Breaking Blogger News!

What is this! A Blogger feature I’ve not seen before, a feature perhaps purloined? Purloined and downgraded it seems. I’ve seen better thefts performed by quadriplegics or the NY Times.

I’ve added the feature to this blog and adjusted it accordingly. Unfortunately, after this addition my bland blog has turned into a bland and ugly blog.

Seriously, check out those voting boxes beneath this entry. They’re crude and outdated. It’s like walking down the street and seeing Blogger wearing an expensive suit, a fitted shirt, shiny leather shoes, and parachute pants.

Is there no way to customize this feature (further)?

Seeking Guest Writers

That’s right, friends, I’m seeking guest writers. I’m looking for someone who’ll contribute to this blog for money. That’s right, I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you how I pay the street walkers who indulge me on occasion: with poems. That's right, poems.

You’d be surprised how often prostitutes will accept mediocre, drunken poetry as payment for fellatio. No, I guess it’s not that surprising. It’s only happened twice, and they were women I was dating at the time.

Anyway, potential guest writers, the ideal candidate will:

-Be attractive;

-Not be experiencing any financial hardships so as to accept poems or sexual favors as payment;

-Not outshine me and;

-Be witty and provocative.

Actually, be either witty or provocative for a writer with a combination of the two will surely outshine me. If that happens, you’re dead. You hear that, motherfucker? DEAD.

If interested, post relevant information as a comment and I’ll contact you within a minute of applying.

Chess

I used to be a goddam chess genius! My army brother taught me when I was eight and when he returned on leave a year later, I was the best player in the house—shit, I was the best player on the block! So you can imagine my surprise when all the Joe Nobodies who can barely type out sentences on Yahoo chess annihilate me.

You know, I’m starting to think my insidious fucking family let me win all those matches years ago. I’m starting to think that maybe I wasn’t so good after all. I bet if I played them again today, they’d kick my ass. Yeah, that must be it, or it’s all the inhalants I’ve been huffing.

Anniversary Party

So the one year anniversary of this bitch is coming quick. It came so quick I didn’t even realize it. Now I know how my sexual partners feel. Nah, I’m kidding, I’m as flaccid as a half-filled water balloon.

Anyway, to celebrate I’m throwing a party at my place. I’m gonna have grab bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a 2/3-full bottle of 7up.

Lucky for you all, the anniversary lands on October 4^th, a Saturday. This means that there’s no work the next day and we can stay up as late as we want watching Saturday Night Live on my bed. I’ll be on the computer watching porn, but you guys can eat my Cheetos and drink my 7up on my bed. Just bring your own fucking napkins. I don’t want any Cheeto residue staining my bed. Make sure they’re moist napkins because dry napkins don’t do shit against Cheeto dust fingers. I don’t need to be telling you this.

If you don’t bring your own moist napkins, I’m not letting you in.

Don’t RSVP, I’ll just expect people at my door that night.

No Substance

Yeah, so I haven’t been posting with the same frequency. So what. Bite me. Just the women. Harder.

Thanks.

I’m kidding. The truth is that I’ve been slaving for two weeks hunched over my keyboard and wallowing in my filth trying my hardest to come up with something worth your time. I have pages and pages and pages (two) of words I’ve found unfit to post. Every time I write something and it’s not posted, an angel’s wings get clipped. Now you understand the enormous weight on my shoulders. Why would God do this to me! Why, God! Why!

You know what? This blog looks really bland. I mean, it’s white and there’s a glass. What the hell? Invisible powdered water? What was I thinking? Oh wait, hah! I’m so brilliant. I wish there were more color here.

There, now I’m happy. If you can help me add more color, leave me a comment. I expect no comments.

Television Kills Brain Cells, Story at Eleven

I’m bummed. There’s hardly anything good on TV.

Have you seen the Food Network lately? It’s become the MTV of food. How many different food competitions can they air? Chili competitions, burger competitions, cake competitions! What is this?

They’ve resorted to putting contestants in cake and sculpture competitions through a gauntlet of stairs and bottomless pits like in The Golden Child in hopes that there will be a catastrophic cake collapse. I have an idea, how about putting together a team of ice sculptors and bomb squad agents to see who can most intricately and artistically sculpt their way into a bomb encased in ice. This will ensure an explosion, death, and higher ratings.

And what’s up with these ‘in search of’ shows? At their core these shows are about a team of slack-jawed fools chasing nothing. Look at In Search of the Lochness Monster. How about airing the show where you actually capture the beast? It doesn’t even have to be the Lochness Monster, a peculiar fish will suffice. I’d even be happy with a larger-than-average fish. It doesn’t even have to be freakishly enormous, a goldfish the size of my hand will do.

As far as I’m concerned, the best thing on television in recent years has been the Classic Arts Showcase, a show that encourages viewers to “go feast upon the buffet of arts in their community.” There are two things excitingly cool about this: one, it’s completely non profit and funded to run by founder Lloyd Rigler until at least 2022; and two, it’s something different.

I mean, I won’t be one of those viewers who’ll go out and feast upon the buffet of arts available in my community. First of all, I’m not that interested in the arts, and secondly, the buffet of arts in my community is either paintings of naked women on velvet hanging in bars, or graffiti. I’m just glad that there’s something novel airing. CAS is like a singular rose hidden in a field of rampant weeds.

I wish there were more stimulating and somewhat innovative shows on television. Something that would capture my attention and keep it like an iron trap, something like The Benefits of Champagne Enemas, or Talk Sex with Sue Johanson with Live Demonstrations and Donkey Shows and Also Instead of Sue Johanson it’s Scarlett Johansson. Yeah, that’d work just fine. Instead I have to deal with reality TV, wife swapping, and the Food Network teaching me how to chiffonade and make a roux every 30 minutes.

Where are the donkeys? Such is life.

The Tale of Angry Dog

Once upon a time there was an angry dog. “Angry Dog! Angry Dog!” people would shout as he strolled by. Everyone always wondered why his owners named him Angry Dog. Some assumed it was because of his angry demeanor, others because he always mauled passersby.

“That dog is Satan’s dog,” the older folk’d say. “I’m going to kill me that gosh darn dog one’ these days,” the younger folk’d say. And the children, they didn’t have much to say on account of them being chased across the neighborhood to be eaten by Angry Dog.

He used to be a good dog back in the day—back before he was bred as a fighting dog. “Good dog! Good dog!” he would hear with subsequent pats and belly rubs every time his owners had visitors. He would sit, roll over, shake hands, and he hardly ever humped as his balls were removed, you see. I can’t really say what caused his owners to turn such a perfectly good pup into a vicious fighting machine of death. I asked them once and they said, “protection,” but I really think it was for the money they got at the dog fights.

One day there was a secret town meeting where the destruction of Angry Dog was to be discussed. “We gotta kill that dang dog,” yelled one participant.

“Now how in tarnation are we gonna kill that there dog? He just about takes one of our arms off every time we get near the feller!” said another.

“How ‘bout we stuff cats with dynamite, and set catmines next to fire hydrants!” said yet another.

“You’re all ignorant and insensitive oafs,” yelled a young woman with college textbooks clutched to her chest. “It’s not the dog’s fault! We should be punishing his owners! They’re the ones who created this creature! Target them, not the—.” At that point the frothing beast burst through a wall in an explosion of splinters and pinned the young woman on the floor before she could finish her sentence.

When the town folk returned, all they found was the motionless body of the young woman. There wasn’t a bite on her. For months the cowardly town folk believed she had died of fright, but the coroner said no, her death was the result of a failed mugging.

To this day nobody knows Angry Dog’s whereabouts. All I have to say is be careful at the next town meeting, for it could be you who is involved in a failed mugging.