Worst. Post. Ever.

Well, day four. I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. I did hear a good joke yesterday. Well, read… I read a good joke yesterday.
Q: Why aren’t there any jokes about the Jonestown Massacre?
A: The punch line is too long.
Get it? They all killed themselves by drinking cyanide laced punch! Genius! Actually, I think a whole lot of the people at Jonestown might have been forced to drink it against their will, and the whole thing was real tragic, but… Tragedy and comedy go together like mustard and coffee. That analogy too much for you? Deal with it. Chump.

Good Gravy

It’s really hard for me to take a stance on most things. I try to be objective in most situations. And probably too objective. Almost to the point of defending horrible human beings and their horrible actions. I’m not, inherently, a bad person. I do bad things from time to time, but, “bad” is a subjective term. SEE! That’s what I’m talking about. If I ever do take a stance on something, it’s a “well, who am I to judge?” stance, which isn't a stance. But, really, Who am I to judge? Everyone is made of the same stuff, we’re all basically the same thing. We all have our own ideologies and prejudices, but at some point we were all exactly the same. If only for about a year or two right after we were all born, respectively. As Pete Holmes says, “It’s amazing to me to think that every person on Earth has, at least one time, had diarrhea.” We can make awful cosmic references to human inter-connectivity, or we can make crude understatements of how every human being is somehow connected. We might take different roads, but we’ll end up in the same place. It’s real easy to get wrapped up in ones life. Bullshit constantly drops from the sky, some people are just better at dodging it. A good way to dodge it is to look at life for what it really is… a big fucking joke. This doesn't have to be a depressing statement if you don’t want it to be. Life’s a joke, so laugh at it. Have fun. Tear shit up, but not people. A lot of people make it seem like the human race is a terrible disease slowly killing itself and it’s home, and that may very well be the case, but, let’s not let those fucks ruin our party, it’s only midnight.

Workin' It

Stream of consciousness #2 - I have to write. I don’t know what about, but I have to write, so, I’m doing these “stream of consciousness” things. I think, then I write. I hear it’s some kind of writing exercise that writers do.

My day off work consists of such:
Noon - Too early to get up on such a beautiful day.
1:45pm - Sandwich, back to bed.
2:00pm - Think about what it would be like to get out of bed. Oh, all the things I could do.
8:00pm - Coffee, write.
9:00pm - Think about how stupid I am for having a job.
4:37am - Lay awake in bed and think about how stupid I am for not going to bed at a reasonable hour.
4:39am - Sleep.

I’m a busy man with nothing to do. I make food for a bunch of people I’ve never met, nor do I care to meet. They surely know what Italian food is. These people ALL HAVE TASTE… GOOD TASTE.

Takin' Care of Business

Stream of consciousness #1 - Ok, so, the Casualties are rapists. Who cares? People rape and get raped. I’m not condoning it by any means, but… They’re not that good anyway, so you shouldn't support them on principle of that. In other news, let’s do this for real. Let’s start a fire. At a church. Let’s burn that shit down then move on the Washington and burn that shit down. Revolution? Fuck no. No one cares about that shit. It’s all a bunch of bologna. Let’s just wreck shit until no one wants it anymore and we can take back what is rightfully ours. You know, like Justin Timberlake did with N’sync. We’ll plant our seed in every town we pass through and kill the old people who try to stop us. We’re not in this to change anyone’s lives but our own. We’re selfish and we know it. They made us this way and then try to blame us for it. FUCK THEM! Who are they? They are the old, they are the ignorant, they are you. Well, maybe not you, but they’re definitely not us. Creating isn't easy, unless you’re into that hippy dippy shit and believe that everything is beautiful. Everything is not beautiful. Most things are disgusting, in fact. Like rape. Rape is disgusting and we've been the ass end of it for too long. Well, guy, I’m done being raped. If the revolution does come I’m not stock piling a bunch of guns and canned food. I’m sitting in front of my record player until the electricity goes out, then I’ll go sit outside for a while and watch the stars every night. Nothing romantic, nothing beautiful, just day-to-day shit. Keepin’ it real. As long as pot comes from the ground you’ll always have something to do. Stay on your toes, dress warm when it’s cold, hold your babies tight… the road might get a little bumpy.

The Coolest Year Ever

I haven't seen my apartment in days. And I haven't updated this shit in a while. Who cares? I don't.

Anyway, I've been thinking about the past year, you know, 2012. Righteous ass year, right, bro? Sure. The perfect way to cap off a shitty year... sucker punched by some douche named Dino. Couldn't ask for anything better.

Really, though, I thought this shit was supposed to end. Fuck the Mayans.

Here's a badass review of music from this past year from Brady W-Hunt. Read it. All of it.

http://vastogaw.wordpress.com/2012/12/31/top-5-albums-of-2012/

Tales From The Other Side pt. 2

This story is creepy in a different way.

One beautiful spring afternoon in mid May I was doing a trash run at the main apartment complex and was approached by a tenant. He asked me if I wanted to smoke, but I declined because I'm paranoid and the situation kind of freaked me out. He said if I ever wanted to take him up on his offer to just stop by his apartment because he's always there. The next day I did. It's was pretty late in the day and I had nothing else to do, so I thought I'd be able to get away with it. We both took geebs and shot the shit for a few minutes before my supervisor called me. There was some older lady wanting some spackled over holes covered with paint. Extremely nervous, high, and red-eyed I gathered my supplies and went to the lady's apartment.

I walked in and the first thing I noticed were the walls. Every wall in the place was almost completely covered with little porcelain trinkets. At first I thought it was extremely weird but soon convinced my balls high self that it wasn't that weird, "Ya know, some people just like worthless pieces of porcelain to cover their entire wall." But then I looked up and saw the people who lived there. They weren't overly disgusting looking or anything, but they were a strange looking group of people. There were three of them and they were all sitting on a couch watching some Queen Latifah movie. On the far left was the older white lady, I'd say mid 50s to 60s, who talked to me about painting the random spots in her place, on the far right was a very old lady, I'm assuming the other lady's mother, in the middle was a young very frail looking African American male, and on his lap was a tiny dog; some kind of dirty brown Maltese looking creature. Just as I don't believe in ghosts, I am no racist, but this grouping seemed strange to me.

Anyway, the entire time I'm painting the walls the dog would not stop growling and barking at me, followed by the African American fellow quietly in an almost southern and feminine voice telling the dog to "hush now." I look up at the dog and people and nervously chuckle because in my head I just fucking know that they know that I am high as balls. My eyes more red than the devil's dick, the faint smell of piny skunky weed smoke coming off me, I look again, and not one of them, excluding the dog, are paying the slightest bit of attention to me. They were too enthralled with that fabulous Queen Latifah and all of her zany but heartwarming antics. I hurried with the painting, painting a wall faster than any wall I had painted thus far, said "have a nice day", and got the fuck out of dodge. That was my last day.

Tales from the Other Side Pt. 1

Ma halo, you guys.

It has been a while since I've last updated. Not that I even really have anything interesting to say, just thought I should put something up before I loose all interest.

Over the past couple of months I've been working as a make-ready for an apartment complex. That is until I got tired of the grind and quit the fuck out of that job. For those of you don't know, a make-ready is someone who goes into an apartment right after it is vacated and fixes, very cheaply, I might add, all the damages before the next tenant moves into said apartment. It was easy enough work, but I got another higher paying, not as stressful job offer and decided to move on. Also, I hated it.

The property management company I was working for actually owned several apartment complexes and a few houses. One of the first "assignments" they had for me was a house located somewhat close to the country club area of town kind of secluded down it's own private drive. They had recently acquired it by way of an estate sale. Meaning someone probably fucking died in the house. Didn't know that for sure at first, but what I did know, is that the house had been vacant for about two years, and apparently some critters had found their way into the attic and made themselves at home. And you could tell as soon as you opened the front door. Immediately the thick smell of errant feces would hit you in the face and at first all you can do is gag. Eventually, though, you kind of get use to it, not in an enjoying "Yeah, this isn't so bad", but more of a "Fuck, I'm going to have smell this shit for the next eight hours" kind of way. The house itself was kind of cool. Built sometime in the early 70s, it had a lot of front and back yard space with a trail going down to a pond. I'd like to describe it better, but I'm not really sure how to, and... it's just a house. So, fuck it. The main thing I want to talk about is the creepy shit that went down while I was painting.

One of the first days I was working I had to paint some cabinets above a desk, where I found some paper trash. Old receipts, loose leaf paper, and envelope stuff. On one of the envelopes I saw a name of a man and decided to try and find out more about the previous owners by "Google"ing the name. The only thing I found was an obituary of the wife of the man. Turns out she died in the house.

I'm not generally someone who believes in ghosts and the like, but there were some weird things going on in there. Not intensely crazy things, but loud tapping on walls, doors opening and shutting, lights turning off and on. Just some weird shit. And like I said I don't believe in ghouls and shit, but that stuff creeped me out. Especially since I was alone the majority of the time and having just found out about the old lady dying in the house.

One moment, in particular, that was especially heinous was in the kitchen. I heard some really loud bangs coming from the ceiling. Being the crazily paranoid person I am, my first thought was "Holy shit a ghost!". But then slowly realized it was probably just the animal living in the attic because of the constant scurrying. All of the sudden it stopped right above the oven. After that there was just scratching noises over and over and over. I finished painting in the kitchen and ignored the noises. The next day, after telling my supervisor, Randy, about the noises I heard, he decided to bring out an exterminator. Well, he was more of a trapper. A real good ol' boy from the sticks. He had grown up catching little woodland creatures all the time for fun and thought he could turn that into a career, I guess. As I'm showing Randy where all the commotion was coming from we noticed blood dripping from the oven vent, and the smell in the house had increased ten fold. Seriously, it was goddamn disgusting. I thought it smelled like a zoo before, it now smelled like a zoo mixed with animal dukes mixed with rotting meat. In fact it was the worst thing I had ever smelled. I think. After a few seconds of exploring the oven vent, the trapper fellow found the little guy who had tried to make this house his own. He turned out to not be so little. And a possum. He had gotten himself stuck in the oven vent and tried to chew his way out. When the trapper made it to him he was long dead and missing an arm. Hence the blood.

Here's a sample of the work I was doing...