Praise from the Praiseworthy is Better than...that Other Stuff

I've always thought of Fjord as, a lot like Project Mayhem from Fight Club - You choose the level of your involvement. Since I seem to have less of a life than anybody I know...well you finish that one off yourself.

But fresh off the East coasts triumphant return, I'm feeling like a lotto winner. And speaking of, here's my idea for when I hit the big one.

1)Order one bathtub full of chili cheese fries. 2)Order three strippers for feeding me chili cheese fries, cleaning me of chili cheese fries, and restocking the chili cheese fries. 3)Let the gluttony begin!

I've also given some thought to the interview, if the media was able to track me down. (I think it would go something like this...)
REPORTER: "Mr. Tsunami, you've just won 150 million dollars! What are you going to do next?'
TSUNAMI: "I'm going to buy a fuckton of meth, and go shopping for 48 hours straight!"
Leaving the camera so fast, that a small image of me in smoke would still be standing there, slowly disappearing.

Feel free to use either of these if you are the lucky jackpot winner, but remember, play responsibly.

I'm not sure why...

I thought this was funny. You decide.


http://blinkorama.blogspot.com/

Tsunami Rocks Fjord!

It occurs to me now, looking at the title of this post, that if I were a Netherlander, I'd panick that many of my loved ones may be washed out to sea, homeless, dead or worse. To those fair-haired, blue eyed beasts of the Norse, I say relax. Before you cease your raping/plundering, board your many Viking ships and set sail for your homeland, know that I merely meant DARIO Tsunami. And the referenced "Fjord?" Well, that's just in regards to our li'l ol' blog site, man! That title is just a tip of the hat to Dario for keeping the nation apprised of- well, the national goings on, whilst the East Coast branch of Fjord fights through a bad case of the "Where the fuck did the East Coast branch of Fjord go-s." There's a lot of the "Where the fucks" going around right now, so be wary.

A couple of things. First, I hate public bathrooms. HATE them! The bathroom here at work, for instance, must sing the sweetest "Come Dump in My Many Toilets" siren song ever heard by every male in this building, except for me. There is a CONSTANT string of business types in there releasing their processed foods all f'n day. Which means, every time I have to take a piss, I'm forced to inhale their ungodly, at times otherworldly, shit fumes. I don't know what a body can do to get rid of shit fumes once they're inhaled, but I'll bet whatever the body has to do to rid itself of that, it's not easy. As for me, I would NEVER shit in a public restroom. I'd rather drop dead where I sit and, after the autopsy, have the Coroner say, "Well, he was just packed with shit. That's what killed him," than dump in a disgusting public restroom. Hell, I'll even go so far as to say I'd rather push a stroller through a crowded street festival--a crowded street festival, folks--than do my business where countless others have. Although, I could be knee-jerking here cuz the fume thing just happened to me and it made me mad.......

Also, another thing that irks me is when I bitch about the lousy, Winter weather and people say, "Well, you grew up in the Midwest! You should be used to this by now!" Like, come on man! Just cuz I grew up in it, it shouldn't affect me?!?!? It's BECAUSE I grew up in it, that I should have all the license in the world to hate it! I mean, I'd LOVE to meet the nutfuck who gets used to sub-zero temperatures and fuckboats of snow! Gimme a break! That's equivalent to looking at an anorexic and saying, "You NEVER eat! You should be used to malnourishment by now!" Of course, if you said that to an anorexic, you'd silence the room. But rip on a Midwesterner for hatin' on Winter and you're just being "folksy".......

I guess the East Coast Branch is back......For whatever that's worth.....

The Toast Of The Town

Has decided to do a little guest blogging! Just one more reason to think the West Coast Branch of Fjord is, like an albatross, really about to take off. I mean, when a fellow that's literally known as the Toast of the Town, in a town az glitzy as Los Angeles, takes a minute out of his packed social schedule to write something for our humble landmass...well, damn. It don't happen often, but I'm speechless. Without further ado...The Toast of the Town!


I like to gamble. No, no, no man, I LOVE TO GAMBLE! It’s in my nature, in my blood. Gambling to me is the search for meaning. A constant experiment using the why and why nots of this world. I mainly like to feel as if I had some control over the drama happening in front of me. The way your heart races, the nerves, the tension, the anticipation, the way time sort of stops before the outcome unveils itself in its ugly rawness. Controlled randomness almost. Shit, the excitement is almost equivalent to spluging on some midget’s girls face (but without stubby hands reaching for what I hope was a wallet).

Well, with this said, I believe I’ve reached the lowest depths of my gambling adventures. In fact, it might be the lowest. I’ve bet on almost everything: horses, bull fighting, sumo wrestling, roshambau, pissing contest, zit shooting, puking contest, dead rat throws, abortions (I was going to win that one. . .damn it), marbles. But never have I been more disgusted with myself than yesterday when I went in on . . .an Oscar pool .

Ok I was baked. It was Sunday without football. And I was doing nothing at somebody’s house. Feeble excuses, I know. To have to sit through the preshow hysterics, then an hour of award speeches was awful. I couldn’t get excited about who won or lost. Joan Rivers comments, the constant minority cams, the abysmal song interludes/bowel movements. Man, I felt I was donkey punched. I just kept looking to sky with same hopeless _expression on my face, kinda like that horrible bj for crack degradation I suffered one time. And I don’t even smoke crack. . . Brutal. . . ( I was young, broke and . . .never mind)

That sucked. Chris rock eased it up a bit by making it a bit entertaining, but I just didn’t fulfill the gambling zeal. I left half way, wanting no part of it. Left the money on the table. I cheapened my love of gambling and, in turn, myself. But I guess you have to explore what you hate before you know what you love, so I’ll chalk it up to that. The mayoral race is coming up so I have something to kept my gambling mind busy. Much like life, I going to screwed on that one either way too.

Spizz, spizz, ugh

Toast

bugs...well, roaches more specifically

If there's one thing I've learned in my years of city dwelling, that's the pleasure of the company of the goddamn cockroach. If I had a dollar for every one I've killed, invested in a 401K account, or maybe Microsoft stock, I'd be sitting pretty. Some years ago, after a particulars bloody massacre of the little beasties, I gave 'em a verbal warning. "Don't come in my house, or I'll kill you. I'll hunt you down and KILL YOU ALL! SPREAD THE WORD, I'F YOU'RE IN MY HOUSE, YOU'RE GOING TO BE KILLED!"

Of course, they really didn't listen. Or else, they just spoke German and didn't understand what I was saying. Anyways, good news on the front against the little bastards.

(via BBC)
Scientists have identified the female pheromone emitted by the common cockroach.

The way they did this is pretty damn cool...They took an antenna from a male roach, and...went all creepy Si-Fi on it...

"We would strap the antenna between two electrodes, and the electrodes would record depolarisation in the antenna as soon as it was stimulated by the active compound."

Once the hapless antenna had led them to the right chemical, the team was able to manufacture it artificially. Now all they need to do is design a clever trap.

Dr Roelofs is aware that any swift-death trap will only eliminate males, since the chemical does not appeal to females. So that is why he thought of the slower, deadly disease option: a sexually transmitted disease. "One of them passes it to the next and then to the next."

While I love the idea of this, I know, in the end, the roach will just mutate and become immune to whatever we use to kill 'em, but it'd be helpful for a while I'm sure. Since I get sort of a rush at killing the besties, I'd like to suggest a better way. Small cockroach killing robots!

I was thinking, for the most part, they'd just scoot around your house, ready to attack anything cockroach size that moved. occasionally emtting female roach pheramone, attracting roaches into mortal combat. I envision them to look a lot like the robots used in "robot wars" with small saws, clubs, harpoons and the like. Hopefully these little guys would have a video-feed, and a control interface - say through an x-box. Then whenever you wanted you could just take over control of the robot, and do the killing yourself...a video-game that actually has a practial purpose! Somehow I can see a swarm of miniature robots, with spikes and saws falling into the wrong hands, or just plain old running amok, but still...I like the idea.

Sick Day!!!

I was screwing around with words, just trying to get a mood. I'm not sure how good it turned out, but here's a little story.


It was night, and I walked past the body of Sam Turkaloo. He had been stuck in the same snow drift since early January. The Ravens had been at him some- but he was remarkably well preserved - and still frozen solid. I barely glanced at him as I made my way to my apartment, but it was beginning to get to the point where something had to be done about it.

When I first noticed his corpse a big raccoon was guarding him, like a dog over his dead master. I have wondered since, whether the raccoon was guarding him because he wanted to eat the corpse, or if he didn‘t want anyone defiling the body. Either could have been possible. But Sam wasn’t the most likeable guy, an asshole, I’d call him. So I gave the whole scene a wide berth and just went along my way.

That was the last I saw of the raccoon, but, that was another issue. I figured the cops, or dead animal control would have picked him up by now - near four weeks later. That’s a lot of days to walk past a corpse without it doing something to your psyche. And now, it was deeply imbedded. The whole neighborhood seemed to be on the same wavelength too. Directly at 4:37 am every morning, people would wake, lights would come on, and they’d just start their day, they were too freaked to sleep anymore.

On the second early morning when I started to wake up like this. I kicked on the space heater, and made some tea. The roommate came out in a hideous terrycloth robe, and asked if she could have some. I said “sure.” We watched the stove’s blue flame flicker around the bottom of the tea kettle until it whistled. I poured a couple of mugs, and we drank tea.

Then she blurted out. “I can’t get Sam Turkaloo’s teeth out of my head. I had a dream where, I was just standing in the street watching Sam in that snow bank. Then it just became about his teeth. They started chattering, like one of those wind-up chattering teeth toys. And it kept on getting more and more violent. The enamel started breaking, and his teeth started cracking. His teeth shattered, and blood oozed from his teeth-stumps, and out of the holes where his teeth had been chattered right out of the gums. And his lips had been caught up in the whole affair and ripped off by his mouth. Then his gums started banging together, becoming a mass of bloody flesh, by the end, even his gums were gone. Just a bloody chattering jawbone, banging against his face.”

I knew. I had the same dream. I’d been having the same dream now every night for four weeks. I debated whether I should hunt down the raccoon, and kill it, since obviously it knew something. But, I gave that idea up as impractical, besides, I knew where Sam was. The next morning at 4:37, I got up, grabbed the hacksaw, and went down to Sam’s corpse. I proceeded to saw off his head. It wasn’t easy work, sawing through eight inches of frozen neck and spine, but it got done. I dropped the head into a wicker basket, covered it with a blanket, and caught the first bus down to the river.

There’s things you’ll learn about yourself when you’re carrying a severed head in a wicker basket on a bus full of normal people going to work, but I won’t bore you with the details. I got off and made my way down the snowy banks of the Mississippi. By now, (late February) most of the ice had broken up, and there was plenty of open water. I went to the edge, and drifted the basket out into the current. It bobbed along with some ice flows, and I watched it for ten minutes or so before it slipped around a bend towards St. Anthony.

I turned , and came face to face with a huge old geezer staring down into my eyes. He had a broken nose, a black eye, and wore two thrift-store coats over each other.
I about pissed myself.
“Chattering teeth huh?” He wheezed.
“What?” I was able to squeak out.
“Guy dies, freezes to death - gives the whole neighborhood dreams of chattering teeth - hideous nightmares I should say. Time it’s over, the poor bastard don’t have any teeth, or gums or nothing. Just a bloody jawbone.”
“Yeah.”
“Only thing to do is to cut off their heads and set ‘em down the river.” He paused, hacked up something black and red from his lungs, and spit it on the snow. “Seen it lots of times. Seems to, how should I say, calm their aggravated souls. Stops ‘em from doin’ the chatterin’ dream any-how. You must be a good man to do this for him.”
“Yeah.” I said, and quickly got away.

I waited for the return bus, stamping my feet to keep them warm. The bus came about the time they were numb. On the way back, I thought about Sam, and what the creepy geezer had said. By the time I passed his headless corpse to get to my place, I realized, if our positions were reversed, no way that fucker would have done the same for me. He wasn’t the most likeable guy, like I said, he was an asshole.

I was home by six-thirty, but by then I’d decided, today, I’d call in sick.

Shops and their Barbers

Tony the barber, is a dude who works up the street three blocks, and cuts my hair. Sandy's barbershop is the place he works at, and it used to be a hopping joint. But, Sandy had some disease and died, and Sandy's girlfriend got some other dude to run the place...and as the stories go, he wasn't the best guy to work for.

So two haircuts ago, I went in, and there were like five people waiting, and two barbers working. I waited an hour to get my hair cut! That's a long time to sit and read out-of-date ESPN magazines. By the time I got into the chair, I said to myself, "I'm never fucking coming back here again." Of course, the next time I needed a cut, the place was slow, and Tony was working, and he filled me in on the previous story.

Well, shortly after that, the Thai video store next to the Doughnut Factory (where I get smokes, soda, stickers, change, and various edibles) less than a block away from the Casa Aloha, went under. TWO DAYS LATER, it was a barber shop, staffed with two of the barbers from Sandy's. A week later, It had two more barbers from Sandy's. A schism developed, like a turf war.

The guys at the new place waved to me as I went for re-supply or morning coffee. I started feeling weird. Like, which place was I going to hit up? If I got a haircut from Tony - who still worked at Sandy's - would I have to wear a hat while going to the Doughnut Factory? Would I slip up, forget, and have to face retribution from the barbers who now operated their racket out of my immediate neighborhood? After all barbers have a lot of sharp implements at their disposal, and they know how to use them. It'd be just like the mob, extorting me to get haircuts there, otherwise...

Today I was walking back from the beer store, and saw Tony sitting in an empty Sandy's reading a paper. He was the only one in there. I stuck my head in and said "Hey man, what are your hours now?" He said, "9 to 6." I asked, "What days?" He said, "Every day, I'm the only one here! They all left!" I laughed, "When are you moving to the new place?" And he laughed, "They don't charge me rent here, I'm staying until they shut me down!" We both laughed, and I left.

But before I'd gone ten steps, I'd decided, I'm sticking with Tony. You just can't fuck with that kind of attitude.

Happy Friday

Ways to Destroy the Earth

Obviously there are some days when a number of your interests and specialties come together.
Here's some light Friday afternoon reading.

http://ned.ucam.org/~sdh31/misc/destroy.html

Space, technology, geology, and supervillainry.

Thursday...

I wanted to take a second out of our regularly scheduled programming for a little shameless self-promotion. Thursday was a banner day here at Fjord, where we broke the 100 hit barrier on our little web deal-i-o!

We're nowhere near that today, but still, I thought it was a milestone that should be noted. Thanks for reading!

Weekend Project! ! !

Holy Crapola! There's almost nothing more fun than video games, and I'm dead serious. But, if anything could beat out the new generation of game systems, it'd be SEX TOYS.

I've just discovered, that someone, somewhere, did the most impossible thing. Like making a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup, they combined the two! According to the article, all you need is...

1)Xbox controller
2)Soldering Iron
3)Wire
4)A vibrator
5)However many AA batteries the vibrator takes
6)Electrical tape

That's it. Guys, something to amuse the ladies while you're shooting the crap out of someone in Halo! And when that grenade goes off! Whew! And Ladies, what boy could resist the siren's call of a soft whispered, "Come up to my place and play Grand Theft Auto." (answer - none.)
Check it Out...
http://www.slashdong.org/boards/viewtopic.php?p=6#6

(Not Quite Work Safe...)

And while I'm at this topic of freaky machine/technology/sex combinations, there's a whole world of crazy bastards who are in to making robots that fuck. It's nice that the internet can get people like us together, isn't it?

http://www.fuckingmachines.com/

(REALLY NOT WORK SAFE)

HOLY GOATS! THE POPE'S OLD!!!

Catholics Shocked to discover the leader of their Church is 84 years old!

“Dude,” one man on the street was heard to remark, “That’s almost old enough to die of old age!” Unfortunately that one man’s statement might be frighteningly close to the truth…

(via BBC World News)
Pope Has Surgery to Aid Breathing…
A Vatican spokesman said the operation to give the Pope a tracheotomy had been successful. The procedure involves making a hole in the throat through which a tube is inserted to assist breathing.

Hmm. I’m not going to say that sounds serious, but, aww, what the hell…having a tube surgically placed in your throat so you can breathe…”THAT sounds serious.” While we here at Fjord certainly wish the Supreme Pontiff a speedy recovery, we can’t help but wonder about the future, and how we could have some fun with this. Howabout a Pope Pool!

No You Sicko’s! Not a Pope death pool. A more sporting and positive pool, based on the values and good nature of those of us responsible for Fjord. Also, one based on the legal and traditional structure of the Catholic faith and Vatican Law! I mean, let’s bet on which cardinal will become the next Pope!!

Here’s a brief rundown
http://www.catholic-pages.com/pope/election.asp


the Cardinal Electors enter the Conclave to choose which of them will emerge as Holy Roman Pontiff. The Cardinals must take an oath when they first enter the Conclave that they will follow the rules set down by the Pope and that they will maintain absolute secrecy about the voting and deliberations. The penalty for disclosing anything about the conclave that must be kept secret is automatic excommunication.

So basically a bunch of Cardinals go in and vote for the next Pope.

Oooh, this part’s cool. ---
If a new Pope has been elected, the papers are burned with to give white smoke. Otherwise, they give off black smoke, so that the waiting crowds, and the world, know whether their new Holy Father will soon emerge from the Sistine Chapel.

Pretty Suspenseful! Anyways…

To be elected Pope, one Cardinal must receive more than two-thirds of the votes. Except that if 30 elections have taken place without any one Cardinal being elected Pope, then the Cardinals may then elect by simple majority. Once a Cardinal has received the required number of votes, the Dean of the College of Cardinals asks him if he accepts election and by what name he wishes to be called as Pope. On giving assent, the Cardinal immediately becomes Pontifex Maximus, the Holy Roman Pontiff.

COOL!!

So those are the rules! Now, here are the Cardinals (there’s like 183 of ‘em, and I don’t want to cover the next three screens with lists of potential Pontiffs…so hit the link and check those dudes out!) I’m sure you’ll find a couple you like…
http://www.catholic-pages.com/hierarchy/cardinals_list.asp

BTW – due to Vatican legaleeze, there are only 119 guys that actually can VOTE to see who becomes the next Pope!

TOTAL CARDINAL ELECTORS: 119

Okay, so here we have a huge field, and for those of us not familiar with Vatican politics (heh, like we know who YOU THREE are) just check out this handy website, that has all the major players, handicapped with odds!

http://www.online-betting-guide.co.uk/Next-Pope.htm


so pick your favorite horse, and ride him all the way to the top of the Vatican hierarchy! The winner will receive a Fjord prize pack (so far made up of a worn Dario Tsunami T-shirt, with some coffee stains on it…but it might get better) Besides, What exactly, are you doing that’s more important than this?

A Rainy Season Thought.....

Do you think L.A. would have the same problem with mudslides as it currently does, if the city was undercoated with a fine layer of Pampers(TM)? NOTHING soakes up wetness like Pampers(TM)!

Where's Ahnold on that one?

Hey America! It's Fjucking Fjlag Djay!

That's right, "Americans," today is "Hug A Flag Day." Or, "Stare Lovingly Into a Flag's Eyes for a While Day." Or, "Make Sweet, Sweet Love to a Flag Day," if you love your country almost to the point of submissiveness. However, if you're like me and a growing number of "Americans," you celebrate Flag Day in a less showy manner. You don't need the glitz and glamour of unfurling your flag, but not all the way, and going all "Pigs in a Blanket" on it. Nope, instead let me show you how more and more people are showing flags just what this day is all about.

What I do is, I lock myself in a dark room wearing only my underpants and a flag on my head. ANY flag, it doesn't matter. I then light 6-7 votive candles and openly weep, for reasons only me and the flag can explain. Post weeping, I begin my "I'm an AmeriCAN not an AmeriCAN'T" chanting until I fall asleep in my own arms. When morning comes, I clean the mess off myself (don't ask) and go to work as if nothing happened! Folks, IT IS SO CLEANSING!!!

Keep in mind people, this is just what I and a few people I've been secretly drugging at work do. But it's never too late for you to join our as yet undetermined cause! As always, never forget the two most important Flag Day rules:
1.) YOU CAN "celebrate" ANY FLAG!!! Really, any flag. It could be a flag celebrating your love of pandas. It could be a flag letting people know your disdain for products made with bran. Hell, it could even just be a small bit of cloth. WHO GIVES A SHIT, RIGHT?

2.) REMEMBER: It's YOUR Flag Day! Just enjoy it, man......Don't let anyone but me tell you what you should do to commemorate what amounts to a day to celebrate patterned material.....

Dario "bloody wrists" Tsunami

So the shadowy man shouted down from the shadowy window.

“You’ll never take me alive G-man!” And he meant it. He grasped his .45 and looked for a good angle to put a bullet in Agent Sven Vjardham, of the F.B.I.!

Ugg.


I’ve been working on a lot of junk besides Fjord, and it’s making my mood a little dark. I’m just going to take this little break to put up a post. Perhaps it’ll help. See, I’ve been here at the keyboard over sixteen straight hours now, and I’ve typed my fingers into bloody stumps. I mean to say, my fingers are literally in the process of being pounded off of my hands as I sit here and type this.

One misconception people think about writing, is the 'ole, "thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters…" line, but fuck monkeys! Spekaing of fucking monkeys, if I ever see another movie with a monkey, or a gorilla or primate of any kind, (and it won’t be long enough) just watch for the Entertainment Tonight or any other such program, and pretty soon, you'll see that that monkey and his handlers have been brutally slain. Following up on that, I'll devastate the writer of said movie, and then move on to the producers. I hate the idea that they're cute, and almost human.

NEWS FLASH -
They ain't!

If a thousand monkeys were really at a thousand typewriters the best they could manage is throw a few hundred pounds of shit, eat some fucking bananas, and maybe take a nap. Sure, monkeys went into space before mankind, but that’s just ‘cause we jammed one in space capsule and shot him up there to make sure we wouldn’t die when one of us went. (I guess as of late, we haven’t exactly used that information to the best of our ability, but I digress)

Writing anything takes a bit more than luck and whacking at the keys. It also takes some amount of effort. Sort of like getting into space.

I should apologize before I go much further…if more typos appear, that is because fairly soon I will be mashing the keyboard with my wrist stumps, and it’s pretty hard to accurately type with bloody wrist stumps. Anywhays, I linkda' forlgot whhjat I was qwriting abouit ion thjew firsat p[lacve.

Oh, yeah. Fuck monkeys!

Movie Pitch Ideas I'm working on

Here at the West Coast Branch of Fjord, there's one thing we know...and that's that movies make our town go 'round. So if you're not working on a script, or pitching a script, or working on a movie, you're not doing something right.

So after a lot of very easy work, I've come up with my screenplay called "ATTACK OF THE DRUIDS" It's a young coming-of-age story about a boy and his dog, abducted by a magic-using cult of cannibal druids.

When pitching your story, I've been advised to use the analogy of your movie as the combination of two successful movies from the past. So I've come up with a few combos I hope you'll enjoy. It's a move like...

Rudy meets Smokey and the Bandit?

Operation Dumbo Drop meets How the Grinch Stole Christmas?

The Lost Boys meet Howard the Duck?

Saving Private Ryan meets Shaft?

The Blob meets Miracle on Ice?

The Three Stooges meet Scarface?

The Crying Game meets Blue Crush?

Or...

Field of Dreams meets The Killing Fields.


Hopefully one of these will work. There's no business like show biz!

Fjordian Slip

1) Any time one is in the process of mis-speaking, and says something of staggering hilarity or profound insight.

2) When in the process of drunken rambling, a speaker momentarily gains the lucidity to express a coherent thought of genius.

watch your cornhole, boy! 

It's the First Day I've Been Able to Post From Home, So Fuck It.....Here's One More......

My DSL is finally up and running, so to celebrate you're getting a dry, anal fistful of Q-Dog today....DEAL!

So, Mindfuck and I used to have parents. I say "used to," cuz within the past 8 years, they both passed on through separate cancer incidents. I'll tell you, the older you are when you become an orphan, the weirder it is to live in a foster home......

Anyway, both the parents had huge funerals. They were VERY famous among regular people. Both Irish/German descent, so A LOT of drinkers at those funerals. In point of fact, the only way the Funeral Directors could get us out of the place was by yelling, "Let's go folks! Gotta head out! Let's go! You don't have to go home, but you can't mourn here!"

Our dad was cremated and man, is THAT expensive! It occured to me then that cremation's really changed. It used to be about the burning......

Just so I don't leave you on what some could consider a "downer," I'll relate one last thing to you today. My girl got me this little book and romance kit for Valentine's Day. It's got a mini-book, sensual massage oil, mood candles and a "sexy dice game" in it. So, I'm looking at it this morning and I notice a warning on the bottom of it. The warning is, and I shit you not on this, "CHOKING HAZARD - Small parts. Not for children UNDER 3 YEARS!!!!!!!" (all caps on "under 3 yrs" and numerous exclamation points, mine). Like, fuck!! How in the name of Christ's Toenail Polish is a fucking two year old gonna learn the fucking tantalizing art of seduction now?!?!?!??!? I mean, folks, pretty much anything sensual is gonnna make a two year old choke.........sigh......

I swear, sometimes I hate this stupid fucking planet so much.........

A Thought On Serial Killers.......

The thing that weirds me out about serial killers is they're always described, after they're caught, as being "seemingly normal." Well, fuck that! There's nothing "normal" about all the deciet they have to use to get people in the position where they can finally kill them. Nobody who's "normal" lies THAT much! What would make them "normal" is if they were straight up about their intentions from the get-go. You know, if they came up to you and were like:

"Hi, I'm Phil. I've killed about 17 people to date and I'd LOVE it if you were number 18. Here's what I have planned. First, I'm going to ether rag you. Then I'm going to hog-tie you up, place you in the trunk of my car and drive you to my house - or lair as it will probably become known upon my invariable capture. It is there, I will patiently await your return to consciousness so that I may begin to eat you. I know it may seem weird to you that I wait for you to regain consciousness to begin feasting, but sort of a little quirk of mine is I need to hear your screams, or I can't get off on any of this. Afterwards, depending on how delicious you were, I may or may not make ornamental jewelry from your remains. At least to date, that has been my established M.O. Your reaction to this non-refundable offer is the wild card. So........(soaking a rag in ether).....How 'bout it?"

To me, that would constitue "normal" behavoir.

To close, a joke to tell around the water cooler for you guys on Monday:
QUESTION: How many armed Palistinians does it take to hijack a car?
ANSWER: I'm not really sure, cuz I haven't had time to crunch the numbers, but if I had to guess, I'd say probably at least two.

Wow your co-works with that one!! You're sure to be a hit!

Make Yourselves ComFJORDable

Good lordy people…if it weren’t for coffee, I would have been in bed all week. Maybe I should have been...

I was having a conversation with the totem pole the other day (I’m 1/64th Blackfoot) and Elk told me that Thunderbird said that there was going to be a monumental struggle ahead, and he would need many iron men - bucks to the number of 1000. I said “I don’t have that much.” He asked, what I had on me, and I retorted, “Elk, you touched me for a hundred last week, why the hell do you think I’d give you anything more – you’re just going to blow it on hookers and meth.” He snorted steam out his nostrils, “Because of the prophecy!”

“Elk,” I said, “the only time you talk about (making quotes in the air with my fingers) “the prophecy,” is when you want to bum money from me.” Fox chimed in, “But Dario, you are the chosen one! The one who will lead us to victory in the monumental struggle!”

I pointed angrily to Fox’s face on the totem and said, “I got news for ya Foxie, the only thing chosen about me is you guys choosing to give me the grift. I came over here for some healthy Native American style spiritual well-being, and all I get are greedy animal spirits with personalities like gangsters in a noir novel.” Just then I felt a small touch on my back. I turned swiftly, and saw Raven, flying away. The damn bird had my wallet! Of course, while I was occupied with the others, he swooped down and picked my pocket. The entire totem pole erupted in laughter, directed at me.

I went to get my axe.

Happy Friday