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Note to self 210: 10/08/2003

Damn you, Arnold Swollenpecker!! You stole the damn California recall election! And I have proof! Last week I called about 15 million registered California voters and convinced them to vote "Yes" for recalling Gov. Gray Davis, and then to vote for Gary Coleman into the vacated office for the prosperity of all mankind. I think that Arnold Swastika used the name confusion against me though was when I tried to convince people to vote for Gary Coleman and I'd have to explain to them who he is/was. The conversations ran a little something like this:

-"Hello, California citizen. I am calling to tell you that if you don't recall Gray Davis and vote Gary Coleman into office my human-hating robot will kill you."
-"Who is this?!"
-"I know what you're thinking, 'Gary doesn't have enough sexual perversion experience to be Governor. Not like Clinton.' And you'd be right. But he was Arnold on Diff'rent Strokes! Remember that show?"
-"I'm tracing this call."
-"Remember, vote YES for Arnold from Diff'rent Strokes!"

Goddammit!! That Hitler-loving girly man used Gary's character's name to get elected, just like Eddie Murphy in that crappy movie The Distinguished Gentleman!

GYYYYYAAAAAAH!! Fuck you, Arnold! Terminator 3 sucked horse cock too!

Note to self 209: 09/24/2003

Well shave my sack and sew my face to the carpet! My old acquaintance Tammi With an "I" is back in town. Who'd 'uv thunk she'd ever set up permanent residence here in almost-rural Georgia (where there's no military base or red light district for her to work her stuff in). Anyway, things started off with a "KA-BOOM!" when Tammi With an "I" showed up at my office in order to harrass both Carl and I and to see if we knew of any "lonely boys" who might need company that night... Trust me, Tammi is the perfect example of the phrase "You can look but you sure as fuck don't want to touch," otherwise I'd probably set her up with a few of my friends. But considering I don't want to be afraid to use the toilet seats at any of their houses, I refuse to help the spread of both VDs and Tammi's legs... But I digress.

So Tammi With an "I" showed up and immediately got Carl and I to start playing "Hyper Online Monopoly" with her instead of doing what we're paid to do... Which is whatever that may be. I was kicking both their asses for a cool 25 games in a row before Angry Amy kicked in the door and started pissing her pants over the fact that she'd sent us over a dozen e-mails and had been calling us for over 4 hours because her computer came alive or some shit and ate her boss' head like that scene in that Freddy Krueger movie. I would have gotten right on that problem except for the fact that Angry Amy's rude door knocking skillz caused me to accidently sell my railroads to Carl which caused me to start throwing things around the room which got me a kick in the crotch by the angry one herself. Angry Amy took the opportunity of me being immobilized to start going psycho (again). She started tearing down all my Playboy centerfolds on the walls and xacto-knifing my fluffy leather chair to high hell. The only thing that stopped her ball-stomping and picture tearing rampage was when Tammi With an "I" boldly strutted up to Angry Amy's face and grabbed her furious puss and planted the biggest, wettest, and sloppiest kiss I'd ever seen right on her lips. After Angry Amy calmed down a look of bewilderment and almost-pleasure pasted itself on her mug. That is until Tammi With an "I" informed her that she had exactly 30 seconds left to wash the gonorrhea and herpes off her lips before they permanently set in. I never saw a woman in high heels run so fast to the first aid cabinet and start gargling the rubbing alcohol. I've seen them jog, just never sprint.

Note to self 208: 09/17/2003

Carl and I watched all of the Great Teacher Onizuka live action drama show last week, and then got so inspired that we ran out to get teaching jobs of our own. All in all it was an educational experience (pun not intended... in fact, sorry 'bout that) for all those involved. See, in order to emulate Eikichi Onizuka's style of teaching, we only job hunted at the seediest and most ghetto schools in the area. Mandy Patinkin High was the best at being the worst, so Carl and I got ourselves hired on as the newest 12th grade Greco-Roman Wrestling and Ceramics teachers (I took the Ceramics gig because I don't like gay sweaty boys... Nothing personal to all you gay sweaty boys out there, as long as you don't grab me in a full nelson while you're all gay and sweaty-like).

Things started off nice and easy. My irrational but ultra-caring facade allowed for many minutes of my students coming to terms with having such a cool teacher and life mentor, until "Big Ass" Bernoquoi Jackson realized that I had slipped elephant tranqs into the malt liquor I had passed out during my teacherly introduction. As the whole class surrounded me in a half dazed mob, ready to roll me in clay and stick me in the kiln, I tried to convince them that my old motorcycle gang would avenge my death and use their mad kung-fu skillz on they sorry asses. But my salvation came from another window of opportunity that day. The second window from the right to be precise. Robot Pedro came crashing through it like a drugged up wrecking ball when his sensors indicated that I was in immediate peril, and he tore the senior class art students apart like a howler monkey with a banana stuck up its tailpipe! It was a gruesome sight to say the least, and a nightmare inducing scare-shit-fest to say the most... See, Robot Pedro didn't save me out of the kindness of his unbeating chrome heart. Nope. See, I accidentally purposefully broke his Talking Hamtaro toy when I tried to shove it up the MegaPlayboy's anus a few weeks ago (the MegaPlayboy wanted me to help him perfect his Richard Gere impression... I swear!), and Robot Pedro has been trying to figure out a way to punish me in the most painful way since. And his deluded logic circuits have dictated that punishment should only come at his own hands. So while I was temporarily happy that I was saved from the artistic hoodlums who were about to fire-broil my ass something bad, I definitely was most unhappy to see that Robot Pedro's evil evilness would most likely be far worse on me when he finally finds a punishment worthy of my crime. Pray for the Rossman.

Oh yeah. Carl was killed by his Wrestling students when he demanded they start wrasslin' "commando".

Note to self 207: 09/03/2003

Another year down the proverbial shitter. Though at least this year I took a four day weekend to deal with the whole aging thing. Between Thursday evening and late Monday night I vegged out so completely that I almost put myself in a coma. In fact I might have as I am missing a good 4 hours of my life Friday afternoon. I watched all of Giant Robo and The Big O again, I played Game Cube Mario Golf until my thumbs went numb, I listened to all the Mr. Show first through third season commentary tracks while reading old comic books, and I looked up enough online porn to choke Terra Patrick... Trust me, that's a lot.

Anyway, I also got out of the house and climbed the whole mountain thing again, and on Saturday I drove into Atlanta to hang with some of the Greenwood folk at Dragoncon. Let me just set you straight right off the bat. Dragoncon sucks. Imagine all the fat, smelly, costumed, unbathed losers from an anime con, but then take away all the good video rooms and actually interesting panels. Dragoncon's biggest draw is the gaming rooms and LARPers. The pure stench that eminates from the lower levels of the convention is overpowering. Carl passed out from the con funk twice. It was the first time in my pathetic life that I honestly wished that Robot Pedro would show up and decimate the masses a bit (charred human remains smell better than the hellafunk that seeped into my soul's nostrils that day)... But I digress.

Despite all the freaks who went out to celebrate the one weekend a year they are allowed to socialize with even freakier freaks, a good alcoholic time was had by all of Greenwood (thanks to a laptop carrying-case that posed as a fun loving cooler). I called the whole con-scene quits late Saturday, early Sunday and went back home to watch some Simpsons DVDs and pig out on some deep fried Pizza Hut stuffed crust. Sunday and Monday were then spent without me so much as even thinking about putting on my shoes to go outside. I lived like a shut-in, and I liked it. My muscles actually started to atrophy a bit come Monday night. That's when I knew that I had had one of the most special weekends I had ever had the honor of lazily participating in. It took two days of coaching just for me to get the will back to type on this here website webscreen today... Ahhhhhhhhh! God bless the seven deadly sins... Especially sloth.

Note to self 206: 08/27/2003

A college icon is now dead to me. Long story short, all through my college life there's always been a vendor on Central Campus who's sold hotdogs to hungry college kids and faculty/staff alike. He was known simply as "The Hotdog Man", and all was right with the world. But a year or two ago, his selling "spot" was moved for the sake of building a huge marble staircase up the center of campus, and to make the sidewalk safer for pedestrians. Well, the Hotdog Man couldn't understand how come he couldn't stay in his "spot" (in the center of construction) during all of this, and why his permit was moved 50 feet down the street (that's it, 50 feet). He refused to keep selling his franks because the University treated him so shabbily! Screw student safety, he silently raged to the world! If I can't sell my hotdogs on the exact spot that I had for the past 20 years, then NOBODY would ever taste my hotdogs again, he must have insanely planned.

As an ex-student and a long time lover of the Hotdog Man's weinies I was angry at the University. Hell, Carl even dumped 2,400 uncooked franks into the University President's car in protest (he later cooked them by setting said car on fire). But things slowly returned to normal. When the central campus sidewalk and stairway project was completed, everyone hoped that the Hotdog Man would return. Well, he did, but he set up shop across the street from his permitted space because.... well, because he's retarded. He tried to stick it to "the man" (the man being.... God? George Lucas?), and was arrested for trespassing and selling his wares on UGA property without a vendors' license.... And for being brain damaged in a public place.

The student body was in an uproar. They called for the head of the University official who sent the police to talk to the Hotdog Man and ask him to move his cart. The pigs asked him 3 times to move his cart or be arrested, but being mentally 'tarded (and probably telling his kids he's "Strong like the Hulk, Grrrrrrrrrrr!"), the Hotdog Man refused, and was coincidentally confused about why his refusal to follow a University Police Officer's request to relocate (as the law dictated) meant that he had to be arrested.

Anyway, despite his fucktardedness, my buddies and I still supported the insane little entrepreneur. To us, he was just a small time businessman just trying to fight the system. Even Robot Pedro got into the act and snuck in a few brats to the Hotdog Man's jail cell (sure the bratwursts were made of human flesh, but for Robot Pedro that was an act of unadulterated hu-man love). But then we found out the godawful truth... The Hotdog Man MAKES OVER $100,000 A FUCKING YEAR. That's right, $100K. That's more than 99% of his customers will ever earn over the course of their pathetic, protesting lives! Even with inflation they'll never make that much when their sad little lives crash down all around them and they're forced to marry their knocked-up cousins or get stabbed in the back by their alcoholic Uncles!.. But I digress.

Normally, I'd be all like, "Fuck yeah! Way to go, Hotdog man! Making the big fuckin' bucks!"... But when this umbrella-carted fucker tries to play the whole "little man versus the rich establishment" trump card (when he makes more than all of the University and City officials combined), well, that just pisses me off. He's not the poor little man, he's the richest asshole among all those involved in this stupid case!

This whole thing just reeks of a conjob. This "benefactor of hungry students the campus over" is just another rich asshole trying to screw students out of a few more bucks while he oogles the hot co-eds in tight tight shorts. Well, in the end the joke's on the Hotdog Man. Yeah, he may still have an army of loyal supporters who would buy his half-cooked horse testicles and rectum meat-on-a-bun... But the college co-eds are getting fatter and chunkier every year... Mostly thanks to his own hotdogs. Oh the sweet irony.

Note to self 205: 08/20/2003

In the past two weeks I had the chance to witness two living legends perform live right in front of my unbelieving eyes. That's right, Emo Philips and Dave Attell both came to Georgia! I took the Wolfman, and Robot Pedro to see their acts so that maybe my two amigos could both learn to love life again, and stop trying to kill chickens and humans for their pathetic sacrifices to either the damned or the Robot Devil.

Anyway, the Emo show at the Punchline in Atlanta got the two of my acquaintances to laugh and hug kittens again... But then I made the mistake of taking them to the Dave Attell show at UGA this past Friday. Talk about shitting in your own shoes... Things started out okay; Dave was funny, the crowd was getting into his act and all was right with the world. But then Attell had to start talking about drugs, monkey pussy, fucking pirates, and getting a hernia from shitting too fast. Don't get me wrong, those are all classic topics for comedians to cover. It's just that I didn't want my now impressionable pals to hear such vulgarity and get nasty thoughts, which is exactly what ended up happening. The Wolfman started a fire in the middle of Legion Field (where the comedic concert took place) in the shape of a 25 foot, diameter pentagram. He then started chucking in freshmen and chanting for Satan to "sexily satiate" her soul starved self on their eternal ghosts. Robot Pedro then started trying to give himself a hernia by crapping too fast. When he came to the realization that he was indeed an unliving automaton and therefore not capable of producing any excrement he got pissed and started jumping up and down on fat people in the hopes of getting some of them to crap out something.

In the end I just left the two psychos to their own devices and Attell and I retreated to the downtown area (mostly to avoid any unnecessary lawsuits) and started drinking heavily at the Sea Wench Pub (where he ended up getting into a brawl with the Skipper and I ended up having to drive the poor bastard to St. Helga's E.R. to get the bar stool removed from his heinie).

Note to self 204: 07/30/2003

Last Thursday was horrible. Well, I was horrible on last Thursday... I mean I felt bad. Really bad. Blew chunks for a few hours early Thursday morning and then had to lay still in bed like a mummy for the rest of the day lest I get the heaves again. That would have been an okay day for me, except that the Skipper decided that I needed his "man of the sea" cure for what ailed me. Which translated into him punching me in the face for 30 minutes until his fist started to hurt (and he was wearing brass knuckles too). Things got really messy though when the Megaplayboy, thinking I was at work, tried to break into my house later on in the day in order to watch some of his fully immersive and interactive DVD porn on my big screen and surround sound set up. The Skipper tried to confiscate the Megaplayboy's stash claiming that "it be all commie propaganda, ain't it, boyo!" and some shit. I didn't pay too much attention what with the icepack on my face and the urge to expunge my innards coming every 2 minutes. In the end I passed out from all the pain, and when I came too my whole TV room was covered in a giant plastic tarp, which in turn was covered in stains of every shade of the rainbow, and there were footprints on the ceiling... Or maybe those were from the previous Tuesday.

Note to self 203: 07/23/2003

Pretty much everything that I had planned for this summer has already happened after this weekend was finished. My company picnic took place early Saturday, and everything was fine and dandy until Robot Pedro and Angry Amy got into a shoving match over the last veggie-burger. Angry Amy won, and Robot Pedro came running to me to protect his pathetic metal ass, but I had to ditch the rusty moron in order to prepare for my class reunion that night in the club room on the top floor of a downtown Atlanta hotel.

Long story short: My high school class has gotten OLD. All of the girls I used to date are married, and half of them have kids/are preggers. Some of the guys who declared me their "mortal enemy" (I swear to Christ! I apparently had mortal enemies way back when I was only 17!) are doctors and bankers and crap now, and they came up to me and actually shook my hand and introduced me to their wives/gay lovers and whatnot. Some classmates went on to become Mormons, some now direct low budget porn in their basements (too bad Chi-Chi wussed out and didn't show, he could've gotten that guy's autograph), and all of them actually shook my hand or hugged me. Color me surprised! I guess time heals all wounds, and therapy covers the rest. Anyway, the whole evening came to a bloody end when the Wolfman called Robot Pedro and told him where I was. Somehow the thermo-nuclear-run bastard got hold of a helicopter and crashed it into the rooftop party just like that scene in the original Die Hard! Anyway, the good thing about the whole incident was that nobody connected me to the homicidal flesh-killer... and the next reunion won't be so damn crowded, what with all the death and carnage that took place there at the finale.

So, for any other East Bumblefuck High graduates reading this shit, "Cheers! And here's to another Ten Years of Freedom!... And all you married folk, get off your asses and help get me a woman too, you right bastards!"

Note to self 202: 07/16/2003

My head won't stop spinning. I'm in entertainment overload right now. I saw a bunch of movies this past weekend, the whole of Berserk, and read a buttload of books. Carl, the Megaplayboy and I saw The Pirates of the Caribbean and then theater hopped into The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen on Saturday, and they were good. Despite the LXG getting royally reamed by most critics, I thought it was pretty good. Yeah, they changed everything from the original comic book, but let's face it, the book would have made a very boring movie. It's mostly character studies and a who's who of fictional literary heroes. There, I've said my piece. As for Pirates, that Johnny Depp is the coolest mother fucker on the planet called Hollywood. His role as Captain Jack Sparrow completely makes up for his willingness to participate in both Chocolate and The Ninth Gate. Jack Sparrow is now the coolest movie character to have ever existed. Oh yeah. The only problem I had with the movie (the one with the pirate ghosts in it) was that it made Carl start saying "Arrrrrrrrr!" and "Shiver me timbers!!" like a retarded version of the Skipper... Only more retarded.

Speaking of the Skipper, he skipped both flicks because he thought that Pirates would make fun of his career choice by making pirates in general seem "scabbardy pussy-like," and he missed out on League because he thinks that Sean Connery stole his look... or something. Never bug the Skipper for details.

Note to self 201: 07/03/2003

Cock on a rock! What a week! Well, not really. The most exciting thing I did in the past seven days was when Dr. Dave and I went to see Terminator 3, which honestly wasn't half bad. I don't know about the good ol' Doc, but I was expecting a total and complete trainwreck of a film. You know, no James Cameron writing or directing, no Linda "Buff" Hamilton, no real vision... But surprise surprise, T3 actually delivered on summer movie funness. It kicked the crap out of the Hulk and actually made Charlie's Angel's cry, and it accomplished all that without so much as a basic plot. Interesting that.

Anyway, when I was saying that the movie was the most exciting thing that happened to me this week, I lied. Actually, what the movie inspired Dr. Dave and I to make was the most non-boring part of my early July. As soon as we got out of the theater Dr. Dave was encouraged to work his evil man brain to its limits in order to create the ultimate killing machine that would finally kill Jimmy Jammer once and for all (apparently JJ crashed on the Doc's couch one too many times in the past month without even an invite because his apartment had "cockroaches the size of pinto's" scurrying around, that [quite coincidentally I'm sure] had somehow migrated to Dr. Dave's secret underground lab too). What else could I do but help him assassinate the donkey fucker?

So we spent all night working with some leftover android parts from that one time that Bob From the Future brought back that baby-eating robot that was supposed to blow up Robot Pedro and not eat babies (instead of not blowing Robot Pedro up and eating babies). Well, by morning the Doc and I had our Termihater 3000 fully operational. Its live deer head (my idea) would confuse Jimmy Jammer into thinking it was a cute woodland creature who needed petting, while its robotic claws of gleaming doom would crush the life out of his feeble flesh-body as its robo-boots would kick him in the yin-yang until he died. Unfortunately I had mixed up the yellow and blue wires, and instead of trying to kill Jimmy Jammer the Termihater 3000 initiated its self destruct program and blew the living shit out of Carl's basement (where we did the initial testing in case of just such an emergency). That's the circle of life, I guess.

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