Pick of Destiny

Check out this clip from the upcoming Tenacious D movie:

http://www.amazon.com/Tenacious-D-Pick-Destiny/dp/B000IOM1RI/ref=pd_sxp_f_i/002-0069848-2918460

Fantasy Football

Well, turns out Friday the 13th meant bad luck, after all -- in fantasy football. I'm a combined 1-5 in my three leagues over the last two weeks. In the 'home' league, I'm 0-2 over the span; I've lost by a combined 4.05 points. In that league, I'm now 3-4 and a game from being out of the playoffs despite having -- by a large margin -- the most total points in the league. I've lost two games due to players getting injured or unexpectedly not playing. This week I singlehandedly destroyed Greg Jennings by starting him in two leagues.

The results: One catch, one point and, now, one ankle.

I hastily snapped his streak of four straight 8+ point weeks. You're welcome.

Why the fuck is my program taking twenty minutes to compile? Fuck Visual Studio.

No, I shouldn't say that. I'm just projecting. I'm sorry, Visual Studio. I can't stay mad at you.

p.s. I was up till 3:30 in the AM working last night. On fewer than five hours of sleep. It takes me back to mornings during middle school, when I had to wake up at 7 AM every day. Shudder. I'd wake up, take a shower, lay on the cold bathroom tile floor afterwards and think, literally, no hyperbole required, 'Why would God let this happen? Why can I be this tired?'

Friday the 13th

I just checked the date. Yep, it's Friday the 13th. In addition to this bad omen, I'm getting an unsettling vibe when I think about October 13th in general. It's kinda creepy.

Or maybe it's just a vibe about October in general. We have a history.

Skirling winds. Plummeting temperatures. Halloween. Ghosts.

...

I wrote the above earlier this morning. Now it's afternoon, and I'm starting to feel sick. Uh-oh.

John Stamos to Build Nuke, Too

One day after North Korea purportedly detonated its first nuclear weapon, which registered between 500-1000 tons on seismographs, John Stamos has reiterated that he will continue his own nuclear weapons program.

"We are determined to prove John Stamos is a forced to be reckoned with," said the actor/producer/broadway star, a veritable dreamy-eyed triple threat who will play a gay wedding planner for an upcoming A&E original film, Wedding Wars, this fall.

Stamos contends his scientists are nearing completion of the Stamos I. "Time is of the essence," said Stamos. "It's like following the fat kid in the Physical Fitness Test. Our Bomb will look much more impressive juxtaposed to North Korea's."

The blast in North Korea appears to have been weaker, by a magnitude of twenty-five to fifty, than the first tests conducted by the United States and other nuclear powers, leading some to question the succcess, and verity, of the nuclear explosion.

Experts say they would expect readings in the 5-15 kiloton range for a nuclear blast.

A representative from the newest member of the club, Pakistan, scoffed at Kim Jung Il's demonstration of power, saying, "Is that the best he can do? One-half kiloton? Maybe he simply passed gas."

Flatulence has yet to be officially recorded by a seismograph.

A government official of India, however, believes that "[i]f anyone could do it, it's Kim Jung Il. I mean look at the man. I bet he really lets them rip."

India, like Pakistan, became a nuclear power in 1998.

John Stamos is determined to be the next "real" member of the Nuke Fraternity. The former teen idol -- and present heartthrob -- has denied allegations he would use nuclear weapons as a bargaining chip to facilitate the production of new episodes of Full House on Fox.

"It would take a much larger threat than total annihilation," said Pakistan. "Plus, now that the Olsen twins are legal, it would make much more sense on Showtime."

"Or possibly HBO," India offered. "Those girls indeed are hot-hot-hot!"

After an a-la-la-la-la tongue-scream of agreement, Pakistan added, "Why is the one Olsen twin more attractive? I just don't get that."

"I know," agreed India. "It's like, what gives? I thought they were twins."

"Ashley can split my atom any day."

Amid rumors circulating that the Olsen twins are the mastermind scientists behind the John Stamos nuclear weapons program, the smooth-skinned hunk, a hunk of burning love, from Cypress, California, remained tight-lipped. "My scientists will not eat or sleep or star in movies until they are finished creating the nuclear device," Stamos said.

The United States has yet to threaten sanctions against John Stamos.

Russia and China, key veto-wielding members of the UN's Security Council, say they will stand behind the United States in the "Stamos Standoff". Russian defense minister Sergei Ivanov refuted reports that talks had commenced between Russia and the former General Hospital cast member.


"The Russian nation has no interest in John Stamos. We did not get that television show in the Mother Land," said Ivanov of the sitcom Full House, which catapulted Stamos (who played Uncle Jessie, guitarist and motorcycle enthusiast) to stardom in America. He added, "Though I have heard good things."

While the intentions of the 44-year-old Stamos remain unclear, one thing is certain: it seems unlikely he will ever have a hotter wife than ex-supermodel Rebecca Romijn.

The couple divorced in 2005.

Stamos refuses to negotiate with members of the Security Council, instead demanding bilateral talks with Ashton Kutcher, whose datelist of Hollywood Hotties includes Monet Mazur, Ashley Scott, Britney Murphy, and Demi Moore.

John Stamos currently resides in Los Angeles, California, where he kicks himself over and over and over again.

Ne-Yo -- Sexy Love

She makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up
Just one touch
And I errupt like a volcano and cover her with my love

Eww.

Superkitty

While taking scantily-clad photographs of myself, strictly to log my dieting progress, promise, I serendipitously captured my kitty in mid-takeoff. (Since this is a family site, except for the swearing and many, many references to masturbation, I have cropped the kitty, eschewing nudity. )

I wonder what prompted Georgia to flee the scene with alacritous urgency?

Look away; I'm hideous!

The Everlasting Gobstopper

From one of my favorite movies, Almost Famous:

Sweet? Where do you get off? Where do you get sweet? I am dark and mysterious, and I am pissed off! I could be very dangerous to all of you! And you should know that about me... I am the enemy!

The thing about introverts is we don't casually open up to people. Try cracking the shell on this guy. I dare you. Chomp down hard, baby, and I'll wave, grinning, as you rub that cheek of yours, nursing chipped teeth and hard feelings; I am an everlasting gobstopper. But don't take it personally. It's not that I don't try. Oh I've tried. But my ways of opening up are ninja-subtle, which, in hard times, can have its disadvantages.

I never claimed to be a smart introvert--just a talented one.

But it's all worth it if, in the end, it means the complete and utter avoidance of bared insecurity. It was a tough lesson, but a lesson learned nonetheless. Oh look at me, spouting nonsense again. Or am I? Who knows? Well, that's sort of the point.

You don't. You don't know the half of it. I don't care who you are, you don't know the half of it. Maybe a third here, or a quarter there--or some other fraction if it--but if you think you've gained enough inside four-one-one to know the half of it, think again. Actually, it's best not to think on it at all. Go about your lives and give it not another thought. This is not a cry for help.

Those days are over, for now.

Get me liquored up. Shoot my veins with sodium pentothal. Headlock me and dole out nuggies until my skull aches and your knuckles bleed. These methods do not hold the key to this man's vault (unless we're talking about one masterful nuggie giver). No, the vault is forever closed, and, if that pain inside is any indication, I might have mistakenly swallowed the key. So unless you're willing to miniaturize yourself and select a sincerely wise guise -- such as a honeycomb, or a pepperoni -- in order to enter my innards (specifically, my digestive tract) and find that key, count yourself amongst the countless others drifting through the dark fog in which I shroud my feelings.

It's a self-defense thing. Lesson learned, all that.

Not that what I think or feel matters much in the grand scheme of things. I've many negative characteristics--such as pessimism--but conceit is not one of them. Nor do I feel a sense of pride, or accomplishment, for possessing this hard-exterior/heart-of-gold persona; it's more or less what God made me, though relatively recent events in my life have only served to harden this mold He crafted.

Some of you, dear readership, may have an inkling into this madness I'm scribbling on about (if one can scribble on a word processor. Okay, call it e-scribbling). Honestly, I only started this post because I've vowed to keep this blog up-to-date and couldn't think of another topic. It's ironic, since this post doesn't really have a topic. If it does, no one will be able to figure it out. You might have your guesses, and your guesses might hold pieces of the answer. But only pieces. Not even half the pieces.

(Suddenly I'm craving Reese's Pieces. This damn diet will be the end of me.)

I am dark and mysterious. Well, okay: I'm pasty white and mysterious. Whatever. My extreme Caucasity hasn't got--here comes an obscure Mr. Show quote--"shit to do with dick". But anyway, I'm here. Writing this. I've written, including this, over two-thousand words tonight (about 1400 in fiction prose), which is a start, though sometimes it always seems to be the beginning of the end with me.

I am sleepy. I am mysterious.

I am Sasquatch.

I am going...going...gone.

A ten minute post

10:47 AM
I need a new book to read. In the meanwhile, I'm tackling some mysteries from an issue of Queen Ellery, which are so uninspiring that I'm once again starting to become excited about my potential as an author (this feeling ineluctably wanes after the first word or two of a writing session). Speaking of which, I've decided to start writing in at least two mandatory ten-minute sessions a day, the goal being to simply write without letting negativity -- i.e., the logic center of my brain -- get me down, without caring about grammar, shitty dialogue, fancy phrases, unnecessary metaphors, or mindnumbingly dumb plotlines. Last night I executed this plan to perfection. I wrote 170 some odd words in the first session. The second time, I actually wrote for the better part of an hour, which is a nice, anticipated side effect: the likelihood that I'll continue writing past the ten minute barrier. In total, I churned out a solid 1200 words of fiction. Yes, upon re-reading my work this morning I hastily vomited (it was either that or morning sickness, but I don't think I'm preggers), but oh well. I'll probably never publish anything, and no, this website doesn't count, but that doesn't mean I can't improve and, maybe, someday, be able to read my own fiction without retching. Let's face it, if I can't force myself to write for ten minutes, ten lousy minutes I'd otherwise spend staring at ESPN.COM for the hundredth time of the day, then
10:57 AM

Jibber-jabber

I'm in a reading phase. In fact, I've read two books in the past week. It's the first time I've accomplished that feat in quite a while. I've found that reading inspires my creative juices. I lay in the bathtub, read some piece of shit novel, and think, 'I can do this. It's not that hard. This author sucks.' It inspires me to drag my sopping wet ass (literally) over to the seat of my recliner, plop down and plop out some poopy (not literally). After a solid twenty minutes of writing -- if I'm lucky enough to momentarily defeat pessimism and get that far -- after about three-hundred words tippity-typed on the ole word processor, I make the fatal mistake and re-read the two or three paragraphs I've penned thus far.

Then I stop, collaborate, and listen. Ice is back with my brand new invention. Something, grabs a hold of me tightly. Flow like a harpoon, daily and nightly. Will it ever stop? Yo, I don't know. Turn off the lights, and I'll glow. To the extreme, I rock the mic like a vandal, light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle.

Oops, sorry. That's not what happens exactly, but close enough. I do stop, though. The only time I really ever let myself just write without giving into Senor Negativity (that lazy Mexican bastard) was a few years ago when I took a semester off college. I was naive enough to believe I could improve by just writing for three months straight. Okay, I did improve, but being proud of that is like being proud of moving up from the bench to the starting lineup of a single-A farm team...of the Milwaukee Brewers.

All right, enough jibber-jabber for now.