ARCHIVE
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(For more Dailies, check out the Archive Here)
Note to self 178: 08/28/2002
Every
year, as all you Rossman-stalkers already know, I climb a
mountain near my birthday and then spend a few hours on top
pondering the universe and the eternal question of "why
must I grow older every fucking year?!?!" This year
was no different. I patched up my
ankle (that Carl had basically broken for me when he tried
to see if human ankles could rotate and move in 360 degrees
at the point of connection to the lower leg.... FYI, it can't
and he failed his Biology 765 test), got a bit liquored up
and then challenged the only sort-of real mountain within
5,000 miles of Athens, Georgia: Stone Mountain. It
was a fairly easy climb, but that's never what the patented "Birthday
Vision Quest" is all about. Once I made the summit (16.47
minutes after I began... Yeah, it's a bear) I set up camp
and began boozing it up even more. Alcohol makes you see
things so much clearer sometimes... Especially when you're
out of breath and the air is slightly thinner. Very slightly,
but slightly none the less.
After
a few hundred minutes I thought that I could fly like that
Monarch Butterfly that fluttered past me after my first vomit
of the day. That experiment basically turned into a concussion
though. Soon I was talking to the trees (John was being a
dick, and Harry died sometime in the past year... What an
ass). Then I was holding arguments with this goddamn stupid
ant that kept trying to eat my head. After that I found myself
yelling at children who were laughing at me who it turned
out weren't even there. It was at that point that I knew
that I had attained some sort of enlightenment, so I decided
to use it for all the fucked-up-tasity that it was worth.
I took out a pad and pen from my back-pack and began drawing
something. The next thing I knew I was at the foot of the
mountain without my shoes and my pants on my head as some
sort of sexy hat. When I took a gander at the piece of paper
that I had crumbled into my hand I saw the image that I posted
on the right. I honestly don't know if it was the Coyote
god, Gray Dog Asslick of Filthy Meadows, speaking through
me, or the LSD that I later found out that Robot Pedro had
put into my water bottle, but I know now that it means something.
It's important. Also it was drawn from my own blood and the
pen was still in my wrist when I found it the next day.
Note to self 177: 08/21/2002
That
was a full and wild (and maybe even a bit zany) weekend that
I just participated in. First of all, last Friday I went
to visit Chi-Chi in the Highlands of Atlanta. I got there
around 5:30 and the drinking began in earnest. We watched
a bunch of Mr. Show episodes that my friend has on
DVD and then went out for some very uber-burritos at a shack
down the street. Unfortunately (to be made clear later) they
had PBR pitchers at a $2 happy hour price and we had to handle
3 between the two of us for reasons I'm still not sure about.
Then we had Chi-Chi's roommate drive us to the liquor store
to stock up on some mad Killian's Red before plopping down
in front of the couch for an all night DVD jam session. At
around 10 I ordered some Papa John's supreme pizza which
turned out to be one of the top ten worst ideas I've ever
had in my life. By around midnight, the unholy mixture of
alcohol, burrito and grease-fest pizza (coupled with some
disturbing Mr. Show moments) made me start to feel "not
so fresh". I thought that I had walked it off, but as
I got close to the bathroom my stomach told me that it was
time to evacuate. Now, this sensation of "My name is
Vomit and here I come!" hit me within only 2.5 seconds
of actual ignition. The fact that I actually made it into the
bathroom in time still amazes me. But, alas, it was not enough
to divert disaster. See, I made it to the john, but as my
instincts kicked in, my hand raised to my mouth in a sad
sad attempt to keep it shut and the puke safely inside. The
attempt failed and my hand turned the spew into a disgusting
explosion of half-digested foods and drinks that showered
half the room in vile bile. The upshot was that I was then
feeling much better. The downside was that my feeling of
relief turned back to sickness as I had to spend 45 minutes
cleaning the glop up and then disinfecting the floor, walls,
toilet and clothes. Plus my new nickname with Chi-Chi is
Spewy (after the alien that Chris Elliot made friends with
in that Get A Life episode).
After
watching the rest of Cowboy Bebop and then the Royal
Tenenbaums on Saturday we both got some good burgers
in Little Five Points and then bought Criminal Records out
of inventory. I headed back to Athens to kill the Skipper
(an even longer story I'll save for a rainy day) and get
some rest. Sunday came around and Jaime, Kiffand I decided
that an eight hour hike (our original plan for the day) would
have sucked, so instead we went theater hopping and saw Signs (creepy
as all fuck, but a reeeeaally crappy ending), XXX (I
want to be Vin Diesel when I grow up) and Austin Powers
3 again. I love college town theaters. They never check
for tickets and it's like they expect people to screw them
over like this. After sitting on my ass for 7 hours at the
movies I sat on my ass again when I got home and read my
new Twisted Toyfare Theater book. Then I pissed my
pants out of laughter. Spider-man is now my most favorite
asshole in the world. After that I went to sleep and had
a night-terror that aliens were trying to harvest me. I woke
up only after smelling smoke and found myself with a shotgun
in my hands and Robot Pedro's almost obliterated corpse at
my feet. So see, sometimes good things do come of
bad dreams.
Note to self 176: 08/14/2002
Well,
all of my big trips are over for the summer. Now I'm just
trying to settle back into the daily grind of regular Rossman
life. This sucks. Regular life should be more fun. Everyday
should be filled with plane rides, nudie dancers, dozens
of drunk friends, gambling, crowded hotel rooms and dead
prostitutes! Why must these sacred elements be saved for
only special occassions and out of town parties? I've started
the Shady Dr. Dave and the clever Bob From the Future working
on the solution to my problem. So far they've come up with
a device that hooks right up to your brain and feeds you
with lifelike hallucinations and convincing plot elements
of zaniness and fun. I had to pull their funding though when
I discovered that all they did was create a helmet that shoots
the wearer up with LSD whenever it is put on his/her skull.
Thank goodness we only field tested it on puppies and Jimmy
Jammer first. Both of which had already had their brains
fried on numerous occassions in the past.
Note to self 175: 07/17/2002
Summer
time is starting to begin to think about winding down, and
therefore vacations need to be planned to immortalize the
Summer of '02 forever in the Rossman history archives. So
far I have a planned Otakon and wedding in Vegas for the
summer (so if any readers want to buy me a drink in Baltimore
between the 26th and 29th of July, or Vegas between August
2nd and 5th, let me know now so's I can get my alky tolerance
up a bit before hand). Both should be fun, provided Jimmy
Jammer doesn't find out about them... In which case I suppose
that posting this info on my page for the world to see was
a bad idea. Eh, fuck him.
Other
than that shiznit I'm pretty bored. I've caught up on some
DVD rentals over the past few weeks that I missed in the
theater. I've even tracked down some old high school ex's
and enemies (mostly the same thing) and did the old Chinese
water torture deal. Yeah, I did have Bob From the Future
send Robot Pedro to an evil dimension (hoping that the "evil" Robot
Pedro in said dimension [who would in fact be a "good" Robot
Pedro, considering the Robot Pedro in this dimension is a
right bastard] would fight him and they would both blow up),
but something seemed to go wrong and Bob From the Future
was seemingly vaporized when an "evil" Bob From
the Evil Future suddenly appeared and shot him with an atom-destabilizing
gun. Out of respect for the sharp dressed chef from the future
I scraped his charred remains off the ground and made Dazzlin'
Dave cook them into a spicy curry of which we fed Carl without
telling him what it was. Bob From the Future would have wanted
it that way.
Note
to self 174: 06/19/2002
Dammit!
Sometimes it just really sucks to be me. Last weekend I found
out why my contacts were sticking to the back of my eyelids
and why green mucus kept pouring out of my eyes like a disgusting
waterfall. It turns out that when I was wearing my disposable
lenses for months at a time instead of taking them out daily
(or even bi-weekly) it was a bad thing. Now I can't wear
them again. EVER. And that's not the worst of the sucky part.
The eye doctor who broke the news to me then ordered me to
try and crack the crust off of my eyes 4 times a day, enough
to administer drops of the steroid Prednisolone and the over-expensive
saline solution, Patanol. It's bad enough that Prednisolone
turns my vision milky for a few minutes after using it (seriously,
it's like putting thick and almost clumpy milk in my eyes
except without the good flavor), but it's also hard to say.
After
all that shiznit, I went to the Shady Doctor Dave in the
hopes that he could give me some corrective laser surgery
to fix mi problema. He strapped me to a chair and then Clockwork
Oranged my eyelids open as he aimed the giant fucking laser
at my cornea. Then he fired a hole right thru my goddamn
skull. I'm telling you, if it wasn't for his stash of homeless
people bodies of which I can get good parts from, I'd never
go to Dr. Dave's place again. At least now I have a green
eye though. That's cool.
Note to self 173: 05/22/2002
Last
Wednesday at midnight The Megaplayboy, Robot Pedro, Jaime,
Kiff and I went to the first showing of Star Wars Episode
II: Attack of the Clones at the same theater we saw Phantom
Menace three years earlier. We waited in line for an
hour, and just as we were about to be let inside (right as
Robot Pedro was about to rip Kiff a new one for making fun
of his taste in fruity cocktails) Bob From the Future showed
up in order "to see the celestial film that started
the human cloning project in the early 21st century at its
glorious premiere." Everybody behind us was pissed that
we let him line cut, but they were even more cheezed off
when he proceeded to spoil the whole movie and all of Episode
III: The Rise of the Wookiees to their unsuspecting asses
(he has seen the whole set of movies 242 times!). Then Bob
From the Future started to tell us of the horrible and tragic
death of George Lucas in 2006 (something about his son pretending
to be Indiana Jones and accidentally whipping the poor fucker
around the neck while letting the other end of the bullwhip
get tangled in a ceiling fan) and how afterward the Star
Wars franchise went to the highest bidder. It turns out
that starting in 2008 a new SW movie is produced every
2 years until the early 2200s. The company that bought the
rights put the guy who directed Cabin Boy in charge of the
next trilogy (which takes place after Return of the Jedi when
Luke has to be busted out of the Jedi retirement home on
Coruscant by his estranged nephew/son [courtesy of Leia]
and the rise of the clones of Palpatine, Vader, Maul, Tyranus
and Yoda [who lost his soul in the Jedi afterlife and needs
to suck Luke's essence dry to become "Ruler of the Galaxy
Far Far Away"]). It all sounded very confusing. Especially
the part where the 35th trilogy (the final one... so far)
takes place in between the 5th and the 28th trilogy.
After
the movie, Bob From the Future was so jazzed up about the
experience he used his mad time traveling skillz to try and
teleport all of us into the "long time ago" when Star
Wars originally happened. Unfortunately he didn't have
a distance teleporter on him and we could only bum
around ancient Earth while it was a half molten mess of magma
as Bob From the Future furiously fixed up his time displacement
gizmos (which, we found out, are not very heat resistant).
Luckily we got back in time for the Buffy season finale
last night, and kookily enough, it turns out that Kiff is
probably responsible for starting all life on this planet,
seeing as we forgot about him 4 1/2 billion years ago after
Bob From the Future dropped us off at my house and ripped
back to his own time. Robot Pedro says, "Good riddance
to human scum," but I think my sister's kind of sad
about the whole thing.
Note to self 172: 05/15/2002
Holeeeeeeeee
shitballs! What a wacky past couple of few many weeks. I
finally found a subleaser for my old apartment, moved into
the house I'm watching for some friends/enemies for a few
months, killed a man in drunken anger again, saw some big
summer movies, accidentally blew up a full can of "Inflate-O-Tire" in
the back seat of my car, put together buttloads of bookshelves
and entertainment centers, set Robot Pedro on fire again
after I filled the fire extinguishers with gasoline, almost
caught a ninja that was spying on me, and finally got my
copy of Battle Royale in the mail from my trusty Ebay
seller. What a great movie.
Several
days from the past month are kind of blurred/melted in my
mind though, so I'm not so sure what I was doing between
the 12th of last month and yesterday. I still have a large
shark tooth jabbed in my thigh, so I might have gone scuba
diving, or club hopping on Caribbean Night. And there's also
that skull tattoo I found where my skin was still in pain.
Now by "skull tattoo" I don't mean a tattoo of
a skull, I mean a permanent piece of art etched into my scalp.
I shaved off all my hair temporarily to see what it was a
tattoo of, and was fairly pleased to see a perfect rendition
of a Care Bears' picnic. The one with the cake on his belly
is my fave.
Note to self 171: 04/10/2002
This
past weekend the Megaplayboy, Chi-Chi and I went to the Classic
City Brewfest. It sounded like a good idea: Over 160
different beers from around the world for the sampling at
only a $20 cover charge! What self-respecting alcoholic could
pass that up? The three of us were very excited. We got an
early lunch and got in line before noon (for the 2 o'clock
opening). We talked to the other raging alkies in line and
we shot spitballs at the llamas that some Mexican cervesa
brewer brought for no reason. As soon as the doors opened
we pushed to the front where Chi-Chi started shouting "Drink!!
Girls!!! Fuck!!!!" But our debauchery was deflated when
the people handing out wristbands and tasting glasses informed
us that we could only sample 1 ounce of beer at each booth. One ounce.
One sixteenth of a pint. One twelfth of a bottle. One SIP.
Chi-Chi is a professional drinker himself. He burned out
his tastebuds years ago. It takes at least a pint for him
to even get a hint of flavor from any booze he "samples".
This "brewfest" was bogus. After about 2 hours
we barely even had a buzz. And that was after we started
cutting in lines and threatening the brewmasters with broken
bottles to give us TWO full ounces at each tasting. After
that catastrophe we hit happy hour at the Gator Haters bar
and got faced the old fashioned way, while hitting on young
women with fake IDs while their boyfriends argued over who's
dick was shaped most like Gonzo's nose. Biff won that one
hands down I heard.
Anyway,
after Chi-Chi was killed (or almost killed... I'll have to
get back to Doctor Dave on that one) by that drunk pit-bull
(I swear that the pooch told me he could handle all those
shooters I kept buying for him), I rested for the remainder
of the weekend. But when Monday came around I had a violent
relapse of either my massive hangover on New Year's, or the
DEATH flu from 2 weeks ago that cost me the use of my stomach
for a good 12 hours. I spent most of Monday morning playing
peek-a-boo with the porcelain god, and the afternoon I tried
to regain my ability to walk while I watched such cinematic
classics as Billy Madison, South Park the Movie and Shin
KOR. It was visions of Ayukawa Madoka that perked me
up and made me feel like 1/4th of the man that I knew I was
again (I lost 13/14ths of my manhood in cascades of vomit
that morning, so that's a good comeback). So now I'm back
to the grind and almost fully re-hydrated. I'll be ready
to kill Doctor Dave for his bogus medical bill for working
on Chi-Chi in no time. I still have to find out if he's alive
or not. If not I have dibs on his steins of the world collection.
Note to self 170: 03/13/2002
As
a treat, I decided to take Robot Pedro, Carl and the shady
Dr. Dave to a classical concert featuring the Ahn
Trio (a set of three hot Korean sisters who play the
piano, violin and cello for ogling audiences). All was going
well for a while, but soon Carl got blitzed off of the baggies
of Jack and tequila that he snuck in under his shirt. He
shouting out "Take it off, you Chinese whores!!" and
then he started pounding on Robot Pedro (who who was really
pissed because he claimed that he was actually getting into
the music, but I think he was really only trying to calculate
the trio's bust sizes). Soon Robot Pedro declared a "Battle
Royale" (incidently his favorite movie about humans
being killed) and both he and Carl punched and kicked their
way onto the stage where they proceeded to use musical instruments
to smash in eachothers' faces and CPUs. In all the commotion,
Dr. Dave started dumping garbage cans full of dirt onto the
center of the stage and then he turned the fire extinguishers
on to make a giant mudpool. Then he got me to help him wrassle
the Ahns into the dirty dirty muck and a good time was had
by all. Except for Robot Pedro (who blew up) and Carl (who
died).
Note to self 169: 02/13/2002
The
Skipper punched me in the mouth yesterday for no good reason
at all. Well, I guess he did it cause Robot Pedro threw that
bomb into his bedroom-cabin on his boat a few days ago, but
Robot Pedro knew that he wasn't in there at the time. He
just did it to "send him a message about fuckin' with
the Robots R People Too group meetings" that
my sadistic robot pal frequents. It's a group of nice robots
that gets together twice a week to discuss ways to make the
humans of this world accept robots as peace-loving individuals
with electronic souls of their own. From what I've heard
the number one thing on their to-do list in accomplishing
this task is to give Robot Pedro a decapitation or a major
rewiring to destroy his vengeance programming. Apparently
he's the only reason that robots are feared and hunted in
this world. And he's also the only reason that the Skipper
tries so hard to melt every robot he comes across via a vat
of robot-eating acid. It's a vicious circle that gives me
a headache just thinking about it.... Or maybe that's just
my jaw throbbing through the clamps that Doctor Dave used
to snap my face back together with.
Note to self 168: 01/30/2002
Well,
it's happened. I've gone all "dark" Rossman. Like
Angel, Pheonix and Darth Vader before me I've left the light and embraced the darkside.
My patented red hat?... Gone. A new black model has been
the sombrero d'jour for a while now. But I just took my final
step into blackness of both my soul and cinematic cliche
over the past two weeks by forsaking the hair on my upper
lip and my chin. Yes, the Rossman now has an evil mustache
and goatee to help make it known to the world that he has "punched
the lightside in the neck".
I
had a beard a few years ago, but it only made me look distinguished.
That was not what I was after this time though. I needed
an appearance that would make the life-draining hose beasts
of my city say "DAMN!". Something that would chill
those succubi to their forgotten souls and make them cower
in the corner whenever my presence was felt (usually on their
tight bottoms). This goatee does the trick.
In
all honesty though, my turning dark was really just the result
of a failed experiment conducted by the shady Dr. Dave. He
was trying to merge me with an evil wombat in order to give
the wombat a sense of shame and regret, and me more machismo.
It backfired of course and now I'm a total evil bastard and
the wombat hasn't stopped crying in the dumpster since I
said it looked like a "fargin' fat and feeble flavored
flan" and dumped him out with the trash. I kinda look
like Xanatos from the Gargoyles cartoon, except not
as gay.
Note to self 167: 01/23/2002
I
got back from Vegas over a week ago and haven't felt right
since. I've been feeling queasy, tired, headachey, and dizzy
since I stepped off the plane back onto Atlanta soil. Robot
Pedro says that it must be "that good and lovable malaria" again,
but that's his wish for everything bad that happens to me.
Honestly, I think it was all the nudie-dance shows, magicians
and crazy comedians that the Wolfman and I saw while we were
in the land of the sinful. My theory theorizes that too many
live, nekkid hooters with too much mighty magic, mixed with
way too many funny crackheads making fun of retarded tourists
to their faces all add up to cause the viewer/victim to contract "no-more-naked-funny-magicitus".
It is a horrible, debilitating disease that haunts one's
psyche and causes one to dream of nothing but hot, nekkid
babes making fun of the rabbit that they just pulled out
of a hat while they give their ta-tas a gratuitus jiggle
just for me. I'd seek professional help, but these are the
best dreams ever!
Note to self 166: 01/02/2002
What
a great fucking start to the new year. Some sarcasm included.
First of all, a great Christmas with a buncha parties and
dance contests started the holiday week off right. Nothing
like getting faced off of royally spiked eggnog. Then, a
couple of fine couples got me a GameCube as a way
of saying "Thanks for keeping Robot Pedro from killing
us this year!". That was sweet of them. But then Chi-Chi
had to commit a horrendous holiday-foul by plaguing both
the Wolfman and I with a bad flu-bug just a week before our
Vegas stint! That cockfest!!! Not only that, but I had a
hot date with the glorious "Heather of the Fields of
Gold" last Friday in which I spent most of the night
playing catch-up with the conversation due to the fact that
one should not take 3 Xs the recommended dosage of Dayquil
even if it means passing up incredible beauty and passion
and giving in to pain and suffering.... If that made any
sense. I'm still hepped up on that mega-dose. This page doesn't
make any sense to me right now. Is that what it's like for
my readers every day?.... A question for the ages.
Note to self 165: 12/17/2001
The
Wolfman and I planned out our whole Vegas trip to the CES
Show (January 7-12) this weekend. It's going to be a fucking
blast! After checking out all of the cool electronic stuff
and all of the hyper-space age digital spy gear that will
no doubtably be debuting at the convention we plan to do
all that kooky hoo-hoo voodoo that Sin City does sooooo well.
From gambling shitloads of counterfeit money away, and eating
at every single steak buffet on the strip, to tracking down
the CSI lab and getting the number of the cute brunette
with the slightly bucked front teeth who solves all of those
sexy murders practically by herself... we plan to do it all.
If necessary we plan to beat the crap out of two flaming
blonde magicians and steal their tiger so we can put together
our own version of Ocean's 11, where in we'll just
kill and steal and it will only be two of us (and
the tiger). Plus, if we don't rock at least one hotel to
the ground we will see that as a failure of our mission of
awesomeness.
Yes,
I do believe that I have waited my whole life for this. Los
Angeles? A town of pussies and gay tourists. E3? Pathetic
crap! Hawaii? Incredibly sweet, but you knew nothing could
compare to that. But that doesn't matter, for soon I'll be
chillin' in the only state with legal prostitution! The land
of the ludicrous!! The golden town of dreams and more dreams!
Take our pictures! Kiss our asses! Buy us drinks!!! Vegas
is coming to the Rossman!
Note to self 164: 12/04/2001
Carl
and I caught Basement Jaxx's "Where's Your Head At" video
on the MTV last night and neither of us could believe our
eyes! Carl thought he was high again (the first and last
time being when Robot Pedro made those special brownies that
he brought over to Carl's parents' house for dinner a few
months ago, after which Carl's mom thought she was Grover
from Sesame Street and Carl tangoed with his dad thinking
he was Carmen Electra until dawn), but I finally convinced
him that those images of monkey men on the television were
as real as his giant collection of amazon women porn.
Realizing
that monkey men might be the key to global domination, both
Carl and I ran over to Dr. Dave's shady clinic and demanded
that he make some of the mismatched primate abominations
for us. Well, it turned out that Dr. Dave was actually the
mad scientist who created those original monkey men for the
Basement Jaxx video, but he was very disappointed with the
outcome (none of them really played those instruments or
sang, they merely lip-synced like Milli and Vanilli at the
Music Video Awards in '90). He first destroyed the monkey
men themselves, and then he set fire to all of his notes
and thoughts on the process of making a half man, half monkey
so that nobody would ever make another lip-synching midget
mammal again. I could tell that he was truly torn up over
the experience. So, when I made Carl into a half man, half
wombat using a disgarded diagram of a human brain being put
into a rodent's head that the good Doctor had forgotten about
I never told him of my accomplishment... Or about how I used
his own pet wombat in the experiment since I was too clean
to go dumpster diving for a rat. Plus Doc Dave seems plenty
happy with his new pet, Carl. It's so cute the way he shreiks
in surprise every time Dr. Dave sticks a high voltage probe
up his ass.
Note to self 163: 11/28/2001
What
a fucking week I had! Well, not fucking per se, unless
you count fucking food- er, eating fuckloads of fuck
I mean. Yes, another patented Rossman Thanksgiving occurred
and I fell from grace like I do every year at the end of
November. I ate so much turkey and ham and Cap'n Crunch's
Peanut Butter Crunch that I felt like I was a contestant
on TheSpark's Fat
Project.
But without the payoff, yet all of the shame. What's even
more screwed up is that I gained 30 pounds in less than 7
days. I'm no Doctor Zhivago, and neither is the MegaPlayboy,
but we both assumed that I had somehow become impregnated
with a fat making alien that grew in the mashed potatoes
and turned my intestines into sandwich bags of pure fat after
I had ingested it and forgot to get my weekly alien-abortion
from my neighborhood shady physician.
In
the end it just turned out to be a humongous kidney stone
that took me a painful 3 hours to pass. That and Sunday afternoon
I puked up 29.99657 pounds of yams, stuffing, corn, turnips
and a various (and curious) assortment of meats and fishes.
My pants fit fine again, but it's hard to convince my throat
that it's really okay to have tasty food go in me again,
and to keep it there.
Oh
yeah, and Georgia Tech sucks (and this year we can prove
it!). Fuck you, you goddamn bumble bees.
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