There you have it. Wiggerydoo. Hi Google.

To offer a little backstory: I live in a little two story house. This is it:

The upstairs is a converted attic so I do have the benefit of a shit ton of insulation so I don’t have to listen to it every fucking time it goes off. However, I travel downstairs. Often. Either to handle a few bodily functions (read: I POOP) or to ingest some kind of sustenance or perhaps even to venture outside in order to terrify and annoy society with my meaningless ramblings. Whenever one of the urges strikes, I’m greeted with the following.

YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP

…For no less than 6 minutes. Combine this with an incessant jumping and clumsy scattering about on hardwood floors, this tiny and extremely annoying dog poses a rather large threat in that if I accidentally were to step on it, I am immediately blamed by its owner (which is an entirely different story in itself.)

If that weren’t enough, this thing pisses and shits in my pantry. Yeah. The place where I keep various foods and cooking ingredients (or I did, rather) also happens to be the very place that this annoying mutt relieves itself. In my fucking pantry. I had grand dreams of turning the kitchen in this neat house that I live in into a place where I could actually get around to cooking myself and my roommates the meals that we all very much deserve is now the bathroom for a 2 pound pile of noisy flesh and fur.

By the way, mentioning to its owner that perhaps since he now lives in a house with a backyard that maybe he should actually start taking his dog outside to piss is also a wild insult and incites large arguments. Again, another story.

The entire reason this comes about is because as I venture downstairs to urinate and perhaps have a glass of water, the dog — which sleeps in the same room as its owner — starts barking incessantly. Since I can’t see the fucking thing dart around under my feet, I trip over it and fall. I’m quite sure that the owner got angry at the loud “YELP” noise that the dog made and chose that moment to emit something which I think sounded like “BLARGHGHGLH!”

I then quietly whispered wishes of death into the little dog’s ears. Am I a bad person?

Don’t even try to argue it. Whatever you say is wrong.

By adding chocolate and vaguely chocolate-flavored marshmallows together General Mills stumbled upon the formula to immortality, not to mention the cure for cancer and the way to end all wars ever. If you’re feeling even more dangerous you could perhaps scoop yourself some chocolate ice cream and sprinkle some Count Chocula on top to make what I lovingly call a “Choculadae” – not particularly original, I know.

And I wonder why I’m fat.

this motherfucker means business

This afternoon I received a package from my girlfriend. Contained in this package was a scarf (I know, I know, awwww) and a box of the cereal in question. After having several Polaroids taken with me and both objects, I hungrily opened the box and poured myself a bowl. It was delicious. Like a chocolatey-marshmallowey orgasm being shot down my throat, except not as explosive or sticky or as question-raising. I did however swallow, which I guess makes me a good girl.

The one unfortunate downside to my most recent encounter with Count Chocula is that over the years they’ve dumbed the ingredients down. Last time I had it, it was still made with sugar and not some 18-letter replacement designed to keep your heart pumping and your kidneys from failing after you eat three boxes of it. Back in the 80s and early 90s this shit was so delicious that it could easily be traded for weapons or drugs on the black market. If I had a time machine 1987 likely would be my first target if only to obtain a box of it and poke myself in the soft spot to see if I come out as fucked up 20 years later.

I’m so glad they’re thinking of my health. Really. I am.

Oh, and by the way, fuck Lucky Charms.

Well, nearly 4 years ago (in fact, in 3 days it will be exactly 4 years old) I started this disaster with a simple goal. 4 years ago I worked for a wonderful little store in Grand Rapids called Grand Professional Computers as a sales associate/technical support guy/manager/superhero. (Note how each of those titles scales in how it scratches my ego—this is important.)

The idea being that my friend Steve and I could ramble about the current state of technology and why the shit sucks. Then it became more me yelling about the current state of technology. Then it devolved further to become “things that annoy me” which included anything between seasons and Jews. Then I started feeling feelings and talking about them. Now we’re here.

I have several times attempted to bury this and start over, but the reality is very simple: I can’t. Not only can I not, but it hit me today like a ton of bricks—I don’t want to. Some of this crap I think is pretty funny. Other people have deemed it hilarious. The readerbase has changed over the years and the shit that I write about tends to vary but all in all I can’t seem to bring myself to axe the past here.

I guess we can count this as me starting again.

I moved this over to my unused domain in order to sound, I don’t know, impressive? It really isn’t I guess, but maybe I can sucker some poor idiots into reading some of the older articles and spreading it along or something.

A few upcoming topics:
– Stalking my gay roommate as he sneaks out to have sex with someone!
– Running a business and hiding this from my customers!
– Hilarious porn!
– An uncanny ability to annoy entire crowds of people in small restaurants!
– My inability to come up with interesting things to talk about!
– More exclamation points!!!!

Look, fuckers, not everything is a winner here. Read things like this thing about Twilight or dirty things I’d do to Jared from Subway or that a season can be used as an abortion joke.

I had a fan because of the last one! Honest. I took like 4 NyQuil, so I’m going to conclude this by saying hold onto your hats kids, I’ll write more stupid shit soon.

This is the part where I quietly admit that no one cares and that fatty (THAT’S ME I CALL MYSELF FATTY SOMETIMES OKAY) should shut his face.

Don’t ask me why it’s titled this, it’s the first word I could think of.

I’m going to sit here and empty my brain of things because right now it’s full of them. Most of it will not make sense and I’m quite sure that when I find this months later I will mock myself repeatedly for doing it. Quite frankly, I do not care.

Just so everyone understands how this is working right now: I’m writing with my eyes shut. It’s the closest thing I can do to removing all distractions. I’m a fucking ADD kid, I really am. I see something shiny or blue or blinking or curious and I will click on it and explore for hours on end while absolutely forgetting what I was here to do. This process becomes absolutely tiresome after awhile and I wind up yeling at myself for 20 minutes as if I were some kind of boss and I was also the employee. That sentence made little sense. I know.

I took a few minutes to open my eyes. What I saw was pretty dull. The door’s open because there’s no air conditioning in the tiny bedroom that I happen to live in, so I have to stick multiple fans in my door. It’s an annoying loss of privacy. Not that it matters much, i figure that anyone who happens to see me in this state will suffer far more than I will. I’m not the type to get embarrassed easily.

I just had a thought: I talk about myself a lot. I was going to go on a tirade on how annoying that is but then I remembered: this is my fucking website, I’m supposed to talk about myself. I mean yeah, I can ramble on about random technology I find, but I established a different website for that that’s even less read than this one is.

Talking about myself is pretty much all I do here. I do this thing where I flipflop between “lol angry” and “I’m going to get all weird and introspective.”

The door handle just fell off the bathroom door. That’s just wonderful.

I’m not about to prattle on about how I’m “oh so interesting and deep” because I happen to get introspective. I’m not. I’m the farthest thing from a truly interesting person. I figure interesting people are people who’ve climbed a mountain or killed a buffalo with their bare hands or something. What the fuck do I have to talk about? The fact that I stubbed my toe while avoiding Daisy? I like a girl? I ate a hamburger today that almost made me vomit uncontrollably? I find rape jokes funny?

Wait, I’ve said that twice in a week. I need to not do that.

Subtlety is key and I suck at it. Don’t ask me why I said that line. I haven’t the foggiest clue.

Now here’s a big question: do I bother publishing this? Do I bother explaining why I wrote this complete and utter mess? Hell, I’m not nearly satisfied, I’m not done emptying my head. The problem is if I sat around and -truly- tried to empty my head I’d be sitting here all night. I’d look like a fat zombie from 28 Days Later, except without the annoying British accent and broken buck-teeth.

Yeah, I threw in a zombie reference. It was unwarranted and didn’t flow with the rest of the sentence. It was also about as funny as one of the rape jokes I find humorous.

I’m going to hit ‘publish’ now.

I found a blurb I wrote in like the 9th grade. It was a “rant” about ranting. Or more specifically, these little things I write to this day that have generally no point and usually end with me insulting any various racial or social group that I don’t happen to like at that particular moment (watch out blacks and gays!)

It makes me so angry that I actually want to find a Delorean and punch myself in the face. Hard. With brass knuckles. I was so full of myself! Seriously, when I was 14 fucking years old or however I was, I thought I knew everything and my shit didn’t stink. Turns out it smelled like death and I didn’t know my ass from a hole in the ground.

Let’s read.

Ranting is a form of writing that many do not bother to consider.

What the fuck does that even mean? A form of writing that who doesn’t bother to what? Seriously faggot make sense.

Many believe that it’s totally lacking substance or form. There’s a thing behind rants, though, that seems to go beyond writing essays, or papers: you’re free to say whatever you want, at any time. I can’t be censored – I write for myself. The only ones who can censor what I say are those who read what I say, and simply decide for themselves what they want, or do not want to hear. Other than that, it’s really rather free.

Oh holy fuck—you self-righteous fat sack of crap. “I can’t be censored” – sure you can, someone can dislike what you say and stuff their fist into your jaw. Not only are you then censored but bleeding from the mouth and crying like a pussy. I don’t know where you were for the past 20 years but “being able to say what you want” really means “being able to say what you want as long as nobody’s offended to a reasonable degree.” Asshole.

But there’s more than just blabbing down totally pointless stuff onto a peice of paper. There is an underlying substance to rants – a substance that takes an avid reader to decipher. For, beneath under all the pointless rambling, there is a train of thought, a train of will, even.

An avid reader. An avid reader has to decipher what the fuck you’re saying? NO, STUPID, THE AVID READER WOULD MOCK YOU FOR THIS DRIVEL. You’re not deep for writing some indecipherable bullshit; you’re incapable of writing something that anyone can understand without cocking their head, then immediately cocking a pistol and blowing half their skull off!

A peice of the person is put down onto that sheet of paper – part of their mind, their spirit. It’s not simply a bunch of rambling, but it is an assortment of words and odd thought, straight from that person’s mind. It shows the world what the writer is thinking, or how it looks upon the world… or simply the chain of events that person experienced in that day.

So you’re describing LiveJournal and aren’t able to spell “piece.” Yep.

Take this certain rant, for example. This is my chain of thought, right now, as I write. I became bored by simply listening to my extensive music collection, and decided that I needed to write.

Your extensive music collection, huh? You were BORED by your extensive amount of music? Any other status symbols you’d like to throw in there? You had a $50 in your pocket, the rims of your car that you couldn’t drive were made of gold?

This peice of paper is yet another part of me – another part of my mind. As you sit here and read, just comtemplate that fact for a minute. You’re holding a peice of a person’s mind. The one object that propels a human to do the things he or she does, or live the way he or she lives. You hold a peice of the control center of a human… perhaps, even, a fundamental part of that center.

SPELL PIECE RIGHT YOU DIPSHIT. I can’t believe I actually spit this drivel out, I really can’t. “You hold a ‘peice’ of the control center of a human” – yeah, we fucking figured that out when you said they’re holding their mind. You’re so arrogant that you actually felt the need to dumb down an already bad analogy. I cannot believe I was you. If I could perform a post-birth abortion in the past, you’d be it. Yes, I realize the horrible paradox here, but I’m hoping that the whole “alternate timeline” theory holds and I actually -can- go kill myself in the past.

Rants can take any shape or form that the writer may aspire it to. This particular rant, in fact, was meant to be partially enlightening, and partially educational. The simple fact that there are no constraining rules to a rant gives both the reader and the writer many freedoms. You could take this rant as an educational paper, or it could simply be just something stupid you bothered to glance at. It, quite simply, does not matter

There are no words to describe how viscerally infuriating this finale is. I actually had the gall to say that the complete and utter bullshit I spewed out was supposed to be EDUCATIONAL. Who would be educated by that, monkeys? Retards? Senior citizens?

There you have it. Proof that, while I still think I’m an ego-maniac douchebag who is full of himself, life kicked me in the balls and made me at least SOMEWHAT humble. If that isn’t enough at least at this point I can make rape jokes and spell piece right.

Wait, that should be enough. Fuck you if you don’t like it. Go find a Garfield comic and diddle yourself in the bathroom.

Wait, hold on.

I said a while back that I’m only funny when I’m miserable. I don’t think I really maintain that anymore. I do come off like a fucking woman, though, in that I have little moods. When I’m miserable my humor is dark and kind of creepy, where if I’m in a generally good mood my humor is fun and fluffy like your mother when—okay, I won’t make a your mom joke.

Anyway, two quick things:

1.)I bought a business. Holy fuck.

2.)I’m being told that I’m bubbly. As in I’m in a bubbly good mood. Cough.

There. That’s your update.

Just kidding. I actually have more…

…or I thought I had something to write about here but it was completely shot down by my roommate’s desire to play Ace of Base. Yeah.

Ace of Base. Yeah. I’m done now. I’ll write something funnier later. I don’t know.

There used to be a lot more traffic coming to this dusty old blog. However I’m guessing that my years of neglect turned this once regularly read pile of crap into an unread pile of crap.

Okay, look, the transformation isn’t AMAZING, but I still find some mild cause for concern.

So here I am writing once again about things that annoy me. You’d think that after a few years I’d cut the shit and actually do something legitimate, however I always seem to loop right the fuck back around here. I tried starting Technobang but it hasn’t been updated since I pulled this shitdick 20 year old Mac out of some dude’s basement and splooged over its awesomeness. Guess where it is now, a mere month later? On my dining room table next to a charcoal grill, various items from my old apartment, and a pair of dirty socks that either has semen or foot-sweat lining the inside of it. I might also add that next to the table is a pad where the dog pisses and shits—usually there’s a bright yellow stain covering it.

I guess that sums up where it stands on my priority list.

By the way, the fruit of my Chinese child labor has amazing HD quality, all things considered.

This is entirely out of context, but if you saw revision one of this, you’ll understand.

I also calculated the number of hours I worked last week at 102. 102. ONE HUNDRED AND TWO FUCKING HOURS OF MY LIFE LAST WEEK WAS DEVOTED TO WORK. Guess how much I get paid for it? Well, so far dick. Mostly because I’m spending so much time working that I didn’t have time to do my payroll until four days after it was due—although even then, it turns out the money allocated for my payroll was spent. You’d think that with the work of 4 people shifted on my shoulders that some responsibilities like payroll would be shifted off my shoulders to, you know, the bloodsucking bookkeeper that struggles so hard to keep me from hiring someone so he can stay on the payroll and earn extra bucks, though he claims he “doesn’t get paid.” Long story short, I bust my ass, but for some reason all I get to hear about are complaints that I can’t provide the same level of customer service that we could when we had 4 people doing the work.

That’s right. One person can’t provide the same service as multiple people. Just let that statement sink in and get back to me.

So I’m single (don’t even get me started, women are fucking cunts still—ALL of them) and my job sucks. It’s been that way for nearly 6 months now. Welcome to 2009, rabid-duck, you’ll be hearing more of the feminine bitchy whining that everyone’s grown to love alllll over again.

Also, I realize that it’s almost May and I’m welcoming people to 2009. I’m fashionably late, fucking blow me.

EDIT: I mistread the title as “sperm count” and laughed for ten minutes. I’m a fuckhead, I know. I know…

Every time I try to watch TV (well, live TV. I have a TiVo HD, fuck all of you non-TiVo pussbags) I am forced to suffer through yet another iPhone commercial once again touting their “app for everything” concept. Because in this hectic life we really need an app to remember where you parked, or to find out how many calories are in the food you’re eating (you CAN read nutritional facts, right?) or to tell you where you can drop a shit because you’re incapable of finding a public restroom.

You know, they say there’s almost an app for everything…

…But when you work up enough courage to tell your parents that your dumbass boyfriend fucked you doggy style and knocked you up and they tell you that you’re incapable of raising a child, abort it, is there an app for that? Can your iPhone abort your baby?

…When you plow into a family of six driving a minivan while you were trying to text someone a hilarious story on your iPhone, you crawl out of your flipped Honda hybrid and see their broken, flaming bodies—is there an app for that?

…When you’re walking down a back alley and you see a suspicious looking dark-colored fellow so you choose to walk the other way, only to find that another has cut you off, they advance on you with that devilish look in their eye as if to say “I’m going to plow your vagina like my baby momma’s dad’s driveway” – is there an app for that? Yes! The phone! But wait, oh, your iPhone has locked up because you were trying to download things from iTunes and remember where you parked! No!

I’m guessing that story doesn’t end well.

Seriously, the fact that iPhone users need “an app for everything” more or less tells me that iPhone users are dipshits incapable of the most basic human tasks. You need a parking reminder? You can’t find a bathroom? You can’t read BASIC NUTRITIONAL FACTS, or inquire about them when you’re stuffing your fat face? Seriously?

RIM should start a campaign that simply states “we don’t have an app for everything, but our users aren’t braying fuckwits. buy a Blackberry.” If I don’t see at least a one million percent increase in revenue, I’ll allow four of you to anally violate me in a back alley like the young woman in my story. You can even slap me across the face a little. Go on, it’ll be FUN.