paul(p) (non)fiction

whoa

2011-01-12T11:49:00.001-08:00

I recently saw the most realistic Simpsons parody ever. It's totally live action and Marge is crazy hot, but i seriously almost crapped my pants when i saw Flanders. Its like they pulled him straight out of the cartoon and made him real... it was posted here Simpsons Porn Parody

explicit baubles.

2007-03-05T01:13:00.000-08:00

who knew that the saginaw news publishes poetry? i didn't. oh, poetry. the beautiful filets of language, laid out like those delectable Rubenesque ladies with nipples you couldn't put your fist around. well, this is the sentence of the week that got my toes curled. curled tighter than my grandmother's perm. and straight out of my hometown's newspaper. who knew? alright. here we go:

"LeRoy E. Myers Jr. says children shouldn't be exposed to giant plastic gonads dangling from pickup trailer hitches."

priceless.
this is the phrase that pays. the sentence with presence. the quote on the boat. for some reason i just can't get it out of my head. and if anybody else would like, at group prices i could get that quote printed on a coffee mug for really cheap. and by cheap, i mean, like... comparatively.

i am innocent.

2007-01-13T23:44:00.000-08:00

alright, so one of my beloveds says to me, they say: "why you no blogging? me wants you to be all blogging and shit." and i don't have much of an answer.
(but i am eating nachos at this moment. mmm...)
and so this is for them.
well, it is most certainly not directed toward them. uh-uh.
and it really isn't a them.
it's a him.
a male-type person, you know?
and we'll always have scene 6.
be that as it may.
my explanation is longer than my actual blog.
and you know who you are.

my blog is this (for that bitch-ass that isn't my beloved) :
"how about you just sit on my fucking fist and let me wipe your tears with my dick, you extra-chromosome-toting motherfucker. how about that, huh? alright. i'll let you think about it while you make friends with my undercarriage."

thank-you.

my underbelly is a piano

2006-10-07T00:44:00.000-07:00

i've been cooking much bacon lately. it's in the fridge, ya know. generally delicious. you can slap it on any sandwich and call it appetizing. however, the whole concept of it seems self-hating to me.
i don't like red meat. i don't like fatty-ass shit. i don't like using tongs when i'm cooking, especially with anything that spits back at you. but self-hating comes easy to me. after a while it sort of becomes an art, like driving drunk or mounting a horse. so why not indulge?
alright. i lied. i don't mind tongs at all. and they know why. we have had some intimate (unspeakable) moments together.
but... i have nothing to say. i've got fingers to type and i'm proud of their speed and accuracy. and i have elbows, all ashy and mottled. i have hair, increasingly thin and absent. my body, disease-ridden and forgettable. and bacon, burnt and symbolic.
i'm planning on turning my life into a rock-opera. don't get scared when i start singing to you.

did you salt the dumplings?

2006-09-09T00:36:00.000-07:00

tonight i met a man with a dog named "ugly." but of course, he wasn't ugly. perhaps merely inscrutable.
i'm sick and tired of being sick and tired, and i know everyone else is too (of me). god love them. (whichever god they prescribe to.) my god is the people i love and give it back. i'm sorry for weeping so much recently. lately i have had much to apologize for.
all apologies, i am.
deena: you have no idea how many people love the mere idea of you being anywhere near them. busy-lady that you are, when we can be together i am honestly honored that i get to be there.
natalie: i miss you so much. you are truly a light. please don't lose that. i've been able to watch you grow up. you've watched me grow up too. we've both helped each other become who we are.
samantha: if i didn't have you, then what would i do? we joke about getting married and having babies... but please know that (if i was into girls) there's nobody else i would love to do that with. why we haven't had drunken sex is beyond me.
anyway, deena and i were just talking about budget monks. and, yes, they are highly respectable and intriguing. but don't you think someone's title should be able to be defined? a budget monk? as opposed to those high-spending, jet-setting monks? okay. fine. let them get one more monk-inch ahead of me in the line toward heaven. but if they're listening to an i-fucking-pod, then my foot is not gonna be flip-flopping it, it's gonna be up a monk's ass. will i be sent to hell? probably. but good. because you know what he's listening to on that i-pod should probably make his neck be broken by geena davis. (rent "the long kiss goodnight" for reference.)
on another note, i'm really into bisquick lately. go figure.

too little, too late.

2006-06-10T00:12:00.000-07:00

Just in case you aren't aware, let me inform you of the fantastic events taking place this saturday, June 10th.
your socks? consider them knocked off. wanna see me? i'll be there, socks knocked off prior.

down at the 303:

Renegade Bed race starts at 2:00 pm

Box Spring Outdoor Music Festival starts at 4:00 pm
featuring:The Banana Convention 4:00 - 5:00
The Avery Set 5:15 - 6:15
Sprout 6:30 - as late as they want to go

Also poetry by Marc Beaudin and Bakari McClendon, stand-up comedy, cane twirling and fire batons!
Beer and other liquid refreshments. Popcorn. Food by Dave's Texas Bar-B-Q. Raffles. Prizes and drink specials for pajama-wearers.

$10 at the gate. (Helps us produce another season of progressive, independant theatre and visual arts events.)

The 303
303 Adams at Niagara
Old Town Saginaw
989-297-5111 for more info.

we won't come home until we kissed a girl

2006-05-13T05:12:00.000-07:00

now that i am celibate, i need new and exciting things to take up my time. or at least to hang with my friends who are able to bitch, moan, and/or fart in harmony with my own emotional diarrhea. anyway, this is somewhere i go as often as it's updated and i thought some of you would enjoy it's existence. (specifically amanda, charlie, and scott. yes.)
http://www.avclub.com/content/hater
and of course, i care about all y'all, so this remains recommended to anyone who is of the persuasion and is persuaded.
(and of course i still say "y'all" in honor of amanda: royalties are coming, honey.)
i wanna kiss all of you, my friends.
and i mean lips and all. even your vagina, if you have one.

okay.

2006-05-06T09:33:00.000-07:00

alright, so there's this thing called amazing sex. and, praise-jesus, isn't it nice? yes, yes it is. i am planning on getting some more tonight, and if anyone wants to watch some electric-loving, it's only fifty bucks a pop. damn-well worth it too. if you wanna see heaven and her older sister, parasdise, have a family reunion, then get ready to touch your toes and you might wanna bring a flashlight.
"love is in the air!" they say.
"actually, the stench of jeremy's rotting corpse is in the air."
so sorry, that's just bad house-keeping.
"yes, but thank christ i made some barbequed salmon with home-grown potatoes, which were sauteed in a balsamic vinaigrette, and then forced into a lover's quadrangle of pure milk, unsalted butter, sharp-to-mild cheddar, and the clove-bits of garlic. a side of broccoli liberally infused with a merlot (preferably prior to '82) and fried with an avocado (preferably prior to tomorrow) completes the package."
is there anything better?
who can say?
fuck me.

not much.

2006-04-16T15:50:00.000-07:00

quote of the day: (from a critique of the polanski classic repulsion) "a crack on the sidewalk seemingly radiates from her vagina"
thankyou, ed gonzalez. your mother is proud.

you are the wind between my knees

2006-04-14T11:35:00.000-07:00

in my life, i have two things that remain constant: my deep and pathetic self-loathing, and the ability to get a hole in the crotch of any pair of pants i own.
last nite, i was sprawled on my friend's gorgeous sofa which just sucks you in. ever so plush. fuck mattresses. it's like lounging on angelina's lips, had they been bloated up to mammoth proportions. or maybe j. lo's asscheeks had they been bloated up to as big as they already are. be that as it may, sitting there i was when all of a sudden i hear a hearty gasp. "is everyone okay?" i asked, and everyone was. but apparently my balls were bulging out of this gaping hole in the crotch of my blue jeans. my favorite jeans.
but, why i ask you.
some hypotheses that have been proposed are:
a) my dick is so big that, eventually, the pants give out. cotton isn't known for it's tenacity.
b) i fart too much. and all those small explosions between my legs eventually wear down the crotch fiber.
c) all of my pants are old (i like to call it vintage).
whatever the reason for the season, i've opted to laminate all of my pants in an attempt to maintain their original splendor. plus, their easier to wash, you just hose them off.
the only downside is that everyone is going to start laminating their pants. trendsetter that i am, it's hard for me to get credit for all the latest fashion fads that i start because my devoted set of posers instantly start copping my style. (you know who you are and you can go fuck your mother, although you probably will anyway because i know i already did.)
i'm also thinking about bringing back paisley.

potholders, lack of

2006-04-03T11:30:00.000-07:00

By Larry Williams
The Hartford Courant
Only in the movies does everybody take their coffee "black." And people are always saying "keep the change" when they buy something.
Where else do you see people take aspirin without water? Or look over their shoulder while driving to see whether the car chasing them is catching up?
Movies are full of this stuff, allegedly everyday human behavior that isn't, really. They're called "movie shortcuts."
The truth is, most human beings take milk and/or sugar with their coffee. Or artificial sweetener or creamer. In the real world, coffee cannot be served without a brief Q&A. But moviemakers are impatient with incidental dialogue, so the coffee ritual is out.
The same goes for beer. A man walks into a bar and orders "a beer," which the bartender quickly serves him. Never mind the brand or whether he'd prefer a draft or a bottle.
When the customer pays for the beer, he never wants any change. I'm not talking about leaving it on the bar but pointedly refusing to take it: "Keep the change." That phrase is all over the movies, for it eliminates change-making, which might slow down the story for 10 seconds. For me, the story stops when a guy tells a 7-Eleven cashier to keep the change.
That is the problem with movie shortcuts. Sometimes they're so glaring that they snap you out of immersion in the movie. That happens to me whenever a driver in a car chase looks over his shoulder at his pursuer. Why is he not looking in his rearview mirror?
This is not the only problem with cars and driving in the movies. Have you noticed that when movie characters go on a long trip, they're always on picturesque back roads? In "Transamerica," they go from New York to New Mexico without using the boring interstate.
A hit man can sit in a shiny black BMW sedan on a suburban street for hours, waiting for his target, without anyone questioning what he's doing there.
One more thing: seat belts. Movies are stuck in the 1950s, when people jumped into their cars and drove away. We still see that worn-out gag in which the driver peels out and almost hits something, after which the passenger nervously buckles his belt.
Let's talk telephones. Movie-character behavior on the phone bears no resemblance to real life. For one thing, nobody ever says "Goodbye." They just hang up, which is actually rude. Sometimes they don't say "Hello," either. Instead, it's, "Yeah?"
Listen closely when the disembodied voice on the phone hangs up. Is that a dial tone? Since when do you get a dial tone in that situation?

Here are more things you'll see only in the movies:
Head-butting. Can you imagine how much it would hurt to bash your forehead into someone else's forehead? In the movies, it happens all the time, rarely with negative effects.
Miracle cures for nearsightedness. We've all seen the bit where a "plain" woman (hair in a bun, conservative attire, ugly glasses) transforms into a hot babe by letting down her hair, putting on a sexy outfit and throwing away her glasses. What, she doesn't need them to see?
Smoking. The movies represent the last bastion of cigarette smoking in America, where the habit has been in decline for years. But movie characters live in an alternate universe where the tobacco industry won the war. Nonsmokers are rare. Indeed, you can watch a movie for an hour without seeing the main character smoke, only to have him light up during a moment of meditation.
Mirrors. People in movies are always studying themselves in the mirror, thinking deep thoughts. In real life, periods of introspection take place without mirrors. How often have you gone to the sink, splashed cold water all over your face, then stared into the mirror? Not often, unless you enjoy getting your clothes wet.
Potholders, lack of. The scene is a cliché: A saucepan on the stove starts to boil over, the panicky guy grabs the handle with his bare hand, yelps in pain and drops everything, making a huge mess. In real life, even the most kitchen-impaired cook knows better.

i thought it would be funny for you guys to think of some other ones.

salami is made of salvation,

2006-02-24T13:34:00.000-08:00

who says there isn't a god?

click on the below sentence and learn how to hate yourself all over again.
http://ebaumsworld.com/2006/02/racistkid.html

under siege

2006-02-18T23:43:00.000-08:00

so... i have a guilty pleasure of good, old-fashioned B-movies.
let's say the movie, 2046, for example, has a certain delicious flavor and consistency, much like foie gras. but sometimes, you just want a Whopper. extra mayonnaise, if you could.
which brings me to the battleship bonanza of Under Siege. here, you have all the makings of a trashy classic. case in point: Steven Seagal, registering the emotional range of a Kleenex. (Interesting side note: initially, they were going to give him the last name "Seagull," but the birds employed in the screen adaptation of Jonathon Livingston Seagull balked that they would have to suffer a comparison of abilities.)
then there is Tommy Lee Jones playing a semi-psychotic harmonica playing wannabe-hippie... so he's just really playing himself. and do we really want anything more from him?
then there's Gary Busey. what can i say... he seems at least half-sober for most of the movie, but you get to see him in a dress, and you just wish he wore that to Celebrity Fit Camp just once. in this get-up, you can also notice the remarkable similarity to Hilary Duff... and i don't just mean that absent, listless look in their eyes.
and Erika Eleniak... has the world known more creamy, buttery boobs? i don't think so. the way she pops out of that cake makes me weep. not for what is. but for the man i was never meant to be. who knew, given some hair extensions and a skimpy red bathing-suit, the lives she would save as she jiggled her way up and down the west-coast. where is her Nobel Prize? where's her self-serving trip to the holy land? where.... where is she? i'm sure VH1 will find out soon enough.
beyond all these incredible performances we get Macgyver-like maneuvers and a renewed faith in someone with a greasy ponytail.
it all kinda makes me wanna join the navy.
besides, i've seen the porn. i know what kind of sex they have there.
god bless america.

under siege - B+
navy sex - A-

rhymes with goulash

2006-02-08T21:12:00.000-08:00

so... i just french-kissed my cat, Floyd.
twice.
how about that?

radical catholics.

2006-02-06T22:44:00.000-08:00

my friends.
i apologize for nothing new lately... i know i have been absent for a much-too extended period before... and now look, i've gone and done it again. this isn't an actual blog or post or anything. before anyone starts to hate me or forget about me, i just wanted to make a little disclaimer.
i'm still here and i am still checking up on all y'all. (amanda, i've started calling my tables "y'all" because of you. please tell me you still do.) i just don't have anything to contribute lately.
anyway y'all, this cowboy is just dealing with shit right now, and i seem to be unravelling (if i wanna be all meryl streep about it).
how long is it until summer?

alright. let me give some glimmer of something interesting... at least to me anyway.
being the loser that i am, i read movie reviews online for at least an hour a day. it's part of the reason why i am the movie snob i am today. anyway, a well-written movie review, in itself, can be a piece of art. pauline kael is one of my heroes (may she rest in peace). i just wanted to share this snippet of a review of the upcoming "final destination 3," which i am sure is attrocious, but i will eventually view anyway. regardless.
"...To prefer Final Destination 3 to its predecessor is to prefer the company of a cracked-out whore to a drag queen. Loudly and proudly, the queen mocks her audience but not without ribbing herself—and certainly without judgment. The street hooker, on the other hand, shows you her cooter, slaps you in the face for trying to touch it, and then shows it to you again. In short: she's nasty and doesn't make a whole lot of sense..."
- Ed Gonzalez
brilliant... i think i may have found my calling.

nicky driscoll

2006-01-24T11:41:00.000-08:00

"Sometimes it seems like we're all living in some kind of prison, and the crime is how much we hate ourselves. It's good to get really dressed up once in a while and admit the truth: that when you really look closely? People are so strange and so complicated that they're actually...
beautiful. Possibly even me. "

my apologies.

2006-01-04T22:16:00.000-08:00

i hate phones. they are just little machines that represent everything i dread: interaction. communication. the possibility of conflict. self-disclosure. honesty.
in the past twenty-four hour span, i have been chastised for my phone etiquette five times. each time by a different individual. and not just loser assholes that i don't want to talk to. they're almost decent people that have things to say that i'm semi-interested in hearing. and more than one of them brought up the word "intervention."
i don't like talking on the phone. i'm not good at it. if i can't see your face, then you're just droning into my ear. i wanna look at you when you speak. really, i do. i like you all so much more when i'm looking at you. that's why sometimes when people speak to me, i say "hold on, i can't hear you, i don't have my glasses on." then i walk out of the room and hide under the nearest bed i can find.
to everyone whom i don't call or don't call back: it isn't personal. i ignore each and every phonecall equally. when my phone rings, if i don't see the conversation being under three minutes, i'm not interested. when i call someone, it's "hey whats up what are you doing want me to pick you up okay see you in a little bit." that's all i want. that's all i need. if the phone can take pictures and record video, all the better.
the thing i like most about my phone is that it matches my car.
my point is this, dear readers: my therapist and i will analyze the fuck out of my phone-phobia and before you know it, you'll be avoiding my phonecalls because i can't shut the hell up. just you wait.

blake harper.

2005-12-16T19:43:00.000-08:00

alright, folks. just letting everyone know that if you want a bloody good time, then reefer madness: the movie musical is the way to go.
rent who? the producers what? fuck.
i just saw it the other night with my two affiliates, deena and scott. we had a rip-roaring good time, and we weren't even stoned. i can only imagine if i was... hmm. now i have something to do tomorrow.
it's fucking hilarious and the music is great and the performers are amazing, particularly ana gasteyer. i want her inside me now.
scott, can i get some consensus here?
and for all my gay-ass homoboys out there, you get to see christian campbell with little else but a potleaf covering his dingle-dangle. merry christmas to you.
for some reason i am compelled to promote this picture show whole-heartedly. probably because i don't think most people are aware. but i am. and i am in love.
if the hole in that DVD was big enough i'd fuck the shit out of it.
amen.
a recent addition to appease noland: ...the only thing that would make this movie better was if blake harper was in it. shit damn.

reefer madness: the movie musical - A
paul giving grades to things - C+
ana gasteyer - P (for perfection on a platter)
the beer in front of me - B+
blake harper - is there a grade higher than A+?

koyaanisqatsi.

2005-12-12T19:23:00.000-08:00

this just in: a classic exchange between my father and i:

dad: oh, shit.
paul: what?
dad: just broke another ornament.
paul: good job, buddy.
dad: (throwing broken pieces into trash) ahh, well...
paul: aww, no. dad, that ornament was a classic.
dad: not anymore.
paul: i'm gonna slit my wrists with one of those shards there...
dad: no, use one of the cheaper ornaments.

finis.

can't every cake be a pillow?

2005-12-08T21:58:00.000-08:00

so, i got me this little habit of running out of gas. seriously. it happens about once a week, and i have no good explanation or excuse for it. i suppose maybe i'm just that lazy that i would rather just drive until my car starts sputtering and hiccupping. at which point, i park in a nice parking lot, put in some kate bush, then call my friends to see who is available to rescue me. ahh, my friends. where would i be without them? probably in some strange parking lot, shivering and singing along to "hounds of love."
i'm just that kinda guy, i guess. it reminds me of when i was in high school and my friend johanna's dad would drive me home. i would get out of the car and bypass the front door, and then the sidedoor, climb over the wooden fence and go around into the backyard. johanna's dad would say "where is he going?" and she would say "oh, he lost his house-key two months ago, so he goes into the back, stands on a picnic table and shimmies in through the bathroom window."
johanna and her father are pragmatic people. i am not. he was perplexed. she was amused. i was just happy to be home.
so, i don't care if i run out of gas. i don't care if i can't get into my house. everything's all good. so i haven't been able to afford any new clothes in over a year. i'm having too much fun making crazy outfits out of what i can find around the house. so my eyes are infected and i can't wear contacts anymore. i'll just wear my friend natalie's glasses and call it a day.
a couple weeks ago, my mom told me she was afraid i might end up homeless. i think i could pull it off, though.

fingered.

2005-12-06T16:45:00.000-08:00

well, the good news is that i am so well-liked at my job that i can just not show up for two days in a row and all they do when i come in the next day is smile and say "paul... weren't you supposed to be here?" and i get all puppy-dog and say "yeah..." and then they just shake their head and grin at me like i'm their newborn and i just won a Pulitzer, but i'm still peeing in their face as they change my shit-caked, soiled diaper.
maybe that's my problem. i must have some super power that enables me to not get in trouble. that's quite a talent. maybe the fantastic 4 should make room for me and we could be the fabulous 5. when attacked i would just pucker my lips a bit and get that wistful, innocent look in my eye, and say "please don't hurt us..."
won't anyone backhand me? how am i supposed to learn?
paul flunks out of college, he gets sympathy.
paul drives into the side of the house, he gets "oh, paul."
paul gets drunk at his cousin's birthday party, tears the toiletseat off of the toilet and flings it into the backyard, then he passes out on top of the dining room table. he gets a thank-you card for coming.
where is my comeuppance? what makes me so fucking likable?
and people wonder why i thank my family for not shooting me in the face. wouldn't you?

frank lloyd wrong.

2005-12-02T09:53:00.000-08:00

my comrades and lovers.
please excuse my absence. although i have not been posting, i have not been far and still have been checking up on all y'all and reading your shit. love ya.
me, i've been stressing and worrying and yet, somehow, also been lazy and incomprehensible. therefore, posting was out of the question. but seeing as how this is the day of the show (y'all), i feel as though i can breathe easy.
it has been three weeks and, my, how time flies when you find yourself in a high-school musical with little time to prepare. okay, this isn't a high-school production. it just feels like it. all we need are some basketball hoops hovering, and we can call it a day. also, from the looks of it, winter is upon us. according to my dictionary that means the time of year for paul to hibernate emotionally and distance himself from anything and anyone that isn't either chocolate, alcohol, or incessantly reassuring.
again, let me reiterate: "thanks to my family for not shooting me in the face."
i do not exaggerate.
anyway, the experiment. i am dumb. that's my disclaimer. let me also add i was drunk at the time i wrote that (if you couldn't tell). be that as it may... so the day i was supposed to unveil my newfound thinness and play xylophone on my ribcage happened to fall upon the day after thanksgiving. we can thank the pilgrims and indians for bringing to this great nation a feeling of deep shame and amber waves of gluttony.
however, all is not lost. this past week, due to being ill and giving myself a mental hernia from stressing myself out, i have somehow managed to avoid eating all that much. food has been replaced with an insane dedication to hydration, so my vocal cords are glistening with mucus and ready to vibrate. water and tea have become my drink of choice. as well as whiskey, which is also good for the throat. really. it is.
anyway, my point is this, dear readers: i unintentionally lost my ten pounds, without even meaning to. i gave up about two days after i started. but wouldn't you know it, self-doubt and a bad immune system have a funny way of making everthing okay.
oh, and let me explain the title of this post. the stupidest line of the play is mine. my characacter, george, wants nothing more than to be an architect. but lately he's been not so happy. his wife says she loves him. he says "yeah, me, the celebrated architect: frank lloyd wrong!"
i think it's hilariously bad. or maybe its just because it makes me recall when my friend's credit card was stolen by a co-worker. this co-worker went shopping for clothes at A.J. Wright. so we said "oh, hell no, that's A.J. Wrong."
anyway.

submitting to the fitfully, cryptically true

2005-11-10T23:31:00.000-08:00

so today begins an experiment. i tell you all this, so as a means to pressure myself until i breakout in acne and so you may be witnesses to this little endeavor, and you may share in the acne if you desire. today begins a chapter we shall call "operation: dumbo drop" because the name of the game is dumbo dropping a few, or at least me losing a few pounds before i decide to hang my chin on the coatrack, which wouldn't be pretty. aesthetically, or ideally.
so the story, is this. i have two weeks to lose ten pounds. and my reasoning is this: i can gain ten pounds in two days, therefore i can certainly lose them in fourteen. and before anyone tries to hand me any "you don't need to lose weight, you're sort of okay to look at as it is" well, bull-corn. this isn't just so i can fit into my little sister's totally cute and fashion-forward wardrobe. that's just an advantage. i am not about to backtrack on my ass and start shopping from the hangers marked "L" for large. i gave that up a long time ago. so let's do an experiment and see if paul is able to do anything he sets his mind to. let's see if paul can do more than talk shit and make promises he doesn't intend to keep.
anyway. my point is that i've been getting chubby in the face, and there's a reason for that, and it's not a good one. but there are five-hundred-twenty-five-thousand reasons for me to be able to say "wait up, hold up, mister lover" and then go do some lunges, right? exactly. so i will keep you all updated, as i see fit. and now, a glass of water.

this is the day the lord has made.

2005-11-10T17:40:00.000-08:00

yes, this shall be brief, as all i have for you, dear readers, is the phrase of the day. actually it's from two days ago. and it's not actually a phrase. it's an exchange. a dialogue.
anyway, it's another creation birthed from deena and i when we get all stupid and brilliant. and we think we're hilarious. everyone else just looks at us and smiles politely. they don't undertand how groundbreaking we are.
anyway, deena was talking about something in a cold, dark warehouse but i wasn't paying attention as i was busy suckling my forty-ounce.
deena: "...ya see how everything comes full-circle?"
paul: "wait... what's round?"
yes. you had to be there.
my dad just walked by and stopped, sniffing the air. "what's that smell, is that you?"
i asked him what it smelled like. "it smells like... like cigarette farts."
i smell like a hard-boiled egg, shaving cream, and nagchamba. i informed him he could "get the hell out of here, thank you very much."
so tomorrow, if i am feeling ambitious, i will announce the beginning of a new chapter in my life. but don't count on it, seeing as how i am terribly lazy.

can you get me higher?

2005-11-06T22:50:00.000-08:00

scott stapp has an album being released soon. and, for some reason... i take issue. this wannabe-evanagelical-bono is obviously of the impression that he's really cool. and not only cool, but sexually attractive in a non-threatening yet masculine, masculine yet sensitive, sensitive but republican, republican yet arms-wide-open kinda way. and besides, he wears wife-beaters and leather pants. he's a man's man. a genteel bloke among folk.
what is it that makes me want to run him over? probably the self-importance. yes, he's religious. everyday he's thanking god he was able to grant this earth with his sweaty presence and raspy, yet melodramatic vocals. but everyday, i find myself thanking the founding forefathers for the right to change the station to find some humble mumble.
but why not have a scott stapp album? hilary duff has a greatest hits album, for the love of god. and there's a video of "when mary magdalene went wild." why not? on the bonus DVD, him and pop group rockapella take turns deflowering an inner-city boys choir. just listen to those high-C's.
anyway, my point is this: scott stapp rhymes with bitch-slap for a reason. and his head looks like an excellent landing strip for canned food.
some people just look better than others when they're stuck under my tires.

jesus sucks in bed.

2005-11-06T00:35:00.000-08:00

this one was very close, very nearly a tie. but then, a tie would just be me being wishy-washy, and what good is that? it's no good. not in my zip code. not since little sheba ran away... be that as it may. here we are, all hail the conquering hero, this is the phrase that pays:
"ohmigod, i just want steve. want him. i. want. to. stick. my tongue.... in his butthole. yes. his girlfriend can watch. she can spread his cheeks."
thankyou, jodi. jodi, you are an inspiration to us all... us tired, huddled masses, yearning to give a good rimming to someone. let me buy you a beer.

in other news, the quoteworthiest news, let me share with you a touching voicemail. this, i recieved tonite after work at around two in the morning, after a torrential thunderstorm ass-pissed all over the tri-city area. no houselights, no streetlights, no nothing. all you could see is what your makeshift headlights chose to illuminate. this voicemail gave me comfort through it all, and with its help... i found my way home. it's from my delicious dish of a friend, Lisa. and i spell her name with a capital L because she deserves it. anything less, would be undignified. Lisa, take it away:
"hey paul, it's Lisa! i was- and scott! he's driving and sober, i'm not so sober. and we are, like, having fun driving home from the junction right now, i know you're um... still at work, but we had to call and tell you, that there were... BIG barfights at the junction, like tuh... two or three outside, and it was just... out of control. real... people with shirts off and shit, and granted they were hot, but seriously, do you really have to fight without your shirt on? i mean, serious. and there are, like, lights out all over the place, and it's just ridiculous, let me tell ya something. and, so i hope you drive home safely. and i, and yeah, so um, you have a great night and i hope you had fun at work and made LOTS of money. and uh. and i will talk to you SOON, probably not soon. scott will talk to you sooner, but i will talk to you eventually, if not at my birthday. our birthday. scott's and my birthday! on the nineteenth. that you're totally coming to and you have to take it off, and before you're voicemail cuts me off, it's saturday and you need to be there, and i love you, and you're great, and you're hot, and i love you, bye."
Lisa, you are the sour cream in my chalupa.

i don't care who you fuck.

2005-11-03T22:26:00.000-08:00

alright, folks, yes, here it is... it's the phrase of the day.
from my friend nonnie, whom i love but not enough to know if that is the correct spelling of her name or not. either way:
"...yeah, but what goes around comes around, cuz he ended up having a stroke in the face."
thankyou nonnie. it's the little gold nuggets like these you find in your dreary day that just make everything seem really sparkly and satisfactory. really it is.

in other news, nine out of ten dentists think i'm fat. in actuality, it all just depends on who i'm seen standing next to.
do i stand next to you? are you making me fat? reflect and discuss.

earlier today, a man-child in my career class was discussing possibly going into a field that involves "laying down semen" with some guy named mason. i was obviously intrigued, but later found out he was actually just mispronouncing the word cement and that mason is not only a gentleman's name, but a job title that involves working with stone and/or brick. personally, i'd stick with the semen. and coincidentally, there are also glass containers called mason jars wherein my mother makes jellies, or i bring to my bedtoom to pee in after a long night of drinking alot of pabst blue ribbon.
the man-child is still, as of yet, undecided on his career path.

how many times have you ever been hysterical so far in your life? balls-out, ballistic, blabbering and blubbering hysterical? me, just once. not a pretty moment in time. i'm usually pretty much emotionless. anyway, how does my number stack up? i couldn't find any statistics on ask jeeves. though they apparently can find you a great recipe for lasagna.
i'm just mad about lasagna. aren't you?

up my alley.

2005-10-26T09:09:00.000-07:00

i didn't write this, this isn't me. but i wish i had, it makes me chuckle so. if it doesn't make you chuckle, you are obviously hateful and missing a frontal lobe.

"By next season TLC will be airing a reality show in which singing nuns gaze at cloud formations and argue gently over what saints the formations look like. The winner gets to choose an undernourished, bald child with a fatal disease and the weight of the world on its concave shoulders. The bald child gets to ride in an airplane or something before he goes to be with Jesus.

Or maybe NBC will pick a series in which Amish people take turns saying nice things about Dakota Fanning. Nobody gets voted out -- too mean, see -- but instead, people will just keep joining the cast until the entire state of Pennsylvania gets to be on TV."

-- Leslie Gornstein.

okay, get this.

2005-10-25T19:14:00.000-07:00

so, a queer and a jew walk into a chinese restaurant...
that's all i got so far. i can't really think of where to take it, but it's such a perfect set-up. if only because it actually happened last friday. i got nothing.
but my mongolian chicken was delicious, even though it smelled almost like an outhouse, but without the gag inducing sensation. and we gorged on crab cheese until Oleo was flowing through our arteries.
but, the other night, okay, so, get this... i wake up in the middle of the night, about four o'clock, or whenever they're still playing jazz on NPR and it feels like i have some diahrrea churning like butter in my belly. but no. not quite. i look down, and what is it my friends? nothing else but a dainty gray mouse fucking my belly button. and our eyes lock, and we both feel something intense and unnamed. and i can't move.
i just lay there, and let him go to town until my navel starts to feel like an ear that you've been cotton-swabbing incessantly for ten minutes.. just that damn good. and he's just giving these little corduroy thrusts and my eyes are rolling around like marbles... indescribable. like some brand new orgasmic umbilical cord was granted to me from god.
then i hear a sudden whimper and a scamper... and i'm still revelling, just laying there, practically passed out on passion before i realize "what the fuck... he's gone." i sit up and look around. i call for him. i wait.
nothing. and i should have known. but for some reason... this time i understand. this time it's okay.
so i look at the cold cement moon staring down at me, and feel the warm little puddle left in my belly button, and i just know everything's gonna be as good as gravy. everything is gonna be alright.

no, not jesus.

2005-10-21T06:56:00.000-07:00

so i have a crush.
and it's on this little dipshit. a teeny-tiny wisp of a man. i could crack his rib with my earlobes. jeez, i don't even wanna know how i would annihilate him if he ever got between my knees. but nonetheless, as dainty as he is, there's something about him and his shallow, materialistic ass.
he's got some godawful gold jewelry, which i didn't know people even wore anymore. and this massive gleaming truck that he has to polevault into. mister pissant probably needs a booster seat.
he's into silk pajamas. and lotions. and smoking doobies in his mom's garage, sitting on cold plastic patio furniture. he drinks cherry wheat, just so he can have the cherries, "preferably three." and does he flame, you ask. like no other. and by that, i mean in his own, subtle way.
he's not a lisper. not a wrist-dangler. not an eye-liner. not even a man-whore. he's just delicate, like a porcelain, faberge baby... who happens to be a bitch and wear colored contacts to make his eyes easter-egg blue.
what is it about this fucker? he does that whole "what are you thinking now?" like that's any sort of question. i don't play that game. i don't do hypotheticals. i don't even like people. and yet here he is, all conniving and ridiculous, probably a republican, could fit in the palm-of-my-hand or the crotch-of-my-elbow, doused in cologne, wearing clothes from the mall. and he just has to smile. and i melt.

waste of space.

2005-10-13T01:27:00.000-07:00

i've been in love exactly twice in my lifetime... or three times, if inanimate objects count. anyway, of these two, one of these guys is now fucking girls. the other one is now a model in GQ magazine.
and what am i? a footnote. a predecessor. one of those grimy, shit-slathered rest areas on the highway to heaven.
forever, i shall be alone and forlorn; petting my cats and reciting old one-liners from "designing women"

comrade.

2005-10-12T13:31:00.000-07:00

so i'm in this club, this association dedicated to those of us with nipples like saucers. chernobyl nipples, if you will. we are a very selective, very exclusive community and as of yet, our population is limited to only three members. (think you got what it takes? drop me a line.)
anyway, we are proud of our nipples and tend to them daily. we are incessantly prowling for the proper man-folk who will know how to do them justice, how to get them hard at a moment's notice. (think you got what it takes? drop me a line.)
which brings me to the point of this. really, i just wanted to write that i recieved this message from some strange man in birch run. he viewed the photos i've posted online from last halloween, where i am somewhat shirtless and hopelessly drunk. and what does he want? he wants nothing more than to put his hands all over my chest and my above-average-size nipples, and he wants to know what turns me on.
you wanna know what turns me on? beer.
anyway. my nipple people and i will discuss and determine the best plan of action to take with this gentleman's hands and if they will, in fact, be "all over" me.
we will let you know what we decide.

how deep is your shame?

2005-10-11T00:58:00.000-07:00

alright. so you know those times when you got your mind set that you are going to avoid something. you're not gonna do it, and it's totally gonna happen. but then, out-of-the-blue and not-up-to-you, like sudden diarrhea, it's there and you have no choice. last night. i was saying to myself "i'm not gonna drink tonite. after rehearsal, i'm gonna go home and maybe catch up on some susan faludi, maybe make love to the sofa and watch some VH1. have some warm milk, and slip into my bed early. and by early, i mean perhaps by two."

but no. no. i was suddenly forced to go to the pub. forced. and i dont mean gun-to-the-head force, i mean good old catholic guilt forced. what are you gonna do when your friend calls you sweetie and says please and thanks and asks you to go? you can't say no. i'm not hateful. not in public. so i go. and we say to each other "but we won't be there long..."

i have two dollars in my pocket. i'm that kind of baller. so i think, "hey i'll just get a seltzer with a lime splash. or just a water." but no. my friend knows this "guy in the band." and he gets that "guy in the band" discount, so he keeps buying us pitchers of beer. so its free. beer... free beer. shakespeare couldn't come up with a lovelier phrase. and do i give her the thumbs up and the go ahead on this guy? oh, but i do. i say marry the man tomorrow. or at least slip him some tongue. i love this free beer by association. he's a keeper, love him, i'm sold, can i get him for you wholesale?

so i get drunk. the kind of drunk where you keep losing your keys but they're right there, and you don't say all that much because you know it's not gonna be pretty if you do. and people keep filling your glass, but you can only look at it like it just bitchslapped you. but the beer (like peace) is flowing like a river, and the band is a delight and they actually say "this song is for paul, deena, and kristyn." it's a holiday... afterwards, i went home and made nachos that would make the taco bell janitor's sphincter tighten, chased by a bowl of ice cream.

anyway... i'll stop making excuses. i just wanted to blog... something. and i guess i was feeling guilty and like i had to apologize... to somebody. i don't know. is it possible to backhand yourself? can you stick your elbow in your ear? if a drunk falls down in the woods, and there's nobody there to see it, does he make a noise? no. he just gets up quietly and stumbles away, and pretends that it never happened.

eat me.

2005-10-10T16:25:00.000-07:00

so when is it a date and when is it just hanging out? are there quasi-dates? is that what i went on last night? hm... i feel like a poor man's carrie bradshaw. anyway, maybe it was supposed to be a date but it sure didn't end up being one.

...after the bar (lovely hole in the wall, great carpeting, terrible jukebox) we went to denny's and stared at the menu and didn't know what to do because the deep-frier went all defective on their asses. so we just left, and parted ways in the parking lot. just a coffee and a see you later. no kiss, no onion rings, no how.

my next date will be breaded, wrapped in bacon, and slathered in cheese. with a diet coke.