| What did I do today? |
[Jan. 12th, 2007|03:45 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  full | ] |
I ate an entire orange. For science.
Skin and all. |
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| Fuck coughing jesus god |
[Jan. 4th, 2007|03:11 am] |
Okay so about two weeks ago I crashed a party and people were handing round this giant bag of white powder. Now, I'm not gonna lie to you, I tried some of it. I made sure to dip my index finger in, give it the old stink eye before giving it a lick, just like the honest to god coke dealers do in bad movies. Anyway, shit was icing sugar. Maybe it was the type of cocaine they had in the Starsky & Hutch movie?
Anyway, I railed a whole bunch of it and as it turns out it was icing sugar. Now I've been sniffing and getting bloody noses for like a week. I hate waking up and my nice white linens look like I've been spooning OJ's wife.
Also what the fuck is with me referencing bad movies lately? I have to leave this apartment more often. |
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| Thoughts for a New Year |
[Jan. 3rd, 2007|01:19 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  nauseated | ] |
I was on the shitter about an hour ago and it dawned on me that I really should have my own band. I was thinking "Midnight Pasta", which is why I was using the facilities in the first place. Though it sounds kindof like "Mystic Pizza" and I hear Julia Roberts' legal underlings go around suing pizza places that have names even remotely sounding like that.
Now an internationally known band using a name that sounds like her shitty 80s movie? She'd use all the muscles in those huge fucking lips of hers to suck every drop of blood out of my cash-rich body.
Julia Roberts ruins god damn fucking everything. God damn bitch.
So yeah, my New Year's resolution is to make a band, but honestly I've had so much to drink I wouldn't remember it anyway. And I don't read my old Livejournal entries, it's bad juju. |
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| Trouble On My Mind |
[Apr. 25th, 2006|03:03 am] |
I'm not a black out drunk, but last night was pretty huge. You know how sometimes you just lose all your self-consciousness, completely unaware as you go about your mundane, daily routine? I try not to do that so often. My first step in the morning, after the french press, shower and green tea refreshment combo is SELF-AWARENESS. I just bring myself back to reality so I can go about my nasty business (Not in a dirty way, but writing is nasty business).
Anyway, I got so bent out of shape last night my self-awareness went right out the window until the moment where I realised it was 8am and I found myself gnawing on a small palm tree, while a crowd of onlookers chanted "FRED!"
Some people high fived and started talking about what an awesome and crazy dude Fred was. Some girls hugged me round my waist while I chewed away, my eyes darting round at a fierce pace, wondering how the fuck I can get out of this situation without the mob turning on me.
Shit, it's almost 3pm now and I was meant to be at the comic store to check out the new releases. Yeah, self-awareness, excellent. Don't drink peppermint schnapps and chew on trees. This is the moral of the story. So Sayeth Fred.
I am Fred. I am Ahab. |
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| PSYCHED! |
[Apr. 15th, 2006|04:19 am] |
I am so fucking psyched right now. You should all try this, or don't because I don't want to get sued when it blows your fucking mind. Ever seen that on an autopsy report?
Time of death: 4:00am
Cause of death: Blown mind (may be the work of Action Datsun)
Anyway, peep this as hard as you can:
Grab a can of coke and drink half the can as quick as you can. Only drink it out of the can though. No bottles (as awesome as they are) and no pouring it into a glass. No ice either. Though you should probably have the coke as cold as humanly possible before you try this. Anyway, after you have had half to drink, just pour some rum into the can. Right into the fuckin can! Maybe some Captain Morgan's Spiced Dark? Hell, if you are extra ghetto, steal some bad brown liquor from your room mate (just like I did), one that has had the label torn off in a fit of anger directed at whoever created the foul substance. I have absolutely no idea what I'm drinking right now. I hope it isn't Biff's coffee piss (only coffee piss could make urine this dark).
Then put your hand over the can and give it a shake to mix it up all good. I say this for your benefit, cause I personally pour my liquors in first so I can give them a good long taste. Though that is generally only applicable when creating mixed drinks with good liquor, cause you want to taste that liquor. I personally love the taste of any liquor.
This is a serious work drink, I am working right now. I am writing the Great American Comicbook and it is about an autistic man obsessed with cheese and he road trips all over America looking for that perfect cheese. I'm a genius. Say it with me.
Jack is a genius. |
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| I never finished my story |
[Apr. 12th, 2006|03:05 am] |
Yeah, I realise this. I realise many things. I realise that I am tired right now. I realise that it is 3 in the morning. I realise that I'm not tired because it is 3 in the morning because I woke up at 4pm and have not been up to requisite 16 hours to be ready for bed. I realise that I woke up at 4pm because I was drinking single malts the entire night and throwing empty (and sometimes full) bottles of Budweiser at the road. I realise that these were not my Budweisers, but I did it anyway.
Why?
Because I realise that I am awesome. |
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| Screaming Penis (Part 1) |
[Mar. 3rd, 2006|05:36 am] |
| [ | music |
| | parliament - p. funk (wants to get funked) | ] |
Crawled out of bed at the crack of noon to the merry tune of my cell phone ringing. It was Jimmy, a man I hadn't seen in quite sometime, letting me know that he is back in town with his new band for a few days and I should come home. I didn't know Jimmy had left town, or that he had a new band, but I took on a knowing tone, just straight up lying to him about how it was great to have him back, having no clue he had ever left. Either way, Jimmy always knew how to rock and I'm in that sort of mood. I donned my usual garb, but picked out some special old torn up grey jeans. They got a new tear sometime in the late 90s and looked fairly unacceptable, as said tear was directly on the crotch. How I got that tear is a story for another day. Usually I'd just ignore it but I had no clean boxers therefore I had to attend this concert ninja style and I figure my enjoyment would be hampered somewhat if my cock and balls were just hanging out to dry for all to see.
Biff was out so I went through all his shit and stole a little travel sewing kit. Bastard owes me so much money for beer that I can take anything of his that I want, whether I need it or just want to smash it in front of him. I love crushing that fuckhead's spirit.
God, that sounded a little mean even for me...
Anyway, I started to sew up the giant crotch hole in my jeans, having never done anything of the sort before. I figure attempting and failing to sew up such a hole is much more punk rock than just having a hole there, right? Right!? Affirm my punk rock cred right now god damn it. After doing up my hair and shit I realise I look fucking badass and it is time to stomp some heads. Show those kids how the real rockers did things back in the 90s.
I can almost hear some of you sniggering about me being a rocker from way back so I'm going to prove how hard I rock. I rock so hard I'm taking the BUS to the rock show. Jack gonna mosh in his seat just like he did back in the day.
First thing I noticed when I hopped on the bus was that it is far more expensive, it took me a few minutes to get over this and find my enthusiasm for rock'n'roll again. It was touch and go for awhile there, I almost got off the bus at the next stop and just ate a whole lot of fast food. Despite what you may have heard, fast food is not rock'n'roll unless you are drunk. And it is bad form to show up to the rock show already hammered, so no such thing tonight!
Just as I was getting back in the mood for some balls out rockin' that I see some dumb white kid all decked out in new school hip hop fashion, which is like oldschool hip hop fashion except they look even dumber and can't find any irony in wearing shit that has been labeled as ridiculous at least twice in the past decade. But a decade ago those little bastards probably couldn't find their own dick if they were given a map. Too busy rough housing on Sesame St and whatnot, straight up nodding their head real cool-like to that "ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE, SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN, ELEVEN TWELVE" tune. You know the one, by the Scissor Sisters.
The thing that really got me about the kid was the ball cap he was wearing. Ball caps have gone through all sorts of fashions, for awhile it was wearing them backwards and putting your fringe through the little hole where the adjustable strap thing is. Then it was tilting them to the side. Then came a really weird period just after grunge had taken a shotgun blast to the head, where some kids didn't realise flannel and ripped jeans were still cool, and just went the other way. It wasn't even hip hop. They'd bend the peak of the cap real hard so like it was bent down in a total arch and then gingerly place the cap atop their head, just barely. So barely that that so much as an ant farting could blow it off and down the street. The end result was looking like a giant peanut when the hat is on and a gigantic douche when it is off, as you are chasing your Charlotte Hornets (Go Alonzo!) cap down the street. Then flexifit caps came along and backwards cap wearing came back, for the most part that was pretty normal.
The new trend is even MORE ridiculous than the giant peanut thing, leaving the sticker of authenticity on the cap. A big gold sticker that you are meant to tear off when you buy it. Looks fucking ridiculous. But its just a logical extension of that newish trend of crispiness. You want your white shoes to the point where if you are walking down the street they can reflect sunlight and blind oncoming traffic. That white t-shirt you're wearing needs to get bleached and starched to shit every day by your poor mother. White shoes aren't quite my thing, the kicks the kids wear are generally the same style as the ones I wore in the early 90s, the Run DMC adidas type thing, but man I had some SICK yellow and black Reebok pumps back in the day that would send these kids wild.
Then I noticed that the guy sitting behind me on the bus was licking the back of my seat and whenever the bus stopped, he would make a PSSSSHT noise that matched the sound of the bus breaking.
...
Damn, I talked about hats a lot tonight. I'll tell you about the rock show later, I need rest. I also ain't proof reading this. All errors are now officially intentional and are classified as "art". Suck it, Internet Literature Police. |
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| I'm a dick? |
[Feb. 10th, 2006|04:20 am] |
| [ | music |
| | sepultura - roots bloody roots | ] |
Yeah, yeah. I promised something I didn't deliver. I'd care, but I'm drunk and even when I'm sober, I'd just barely care. What have you done for me lately, readers? Really, come now, say what you've done for me lately? Did you pay my phone bill? No, my parents paid my phone bill and I don't even like them.
So fuck alla you.
...
It's definitely been that kind of day, started on the single malts a bit early and ended up rolling down one of the tallest inactive volcanoes in the city. My head is all measures of messed up from knocking against rocks and shit on the way down. At the time it was hilarious. However, now is not "the time". If you so much as fucking chuckle I will kill you dead.
I think I need to take a few days off the liquor and 90s metal. Wait. Jack Datsun does not think. Jack Datsun knows.
I'm on sabbatical for a few, then maybe I'll tell you the previously unspeakable truths that I offered to espouse here. Maybe.
Fuck all of you. |
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| I am so ridiculously crunk |
[Feb. 7th, 2006|05:59 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | fettered | ] |
| [ | music |
| | fantomas - twin peaks: fire walk with me (cover) | ] |
I say crunk because I think it is the nth degree of drunk. Some trace its beginnings to an utterance on Conan O'Brien's show by Ice T. On the subject of Ice T: Oh Law and Order: Special Victim Unit, your sweet utterances of "the corpse is missing its uterus" gently serenade me to slumber each and every eve... Fuck Law and Order, the television show and otherwise.
Other definitions of crunk include being crazy drunk. As you take the two words, subtract the 'azy' and 'dr' from them respectively and combine them like its Voltron or some such shit. Semi-anonymous whispering has also indicated being drunk on "the chronic", otherwise known as marijuana to those of us with class. I agree with none of these. Because to use the word crunk in the first place, you have to be so stupidly intoxicated that you would say a word such as crunk. It is just being dumb drunk, the point where you can't feel your face. It feels good. Let us never speak of it again.
Now I am going to go blast my liver with Stella Artois, I'll see you all tomorrow as I have more to say. My tongue has been held by forces beyond my control and soon this oppressive grasp will be released. Oh, how the children will rejoice. Sleep tight. |
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| Kwanzaa Is All Up In This Bitch |
[Jan. 8th, 2006|03:59 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | raspy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | betty davis - walking up the road | ] |
A number of people have asked me why I haven't updated my journal over the past month. Let it be said that the holiday season over December and early January is a very stressful time for me, as it generally involves issues such as "family" and "gifts". Let it also be said that I hate you all and owe you nothing, whereas you owe me nothing but praise. I do not hear praise.
Wait, could that faint sound I hear dancing through the trees be the praise that has eluded me my entire career?
No... No, it is not. It is a drunk man flailing about in the street, screaming "Auld Lang Syne". |
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| Fuck Penguins |
[Dec. 7th, 2005|02:34 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | flavoursome | ] |
| [ | music |
| | dillinja - thugged out bitch | ] |
I didn't think I'd be updating this site as much as I already have, rest assured I'll neglect it for the next couple of weeks as I am taking sabbatical shortly. It is presently two thirty in the morning and I just wrote a scene for The Loneliest Penguin 2: Lonely Once More where a penguin cries while masturbating. I don't think Vinny will draw this and really, it is probably for the best. For comedic effect I may slip him a bottle of cough syrup before he reads the script and "let the good times roll", as it were. See what Chuck thinks of that, violent blood red ink drawings of penguins jerking off everywhere, cursing their own existence.
I've received some e-mails (keep them coming, by the way) regarding what the original end to the Loneliest Penguin entailed. I swore I'd never reveal this, as the finished product was thoroughly tainted by the editorial and "image retouching" departments. It was rather like the end of Clerks, where test audiences believed that the scene where Dante got capped in a failed robbery was rather pointless. Except the penguin capped the girl he was stalking, killed himself, they then met up in the afterlife. Penguin afterlife is purgatory, just so you know. Every minute at least ten or so penguins die, or at least that is what the Discovery Channel insists upon (I do not trust it, do you?). Every minute a parallel afterlife of nothingness is created, where those ten penguins that died that minute will be forced to live together forever. This afterlife is also characterised by an odd sinking feeling, as if you are constantly descending into quicksand at the rate of an centimetre every second.
Lonely penguin, the girl he killed and about eight crack addicted penguins killed in a lower SoHo house fire are forced to be "roomies" in hell's waiting room. It was a sitcom gone horribly wrong, or right depending on your penchant for car crashes. In the text-only epilogue, I state that within a few years of terrifying orgies and card games played using feathers forcefully plucked from their own bodies, they all ran off screaming in different directions, running and falling for the rest of eternity. They occasionally attempted suicide by punching themselves in the face repeatedly.
I need a drink. And no, I'm not proof reading this. Fuck you right to hell. |
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| The Pains of Fine Literature |
[Dec. 6th, 2005|07:01 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | incorrigible | ] |
| [ | music |
| | bob dylan - mr. tambourine man | ] |
So some scarlet woman has been loitering outside my apartment for about a half hour, babbling away on her cellphone on issues ranging from little substance to absolutely none and she has the gaul to be offended when I simply ask her to shut the fuck up. I asked the bitch to step down from her podium for a moment and tell me what the problem was, as we can discuss these things like adults despite our polarising genders and she managed to muster an even greater amount of gaul to say that I was rude.
Me?! Rude!?
I was taken aback. She was the one sitting outside my window nattering away about the colour of her new Hitler-mobile, the eyesore known as the modern VW Beetle, and I made a cordial request for her to stop. She apparently took issue with the expletive, which is the mark of ill-conceived political correctness in this country. You can ship Ahmed the Cab Driver off to Guantanamo Bay and flush his bible down a toilet, but you can't refer to coitus in front of women and children. The word fuck carries no weight now anyway! In this day and age it is merely a way to express the gravity of a situation. I told her to move out of the PC stone age before I slammed the window shut and tried to get back to work on the second issue of this damn penguin book that Chuck has solicited. I mean, how is one supposed to write a sequel to a book called The Loneliest Penguin? In the first one, the penguin starts lonely and by the end he isn't lonely anymore. This is the grand sum of the characters journey.
What are we going to do? Pull a "Bourne Supremacy" and kill his soul mate in the first few pages just so he can be lonely once again? Or perhaps a homage to James Bond or Indiana Jones, where it seems between each successive film their true love has magically disappeared into the ether, so they may go through the motions of an identical mundane courtship with yet another pretty plastic face. James Bond is of course more guilty of this than Indy, as in the third Indy flick his love interest turned out to be a Hitler lover. Which brings me back to the Hitler lover flinging obscenities at my window.
I just have to keep telling myself that this sort of hardship builds character. Look at Ernest Hemingway, for example. He was in two plane crashes, a bush fire, got hit by a car and then had his house stolen by Fidel Castro.
But I'll be damn skippy if he had to deal with some hussy shouting at the top of her lungs about a Volkswagen with a Hello Kitty motif. |
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