Retarded Kids And Medieval Warfare.
So I haven't updated in like schforteen-hundred years. I've been a busy little son of a bitch. For those of you who don't know, I've cleaned the slate and immersed myself in a new relationship. She completely rocks my world. She drinks vodka with me, helps me piss when I black out, drives me to the strip club, and buys me food. Seriously. I've had dreams about relationships like that. All I've got to do now is talk her into a threesome in a pool of Mountain Dew when I'm dressed like a Pirate and that will pretty much cover all my adolescent fantasies. Bitches and bastards, meet Dana Downing:
Ah, fuck. Wait. Hold on. No. Okay, here she is:
Hell yeah. So that's pretty much all there is to say about that. The picture's worth a thousand words.
I've had my journal for two years. Holy nut sack. That reminds me of this time when my mom was giving me shit about cleaning my room or something gay like that. I was all like, "sure, whatever, you gay" and roundhouse kicked her in the spleen. Two years later, she woke up from her coma. She asked how many hours she'd been out, and I just laughed. We all laughed. Even the doctor. And then the credits rolled. I think my mom is officially two years younger than she's supposed to be. Is a coma like cryo-sleep? I'm really not sure how that works.
I completely burned a retarded kid at work the other day. He didn't even see it coming, that fuck. I was making sandwiches, and they were talking about trying to train him on grill. For starters, a retarded kid can't work grill. That just doesn't even make sense. They should just let him do what he does best: drop buns into the toaster and leave an hour after he gets there on the short bus. Seriously. Why put someone above their expectations in life? Then they'll think they can do stuff and shit. So, when I learned of this, I had the following conversation with my manager:
Me: You're putting the retarded kid on grill? Are you fucking high? He doesn't even know his middle name!
Manager: Michael, shut up.
Me: Seriously, why don't you just like, teach Forrest Gump to do fucking long division while you're at it? I feel the results would be similar.
Retarded Kid: I'm not retarded!
Me: Yeah? Retarded kid says what.
Retarded Kid: What?
Me: Exactly. Shut the fuck up, the grown-ups are talking.
Believe it or not, they didn't train him on grill that day. Apparently, my flawless logic had a lasting effect on the manager. Really, you just have to let people know that some people just can't do shit. It's not a question of motivation. You could motivate me for six years on how to menstruate properly, doesn't mean I'm gonna be pickin' up fucking tampons at the general store anytime soon.
I recently did the coolest shit that I've ever done in my life. I went on a bike ride with my brother, because we were looking for something active to do, and apparently swinging is for fags, and eating bacon defeats the whole purpose. When we got to my Grandma's, we noticed that a large garden of bamboo-looking sticks in her backyard reminded us intensely of jousting lances. So we'd find ourselves at the opposite ends of Sycamore street, lances at our side, and riding at each other full blast. Not to mention that these were pointed sticks and we had nothing but shirts on. The other thing we forgot jousting reminded us of was armor and blunted tips, apparently. So we're getting closer, and we've got fire in our eyes. The next thing I know, I'm on my back, staring at the sky, thinking about how much a particular cloud resembles Yogi Bear. I sit up, and Billy's off his bike, nursing his stomach. We both hit each other so hard that the bamboo lances shattered upon impact. I had a hole in my shirt, a gash down my chest, and a sudden inability toward taking in full breaths and laughter. Which persists, to this day. He nailed me right in the heart, and he took his to the stomach. I looked down, and I was holding a shattered fragment of stick (which had been reduced from about five feet to a half foot) so tightly that my knuckles were white.
So of course, we're doing it again. But we're filming it this time.
Summer's almost here, bitches. Time to break out the sunglasses, roll down the window, and in my case, let your pasty-white ass torch into a flaky crust under the sun.
Ah, fuck. Wait. Hold on. No. Okay, here she is:
Hell yeah. So that's pretty much all there is to say about that. The picture's worth a thousand words.
I've had my journal for two years. Holy nut sack. That reminds me of this time when my mom was giving me shit about cleaning my room or something gay like that. I was all like, "sure, whatever, you gay" and roundhouse kicked her in the spleen. Two years later, she woke up from her coma. She asked how many hours she'd been out, and I just laughed. We all laughed. Even the doctor. And then the credits rolled. I think my mom is officially two years younger than she's supposed to be. Is a coma like cryo-sleep? I'm really not sure how that works.
I completely burned a retarded kid at work the other day. He didn't even see it coming, that fuck. I was making sandwiches, and they were talking about trying to train him on grill. For starters, a retarded kid can't work grill. That just doesn't even make sense. They should just let him do what he does best: drop buns into the toaster and leave an hour after he gets there on the short bus. Seriously. Why put someone above their expectations in life? Then they'll think they can do stuff and shit. So, when I learned of this, I had the following conversation with my manager:
Me: You're putting the retarded kid on grill? Are you fucking high? He doesn't even know his middle name!
Manager: Michael, shut up.
Me: Seriously, why don't you just like, teach Forrest Gump to do fucking long division while you're at it? I feel the results would be similar.
Retarded Kid: I'm not retarded!
Me: Yeah? Retarded kid says what.
Retarded Kid: What?
Me: Exactly. Shut the fuck up, the grown-ups are talking.
Believe it or not, they didn't train him on grill that day. Apparently, my flawless logic had a lasting effect on the manager. Really, you just have to let people know that some people just can't do shit. It's not a question of motivation. You could motivate me for six years on how to menstruate properly, doesn't mean I'm gonna be pickin' up fucking tampons at the general store anytime soon.
I recently did the coolest shit that I've ever done in my life. I went on a bike ride with my brother, because we were looking for something active to do, and apparently swinging is for fags, and eating bacon defeats the whole purpose. When we got to my Grandma's, we noticed that a large garden of bamboo-looking sticks in her backyard reminded us intensely of jousting lances. So we'd find ourselves at the opposite ends of Sycamore street, lances at our side, and riding at each other full blast. Not to mention that these were pointed sticks and we had nothing but shirts on. The other thing we forgot jousting reminded us of was armor and blunted tips, apparently. So we're getting closer, and we've got fire in our eyes. The next thing I know, I'm on my back, staring at the sky, thinking about how much a particular cloud resembles Yogi Bear. I sit up, and Billy's off his bike, nursing his stomach. We both hit each other so hard that the bamboo lances shattered upon impact. I had a hole in my shirt, a gash down my chest, and a sudden inability toward taking in full breaths and laughter. Which persists, to this day. He nailed me right in the heart, and he took his to the stomach. I looked down, and I was holding a shattered fragment of stick (which had been reduced from about five feet to a half foot) so tightly that my knuckles were white.
So of course, we're doing it again. But we're filming it this time.
Summer's almost here, bitches. Time to break out the sunglasses, roll down the window, and in my case, let your pasty-white ass torch into a flaky crust under the sun.