Christoph

I had grown sort of used to Kimber supporting me, but now that there is a whole other person buying me things I have been reminded that my situation is a little bit nonstandard. When Sammy pays for my delicious bottles of rum and things I’m all sheepish and thankful, like a real human being, which will not do at all.

This has inspired me to make fuck tons of money, which I think is the first sensible reaction my brain and I have ever had to anything. Kudos, Captain. We’ll be rich, no doubt, now that we have decided we are vaguely interested in money.

My video game site will, of course, make a cool million a week, should it at some point exist. I will supplement my income, then, with my freelancing. Soon I will take mi innamorati on a trip around the world, where we will meet with the most devoted fans of my articles on dish detergent and rain gear for cyclists, and everyone will pay to blow me.

We’re well on our way. My most recent paid work was writing an article about the best pocket knives for campers. I concluded that the best pocket knives for campers fit into campers’ pockets. They paid me $25 for this. A couple of those a day and I can take my former benefactors to lunch at the Olive Garden.

My most recent unpaid work reads a little something like:

I can feel it building inside of me as I thrust into her, hungrily probing to elicit her ancient sounds of pleasure and stuttering breath. The feeling wells up within me and pushes to escape, but I hold it back for now. I squeeze my eyes tight and push as hard and as deeply as I can and must, and then I feel it, and I can’t restrain it any longer. With a primal bellow I release, and the liquid spills forth from my eyes, running over my cheeks and falling into her mouth. Wait, what? I’m crying? I’m crying!

Nobody will give me $25 for that, which I think I have identified as a flaw with the world.

My greatest flaw as a writer (and there was some stiff competition, let me tell you) is that I write way too fucking much. Oh, maybe not on my blog, but for each article, short story, review, or even status update I write, I tend to use way too many of those word things.

Case in point: This post was upgraded from a tweet.

It is a classic pitfall for inexperienced writers, but having known of this weakness for a long while now I still don’t seem very interested in changing it. I am by all accounts meant to be an experiencededly shitty writer by now.

I recently wrote a short story for an anthology, and about six seconds after submitting it I realized that I had written it as if it were a novel. I wouldn’t even consider it if I was the publisher. The story spanned five different scenes, with multiple characters who developed and had their own arcs. Fuck that shit.

When I write fiction I figure out my characters and let them take the story wherever they please, which means there are inevitably about as many subplots as there are names. It could work if I would trim the fat after the fact and keep some of that to myself. Alas, I find it nigh impossible to cut huge sections from a piece of writing.

My awful fiction leans a lot on humor and awkward dialog. I want to keep all of my moments, and all of my jokes, because those are the things that bring a joy to writing for me, and they’re the bits I’m most proud of. This is clearly not what the publisher of an anthology of short stories wants, though.

Basically I am suggesting we start a literary journal for hack writers who can’t be bothered to edit their work.

[13:50] fancydink: I saw this thread where everyone was uploading pictures of their dicks next to game controllers. Most of them used Xbox 360 controllers. I noted that my penis was almost exactly the same length as the xbox controller, while most of the dicks in the thread were a bit longer.

[13:52] fancydink: Which upsets me because I have a completely average sized penis, just not compared to the average of this particular group. Which got me to thinking, it is probably because only people who have dicks longer than xbox 360 controllers will opt to upload a picture of their dick next to an xbox 360 controller.

[13:52] fancydink: I felt bad, because I knew, also, that there would be people with smaller dicks than mine, people whose dicks are perhaps only half the length of an xbox 360 controller, and they would be looking at these 7-8 inch dicks or cheaters and thinking low of themselves.

[13:53] fancydink: But I couldn’t take a picture of my dick next to my xbox 360 controller because it’s a little awkward to hold in place like that while you take a picture, and I have a kind of erectile dysfunction where I cannot maintain an erection without it being constantly stimulated. When it comes to taking photos and things I just can’t fucking do it, I lose it right away

[13:54] fancydink: And I feel bad about it, I guess

<em>[13:54] BigGulp32 is offline</em>

Everyone crowds around like carrion to a corpse. Their mouths flapping and noshing like pigs at a trough, smashing their teeth and their tongues together, telling stories of past feedings behind hands which obstruct nothing.

I can’t hold myself comfortably upright with these creatures, so I hang back a while and let myself be known, that they can talk among each other after I’m gone and assure the naysayers that I did, in fact, make my appearance. Good on me.

When I’ve lingered long enough for my corpulence and filth to make the most perceptive of them uncomfortable enough to have the image burned into their pre-frontal cortices, I stash myself away in the garage. It’s better this way for everyone, and especially me.

I gaze off into the corner and imagine all of them nude. I have no interest in any of these people sexually, but it helps to pass the time and is a great exercise for remembering names.

I have heard much about your penis in recent days.

The preceding was an un-edited draft saved in June which I can’t recall the motivation for.

I have heard much about your penis in recent days.

This has been an un-edited draft of a blog entry I wish I could remember the point of.

I am not much for blogging these days, as Ashley and absolutely nobody else has noticed, but worry not: I’ve got a number of fine excuses.

First, I have been writing for dollar money. This sounds terrible, I know, but it’s actually been almost fun. For me, I mean; You get nothing out of it. For example, I’ve been hired to write trivia questions for a Legend of Zelda iPhone app, which is what I was going to do this week anyway. I’m also apparently writing an Op-Ed column for an obviously reputable African American newspaper, who totally believed my story about the skin condition plaguing the residents of America’s newly-extended dominion into Cascadia.

Second, I have been writing sissypants little personal entries, on LiveJournal of all places. Hahaha, me! Considering including the link to my LiveJournal… Nope. Anyway, I hide these things away behind a friends lock because they are mostly about vaginas and I’m sure nobody on the Internet has any interest in vaginas.

Third, I’ve been writing a lot of fiction. Tons of short stories! I’d post them here, but magazines and anthologies frown on that kind of thing, and apparently I’ve just now decided that getting paid for what I do is a good idea. What I really need here is one of them nifty portals where I let you know where to find my latest work, but I think you’re supposed to be a celebrity to make one of those, and unfortunately Ashley only has the one computer with which to drive up my stats.

Fourth! Yeah, there is a fourth thing. I’m supposed to be working on a video game site so I can pretend that I still write for myself. I haven’t actually been writing for that site either, but presumably this excuse will apply next month.

In closing, uh.

I am not much for blogging these days, as Ashley and absolutely nobody else has noticed, but worry not: I’ve got a number of fine excuses.

First, I have been writing for dollar money. This sounds terrible, I know, but it’s actually been almost fun. For me, I mean; You get nothing out of it. For example, I’ve been hired to write trivia questions for a Legend of Zelda iPhone app, which is what I was going to do this week anyway. I’m also apparently writing an Op-Ed column for an obviously reputable African American newspaper, who believe my story about the skin condition plaguing the residents of America’s newly-extended dominion into Cascadia.

Second, I have been writing sissypants little personal entries, on LiveJournal of all places. Hahaha, me! Considering including the link to my LiveJournal… Nope. Anyway, I hide these things away behind a friends lock because they are mostly about vaginas and I’m sure nobody on the Internet has any interest in vaginas.

Third, I’ve been writing a lot of fiction. Tons of short stories! I’d post them here, but magazines and anthologies frown on that kind of thing, and apparently I’ve just now decided that getting paid for what I do is a good idea. What I really need here is one of them nifty portals where I let you know where to find my latest work, but I think you’re supposed to be a celebrity to make one of those, and unfortunately Ashley only has the one computer with which to drive up my stats.

Fourth! Yeah, there is a fourth thing. I’m supposed to be working on a video game site so I can pretend that I still write for myself. I haven’t actually been writing for that site either, but presumably this excuse will apply next month.

In closing, uh.

[09:30] Ashley: I would like to point out that your last blog post was exactly one month ago.
[09:30] Ashley: I don’t know whether you’re trying to make a point or not, but I personally believe you should not let this continue for one more day. Just sayin.
[09:30] Ashley: Now I’m going to bed. Goodnight.

I dislike that the most efficient way to shift slightly in this seat is to flail my fat limbs around wildly, to the chagrin of my cats both.

Google+ is not about one’s family, friends and coworkers, like Facebook. This is a sort of monumental difference, so I’m going to go ahead and insert a line break here while we all come to terms with it.

Once people break their Facebook conditioning and get it into their heads that they can find and follow interesting people on G+, they may stop joking that it feels empty. Even in beta, with most of my friends not yet on board, my G+ posts get instant responses, and I feel like I’m having a public conversation with the whole of the Internet.

I do understand that having a public conversation with the whole of the Internet may not appeal to everyone, but I don’t care about viewpoints other than my own and I have decided that this is one of the best things to have happened to the web in a while.

As people who follow my various crimes against bloggery may know, I’ve long had a problem with the way the “revolution” of the “social Internet” really kicked the shit out of socializing on the Internet (among other things), and this has largely been the fault of Facebook. If you see an interesting comment on one of your friend’s Facebook posts you are not likely to add the commenter as a friend, because you don’t know them and that would be creepy as fuuuck. Facebook has been such a massively successful service that this trepidation about talking to new people has become the norm online.

On G+ you don’t have to think twice about who you add, because they can simply post all of the irritating personal bullshit you have no interest in to their Family or People I Hate circles. Some folks coming from Facebook may need a while to get used to the idea that it’s okay to make friends online.

Human beings generally struggle with forming opinions on stuff unless they have something to compare it to, but it is important that we at least pick something similar to that which is in question. We should be comparing G+ to Twitter, if anything, and surely not Facebook.

Compared to Twitter, good gravy, what an upgrade across the board.

If you have a Google+ account, type an interest of yours into the “Find People” box at the top and click on Find everyone matching “Penises”, then add somebody to your I am a typical Internet user and I love Penises circle.

If you don’t have a Google+ account yet, post a comment and I will send you an invitation.

I have been so very busy, which is a real kick in the penis because I have so much more to post about when I am too busy to post. Fuck everything.

Anyway, I basically just want to bump that Casey Anthony entry down a smidge now that the whole thing has ended incorrectly and my blog seems less than completely current.

Now, back to lazily masturbating in a beam of sunlight by my window I MEAN I AM SO SO BUSY

I haven’t been posting here because I have been so very busy, which is a real kick in the penis because I have so much more to post about when I am too busy to post. Fuck everything. Anyway, I basically just want to bump that Casey Anthony post down a smidge now that the whole thing has ended incorrectly and my blog seems less than completely current. First, I will embed a video of a great hip-hop rap artist from YouTube.

I’ve invented a new erectile dysfunction where my cock is confused by how often I touch it and can’t be sure that I’m serious

About a week ago Memo Juez informed me that Casey Anthony is a person who exists. After a little research, I learned that she is some sort of a minor celebrity for having possibly killed her kid.

I’ll get to the bottom of this.

If Casey Anthony was not actively involved in killing her baby, it seems likely that she was at least okay with what happened. The case for the defense is basically that Casey found her kid dead in a pool and reacted by stashing the body in the woods and making like nothing had ever happened. When that didn’t work, because she had made the age-old mistake of telling her family that she had a baby and they evidently wanted to see the thing, she called the cops and said that her daughter had been kidnapped a month previously. This is the version of the story designed to make Casey Anthony look good.

Let’s see… Smallville was on, so it had to have been a Thursday… so she was kidnapped… yeah, 31 days ago. Why, have you seen her? lolz

Why are people even interested in the case? There doesn’t seem to be a lot of doubt that Casey Anthony is kind of a dickhead, so it’s a story been told, no? People usually do not care so much about these things unless they are divided on the issue of whether a person is a dickhead or not, because then, at least, it’s something to do (mindless yelling).

I have poured over all of the evidence available to me and come to a conclusion.

Casey Anthony has kind of pretty eyes, and it’s hard to sentence a person with kind of pretty eyes to death. Therefor, free Casey Anthony. I totally get it now, America.

If you have never killed a spider by punching it in the face, I will tell you it is thoroughly satisfying.

Christoph:
Greetings, Internet. Welcome to the show.
Today we’re talking with Kimber and Sara here on Facebook.
Let’s get right to it with the introductions. Kimber here is a large-breasted scientist from all the way up in Canada. Say hello Kimber.

Kimber:
hiiiii

Christoph:
And Sara, she’s a large-breasted woman who might have a job, from somewhere in America I’m not too sure of, but her breasts are large. Say hello, Sara.
All right, let’s try another Sara
Well hello, Sarah. Welcome to the program.

Sarah:
hello

Christoph:
Are you caught up on the show to this point?

Sarah:
sure

Christoph:
All right, so we were just doing the introductions. Why don’t you say a few words about yourself to get things started.

Sarah:
Being a large breasted american who may or may not have a job isn’t enough introduction?

Christoph:
That was the other Sara. I am to take it that you also may have a job, or may not have a job?

Sarah:
I do in fact have a job

Kimber:
Good show!

Christoph:
Excellent! Kimber here is a vaccine research -ologist. Let’s compare your professions directly. What do you do?

Sarah:
Well now I feel inadequate. I wait tables.

Christoph:
Kimber: A response?

Kimber:
Don’t feel inadequate!

Christoph:
Excellent.
WEEE-OOO, WEEE-OOO, those are sirens, people!
You know what that means?
It’s time to bring in an expert!
Ashley, how are you tonight?

Ashley:
I’m good. Almost tired

Christoph:
Nearly tired. Fantastic. I understand you’re an expert on Waiting Tables?

Ashley:
I used to be before I quit my job
but I would still like to think that I retained all of my knowledge on the subject

Christoph:
But you were quite proficient. Don’t be modest. Sarah here waits tables currently, and feels inadequate to Kimber who is an -ologist. How do you feel? Should Sarah feel inferior in this case?

Ashley:
Of course not!

Christoph:
Did that help, Sarah?

Kimber:
I’m not even an -ologist.

Christoph:
/me shuffles papers around nervously

Sarah:
Yes, I do feel slightly better about my non-career

Ashley:
People have different table waiting methods, and how a customer judges the waitress depends purely on that customer

Christoph:
What are some of the methods?

Ashley:
well, some people prefer a server who gives contant attention

Christoph:
Oh, I hate that. Sarah, are you an irritating server?

Ashley:
some prefer chatty waitresses (even though they are just trying to get sympathy tips)
some, like dear Christoph (I’m assuming) likes waitresses who provide attention, but are not pushy, yet make no mistakes

Sarah:
I am sometimes forced to be an irritating server because my restaurant forces servers to name three items in every dish brought to the table. But I try to refrain from irritating.

Kimber:
That is an odd rule

Christoph:
I like it when they say “Whatchu want?” and I say what I want, and then I never have to hear them speak again.

Ashley:
haha. That’s totally my method.

Sarah:
That is my favorite kind of customer.

Christoph:
Sarah, do you have any servering tips of your own?

Ashley:
I even brought a water pitcher to a table because I just didn’t feel like dealing with their glasses all night
I got a pretty good tip if I remember…

Christoph:
I have never had a waitress offer to clean my glasses for me

Sarah:
hardy har har

Ashley:
Shall I try this tomorrow? Would you appreciate the offer of glasses-cleaning?

Christoph:
Well, I can’t do it on my own, but I would normally not appreciate that kind of attention regardless. Allow me to struggle on in my squalor and sadness, please.
We have a viewer question, via email. I’ll read it to you now.
Jay says: Ashley doesn’t have huge breasts, but I notice she wears low-cut tops to work anyway and this presumably is a wise business decision. Since Sarah has enormous breasts, does this tactic work in the same way, or can it backfire?
I don’t know who Jay is or how he knows so much about your breasts and what you wear to work, but ladies, a response?

Ashley:
well, I knew how to push the girls up, and I did get amazing tips, plus, my very horny italian boss loved me

Kimber:
My sister said she wore low-cut tops to get more tips when she was getting tips.

Christoph:
Kimber, your sister has enormous breasts, correct?

Ashley:
so great job, Jay, on noticing my smart business move

Kimber:
This is true.

Sarah:
I have to wear button up shirts and at one time was also forced to wear a tie. I make more tips with buttons unbuttoned.

Kimber:
If you wear a button-up that is slightly to small it could gap at the buttons, which would show your boobs=tips?

Christoph:
Kimber, your own breasts are quite large. How do you tread the line between showing too much or too little cleavage? Past a certain point it can get to be vulgar and terrifying.

Kimber:
I wear shirts.

Christoph:
An excellent idea. Sarah?

Ashley:
The trick is to wear pretty necklaces that rest on the cleavage

Christoph:
Does this work as well with large as with paltry, average sized breasts?

Ashley:
it slightly covers it up, but still draws attention

Christoph:
HOOOONK HOOOOONK!
Oh my goodness, those were horns
you know what that means!
It’s time for hands-free mode! The segment where I masturbate fervently in silence while the women talk about their tits.

Kimber:
I have boobs.

Ashley:
me too! What a coincidence.

Sarah:
Gosh! Me too.

Kimber:
You done?

Christoph:
eblaboraye„

Ashley:
wha??? that’s crazy. We all have boobs.

Christoph:
elabortate,.
pleadse

Ashley:
for about 10 hours a day, mine stay in a bra.

Christoph:
omfgg
kimbert uwear a bra?

Kimber:
sometimes~

Christoph:
!!!!saraah

Sarah:
I’m wearing one right now as a matter of fact

Christoph:
Oh, man. Let’s bring in an Easily Offended expert to clean up this mess.
Anne! I’ve made a terrible mistake on the studio floor. What say you, then?

Anne:
hm?

Christoph:
Are you not familiar with our show? The Hands-Free Mode segment has just wrapped up.

Anne:
i see

Christoph:
It is very offensive and demeaning to women everywhere. How do you feel?

Anne:
well, for a woman, i’m kind of a womanizer.

Christoph:
Then why won’t you take naked pictures and send them to me?

Anne:
i don’t womanize myself.
i’ll take naked pictures of someone else and send them to you.

Christoph:
Sigh. This has happened once before. Let’s bring in Melanie for another perspective.
Hello, Melanie. You refuse to take your clothes off, correct?

Melanie:
Excuse me wut

Christoph:
I’m almost certain that I haven’t seen you naked. Presumably this is because you don’t want me to see you naked. Is this the case?

Melanie:
Do I care about any of this? Be honest.

Christoph:
I do not know.

Melanie:
Probably not.
l8r

Christoph:
Anne, you have just witnessed the correct response to the Easily Offended segment. Can you see where you went wrong?

Anne:
i was too high?

Christoph:
Probably. Also I thought your name was Annie.

Anne:
well, officially, it’s anne.

Christoph:
Was it ever Annie?

Anne:
it was annie banannie.

Christoph:
Gross. Sarah, was your name ever Annie?

Sarah:
No but it was Sarie. Which is also a weird diminutive.

Christoph:
Interesting. Whose idea was that?
You have two lifelines remaining.

Sarah:
My mother’s

Christoph:
Well! Ashley, can we get a final word from you?

Ashley:
I was never Annie
but I was Bucky
which is 4000000 times more awful

Christoph:
My database backup for the week has just been delivered, so we’re short on time, but can you explain why you were Bucky in 140 characters or fewer?

Ashley:
I had a horribly crooked front tooth

Christoph:
Makes sense. Thank you so much for your time.

Kimber:
Awwwwh.

Christoph:
And to everyone, thank you. Sarah, you’ve been wonderful

Ashley:
You’re welcome!

Sarah:
Thanks for having me

Christoph:
Kim, we need to run out to the store - I do not know which store - to get that headphone adapter, post haste!

Kimber:
Heavens. Let me get my handbag.

Christoph:
/credits

Christoph:
Greetings, Internet. Welcome to the show.
Today we’re talking with Kimber and Sara here on Facebook.
Let’s get right to it with the introductions. Kimber here is a large-breasted scientist from all the way up in Canada. Say hello Kimber.

Kimber:
hiiiii

Christoph:
And Sara, she’s a large-breasted woman who might have a job, from somewhere in America I’m not too sure of, but her breasts are large. Say hello, Sara.
All right, let’s try another Sara
Well hello, Sarah. Welcome to the program.

Sarah:
hello

Christoph:
Are you caught up on the show to this point?

Sarah:
sure

Christoph:
All right, so we were just doing the introductions. Why don’t you say a few words about yourself to get things started.

Sarah:
Being a large breasted american who may or may not have a job isn’t enough introduction?

Christoph:
That was the other Sara. I am to take it that you also may have a job, or may not have a job?

Sarah:
I do in fact have a job

Kimber:
Good show!

Christoph:
Excellent! Kimber here is a vaccine research -ologist. Let’s compare your professions directly. What do you do?

Sarah:
Well now I feel inadequate. I wait tables.

Christoph:
Kimber: A response?

Kimber:
Don’t feel inadequate!

Christoph:
Excellent.
WEEE-OOO, WEEE-OOO, those are sirens, people!
You know what that means?
It’s time to bring in an expert!
Ashley, how are you tonight?

Ashley:
I’m good. Almost tired

Christoph:
Nearly tired. Fantastic. I understand you’re an expert on Waiting Tables?

Ashley:
I used to be before I quit my job
but I would still like to think that I retained all of my knowledge on the subject

Christoph:
But you were quite proficient. Don’t be modest. Sarah here waits tables currently, and feels inadequate to Kimber who is an -ologist. How do you feel? Should Sarah feel inferior in this case?

Ashley:
Of course not!

Christoph:
Did that help, Sarah?

Kimber:
I’m not even an -ologist.

Christoph:
/me shuffles papers around nervously

Sarah:
Yes, I do feel slightly better about my non-career

Ashley:
People have different table waiting methods, and how a customer judges the waitress depends purely on that customer

Christoph:
What are some of the methods?

Ashley:
well, some people prefer a server who gives contant attention

Christoph:
Oh, I hate that. Sarah, are you an irritating server?

Ashley:
some prefer chatty waitresses (even though they are just trying to get sympathy tips)
some, like dear Christoph (I’m assuming) likes waitresses who provide attention, but are not pushy, yet make no mistakes

Sarah:
I am sometimes forced to be an irritating server because my restaurant forces servers to name three items in every dish brought to the table. But I try to refrain from irritating.

Kimber:
That is an odd rule

Christoph:
I like it when they say “Whatchu want?” and I say what I want, and then I never have to hear them speak again.

Ashley:
haha. That’s totally my method.

Sarah:
That is my favorite kind of customer.

Christoph:
Sarah, do you have any servering tips of your own?

Ashley:
I even brought a water pitcher to a table because I just didn’t feel like dealing with their glasses all night
I got a pretty good tip if I remember…

Christoph:
I have never had a waitress offer to clean my glasses for me

Sarah:
hardy har har

Ashley:
Shall I try this tomorrow? Would you appreciate the offer of glasses-cleaning?

Christoph:
Well, I can’t do it on my own, but I would normally not appreciate that kind of attention regardless. Allow me to struggle on in my squalor and sadness, please.
We have a viewer question, via email. I’ll read it to you now.
Jay says: Ashley doesn’t have huge breasts, but I notice she wears low-cut tops to work anyway and this presumably is a wise business decision. Since Sarah has enormous breasts, does this tactic work in the same way, or can it backfire?
I don’t know who Jay is or how he knows so much about your breasts and what you wear to work, but ladies, a response?

Ashley:
well, I knew how to push the girls up, and I did get amazing tips, plus, my very horny italian boss loved me

Kimber:
My sister said she wore low-cut tops to get more tips when she was getting tips.

Christoph:
Kimber, your sister has enormous breasts, correct?

Ashley:
so great job, Jay, on noticing my smart business move

Kimber:
This is true.

Sarah:
I have to wear button up shirts and at one time was also forced to wear a tie. I make more tips with buttons unbuttoned.

Kimber:
If you wear a button-up that is slightly to small it could gap at the buttons, which would show your boobs=tips?

Christoph:
Kimber, your own breasts are quite large. How do you tread the line between showing too much or too little cleavage? Past a certain point it can get to be vulgar and terrifying.

Kimber:
I wear shirts.

Christoph:
An excellent idea. Sarah?

Ashley:
The trick is to wear pretty necklaces that rest on the cleavage

Christoph:
Does this work as well with large as with paltry, average sized breasts?

Ashley:
it slightly covers it up, but still draws attention

Christoph:
HOOOONK HOOOOONK!
Oh my goodness, those were horns
you know what that means!
It’s time for hands-free mode! The segment where I masturbate fervently in silence while the women talk about their tits.

Kimber:
I have boobs.

Ashley:
me too! What a coincidence.

Sarah:
Gosh! Me too.

Kimber:
You done?

Christoph:
eblaboraye„

Ashley:
wha??? that’s crazy. We all have boobs.

Christoph:
elabortate,.
pleadse

Ashley:
for about 10 hours a day, mine stay in a bra.

Christoph:
omfgg
kimbert uwear a bra?

Kimber:
sometimes~

Christoph:
!!!!saraah

Sarah:
I’m wearing one right now as a matter of fact

Christoph:
Oh, man. Let’s bring in an Easily Offended expert to clean up this mess.
Anne! I’ve made a terrible mistake on the studio floor. What say you, then?

Anne:
hm?

Christoph:
Are you not familiar with our show? The Hands-Free Mode segment has just wrapped up.

Anne:
i see

Christoph:
It is very offensive and demeaning to women everywhere. How do you feel?

Anne:
well, for a woman, i’m kind of a womanizer.

Christoph:
Then why won’t you take naked pictures and send them to me?

Anne:
i don’t womanize myself.
i’ll take naked pictures of someone else and send them to you.

Christoph:
Sigh. This has happened once before. Let’s bring in Melanie for another perspective.
Hello, Melanie. You refuse to take your clothes off, correct?

Melanie:
Excuse me wut

Christoph:
I’m almost certain that I haven’t seen you naked. Presumably this is because you don’t want me to see you naked. Is this the case?

Melanie:
Do I care about any of this? Be honest.

Christoph:
I do not know.

Melanie:
Probably not.
l8r

Christoph:
Anne, you have just witnessed the correct response to the Easily Offended segment. Can you see where you went wrong?

Anne:
i was too high?

Christoph:
Probably. Also I thought your name was Annie.

Anne:
well, officially, it’s anne.

Christoph:
Was it ever Annie?

Anne:
it was annie banannie.

Christoph:
Gross. Sarah, was your name ever Annie?

Sarah:
No but it was Sarie. Which is also a weird diminutive.

Christoph:
Interesting. Whose idea was that?
You have two lifelines remaining.

Sarah:
My mother’s

Christoph:
Well! Ashley, can we get a final word from you?

Ashley:
I was never Annie
but I was Bucky
which is 4000000 times more awful

Christoph:
My database backup for the week has just been delivered, so we’re short on time, but can you explain why you were Bucky in 140 characters or fewer?

Ashley:
I had a horribly crooked front tooth

Christoph:
Makes sense. Thank you so much for your time.

Kimber:
Awwwwh.

Christoph:
And to everyone, thank you. Sarah, you’ve been wonderful

Ashley:
You’re welcome!

Sarah:
Thanks for having me

Christoph:
Kim, we need to run out to the store - I do not know which store - to get that headphone adapter, post haste!

Kimber:
Heavens. Let me get my handbag.

Christoph:
/credits

Christoph:
Greetings, Internet. Welcome to the show.
Today we’re talking with Kimber and Sara here on Facebook.
Let’s get right to it with the introductions. Kimber here is a large-breasted scientist from all the way up in Canada. Say hello Kimber.

Kimber:
hiiiii

Christoph:
And Sara, she’s a large-breasted woman who might have a job, from somewhere in America I’m not too sure of, but her breasts are large. Say hello, Sara.
All right, let’s try another Sara
Well hello, Sarah. Welcome to the program.

Sarah:
hello

Christoph:
Are you caught up on the show to this point?

Sarah:
sure

Christoph:
All right, so we were just doing the introductions. Why don’t you say a few words about yourself to get things started.

Sarah:
Being a large breasted american who may or may not have a job isn’t enough introduction?

Christoph:
That was the other Sara. I am to take it that you also may have a job, or may not have a job?

Sarah:
I do in fact have a job

Kimber:
Good show!

Christoph:
Excellent! Kimber here is a vaccine research -ologist. Let’s compare your professions directly. What do you do?

Sarah:
Well now I feel inadequate. I wait tables.

Christoph:
Kimber: A response?

Kimber:
Don’t feel inadequate!

Christoph:
Excellent.
WEEE-OOO, WEEE-OOO, those are sirens, people!
You know what that means?
It’s time to bring in an expert!
Ashley, how are you tonight?

Ashley:
I’m good. Almost tired

Christoph:
Nearly tired. Fantastic. I understand you’re an expert on Waiting Tables?

Ashley:
I used to be before I quit my job
but I would still like to think that I retained all of my knowledge on the subject

Christoph:
But you were quite proficient. Don’t be modest. Sarah here waits tables currently, and feels inadequate to Kimber who is an -ologist. How do you feel? Should Sarah feel inferior in this case?

Ashley:
Of course not!

Christoph:
Did that help, Sarah?

Kimber:
I’m not even an -ologist.

Christoph:
/me shuffles papers around nervously

Sarah:
Yes, I do feel slightly better about my non-career

Ashley:
People have different table waiting methods, and how a customer judges the waitress depends purely on that customer

Christoph:
What are some of the methods?

Ashley:
well, some people prefer a server who gives contant attention

Christoph:
Oh, I hate that. Sarah, are you an irritating server?

Ashley:
some prefer chatty waitresses (even though they are just trying to get sympathy tips)
some, like dear Christoph (I’m assuming) likes waitresses who provide attention, but are not pushy, yet make no mistakes

Sarah:
I am sometimes forced to be an irritating server because my restaurant forces servers to name three items in every dish brought to the table. But I try to refrain from irritating.

Kimber:
That is an odd rule

Christoph:
I like it when they say “Whatchu want?” and I say what I want, and then I never have to hear them speak again.

Ashley:
haha. That’s totally my method.

Sarah:
That is my favorite kind of customer.

Christoph:
Sarah, do you have any servering tips of your own?

Ashley:
I even brought a water pitcher to a table because I just didn’t feel like dealing with their glasses all night
I got a pretty good tip if I remember…

Christoph:
I have never had a waitress offer to clean my glasses for me

Kimber:
hardy har har

Ashley:
Shall I try this tomorrow? Would you appreciate the offer of glasses-cleaning?

Christoph:
Well, I can’t do it on my own, but I would normally not appreciate that kind of attention regardless. Allow me to struggle on in my squalor and sadness, please.
We have a viewer question, via email. I’ll read it to you now.
Jay says: Ashley doesn’t have huge breasts, but I notice she wears low-cut tops to work anyway and this presumably is a wise business decision. Since Sarah has enormous breasts, does this tactic work in the same way, or can it backfire?
I don’t know who Jay is or how he knows so much about your breasts and what you wear to work, but ladies, a response?

Ashley:
well, I knew how to push the girls up, and I did get amazing tips, plus, my very horny italian boss loved me

Kimber:
My sister said she wore low-cut tops to get more tips when she was getting tips.

Christoph:
Kimber, your sister has enormous breasts, correct?

Ashley:
so great job, Jay, on noticing my smart business move

Kimber:
This is true.

Sarah:
I have to wear button up shirts and at one time was also forced to wear a tie. I make more tips with buttons unbuttoned.

Kimber:
If you wear a button-up that is slightly to small it could gap at the buttons, which would show your boobs=tips?

Christoph:
Kimber, your own breasts are quite large. How do you tread the line between showing too much or too little cleavage? Past a certain point it can get to be vulgar and terrifying.

Kimber:
I wear shirts.

Christoph:
An excellent idea. Sarah?

Ashley:
The trick is to wear pretty necklaces that rest on the cleavage

Christoph:
Does this work as well with large as with paltry, average sized breasts?

Ashley:
it slightly covers it up, but still draws attention

Christoph:
HOOOONK HOOOOONK!
Oh my goodness, those were horns
you know what that means!
It’s time for hands-free mode! The segment where I masturbate fervently in silence while the women talk about their tits.

Sarah:
I have boobs.

Ashley:
me too! What a coincidence.

Kimber:
Gosh! Me too.

Sarah:
You done?

Christoph:
eblaboraye„

Ashley:
wha??? that’s crazy. We all have boobs.

Christoph:
elabortate,.
pleadse

Ashley:
for about 10 hours a day, mine stay in a bra.

Christoph:
omfgg
kimbert uwear a bra?

Kimber:
sometimes~

Christoph:
!!!!saraah

Sarah:
I’m wearing one right now as a matter of fact

Christoph:
Oh, man. Let’s bring in an Easily Offended expert to clean up this mess.
Anne! I’ve made a terrible mistake on the studio floor. What say you, then?

Anne:
hm?

Christoph:
Are you not familiar with our show? The Hands-Free Mode segment has just wrapped up.

Anne:
i see

Christoph:
It is very offensive and demeaning to women everywhere. How do you feel?

Anne:
well, for a woman, i’m kind of a womanizer.

Christoph:
Then why won’t you take naked pictures and send them to me?

Anne:
i don’t womanize myself.
i’ll take naked pictures of someone else and send them to you.

Christoph:
Sigh. This has happened once before. Let’s bring in Melanie for another perspective.
Hello, Melanie. You refuse to take your clothes off, correct?

Melanie:
Excuse me wut

Christoph:
I’m almost certain that I haven’t seen you naked. Presumably this is because you don’t want me to see you naked. Is this the case?

Melanie:
Do I care about any of this? Be honest.

Christoph:
I do not know.

Melanie:
Probably not.
l8r

Christoph:
Anne, you have just witnessed the correct response to the Easily Offended segment. Can you see where you went wrong?

Anne:
i was too high?

Christoph:
Probably. Also I thought your name was Annie.

Anne:
well, officially, it’s anne.

Christoph:
Was it ever Annie?

Anne:
it was annie banannie.

Christoph:
Gross. Sarah, was your name ever Annie?

Sarah:
No but it was Sarie. Which is also a weird diminutive.

Christoph:
Interesting. Whose idea was that?
You have two lifelines remaining.

Sarah:
My mother’s

Christoph:
Well! Ashley, can we get a final word from you?

Ashley:
I was never Annie
but I was Bucky
which is 4000000 times more awful

Christoph:
My database backup for the week has just been delivered, so we’re short on time, but can you explain why you were Bucky in 140 characters or fewer?

Ashley:
I had a horribly crooked front tooth

Christoph:
Makes sense. Thank you so much for your time.

Kimber:
Awwwwh.

Christoph:
And to everyone, thank you. Sarah, you’ve been wonderful

Ashley:
You’re welcome!

Sarah:
Thanks for having me

Christoph:
Kim, we need to run out to the store - I do not know which store - to get that headphone adapter, post haste!

Kimber:
Heavens. Let me get my handbag.

Christoph:
/credits

I would say that you guys will have egg on your face in the morning, but I know you idiots will still be sporting those shit-eating grins come sunrise.

I’m going to let the rest of you in on a little secret here, which might not be such a secret at the moment, but the youth of Vancouver are really fucking stupid. They always have been, and it seems likely that they always will be. Don’t let anyone excuse this whole thing and tell you that it’s a story about a few bad seeds, because it really is indicative of the mentality of the douchebros who roam the streets around here on a daily basis.

It certainly wasn’t about losing a hockey game. If the Canucks had won things would have been worse, with more people heading downtown after the second period to celebrate the win instead of heading home early because the team was getting blown out. It was about a shitload of drunk people downtown, trashing their own city because they knew the weeks-long street party was coming to an end. Some of them came equipped with gas masks and weapons, ready to make the local legend of the ‘94 riot into a tradition.

It shouldn’t have surprised anyone. Even in the less important games throughout the series there were 100,000 people watching the big screen at the corner of Georgia and Hamilton, the biggest of many large viewing parties, and there were sellout crowds packing Rogers Arena even for road games. It made for an amazing atmosphere in the city, and some great pictures.

Nobody will remember that, though. The lesson to be learned here seems to be this is why we can’t have nice things, because it will be a really hard sell to put on huge events like that in the future. If after seventeen years and an Olympic games this city hasn’t learned fuck all, it is apparent the people of Vancouver are rather prone to party fouls.

I remember the riot in 1994, when I was eleven years old and thought it was all kinds of cool. My friends and I in southeast Vancouver wanted to be tough guys, and we modeled ourselves after the older kids in the neighborhood, many of whom were downtown that night. It wasn’t surprising to us at all back then, because that’s the way they were in our neighborhood on any given day of the week. Some kids I knew once hijacked a city bus intent on driving it to Seattle. Some kids I didn’t know once took turns jumping on the back of my head for fifteen minutes when I walked past as they were trying to set a convenience store on fire. Those guys are everywhere here, and it hasn’t changed since I’ve been breathing. As an adult I just have to laugh at the guys I see who remind me of those days in my life, but I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again in this town.

This city seems to have a special breed of douchebag, and if I had to put my finger on why I’d say it’s because they don’t understand how good they have it. These guys are mostly middle or upper class, spoiled and full of entitlement. They’ll throw a fit over just about anything because they’ve never had a legitimate reason to riot in their lives.

Well aren’t you just the studliest.

I would say that you guys will have egg on your face in the morning, but I know you idiots will still be sporting those shit-eating grins come sunrise.

I’m going to let the rest of you in on a little secret here, which might not be such a secret at the moment, but the youth of Vancouver are really fucking stupid. They always have been, and it seems likely that they always will be. Don’t let anyone excuse this whole thing and tell you that it’s a story about a few bad seeds, because it really is indicative of the mentality of the douchebros who roam the streets around here on a daily basis.

It certainly wasn’t about losing a hockey game. If the Canucks had won things would have been worse, with more people heading downtown after the second period to celebrate the win instead of heading home early because the team was getting blown out. It was about a shitload of drunk people downtown, trashing their own city because they knew the weeks-long street party was coming to an end. Some of them came equipped with gas masks and weapons, ready to make the local legend of the ‘94 riot into a tradition.

It shouldn’t have surprised anyone. Even in the less important games throughout the series there were 100,000 people watching the big screen at the corner of Georgia and Hamilton, the biggest of many large viewing parties, and there were sellout crowds packing Rogers Arena even for road games. It made for an amazing atmosphere in the city, and some great pictures.

Nobody will remember that, though. The lesson to be learned here seems to be this is why we can’t have nice things, because it will be a really hard sell to put on huge events like that in the future. If after seventeen years and an Olympic games this city hasn’t learned fuck all, it is apparent the people Vancouver are rather prone to party fouls.

I remember the riot in 1994, when I was eleven years old and thought it was all kind of cool. My friends and I in southeast Vancouver wanted to be tough guys, and we modeled ourselves after the older kids in the neighborhood, many of whom were downtown that night. It wasn’t surprising to us at all back then, because that’s the way they were in our neighborhood on any given day of the week. Some kids I knew once hijacked a city bus intent on driving it to Seattle. Some kids I didn’t know once took turns jumping on the back of my head for fifteen minutes when I walked past as they were trying to set a convenience store on fire. Those guys are everywhere here, and it hasn’t changed since I’ve been breathing. As an adult I just have to laugh at the guys I see who remind me of those days in my life, but I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again in this town.

This city seems to have a special breed of douchebag, and if I had to put my finger on why I’d say it’s because they don’t understand how good they have it. These guys are mostly middle or upper class, spoiled and full of entitlement. They’ll throw a fit over just about anything because they’ve never had a legitimate reason to riot in their lives.

Well aren’t you just the studliest.

By writing about sports I completely devalue my more substantive, even poignant writings about turds and video games. I realize that. I’m not sure that it counts though if the only thing I write is a disclaimer, void of any real sports fanaticism, followed by a screencap of Kevin Bieksa’s playoff beard and what should be a simple question. I’m willing to test these waters.

So, the question: Do neckbeards grow naturally? I always thought it was a choice that douchebags made, but I’m relatively sure it would be against Don Cherry’s code of hockey to sculpt a playoff beard in any particular way. If in fact the neckbeard isnot always a choice, my blind, ignorant ire becomes a terrible hate crime. I remain uncertain, as Kevin Bieksa is a douchebag, so I turn to you, Internet, for answers, guidance, handjobs, etc.

Did you know that Paul Quarrington died of lung cancer over a year ago? Of course you didn’t, because you have no fucking idea who Paul Quarrington was, but even if you did know who Paul Quarrington was you certainly would not have known that he died of lung cancer over a year ago because if you did you would have told me. Well, imagine the audacity, he went and did it anyway.

Lung cancer is my least favorite cause of death, as it would happen. Not just because most of the people who die from it could have simply chosen not to do so (If only they were better informed, man! Surely there is somebody out there who is willing to start a letter writing campaign to inform the smokers and the miners that these are, as science has termed them, very bad ideas), but because when you find out that you have lung cancer the doctor usually tells you how long you’ve got left in terms of months and makes a very big deal about how you should not have any kind of hope. It seems to me that this would be an inexcusably awkward conversation. Other diseases may cause similarly off-putting talks, but lung cancer is easily the most prolific of them all.

I think I would kill myself. Not to be a downer, or more of a downer than I am in my standard state of gloom, but evidence suggests that I would kill myself. When I used to play hide-and-go-seek as a kid I would always step out of my hiding spot to confront the seeker as they got close, which goes well with my motto for living: You can’t fail if you don’t try! I think it’s a goodun. I may be a mite-bit passive-aggressive, as I truly hate competition and, especially, defeat. Death is a slightly more final defeat than is being found crouching in a coat rack, so you can count me out.

My uncle recently died from lung cancer, and I hear he was tempted to take matters into his own hands. I think he was in his 60s. My family isn’t all that close and we really only get together when somebody dies, which brings to mind Paul’s Song of Congregation, in turn making me picture my family as whales passing each other off the coast of Japan once a decade or so. We took a day-long boat ride out into the Pacific to drop his ashes (not Paul’s) near an island (not Japan) where my grandparents are buried. No whales in sight.

I have decided that Paul Quarrington would not have killed himself. As I understand it, he was uncharacteristically religious for a man who wrote a lot of stories with the word fuck in them, and I don’t think religios are allowed to be that proactive about death. As I’ve been told, he died sitting up in a chair in his home, drinking wine and chit-chatting with his friends. I don’t really know how to picture that scene, as lung cancer isn’t really a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of ending. To die from lung cancer sitting up in a chair and holding, even drinking, a glass of wine in a room with your friends, seems to imply planning to die sitting up in a chair and holding a glass of wine in a room with your friends. I imagine one would have to list Oh, and then I’m going to die on the itinerary for such a get-together. What an inexcusably awkward moment that would be. But I don’t think he would have killed himself.

This is all very sad for me on an entirely selfish level, because Paul Quarrington was a rare beacon of hope (or of proof, I guess, but all metaphorical beacons are beacons of hope in the way that all dogs are boys and all hot dogs are delicious and what were we talking about oh right) and showed me, as a supposed writer, that a person can write very interesting stories in very interesting ways, break all of the rules, and maybe get away with it. Even win awards.

I never really related to Paul though, perhaps because I knew fuck-all about him, and still know fuck-only-a-few about him. I related very closely however with a character of his, Desmond Howell, who I often channel in my more self-deprecating writings (Paul can’t accuse me of plagiarism now that he is dead and everything). Des Howell was, to flatter him, a fat lonely hermit man who hated to be around people and oh no I’m revealing way too much about myself but basically he was a real winner. If I were to list his positive character traits I’d come off as a narcissist (which I am, it’s just that as a narcissist I can’t allow myself to come off as a narcissist) but you’ll have to take my word that he had a few less deplorable facets. He was a bona-fide musical genius, for one example which applies to me in no way whatsoever, though I suppose that didn’t end well for him. Des thought the Beatles were his downfall.

The book of Desmond Howell, Whale Music, won at least one award and was made into a motion-picture-film also of some regard in the kingdom of Canada. I related startlingly much to Maury Chaykin’s portrayal of Des, even though I think the first time I saw it I was only around eleven or twelve years old. Let’s have a look-see at—

Oh, Maury died last year, too. From complications of a heart valve infection, which just blows all of my plans out of the water. I quit smoking a few years back, but I’m having less success quitting bacon, so bypass surgery was totally going to be my saving grace until Maury went and apparently died from the procedure. He died on his birthday no less, as if to challenge my insistence that the cosmos are going to be on my side come what is sure to be a raging torrent of plausible death scenarios. The way things are coming together here I’ll be lucky to make it to my own birthday in October (All the cool kids die at 27 anyway; Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix, Jim Morrison, etc).

However, just as Paul’s work gives me hope as a writer, he also had some good advice for people such as myself who have a limited time left on the planet: “Everyone’s dying right? I think in fact everyone should get a piece of paper saying, ‘Dear Sir: you’re going to die in a year.’ Then you’d go, ‘Better get on that then.’ “

Maybe I’ll fry up some bacon for dinner tonight.

I have decided to test the theory that a watched pot will never boil, because I think this is something which totally needs to be tested.

For this experiment I will be watch a pot and attempt to determine whether or not it boils.

I am staring at the pot.

Okay, the pot has boiled.

Conclusion: Watched pots do in fact boil. No problem, Internet.

Let me try growling into it.

No dice.

For a second I caught a sense of being a bear marauding through a campsite, but I’m not sure that was a clear improvement over being Christoph and, regardless, I lost it.

I’m not having the best night.

Cold or heated, beans in tomato-ish water are not the most flavorful. They’re all right, but I should have aimed higher. You were supposed to fix everything, beans.

Fucking beans.

I think I’m on my period.

My new breakfast routine, now that I sometimes wake up in the mornings, is to eat a snack bar and wait for Kim to whisk me away to IHOP.

This is actually marginally better for my figure than my previous breakfast ritual of waking up and eating dinner. It is also, I think, to my credit that I choose IHOP over Denny’s. At least, I think IHOP is supposed to be better for you, or more accurately, IHOP is somewhat less likely to kill you (they will both kill you).

Even just by the names of the dishes available, it seems pretty clear. IHOP’s headliner is called the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity breakfast. Even just the Rooty Tooty part makes me feel safer, because it seems like a very old person came up with it (it is always worth considering that old people have lived to be old people). I think Fresh may be a bit of an exaggeration, and Fruity may actually be spelled Frooty, for several demerits. Either way it does seem to imply that it is less than completely murderous to consume this meal.

By contrast, at Denny’s you get things like the Lumberjack Slam. They also considered naming it, “Whammo, you fat, neckbeard motherfucker!” Like everything at Denny’s it comes with a complimentary side of fingernails and hepatitis. Moons Over My Hammy comes across as quite a lot more innocent, but nobody will ever say those words aloud to order it anyway.

My only real alternative (aside from cooking, which, just no) is a local franchise called De Dutch Pannekoek house, which actually has some decent food. Not good, but decent. It’s hard to roll my increasingly bulbous ass through their doors though under the slogan of “Simply De Best” because I want to punch it in the face.

My new breakfast routine, now that I sometimes wake up in the mornings, is to eat a snack bar and wait for Kim to whisk me away to IHOP.

This is actually marginally better for my figure than my previous breakfast ritual of waking up and eating dinner. It is also, I think, to my credit that I choose IHOP over Denny’s. At least, I think IHOP is supposed to be better for you, or more accurately, IHOP is somewhat less likely to kill you (they will both kill you).

Even just by the names of the dishes available, it seems pretty clear. IHOP’s headliner is called the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity breakfast. Even just the Rooty Tooty part makes me feel safer, because it seems like a very old person came up with it (it is always worth considering that old people have lived to be old people). I think Fresh may be a bit of an exaggeration, and Fruity may actually be spelled Frooty, for several demerits. Either way it does seem to imply that it is less than completely murderous to consume this meal.

By contrast, at Denny’s you get things like the Lumberjack Slam. They also considered naming it, “Whammo, you fat, neckbeard motherfucker!” Like everything at Denny’s it comes with a complimentary side of fingernails and hepatitis. Moons Over My Hammy comes across as quite a lot more innocent, but nobody will ever say those words aloud to order it anyway.

My only real alternative (aside from cooking, which, just no) is a local franchise called De Dutch Pannekoek house, which actually has some decent food. Not good, but decent. It’s hard to roll my increasingly bulbous ass through their doors though under the slogan of “Simply De Best” because I want to punch it in the face.

I have decided to test the theory that people can improve skills through repetition, because I think this is something which totally needs to be tested.

For this experiment I will be throwing a set of eight darts at a target I have drawn on my refrigerator with a sharpie, over a hazard course provided by my cat. I will be using an arbitrary scoring system because I do not understand the game of darts, for ten consecutive rounds or whatever rounds are called in the game of darts if the game of darts is even called the game of darts.

Round 1: 140
Round 2: 90
Round 3: 100
Round 4: 120
Round 5: 180
Round 6: 165
Round 7: 180
Round 8: 220
Round 9: 220
Round 10: 310

Conclusion: Human beings do in fact get better at things with practice.

No problem, Internet.

Development of my secret new video game website continues at the staggering pace of approximately one line of code per every second week. With progress like that, it looks like it will be ready ahead of schedule, so I really need to get cracking on writing assloads of reviews.

For practice, I think I’ll play every game for the NES in alphabetical order and give a brief thought on each. Like a refresher course in video game history! There is almost no chance that this will be a wasted effort, taking time away from the more worthy project which inspired it.

Note that I will never do B-Z.

8 Eyes:
Castlevania with a bird. This would probably be great if I learned the controls, but for the most part my experience was getting hit by random shit while trying to make my stupid bird divebomb in the right spot.

10 Yard Fight:
A quick and streamlined version of football is still a slow and repetitive video game. Hoo-ooo!

720:
Like Winter Games if every sport was skateboarding, and instead of medals they awarded you with the urge to kill yourself. When “SKATE OR DIE” flashed on the screen the answer seemed obvious to me.

1942:
WW2 themed vertical shooter with some fun patterns. No punchline. Good game.

1943:
Somewhat faster sequel to the above, featuring new and moderately less irritating sound effects.

A Nightmare on Elm Street:
I sort of beat this game while playing it quickly for this post, which is either a great or terrible thing. I seem to have enjoyed it. If nothing else, it may be the least terrible game by LJN.

Abadox:
One of my favorite scrolling shooters. Granted, this is almost entirely because on horizontal stages your little legs dangle and twitch beneath you when you fire, and it’s totally the cutest.

Action 52:
52 minigames which would have seemed less horrible on the Atari 2600

The Adams Family: Pugsley’s Scavenger Hunt:
This is just a zany world full of ledges I can’t quite reach. Read: I didn’t know what to do and didn’t want to look it up, so I gave up like a chump.

Adam’s Family:
Everything here hurts you in the most unintuitive and cheap bullshit fuck off ways possible suck my dick.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Heroes of the Lance:
I very slowly walked two characters off of a ledge. Next, I engaged a slowmotion lizard man in combat, and when I woke up 15 minutes later it turned out that I had been victorious. I could actually feel myself ageing while playing this game.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Hillsfar:
I don’t know how this could be true, but this appears at first to be a side-scrolling equestrian simulator. There are also dungeons, but those are just full of locks you can’t pick, which only mock you and explode. No fair dude.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Pool of Radiance:
This is more of a typical dungeon crawler from the era. Please don’t mistake that for saying that it is any fun to play, because these games just don’t hold up.

Adventures of Captain Comic:
Basically, there is just shit everywhere, so you get hit by it. When you change the objectives some of these games are totally great.

Adventure Island 1-4:
All together, because they’re all the same stupid game. I never understood why people liked Adventure Island. The levels are all boring, the character looks fucking retarded, and items just appear in the middle of the screen when you throw hammers around like an asshole in a way that seems like a glitch but is apparently an awesome gameplay mechanic.

Adventures of Bayou Billy:
The beat ‘em up levels are stupidly hard, since the enemies take a dozen hits or so each and you can’t block their attacks. Apparently there are also driving stages, and even lightgun stages, but I will never have any idea what those are like.

Adventures of Dino Riki:
So, Hudson decided to take the terrible Adventure Island series and turn it into a scrolling shooter. A notable improvement, actually.

Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle and Friends:
Everything about this game is irritating, and it has that charming aesthetic of being drawn in MS Paint once prominent in games made by people who did not play games. Just avoid everything, because it all respawns anyway, and pick up keys.

Adventures of Lolo 1-3:
These are great puzzle games. I don’t have a lot to say about things I like.

Adventures in the Magic Kingdom:
You play some dopey kid in a cowboy costume who has to play a few rejected tech demos as slave labor for Mickey Mouse.

Adventures of Rad Gravity:
I was like, man, this game has an awesome name, so it’s totally going to be the worst ever, but jesusfuck this game is awesome. You stab spacemans and they explode, and one of them is basically my upper half flying around in a thing I can’t define but that I like anyway. Fuck yeah, Rad Gravity is the man.

Adventures of Tom Sawyer:
And we’re right back into the parade of licensed garbage. This game has surprisingly solid platforming movement and control, but that’s pretty much its only redeeming quality. It’s an ugly and uneventful stroll.

After Burner:
A 3D version of a scrolling shooter. Whenever you hear 3D in regard to an NES game you should be very afraid, and while this isn’t terrible, 1942 is miles better.

Air Fortress:
A sort of shitty horizontal shooter with relatively less shitty jetpack stages. It’s actually kind of interesting, I could see myself playing it.

Airwolf:
3D flight sims and shooters are terrible enough on this system by default, but the inability to bank more than a few degrees left or right, or pitch up high enough to actually aim at the fucking targets, kind of makes it a standout.

Alfred Chicken:
This game makes Sammy uneasy. It’s a very different platformer with a focus on climbing upward, but for Sammy’s sake we should apparently not play it.

Alien 3:
There does not appear to be an Alien 1 or an Alien 2, but I’m not excessively disappointed about that fact. This is one of those games where you have to stand on exactly the right pixel in order to do anything, and the controls feel like they are working against you. There are giant angry purple monkeys which are presumably supposed to be aliens.

Alien Syndrome:
This reminds me of one of the first First-Person Shooters, Hovertank 3D. But instead of Hovertank 3D, this would have been called Walkman 2D. And instead of having fun, you wouldn’t. There are kind of fun boss fights though, very similar to those in Blaster Master. Verdict: Play Hovertank 3D and Blaster Master.

All-Pro Basketball:
Sports games without licenses to use real teams and players usually have some cool gimmick that makes them worth playing. In this case, the gimmick is that the game pauses and flips upside down every time you cross the half-court line, to confuse and disorient you. Great idea~

Alpha Mission:
Vertical scrolling shooter. The default gun seems to fire very slowly, and I didn’t see any powerups for it. The stages are ugly, with confusing backgrounds which I thought I had to dodge at first but, no, you just go on and fly through everything like a boss.

Al Unser Jr. Turbo Racing:
I am really bad at this game. Once I figured out that I could change gears things went a little better, but in the end it only really helped me find my way off of the track with greater speed and finesse. Points for style not awarded.

Amagon:
There are many old games in which you might feel that the developers hate you, and that they took on the mindset that, instead of designing interesting levels, their goal should instead be simply to trick you into dying. It’s an artificial way to increase a game’s length and difficulty, and irritate players. Amagon is a strange example of a developer failing to do even that, because while I can see what your sadistic little minds were thinking, you failed to factor in that I might not run forward like an idiot at all times.

American Gladiators:
“We’re gonna give you a gladiator spanking” and “Don’t underestimate the strength of lace” are sexy, sexy indicators that this game is awesome. Obviously it sucks, but, “You might like this trophy on your mantle.”

Anticipation:
A blend of Trivial Pursuit and Pictionary. The computer draws stuff, you guess what it is, and once you have a wedge from each category you ascend to the next level. This may have been totally fun on hard with four players in the 80s, but I played it alone on medium and it made me want to drink heavily and write songs of my profound loneliness.

Arch Rival:
Another basketball game without team licenses, but made infinitely more tolerable by the fact that you can punch people in the face and knock them over. It’s also 2v2 and sidescrolling, which is great. Oddly you can only control one of your dudes’ movement, while you control passing and shooting for both. Kind of fun, and makes me long for a version of NBA Jam with facepunching.

Archon:
This is a great variation of chess with custom rules and pieces, and a fantasy theme. When you attack another piece you actually enter a combat screen and fight them, which is not extremely well done but still totally fun.

Argus:
Vertical scrolling shooter. You can actually scroll the screen horizontally as well, which is kind of cool, though you are still perpetually moving upward. Fairly challenging.

Arkanoid:
Hey, it’s like, Arkanoid all up in this. Arkanoid is my favorite version of Arkanoid.

Arkista’s Ring:
It looks and feels a lot like Zelda, but it surely ain’t that. You go through stages one at a time and clear out the enemies to make a key appear for the exit. It’s closer to a puzzle game than an adventure, but it’s a pretty decent time once you get past what it isn’t.

Astyanax:
This game seems really cool, playing a lot like Castlevania sans exploration, but it’s way too fickle a lover for me. You have to have perfect timing with your strikes for them to land or the game will favor your enemy every time, and they often respawn instantly. There is some fairly cheap shit going on here as well, like enemies spawning on platforms as you jump to them. I still just like the look and feel of it, so if I wasn’t in the middle of playing a bunch of terrible games I would probably give it a real playthrough.

Athena:
A cute and colorful platformer ported over from a vastly superior arcade version. You can swap out weapons and items taken from fallen enemies, which is totally cool, but the controls are really clunky and the piss-poor animations kill it for me.

Atheltic World:
Totally unplayable without a Power Pad. You can emulate it, but that doesn’t even sound a little bit fun.

Attack of the Killer Tomatos:
This game is awesome and also totally the worst. That is to say that it would be great if it wasn’t so bad. Now, I know you can say that about basically any game, but I must have some kind of a point here. It’s possible I’m just happy that this is the last game I have to talk about.

Development of my secret new video game website continues at the staggering pace of approximately one line of code per every second week. With progress like that, it looks like it will be ready ahead of schedule, so I really need to get cracking on writing assloads of reviews.

For practice, I think I’ll play every game for the NES in alphabetical order and give a brief thought on each. Like a refresher course in video game history! There is almost no chance that this will be a wasted effort, taking time away from the more worthy project which inspired it.

Note that I will never do B-Z.

8 Eyes:
Castlevania with a bird. This would probably be great if I learned the controls, but for the most part my experience was getting hit by random shit while trying to make my stupid bird divebomb in the right spot.

10 Yard Fight:
A quick and streamlined version of football is still a slow and repetitive video game. Hoo-ooo!

720:
Like Winter Games if every sport was skateboarding, and instead of medals they awarded you with the urge to kill yourself. When “SKATE OR DIE” flashed on the screen the answer seemed obvious to me.

1942:
WW2 themed vertical shooter with some fun patterns. No punchline. Good game.

1943:
Somewhat faster sequel to the above, featuring new and moderately less irritating sound effects.

A Nightmare on Elm Street:
I sort of beat this game while playing it quickly for a this post, which is either a great or terrible thing. I seem to have enjoyed it. If nothing else, it may be the least terrible game by LJN.

Abadox:
One of my favorite scrolling shooters. Granted, this is almost entirely because on horizontal stages your little legs dangle and twitch beneath you when you fire, and it’s totally the cutest.

Action 52:
52 minigames which would have seemed less horrible on the Atari 2600

The Adams Family:
Pugsley’s Scavenger Hunt: This is just a zany world full of ledges I can’t quite reach. Read: I didn’t know what to do and didn’t want to look it up, so I gave up like a chump.

Adam’s Family:
Everything here hurts you in the most unintuitive and cheap bullshit fuck off ways possible suck my dick.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Heroes of the Lance:
I very slowly walked two characters off of a ledge. Next, I engaged a slowmotion lizard man in combat, and when I woke up 15 minutes later it turned out that I had been victorious. I could actually feel myself ageing while playing this game.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Hillsfar:
I don’t know how this could be true, but this appears at first to be a side-scrolling equestrian simulator. There are also dungeons, but those are just full of locks you can’t pick, which only mock you and explode. No fair dude.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Pool of Radiance:
This is more of a typical dungeon crawler from the era. Please don’t mistake that for saying that it is any fun to play, because these games just don’t hold up.

Adventures of Captain Comic:
Basically, there is just shit everywhere, so you get hit by it. When you change the objectives some of these games are totally great.

Adventure Island 1-4:
All together, because they’re all the same stupid game. I never understood why people liked Adventure Island. The levels are all boring, the character looks fucking retarded, and items just appear in the middle of the screen when you throw hammers around like an asshole in a way that seems like a glitch but is apparently an awesome gameplay mechanic.

Adventures of Bayou Billy:
The beat ‘em up levels are stupidly hard, since the enemies take a dozen hits or so each and you can’t block their attacks. Apparently there are also driving stages, and even lightgun stages, but I will never have any idea what those are like.

Adventures of Dino Riki:
So, Hudson decided to take the terrible Adventure Island series and turn it into a scrolling shooter. A notable improvement, actually.

Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle and Friends:
Everything about this game is irritating, and it has that charming aesthetic of being drawn in MS Paint once prominent in games made by people who did not play games. Just avoid everything, because it all respawns anyway, and pick up keys.

Adventures of Lolo 1-3:
These are great puzzle games. I don’t have a lot to say about things I like.

Adventures in the Magic Kingdom:
You play some dopey kid in a cowboy costume who has to play a few rejected tech demos as slave labor for Mickey Mouse.

Adventures of Rad Gravity:
I was like, man, this game has an awesome name, so it’s totally going to be the worst ever, but jesusfuck this game is awesome. You stab spacemans and they explode, and one of them is basically my upper half flying around in a thing I can’t define but that I like anyway. Fuck yeah, Rad Gravity is the man.

Adventures of Tom Sawyer:
And we’re right back into the parade of licensed garbage. This game has surprisingly solid platforming movement and control, but that’s pretty much its only redeeming quality. It’s an ugly and uneventful stroll.

After Burner:
A 3D version of a scrolling shooter. Whenever you hear 3D in regard to an NES game you should be very afraid, and while this isn’t terrible, 1942 is miles better.

Air Fortress:
A sort of shitty horizontal shooter with relatively less shitty jetpack stages. It’s actually kind of interesting, I could see myself playing it.

Airwolf:
3D flight sims and shooters are terrible enough on this system by default, but the inability to bank more than a few degrees left or right, or pitch up high enough to actually aim at the fucking targets, kind of makes it a standout.

Alfred Chicken:
This game makes Sammy uneasy. It’s a very different platformer with a focus on climbing upward, but for Sammy’s sake we should apparently not play it.

Alien 3:
There does not appear to be an Alien 1 or an Alien 2, but I’m not excessively disappointed about that fact. This is one of those games where you have to stand on exactly the right pixel in order to do anything, and the controls feel like they are working against you. There are giant angry purple monkeys which are presumably supposed to be aliens.

Alien Syndrome:
This reminds me of one of the first First-Person Shooters, Hovertank 3D. But instead of Hovertank 3D, this would have been called Walkman 2D. And instead of having fun, you wouldn’t. There are kind of fun boss fights though, very similar to those in Blaster Master. Verdict: Play Hovertank 3D and Blaster Master.

All-Pro Basketball:
Sports games without licenses to use real teams and players usually have some cool gimmick that makes them worth playing. In this case, the gimmick is that the game pauses and flips upside down every time you cross the half-court line, to confuse and disorient you. Great idea~

Alpha Mission:
Vertical scrolling shooter. The default gun seems to fire very slowly, and I didn’t see any powerups for it. The stages are ugly, with confusing backgrounds which I thought I had to dodge at first but, no, you just go on and fly through everything like a boss.

Al Unser Jr. Turbo Racing:
I am really bad at this game. Once I figured out that I could change gears things went a little better, but in the end it only really helped me find my way off of the track with greater speed and finesse. Points for style not awarded.

Amagon:
There are many old games in which you might feel that the developers hate you, and that they took on the mindset that, instead of designing interesting levels, their goal should instead be simply to trick you into dying. It’s an artificial way to increase a game’s length and difficulty, and irritate players. Amagon is a strange example of a developer failing to do even that, because while I can see what your sadistic little minds were thinking, you failed to factor in that I might not run forward like an idiot at all times.

American Gladiators:
“We’re gonna give you a gladiator spanking” and “Don’t underestimate the strength of lace” are sex, sexy indicators that this game is awesome. Obviously it sucks, but, “You might like this trophy on your mantle.”

Anticipation:
A blend of Trivial Pursuit and Pictionary. The computer draws stuff, you guess what it is, and once you have a wedge from each category you ascend to the next level. This may have been totally fun on hard with four players in the 80s, but I played it alone on medium and it made me want to drink heavily and write songs of my profound loneliness.

Arch Rival:
Another basketball game without team licenses, but made infinitely more tolerable by the fact that you can punch people in the face and knock them over. It’s also 2v2 and sidescrolling, which is great. Oddly you can only control one of your dudes’ movement, while you control passing and shooting for both. Kind of fun, and makes me long for a version of NBA Jam with facepunching.

Archon:
This is a great variation of chess with custom rules and pieces, and a fantasy theme. When you attack another piece you actually enter a combat screen and fight them, which is not extremely well done but still totally fun.

Argus:
Vertical scrolling shooter. You can actually scroll the screen horizontally as well, which is kind of cool, though you are still perpetually moving upward. Fairly challenging.

Arkanoid:
Hey, it’s like, Arkanoid all up in this. Arkanoid is my favorite version of Arkanoid.

Arkista’s Ring:
It looks and feels a lot like Zelda, but it surely ain’t that. You go through stages one at a time and clear out the enemies to make a key appear for the exit. It’s closer to a puzzle game than an adventure, but it’s a pretty decent time once you get past what it isn’t.

Astyanax:
This game seems really cool, playing a lot like Castlevania sans exploration, but it’s way too fickle a lover for me. You have to have perfect timing with your strikes for them to land or the game will favor your enemy every time, and they often respawn instantly. There is some fairly cheap shit going on here as well, like enemies spawning on platforms as you jump to them. I still just like the look and feel of it, so if I wasn’t in the middle of playing a bunch of terrible games I would probably give it a real playthrough.

Athena:
A cute and colorful platformer ported over from a vastly superior arcade version. You can swap out weapons and items taken from fallen enemies, which is totally cool, but the controls are really clunky and the piss-poor animations kill it for me.

Atheltic World:
Totally unplayable without a Power Pad. You can emulate it, but that doesn’t even sound a little bit fun.

Attack of the Killer Tomatos:
This game is awesome and also totally the worst. That is to say that it would be great if it wasn’t so bad. Now, I know you can say that about basically any game, but I must have some kind of a point here. It’s possible I’m just happy that this is the last game I have to talk about.

People who become famous in the United States are entirely different creatures from the celebrities in every other nation on the planet Earth.

In Canada we sort of reluctantly admit that a person is very talented, at which point we can’t help but try to take credit and, like proud parents, spread word among our friends. Not too many friends though, because we wouldn’t want it to go to the person’s head. I think this is how fame works in most countries.

In the United States people look for very different things in their celebrities. Namely, they look for celebrity. In order to become famous in the US you really need to be famous to start out, which is why they invented the sex tape, and praise artists for their marketing genius.

This has and will never make sense to me. Especially when it comes to someone like Lady Gaga, who Kim and Joey will now defend in the comments vehemently. Go.

One of the more unexpected benefits of switching to a standing desk has been that my bowel movements seem to be much faster. It makes sense, but it wasn’t planned for. I’m sort of locked and loaded, with one in the chamber, ready to go.

As a result of this upgrade, I’m going to have to be a little more careful about playing the time-honored game of fart roulette. I recently made a slight miscalculation to that end, and my Pink Floyd boxers now hang shamefully in the shower. It wasn’t a major incident, but should have been enough to put a scare in me.

However, instead of learning from my mistake I followed it up by eating a fair bit of rancid meat, which was graciously donated directly to my asshole at a potluck. Thanks guys. I have spent a lot of time since then monitoring the progress of my previously-soiled underpants drying in the shower, from the convenient seat installed nearby.

Tonight I decided that I would take some time off during my recovery to check if I was still lactose intolerant. I ate a massive bowl of icecream, for science, and as it turns out I am still lactose int— oh god brb

Let me try growling into it.

No dice.

For a second I caught a sense of being a bear marauding through a campsite, but I’m not sure that was a clear improvement over being Christoph and, regardless, I lost it.

I’m not having the best night.

Cold or heated, beans in tomato-ish water are not the most flavorful. They’re all right, but I should have aimed higher. You were supposed to fix everything, beans.

Fucking beans.

I think I’m on my period.

Cement is such a grim choice in flooring. I have trouble picturing a person curled up on a cement floor with a favorite book in front of a fireplace. Maybe a furnace, or a water heater, but they don’t give off any light. You only choose cement for the rooms people never really go into. You put on your slippers and bring a flashlight when you venture into the cement-floored rooms of your home.

“Hey, you ready man?”

Ugh. Pffffaaaawww. No. Go away.

I bet every last room in this place has a cement floor. Maybe there’s a staff lounge or something with a carpet, but even then it’ll be one of those blue-gray carpets, short and stiff, made with plastic from recycled pill bottles. 60% post-consumer materials; may contain despair.

Oh man, great song idea.

“Bro, come on.”

That’s Don. He’s a son of a bitch. I should answer him, but I’m not ready just yet and he’s unlikely to accept that. It’s best that we ignore him for now, I think.

You may not be able to tell, but I don’t really want to be here right now. I’d hate to be that guy, but this place is kind of lame, and the stupid ass floor in here is totally harshing my vibe or whatever. I’m not cool enough for that last sentence, so please just disregard it and we’ll get back to work on finding me a way out of here.

“Eddie! Come on man.”

Don thinks he’s so cool. He wears a girl’s jacket. It’s leather with a built-in belt, silver trim, and oversize metal buttons. It looks pretty badass on his girlfriends, but Don just kind of looks like a space lesbian.

As for me, I’m wearing a hoodie with a picture of a diamond on it, as a statement on materialism which I’ve not really thought through just yet. Nobody gets it, including me, but that’s fine. This woman who works here asked if it was my birthstone. I said yes.

“Your people await, brosef.”

“Like seven of them,” I say with a weird snorting noise because I am so totally that guy right now. He fucking baited me. Wah.

“Don’t be such a bitch, Danny Bonadouchebag,” says the fratboy demon possessing David Bowie’s vagina’s coat. “More like seven hundred, and half of them want to fuck you for reasons nobody understands, so let’s swing our dicks around a bit and buy ourselves new systems.”

I hope he means skeletal systems. I feel like a big, floppy poo. A literal poo. Imagine a poo trying to stand up – it’s completely ridiculous. Now I’ve got you imagining an anthropomorphic poo. I should have said that I feel like a ragdoll, but for some reason ragdolls are all girls to me. Poo is gender-neutral.

I have to go now. Will you come with me?

In a way, cement floors are actually kinder on tired feet. I don’t know why that would be, and I’m not a doctor, so this is only a theory for the time being, but I like the way it sounds. The world sometimes has a way of working the way I assume that it might.

“Dude.” Don stops and asks me, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Uh?”

“Your guitar?”

“Oh. I thought it would be out there.”

“Not on this tour, Michael Jacksoff.”

There used to be a guy who would carry my guitar around for me. We never really spoke. I had another guy for speaking; an agent guy. If ever my guitar guy did something wrong I’d just tell my agent guy to explain it to him, and for the most part I managed to avoid direct contact. I still have my agent, but I guess he fired the guitar guy. I’ll have to call my accountant guy later to ask why I can’t afford as many minions anymore, then fire him and laugh ironically.

Ah, there she is. My adequately large and somewhat pretty red guitar. She doesn’t have a name, but I consider guitars to be girls, like ragdolls, and cats. Though a guitar is also a phallic symbol, so perhaps my guitar is having a gender crisis. Maybe I should introduce him to my hermaphrodite poo.

Some asshole from a band I’d never heard of once explained to me that my strings didn’t have enough action. Don’t worry, I thought he had made that term up, too, but as it turns out, action has something to do with the distance between the neck of the guitar and the strings and how hard you have to press them. I told my agent to tell my guitar guy to lower the action even more, out of spite. Now my guitar sounds terrible and my hands are slightly softer. Win/win.

Oh no. I can hear them. At the end of this long, cement hallway there are two large, metal doors, and beyond those there is a harem of sorts. A cacophonous, writhing mass of teenage girls and their ugly little boyfriends. All of them waiting for me, so that they might get my attention by singing the wrong lyrics out of key, clapping off the beat, or yelling in my face during quiet moments of scripted emotional vulnerability.

“Here we go!”

Here we go.

Cement is such a grim choice in flooring. I have trouble picturing a person curled up on a cement floor with a favorite book in front of a fireplace. Maybe a furnace, or a water heater, but they don’t give off any light. You only choose cement for the rooms people never really go into. You put on your slippers and bring a flashlight when you venture into the cement-floored rooms of your home.

“Hey, you ready man?”

Ugh. Pffffaaaawww. No. Go away.

I bet every last room in this place has a cement floor. Maybe there’s a staff lounge or something with a carpet, but even then it’ll be one of those blue-gray carpets, short and stiff, made with plastic from recycled pill bottles. 60% post-consumer materials; may contain despair.

Oh man, great song idea.

“Bro, come on.”

That’s Don. He’s a son of a bitch. I should answer him, but I’m not ready just yet and he’s unlikely to accept that. It’s best that we ignore him for now, I think.

You may not be able to tell, but I don’t really want to be here right now. I’d hate to be that guy, but this place is kind of lame, and the stupid ass floor in here is totally harshing my vibe or whatever. I’m not cool enough for that last sentence, so please just disregard it and we’ll get back to work on finding me a way out of here.

“Eddie! Come on man.”

Don thinks he’s so cool. He wears a girl’s jacket. It’s leather with a built-in belt, silver trim, and oversize metal buttons. It looks pretty badass on his girlfriends, but Don just kind of looks like a space lesbian.

As for me, I’m wearing a hoodie with a picture of a diamond on it, as a statement on materialism which I’ve not really thought through just yet. Nobody gets it, including me, but that’s fine. This woman who works here asked if it was my birthstone. I said yes.

“Your people await, brosef.”

“Like five of them,” I say with a weird snorting noise because I am so totally that guy right now. He fucking baited me. Wah.

“Don’t be such a bitch, Danny Bonadouchebag,” says the fratboy demon possessing David Bowie’s vagina’s coat. “More like twelve hundred, and half of them want to fuck you for reasons nobody understands, so let’s swing our dicks around a bit and buy ourselves new systems.”

I hope he means skeletal systems. I feel like a big, floppy poo. A literal poo. Imagine a poo trying to stand up – it’s completely ridiculous. Now I’ve got you imagining an anthropomorphic poo. I should have said that I feel like a ragdoll, but for some reason ragdolls are all girls to me. Poo is gender-neutral.

I have to go now. Will you come with me?

In a way, cement floors are actually kinder on tired feet. I don’t know why that would be, and I’m not a doctor, so this is only a theory for the time being, but I like the way it sounds. The world sometimes has a way of working the way I assume that it might.

“Dude.” Don stops and asks me, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Uh?”

“Your guitar?”

“Oh. I thought it would be out there.”

“Not on this tour, Michael Jacksoff.”

There used to be a guy who would carry my guitar around for me. We never really spoke. I had another guy for speaking; an agent guy. If ever my guitar guy did something wrong I’d just tell my agent guy to explain it to him, and for the most part I managed to avoid direct contact. I still have my agent, but I guess he fired the guitar guy. I’ll have to call my accountant guy later to ask why I can’t afford as many minions anymore, then fire him and laugh ironically.

Ah, there she is. My adequately large and somewhat pretty red guitar. She doesn’t have a name, but I consider guitars to be girls, like ragdolls, and cats. Though a guitar is also a phallic symbol, so perhaps my guitar is having a gender crisis. Maybe I should introduce him to my hermaphrodite poo.

Some asshole from a band I’d never heard of once explained to me that my strings didn’t have enough action. Don’t worry, I thought he had made that term up, too, but as it turns out, action has something to do with the distance between the neck of the guitar and the strings and how hard you have to press them. I told my agent to tell my guitar guy to lower the action even more, out of spite. Now my guitar sounds terrible and my hands are slightly softer. Win/win.

Oh no. I can hear them. At the end of this long, cement hallway there are two large, metal doors, and beyond those there is a harem of sorts. A cacophonous, writhing mass of teenage girls and their ugly little boyfriends. All of them waiting for me, so that they might get my attention by singing the wrong lyrics out of key, clapping off the beat, or yelling in my face during quiet moments of scripted emotional vulnerability.

“Here we go!”

Here we go.

I would like to show you some fine ass titties, my dear Internet, and then pose to you an important question of your own personal preference.

First, the fine ass titties. There are a couple of new examples of what breasts are in the Validation Gallery. Have a look and rejoice.

I’m a big fan of both of the two newest pictures by themselves, but together they are greater still because they represent both ends of the spectrum in terms of size and shape. The huge breasts are potentially the most impressive I have ever seen and I want them all over my face immediately, while the smallish boobs are adorable and sexy and I want to pick that girl up and spin her on my dick for months. Both wonderful, and together able to flawlessly represent the truth that boobs are always good things.

And now the question of personal preference.

Do you think this post would have been better with pictures as opposed to a link to said pictures? If people aren’t going to whine that the site isn’t work-safe, I think I’ll be finding more frequent excuses to post pictures of boobs and things.

A few days ago Sunny taught me how to shit properly, which was not something I specifically asked for, but overall the experience was not unpleasant. She’s very patient, and has soft hands.

In my opinion the key to shitting awesome is the cleanup, but as I am already an expert on that we focused more on examining my stool for imperfections to see if I might be doing anything wrong. It was an arduous process but eventually resulted in this chart, which I have carefully stolen from Wikipedia:

Apparently only figures 3 and 4 are considered master-level stools. If that’s true, I am the Dalai Lama of shitting because I pretty much never stray from those. Unless I eat Campbell’s vegetable soup, then all bets are off.

However, the chart doesn’t mention anything about stickiness, which I think is an important and oft-ignored factor. My shit is sometimes super duper sticky, and for some reason I feel really good about that. It can also be mildly irritating, but I just go number doodie first in case I leave a sticky bit clinging to the side of the bowl and I need to blast it off with piss.

I demand a thorough medical explanation for sticky poopoo.

I have been forced to surrender to my inability to sleep correctly.

I have had a lot of trouble sleeping since I was, say, thirteen years old, when I would stay up late to listen to my Tupac CDs on repeat. It’s a pattern I’ve never really been able to break. I don’t think I qualify as an insomniac, as I really just wait for people to go to sleep so I can do the weird shit I feel the waking world may frown upon.

Apologies to Tupac fans everywhere. Believe me when I say that I managed to weird it up in ways you’re better off not knowing the details of.

For the past several years, as I have reluctantly grown into this state of adulthood and apparent responsibility, I have had a whole mess of reasons to be up during daylight hours. People want me to come meet their babies (with an alarming frequency), and I have to buy my own food. It’s terrible.

When I don’t have anything to do in the morning I just stay up all night masturbating and playing Quake, and life is great. When, however, I’ve gone and made plans against my better judgment, I have to correct my schedule in advance, so I’ll stay up for some 34 hours or so in preparation for whatever stupid human bullshit awaits me.

As the result of this, I wind up being awake for two days — sometimes more — at a time. I sleep four or five times a week instead of the requisite seven. It has not had what I would term a positive impact on my mental capacity.

Most would probably suggest that I just, like, go to bed every night at the same time, and wake up every morning to an alarm. Go fuck yourselves.

I have decided that the only viable solution for me is to evolve into a new sleeping pattern, akin to that of a cat, or, come to think of it, most animals which creepeth and crawleth. I’ll sleep like eighteen times a day if I have to, and just wake up whenever something interesting is going on around me.

This will work, right?

1. Perhaps you really love cows.
2. Perhaps you really hate cows.

As I am fairly indifferent towards cows, I rarely partake. I guess I thought it would be a great place to watch the rapture, because cows and Jesus go hand in hand as personal interests, but when that didn’t pan out I had to find something else to do.

My first instinct was to find me some drunk country bitches and invite them to the Longhorn Saloon for drinks and daterape, but taking a quick inventory of nearby prospects just made me feel old and creepy. I would have been okay with that too, but there were real adults nearby and we can’t have people figuring out how old and creepy I am.

So, as should be expected, I spent most of my time along the midway eating wiggle chips. I tried to avoid games which would require that I talk to the carnies a lot, after a bad experience with the breath of the guy at the darts booth. I made like I was hard of hearing and defensively turned my ear to him, but I was only able to mitigate so much of the damage.

An updated list of reasons to visit the rodeo:

1. Wiggle Chips

1. Perhaps you really love cows.
2. Perhaps you really hate cows.

As I am fairly indifferent towards cows, I rarely partake. I guess I thought it would be a great place to watch the rapture, because cows and Jesus go hand in hand as personal interests, but when that didn’t pan out I had to find something else to do.

My first instinct was to find me some drunk country bitches and invite them to the Longhorn Saloon for drinks and daterape, but taking a quick inventory of nearby prospects just made me feel old and creepy. I would have been okay with that too, but there were real adults nearby and we can’t have people figuring out how old and creepy I am.

So, as should be expected, I spent most of my time along the midway eating wiggle chips. I tried to avoid games which would require that I talk to the carnies a lot, after a bad experience with the breath of the guy at the darts booth. I made like I was hard of hearing and defensively turned my ear to him, but I was only able to mitigate so much of the damage.

An updated list of reasons to visit the rodeo:

1. Wiggle Chips

I have been forced to surrender to my inability to sleep correctly.

I have had a lot of trouble sleeping since I was, say, thirteen years old, when I would stay up late to listen to my Tupac CDs on repeat. It’s a pattern I’ve never really been able to break. I don’t think I qualify as an insomniac, as I really just wait for people to go to sleep so I can do the weird shit I feel the waking world may frown upon.

Apologies to Tupac fans everywhere. Believe me when I say that I managed to weird it up in ways you’re better off not knowing the details of.

For the past several years, as I have reluctantly grown into this state of adulthood and apparent responsibility, I have had a whole mess of reasons to be up during daylight hours. People want me to come meet their babies (with an alarming frequency), and I have to buy my own food. It’s terrible.

When I don’t have anything to do in the morning I just stay up all night masturbating and playing Quake, and life is great. When, however, I’ve gone and made plans against my better judgment, I have to correct my schedule in advance, so I’ll stay up for some 34 hours or so in preparation for whatever stupid human bullshit awaits me.

As the result of this, I wind up being awake for two days — sometimes more — at a time. I sleep four or five times a week instead of the requisite seven. It has not had what I would term a positive impact on my mental capacity.

Most would probably suggest that I just, like, go to bed every night at the same time, and wake up every morning to an alarm. Go fuck yourselves.

I have decided that the only viable solution for me is to evolve into a new sleeping pattern, akin to that of a cat, or, come to think of it, most animals which creepeth and crawleth. I’ll sleep like eighteen times a day if I have to, and just wake up whenever something interesting is going on around me.

This will work, right?

I don’t believe that semen itself is considered pornographic. If I uploaded a video to YouTube showing me poking at a puddle of semen with a pencil, that would be okay, right?

I’m also sure that it is fine and dandy to show breasts on YouTube with the nipples covered. With duct tape perhaps, or maybe post-it notes. So long as nothing is poking out, it should be all right.

So. If I were to cover a girl’s nipples in semen — thick and white, not at all transparent — I wonder if I could convince them not to delete it.

I hope my girlfriend lets me test this out.

If I was tased for groping a woman on the bus, and my hand was still on this woman’s breast, would she also be tased?

No matter how lost you get, there’s always another corner to careen around at a thousand light years per second.

Some day you’re going to wonder why you didn’t just ask for directions, and I’ll be there with my camera and a laundry list of things you could have done to have made it turn out better.

Trust me, you’ll want to see the look on your face at that moment.