That Radiohead song "Fitter Happier"? That song is good at evoking a mood but I mean COME ON! Not even COME ON about anything in particular, but just COME ON!
Fitter Happier? MORE LIKE SHITTER CRAPPYER!
Like, I like the song and I don't even know what I'm talking about here and I'm just kind of typing this for no discernible reason but COME ON!
I can do like 100x better!
"Fitterer Happiererest" by Kip LaCombe,
"FITTERER
HAPPIEREREST
MORE LIKE A DOG
MADE OF SORROW
OR, LIKE, DREAMS, OR SOMETHING WEIRD
WHICHEVER SOUNDS WEIRDER
CHOOSE OUT OF THOSE LAST TWO
SOMETHING ABOUT ANTIBIOTICS
I LIKE FRANZ KAFKA
TOM YORKE AND LIKE THE MATRIX
PIGS INSIDE OF STUFF
SHUT UP, CARL
I HATE YOU, CARL
CARL IS AN IDIOT
FUCK CARL
MORE PRODUCTIVE
DAILY ROUTINES ARE IMPORTANT
NEVER WASHING SPIDERS DOWN THE PLUGHOLE
WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN
DO PEOPLE DO THAT
THAT MIGHT BE A THING PEOPLE DO IN WHICH CASE I'M SORRY
SHUT THE FUCK UP, CARL
ANDROIDS WHO KNOW HOW TO LOVE
BUT NOT HOW TO LOVE
LIKE, IT'S A RIDDLE
IT'S A FUCKING RIDDLE, CARL
CARL I'M GONNA WASH YOU DOWN THE PLUGHOLE
A PIG ON ANTIBIOTICS
THAT'S WHY WE SHOULD ALL SHOP AT WHOLE FOODS
FUCK CARL."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE BREAK]
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
And Jill Came Tumblring After...
"The map has changed and with it me."
Vibrato! Vibrrrrrrrratoooooooooo!
If I had the gall I would have said if I had the balls.
If I had the balls I'd punch a cop in the badge, so that my hand would crack open and release my bloodjuicies all over his shirt. He would be a flag: red (through bloodjuicies) blue (via mandated uniform) and white (because if I have to explain that one than YOU obviously need to brush up on your stereotypes). I'd ask him what it was like to be a flag and he'd probably say something like, "Black people are called coons!" And I'd tell him, "WOAH! Hey man, I just made a half-joking non-joke about you being white because you're a cop (and vice-versa) and the least you could do is not validate your racism!" And he'd say, "Sorry, but when it comes to the stereotypes you choose to embody than they're much harder to cast aside than the ones you're supposedly born with, because it's inherent in everyone to contradict themselves to the fullest extend of the law you Mexican asshole."
The cop in this story's name was extortion-
-NO!
The cop in this story's name was "Murray." Sorry, Murray.
Anyway, this asshole Murray was such a cop that when ever he copped a feel he'd say, "Hey, I'm coppin' a feel!" and then he'd beat you to death and eat you. Told you he was a jerk.
But cannibalism aside, Murry made a few good points while gumming on my toes: everyone wants to be an anomaly. I'm an anomaly in that I don't want to be an anomaly at all.
Wait, that doesn't work? FUCK! I GUESS I'M STILL NOT AN ANOMALY! THIS CLUB IS HARDER TO GET INTO THAN THE DIABETIC INDIANS OF CONGRESSIONAL POST-ROCK!
But I post-almost-digress: Anomaly rhymes with you + me except that it doesn't. And just like it doesn't, we all doesn't. We all doesn't even close to it. It's what makes us not want to be like our parents. It's what makes us not want to be a caricature. It's what makes us want to be like our friend's parents. It's what wants us to be like a character. It's what wants what we want to what's what? Okay!
Just because I can't articulate my thoughts doesn't mean I'm not typing that one thing I want to say or something. I want to be the text-equivalent of your brakes locking-up before a bridge-out sign.
But what you don't understand is that AHHHH OH MY GOD THE BRAKES AREN'T WORKING FUCK TOYOTA FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK TOYOTA!
But our will to go against assimilation is the same thing that keeps our foot clamped shut on the break-hammer (I don't know how cars work) even though we know we're going off the cliff and we're all going to die fat virgins and our bloodjuicies are going to paint a hilarious portrait for some wandering immortal who loves Jackson Pollock.
What I'm trying to say is: there's a reason you meet so many Jeremy Pivens.
What I'm trying to say is HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!
HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!
HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!
OOOOOOOH OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH YEAHHHHHHHHH
The Wodner Yeats.
~Kip
Vibrato! Vibrrrrrrrratoooooooooo!
If I had the gall I would have said if I had the balls.
If I had the balls I'd punch a cop in the badge, so that my hand would crack open and release my bloodjuicies all over his shirt. He would be a flag: red (through bloodjuicies) blue (via mandated uniform) and white (because if I have to explain that one than YOU obviously need to brush up on your stereotypes). I'd ask him what it was like to be a flag and he'd probably say something like, "Black people are called coons!" And I'd tell him, "WOAH! Hey man, I just made a half-joking non-joke about you being white because you're a cop (and vice-versa) and the least you could do is not validate your racism!" And he'd say, "Sorry, but when it comes to the stereotypes you choose to embody than they're much harder to cast aside than the ones you're supposedly born with, because it's inherent in everyone to contradict themselves to the fullest extend of the law you Mexican asshole."
The cop in this story's name was extortion-
-NO!
The cop in this story's name was "Murray." Sorry, Murray.
Anyway, this asshole Murray was such a cop that when ever he copped a feel he'd say, "Hey, I'm coppin' a feel!" and then he'd beat you to death and eat you. Told you he was a jerk.
But cannibalism aside, Murry made a few good points while gumming on my toes: everyone wants to be an anomaly. I'm an anomaly in that I don't want to be an anomaly at all.
Wait, that doesn't work? FUCK! I GUESS I'M STILL NOT AN ANOMALY! THIS CLUB IS HARDER TO GET INTO THAN THE DIABETIC INDIANS OF CONGRESSIONAL POST-ROCK!
But I post-almost-digress: Anomaly rhymes with you + me except that it doesn't. And just like it doesn't, we all doesn't. We all doesn't even close to it. It's what makes us not want to be like our parents. It's what makes us not want to be a caricature. It's what makes us want to be like our friend's parents. It's what wants us to be like a character. It's what wants what we want to what's what? Okay!
Just because I can't articulate my thoughts doesn't mean I'm not typing that one thing I want to say or something. I want to be the text-equivalent of your brakes locking-up before a bridge-out sign.
But what you don't understand is that AHHHH OH MY GOD THE BRAKES AREN'T WORKING FUCK TOYOTA FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK TOYOTA!
But our will to go against assimilation is the same thing that keeps our foot clamped shut on the break-hammer (I don't know how cars work) even though we know we're going off the cliff and we're all going to die fat virgins and our bloodjuicies are going to paint a hilarious portrait for some wandering immortal who loves Jackson Pollock.
What I'm trying to say is: there's a reason you meet so many Jeremy Pivens.
What I'm trying to say is HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!
HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!
HIGH WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MAH FRIENDS!
OOOOOOOH OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH YEAHHHHHHHHH
The Wodner Yeats.
~Kip
Monday, May 2, 2011
FUCK YOU, ARNOLD FROM THE MAGIC SCHOOLBUS
"I knew I should have stayed home today!"
SHUT UP, ARNOLD, YOU'RE ON A FUCKING SCHOOLBUS DRIVING THROUGH SOME GUY'S ACTUAL TRACHEA. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE MS. FRIZZLE AS YOUR TEACHER? SHE NEVER GIVES ANY FORM OF TEST OR QUIZ OR WORK, SHE JUST MAKES YOU LEARN ABOUT PHOTOSYNTHESIS BY GOING INSIDE A PLANT OR SOME SHIT. ALSO, IT'S WEIRD THAT YOU SAY THAT EVERY DAY. YOU SHOULD PROBABLY HAVE GUESSED BY NOW THAT YOU'RE GOING TO BE GOING ON A FANTASTIC ADVENTURE THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH YOUR PEERS EVERY DAY OF THE FUCKING WEEK, THAT'S A MOTIF THAT NEVER CHANGES HOW THE FUCK HAVE YOU NOT REALIZED THIS PATTERN YET? IF YOU HAVEN'T, THEN WHY DO YOU SAY THAT EVERY DAY? IT'S WEIRD, SAY SOMETHING ELSE. THE SAME SPECIFIC STATEMENT REPEATED EVERY DAY MAKES YOU SOUND LIKE SOME KIND OF AUTISTIC BITCH WHO'S UNGRATEFUL THAT HE IS RECEIVING AN EDUCATION AT ALL WITH THE ECONOMY THE WAY IT IS, AND THAT HIS MOM NEVER HAS TO SIGN A PERMISSION SLIP OR ANYTHING. GOD, SHUT UP YOU LOSER INGRATE DWEEB. I HAVEN'T USED THE WORD DWEEB SINCE THE 90S BUT YOU'RE A FUCKING DWEEB. NEXT TIME YOU SAY, "I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE STAYED HOME TODAY," WHICH WILL PROBABLY BE TOMORROW IN CONTINUING WITH YOUR WEIRD-ASS RAIN-MAN PATTERN YOU'VE DEVELOPED IN RESPONSE TO THE INEVITABLE FIELD TRIP TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH, I'M GOING TO FUCKING HIT YOU IN THE FACE WITH A RAKE. THAT'S RIGHT, I'M THREATENING TO HARM AND POTENTIALLY KILL AN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL STUDENT. I DON'T EVEN CARE AT THIS POINT, ARNOLD, YOU ARE A FUCKING ASSHOLE AND THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT. YOU NEED TO LEARN TO ENJOY LIFE WHILE YOU HAVE THE ADVANTAGE OF YOUTH. NO, LET ME REPHRASE THAT, ENJOY LIFE WHILE YOU HAVE THE ADVANTAGE OF A MAGIC FUCKING SCHOOLBUS THAT CAN BEND THE RULES OF PHYSICS TO ITS WILL. YOU KNOW WHO ELSE HAS ONE OF THOSE? NO ONE ELSE IN THE FUCKING WORLD.
FUCK YOU, MS. FRIZZLE IS A GREAT TEACHER AND A TERRIFIC HUMAN BEING. MAYBE WHEN YOU GROW UP YOU'LL LEARN TO APPRECIATE THAT SOMEONE OUT THERE CARES ABOUT YOU.
LOVE,
KIP
SHUT UP, ARNOLD, YOU'RE ON A FUCKING SCHOOLBUS DRIVING THROUGH SOME GUY'S ACTUAL TRACHEA. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE MS. FRIZZLE AS YOUR TEACHER? SHE NEVER GIVES ANY FORM OF TEST OR QUIZ OR WORK, SHE JUST MAKES YOU LEARN ABOUT PHOTOSYNTHESIS BY GOING INSIDE A PLANT OR SOME SHIT. ALSO, IT'S WEIRD THAT YOU SAY THAT EVERY DAY. YOU SHOULD PROBABLY HAVE GUESSED BY NOW THAT YOU'RE GOING TO BE GOING ON A FANTASTIC ADVENTURE THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH YOUR PEERS EVERY DAY OF THE FUCKING WEEK, THAT'S A MOTIF THAT NEVER CHANGES HOW THE FUCK HAVE YOU NOT REALIZED THIS PATTERN YET? IF YOU HAVEN'T, THEN WHY DO YOU SAY THAT EVERY DAY? IT'S WEIRD, SAY SOMETHING ELSE. THE SAME SPECIFIC STATEMENT REPEATED EVERY DAY MAKES YOU SOUND LIKE SOME KIND OF AUTISTIC BITCH WHO'S UNGRATEFUL THAT HE IS RECEIVING AN EDUCATION AT ALL WITH THE ECONOMY THE WAY IT IS, AND THAT HIS MOM NEVER HAS TO SIGN A PERMISSION SLIP OR ANYTHING. GOD, SHUT UP YOU LOSER INGRATE DWEEB. I HAVEN'T USED THE WORD DWEEB SINCE THE 90S BUT YOU'RE A FUCKING DWEEB. NEXT TIME YOU SAY, "I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE STAYED HOME TODAY," WHICH WILL PROBABLY BE TOMORROW IN CONTINUING WITH YOUR WEIRD-ASS RAIN-MAN PATTERN YOU'VE DEVELOPED IN RESPONSE TO THE INEVITABLE FIELD TRIP TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH, I'M GOING TO FUCKING HIT YOU IN THE FACE WITH A RAKE. THAT'S RIGHT, I'M THREATENING TO HARM AND POTENTIALLY KILL AN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL STUDENT. I DON'T EVEN CARE AT THIS POINT, ARNOLD, YOU ARE A FUCKING ASSHOLE AND THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT. YOU NEED TO LEARN TO ENJOY LIFE WHILE YOU HAVE THE ADVANTAGE OF YOUTH. NO, LET ME REPHRASE THAT, ENJOY LIFE WHILE YOU HAVE THE ADVANTAGE OF A MAGIC FUCKING SCHOOLBUS THAT CAN BEND THE RULES OF PHYSICS TO ITS WILL. YOU KNOW WHO ELSE HAS ONE OF THOSE? NO ONE ELSE IN THE FUCKING WORLD.
FUCK YOU, MS. FRIZZLE IS A GREAT TEACHER AND A TERRIFIC HUMAN BEING. MAYBE WHEN YOU GROW UP YOU'LL LEARN TO APPRECIATE THAT SOMEONE OUT THERE CARES ABOUT YOU.
LOVE,
KIP
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Tom's TV
Tom's TV
Tom jerked off for the twelfth time to the whole infomercial for College Girls Exposed and the first eighth of a Save the Children drive, although he wasn't really paying attention at that point. His nights had become increasingly sleepless ever since the power button on his TV stopped working, leaving the wretched device perpetually on 24/7. Even more disturbing, a power surge had literally melted the plastic around the outlet plug, keeping it plugged in. Most disturbing of all, he angered a Tiki God at a Hawaiian t-shirt store, which cursed Tom's circuit breaker to provide power to his TV forever. Tom would have simply ripped out some chords and moved the TV, but it was expensive and Tom feared he might hurt himself if he tried fumbling with the electrics
Tom replayed the entire saga in his head for the twelfth time: He had initially tried calling customer service, who told him in a fake American accent that his TV would never turn off again. Tom then tried inviting over his friend who builds TV sets, who told him in a thick Boston accent that once this type of situation happens, the TV, "just ain't gonna get turned off." Finally, he tried calling a mechanic, who told him in a mechanic's accent that his TV was beyond the point of repair. He then attempted to simply turn off the cable box as a temporary fix, but was transported into a dimension where those who defy the Tiki Gods are doomed to suffer for all eternity.
So there Tom was, praying to the Tiki Gods for a night of sleep while watching a man with a starving child on his knee, asking for donations for the twelfth time. Tom heard from a friend once that most of the proceeds for that sort of thing go to the church and only, like, a third actually goes to the children, but he wasn't sure how true that was and he figured a third is probably better than nothing. If anything it would allow him to stop feeling so guilty about accidentally finishing a rigorous masturbation session to a little girl with bugs crawling on her feet if he donated a little bit. But his phone was still in the pocket of his pants, which were hanging halfway out of the hamper on the other side of the room. Though Tom's mind was awake, his legs were comatose and his bladder wasn't full enough yet to snap them out of it. Tom pictured the reunion: his legs waking up in a hospital bed, his bladder sitting there crying, "I never left your side the whole two weeks!" (which was bullshit, though Tom, as bladders probably have to use the bathroom at least once, but Tom later decided the bladder was just being hyperbolic.)
If his remote wasn't lost, he would have muted the volume, but every night by 12am midnight he's too exhausted to get up and turn the volume down. He would turn the volume down to 0, instead of muting it, because the font of the word MUTE in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen annoyed him and wasn't positioned center enough between the two sides of the bottom right angle of the screen. He would have put a pillow over his head and turned to face the wall, but Tom always hated facing the wall because when he was a kid he took the expression "someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed" and took it to heart; adopting it as his mantra after developing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. All the little superstitions and fears he developed as a child eventually wormed their way into his head in his teenage years, and now he pays a mann in an Austrian accent to tell him it's OCD every month in a sterile room with too many pictures of Reagan on the wall for Tom to take him seriously, even though that shouldn't matter as far as his professionalism is concerned. "How can I take someone like that seriously?" thought Tom as he flipped to a channel that was playing melodic symphony music (thank the heavens for PBS!) Isn't Reagan the problem? Isn't capitalism what's making him depressed?
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, It's not capitalism causing his depression. It's this fucking television set that won't turn off. Actually it's an imbalance of shfjshfksjkjexes and anti-pnjsjdlksldkaxes misfiring in the polololsdsjnjsnjololian center of the brain, according to a pamphlet he once read half of. But right now, in the moment, the problem is this fucking television set. This cursed fucking television set. This inane, mind-numbing, shitty, anti-Semitic asinine jew nigger Reaganite fucking slut whore television. This asshole faggot piece of shit Lutheran highdef banana dada futurism twelve-as-a-motif tike idol kike shitty slut whore racecar palindrome Rac E. Car cunt pussy dike spic spicdike cum nigger racear slut whore bitch bastard foul womb cripple tardy-gaited witch, "who, like a foul and ugly witch doth limp so tediously away" Shakesperean nada radiogaga capitalist obsessive compulsive Tiki-loving cunt fucking television.
Tom had tried at least twelve times to write a rant about his television like the one above, but was concerned about using the N-word in it. He would have been using it facetiously, and he would certainly have included an addendum to the following paragraph explaining that, but he didn't have the strength to get up anyway. His computer was all the way across the room in his clothes hamper, hanging halfway out, in his pants from last year. That's not right. My computeristoobigformypantstofitinsideofthehamperwithmybadself.
Tom thought of about twelve good potential names for the heavy metal band he would start if he ever learned how to play the harpsichord and sing at the same time, but only three of them were actually good. Christallnacht, Dr. Hatefuck, and Thelonious Punk. The other nine aren't worth mentioning. It was at this moment that Tom realized he didn't have any arms. This was something he probably should have noticed earlier in life, because to find out at age twenty-something that you've never had arms is a lot harder than coming to terms with it as a child. Tom tried to remember how he wrote papers while he was in school, or how he signed his checks at the bank, or how and why he got hired as a typist for a law firm and how he's been working that job for the past year and a half. But Tom had more important issues to worry about: he had somehow jacked off twelve times tonight without hands.
Twelve minutes later, Tom got out of bed, turned the volume down, made a sandwich, jerked off to a soundless episode of some old sitcom with a sort of hot actress playing the requisite bitchy wife, and typed up some work so he'd have time to take a nap in his office tomorrow.
Twelve years later, Tom is doing much better. He has arms now, as well as a few books out on the subject of ancient Hawaiian mythology. His TV is still always on, but he's learned to distract himself better from it, as well as to accept it as just a part of his life. He drinks more than he should, but is in relatively good health and is in a fulfilling relationship with his new female therapist, who still charges him but via sexual favors, which he is more than willing to provide. His face is upside down and the entire bottom-half of his body might be a steam-powered miniature locomotive, but he's optimistic. He's even set to direct a feature film based on one of his books starring and actress he's having an affair with. From time to time he is pulled into an alley and beaten by five men in black suits in an unmarked van, usually biannually on August 13th and Christmas Day, but this doesn't affect his job performance or the portal to Hell in his chest that will bring about Armageddon when he dies. No: for now, Tom is okay.
Tom jerked off for the twelfth time to the whole infomercial for College Girls Exposed and the first eighth of a Save the Children drive, although he wasn't really paying attention at that point. His nights had become increasingly sleepless ever since the power button on his TV stopped working, leaving the wretched device perpetually on 24/7. Even more disturbing, a power surge had literally melted the plastic around the outlet plug, keeping it plugged in. Most disturbing of all, he angered a Tiki God at a Hawaiian t-shirt store, which cursed Tom's circuit breaker to provide power to his TV forever. Tom would have simply ripped out some chords and moved the TV, but it was expensive and Tom feared he might hurt himself if he tried fumbling with the electrics
Tom replayed the entire saga in his head for the twelfth time: He had initially tried calling customer service, who told him in a fake American accent that his TV would never turn off again. Tom then tried inviting over his friend who builds TV sets, who told him in a thick Boston accent that once this type of situation happens, the TV, "just ain't gonna get turned off." Finally, he tried calling a mechanic, who told him in a mechanic's accent that his TV was beyond the point of repair. He then attempted to simply turn off the cable box as a temporary fix, but was transported into a dimension where those who defy the Tiki Gods are doomed to suffer for all eternity.
So there Tom was, praying to the Tiki Gods for a night of sleep while watching a man with a starving child on his knee, asking for donations for the twelfth time. Tom heard from a friend once that most of the proceeds for that sort of thing go to the church and only, like, a third actually goes to the children, but he wasn't sure how true that was and he figured a third is probably better than nothing. If anything it would allow him to stop feeling so guilty about accidentally finishing a rigorous masturbation session to a little girl with bugs crawling on her feet if he donated a little bit. But his phone was still in the pocket of his pants, which were hanging halfway out of the hamper on the other side of the room. Though Tom's mind was awake, his legs were comatose and his bladder wasn't full enough yet to snap them out of it. Tom pictured the reunion: his legs waking up in a hospital bed, his bladder sitting there crying, "I never left your side the whole two weeks!" (which was bullshit, though Tom, as bladders probably have to use the bathroom at least once, but Tom later decided the bladder was just being hyperbolic.)
If his remote wasn't lost, he would have muted the volume, but every night by 12am midnight he's too exhausted to get up and turn the volume down. He would turn the volume down to 0, instead of muting it, because the font of the word MUTE in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen annoyed him and wasn't positioned center enough between the two sides of the bottom right angle of the screen. He would have put a pillow over his head and turned to face the wall, but Tom always hated facing the wall because when he was a kid he took the expression "someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed" and took it to heart; adopting it as his mantra after developing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. All the little superstitions and fears he developed as a child eventually wormed their way into his head in his teenage years, and now he pays a mann in an Austrian accent to tell him it's OCD every month in a sterile room with too many pictures of Reagan on the wall for Tom to take him seriously, even though that shouldn't matter as far as his professionalism is concerned. "How can I take someone like that seriously?" thought Tom as he flipped to a channel that was playing melodic symphony music (thank the heavens for PBS!) Isn't Reagan the problem? Isn't capitalism what's making him depressed?
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, It's not capitalism causing his depression. It's this fucking television set that won't turn off. Actually it's an imbalance of shfjshfksjkjexes and anti-pnjsjdlksldkaxes misfiring in the polololsdsjnjsnjololian center of the brain, according to a pamphlet he once read half of. But right now, in the moment, the problem is this fucking television set. This cursed fucking television set. This inane, mind-numbing, shitty, anti-Semitic asinine jew nigger Reaganite fucking slut whore television. This asshole faggot piece of shit Lutheran highdef banana dada futurism twelve-as-a-motif tike idol kike shitty slut whore racecar palindrome Rac E. Car cunt pussy dike spic spicdike cum nigger racear slut whore bitch bastard foul womb cripple tardy-gaited witch, "who, like a foul and ugly witch doth limp so tediously away" Shakesperean nada radiogaga capitalist obsessive compulsive Tiki-loving cunt fucking television.
Tom had tried at least twelve times to write a rant about his television like the one above, but was concerned about using the N-word in it. He would have been using it facetiously, and he would certainly have included an addendum to the following paragraph explaining that, but he didn't have the strength to get up anyway. His computer was all the way across the room in his clothes hamper, hanging halfway out, in his pants from last year. That's not right. My computeristoobigformypantstofitinsideofthehamperwithmybadself.
Tom thought of about twelve good potential names for the heavy metal band he would start if he ever learned how to play the harpsichord and sing at the same time, but only three of them were actually good. Christallnacht, Dr. Hatefuck, and Thelonious Punk. The other nine aren't worth mentioning. It was at this moment that Tom realized he didn't have any arms. This was something he probably should have noticed earlier in life, because to find out at age twenty-something that you've never had arms is a lot harder than coming to terms with it as a child. Tom tried to remember how he wrote papers while he was in school, or how he signed his checks at the bank, or how and why he got hired as a typist for a law firm and how he's been working that job for the past year and a half. But Tom had more important issues to worry about: he had somehow jacked off twelve times tonight without hands.
Twelve minutes later, Tom got out of bed, turned the volume down, made a sandwich, jerked off to a soundless episode of some old sitcom with a sort of hot actress playing the requisite bitchy wife, and typed up some work so he'd have time to take a nap in his office tomorrow.
Twelve years later, Tom is doing much better. He has arms now, as well as a few books out on the subject of ancient Hawaiian mythology. His TV is still always on, but he's learned to distract himself better from it, as well as to accept it as just a part of his life. He drinks more than he should, but is in relatively good health and is in a fulfilling relationship with his new female therapist, who still charges him but via sexual favors, which he is more than willing to provide. His face is upside down and the entire bottom-half of his body might be a steam-powered miniature locomotive, but he's optimistic. He's even set to direct a feature film based on one of his books starring and actress he's having an affair with. From time to time he is pulled into an alley and beaten by five men in black suits in an unmarked van, usually biannually on August 13th and Christmas Day, but this doesn't affect his job performance or the portal to Hell in his chest that will bring about Armageddon when he dies. No: for now, Tom is okay.
Monday, January 17, 2011
THE GORBEN GLORBS
THE GORBEN GLORBS were last night (as of me writing this) and they were [adjective]! Johnny Cash hosted and was hilarious as usual, with his narky British oubservational coumedy (they obey a silent "u" in some words in the UK) and made several timely jabs at actour Bruce Willis and digital camera Ashton Kutcher.
The oddest part of the whole awaurd show was that I didn't feel like vomiting hate and eating it off the ground like a cow so that I could hold on to its self-sustaining self-sustenance and, as the hate drips down the dropper's throat, shake him with the realization that this hate is real. This life is real. At least I can believe in something and hate jumps gleefully at the prospect of auditioning for that role; at filling that void. Anyway, I didn't feel those things I just said when I read the results this morning.
Until I got to the TV section.
"Community", the funniest show currently still on television (for now), was snubbed of its rightful nomination in Best Series when it is obviously the Best Series ever. God, Kip, you sure LOOOOOOOOOOOVE "Community" a whole lots! I'm just saying, if "Community" asked if it could cum in my mouth, well I'd just say, "Auhghgh!" and give a thumbs up, altogether signifying a "yes" and then I'd be pregnant. WITH TALENT.
And if you're reading this blog, there's a good chance you hate "Glee" as much as I do. I didn't know they added pitch correction to Microsoft Speech until that show came on the air. Wow. That was a REALLY good sass. I'm kind of proud of myself, that sass was class!
Sass = class?
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
Sass = class!
But despite this, I don't really HATE "Glee". I hate watching "Glee". It's an experience similar to listening to Microsoft Speech with pitch correction (SO GOOD!) but it's a dumb guilty pleasure show that thankfully has never once taken itself seriously even in its serious moments. It knows it's camp. The fact that all these accolades have been put upon it is no fault of the show's creators. It's the fault of the same award show that gave "Avatar" Best Picture in 2010.
No, I'm upset at the winner of Best Performance by an Actor In A Television Series - Comedy Or Musical: Jim Parsons – "The Big Bang Theory" (CBS).
BEST PERFORMANCE IN A TELEVISION SERIES GOES TO FUCKING JIM PARSONS?
WRONG.
Best Performance OF ALL TIME.
Jim Parsons is the John Barrymore of the new milleni-times. Laurence Olivier can choke his blackfaced face on a cock a far as I'm concerned now that we have Jim Parsons from "The Big Bang Theory". Instead of being "good", Jim Parsons is "bad" at acting, which is a bodl strategy that has worked to his advantage. Typically when given what literally may be the worst writing on television, an actor with talent would try to spin that line in a humourous and intouresting wauy, but Jim Parsons does the shitty lines justice by reading them in a shitty nerd voice. GIRLS <3 NERDS! Almost as much as girls <3 classy sass (ladies?) and tampons.
In closing, I wrote a song about Jim Parsons:
JIM PARSONS! WINNER OF THE AWARD FOR STUFF!
SHOULD HAVE WON MORE!
SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE PRESIDENT OF ACTING!
HE'S MUCH BETTER AT ACTING!
THAN I THINK THE DUDE FROM GLEE IS AT ACTING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
song = best.
~Kip
The oddest part of the whole awaurd show was that I didn't feel like vomiting hate and eating it off the ground like a cow so that I could hold on to its self-sustaining self-sustenance and, as the hate drips down the dropper's throat, shake him with the realization that this hate is real. This life is real. At least I can believe in something and hate jumps gleefully at the prospect of auditioning for that role; at filling that void. Anyway, I didn't feel those things I just said when I read the results this morning.
Until I got to the TV section.
"Community", the funniest show currently still on television (for now), was snubbed of its rightful nomination in Best Series when it is obviously the Best Series ever. God, Kip, you sure LOOOOOOOOOOOVE "Community" a whole lots! I'm just saying, if "Community" asked if it could cum in my mouth, well I'd just say, "Auhghgh!" and give a thumbs up, altogether signifying a "yes" and then I'd be pregnant. WITH TALENT.
And if you're reading this blog, there's a good chance you hate "Glee" as much as I do. I didn't know they added pitch correction to Microsoft Speech until that show came on the air. Wow. That was a REALLY good sass. I'm kind of proud of myself, that sass was class!
Sass = class?
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
Sass = class!
But despite this, I don't really HATE "Glee". I hate watching "Glee". It's an experience similar to listening to Microsoft Speech with pitch correction (SO GOOD!) but it's a dumb guilty pleasure show that thankfully has never once taken itself seriously even in its serious moments. It knows it's camp. The fact that all these accolades have been put upon it is no fault of the show's creators. It's the fault of the same award show that gave "Avatar" Best Picture in 2010.
No, I'm upset at the winner of Best Performance by an Actor In A Television Series - Comedy Or Musical: Jim Parsons – "The Big Bang Theory" (CBS).
BEST PERFORMANCE IN A TELEVISION SERIES GOES TO FUCKING JIM PARSONS?
WRONG.
Best Performance OF ALL TIME.
Jim Parsons is the John Barrymore of the new milleni-times. Laurence Olivier can choke his blackfaced face on a cock a far as I'm concerned now that we have Jim Parsons from "The Big Bang Theory". Instead of being "good", Jim Parsons is "bad" at acting, which is a bodl strategy that has worked to his advantage. Typically when given what literally may be the worst writing on television, an actor with talent would try to spin that line in a humourous and intouresting wauy, but Jim Parsons does the shitty lines justice by reading them in a shitty nerd voice. GIRLS <3 NERDS! Almost as much as girls <3 classy sass (ladies?) and tampons.
In closing, I wrote a song about Jim Parsons:
JIM PARSONS! WINNER OF THE AWARD FOR STUFF!
SHOULD HAVE WON MORE!
SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE PRESIDENT OF ACTING!
HE'S MUCH BETTER AT ACTING!
THAN I THINK THE DUDE FROM GLEE IS AT ACTING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING! DELIBERATING!
song = best.
~Kip
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