The forgotten ones, like Grandpa.

Wow, I wrote in my blog last night and was so hammerfaced I didn't remember it until I read it this morning. That's completely dance party worthy.

You'll never catch Mr. Jones

I seriously have nothing to add to this blog. I'm seriously doubting why I'm even in the dashboard right now. No good can come of this. Like that one time when Hitler was like, hey what about those jews, I'm pretty sure I don't like them. Ok, I'm just gonna go ahead and say, that's pretty bad. I mean, what did the jews ever do to him. Aaaand here comes some jewish group getting ready to come beat down my door because they're jesus hookers. Yeah that didn't make any sense either. I really shouldn't publish this. But you know, sometimes you just have to because shit happens. That's not much of an excuse. Hell I really hope no one that counts reads this. Because when you drink Jaeger and listen to Mike Jones, nothing you say should really count towards your official record. Thank the small infant breast-feeding christ child that no one I work with reads this. Somewhere between me talking about Jesus killing jews or something and me jumping homeless people with my skateboard whilst drinking would probably put a pretty quick end to my career. But isn't that what life's all about? Drinking heavily and playing paperboy? Seriously what the fuck was up with the people who invented paperboy. Why is every single fucking person that owns a car pulling out right when I go by on my bike. I'm all like "here's your paper, p.s. I'll try not to throw it through your window, and p.p.s. if I get it in your mailbox I get extra points, imo" and they're like "I"m pretty sure I just want to hit you with my car, or get in a fight with my neighbor and if either of us hit you you lose a life". That shit is fucking ridiculous, and then I get done my paper route. That's pretty sweet. You're thinking, thank god I'm finally done with throwing all those godforsaken papers. But then you get done and SOMEONE BUILT A FUCKING OBSTACLE COURSE IN YOUR WAY. So I'm all dodging shit and jumping ramps to get over rivers. WHO BUILT THIS SHIT. I'M JUST TRYING TO GET PAPERS TO PEOPLE WHO NEED THEM! WHY ARE YOU BUILDING RAMPS AND SHIT. But for some reason it exists, so I do what I can. Who wouldn't do what they can? Exactly. But even if I die and crash into some utter bullshit form of carnival 18 speed bullshit I get another life. But in between me getting another life apparently fucking everyone canceled their paper subscriptions. As if to say "fuck that, the paperboy died, like I'm ever getting that paper again!" Fuck that shit, I FUCKING DIED TO GET YOU A PAPER, HAVE SOME FUCKING RESPECT. I ran around dogs and pulling out cars and shit. What do you want from me? People are so fucking demanding. I'm counting a shitload of F-bombs in this literature. Maybe all of you should just appreciate your paperboys more.

Peace up, a-town down.

NEDM

Just because.

I do it for the drugs.

I've sworn off alcohol until Cinco de Mayo. Subtract the alcohol and I don't see myself writing in the near future. Maybe I'll do a megapost on the 5th.

Just a heads up.

Frankly, She's Macronna

At some point in a man's life, he needs to write worthless bullshit on the internet. This point has come at countless times in my life. For example, there's a candle in my room that I lit recently. It smells of baked cakes. I'm not sure how it's even fucking possible to create a candle that smells of baked cakes. The candle is made out of wax for jeebus sake. Wax does not smell like cakes. And this is not something I read in a book, I've smelt wax before. And I'm not talking about putting multiple metals together, I mean pulling in scent things with my nostrils. And never has wax smelled fuck all like a baked cake. But yet I sit at this fucking keyboard, and it smells like cakes in my room. Did I want it to smell like cakes?, not exactly. Is the punctuation in that last sentence even remotely acceptable by collegiate standards? Hardly. Can you even have a sentence that's only one word? Not likely. Two words? Not likely, twice. That last one definitely does not qualify. Nor my last. I sense a loop. I am currently out of vodka. This greatly saddens me. Once a week, on Sundays, I get to drink myself retarded. Some might see that as a character flaw, I see that as giving my brain a night off. If you knew half of the shit that went through my head you'd call the local authorities... and inform them of the bitching party that runs 24/7 in my appendix. And it will continue to run until it is removed. This also is unlikely to happen. Not unlike me writing a sentence that is actually grammatically correct. There is one thing that has me absolutely amazed, though. And it has nothing to do with grammar, or the amount of bullshit that happens on that doctor show that's on Thursday nights once a week. P.S. when it comes to that show, why is it acceptable to show reruns randomly throughout the season and everyone is just ok with it? If there's a season, it's a fucking season. For one night a week every week until you finish the fucking season you play a new show. This isn't rocket science, you're not a key cog in the Manhattan Project. You run a shitty television shows about hot doctors. Well, minus the Asian one that looks like a horse, you have hot doctors. I have never once in my life seen a hot doctor. I've seen a few hot ones that could possibly be doctors in their future... that's another story. BUT, let's be realistic here. When I went to get my knee looked at at an orthopedic surgeon's office, the staff that assisted me there could just as easily been auditioning for the Broadway version of Joe Dirt as been helping me with my medical condition. And that says nothing about the quality of Joe Dirt. Let me break it down for you. Fat. Sweaty. Nasty. Women. Touched. My. Knee. There's really no way to break it down any further than that. I put periods after every single one of my words. And it seemed like each one of them had periods after every single one of their words too. Because they hated their lives and decided to take it out on me. If you hate your life, and you're a fat nurse, I'm sorry you're not a doctor. I'm sorry you still live in a double wide trailer with Nicholas Cage and are "Raising Arizona". All of the above things are not my fault, including your depressing bout with alcoholism which cause every inch of femenitity (I made up that word) to recede into you not unlike my nuts when I take a dip in Echo Lake at 6AM for Franconia Rec swimming lessons. It's really not my fault. Don't be mean to me. I pay my insurance money. Something's wrong with me. It's your job to fix it. Not be like "oh I'm fat, I hate my life, p.s. I'm a nurse, did I mention I'm fat. Fuck you did you fill out this insurance form? doesn't matter, I still hate you and my job equally." These things can be resolved, but more by the carpet cleaner of the same name than actual help. And I think drinking Resolve may be the only hope these people have left. It's like R2D2 portraying a holographic image of a bottle of resolve that has the little Alice in Wonderland on the note that says "drink me" and so they do. But instead of becoming small and going on an adventure, they fucking die. That was a bit harsh, but it's true. If you're a nurse and you suck, don't go to Alice in Wonderland, because you'll die. I've seen to it. The Mad Hatter always seemed to strike a chord with me. The guy had his shit together. He was always late, and at least you can trust a man that's always late. Because he'll tell you the truth because he's fucking late for shit. And I can trust a guy that's late for shit because he doesn't care what he says because he's just trying to get where he fucking needs to go. He doesn't care about nurses that hate their lives, he's just like "bitch the Queen needs to see me, I have this hat size sticking out of my top hat, how does that not convince you that I'm serious? BITCH MOVE OUT THE WAY." And then, if you were the nurse, it'd be quite possible that he'd set your shit on fire with something you entirely did not notice that he had been carrying. Like a cake scented candle for instance. It's my goddamn bed time. There's no way any of you deserved to have all this. But I giveth, and you bitches taketh away.

Peace up, a-town down.