“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

It's been a few days and that fucker is still banging on that fucking electric box.

You'd think he'd have fried by now. We’re all taking bets on how long the neighborhood is going to smell and exactly what it's going to smell like.

I think it'll be bacony. He looks greasy.

Anyways, the events of the last few days are as follows;

I took my sister's boyfriend back down to fucking Marshall University. I didn't drive this time, my sister did. This means the drive that would have taken an hour and a half if I were behind the wheel, took THREE FUCKING HOURS.

Both fucking ways.

This is because she and I have differing attitudes on speed. She drives, on average, about five miles an hour under the limit. I, as a rule, drive fifteen to twenty miles OVER the limit.

Yeah, I have a few tickets on my record, but I figure if I average it out over all the times I've exceeded the limit I've pro-rated the cost of those tickets down to pennies per mile.

Hell, maybe even fractions of pennies.

I was never good at fractions.

I didn't drive because I was up till dawn talking to a friend online (who shall remain nameless) about an important subject (which shall remain confidential) about a mutual acquaintance of ours (who shall also remain nameless) and certain heinous acts that were perpetrated (which shall remain confidential).

So my brain was pretty well a sponge at that point.

Anyways, we got him in somehow.

You know, having gone to West Virginia University (class of 1999) I thought Marshall would be, at the very least, comparable in size to WVU.

Well it isn't.

Hell, there are buildings in the Morgantown that are bigger than Marshall in its entirety.

Not to mention we fucked their shit up last time they met us on a football field.

Oh, while I'm thinking about it: FUCK RANDY MOSS.

Then Saturday I helped my friends Ryan and Raychel move into their new apartment, which is actually in my old apartment building.

They had a lot of furniture.

I wish I could have helped more, but I'm not as fully recovered as I like to think I am. Still, I did more than I could have even thought of doing just a few months ago.

I feel like I've been beaten with a sack of monkeys though.

And I got to talk to Jessica, a friend of mine from the college days. She lives right next to the apartments. I don't get to see her often enough since I moved. I mean, my night-vision goggles only zoom in so far...

Just kidding Jess! But seriously, you really should be more careful about keeping your curtains drawn.

So the day after that, Sunday by my estimation, I helped my little sister move into her dorm room at Marietta University. I'd rather she had gone to WVU, but I guess Marietta is a decent second choice. At least she had the good taste not to choose Marshall.

FUCK RANDY MOSS.

Sometime in the middle of all of this I went back to my health club, the Ren-Dor Lanes bowling alley. While there I noticed something: the alley, which normally smelly like moldy feet, smells a lot better in the summertime.

Well, I noticed that, AND that you can fart literally ANYWHERE in a bowling alley. And I don't mean you can sneak a little one, you can fart for all you're worth in there and it can't be heard over the ambient sound. Perhaps that's why so many men like to bowl.

I enjoy bowling for it's spiritual harmony.

Well, that and the farting.

You might think I'm kidding, but as part of my ailments I had to endure a colostomy bag for eleven months, during which time I was completely and utterly unable to fart.

There were limited advantages to the colostomy bag, though I don't recommend getting one.

Advantage one was that my ass remained very clean.

Number two was that I was able to shit anywhere I pleased. ANYWHERE. Hell, during the Superbowl that year we had a line to get into our bathroom so I just went outside and shit in the flowerbed.

It's not like I didn't fucking bury it. I do have SOME class.

No gas station restroom was too disgusting for me as I didn't even have to touch the toilet. One was so filthy though that I took the lid off the tank and shit in there just to prove a point.

I'm not entirely sure what point that was, but dammit, I proved it.

Advantage number three was that it was very easy to light my gas.

Yes, I did say I couldn't fart, and I didn't. But without getting into the more disgusting details of it, I did still have to eliminate the usual amount of gaseous emissions.

The delicate part came from my temporary asshole being in the front of my body rather than behind.

My eyebrows did eventually grow back. Jesus, I'm classy.

But I'm sure you're all happy to know that I have my asshole back and it's functioning just perfectly, thank you very much.

How the fuck did I get off on that tangent?

Anyhow, I'm rambling.

Probably due to the fact that I turn 30 on Friday.

See, I never pictured myself ever being 30. I just never planned on it. I just figured I'd never live this long. True, I did die, but it didn't take. So here I am, alive, and almost 30.

I'm not complaining.

Not about the alive part anyways.

The 30 part has me in something of a quandary however.

30, and what the fuck have I done with my life? Don't get me wrong, I like my life, but where am I and where is this going?

Yeah, I know everyone asks these questions when they get to 30. I started asking them back in high school though.

I thought I'd gotten past this shit.

But that's it. Friday. For those of you that are interested I'll be going to Sugar's Gentleman's Club on Seventh Street. I figure If I'm gonna get shitty and cry out loud I might as well cry into a nice pair of titties.

Or barring a nice pair, then at least the nicest pair of titties they've got on the premises.

If you want to swing by, just e-mail me at Ford_Maverick@hotmail.com and we'll figure something out.

So far, Mike D and Brian B are on board, though I don't know if I'll be able to get D into the tittie bar. He's plenty old enough to get in, it's just that he's got these bothersome scruples. I've been trying my best to chase them off, but he's a stubborn one.

One last thing. My little sister wanted me to remove the last post about Richard Arpin from the NWA (National Wrestling Alliance) for fear that someone doing a Google search on either of them would bring up my article and get her boyfriend in trouble and possibly fired from his wrestling job.

You know, the one that he doesn't get paid for.

She failed to take into account the fact that I really despise Richard Arpin.

Fuck Richard Arpin. Fuck him in the ass with a spiked metal rod.

Remember how I told you about how he doesn't give a shit about the kids that work for him? Well they just drove to a show in Erie Pennsylvania where one of his wrestlers fractured a disk in his neck.

Arpin left him up there.

Just fucking left.

"Good luck kid. Gimmie a call if you heal up and find a way home, I'll be sure to provide you with all the encouragement you need to fucking do it again!"

I will say that my sister's boyfriend does not share my opinion of Mr. Arpin, but I hope that Arpin does fire him for this. The best thing that could happen to anyone, especially if they plan on doing anything in the wrestling field, is to arrange it so that Arpin totally disassociates himself from you.

So fuck him and Randy Moss.

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