Archive 24
(For more Dailies, check out the Archive Here)

Note to self 283: 3/22/2006

Carl, the MegaPlayboy and I went and saw V for Vendetta this past weekend. First of all, yes, it was awesome, but it also inspired us to do more for our country and our fellow citizens!... Unfortunately it inspired us differently. See, it prompted Carl to get out, corrupt the local government, and the seize control of the town under a fascist faux government (with his Storm Troopers being led by Robot Pedro... actually his Storm Troopers were JUST Robot Pedro, but that was enough to keep everyone else in line). But, the movie provoked the MegaPlayboy and I to fight the system and take down Carl and his Dream Regime with violent explosions, throwing knives and kung-fu. Both of us got to wear kick-ass masks too (I chose Boba Fett's helmet, and the MegaPlayboy chose a rubber mask of Richard Nixon... I think he's been saving it for years for just such an occasion), and we practiced our iambic, witty banter until it just rolled off our lips.

Unfortunately the MegaPlayboy lost both his legs, one and a half of his arms, and his head in our first mission against the Dream Regime. Herr Carldolfo anticipated our movements and caught us as we tried to infiltrate and liberate all the alcohol at the confiscated Sea Wench Pub. Both he and Robot Pedro tried to get us to talk and tell them who everybody in our group of resistancers was and where they were hiding, but I refused to tattle on our other freedom fighters (i.e. those two dogs we recruited to our cause who wouldn't stop humping each other behind the dumpster behind the Sea Wench Pub just ten minutes before) no matter how much Robot Pedro mutilated the MegaPlayboy and desecrated his corpse... Which turned out to be quite a lot. In the end though, when they began to torture me (well, they turned towards me and made me think that they were about to torture me), I told them that Angry Amy was actually our leader. I hear that they didn't even get to knock her door down before she used a golf club (a nine-iron) to decapitate them both and then set their heads on fire on the spikes on her picket fence. I didn't get out of the chair that they tied me to until three days later when some rats gnawed my fingers off. Man, the MegaPlayboy's body (well, the parts of it that were left) reeeeeeally started to stink by then.

Note to self 282: 3/08/2006

The Academy Awards ceremony was on Sunday night, and I just got so fucking sick and tired of all those talentless celebrities patting themselves on their backs and giving themselves sloppy blowjobs because they got paid $30million last year to be adored by retarded fans everywhere. So I started my own awards ceremony, The Ballsacks, and I personally presented the winners with their well-earned Rossman Iron Mallet.... to their nuts.

First up, the winner of the Lifetime Dickhead Award was easily Jimmy Jammer. After I gave him his Iron Mallet to his nuts I let Robot Pedro give him a couple more. He earned his award more than any other person in the history of mallets to the nuts ever did. Next up was the winner of the You Step On My Foot, I Breaka You Face Award... Carl, of course, nabbed that one. Though it must be noted that I needed a full handkerchief of chloroform to first make him susceptible to the Iron Mallet to his nuts, and he still came to and kicked my ass before I made it back into my car that I drove through his wall. Anyway, there was no doubt in anybody's mind who would get the Bitch Of The Year Award... Angry Amy received her Iron Mallet to her ovaries, then to the back of her skull. She apparently wasn't too honored by her title though as she saw fit to return the award several times through all the windows in my house later that night. I then boxed and mailed the Bitch Of The Year Award to Paris Hilton, along with one of Robot Pedro's amputated arms so that it could swing it and hopefully smash her ovaries out of her so that she'll NEVER be able to reproduce. I then sent Angry Amy a consolation prize of three dozen, rotten and slimy, dead fish. And by "sent" I mean hid in her house. All over the place. Even in the walls... Just like Norm MacDonald in Dirty Work. That is one great fucking movie, but does Norm ever win any goddamn Oscars (TM)?! NO! Why, you ask? Because he's not a gay cowboy who eats pudding.

Note to self 281: 3/01/2006

It had been a while since I saw him last, so I went to see the shady Dr. Dave this morning -- just to say "hey, what's up," and "where's my x-ray eyes you promised me, you cheap sonovabitch! These just have red, swirly lines painted on the pupils!" When I got to his underground lab I found the place in complete comprehensible cockamamie pandemonium. The lab monkeys were swinging from the lights and throwing poo (as they are wont to do), some mutated people were waddling or lurching around, banging their oversized heads or extra limbs into delicate scientific equipment (that I helped the good doc steal from the insured Bio-Tech-Axis building a few months ago), and some kind of living green gas was eating the flesh off a screaming MegaPlayboy in the corner. There were small fires in some of the trash cans and sinks, and there were acid-burns on a lot of the walls, floors and ceilings. I started to get a little nervous... What if something happened to the doc?! How would I get made whole again the next time a sasquatch or evil robot gutted or beheaded me?! I started tearing through the place yelling out, "Dr. Dave? Come on out, buddy! The feds are all gone now! Your 'mating monkeys with men' experiment is getting seriously fucked up what with the MegaPlayboy almost dead! Come on out, Doc!" That's about when I found the guy half stuffed into an industrial-sized washing machine, just waking up from a drunken daze.

After he vomited a few times (adding to the already generous pile of petrified puke on the floor) he told me what had happened. Apparently every year, just in time for Mardi Gras, a couple of dozen mad scientists the world over gather in one place in order to party like it's the end of the world... because it just may be. See, about ten years ago some crazy, crackpot, insane scientist built a doomsday device that would cover the Earth in a cloud of radioactive locusts with AIDs that he set to go off on Ash Wednesday if the governments of the world did not pay him a few billion dollars. Well of course they paid him (most governments are stupid, yes, but that's really only pocket change to them that they can easily hide in their national debts next to the $10,000 screwdrivers), but the scientist's retarded lab assistant (literally retarded, especially after the scientist counted all of his helper's brain cells before hiring him... He counted them with a very sharp needle) set the device to release the radioactive AIDs insects (with a half life of 500,000 years) for an unknown Ash Wednesday sometime in the future (and without knowing the actual date there was no way to deactivate it... and messing with it causes it to spray Mountain Dew in the face of whoever's trying to stop it... Seriously, Mountain fucking Dew!). So, the rest of the mad scientists of the world gather each year right before the possible doomsday, and party till they're either dead, broke, or need some massive aspirin. Oh man, I am so making Dr. Dave take me next year!

Note to self 280: 2/08/2006

So Carl shows up at my house, at 1 in the morning, naked as the day he was born, and he just stands there outside my doorway, blinking and twitching in the bright porch light. I immediately turned my gaze away from his natural state and onto the American flag hanging on my door, whistled "American Pie," and then I waited for him do say or do something. But he just stood there, blinking. After about 7 minutes of this (I waited till I got through the final verse), I looked at the back of my wrist (I didn't have my watch on), clapped my hands and rubbed them together while I said, "Wow, Carl, I love it when you drop by like this, but I have three hot coeds in my bed waiting for me to return so we can get back to playing 'pin the condom on the enormous cock.' I hope you understand." Then I slammed and locked the door in his face and turned off the outside light. Just as I had gotten back to my room I heard Carl ringing the bell and banging on my door again like a fucking loonatic... I let it go. He then started screaming at the top of his lungs, shit like "Oh my GOD! NOOOOOO! Get the fuck away! NooooOOOOOO! I swear I didn't know it was real! AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEE!" I just cranked up the radio while we all played naked Twister.

Next morning, Carl was gone, but there was a huge puddle of blood, torn flesh, bone and a bit of eyeball on the ground right outside my front door. Huge clawmarks in the door and the brick of my house too. Goddammit! Carl better get his ass back here (fully clothed hopefully) and fix that shit up! That door's expensive... I stole it from Jimmy Jammer. I can't steal another or he'd catch on.

Note to self 279: 1/24/2006

Self-fulfilling prophecies suck my hairy ass. This weekend I was about to head out for a night on the town with Kare when Bob From the Future appeared in a total panic. "You are about to suffer the most horrible night you have ever experienced in recent memory!" he warned. "Beware! Take it easy tonight and plan ahead. I have to go now, but I'll tell you the second part of my warning when I get back to you tomorrow morning."

Immediately I freaked, then I called Karen and told her I had entitellitus and couldn't meet her. I wrapped myself in blankets and rocked back and forth in the fetal position for a few hours, but then I remembered that I had just gotten in the Hong Kong movie The Storm Riders earlier in the day, and thought I'd waste some time by giving that a spin. I normally love chop-socky, wire-fu movies, but this I did not. Not just because it was bad, but because it barely counts as a movie. American soldiers must use this kind of crap on al Qaida and Iraqi insurgent POWs in order to get them to talk. This 2 hour waste of time should be used on bad puppies that pee on the carpet. "Bad Sparky! Now you have to watch The Storm Riders!"

Seriously, my stomach was in knots and my eyes were bleeding by the end of this piece of cinematic shit. The plot: laughable. The acting: attrocious. The special effects: well, they were "special" in the same way that the Special Olympics are "special". In fact it looks like they were rendered by some retards who got their hands on the old, early 90s computer program Sketch 3D.

After a quick visit to Dr. Dave to make my eyes stop bleeding, and heal the slashes on my wrists that I dealt myself in a vain effort to end the madness, I left disappointed after finding out that his Memory Enhancement/Fucker-Upper Ray was in the shop, and I therefore couldn't erase the kung-fuy experience from my skull.

Anyway, Bob From the Future appeared again the next morning to finish his prophecy. "Rossman! Whatever you do, you must never watch the terrifying and terrible movie known as The Storm Ri-" That's when I slugged him, stole his time-belt, and jumped back to the previous night to beat him up again in front of my past self. I then told my past self never to watch The Storm Riders, and to simply burn the disc as soon as I could. When I got back to the next morning (my real time), I found that I still had memories of the shitty movie in my head, AND I was now remembering going out with Karen and accidentally killing Chi-Chi at the Sea Wench Pub when that midget I kicked in the neck exploded. Goddamn self-fulfilling prophecies!!

Note to self 278: 1/11/2006

I had a nice and painful weekend, in case you were wondering. Played a little paintball, had a little part of my leg removed (i.e. the whole lower part), smashed in my left shoulder and hand, and sliced open my jugular with my facemask.

Things started out okay: a group of us started up a late Saturday game and were having a barrel of monkeys, shooting the shit out of each other in the middle of the forest, but then I soon found myself alone. All the sounds of gunfire and people screaming "Aaah! Fuck!! I'm hit! Fuck, stop shooting!! Aaaah!!" ceased. There were no wild animal noises either. It got deadly silent. At first I thought it was because Blue Team had eliminated the rest of my teammates and was using some sort of actual tactics on me or something -- but then I realized that none of us was smart enough to come up with something like that. Suddenly, Robot Pedro popped up out of the brush and de-cloaked not 5 yards away from me, and he began charging me like a drunk, pregnant hippo, his one good eye a'blazing! I turned tail and ran, blindly shooting my yellow paint ammo over my shoulder, but then my right foot found a rabbit hole and I stopped short with my leg up to my knee in the ground. Robot Pedro didn't stop short though, and something very similar to the picture on the right occurred.

Robot Pedro's excuse for hunting me and my friends down was that.... Hell, I don't know, I never asked him "why" before I used my detached leg to unbolt his head. I got off lightly though. I guess I should go back to the woods and bury the rest of the gang before they really begin to stink like mildewy twat. Eh, but it's a new Lost tonight.

Note to self 277: 1/04/2006

Unfortunately, being sick over the holidays has become somewhat of a fucked up tradition for me. Each year I wait in unabated anticipation wondering if I'll get the flu, whooping cough, shingles, malaria or the AIDs. This year it was just the common cold, and I seemed to have knocked it the fuck out of my system fairly quickly with plenty of sleep and two rolls of Airborne per day (each tablet consisting of 1,600% the daily recommended dose of Vitamin C -- ten tablets per roll. My teeth were orange after the second day). Anyway, I had just about fully recovered from the bug early on Saturday, the 31st of December, and I was really just planning to take New Year's off this year and rest up some more with a good dose of orange juice and hard core pornography, when Marksy called me up at about 11AM.

"WHAT?! You're gonna just stay home?!? On New Year's Eve? Christ, even Dick Clark is being dug up and hoisted in front of the camera in Times Square this year, Rossman! Don't be a pussy!" Then he talked me into driving him up to South Carolina for "the ultimate fucking, kick ass, rock your socks off into your own asshole" New Year's party taking place at some guy's house who Marksy thought he knew. We finally found the damn place after it turned pitch dark, and it was at a fairly large cabin on a little pond about 10 minutes past the S.C. border (it had to have been near that house that I had a New Year's party at 9 years ago with Chi-Chi and his whorey girlfriend, where I met the gorgeous Batina.... Oh Batina, I still think about you and call out your name sometimes when I fuck other women. You'll always be a part of me).

There were no neighbors, which was a good thing since they had a live band playing and their speakers were as big as my car. There weren't any kegs either, as this was apparently a "high class" party, but instead each party goer got a bottle of champagne to call his/her own that night, and there was a table of wine set up right inside the back door to the makeshift stage. There was some beer brought by a few of the guests, but after 2 to 9 glasses of some tasty red, and more than half of my bubbly I found that I really didn't need it.

Some of the flashbacks that I get of that night involve trying to play guitar for the audience while the bassist took a piss; throwing a small dog or rat into the pond because it kept barking at me while I was trying to talk to a hot chick; trying to make up my mind between a deer brat, a slice of pizza and the duck pate; puking into the lake (and possibly on the dog/rat thingy that was trying to get back out) after eating the duck pate; and then everybody cramming into a dozen cars and driving to Utah where we rocked it so hard we set the whole goddamn Mormon state on fire! I would feel sorry for all the burnt Mormons, but they totally whined about it and cursed us out while we did it. Fucking hypocrites.

Note to self 276: 12/21/2005

Feliz Navidad! Fleas on me nads! Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriba!! It's time to party and celebrate and eat and drink and party! It's the end of the year, and I'm ready for it! Christmas is just a few days away and then I have a week off to do nothing but prepare for New Year's (which mainly means binge drinking in order to get my tolerance up high enough so that I'll still be able to remember midnight on the 31st)! Other than that things are going well. Well, except for the office Christmas party two nights ago. The big bossman invited us all out to this fancy restaurant in downtown Atlanta to thank us for all of our hard work in the past year in keeping him out of man-rape prison for all of the company's shoddy business practices. We do our jobs with pride! Anyway, so there we all were, drinking expensive wine, eating filet mignon, and dancing on table tops (well, at least Angry Amy was... She did a great impression of that chick in Flashdance. I must say I was quite impressed), but I kind of got bored of listening to James from accounting's only joke for the 5th time that night, so I gave Carl my Santa hat that I always wear this time of year, and then I went down the street to Happy China Lovely Massages for a nice ummm, muscle relaxer. Right in the middle of Ms. Xing Xiao's fantastic finale I began to hear tons of helicopters in the sky and hundreds of sirens whiz past to the restaurant that the party was still raging in. I buckled up and ran out in the street just in time to see at least 50 federales beating the shit out of a handcuffed Carl and reading him his rights while they dragged his broken ass to the nearest paddy wagon. It turns out that SOME nameless robot told the police that Osama's number 7 man was hiding in that very restaurant that very night, and he was wearing a Santa hat and planning to fly a jumbo jet after getting royally tanked. Thanks for taking one for the team, Carl!

Note to self 275: 12/07/2005

Chi-Chi's great-aunt suffers from dementia and so I joined him on a road trip to Hilton Head, SC, to check up on her and to see if she had any valuables that I could fit in the back of my car. First of all, I don't know how anybody could label one of the billions of old people on that island with a mind-rotting disease and not the rest of them. They're all fucking bat-shit loco! And they can't drive or order at a restaurant. Chi-Chi and I spent 45 fucking minutes waiting for our waitress at the Original Pancake House (best chocolate chip pancakes on the whole goddamn planet!) while she was forced to revise the orders of an elderly party of 6 the next table over. I swear to God that those old fucks went through the entire menu twice before settling on bran muffins and a glass of Metamuecil each. That Saturday though we hit a pool hall and got drunk (and scratched the hell out of 3 separate tables) while watching UGA utterly kick the shit out of LSU's ass in the SEC championship game. It was glorious! I think I also drunk-called Smelly Melly twice that weekend, but that was payback for an earlier bit, so it's all good.

The trip home sucked as we got stuck in some winter thunderstorms and then took a detour to Augusta... Which delayed us by about 45 minutes and caused me to miss the Family Guy on Sunday night. Thank Christ I was able to convince Aunt Jezebel to part with her pearl earrings and all her savings bonds or this trip would have been an utter and total waste.

Note to self 274: 11/30/2005

What a fan-fucktastic week! Things started out with an Uber-Week that consisted of nothing but X-Men Legends I & II (with massive 2 and 3 player help thanks to Marksy and Karen [who finally gave in to her base and childhood urges to sit on her ass for a few days and pig out and play video games through the night]), a paintball game on Saturday (with new recruit Foxfur), a mini roadtrip to Atlanta on Tuesday for some burgers at the Vortex (Karen had a craving), a snout-stuffing Thanksgiving on Thursday, more eating on Friday, and then even more eating at Mehve's Anti-Turkey Thanksgiving on Saturday (where we watched UGA put the smack down on Tech, and saw the Baldwin's favorite 70s jive-turkey movie of all time, The Warriors).

Honestly, my head is still spinning from it all. I'm still trying to sort out what was real and what was not-so-real. Like did I really order Marksy to put his briefs on his head and run around the neighborhood yelling "Soy la Gran Calabaza, Charlie Brown!" at 3 in the morning after 3 too many Red Bulls? And did Kare actually begin imitating Colossus' "Thunder Clap" on my head at one point and blame the buffalo wings? And who shot me in the ass with my paintgun at a 5AM break one morning while asking if it was loaded? I sort of remember it being a giant demon with spikes protruding from its spine, and eyes that reflected the fiery depths of Hell... But I've made that mistake before. I think we went drive-by mailbox batting at one point, and I know I slapped Karen's controller out of her hand when she tried to play as Rogue in Legends II... Fuck that! She should have known better! Rogue is my bitch! But I know for a fact that I made everybody dress their X-Men and Brotherhood mutants up in Age of Apocalypse costumes for the whole of that game, but did I in fact declare a jihad on Robot Pedro, and did Marksy lose his arm in the following bloody crusade against the metal assfuck? And was there really an IRA guy at the Anti-Turkey Thanksgiving dinner, and was he in fact the one who set the bomb up to my ignition on my Exploder? And did I know of his paddy attempt on my life ahead of time and is that why I allowed the Captain to start my car for me that night? I'm left with just questions. Tons and tons of questions.

Note to self 273: 11/16/2005

The Wolfman, the MegaPlayboy and I went to the UGA vs Auburn game this past Saturday night in Athens... Then we helped the pissed off mob burn down all the visiting fans' campsites and tailgating parties before we left. Goddamn faggy Tigers... I mean War Eagles... Wait, what? What the fuck IS their goddamn mascot? Anyway, I know I'll still be pissed about this loss even after we wave to them from the SEC championship game in December... Goddamn Auburn.

Anyway, Sunday was a relatively quiet day after that. I spent it scraping off Auburn fan brains from the front grill of my car, then the Wolfman and I found what was left of the MegaPlayboy near the stadium with a burnt Auburn flag attached to a shovel attached to his chest. We took the poor guy to Dr. Dave for some quick repairs and after a little reconstructive surgery the good Doc came out to tell us the bad news. It turns out that due to being dead for over 13 hours the MegaPlayboy had "a bad case of lack of oxygen to his brain, and is in fact now majorly retarded." The Wolfman and I thought that this was bad enough, but the Doc broke the even worse news to us. "Due to being so damn retarded, your friend has stopped rooting for the Bulldogs... No, it's worse than him becoming an Auburn fan; he's now a Gator fan."

Why, God?!?! WHYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!?

Note to self 272: 10/19/2005

Carl and I finished the Veronica Mars DVD boxset this past weekend and were so inspired by it that we thought it would be really cool to start up our own detective agency and solve crimes all Nancy Drew.... ummm, all Sherlock Holmes and Hardy Boys-like. The only problem was in deciding how we'd go about doing it. I wanted to go around and find people who'd been wronged and then sluethally find out who fucked them over, and then kill that person. While Carl wanted to just cause crimes himself, get hired by those whom he fucked over, and then point the blame to me and then beat the shit out of me in front of his clients for tons of money. While his idea had some merit to it and would probably be much much easier to enact, I still had to insist that we stick with my original plan.

First things first; I had Dr. Dave turn me into a really sexy, 17 year-old, blonde chick, and I had him pump up my IQ with a few shots of something or other that was just fucking awesome, man. Then I had the good doctor change Carl into a jive-talkin', baske'ball playin', black sidekick. It wasn't until I was halfway through my first case (The Case of the Road-Kill Kitten) that I realized that my sarcastic but loyal and black sidekick wasn't really a reconstructed Carl, but simply Malcolm Z with a new gold tooth. He apparently didn't know I was really the Rossman and he'd been trying to get into my 17 year-old girl panties the whole time he'd been following me around. I just thought that Carl was doing what we thought the real sidekick to Veronica Mars would have done in real life (i.e. try to get into her panties at every given opportunity, and then eventually get her involved in a gang bang in the basketball team's locker room after practice one night). Luckily the local cops aren't as bright as me, and never figured out who stuck a pencil (with a troll head eraser) into Malcolm Z's brain. Oh, and I figured out what happened to Carl and I solved The Case of the Road-Kill Kitten all in one stroke! Don't worry, I'll track him down now that I had Dr. Dave turn me into bounty hunter extraordinaire, Domino Harvey. Yee-haw!

Note to self 271: 09/28/2005

The Wolfman, Dr. Dave and I went to see Tim Burton's Corpse Bride this past weekend. Then Dr. Dave got it in his mind to.... Oh Jezus... You know what? You're better off not knowing.