I'm a Riot? You're a Fuckin Riot!
I’m a rambler so I’m just gonna ramble. What else is new. Anyway, around campus I always see art student kids or maybe they’re architects or some shit, I don’t know, anyway whatever they are they always carry theses big long tubes with them wherever they go and I can only assume those big tubes are filled with drawings or blueprints or some other shit that I don’t give a fuck about. As I was saying though, it really kind of freaks me out because I’m positive that at least 1 in 6 of them are secret agents and they have some sort of rocket launcher in their tube. And that there is going to be an all out spy battle in the middle of this quad and fucking helicopters will show up and dudes will repel down and start throwing ninja stars and stuff. It would actually be pretty badass. I’d sit back, watch the action and sip on a yoo-hoo or a minute made fruit punch. What better way to enjoy an afternoon? I can’t think of one. And if I cant think of it then I’m sure you cant, with your feeble brain. I hate that annoying fucking kid who is in every class I’ve ever had. I hope you know the kid I’m talking about. I’m talking about the one who will not just shut the fuck up. That annoying little prick who fuckin has an opinion on everything and thinks he’s so god damn witty and is just the bane of everyone else’s existence. And it seems like every semester I have at least two classes where I have to listen to another one of those people. I’d rather sink a rusty screwdriver into my temple than have to spend five minutes alone with that motherfucker. I couldn’t imagine it. He would just be going on and on and on and on and on and on about some retarded shit that I couldn’t, nor could anyone sane on the planet, give less of a shit about. I would love to just calmly and quietly say to that kid- “Please. Pretty please. With a big ripe ol’ cherry on top, shut your fucking mouth. Like forever.” And hopefully he’d take my advice or I’d be reluctant not to flay the skin off his face, throw it in a saucepan on the stove, let it simmer for a minute, and then make him eat it. And yeah, that’s gross, but I’d still do it because that kid pisses me off that much. And they’re the kind of kid that has to comment on everything. EVERY fuckin THING. You can’t say two words without this kid having something to say about it. Loudly. That’s another thing, they are always loud and it just starts to hurt my head after a while. I sincerely hope you know what I’m talking about. I sit and listen to that that annoying bastard every day and then exchange looks with my fellow students of disgust and sheer confusion as to why god has allowed someone like that to breathe the same oxygen as all of us normal non-repugnant people. So in summation, fuck that kid. As for now let me take you on a journey into my past. In first grade I was a happy go lucky kid living in New Jersey without a care in the fuckin world. My first grade teacher Mrs. Garanelo was very nice and I had ever so much fun in her class. And then one day I was plucked out of class by some lady who came in and read my name off a clip board and the next thing I knew I was being lead outside and into a portable trailer thing. Now I’d like to tell you in that trailer I began my training as a top-notch super spy, but alas, that’s not what happened next. But the good news is no molestation of any kind took place either. So there’s a plus. No, what happened was a little thing I like to call- speech therapy. Actually that’s what everyone calls it, but I like to think I coined the term. So yeah, at the tender age of 6 I was forced to sit in this hot trailer and make the “S” sound over and over. So the awful truth comes out. I used to have an S problem. I had to go to S rehab. I don’t remember what I was doing wrong. I probably had a lisp or some shit. I don’t like to talk about it. It was an odd time in m life. I mean those were the early 90’s. We were all into some crazy shit back then. When I wasn’t cursing with my friends at the lunch table, or hurling sticks into large crowds, I was probably in the bathroom doing blow with the schools janitor. I mean I just don’t want to get into that. I could tell you fucks some stories. I could tell you stories. I could tell you a lot of shit and in case you didn’t notice I usually do. Earlier in the week I had to go to this poetry reading jam session kind of thing with my creative writing class. And it was basically a bunch of old people sitting around reading this really prosaic and confusing poetry they all wrote and it really just bored me more than anything else. I mean it wasn’t terrible but I cant sit and listen to people talk about a bunch of random shit and then have them tell me its important and meaningful because its poetry. I could write a poem about fucking walruses (and when I say that I mean like having sexual intercourse with not just one but two or more walruses) that doesn’t mean people should put a whole shit load of stock in it. What I’m trying to say is that if all those people reading their poems were assorted fruits and the room we were all in was a blender, well my friend, you’d have the most pretentious fucking smoothie on earth. I have to read all these poems by these dead writers everyone just gushes about for this class and while some of it is actually good, most of it not only doesn’t make sense, but it’s just so god damn boring, there’s nothing even remotely interesting about it. And this is coming from someone who writes a lot, not well, but a lot. Quantity over quality friends, its what our economy is built on. So to wrap that up- fuck poetry. Well, no, fuck bad poetry. You know what, lets use this instead- Fuck anything I don’t like. Yeah. There’s an opinion you can set your watch to.