Note
to self 200: 06/24/2003
Shit
on a stick!.... Well, Potter-mania is in full swing,
and thanks to Karen I'm in it up to here (pointing
to belly button) with talk of Harry, Ron, Hermititty,
Dumbledorf and Voldimold. I was forced to stand on line
Friday night for the midnight release of the fifth book
in the Potty septology, amid freaks and losers more pathetic
than me who were dressed in Hogwarts uniforms and had
lightning bolts painted on their foreheads. Christ, at
least I was pretty damn sure that I was getting to second
base that night for my heroics of looking like a pansy
amid a sea of Griffindor wannabees and Hagrid erotic-fan
fiction writers... All they were getting for the waste
of their lame time was a slight buzz from the mass amounts
of fan-funk that was filling the Walden Bookstore that
we were trapped in for a few hours, and maybe a self-flaguration
while thinking about Hermimoninne in her furry-cat-look
when they got home.
Karen
and I read the whole damn thing (Pothead 5) in less than
three days, but to make up for the weekend that I missed
for her sake she then dressed up in a kinky witch's outfit
and let me ride her "like a Firebolt" for a
few magical minutes. Abracadabra!! Oh, by the way, ***********
is the one who dies. (That
last part was edited by me, Karen. Ummm, nobody dies
in the end. I swear! Don't worry.)
Note
to self 199: 06/18/2003
I
got back from a two week long road trip to find that
my house had been turned into a "pay by the barrel" plutonium
nuclear waste dump. Courtesy of Robot Pedro of course.
He got away scott free by throwing some glowing green
ooze in my face and then poking me in the eyes while
doing Curly's "Woo woo woo woo woo woo!" and
then running away in fast motion like a Benny Hill skit
gone wrong.
That
was all well and good, but I was still pretty pissed
off that he hawked my bootleg Jem and the Holograms DVD
collection... and that big mountain of toxic mung in
the back yard was starting to make me feel all- HULK
SMASH!!!!! RAAAOOOOOOOOWWWWRRR!!!!... kinda
agitated. And sticky.
In
the end I was able to sell the plutonium to Dr. Dave
for $6.50 (that's all he had to his name). He's been
trying to make some kind of hybrid teenage ninja mutant
spider man thingy or something, and apparently he was
just trying to mate a ninja, a turtle and a spider together
and it just wasn't working. So he's going to throw them
all into a giant blender with some of the nuclear shiznit
and hit "puree". I'll let you know what comes
of it, though I'm willing to bet that all that's going
to happen is that everybody'll be eating the good doctor's "Mystery
Soup" again for a few weeks.
Note
to self 198: 05/28/2003
Holy
fucking titty craps! Know how you feel when you get blindfolded,
spun around, and then beaten by baseball bats for a couple
of hours while your little brother feels up your girlfriend
and there's nothing you can do about it?.... That's where
I am right now. It all started a few months ago when
a good friend got me involved in my most recent freelance
project (confidentiality papers, otherwise I'd tell you
all about it). Things started off great; easy work, free
trips to the Caribbean to meet with the head honchos
of the venture, and lots of free dinners when everybody
on the job gathered to talk shop. But then my real work
started picking up. Overtime started piling on top of
me and because I'm a big baby I felt kind of suffocated
by the whole experience. Yeah, Curacao (the Caribbean
island) sucks as a tourist destination, but the people
there are pretty sweet... Plus it doesn't hurt that the
ladies there are hotties and pretty easy. But I digress.
It was on my last trip there that I cracked. Major projects
surrounded me and all the island natives kept making
me drink drink drink. Then came the visions.. Horrible
visions that I could not make heads or tails of... There
was lots of nudity though, and that's always good. But
then I hit a wall. I came crashing down hard and fast,
which is usually what my love life is all about, but
now I'm confusing myself again. Anyway, the point is
I just spent the past two weeks in a mental institution
where I'm pretty sure that the past 7 years of my life
being the Rossman were all a bunch of cruel hallucinations
brought on by accidentally seeing my own asshole in the
mirror one morning while racing to make it to my 8AM
Philosophy class. Either that or the "crazy farm" is
the made up world and I'm really the coolest guy on the
planet hands down. Either is acceptable to me right now.
I need sleep. And loose women.
Note
to self 197: 05/07/2003
It's
the end of the world as we know it... And I feel pretty
fucked up by the whole experience, to be quite honest
with you. This past week we had an earthquake, flash
flooding, hail, a tornado, and a funny Adam Sandler movie.
Well, another funny one. Anger Management wasn't
as good as Billy Madison and Happy
Gilmore per se, but it was his best since those
two. To backtrack a bit, after all those previously mentioned
natural disasters that occured around town over the past
7 days, the Wolfman was getting a bit antsy and uber
violent. He started saying that he could "feel the
earth" telling him to sacrifice more hamsters to
Satan (it was a bad habit I was trying to break him of...
he was spending upwards of $150 a week on the mini proverbial
sacrificial lambs!). Well, I knew for a fact that Satan
doesn't even give a shit about that kind of stuff (she
thinks that blood from rodentia is "icky"),
and that the Wolfman was just suffering from some anger
management issues of his own. So instead of paying the
Skipper to take a look at his noggin, I splurged on a
couple of tickets to the Nicholson/Sandler film and hoped
that watching Jack dish out the healing to Adam would
have a possitive effect on my hairy amigo. It did seem
to sooth him for a while, but then he started getting
a major jonsing for the ever unattainable Marisa Tomei...
and, well, to make a long story short I got stuck with
the bills to fix the shredded silver screen and dry clean
the wolfman-juice out of all the other film-goers' clothes
(and I had to buy the prissier movie patrons some shampoo
too). In the end it would have been shitloads cheaper
to simply buy the Skipper a six pack of vodka and let
him beat the living shit out of the Wolfman until he
promised to stop slaying the gerbils. Hindsight is 20/20.
Note
to self 196: 04/09/2003
Fuck
yeah! I haven't had a week like that in over a decade!
Sure, I was sick for the first part of last week, but
I got better. Then Thursday rolled around and in preparation
for what would soon become known as "The
Great Weekend of Sloth" I hit the supermarket
and stocked up on Peanut M&Ms, Coca-Cola, and ass-loads
of mini Hershies candies. Then I hit the local Gumby's
Pizza and got myself 2 twenty-inch pies with everything
on them. After that I holed myself up in my house, unplugged
all the phones, locked the doors, and turned on my GameCube.
From Thursday night, 6:30PM to Tuesday morning 7AM I
didn't do much else other than play The Legend
of Zelda: The Wind Waker, eat, drink, look up
a little online porn, and catch some necessary catnaps
to keep me going. I finished the whole game 2 minutes
before I ran out the door for the office on Tuesday,
so I didn't get to absorb the raw emotions I had just
sludged through fully, but it was an incredible feat
that very few people could accomplish! Not to brag or
anything, but I honestly don't know anybody else who
could veg out so goddamn completely for an entire extended
weekend like that, still complete a kinda challenging
game (Fuck you! I thought some of those puzzles were
tough!), eat and drink their weight in nothing but caffeine-filled
junkfood, and still make it to work on time the following
Tuesday... which was bad since I meant to go in on Monday,
but que sera. For a little while I was the laziest mo-fo
on the pimpin' planet, and I am daaaaamn proud of it!
Thinking
back, the last time I did something like that was for Zelda:
A Link to the Past for the SNES all the way
back in '92. I didn't go as extreme in my slothiness
back then as I did this time around, but I was well on
my way. Man, if only I could steal Bob From the Future's
time travel device and go back in time to when I first
beat the SNES Zelda and tell myself
that I was on the right path... But that would require
me getting up off my duff, and that ain't gunna happen.
Hmmmm, let's just hope this laziness wears off before
I have to hire somebody to sponge bathe me... Unless
it's that hottie at the gym in the leopard print leotard
who likes to bend over in front of me in order to stretch
her tight buttocks whenever we cross paths... Then that'd
be okay.
Note to self 195: 04/02/2003
That's
right, asswipes. No April Fools Day shennanegans from
the Rossman. Not that I disaprove of the day (I love
it when people the world over act like total fuckers
to eachother and lie to friends' faces just so they can
shout "April Fools!" and make their acquaintances
look like morons), it's just that I was horribly horribly
sick for the past week and couldn't come up with jack
shit to do in celebration of the mini holiday. I did
get to surf around to see some of the retarded attempts
at "April Fools Day" pranks that juvie contenders
tried to pull. Most were just lame "The US Government
has taken over this site due to it's unconstitutional
nature..." pranks. But I digress. I meant to talk
about my sickness here. There were points this past weekend
when I was dripping stuff from six orifices at the same
time. Pretty heinous. I even had to take two days off
from work, and I didn't get to enjoy the free time at
all. That's so sad when sick leave must be used for actual
puking time. I did get plenty of movie watching in though,
just very little Game Cube Zelda time.
That really pissed me off. I have fond memories of playing
the original Zelda back in '88 while
I played sick and got to stay home from school for a
few days (the key to faking out your parents is to actually
vomit in front of them, and make sure they don't see
you sticking your finger down your throat to activate
the hurl-glands). *Sigh* Those were the good old days.
Mom would make me hot lunches, I could read comic books
and play Nintendo all afternoon, and I could usually
get out of doing any homework by getting sympathetic
friends to loan me their assignments right before class
for some quick copying.
Unfortunately
things change. Using your sick leave for being sick when
you're an "adult" just blows. I spent my time
shivering/sweating in bed or drinking expired OJ that
had been in the fridge since the Clinton administration.
I also mailed some bills in the hopes that some of the
collectors would catch my illness throught the envelopes
I licked. After all that was done I silently curled up
in a ball and waited to die. My wish almost came true
when Angry Amy and Robot Pedro teamed up to do me in
when they had heard that I was sick and weak. First,
Angry Amy tried to poison me with some chicken noodle
and Lysol soup, but I was on to her and "accidently" dropped
it in the toilet with her purse. Then Robot Pedro took
the direct approach and kicked in my front door while
blasting away with some sort of evil laser gun that seemed
to turn everything that he shot into fluffy bunnies and
rainbows. I had to pretend that I was shot and stop breathing
for a good 10 minutes in order for the two allies of
injustice to get sick of their unitedness and punch and
kick eachother out the frontdoor-hole. Then I went out
and bought some Ny-quil and Vodka. Lots of Vodka.
Note to self 194: 03/19/2003
Of
all the damn times I didn't leave my dream-recorder machine
on! That little present that Bob From the Future got
me for my birthday a few years back has become one of
my most treasured possessions. I can now relive the time
that I won that Nobel Peace Prize, the time that I met
Hitler and punched him in the ear, and that one time
that I had "Weird Al" Yankovic kidnapped and
forced him to play Yoda over and over again for
an entire weekend... Great dreams all. But this past
Friday I had the bestest dream of my life, and I left
the damn recorder on the kitchen counter. I am so pissed
off!
See,
it all started off after I had just finished watching
the Buffy Season 3 finale for the 5th time on
DVD, and I decided to go to bed early (midnight is like
5PM for me on a weekend). In my sluggish haste to hit
the sack, I totally forgot about the dream-recorder that
I was using to playback my previous night's nocturnal
vision of eating s'mores around a campfire with Abraham
Lincoln, Margaret Thatcher and Duncan MacCleod of the
Clan MacCleod... but I digress. My Friday Spectacular
Dream (as it shall forever forth be known) was one
of the greatest (imaginary) moments of my life! It all
started out with Buffy, Faith (both vampire slayers),
and myself running around Athens, GA killing lots of
evil looking demons and human assholes, jumping over
barbed wire fences, and swimming in the pool that suddenly
sprung up in my backyard. Then, I toweled off, and went
inside to take a nap on my bed. I was almost asleep in
my dream, when Faith (played by the ever-enchanting Eliza
Dushkuzuzu) silently crept into the room. She was already
dry and she was only wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts.
Without saying a word she climbed up on top of me and
fell asleep herself. After my heart slowed down, I could
feel her heartbeat getting faster and faster until
she grabbed my head, kissed me hard, and began to...
Well, even though she was just a vision I still don't
really kiss and tell about my exploits. Oh
man! I could so FEEL everything. Her skin was so warm
and soft. I swore to God that it was really happening.
Hmmmm, I wonder what Freud would say about THIS one...
Yeah, pretty sure he'd say "Hot damn, bizatch! That's
some fiiiiiiiiine dreamin' there!"
After
I had woken up and realized that I didn't have a dream
recorded copy of that fabulous fantasy, I tried to relive
the whole thing for posterity's sake. But after that
all I could get was me eating fudge-pops with Andy Rooney
while we discussed why he's fed up with everything about
this world, but refuses suicide.
Note to self 193: 03/12/2003
Another
lazy weekend. Ahhhh, it was glorious! Nothing but bumming
around and drinking the brew. The MegaPlayboy invited
me over to his crib and the two of us ended up getting
trashed while watching Red Dwarf on DVD all day
Sunday. After the MPB was good and tanked I painted an "H" on
his forehead and convinced him that he was a "MegaHologram" and
watched with glee as he continually walked face first
into walls and doors and frying pans. After the joy of
that wore off we started discussing what it would be
like if we were the last two humans ever, and we were
stuck on a spaceship 3 million years away from Earth.
The MPB said that if that ever happened he'd try to find
a way to turn me into a woman. I said I'd kill him before
he even tried. That was when Bob From the Future showed
up and asked what was going on. We told him all about
Lister, Rimmer, the Cat, Kryten, Kochanski, and Holly
and their crazy hijinks through 8 seasons of sci-fi delight.
That turned out to be a terrible thing to do. See, Bob
From the Future thought it would be a cool idea to recreate
the whole Britcom so he teleported us 3 million years
away from Earth, turned the MegaPlayboy into a self absorbed
feline, and programmed his starship, that we were trapped
in, with his own personality in an attempt to drill home
his sarcastic and almost senile wit. Thank God that Bob
From the Future is a stickler for details though! He
reconstructed everything so perfect that I was able to
find the Holly Hop Drive and jump to the alternate
dimension from the show (where I'm a hot and sexy woman)
rather quickly and spent the next few days shagging the
shit out of myself. Freud would have a lot to say about
that I'm sure.
Note to self 192: 02/12/2003