The new South Park has utterly roffled my waffle. Fucking hilarious.


Of Sports and Stuff

We have recently selected activites in physical education class. Previously, I was having a blast kicking ass and taking names in badminton. It was a fantastic couple of weeks. There were people who were seriously hardcore in the game, so competitive badminton was definitely a go. You’d be amazed how much badminton can make you break a sweat. This is not your grandparents’ peaceful game of hit the shuttlecock back and forth like a couple of geriatric retards.

Unfortunately, all great things must come to an end. Badminton’s over, and I am now subscribed to ping pong. There are 3 seniors in this class, around 3 or so juniors (including me), and the rest are fucking sophomores. Brainless little runts. Since one of the juniors is some weird asian kid who doesn’t talk, and the other is a girl who’s just got some issues, I’m hanging out with the 3 seniors. One’s just totally weeded out…like he’s out there, man. The other two are cool. Most importantly, they’re good. I played a couple of games with one of the dudes today (the other was absent). Apparently, his name is Mike, too! LYK OMG!! Whatever, the kid’s decent. Put up a great game. I lost the first game and dominated the second one. Third game we got up to 13-12 when class ended. Oh well…his loss is merely delayed. Ping pong looks to be mighty good these next few weeks :).

Unfortunately (twice), I won’t be playing ping pong for the entirety of the quarter. Our gym activities are actually split to fit exactly half of each quarter…split to fit eighths, if you will. So for the half of this quarter, or eighth, I will be playing ping pong. But for the second half of the quarter, or eighth, I shall be…..FOLK DANCING. That should be oodles of fun. I’ll bring my straw-thatched hat, tattered overalls, banjo, and fake buck teeth. We’ll all have a durn good time, y’all! 


All my devotion betrayed
I am no longer afraid
I was too blinded to see
How much you’ve stolen from me

You want to know why I feel so horrified?
I’ve let my innocence die
You want to know why I can’t be pacified?
You made me bury something
I won’t be sleeping tonight

This is some funny ass shit.

I had Listerine spray sprayed in my eye today. Took it like a man. *manly poses* I fucking hate Festim for it, though.

I only wanted a blessing made,

Now I’ve been labeled a renegade.

It seems so clear now what I must do,

You’re no immortal,

I won’t let them

Deify you,

They view you as the new messiah.

Deify you,

Renew belief in some demented man.

I’m slowly drifting away from my stone cold addiction to System of a Down and am kinda getting into Disturbed. 10000 Fists is a weird album. And that’s more to say about the band, in general. They’ll have several REALLY GREAT songs among a crop of feh. None of the other shit is really worth a listen. On the other hand, however, Hypnotize is fantastic on every level. I can listen to the whole album straight and have something good to say about every song. Oh well…

At least I can listen to something else, lol.

Choice songs I can recommend off the album include:


Stricken (new vid is up)

I’m Alive

Land of Confusion

Pain Redefined




Shaking, burning up with the fever
In the realm of pain, I am the deceiver
Now I lie to myself, so I can believe her
But she disassembles my life
I cannot dispel the illusion
All my hopes and dreams are drowned by confusion
Can I find a way to make a solution that will reconfigure my life?

Zetta Zitibitibadayaya

Love the Penny Arcade.

Ooooh, I almost forgot! We went to pick up my mommy today at the airport. I GOT TO DRIVE HOME :D. 75-80 the whole way on the Pike. Sure it’s not Mommy’s car, but that’s ok. The V70’s still fun.

I suppose it’s okay to tell the story now, mostly because it’s pretty much water under the bridge by now. Thing that sucks out of the whole situation is: my parents don’t trust me anymore. It sucks when you’re not trusted. But I’m going into consequences before actually telling the story. Let’s start from the beginning.

Exactly 2 weeks prior to this day, some shit went down. The scenario’s me at home, at night, bored out of mind. My parents are gone at the boardwalk. I had a dying urge to try Red Bull and vodka that day. The kicker? I drank the last can of Red Bull either that day or the day before, effectively leaving me Red Bull-less. I call my mom up and BEG her to purchase me a little 4-pack or something. Eventually my father goes, verbatim (in Russian of course, so I’m translating): “You want it? Then go and get it yourself.” Heh…the one thing about me that all should know, is that I’m LAZY. Very very very lazy. I’m a gamer, after all. I could (and damn well SHOULD) live life in a chair. So me walking 20 minutes down to Shoprite in 30 degree weather is out of the fucking question. Wouldn’t you know it? I see the car keys to my mommy’s shiny new S40 dangling so temptingly. Sigh…temptation grabbed me by the scrotum and I took my mom’s car out. I kick myself to this day about one particular detail. When I called my mom up to ask her to buy Red Bull, she literally told me that “we’ll be home in 15 minutes.” AND I STILL FUCKING WENT.     -____- . So, being merely permit enabled, I took my mom’s car out to Shoprite to buy fucking Red Bull. That’s how much of an addict I am. Thankfully, the trip was not eventful. Nobody pulled me over, nobody acted like a jackass on the road, and everything was hunky dory. As I’m turning onto my street, however, I notice the lights on in my garage. A pit the size of a boulder forms in my throat and I cannot swallow. “…fuck me” I manage to whisper. So I park the car and walk in the house, Red Bull in hand. I set it down gently and actually thought I might sneak away from my parents’ peripheral vision and avoid any immediate conflict. Pop starts off with an innocent enough sounding question, “Where were you?” …How the fuck do you answer that? Your dad knows you took the car out and shoves a question like that at you. “Uhhh….I went to get Red Bull,” I said truthfully. I am a fantastic liar by nature, I’ll lie straight in the face of a stranger, but I simply cannot lie to my parents. Just can’t. So we launched into a little question answer thing for like 30 seconds. It was then assumed that we were officially in the initial “son we’re very disappointed in you” phase. Yeah, so I just stayed the fuck out of my dad’s way the rest of the night. Didn’t speak to him for like a day straight. I seriously was terrified for what was going to happen to me. I’m not gonna see the steering wheel of a car till college! The guilt was horrible. I HATE feeling guilty. Amazingly enough, my mom did not take it nearly as painfully as my dad did. I was back on speaking basis with my mom well before attempting to break the ice with my dad. Eventually, the shit stains got washed away. Shit’s still not 100% cool though. For one, trust is broken. My dad is partial to a certain phrase, that goes something like: “You can fuck me over once, not twice.” Meaning that you can gain his trust, but once broken, it’s much much harder to gain it back. That’s the story. The irony to the whole story is that I started out wanting Red Bull and vodka, but ended up both not having my alcoholic cocktail, and also being sent for a massive guilt trip. Alcohol’s a bitch.

To relate it to my mom’s 10 day departure to Israel, SHE HID THE FUCKING CAR KEYS. When your parents don’t trust you around the fuck-damned car keys….

Amazing, though.

My mom is flying in from Israel home today. Me and pops gotta prepare.

Oyyy…what a day. I awoke to blare some Steve Vai over the craptacular techno Russian singing shit my dad is so particularly fond of. Took a little shower, got dressed, and had me a bowl of cereal. Then dishwashing was commanded of me. Faced with a desperate situation, with no woman nearby to dump the degrading duty on, I was forced to do the shit myself. Ugh…Soon after, me and pops ventured over to the bank to fix my account, and thereby enabling online checking for me. Went to Shoprite, and shopped a little. Got me a couple bags of chips (one of which included FUNYUNS *orgasms*) and other assorted foodstuffs. Got home, and there was faced with the chore of vaccuming the bottom carpeted floor. Meh…where are women when you need them? 2nd degrading duty of the day and I vaccumed. Then pops went to get some food at Chili’s. He returned with two orders of boneless buffalo wings. That shit + Sam Adams = FANTASTIC. My mommy should be landing in about an hour. Missed her. Yeah, I said it. I’m a momma’s boy and PROUD.

I went to work today, after not working for THREE MONTHS. Damn…

Okay day, though. I consumed large amounts of fluid today, I think. Let’s count it out. Red Bull upon waking up. Milk with my cereal. Snapple with sandwich at lunch. Cup Noodle Soup (95% water). 2nd Red Bull. Another Snapple. Another Cup Noodle.

And then me and pops went out at some steakhouse to eat, where I had a glass of Shiraz. FANTASTIC WINE. I particularly love the warm feeling wine gives you, it feels great when you’re outside in the nipping wind. But yeah, glass of wine was the last liquid to enter my stomach.

To comment on the food a little bit, me and pops shared a 22 ounce porterhouse. I’ve never really seen a porterhouse before, and was pretty much expecting a huge slab of steak. When it arrived, medium prepared of course, it was a fucking t-bone! I actually wondered if the 22 ounces took into account the weight of the fucking bone. Whatever, the unbe-fucking-huge portion of meat I expected to be shoved in front of my face was not there. It was just a moderate amount of meat, only slightly more than that which I normally consume on Sundays (normally a 6 ounce piece of steak). Good dinner, though. I was pleased.

And that was essentially my day.



On the topic of XB360’s, while showing ass ugly (oop…I mean 00b3|- 1337 |-|4//7) chicks next to their premium systems, I figured a Penny Arcade classic was in due order:



The following is an excerpt sent to me by a friend just the other day. I find it sad, funny, depressing, and hilarious all in strange combination. Do peruse it.



So I’ve had about all I can stand. How is it marriage allows you to take someone sexually hostage? Where the fuck do women get off dictating what is an appropriate amount of sex? You say you just have too much going on and it’s not a priority but get your feelings hurt when you get cheated on, sorry not feeling the compassion like I should I guess.
Let me paint a picture. I mostly normal, professional, successful, kind, generous, blah blah blah. I am in my second marriage. The first was as much my fault as hers but one theme that held true was the drastic drop off in sex. What gives?

I have seen the scenario unfold many many times. You meet a guy and you fuck non stop for months. It tapers off but both are feeling pretty satisfied by the quality of sex and both agree that it will always be this way. In fact the guy is assuming this is a cornerstone of the relationship and takes this into consideration when he offers you a huge fucking ring you did nothing to deserve. Am I being to harsh? i don’t think so, about 1% of the population of the world has a diamond ring of 1 karat or larger. What makes you so special?

Let me take a different tact, if it costs $8,000 for a ring for 1 or 2 years of pornstar sex so be it, just lay it out there, get it on the table that it’s a negotiable contract that comes due every couple years. You agree to be the nasty fuck toy we fell in love with and we will buy you another ring or other appropriate trinket. that’s fair isn’t it?

But no… it doesn’t work out like that. Half a dozen years into your marriage you just don’t have time anymore. What used to be a fun quicky on the bathroom counter now is just a pain in the ass. Hmmm where did we go wrong, how did mankind get duped like this? How can we warn the young men who are about to make the fatal mistake of putting a ring on your spoiled finger.

Do I sound bitter? well I guess I do. Let me explain, I’m sure there’s more than myself in this unfortunate spot.
My wife of 6 years has had sex with me 12 times this year. Three of the last four times she said “I’m just going to lay here, I don’t want to do anything. Just hurry up and get it over with”.
The final insult came last week when she said I hate dragging it out, I just want to get my “O” and be done with it. (this takes 5 minutes tops)

I was empathetic for the first six years about how the anti depressants killed your sex drive, I did the research, I recommended the different types that weren’t as libido killing as the SSRI’s. Enough is enough though.

Let’s do the math

5 minutes of sex 12 times a year is one hour of sex per year. ONE FUCKING HOUR…
It used to be one hour or longer each time we had sex when we were dating. WHAT GIVES?

Lets compare that to the 8760 hours in a year. Yes almost 9 thousand hours in a year and you can barely be bothered to fuck for one of them? You should be arrested, you should be fined, you should be publicly humiliated.
Yes, I am being a baby. I totally understand that I am being a raving lunatic.

Why? Because I have tried divorce once. Nevermind that it was financially devastating, life altering, and hell on earth for years. None of that compares to the fact that it forever ruined my relationship with my children, regardless of what you may console yourselves with divorce hurts everyone and no one is better for it unless you are in harms way by staying.

I am so sick of the spoiled, me me me attitude by today’s american woman that I could just bite myself.
During the dating phase you told us all your hopes and dreams which mostly consisted of a nice home, kids, a dog, family holidays, vacations, etc.
We told you we liked all that but wanted a car or a motorcycle or a boat to go along with it.

Fast forward half a dozen years. You have all the things you wanted, nevermind the mortgage is oppressive, the activities for the kids cost hundreds of dollars a month, you bitch constantly about how you hate the house you absolutely HAD to have years ago. You have a medicine cabinet full of Paxil, Effexor, vicodin, sleep pills, awake pills, everthing but a fucking horny pill.
You bitch that all your friends have the things you want and you are miserable yet the kids are the best kids in the history of the world, everyone is healthy, you drive an SUV like your friends, you get Starbucks regularly.

Your bored? you don’t have your own life? You feel over worked. Don’t get me wrong, raising children is the hardest job by far since it rarely affords a break but is it so bad? (Agreed that the kids are so spectacular because of your contstant attention, but if you ignore your marriage it will go the way of a forgotten child too)
You could have been born poor, you could have to work 50 hours a week and take care of the kids, and pay for the mortgage on your own but you don’t. Instead you go to play group, you shop, you drive around looking at houses you dream of living in instead of the one you have.

I can see how you don’t have any time for sex. I mean after all the guy who sacraficed his own hopes and dreams to finance yours probably isn’t worthy of some respect, admiration, and god forbid occasional sex.
(disclaimer time… I know us guys are a pain in the ass to live with that goes without saying)

The moral of the story is that it’s just as much your fault as mine that I have taken a lover, she is everything your not. She is carefree, she acts like a total slut because we have an understanding that I prize her above all things for just being her slutty self, not condemning her for it. She doesn’t accusingly look at me like I duped her into buying that fucking leper of a house, doesn’t tell me that I stole her life from her because she is raising children now.
It is a total vacation from everything you have become.
The funny thing is I would totally be there with you hand in hand praising you instead of her if you would only treat me like a human again. If you would only show the slightest passion, if you would just quit trying to take any possible enjoyment out of life for me and everyone around you then maybe, just maybe we could have a good life.

And please, don’t give me the line about the medication and the councilors anymore, it worked for the first six years but it doesn’t fly anymore. You came from a good family, you weren’t abused, you weren’t neglected, you are attractive, funny, kind, sweet at times.

I’ve saved the best part for last.
I am angry at myself for letting life get here. I should not have loved you so much that I could never say no. I should have not married you so soon, I should have bought all the things I wanted before we married.
Most of all I hate that I am saying these things to a million nobody’s in Internet land instead of you. I would, really I would have but we all know what happens when you drink, and you drink a lot these days.

Most of all I can’t believe I could be so stupid as to find myself here again. What did I cosmically do wrong? what did I do to piss off God in a past life to deserve this?

I am so fucking pissed off at you for everything, why did you fucking have to fucking be this way? why couldn’t you just fucking be sane, why? why, fucking, why? I just want to kick a chair or break a window or something.


I find it particularly interesting when I have these little traffic spikes. As of this writing, there have been 28 hits on my site today. Yet, I only see 3 comments. So, utilizing basic mathematics, that must mean that 25 people just read and leave, right? Interesting stuff indeed. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: I don’t care if people read this thing. I like to have an audience, sure, but I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if nobody on the face of the earth knew about this thing. Frankly, much of the time, that’s the way it is. I have maybe 2 constant readers who comment on a fairly regular basis.

The thing that separates writers into two distinct camps, I think, is the motivation. WHO are you writing for? Yourself or others? WHY are you writing? Are you writing simply to have an audience? Simply so someone will acknowledge your pitiful existence? Or are you writing for yourself, because you enjoy writing, because of what it provides for you?

Personally, writing has helped me in quite a few ways. During particularly emotionally stressful moments, I can bang out a page in Word in 10 minutes flat, just non-stop typing. Amazing how it works too, because you feel indescribably better after getting your feelings out.

Writing also serves as a record keeper. Nobody has a mind that catalogues life events flawlessly. Our mind sorts between the details it WANTS to remember, and discards the rest. Writing is what you make out of it. You can just pour an entire event out and it’ll stay right where it is, forever.

Lastly, I think, writing serves as something you can always look back on. Years from now, when you look at your writing, you may suddenly remember the events that occurred long long ago. You might laugh at how you treated the events then, you might just read on in reminiscence. Regardless, all your feelings and comments are always available for you to unexpectedly find and peruse over much later.

That’s kinda it. Bye, now.