Sweet merciful shitcreams!  That is literally all I can say about today.  That's it.  Shitcreams.  That's all I've got.  You may now be wondering, what's Keith's deal, what the hell is a shitcream, and what does it have to do with the people at his gradschool.  Well...I'll tell you.  Nothing.  I got your hopes up and now I'm dashing them.  We were gonna go for gelato too, and now we're not.  It's because you're stupid and your parents are german.  How does that feel?  What's that? You like the abuse?  You naughty little blog readers you!  Time to get the.....

whoa.....let's move on.  So what's on the plate today?  Is it steak?  Is it eggs?  NO.  I"M AFRAID TODAY YOU"RE GOING TO HAVE TO EAT A DICK KEITH.  GO ON, WE PUT IT IN HOLLONDAISE SAUCE.  IT"S SO JUICY AND (#*$&)#@(*$&)#@(* BORING.  FUCK.  Imagine, if you will, an entire room, full of people...who don't know how to write a critical paper.  And those that do...have to be there.  Imagine for a second, a room packed with odor like a sardine can, legs rubbing against one another like five three legged dogs in an orgy in your basement....just yelping....and falling.....and yelping.  UGH.  Imagine 'I don't deal with Amateurs' talking in the most RIDICULOUS poetry reading voice.  I'm sure everyone is very familiar with the way that sounds.  It's kind of halfway between a butler and someone strangling a dead mule.  Not the horse kind.....the drug kind.  Now imagine if this was done....to the most......ridiculously....hippie.....poem....ever.  Here's my rendition.

Everything is everyone's fault but mine.
I'm a preachy idiot.
Trees.
Hash.
Let's care about the earth.
No I mean really care.
Let's do earth in the butt cuz that's how it likes it.

That was my afternoon.  Oh and after that Jenna and I went to staples, which I realized is totally neato.  They have pens.  Like lots of em.  Like so many pens, you could build like a giant....pen...with all of them, and it would be really.....big.

Did I mention my group was awesome?  We're a fuckin posse, and we totally take it to everyone at skiball.  Well at least we do when I have skiball tournaments with the tiny hair dolls I took from all of them when they were sleeping. 

Then I fucking vomit and masturbate with it.

toodles!

Hey jerks, life at goddard is everchanging as I peel off the many layers of sweaty discontinuity and SEVER LAZINESS it has become quite apparent to me that I haven't victimized enough people here yet. So, in a format you are all very familiar with... I'm going to mock some people at the residency...
Lezza Go!

God's Gift to Hanes Briefs for Men--Ok, so I didn't know the title related elements of this particular sparker here until earlier today, so I'll get to that last. So there's this dude here; it was clear upon our first interaction, which consisted of my hugging my nutsack close to my abdomen in an attempt to protect what little genetic material I still save after learning about how to make 'the perfect smoothie,' while this gentleman talked to some other idiot out on the lawn. He wore a black t-shirt. A plain black t-shirt. In my experience there are three kinds of folks that can wear plain black t-shirts. A--The young hipster who is too jaded with being a hipster to wear band t-shirts anymore, but still caught up in using words like pomo and wearing designer sneakers that look like they've been processed by a yak corpse. B--A young professional who truly loathes, in his/her heart of hearts the entire process of dressing up. Not because they have anything intrinsically against it, but instead is the kind of lazy person who will watch an entire episode of 'big brother' or 'the surreal life' while eating nachos simply because they don't want to go through all the trouble of slicking up their hair for the 17th time in one day. And finally C, the camp that this gent belongs to...CONVICTS. No really, this guy is like two steps from eye-raping me at any given moment. He's got that rat look to him, the eating cheese while putting his dick in the warm hollow he's carved out of your cranial cavity look. And I got to thinking. You know what would be great? Getting a prison tattoo. Like an actual prison tatto. I want the virgin mary, in full regalia of course, pole dancing with Al Sharpton and a filing cabinet disguised as Bee Arthur. Oh and they all have guns for some reason. And I'd have to be all repentant. I could talk about what it's like to be on the inside and how tough life is when you don't have jesus to watch your back. Which brings me to my next point. Apparently this dude works extremely hard to make a display of himself while wearing nothing but the hanes pristine white men's briefs. Now normally, I think we'd all agree that that is PRETTY FUCKIN AWESOME. The Blizzard Briefs Bomber would be a pretty excellent name for a superhero. Hold on its movie trailer time...

Cue the pseudocreepy-dramatic music...close up on man's face...

Announcer: A convict...on the run from the law for a crime he probably commmited but I'm personally not entirely positive...(more shots of man's face grimacing, being angry) About to embark on the mission of a lifetime to redeem himself in the eyes of his fellow man.(Fadeout) Any way he can. (Watch the briefs get pulled up, man bursts out of bathroom in only briefs, clutching hands wildly like a gun)

Man: Who wants to get fuuuuuuuuuuuucked!?!?!?

Announcer: Starring, some guy in his underwear who's not entirely sure where he is.

(shot of man running wildly through halls, laughing and dancing around people waking up)

Announcer: But always sure of what must be done.

(shot of man humping wall like he's trying to knock it down)

Man: It iiiiittccchhhheeeesss!

Announcer: God's Gift to Hanes Briefs for Men stars in BLIZZARD BOMBER MAN: The endless struggle for pants.

I Don't Want to Deal with Amateurs Girl: Ok this one I have to do in first person...
Hey you, yeah you, the kid with the rag around his neck, why are you standing in my precious airspace? God knows we writers need more air than you do, after all, with all of my lofty goals, intellectual language and frenetic lifestyle of sitting on my ass and shoving pork parts into my ever-hungry gullet means I need more oxygen transferred to my blood than you do. You say excuse me? Excuse me? As if the affront of your living upon my person could be mediated through an apology? Somehow made less egregious? I consistently hold this sense of superiority over you to help me forget that my friends used to brutalize me and call me 'the repository.' I spend the majority of my days looking affected and washed out, as if I smoked more cigarettes than the entirety of the ottobar patrons in any given week. My frown is an extension of my inability to handle life's tiny pressures, like putting on my shoes, talking to people or sticking to a diet for more than sixty seconds. GODDAMN I LOVE LARD. Oh yes and being a total assbag. I'm stuck years behind the times, but I cling to an outdated fashion. I like to call it 'I spent most of my youth forcing myself to throw up into the sink at school and collecting my older brothers night emissions to put on my clothes that morning so I could tell the other girls I had bedded the prom king.' Of course now I'm older and much more sophisticated, and try and cultivate the 'I'm still hip and new-wave even though I'm in my early fifties and ogle the men in the sears catelogue on the rare occasions I'm not concentrating on how mind-numbingly ignorant I am' look. Remember I'm always 'working....' Working on keeping up my self-control so I don't go down into town and grind against a nice citizen's warm tailpipe, working on maintaining a professional demeanor while in my ugly sweatpants and sunglasses indoors, working on hiding the scars on my stomach from the numerous self-abortions I was forced to give while doing a 'case study' for a piece I was doing about the army...a piece of ass.<--Fuck this lady.

In other less belligerent news...my whole advising group is pretty awesome, and in conjunction with a few other cool cats here, as actually made for a pleasant time. I'm also pretty excited about my advisor, whom, while clearly not a nerd (who is up here?) seems like he's at least on a similar wavelength to me.

n00b out!

And so begins the first entry in what I'm going to loosely title 'The End of My Capability to Love.'  You think this is about some love?  You think it's about the nature of what I'm doing with my life?  Well it sort of is.  You know what I've realized about all of this gradschool bullshit, all of this 'hey kid you betta....'  YEAH WHATEVA...  That's right, the inevitable occurred;  I don't like writing.  It's not that I don't WANT to, I just hate it, hate it like you hate that guy in front of you in the 15 items or less line paying with the money his girlfriend gave him.  You know the guy, he doesn't even know how much money is in the wad, so he just shoves it forward, content and confident in his ignorance that his magnanimous gesture of 'here take my money' will be more than enough to compensate for the fact that HE DOESN"T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO PAY FOR THE FOOD/PRODUCT/SERVICE.  On a similar note, that is me...right now.  I have about thirty dollars to my name and it HAS to be enough to get me back down to matt's in CT or I'm flat out SHIT OUT OF LUCK.  Whoa whoa, I"m getting ahead of myself...perhaps I should describe my exploits so far on the way to gradschool.  Here goes...

It was a lazy saturday afternoon when I left.  Left is certainly the right word, I didn't depart, I didn't go, I left home, to go where?  Vermont.  Why?  BECAUSE I"M A MORON.  The drive began as all drives begin, with me chugging an entire bottle of water to stave off 'dehydration' that demon whom lurks on the edge of my reality just waiting for me to slip up so he/she/it can devour my frikkin faculties and leave me flipping a dozen times over the guardrail to land on a kindergarten playground crushing and maiming dozens of children.  Now granted, people do not get dehydrated easily...  I'm just completely paranoid of that inevitability, so much so that it consumes my entire reality.  In this minds-eye people drop every three seconds from lack of water, burning of thirst and sweating blood from every pore, their skin melding with the hideously grinning asphalt which chews them slowly, like that first orange slice of the summer.  You know the one, that slice which comes so close to getting shoved in someone's eye, but you savor anyway, just because you don't want its sweet sweet fruit juices to be wasted on the ocular region of some idiot.  Where was I, oh yeah driving.  You know what city blows?  Philadelphia.  Now granted, my friend John lives there, and I've actually been to an odd show there that was pretty good.  But on the whole (and the hole) Philly is a sack of shit.  This judgement is brought to you specifically by 2 hours stuck in completely unmoving traffic outside of the godforsaken heap of human garbage.  Get this.  There's a three lane highway.  Suddenly...one lane...for no reason.  ABSOLUTELY NONE AS FAR AS I CAN TELL.  This happens in that magical number we're all so familiar with 500 feet.  500 FEET!??!?!!?  ON A HIGHWAY!?!?!?  That is literally like making the prostitute lean into the window of your car while you're on the way home.  You have ten miles to go, but you figure:  'hell I can fit in a little sucky sucky before I get home to the wife/husband.'  HELL LET"S DO EVERYTHING LAST MINUTE.  YOU WANT TO GET OVER A BRIDGE--OH I"M SORRY WE"RE NOT DONE YET, YOU"VE GOT 30 FEET TO STOP OR JUMP THE GORGE.  (#*$&^@#(*)$& CHRIST.  So naturally, as I'm sure everyone can understand...no one let anyone else in, it became a scene of several fenderbenders.  Which brings me to another point.  APPARENTLY IN PENNSYLVANIA (FUUUUUUUUCK I HATE PA) WHEN YOU BUMP SOMEONE YOU DON"T PULL OVER ONTO THE SIDE.  NOPE.  THE WHOLE HIGHWAY IS YOUR PLAYGROUND AND YOU STAND THERE FOR HOURS DISCUSSING YOUR DINGS.  AND ANOTHER THING....DING DONGS!?!?!?  Who made that a name of a delicious snack cake?  It's phallic enough, and filled with lovely white cream, but you had to take the next step...Once I got out of PA everything went alright for a while, until I hit New York, the vacant blonde of the east coast metropoli.  Who likes New York?  It has to be....the worst...city to drive through.  It's like one giant canyon, that you drive through, whilst people toss garbage from overpasses and you are attacked by the brute squad.  In fact, I'm fairly positive that the populace of New York takes turns on the brute squad (kind of like the national guard), who's sole purpose is to try and merge into your lane when it is clear that you are RIGHT NEXT TO THEM.  YOU ARE NOT IN THEIR BLIND SPOT...THEY JUST DON"T LOOK.  OH OH OH, and once they realize that you ARE in their lane...they lean out the window with their giant gold hoop earrings, or their giant biceps covered in inane skull tattoos and they point at you.  "Hey dirty baltimore punk...you better be extremely careful who you fuck with."  "Thanks guy, I'll be sure to take your recommendation next time when I don't beep and you send me careening into the wall to flip my car over and die in a gout of fire."  SO, SEVEN HOURS LATER, I reach Matt's house.  Matt is a delight as always, and we hung out a little before both of us went to sleep.  But wait.  I had to tolerate the company of his girlfriend.  Have I ever mentioned how much I hate Katie?  How absolutely soul shearing she is in close company?  If you placed Katie in a confined environment with six puppies, three psychologists, and a highschool physics teacher for seven hours, I can guarantee when you re-entered the room you would see the three psychologists all collectively choking one another, the physics teacher hung by his own belt from the ceiling.....and the puppies.....well the puppies remain relatively untouched.  They after all, can't understand the things that come out of her mouth.  And no, you don't want anything coming out of her mouth.  You don't want anything going in either, except for a grapefruit in a tubesock.  If you can break her jaw she'll probably just starve to death......though it will take a while.  So in short, I hope someone pours finely ground glass down her nasal passage and she drowns in her own blood.  So whatever, I wake up and leave this morning, to drive the last leg up to Goddard.  You know what's HILARIOUS!?!?  Vermont has NO GASSTATIONS.  Ok that's an exaggeration, there are six gasstations in the whole state.  On any given day...three are closed.  Imagine, just IMAGINE driving on a highway that has.....NO EXITS...for miles!  And I don't mean for like 10 miles, I mean NO EXITS for upwards of FORTY FUCKING MILES.  So I'm slowly running out of gas, panicking (as I do), and listening to some doomcore (not exactly the most upbeat music ever).  Finally, like mana springing from the ground, I find a Sunoco.  But guess what, I pull into the pump...that shit is closed.  Dead closed.  The town is empty.  I see why moments later.  Bikers.  Everywhere.  Now you're probably saying to yourself, I think Keith stopped typing and is now watching Mad Max.  IF ONLY THAT WERE TRUE.  Here's the ensuing conversation...

Biker A(bald, dozens of tattoos, giant chains)--Where you goin there little man?
Me(long haired, spindly, about to sob)--Umm...Goddard College
Biker B(blonde haired hideous crone)--Ooooo A coooollllleeggeee boy.  You gonna teach us something or two?
Me(pants now fully soiled)--I'm just trying to find some gas, I'm not sure how much further it is...
Biker C(redhaired ren fest dude)--From Maryland eh?  You're a looooong way from home buddy.
Me--Yeah well I just thought I'd....*SSSCCRREEEEEEETCH*

I eventually make it to Goddard, bikers aside.  It is nearly a campground.  There are cottages instead of dorms, everything is DIRTY AND FROM THE SEVENTIES for some reason...and everyone is old....like really old.  My roomate is like 50-something and BRITISH.  *Cue odd-couple theme*  Of course, as expected, I have been DEVASTATINGLY antisocial, and have met only ooooone person so far.  But on the plus side he's cool (in his early 30's too so not tooooo old), and seems to think this is all as supremely lame as I do.  So that's good, I managed to recover a marichino cherry in my pile of ice-cream and HIPPO FECES.  Anyways, I'll try to continue to post mis-adventures and anti-hippy/writer rants while I'm up here.  It's not like I'm going to be doing anything else. 

So it started like this....


=====RedHairedQueen wrote=====
You look like the kind of guy my mom told me to steer clear of in high school-I'm old enough to not listen to my mom anymore...
=====11430=====


My mother used to have a saying...she'd say 'son of mine, if there's one piece of wisdom I can impart to you it would be, don't ever talk to ugly fat old people, they've got diseases.

But then I thought....wait...I'm not done.

RedhairedQueen huh?  I'll admit, when I first saw this picture, I thought it was one of those photos of the horrific car-wreck victims that they put up on those slasher websites for young serial killers to jerk off to.  Then I realized, this would have the opposite effect.  I think my penis actually withered and drew itself back into my body upon initial contact with said specimen, and WHAT A SPECIMEN SHE IS.  As you can see in the picture, she is CLEARLY FROM HELL.  SHE IS ROSEMARY"S BABY.  No where, in my life, have I ever seen such a depiction of what the inside of my personal purgatory would be.  Apparently, it has red hair, and sits on a couch made of rabbit droppings and discarded medical waste.  WAIT that's not a couch, that's her 'ample' bosom.  Nice renaissance dress, are you a level 12 druid (ed note, lvl 12 druids kick an enormous amount of ass in most rpg's...but let's all remember, LARP is for morons).  What's your most powerful spell?  KILL ERECTION!?!  I think I'd rather slam my head in a car door than talk to you ever for any reason.  Even if someone hit my best friend with a car, and your house was the nearest one around, I'd take my chances builing a telephone out of bark, feces and the discarded remains of a raccoon den than look at you for more than three consecutive seconds.  Just thinking about the fact you're alive gives me diarrhea.

So my friend Erik got married this past Saturday.  I'm sure you're expecting some post about how marriage this young is not a good idea and what have you....but we're not even going to touch on that.  I don't really have an opinion either way, and frankly, that's not funny.  Instead I will recant to you hte basics of the trip, as well as some anectdotes along the way. 

It was wednesday morning when I realized that I had yet to get Erik and Rachel their wedding gift.  The porno store being more than an hour away, I was forced to make a number of concessions in my buying strategy...most importantly, what stores were close to the comic shop?  Which brings me to an important point.  What the hell happened to my comic shop?  It used to be populated by the darkest denizens and dregs of the nerd world.  We had three THREE shelves of terrible 70's comic porn, and now, NOW it's all warhammer geeks talking about how big their plasma pistol is while swaggering around tables like drunken musk oxen.  Have you ever seen a warhammer nerd?  It's like smelling your grandfather's old work shoes.  You know the ones, he never got rid of them after war, they just sit in the basement, with a pile of rat and insect corpses in a three foot radius.  Now imagine that smell as it applies to all of your other senses.  Imagine a man with a goatee that looks as though it has been badly taped on to a false chin made out of whale blubber.  His hair is invariably falling out, though he does much to hide it in the way of comb overs and ridiculous hats that say things like 'wait until you see my holy avenger.'  His shirt fares little better, riddled with all kinds of nameless food stains, even from foods that you would think....don't normally stain, like peanuts.  It would literally take a sizeable amount of time spent either sitting bodily ontop of a mound of peanuts or forcibly rubbing them into your shirt to achieve this kind of effect, but clearly the act of getting the food from one's hand to one's mouth is nearly impossible, this mouth being always open and spewing condescension as if the surrounding thirty feet of airspace really wants to know why the sixth edition douche-scrambler is a better gun for its point cost than the dead puppy covered in butter ejector.  But this isn't even the biggest problem.  What is it you ask?  Well, being that the majority of my time is spent looking at people's asses, it is not hard to miss the gargantuan posterior of the warhammer geek.  In fact, I'm fairly sure that due to zoning restrictions, the geek's ass actually requires its own local government, to help handle trade transactions, as well as all travel that must pass through the geek's ass.  This being said, I had to travel through several prefectures to get to what I wanted......the rpg stuff.  Now certainly, the scummery which arises out of this profession may certainly be indicative of a far greater social disease.  BUT AT LEAST WE"RE NOT FAT.  FATTY FAT FAT MCBUTTERPANTS ESQUIRE.  THANK YOU YOUR CORPULENCE FOR ENABLING ME TO PASS THROUGH YOUR ILLUSTRIOUS ASS-COUNTY WITHOUT A PERMIT YOU HUMAN GARBAGE.  So wait, where was I, oh yeah, Erik's wedding.  I leave the comic shop, now smelling of stale potato chips and covered in a thin ooze.  I cross the street to go to the music shop, where I purchased his and her effects pedals for the couple, and promptly made my way home.  Several hours later, I reach my friend Allan's house, where we would be spending the night.  Let me just say, I think Allan is a champ; he does much for his buddies and is generally a super guy.  His house on the other hand, is the site of several nazi war atrocities.  A moat littered with the corpses of mailmen and icecream purveyors alike surrounds the house, warning all those that would enter that only hell awaits.  Now I've been to Allan's house before, and yes, I remember it being dirty.....very dirty.  BUT NOT THIS DIRTY.  Remember the Labyrinth?  Remember when the female lead gets caught in a house that looks quite a bit like her room, everything's all perfect.....and eventually it collapses into a GIANT TRASHOLE FILLED WITH NOTHING BUT TERROR AND THE LOST DREAMS OF CHILDHOOD.  ALLAN"S HOUSE IS SO MUCH WORSE.  It has that smell that often comes with old houses which equates to 'everything in this house has been wet/riddled with mold for about 30 years.'  Oh that and 'well we pretty much pee anywhere these  days, sure does save on the water bill.'  I slept on the floor.  I say sleep, because I think if I had been awake, the room would have sensed my fear and eaten me alive.  So we get up in the morning, make our way to the car, and Jeremy breaks out his ROBOTRON 5000.  This device is one of those satellite dealies that allows for a global positioning array to tell you where your car is going, and calculate a route that will get you to your destination as quickly as possible.  No matter how hard I tried to program the thing, it absolutely refused to take us to funkytown.  (Excuse the bad joke/life I'm eating a moldy bagel right now......it's ERGOTLISCIOUS)  And I got to thinking because of it.  What if we had such helpful devices for other aspects of life.  RELATIONSHIPS:  Turn left to meet the love of your life.  Pull pants down.  Grasp the legs firmly.  Move excess wool out of the way.  TRANSACTIONS WITH THE #$&)(*#@&$ ASSHOLE BEHIND THE COUNTER AT DUNKIN DONUTS Take money from customer.  Calculate change.  Refrain from coughing directly into your hand full of change.  Give change to customer.  Listen to customer when he orders donuts, do not arbitrarily place donuts within box with artistic whimsy provided to you by the blood sample you found in your girlfriend's toilet.  So, after the ROBOTRON told us to clean ourselves thoroughly, we were OFF!  The first stint of the trip was 495, which for those of you who live in a real city, is DC's attempt at being as awesome as Baltimore.  Clearly DC fails miserably.  Soon we got on route 66.  Now I'm not sure if this was the famous route 66, as I have heard that road is as long as my list of sexual offenses, but it was A route 66.  LET ME SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT.  THERE WERE ABSOLUTELY NO KICKS INVOLVED.  NOT EVEN ONE.  NOT EVEN KIX.  NO CEREAL, NO FUN, NO NOTHING.  ONE FEATURELESS ROAD FILLED WITH JERKS.  I think the infrastructure decided 'I want a road that goes through absolutely no towns, with no gas stations along giant lengths.  This way, should anyone be in trouble, they must call for help in the way of VA/OH/whatever other shitty states' natives for help.  Now we were in VA.  V-A?  VIRGINIA?  IF WE STOPPED WE WOULD HAVE BEEN DEAD!  I CAN SEE IT NOW, A HUGE PICKUP TRUCK WITH 'QUEERBUSTER' SPRAYPAINTED ON THE SIDE DRAGGING OUR BROKEN CORPSES DOWN A DIRT ROAD WITH MEATHOOKS ON CHAINS!  STOP IN VIRGINIA MY ASS.  (We later found out that the majority of our 10 hour trip was to be going through the bulk of virginia)

FLASH FORWARD

We found out, through trial and error, that apparently, in TN, you don't have to use traffic lights.  They're really more of a suggestion.  People stop at a red light momentarily, then just bust on through.  Oh and revving your engine is not a sign of masculinity.  In fact, your engine must be constantly revved at all times, because your wreckass car will fall apart if not constantly infused with a ridiculous amount of fuel.  Exhaust pipes have been replaced with septic drainage systems, which are not only like 3 times as wide, but spew out that lovely black smoke that we're so used to getting from dump trucks.  THANK YOU MR AND MRS LUXURY SEDAN FROM THE 70's IF THERE IS ANYTHING I LOVE IT'S TO SMELL YOUR FRIKKIN ASS-SMOKE WHILE WE SIT AT A LIGHT BEFORE YOU BLAZE THE FUCK THROUGH IT EVEN THOUGH IT IS RED.  Eventually we reach the house we're supposed to be staying at.  Nothing of any worth happens.  That isn't to say we didn't do anything.  You see, my friends are gamers, hardcore gamers in fact.  BUT, they like different kinds of games than I do.  They like stupid games.  One of these stupid games was played that night.  Imagine, if you had a board game, with no board, all the pieces were the same, and it wasn't even marginally fun.  Well they have a name for it.  An 'abstract strategy' game.  Abstract strategy?  WHAT!?!?  NONAPPLICABLE STRATEGY?  IMPRACTICAL STRATEGY?  BOYOBOY THAT SOUNDS LIKE A FUCKIN DELIGHTFUL TIME, TWENTY THREE SKADOOOO.  You can imagine how thrilled I was.  It was about as fun and enlightening as listening to four continuous hours of dialogue between Anakin and Padme, it felt like a four year old was forcing me to do it.  We went to sleep when our hosts came home, drunk.  Oh, and I think I've discovered something.  Guest room is really a nice way of saying, 'this is the room where my mother died while strangling a wild boar.'  I mean really, why is the guest room always the least desireable room in the house?  Isn't this pretty indicative of our society?  That the house is a private space that denies all attempt at social interaction?  This particular guest room was filled with BITING INSECTS the likes of which I can only ascribe to in biblical proportions.  It was as if Charleton Heston (the great man himself, brother to diamond j and all around swell guy---->He saved you from the apes asshole, pay some respect!) himself was biting me in my sleep.  I woke up with lumps that reminded me of they days before the herpes medication.  That day we did......something.  Which then passed to an evening of SEVERE AWKWARDNESS.  I was introduced to grandmothers.  ME.  On the plus side, there was novelty soda.  And I looove novelty soda.  We're not talkin yo' pedestrian ass flavored sodas like 'cherrycoke' or 'lemon lime with a stupid twist' we're talkin STRAWBERRIES AND MUTHAFUCKIN CREEAAAMMM and PEACH soda.  Now granted, it's not mexican soda, which sometimes....I could kill someone for.  It did do the job though.  The job of making me feel less awkward as the only person NOT GETTING DRUNK.  Then came the longest marriage tradition running, making your children feel like they're still pooping their pants into their 21st, 30th or 55th year.  It began with a clumsy rendition of GOD KNOWS WHAT.  CORPSE STOMPING?  RAPING BABY COYOTES?  On the other hand Erik's stepdad did a pretty charismatic rendition of I'm getting married in the morning...

more later....gotta work

val i Mornia 6: We should do it together.
val i Mornia 6: With only one small bathroom.
val i Mornia 6: hahahahaah
Slayngren: .....val
Slayngren: as intimate and sensual that experience would be
val i Mornia 6: I'd bloody your nose for sure.
Slayngren: i think staring at eachother's bloated faces
Slayngren: while we shat in toilets opposite to one another
Slayngren: would be......perhaps
Slayngren: the worst experience I can imagine
val i Mornia 6: No, that's the thing:
val i Mornia 6: THERE'S ONLY ONE TOILET.
val i Mornia 6: =-O
val i Mornia 6: Plus, I'm adorable when I shit.
val i Mornia 6: Not offensive in the least.
Slayngren: hahahahah
Slayngren: OH MAN YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT JUST PASSED THROUGH MY MIND
Slayngren: BUT IT IS SOOOOOOOOO OFFENSIVE
val i Mornia 6: Tell me.
Slayngren: val......alright you asked for it
val i Mornia 6: Go.
Slayngren: i'll keep it....less graphic
val i Mornia 6: WHY?
Slayngren: VAL IT GROSSES ME OUT
val i Mornia 6: BECAUSE I"M A DELICATE FEMALE?
val i Mornia 6: OOh :-(
Slayngren: ALRIGHT FINE
val i Mornia 6: Point taken.
Slayngren: WE WERE HAVING HOT DIARRHEA SEX ON THE TOILET---HUMPING WHILE YOU FUCKIN SHAT ON ME AND I SHAT IN THE TOILET
Slayngren: ARE YOU HAPPY
IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED!?!?
val i Mornia 6: One sec.
Slayngren: IS IT!??!
Slayngren: BECAUSE IT"S HILARIOUS
val i Mornia 6: I'm having a logistical problem in my visualization.
Slayngren: AND THE GROSSEST THING I CAN IMAGINE
Slayngren: alright lemme give you a visual
val i Mornia 6: Oh, am I.... reverse?
val i Mornia 6: :-\
Slayngren: i am facing forwards, you are facing me
val i Mornia 6: How can I poopy
val i Mornia 6: Ohhh.
Slayngren: so that we can KISS while we HUMP and SHIT
Slayngren: HAHAH EWWWW
val i Mornia 6: HAHAHHAAH
val i Mornia 6: YESSSSSSSs
val i Mornia 6: I bet I could make it in the toilet too.
val i Mornia 6: If you scootched way back.
val i Mornia 6: That's just cleaner.
Slayngren: oh dear lord
Slayngren: i guess you could
Slayngren: it'd take a buttload of agility
Slayngren: .......
val i Mornia 6: Excellent.
val i Mornia 6: I'm up for a challenge.
val i Mornia 6: Now the only question left is
val i Mornia 6: Rocky Road or Java Bean?
Slayngren: the road is nothing but rocky when it comes to our hot diarrhea love
Slayngren: .......
val i Mornia 6: ........
Slayngren: it....had to be said
Slayngren: i know
Slayngren: i'm speechless too
val i Mornia 6: Quite.

So I get this email today on myspace that goes as follows...
The title is 'baby I like you.....'  Immediately dubious right?  Well I figure maybe it's a friend playing a joke or something similar, it's not as if it hadn't been done in the past...  So I open up the email and it just says 'hey I thought your profile was cool, send me an IM sometime.'  Innocuous right?  BUT WAIT, the aim name is wet20monika.  So immediately I'm like.....oh dear god it's some kind of virus or something I'm not going to deal with it.  Then Val basically told me to take the chance.  So I do.  Here is the resulting conversation...

Slayngren:  Hey, this is keith, you sent me a really cryptic message on myspace?
wet20monika:  Who is this?
Slayngren:  Some guy from myspace, I dunno you're the one that messaged me
wet20monika:  Oh hi babe, what's up?
Slayngren:  Do I know you in what is often referred to as 'real life?'
wet20monika:  Where are you from?  (She completely ignores the question....)
Slayngren:  Baltimore, though right now I'm down in southern md for work
wet20monika:  hey i'm about to hop on my cam with jenny, you should come see us, it's going to be fuuuun <3
Slayngren:  Oh.  you're one of those.  no thanks there hoss.
wet20monika:  I can show u how to watch for free if u promise not to tell anyone else how to do it???PLEASE
Slayngren:  negative and negative
Slayngren:  what if i had been like a 12 year old and shit?
Slayngren:  i'm all for free expression, but be sure you get your shit together a bit better for this sort of thing
wet20monika:  Well since its the law that u gotta be 18, u have to sign up with a credit card.. BUT as long as u cancel within 24 hours u dont get billed at all, PLEASE DON'T tell anyone I told you that, otherwise EVERYONE would do that,,,, freewebcamangels.com/monicabedroomcam/ so just sign up then cancel! Lemme know what name u use to sign up with so I know i'ts you!
Slayngren:  what makes you so sure that i'd even want to watch you? The whole webcam business, especially in this case, given that it is an outright business, seems very strange and in some cases outright demeaning; even a furthering of our culture's continued objectification of women
wet20monika:  Please dont mention anything about that in the chatroom once u get in ok?
Slayngren:  so you ARE in fact a robot aren't you
Slayngren:  and this is some kind of GIANT scam
Slayngren:  in which you steal my credit card #
Slayngren:  well sista, I don't HAVE a credit card
wet20monika:  OH SHIT.. k I'm late to start my show, I gotta get off aim...I'll see ya inside my chatroom babe.. remember not to mention how I showed u how to watch for free... use your aim name to sign in so i know it's you.. just cancel within 24 hours and u don't get billed babe... bring your lube lol
Slayngren:  .....idiot

So my friend Miranda has all these ideas for a clothing design company and whatnot, even a bunch of prototypes and all kinds of stuff, all of which are very witty for the elite jerks of today. I have decided after careful thought of at least three to five minutes that I too should have a clothing line. Here are some basic ideas. Most of these in the typical punk-rockish styling will be white lettering on black, or in some cases something awesome like yellow...we'll figure that out along the way. Here are some slogans...

1. NARC (I think this one explains itself)
2. This is Not to be Looked at
3. If you were me you'd be awesome by now
4. Can I shit in your mouth?

crap my boss is coming more later...and by later I mean never

It has come to my attention that there has, in recent times, been an increasing interest in the language of nerds, particularly those of my repugnant cousins, the computer nerd. Being that we cannot allow these pale-faced degenerates to completely beat us in what I deem to be the great 'vocabulary arms race' of the 21st century, here is a quick compiling of everything I can think of off the top of my head...hopefully I'll have one for each letter of the alphabet...

Assbag-noun-1. a large sack, satchel, or soft carrying case filled with an appropriate amount of fecal matter; noun-2. an individual whom attends to all the necessary habits of being an assbag (i.e. carrying poo); verb-3. to place, sternly though not with malice a large pouch behind a person, so as to catch the remnants of their last meal

Bees' knees, the-noun-1. a state of being which has attained the highest levels of genteel nerdly perfection

clearly-adverb-1. evidently, of course, unequivocably, without possibility for mistake on the principle that it was said by a nerd

doobie-noun-1. an individual, typically female, whom has engaged in sexual/pseudosexual activities with several members of the same clique (see also, town bike), and thus, has been 'passed'

more later...i'm at work right now.