my dreams night after night) accidentally spit on me while belting out "DRA-AY-COOOOOOOO!" And hell, I'll even give the geeks from the Georgia Tech Choir mad props for their rendition of Liberi Fatali and all those beautiful "Fithos Lusec Wecos Vinosec"s! It was indeed a special night. And when the conductor actually got Nobuo Uematsu himself to hop up on stage for the encore and sing with the GT Choir for the final performance of the night (one One Winged Angel)... well, I got a little tear in my eye. Or maybe that was from the handcuffs pinching too tight as the cops dragged Dr. Dave and I away for the vehicular manslaughter of 20 fat fucks outside the theater.
Oh, and don't worry, once we explained to the judge on Monday morning that at least 3 of the "people" we ran over were cosplaying as certain Final Fantasy characters to the event in question (I shit you not... And 2 of them were dressed as some of the faggy characters from FFXIII.... Which NOBUO UEMATSU DIDN'T EVEN WRITE THE GODDAMN SCORE TO!), he dismissed all charges and shook our hands. Goddamn that was a great weekend!