June 23, 2011

Some times when I go a while without blogging, I don’t apologize or even acknowledge that I’m late with the grub. I just act like nothing happened (which is actually true…). But since me posting in my blog has gone from sporadic to the chance of you winning the lottery, maybe you deserve some sort of apology, eh?


Yesterday (give or take a few days) I woke up. I believe it was summer, since I haven’t been going to school and it’s 83 degrees. But then, I could be just a little off-schedule and with a fever.

It was around 7:00 in the morning and it was my friends birthday. She wanted to go to the mall with me and two of my sisters. I had stayed up until 3:00 in the morning the other night playing rented video games with my brother who was, like me, seasoned at birth with the salt of demented monstrosity. This gives him and myself the ability to play video games until the unholy hours of the morning without the help of junk food (although we probably consume more than the average person would, for the sheer joy of it).

Usually, I sleep in until 12:00 in the afternoon to get 8 hours of sleep. I like to sleep in, but when I don’t sleep in I never regret it. I decided immediately to go. Then I remembered two conditions I was in. The first was that I needed new shoes (which happens more than often). The second was that I possessed cash (which never happens). Hopefully, I thought, both of these conditions would be cured when I left the mall. We decided to go at 1:00 in the afternoon. This gave me time to work out. I started working out because I only want the junk food I eat to be concubines; not wives, if you take my meaning.

Even though I enjoy the feeling after I work out, it takes a good amount of discipline to actually drag myself to the gym and do it. The first week of working out went like this:

I wake up.

“Crap! It’s a workout day…”

I go back to sleep.

Many minutes later, some member of my family screams at me because I do nothing but sleep. I wake up for real. I pick up my workout plan and accidentally drop it, like I’m drunk or something. I pick it back up and realize that I have no idea how to do anything it wants me to do. I look all the exercises up on YouTube.

When I read the comments on the the video I watch, everyone says that the guy is doing it wrong and that the way he is doing it will make your bones crumble into dust. I check another video, but it’s the same everywhere. I eventually settle on one YouTube station that has most exercises on it and the least amount of angry comments. I bike to the YMCA and work out. I am reminded how weak I am, and the music that they play there is an abomination and a hindrance for anyone who wishes to be inspired to work out (think “Lady Gaga”, and also various “stars” from the Disney channel). I go to the locker room where old naked men talk about their nagging wives. I shower and go home. The end.

After my workout, my older sister drove us to the house of the birthday girl. She is the only person I know who has a bigger family than I do; if both of us decided to conquer the earth, I think it might be possible. We would however, need proper (and I do mean Proper -with a capitol ‘P’) weapons of mass destruction, and much coffee. Much, much, much coffee.

The journey to the mall was less like a journey and more like a life-threatening adventure. But to say that is to say nothing at all when my older sister is driving. Three things you must know about her:

She likes her music loud, her speeds fast, and her hair blue. Well, actually her iPod is broken right now because it decided to have some fun in the washing machine….so she can’t have loud music unless she listens to the radio (which doesn’t -thank God- have the indie bands that she likes). After reading this post, she will most likely kill me. Let’s hope she will be just as successful as all the other people who have tried to kill me. Whether nobody has tried to kill me or if a multitude of people has tried to kill me doesn’t matter, because either way they all failed, for I am alive.

At the mall, we did many things. We did things that, if done long enough, would have us thrown out of whatever store we were in. We did not get kicked out though, because we know how to tickle the staff’s nerves without decimating them. It is an art, my friend. An art that must be learned.

When we left the mall, we had our share of fun for the day, but I had a rather sinking feeling. I don’t quite know how it happened, but when I came to the mall I had 40 dollars and the will to buy shoes. When I left the mall, I had a belly full of Godiva shake, a bag in my hand that contained a tube full of loose tea, and 4 dollars. No 40 dollars. No shoes. Just….don’t ask.

After the mall it was time for driver’s education. It was the last day of it, which is good because I was about to shoot myself with my brother’s air soft gun until I died. The only thing that got me through that class was our teacher’s…..rare personality. ‘Nuff said.

Following driver’s ed, my dad let me drive his BMW. It was night time, I had sandals on, and the car is a stick shift. Once again, ’nuff said.

I will end this post with a small verse from a rap song that I heard on the radio that my brother was listening to while he washed some dishes. It really inspired me. Here it is:


Back it up like a Tonka Truck!

..That’s pretty much the groove of it. Good night.


February 5, 2011

Lately, all of the girls (and I do mean all of them) at my school have been wearing odd boots. …They kind of look like something an Eskimo would wear.

As a humiliation.

Because he murdered his child.

I did some research on them and apparently they are called “Uggs”. …How ironic.

There are two things I think of when I think of the word “Ugg” (yes, I do think of things when I think of things):  The first thing I think of is the word “ugly”. The second thing I think of is someone saying the word “Uhg…”, as in “Uhg…why is everyone wearing Uggs…I’m going to get sick..”

I don’t know why, but I hated them from the minute I saw someone wearing them. They just don’t look right. Picture a pretty girl from the face down. First, picture a smiling face. Now a nicely fitted shirt. Now a skirt.


Those are Uggs, my friend. And if your life depended on walking down the hall of my school and seeing a girl without them, you would be a burnt cookie.

I hate them! Why don’t they wear….I don’t know..heels? Flats? Or something? Something that doesn’t make you look like a hobbit? It baffles me! And they cost so much…as in more than $70! This proves that just because something costs your soul plus tax doesn’t mean it’s worth it.

It looks like a giant blob of…something..is trying to eat their legs! …Especially when they tuck their pants into them.

And what is worse than a big hairy boot? OF COURSE! A big hairy boot with big hairy pom-poms dangling from them! Ah, yes……the pom-poms. How I hate thee. Not only do they look ridiculous, just hanging there…but I can also think of millions of ways they could play a major role in killing you. What’s that? You don’t have balls of parasite-infested “fur” hanging from your boots? Oh really? You have BEADS hanging from your boots? Well WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME IN THE FIRST PLACE! Don’t worry! You are excused from my wrath!


Whenever I see those things I just want to run away from you…like you’re some kind of yeti. Screw zombies! This year it’s going to be “ATTACK OF THE YETI HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS”. I can just see it now…the hero (me) will escape because the yeti girl drowned in her own….boot-fur.Yeah…

…Apparently they were worn by surfers because they needed something to soak up the sweat and salt water from their feet while also keeping them hot. Mmm…doesn’t that sound SIMPLY SCRUMPTIOUS.

People wear them today in Australia around the house.You know, like slippers? It took a while, but I started to realize that this isn’t just a bad fad….this is part of the invasion of pajamas upon America. Even now I am picturing a girl with pajamas and Uggs on, walking to McDonalds. And you know what the scary thing is? It seems perfectly fitting (no oxymoronic pun intended).

Yes, the initial purpose of the ugg boot was to keep you warm. Which is odd because while I was doing research, I stumbled upon an article, “How to care for your Uggs” One of the items mentioned was to keep them away from water or snow.

Some reasons I hear as to why girls wear these abominations include:

“They’re comfy!” “Huggy!” “Pimpy!” “Spiffy!” “Warm!” “Nice!” “Fun!” “Sexy!” (!!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!???!!!!!!!) and…yeah that’s it. So basically other than having a warped sense of fashion, they like them for emotional reasons. Maybe if men acted decently to ladies these days they wouldn’t have to turn to satanic things like Uggs for support.

And we would have a lower suicide rate.

And we would become immortal.

And life would be groovy.

Here is a poem I made up about my hatred for Uggs:

Oh, look…it’s another person wearing those boots.

… (poetic pause!)

Maybe next I will make fun of those tubular jackets that make you look like the Michelin Man. Maybe. …Just…maybe.


I thought I would never write these words again but…

I just saw a good movie. A great one. The first thing you should know is that it’s a ‘zombie’ movie. Actually, an ‘infection’ movie would do better to name it.

Your first impression and thoughts when you hear about a “zombie movie” (actually “zombie” anything) may be the same as mine:

Hmm, let’s see…I could waste 3 hours devoting my time to another retarded zombie movie, or watch 605,096 hours of Sponge Bob Square Pants in Spanish and in reverse, and have a better time.

Well, that’s always my first impression when I hear about a zombie movie, anyway. Why? Because a zombie apocalypse is the coolest idea since coffee, and if someone finds an idea that cool, everyone will make a movie about it. Yes, that means the no-name directors, the has-been directors, the big name directors, moms, dads, kids, mentally ill people, and even actual zombies. Everyone will participate if a great idea is born. Everyone will try to perfect it or alter it to make it better, and make a name for themselves.

– (see blogging) –

And what does that mean? It means that a good zombie movie will be as hard to find as that one kitchen appliance you have that melts chocolate and dices tomatoes at the same time at lighting-speed the one day you actually need it.

But I have found one, with help from my sister who told me that it was so scary that she couldn’t finish it alone in the dark at college. And now that I’ve seen it, I don’t really blame her.

The movie is named 28 Days Later, directed by Danny Boyle.

When it begins, a group of animal-rights-activists are prancing around a testing lab of some sort, trying to free some monkeys from their cages.

Yes, animal-rights-activists are idiots. You aren’t wrong. You aren’t alone. God didn’t give animals rights and they never had any. So in summary, animal-rights-activists are people who are either trying to be God by trying to give animals things that they can never possess, or evolutionists who believe that the universe farted and BANG! Here we are. I don’t know which is worse, but it’s probably the latter.

So anyway, a scientist notices them and tries to get it through their thick animal-rights-activist heads that if they let out the monkeys, the disease they have will spread, but they don’t listen. One of them goes up to the cage (“Aww, you poor thing…”) and opens it, much to the horror of the scientist.

Basically, this is how it starts in a nutshell:

A dumb lady opens the cage; the monkey attacks her; she gets infected and attacks everyone else; bye-bye England.

The rest of the story is about a guy who wakes up in a hospital bed and finds the place deserted, the friends he meets, and their struggle to survive.

It’s gory, yet artistic. It’s scary, but it doesn’t use random zombies jumping around like idiots just for a cheap scream, or just to make you jump.

It’s action-packed, yet also beautiful and savory. It has a story (sadly this is a compliment, not an obvious characteristic for all movies anymore).

The music is great, and the characters aren’t dull.

Even through the hacking, crushing, bleeding, and dying, the whole movie is very artistic. It is very suspenseful, but quenches the suspense with satisfaction.

It’s a great movie.

Go watch it.

Bring 20 fat friends and a pillow though, because it’s s-s-s-scary!

Beware the Green Horses

December 30, 2010

There are three days of break left. I would play with the three things my parents gave me for Christmas during that time, but seeing that those three things are a thermos bottle, a scarf, and a two-inch “inspiring” sculpture of someone reading a book, I thought that I would write for once. And maybe finish start that essay due when school starts again.

Wow. It’s been a while! What have I done since last I have written?

Well for starters, I got a cavity! Yay! I got it filled in yesterday. The only thing that hurt though, was my parents wallet; the dentist was very good and the cavity was in an easy spot. …Tooth #2, if you really want to know the details. Usually when I go to the dentist it is not good. What do I mean when I say “not good”? Think of a plastic frisbee in your mouth that somehow has sharp edges. Now imagine one tube sucking all air and moisture out of your mouth while another one pours a constant flow of water in. First they take off your braces and put new ones on so you can feel sore for the next few days. It’s very special because it’s like your first day with braces all over again!

Think that’s bad? Well there’s more. Did I mention you have two chains in your mouth that they use to pull two teeth down each month that are in a place where teeth should not be? Did I mention that it hurts? A LOT?

Then they fill your mouth with this foam stuff that would probably taste just fine if they didn’t add toxic flavours to it. …And the flavours are mandatory; that is to say, not optional. You cannot choose the option of “no flavour”.

All the while they are saying things to you like “You’re doing great!” and “You’re such a trooper!” and “Keep it up…just a few minutes to go!”. I can just picture them saying, with their robotic smile, “I would really like to pull all of your teeth out and embed them in your disgusting little face, but I will get fired if I do that!”

And of course, a light is shining in your eyes all the while.

…I am used to all this, though. The real thing that annoyed me last time (the time before I got my cavity filled in) is that I got a ‘new’ dentist; a dentist in training. Let’s just call her a ‘dentistee’. The dentistee looked at my teeth and then started to ask another dentist some questions. Not nice ones like “My favorite colour is burgundy!” and “I like your teeth!”, but scary ones like “How do I do this?” and “Is it the left side or the right side? I forgot…” and “Can you do this for me?”


…That is what I wanted to say to the other dentist. But, of course, she didn’t do it. She said something like “Oh don’t worry…it’s easy!”.

Right then I was thinking “Somebody shoot me, please!! (but not in the mouth)”

And sure enough, she left a wire too long on the right side of my cheek.

…And that is the reason it hurts every time I smile. Because I became the test subject for the new girl in the neighborhood of dentistry.

I will save the rest of my stories for another time. Right now, I must shake the sand off a winter scarf that I used to warm my toes at the beach in the dead of winter.

Green horses in the field…

Green horses make you yield…

With their muscular arms…

They live in farms…

With built-in alarms…

Beware the green horses.

Brob and Conformity

December 3, 2010

Here is a story about holidays. The one character in this story has a name. His name is Brob. Brob is a slightly exaggerated American. Also, if you find that I put an apostrophe in the word “New Years Day” (as you would type it), it is because I am implying that the new year owns that particular day. If you would like to disagree with my literacy theology, then please inform me of your hatred for me and we can settle it with a friendly debate and some rum.

After Christmas, is over, and the only thing Brob gets is scissors and deodorant, he starts to make “new year resolutions”. New year resolutions are resolutions that people with damaged brains make. You see, because starting something sometime other than day one of a given year is too chaotic for their minds, they must conform to stop bad habits on day one of the year. One of the reasons I believe they do this is because the number “1” is perhaps the easiest number to picture in one’s mind. You could argue that zero is the easiest number to picture, but Brob and the number zero have the same general structure and shape…and it would be very confusing for Brob to distinguish himself from the number zero in his mind. …And that would lead to a whole different set of problems. But anyways, let’s get back to Brob, who has quietly been waiting.

…After shoving his new pair of scissors and his new pack of deodorant under his bed, which has all his previous presents under it also (more scissors and deodorant), Brob sits on the giant bean bag in his chair and says to himself out loud “BRRLUNGLPRF….burp.”. After that, he says to himself “Starting New Year’s day, I am going to stop reciting a Hail Mary each time I flush the toilet!”. He declares this with much determination and frightens a squirrel who was at his window.

On New Year’s day Brob eats as though he is preparing for hibernation.

Following New Year’s Day, Brob has already broken his sacred new near resolution; he comes out of the bathroom still chanting a Hail Mary under his breath.Brob now spends the remainder of January doing basically nothing besides annoying his friends with his constant question of whether or not the groundhog will see his shadow on February 2nd.

February 2nd comes and Brob finally finds out if the ground hog saw his shadow or not.

…And then comes the Super Bowl. It’s sad…but “Super Bowl Sunday” (which is, I think, played on the first Sunday of February) is a holiday. It shouldn’t be, by the definition of “holiday” (holy day), but it is. And it’s a big one. Brob gets together along with his other Brobby friends, goes to the richest Brobber of all of them, and watches the Super Bowl. They eat as though they are preparing for hibernation. There will be much “HOOB HOOB HOOB”ing at the Super Bowl party. Everyone will get drunk and disgusting, too.

Now comes Easter Sunday. On this day, Brob goes to church and falls asleep there. After church, he gets all the snacks. Then he takes his kids outside for the church’s Easter egg hung. After the hunt is over, Brob walks conspicuously around, keeping his eyes peeled for any Easter eggs left unopened that he might enjoy.

Up until Valentine’s Day (and beyond), Brob keeps talking to his friends and to himself about the outcome of the Super Bowl. In fact, he keeps talking about it until the end of the next Super Bowl, if even that soon.

After Valentine’s Day passes, Earth day eventually comes around, and Brob obediently turns off his electricity.

When Halloween comes, Brob dresses up like a hobo (not too hard for him) and takes his kids around to get candy. He also brings a bag himself. This is NOT an exaggeration; I handed out candy this year and this exact same thing happened. It was quite comical to witness grown men and women coming to me and just standing there expectantly with their pillowcase open wide. …They might as well have been drooling in front of me on their hands and knees starring wildly at the candy that they would sell their soul for without a second thought.

By Independence Day, Brob has eaten all of his candy, and is cutting into his children’s supply (“You probably don’t remember eating it, son…”).  But that’s okay, because the cycle can begin all over again when he snags as much candy as possible from a parade. If he is desperate, Brob will even go to multiple parades.

Then Thanksgiving comes. Brob almost eats himself to death this time.

After Thanksgiving, Christmas comes. Brob gets the same presents he always gets (scissors and deodorant). Brob goes to church on this day, and falls asleep just like he did at Easter.

…And so the cycle continues.

Have you ever noticed how people are always setting up for the next holiday? It’s like there is no space in-between. Have you even noticed how everyone does their duty to society by being stupid?! Not a lot of people, it seems, think for themselves. Maybe they think that they think for themselves, but everyone else is thinking the same thing.


They get all the presents and good feelings and store bargains from Christmas, but don’t pay homage to the actual reason of it. They call it “the holidays”. And what is even more ignorant is that they don’t even know what the word “holiday” or the word “X-mas” means. They try to escape calling it by it’s real name and think they succeed…but they don’t. They put up ridiculous lights all over their yard so it looks like a junk yard with a disco ball. If a kid dares to tread on their perfect 2″ by 4″ lawn and get their footprints on the perfect snow, they will yell at them.

Before Thanksgiving even comes, you can hear songs all over the place about “the holidays”. And when December comes, it is even more obvious. To you  I bet none of them even know what Advent is. And if they dot hey think it’s a form of math…something a little lower than algebra, perhaps? THOSE INCOMPETENT FOOLS! They sing songs of poopy little animals and nuts over a fire and some fat guy who looks at you when you are getting dressed…but they don’t even think of the one who is really watching you. It’s idiocy. Nobody even has a fragment of an idea of the actual liturgical calendar and how things work.

Here’s a random poem I made up that has no relevance to the actual post:

He didn’t kill, he didn’t slay;

it is manslaughter, I say!

He didn’t die, he passed away…

Euphemisms, Euphemisms


*snip, snip*

November 15, 2010

Hello. I got a haircut.

Now, you probably have a picture of me in your mind at this point if you have been ‘following’ me or whatever. In one person’s mind I might be a sneaky chimney sweep with long black hair and ghostly eyes, while another person may picture me as a fat sports fan with no hair and no eyes. I still won’t bother to tell you what I look like, but now that I have informed you of my haircut, you may now take whatever picture of me that you have conceived, and simply picture him (or her?!) with shorter hair (or, if you pictured me before as bald, picture me now with the top of my head removed, so that you can see my brain).

I don’t exactly adore they way I look after a haircut, but it serves it’s purpose of restraining my little forest. You may not like me using the word “forest” to describe hair. If it makes you feel any better, I hire well-trained mini-soldiers to hunt down all the critters in my forest, so that no sounds come from my head when I don’t want them to.

I never really enjoyed getting haircuts themselves, either. For one thing, my hair always turns out just right the day I get a haircut, most unlike the days in which important events take place, when I am actually required to look halfway decent. This makes me angry and gives me a sense of regret…

Also, when my haircut is done, I feel all itchy and weird. Whenever I touch anywhere from my shoulders up, I get little pieces of hair on my hands. When I take a shower, I touch my head and am shocked at the lack of hair there. Likewise, whenever I grab the back of my neck because of embarrassment on not being able to explain why something incredibly wild happened (this happens quite often), I feel -or rather, I don’t feel- the the hair there. This puts my mind in a worse state of stupidity than it usually already is.

Yet another annoying thing about getting a haircut is that the snipper (or snipperette, as I call the ladies) makes sure that the whole experience feels rather like a trip to the psychologist than a trip to get one’s head shaved. Especially when you are a child, they will ask pestering questions like “Why aren’t you smiling??” and “So what’s going on with your life?!”.  And of course the inevitable “How’s school going?”. I imagine the answers to all of these questions are generally the same for most people (“Good.” “Yes…” “Good.” Yeah pretty much….”).

And then, just to add a final insult to you, they get your haircut wrong. And that is why I love getting my hair cut.

I was on facebook today, and saw something that was quite funny. A girl had taken a quiz called “What kind of flirt are you?”. But what was funnier still was that it kept popping up, showing different results for her every time. I guess she didn’t stop until she was affirmed by the almighty facebook that she was, indeed, the kind of flirt that she perceived herself to be. How insecure she must be to do that; indeed, how insecure anyone must be to take a quiz on facebook that actually tells you who you are (much less something as petty as what kind of flirt you are)! …As if people don’t already have enough things telling them who they are. Even though we seem to have the choice here in America to become what we wish to become, we really don’t give ourselves, or each other a good chance to do anything but what the media or our ‘friends’ tells us (or implies) we can do.

A couple days ago in English class, we got our papers back. What papers, you may ask (or not care about but I’m going to tell you about it anyways)? 4-page essays on the play The Crucible, by Aurthur Miller. It was not a very good book at all, but my class had fun acting it out and making fools of ourselves like we do on a daily basis. The movie wasn’t all that great either. I actually think that I played John Proctor’s part better in the classroom than did the actor in the movie. That isn’t a compliment to myself, by the way; it means almost nothing. There was one part in my paper where my teacher wrote in red ink: “This sentence doesn’t flow really well.”. I gladly pointed out to her that instead, she should have written “This sentence doesn’t flow very well.”.

…That’s called an oxymoronic situation, ENGLISH TEACHER! Bwahaha.

I have one more thing to say until you read a very ill-conceived poem that I wrote.

Whenever I write something in italics, I write the word. Here is an example: word

…But after I write the italicized word, a great turmoil fills my heart. It is a fiery battle within the depths of my soul. The horrible stress and relentless tension that develops within the darkest pits of my inmost being are all over one question that I have always had:

When I type out a SPACE in italics, is the SPACE any different than it would be if it were in regular print?!?!?!!

…I doubt anyone will ever uncover that mystery. Oh, well. Here’s my ill-conceived poem that I promised you.

Oh possum, Opossum…

Why dost thou chooseth to thrash…


You had better get out…

And scurry on out!

…Or it will be your head

…That I bash.


Telegraph Voodoo!

November 6, 2010

There are a variety of things you can watch on TV. For those who do not know what TV is, it stands for “Telegraph Voodoo”. Telegraph voodoo is something some people use because they can’t keep their horrible ideas to themselves. If you watch telegraph voodoo on a regular basis, your IQ will drop significantly. What is an IQ? Well I will cover that sometime else.

If you wish to watch telegraph voodoo, you will of course need a telegraph voodoo window. You can buy these for around 9 million dollars at Wal-Mart. You can also buy a cheap one for -5 dollars that will last you -2 seconds.

Once you turn on your telegraph voodoo window, you will notice a lot of shows you can watch. Here is a guide to some things you can watch by using a telegraph voodoo screen.

Let’s start with survival shows. You can find these by searching for keywords like wild, man, survival, etc. You can be sure that you have found one of these shows when a guy dressed in survival attire (cargo pants, T-shirt) talking to you about eating rocks in a fake Australian accent. These tough men go out in the wild with nothing but their knowledge of survival and just…survive for a few weeks. Off-screen, you would find a helicopter, a mobile home, a crew of 20 medics, and everything else essential to surviving in the wild. After you watch this kind of show, you will have learned absolutely nothing and still probably couldn’t survive in your back yard for a night.

There are also ghost shows. In this sort of show, there will be some family that had a “haunting” who are being paid to tell their “story”. After they memorize their lines (or maybe there’s just a projection screen with their lines along with a doughnut background in front of them), they start to tell it. These shows are conveniently vague on the facts and heavy on the emotions and the random cut-scenes of “spooky” lampposts that have nothing to do with the story. Sometimes a parent of the possessed child (or pet dog, goldfish, etc.) will even “cry” a tear while telling the heartbreaking story. I once saw one in which the parents believed that the ghost of a dead girl was haunting their house. Why?

1.) Because the child said that she had an imaginary friend (obviously the ghost…I mean, what little girl has imaginary friends? Oh yeah, all of them…).

2.) The parents were always mad at each other and almost got a divorce (“Ah, let’s blame it on a ghost instead of both of us cheating on each and posting about it on facebook, not knowing the other spouse had a facebook account!”).

3.) The dog was acting strangely (he sat in front of the TV and barked!!! OMG!!!!!)

4.) The electricity went out once.

5.) They saw “shadows”.

6.) The daughter got “pushed” down the stairs by “invisible hands” (it couldn’t have been her just being a klutz!?). An (almost) direct quote from her? “It like, really…felt like, someone literally like, pushed me down the stairs with like, real hands…”

…All obviously blatant ghost signs!

Oh, and did I mention the “ghost busters”? Yeah, people will actually pay 500 bucks to have a team of ghost…people to search their house. Obviously when they come in the will “feel” the evil presence right away, and waste no time in bringing out the equipment (“their equipment” being their ultra-sensitive-ultraviolet-inferred-x-ray-vision-spirit-sensing-you-can’t-understand-the-technology-ray-gun). So yeah, you basically get the gist of that kind of show.

There are also fashion shows. In these shows, they take some pothead and turn her into a fashion model. The make-up phase is particularly interesting. It goes something like this:

“ALRIGHTY, GIRLFRIEND! Let’s get your inner beauty shining! You are guna look FAB-U-LOUS(y) after I’m done with you! <333 ok so first I’mgunaapplythismakeptoyoureyesandnowimapaintyoureyelidsandmakethosecheecksniceandroseywiththisacidperfumeandnowiwillpainteyebrowsonyoubecauseyourcurrenteyebrowsarebasicallynonexistantandnowjustputonthisplasticmaskAND YOU’RE DONE! <3”

…Then we move on to the freak shows. Now I hate to be harsh or whatever, but why do they think that people want to see “the girl who had two heads” …or “the man who got pregnant” or… “half man, half tree”?! Maybe because they want themselves to look good for once. Ironically, most of these shows can be found on the one and only…TLC!

I could go on about apocalypse shows (now these ancient runes tell us that blah blah blah….), history-mystery (IT RHYMES HAHAH SO CLEVER!) shows, game shows (OH NO YOU JUST LOST $9,000,000,000!), destruction shows (let’s see what happens when we set a RUG on fire hahaha we are so scientific!), and many more. But I won’t because nobody wants to read 700+ words criticizing the shows you know and love, and spend countless hours watching.

Here’s a poem for you, because you are such a faithful reader and you make me smile!

Bobby broke his pencil.

Bobby used a pen.

Bobby got the wrong answer.

Bobby lost.

The end.

Total Recall!

October 30, 2010

It’s 2:00 in the morning, and I’ve had four cups of coffee. I just talked for an hour with my sister who is in college (making her being up as late as I am a given). Two of my oldest younger sister’s and only older sister’s friends are here with my oldest youngest sister plus my youngest younger brother. I just finished nibbling on a dirty carrot and now my throat itches. It is obviously time to write again.

In blogs that tell about the writer’s life, the writer often focuses on one day, or what happened in the span of a week. Here on The Sporadical, we (I) do not do things like that. We instead choose to write whatever comes to mind; I might write something that happened an hour ago and then write about something that happened four years ago. This is why you should never, ever try to arrange the instances that you read about in my blog in chronological order. If you do put them in chronological order, you will soon have a chronic, illogical disorder.

I just watched a movie with the sleepover folk: “The Boy who Cried Werewolf”. It has a rather interesting plot.

A girl is unpopular in school, although she is pretty like one of those teenage actors from Nickelodeon (hmmmm…). She has glasses. She eats lunch with the “unpopulars”. …This doesn’t soud similar, right?

The girl has an annoying bratty brother. The girl falls in love with a guy. The guy is completely normal; he has a strong accent (which anyone who isn’t profoundly retarded could tell is a fake version of the fake version of accents people usually have on TV shows), he has a haircut that looks good (in the ’80s), and he butchers meat for vampires and werewolves. …So yeah. He is completely normal for a Disney-or whatever- movie character. …But how could I call it a movie? It’s more like a very long, bad TV show.

The girl and the guy are happy until she starts turning into a werewolf.

…I think I am moving too slow with this. I will finish it up in one run-on sentence for you. It won’t even start with a capital letter.

the girl turns into a werewolf and attacks his brother because she is hungry but she doesn’t kill him because that would ruin the plot so she jumps out of a cathedral sized window and their parents don’t even notice because that would also ruin the plot and then the girl who is dating their single dad turns out to be a vampire and the maid turns out to be a vampire hunter and the vampires capture the dad and the bratty kid and the girl who turned into a werewolf and then the evil vampire girlfriend of the naive dad is in the middle of a monologue about how she will take over the castle (don’t ask) but then something unexpected happens which is the bratty kid turning into a werewolf and saving them all and at the end the butler gives the family a lot of money that he suddenly has and they get a mansion and then the girl goes back to school and is popular and she is no longer a werewolf but retains super agility so she is good at sports  now and the most popular guy in school asks her out but she says no because she is already dating the butcher with hair that looks good in the ’80s. The end. Yes, I know it wasn’t a complete run-on sentence because I put a period before “The end”.

Today was Harvest Fest at my school. It is the most fun event of the year. Too bad my mom got sick and I had to go before I could do anything except lose at the cake walk.


In the other room, the sleepover folk and my lady’s man wanna-be of a 12-year old brother are watching a movie. I am going to go in and write down the first line I hear.

The line was (I’m not even joking) “You should write a book about all this”.

…No thank you. I can barely write in a blog. If I wrote a book about all this, nobody would read it except the people in Moldova (whom I rule and therefore will force to read it five times a day). …It probably wouldn’t even be a “New York Times Bestseller”. And that’s sad. Because if a book exists, it is automatically a “New York Times Bestseller”. That’s just how it works. If you don’t have that on the cover then….yeah. Pretty much.

Now you get to hear about an unfortunate man.Why do I tell these kind of stories? Because there are too many happy stories. Sometimes life (or death) takes you by surprise, and you need to be reminded of that fact. Then, when it does take you by surprise, it won’t really take you by surprise because you won’t be surprised because you read this story.

There once was a man who held up all things good and wonderful. He was blond with blue eyes but was not a Nazi. He was too good to be true. The only thing that annoyed him were mosquitoes.

One day some members of the mafia were bored, so they cemented his feet together and dropped him into the depths of the dark enveloping sea, from which no man can return.

As he was about to be thrown in, a horde of mosquitoes swarmed about him and bit him all over. He thought to himself “Well, this is it. I’m going to die. But at least I’ve lived a good and upright life, and when I’m underwater there won’t be any more mosquitoes.”

He was then thrown into the sea. He sunk to the bottom. As he was standing upright, the pressure of the water crushing his lungs, he felt a prick. He looked at his arm and on it was a kind of fish that nobody had yet discovered:

The underwater mosquito.

~The End.


Every single time I log into WordPress (which WordPress doesn’t think is a word), it asks me if I want it to remember my password (so all the other seven people who live with me can mess with my account, of course). Every single time this happens, I press the same button:

[never for this site]

But it always pops up every time I log in. Yeah, that’s annoying. Who would be so lazy that they can’t even type in their password. What is the point of your computer ‘remembering’ your password, anyways?

I think the kids of the future will be very lazy. This is what the future will look like:

The earth will be covered in jell-o. Everyone will live in underwater bases in space. All shoes will be Velcro and nobody will know how to tie shoes anymore. That is the dark future that awaits us.

I opened the internet today and half the screen was covered in tool-bars that my brothers had downloaded. I couldn’t delete them all at once, so I had to delete them one at a time. Once of them even made me do a survey about why I chose to delete it. And for some reason, every time I open the internet, my homepage is the yahoo! search engine instead of google. I like google, not yahoo!. …And as if to taunt me, there is a button below the Yahoo! sign asking if you want to make it your home page, even though it already is.

…Speaking of idiocy, I did something rather stupid myself yesterday. I am in need of new shoes. Badly. I am a loyal Converse wearer (but am not limited to, of course), and my current pair had walked it’s course. I went to the Navy Exchange with my dad to buy another pair. I am size nine. I found a size nine. Now I buy it, right? Wrong. I put it back on the shelf, grab one that has never been tired on before from the back row, then buy that one. I got the wrong size though. The end.

On the way back to our house, I saw an obese lady with a grey shirt that said “PINK” on the back. Hasn’t she ever played with crayons?

A lot of times I notice people trying to be unique and ‘random’. One way people try to be ‘different’ is making blogs. Those people are annoying. It’s so ironic to watch all the people, uniform in their uniqueness.

…The people in the next room are watching football. Want to hear a quote from them? Here it is:

“OH YEAH! ……OH YEAH! HOOB! HOOB! HOOB! BEHOJOOOWEGU!!! …barfackle…amazing….barfackleDOOSH! HE……he jumped right over him! WEGHOWWW BOOG!”

…I am so glad I do not watch sports. I watch Sponge Bob Square Pants instead. It’s even more amazing because people can cry underwater.

I recently read a facebook status:


…It obviously doesn’t make any sense. Only a mental person would throw skittles up in the air instead of eating them. In fact, I would venture to say that the poster has never thrown skittles up in the air while shouting “AYYYOOO, TASTE THE RAINBOWWW” in her life. Just a guess, though.

I find it very annoying when people add extra letters to be ‘cute’.

example: “i luvv u…wna b marrriedd…on facebookk? i cn give u a virtual ringg…onlinee!<3”

Want to hear a story? What? You don’t? Well I will put it in italics to make it more exciting for you.

There once was a flea. His name was Mr. Flea. One day, a farmer named Mr. Farmer came to where Mr. Flea was. The farmer went to sleep on the ground. “I think I will infest this farmer!” thought Mr. Flea with glee.

…But when he jumped onto the farmer’s head, he was kicked out by another group of fleas that had already claimed that head. Mr. Flea walked off sadly. As he was walking away, the farmer got up. “Gee,” he said to himself. “…I really feel like rubbing fire corn on my head.”

He seemed to hear a small voice coming from inside his hair that yelled “No!”, “No!”, but he did it anyway. His hair was immediately set on fire and all the fleas on his head died.

“Wow, I’m glad I was kicked out of that hair before the farmer rubbed fire corn on his head!” thought the now happy flea.

But just then, a circus man came up to him and put him in a tent with a lot of fleas in it. They were all doing tricks.

For twenty years, the fleas trained hard for their first and only performance. When it finally came, the circus man looked inside the small , portable tent that they were in. “Well, my friends…this is the big day. If you succeed, I will win great prizes and I can finally feed my family!” he said with a smile.

Millions of people gathered for the performance. Mr. Flea had the first act, which was jumping through a hoop of fire. He tripped, and set the tent on fire, which set the fleas in the tent on fire. The fleas that were on fire jumped onto the circus man’s head, causing him to catch on fire. He ran into the crowd and soon everyone’s head was on fire. Then the tent was on fire. Then the circus man’s family had no food.

~The End~

The moral of this story? Well there are  two.

Number one is to not be a flea.

Number two is to not try to jump through rings of fire if you are a flea.

Once upon a time….

There was a city. In this city, it rained almost every day, except in winter when it snowed.

Sometimes acid rain would fall from the sky and ruin people’s umbrellas.

One misty night when there was 7 feet of rain on the streets (which had no drains for the water), a man was swimming along.He was the only man in the streets, because everyone else had gone to their houses. He had just been fired from his job as one of the mayor’s official Boat Rowers, which is why he was swimming.

The man had black hair and a pale face. He had a beige raincoat on, along with a pair of black galoshes , just like the other 4 million inhabitants of the city.

The man was swimming to his house, which was connected to another house, which was connected to another, as were all the houses in this city. The only way that someone could tell if it was their house or not was by the house number. If you tried to personalize your house in any way, the police (who wore blue raincoats) would shoot you and throw you into the General Waste Department. There was not a law against personalizing one’s lawn, because nobody had lawns in that city. Nobody owned their house in this city. The government could force anyone out of their house at any given hour.

The man was two blocks away from “his” house when he spied a boat.

All boats in this city were small wooden ones that could fit up to four people, or one American. The only exception was the mayor’s boat, which had a cup holder.

As the boat neared him, he noticed that there was only one person in the boat. As it got even closer, the man noticed that the person in the boat did not have a beige raincoat on.

The boat soon came into shouting range. The man would have asked for a lift, but didn’t want to be shot and thrown into the General Waste Department for “Disturbing the General Peace”.

So he waited.

In time, the boat came alongside him, and the man now noticed that the rower was a lady. She didn’t seem to be from the city. “Please, madame, ” said the man in distress. “I am very tired and far from my house. Would you be so kind as to give me a lift?”

The woman looked down at him in pity, and offered her hand. The man scrambled onto the boat. “There you are,” she said. “Is it always like this here?”

“No, ” said the man. “It’s usually ten times worse” He said as he took the paddles from the lady and started to row (this was a general courtesy).

“Oh?” Replied the lady in surprise. “Wouldn’t that put the houses under water?”

“Yes,” said the man glumly. “People usually sleep in their boats.”

“Wouldn’t they drift away while they slept, though?”

“No,” replied the man. “There’s never any wind here.”

“What kind of food do you eat here?”


There was silence.

“So what do you do?” asked the lady

“Nothing.” replied the man. “Well, I used to be a Boat Rower for the mayor, but that ended when I dropped an oar into the water…”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” said the lady in utter sympathy. “Don’t you do anything refreshing here?” she asked.

“No.” Said the man. “Nobody here can be refreshed because they have never been freshed in the first place.”

“Well,” Said the lady in a determined voice. “That must change!”

She started to row down a street that nobody had discovered, and they were soon out of that dismal city.

Half an hour later, they arrived at a small island. They tied the boat up and got out. There was a pineapple stand nearby. “Pineapples are refreshing!” exclaimed the lady. “Do you like pineapples?”


….Thus begins the man’s utterly impossible quest to be freshed, and his patient companion’s equally impossible quest to fresh him.