on wanting to be more left-handed

i believe that onomatopoeia should be spelled more like it sounds, and have something to do with peeing on people in public. i also believe that farting in a crowd is perfectly acceptable, and that trans fats are oh so yummy and delicious, hey rachel ray, is yummylicious a word (i hate that bitch).

that said, i've (sadly) arrived at the tail end of a 15-year bender. does my mood reflect the withdrawal? it's been a pretty good run, filled with nonsensical conversations with ????, hilarious blackouts, and oh so many times waking up alone on the couch (my couch?), fully dressed. but it's high time that i step away from the bottle and into a smaller waist band. holy shit, i've become something of a poster child for a) not having kids, b) the big and tall (minus the tall) men's shop, or c) raising the legal drinking age to 72. also, my new best friend forever, harry the broken blood vessel, has moved into my left cheek; quaint. and, i think the rest of my skin is permanently tinted yellow ochre (thanks to bob ross for the lesson in color).

i'm pretty sure i shouldn't have that constant sharp pain in my lower right abdomen (ehem, hepatitis anyone?).

nor should i have that constant throbbing coming from the right and left sides of my back (renal failure?).

but, i digress.

what i'd really like to talk about is bringing an end to world hunger, or paris hilton, whichever comes first (and likely miss hilton will come first, given she's now free from that incredibly unfair and unjust jail time, you go girl! straight to fucking hell. and fucking die.). i raise my hatred for paris hilton only because the fuckwits at boston.com thought it fitting to juxtapose the unfairness of her trial with senor bush's commuting of scooter libby's sentence on their home page today. (uses valley girl accent) seriously? omg! and, uh-uh, oh no they di-int!

Blog monster at bravo sierra zulu six niner

I can't seem to get motivated enough to post. This is evidenced by the 14 posts I've been working on that are in various stages of not appropriate to release into the 'sphere. I'm not sure where this blogger's block is coming from, but I guess I have to accept the fact that it's a hairy bugger that apparently means to give me the business if I attempt to post.

Hi. I'm Lord Fondleberries. And I'm a Blogger

I am a Blogger. There, I typed it.

I'm not sure what that means, really. Does it mean that I should don a white frock and smile down from some virtual throne at the small following who, desperate enough to worship the garbled and largely unintelligible words spewn forth from my sausage and peppers fingers, sip from goblets brimming with my killer Koolaid recipe? Does it mean that I'm a cat person (I am: my kitties are better than yours)? Does it mean that I have unique or begged or borrowed or stolen musings on the minute details that comprise This [my] American Life? Does it mean that words that flow every few days from some misfired synapses out into the 'sphere have relevance or meaning or context [apparently the cult thinks yes]?

Alas, I think that my being a Blogger may mean, in simplest terms, that I am one who longs for the affection of those whom I don't and won't know, like you, my fake internet friend.

Over the very long four months that I've blogged, I've learned that I do not meet most criteria for having a blog worthy of a Koolaid following:

I have nothing to say
Interesting things rarely happen to me (drunk driving accidents and premature ejaculations in the presence of my own hand aside)
I cook, but follow the recipes of other bloggers or actual cooks
I write very bad fiction
I am no longer a waiter
I just learned that control + g is the Blogspot shortcut for Hindi transliteration
I post on my blog randomly
And etc.

So, what [the fuck] is wrong with me? Why [do I] Blog? Why are we [here]?

Forty-two.

Since I am such a slacking (lack-lustre) Blogger, I feel that I owe [you] some personal tid bits. Here goes:

1. I will never turn down a drink (whether or not I'm buying).

2. Those angioplasty and stent procedures that were all the rage on NPR today, I wrote the clinical study reports to get quite a few of those devices and procedures approved.

3. I'll be married in June to this great person that I do not deserve (it would be funny [or sad] if I could truthfully type that she is mail-ordered).

4. I'm a sucker for a grande non-fat late, especially every dehydrated hung-over morning.

5. I much prefer commenting on blogs than making original posts on mine own blog.

6. I am a self-professed Anglophile, though I've never been to the UK.

7. I know that three of four people prefer Rice Crispies to Raisin Bran for breakfast.

Glad to meet you.

The Ongoing Definitive List of Reasons Why I am Retarded

Additions for 19 February 2007:

1. I thought that the plural of le chat was les chattes (like lattes only cats).

2. I once had a plan for world peace, but traded it for a bucket of fried chicken (dam, I love the Colonel).

3. I prefer to spell "damn" without the "n", and when questioned about this I say that, yes, I meant "dam", as in what beavers build. Then, I laugh because I said beaver.

4. I've been using "lol" in everyday conversations.

5. I still have a MySpace account.

Fuck the Police

Say it with me, in the words of the immortal make-pretend gang lord Easy motherfucking E, "fuck The Police".

Seriously, to pick up where Uncle Roy left off: fuck Ticketmaster (read all that is even more unholy than George W fucking cunt fuck Bush). And fuck Sting.

No. Fuck that. Fuck Gordon fucking Sumner. Fucking Cunt. Fuck him right in his eight-hour tantric sex-having, Brazilian-waxed ass. That's right Gordo, I said it, your name is fucking Gordon. And you're a dirty fucking cunt. Jesus fuck, do I hope you got your ass beat in grade school. I hope some shit-fuck bully beat your ass under the auspice that you'd someday suck harder than a hoover, where that day is defined as Dream of the Blue [fuck]Turtle. I hate you. Hard. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Fucking hard.

Oh, and shame on you, Stewart-I-hope-Sting-someday-wants-to-reunite-for-a-nominal-fee-('cuz it feels so good)-to-play-the-music-that-meant-so-much-to-so-many-people-(like my whoring ass)-because-that's-the-only-way-I'd-reunite-in-front-of-large-audiences (paraphrased from a radio interview with Stewy the cunt, 2006). I hope you get cancer in your ass, eyes, ears, nose, throat, dick, and mother. And I hope Les Claypool and that dirty fucking hippie douche nozzel, Trey Anastasio, out you for being a COMPLETE PIECE OF GREEDY, SELF-SERVING, LYING FUCKING SHIT, and you fall, face down, in a pile of my own loose and occult blood-filled stool, and die.

What the fuck unleashed this silly-ass shit storm of fucks and cunts, you ask: why, the opening BID for Police tickets being 300 fucking dollars. What in the holy fuck is that? You actually mean to tell me that I am reserving the right to bid more and fucking more and yet fucking more of my dollars for what Ticketmaster calls the chance of a lifetime to be "a part of this extraordinary tour by taking advantage of these unique offers". GO FUCK YOURSELF. FUCKING HARD. RIGHT IN THE FUCKING EYE SOCKET.

Real Quick

The easily offended shit dicks of Atlantic Beach, Florida, lost their minds, ate a dick, and made a local comedy club change "The Vagina Monologues" to "The HooHaa Monologues" on their marquee. Like it or not people, you're all a bunch of cunts. So quit your whining and change your diapers.

According to my horriblescope for today, I was apparently prepared for this cranky response to said Floridian cunts:

There is a great deal of uncertainty in the air right now, which could leave you feeling moody or downright cranky today. The good news is that all your friends and loved ones are attuned to your feelings, and they will be able to zig whenever you zag. They can provide all the stability or calming energy you may need. So try not to isolate yourself too much today. Get with people as often as you can, even if it's just to hang out and shoot the breeze.

Lucky for me, I'm a male hooker, so I can get with up to 3 people in an hour, thus satisfying the "get with people as often as I can" bit.

In other news, the lovely people of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, have put on yet another display of brotherly love. This assholewas nice enough to leave his daughter outside in the cold. She died. My favorite part, "Tiny footprints in the snow suggested she had gotten up and wandered around before she died". Awww.

Today marks year 12 that Heather and I have been together.

Thanks for all the great times, kind words, and support. And for being you.

I love you, pal.

me

Making Things. Or Not Making Things. With My Hands.

Earlier today, after being impressed by an instructional pottery making video, I left a comment noting that I've never made anything with my hands. I was at the time also thinking about snow. Then I was surfing the blogosphere for much too long. And I ended up here.

I borrowed this. It's silly. It's got almost nothing to do with snow. It repeats.



It is now much later. And I'm still slogging through the blogosphere. Here's a recap.

In the mood for current events, I went here, as I recently vowed to only ever get my news there. After that, I randomly ended up here. That may be my new source for news. Exciting.

Then, I went here. He's fairly funny, but apparently too cold to blog today.

I said something rather smarmy, even for me, over here.

I just left this fucking place, but I don't believe there is any truth in the advertising there. I found that guy here---go ahead and kick him in the dick, he deserves it.

At one point, I got up to poo, but was reminded of this guy. He too is a bit funny, so i decided to hold in the poopy and check him out, knowing that I could always chew on some exlax later if need be. That was amusing, but fairly uneventful. I might be envious of the number of readers he has. But, I might not be.

Anyhoo, I still think this guy is a retarded hick, but I cruised on over to what he refers to as the best blog ever (more false advertising) to see if he'd responded to some comments I (spelled Not You) made. He hadn't but this gay cowboy did. I felt compelled to leave a friendly retort (read hiya sweety, go fuck yourself. hard), only to discover that the host chickened out and enabled comment moderation. Oh well.

This guy is definitely pretending to be straight. Still. I think I'm starting to like him, though. Well, not really. But I did check out his blog today. Yawn.

This blogger called me pretentious via a comment he left at trailor trash's place. Actually, he called Not You pretentious. (It's fun to have multiple anonymous personalities.) I liked that, so I left some nice words at his blog. Note: he's got a silly little animated turtle on his blog, which means that he might in fact be a 14 year-old girl. Tee-hee.

I left far too many comments at ole frosting face's place. I did the same thing here and here. I'm not apologizing. But I am logging off for a bit.

So, what did I learn from wasting nearly the whole day online (again)? Not much. I did, however, learn that I am super fucking pissed off at some fellow bloggers. Listen, fucksticks, update your fucking profiles, so we who troll the comment fields of blogs we frequent in search of new, fun blogs to check out don't have to keep clicking on links that land us at your shitty old blog (plus or minus your whining about the free blog service you used to use becuase it now finally sucks too much for your apparently amazingly technosplendorous ass), only to have to click another link to be redirected to your new and improved, yet still shitty, albeit located elsewhere, blog. Fuck you.

Alas, I'm still not making anything with my hands. But I will be later. I promise. Heather and I will be making some beef stew. It's nice to have a steaming bowl of comfort food on a cold day. Well, it's comforting to look down into a bowl of what essentially is a steaming pile of shit and potatoes. Or eventually will become such a pile.

Hugs and mittens,

Lord F

Today's Creature Double Feature: MySpace Meets the Blogosphere

Just to dispell any rumors, I heart dog shows.

Heather and I are getting married. In June. It should be fun. We've dated/lived together for 12 years now. I still think she's great. Here's just a small example why.

This morning she went to Starbucks to get a coffee. She e-mailed me the following when she got home:

Ok, I've had it with paying $4.00 for sucky Starbucks...I won't even get into the fact that it was packed with all the fuckers who don't work. So, the person that took my order wrote the correct drink on the cup, however, that still didn't stop the new girl (fatty with dark curly hair) from fucking it up and then getting pissed when she called out the drink to see what it actually was. She had a strange screwed up look on her face and actually got pissy about it. I thought they were supposed to look at the cup BEFORE making the drink? So, she remakes my drink, and I leave, get in the car and why should I be surprised to find that it is literally a cup of milk with barely any chai in it at all. Thanks for the suck-ass piece-of-shit drink. I didn't ask for a no Chai, no water, no foam glass of milk, bitch! I essentially just paid $4.00 for a cup of milk?? Fuck them.

I hope you are having a good day so far.

I love her.

The Ongoing Definitive List of Reasons Why I am Retarded

Today I know that I am retarded because:

1. I have been surfing the web almost continuously since just after 700 AM yesterday, and I do not intend to log off any time soon.

2. I am currently eating a frozen pizza and drinking coke (from a can). I did the same thing for dinner last night.

3. I am debating whether or not to work Star Wars into every comment I leave on other blogs from this point forward.

4. Coldplay is on the radio as I am typing this, and I am much too lazy to go into the other room and change the channel. (Clarification: I fucking hate Coldplay and hope that Gwyneth Paltrow gave them all anal herpes, either directly or indirectly. Incidentally, I had to google Ms. Paltrow to get the proper spelling of her name.)

5. I have a blog and actually keep it updated.

6. I am 33 years-old and have a MySpace account. And I keep it updated. In fact, I'm going to change the song on my MySpace player when I finish this post.

Update as of 23 January 2007:

7. I won't let coworkers touch me (as in hand shakes you dirty bastards), but I'll lay on the filthy floor.

Update as of 24 January 2007:

8. I can't tie my shoes without making two little loops with the laces (you know, they way we tied our shoes when we were 3). Consequently, I have to make double knots.

It's a Small World after all

I'm pretty sure I overheard the following conversation today.

Little girl: "Mommy, our grass looks long. Should Daddy cut it?"

Mommy: "Don't be silly, honey, god created the brown people to cut the lawn."

Little girl: "I thought the brown people were created to clean the house."

Mommy: "No, honey, the Russians were created to clean the house."

But it might be all in my head.

It's Review Time

Along with holiday parties, Santa Claus, and that festive increase in drunk driving accidents, the end of the year brings about performance review time. This is the most special time of year when you get to make a self-assessment of all the work you've done. You'll e-mail your boss a completed standard corporate review form, all happy with yourself about the amount of work you've completed and how you're single-handedly responsible for the firm's success. The boss will in turn review your summary, make you change the language to third person so he can copy and paste your summary into a standard corporate form, and e-mail the form to HR. Then he'll reward you by not giving you a bonus or a raise. Yay you!

I hate this process. So this year I'm writing short reviews of a couple of films I recently watched as well as a short bit about why I hate Blondie.

Talladega Nights (The Ballad of Ricky Bobby)

A now former friend of mine recommended that I see this film. There went two hours I'm never getting back.

The ballad of Ricky Bobby is a shit heap of bad writing, bad acting, and Applebees. With retard strength. But what did I expect?

I believe this film was meant to demonstrate that growing up white in the south and having a dead-beat drunk for a father and a waitress for a mother will lead to a successful life as a race car driver.

Firstly, films should never be made about NASCAR, for driving in circles at 200 miles per hour is not a sport, it's stupid. Wait, how the hell did driving a car become a profession? Secondly, I'm sick and fucking tired of Will Ferrell yelling and screaming nonsensical crap while running naked through the streets or running in his(?) underwear through the streets or running in clothing through the streets. Just once, I'd love to see a dump truck filled with steaming shit mow him down. I'd personally like to punch Lorne Michaels in the taint for spewing Will Ferrell into the film world.

In the end, I believe this film did make me grow as a person, as I can finally say with confidence that I hate Will Fucking Ferrell.

Clerks II

Yay! Two more hours I'm never getting back.

After 12 years of waiting for Kevin Smith to make another good film---"Dogma" was good until Alanis Morrissette appeared on screen (if I were God, I'd be super fucking pissed off to have been played by that wretched hole)---I was happy to see that he returned to his roots and revisited the cult classic "Clerks". This time, however, Senor Smith has managed to nail the un firmly into funny.

With Clerks II, Kevin Smith has made dear sweet Dante and his charming pissant of a side kick Randal get all growds up. In doing so, he's turned his attention far away from providing the great one-liners and exploitations of slackerdom that comprised the original film, and has pooped out updated shells (albethem fatter shells) of these legendary characters (oh, and nice dye job on the old hair and goatee, guy who plays Dante). Seriously, we're expected to believe that Dante would ever leave Jersey, that Randal would cry, that Jay would choose sobriety? Fuck you.

How Smith has managed to replace the hilarity of sucking dicks (all 37 of them in a row) on the way to the parking lot from 12 years ago with tritely pitting the [Star Wars] trilogy against the Lord of the Rings trilogy now is beyond me. He even managed to misspell Moobies---it's like boobies ass head, except on men (man + boobies = moobies). Jesus. Quite simply, watching this film was like watching a chick blow a donkey. Not that I've ever seen such things. I'm just saying is all.

I did learn something, however: dance routines make great substitutes for lack of script.

So Kevin, if you're reading this, please fold up the star wars lawn chairs and take your hot-ass 8-foot-tall wife and action figure collection back into the oblivion of the South Jersey shore where you belong. And PLEASE STOP MAKING FILMS.

I Hate You, Blondie

Yesterday a Blondie song came on the radio and while I was listening it occurred to me that Blondie is perhaps the biggest farce of the punk rock scene. Take as evidence the following:

1. Heart of Glass. Donna Summer, is that you? This is possibly the biggest disco hit ever produced by a band with actual guitars, next to Kiss' "I Was Made for Loving You". I understand that drugs can cloud a musician's feeble brain, but why a band would choose to go from deserving to play the dingy basement of hell that is CBGB to wanting to play for the A list douche pickles at Studio 54 is a mystery for the ages (I'll blame it on Desperately Seeking Susan). By this point of her career, Debby had traded in more than her soul, she abandoned her ripped Rock and Roll jeans and Chuck Taylors for flowing polyester. If I had to bet, though, I'd say that the jeans were Versace and the Chuck Taylors were diamond crusted.

2. Rapture. What the fuck. I'd love to have been a fly on the heroin spoon for that band decision. Perhaps it went something like, "Well, Deb, disco is gone and we don't have any more rock cred, should we call it quits?. No way, guys, I made this new friend, Fab Flav Friday or something, and he says rap's where it's at, look, I did it too, I rapped. The man from mars, and chocolate bars, he eats guitars, and yeah. I smell hit." You smelled something alright: shit.

3. The Tide is High. The fake blonde is high. Seriously, ripping off Musical Youth? How dare you.

Need further proof, head on over to Blondie's fabulously updated web site and check out the photo of Debby (if you look closely, you just might see her mini van in the background).

Here's to You M. Dali

Well, as the year draws to a close, it's time to say ciao and wish well to Jamie and Jen who will make their ways to starting anew in sunny North Carolina in a few short days.

Although it's a somewhat sad moment, it is also a moment filled with hope for a prosperous future. In the words of someone else, "through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow". We'll see you soon kids.

Love,

Han Solo

Meet the Kitties

I'm Cleo and I'm a 12 year-old Gemini. I like dancing and making the grumpy face. I also like cat food and dog food and any other kind of food I can wrap my lil pink lips around. I might be old and small, but I'll kick your mothertruckin ass. I'm shown here with a stuffed anmial replica of my old pal Chet; aren't I divine.

Hi, I'm Abigail Princess Buttercup. I'm 3 and I'm a Leo.

Mostly I'm a spaz, but I'm sweet as hell.