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Archives: Jun 2012

Amusing newspapery pun about the flood goes here

God: Would it be funny if I flooded the Twin Ports?

YHWH: Um . . . no? Not really.

Allah: Seems kinda dickish.

God: I’m bored, though. When does the next Xbox come out?

Buddha: November 2013.

God: Goddamn it.

Vishnu: Hey! Language!

God: Sorry, it’s a really catchy phrase. Sometimes I forget that we’re all Gods.

I left my cellphone at work

I’m getting the shakes. I feel irritable and tense. I’m having trouble focusing. A piece of me is missing, and my body is having phantom pains. Every few minutes, I swear I feel my leg vibrating, as if I were receiving a text message on my phone. I’m not, though, because I accidentally left my cellphone at work.

It’s sitting right there on my desk, charging on my work computer. By the time I realized I left it behind, I was already halfway home on the bus. I didn’t think it was worth turning back for, but I was wrong. I’m a mess. I have a shell-shocked feeling – that nervous, fuzzy-all-over effect one gets when some horrible event happens. Every few minutes I have to stop and ask myself, “Did I dislocate my shoulder? No, my shoulder seems fine. Did my grandma die? No, that’s not it. Did I get caught watching porn on the computer at the library? No, I’m not in college anymore. I have my own computer these days.” It’s because my phone isn’t here, and my primitive monkey brain doesn’t know how to handle change.

I take the bus to work because I’m too poor to afford a car. The entire bus is just illegal immigrants, transexual prostitutes, drug addicts and me. We’re all very different, but we share the common bond of being losers who have trouble finding employment. Illegals because they don’t have work visas, trannies because people are frightened of them, drug addicts because they’re unreliable, and me because potential employers are weirded out by the Adventure Time tattoo on my penis.

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Please shut up about Pearl Jam

When I was just a wee lad, 16 years old, I worked my first job at a toy store. Lots of us teenagers worked there, because they were busy over the holidays and would hire any schmuck who didn’t show up to the interview nude or drunk. The store also had a lot of employees in their early-30s who worked there for that same reason. Expectations were low, and the employees were high. High on life. And by “life”, I mean marijuana.

The guys in their 30s were, to put it plainly, complete twats. They lived in some sort of vacuum which had kept every bit of modern culture hidden from them since their high school days. They loved Pink Floyd. They’d drone on for hours about how great the band was, and how they were still relevant.

Pink Floyd, of course, was not relevant. This was 1995, and Pink Floyd hadn’t released a hit song since 1979. There was a grunge music explosion going on, but none of these guys cared. They loved Pink Floyd. One of them even wrote the lyrics to “Breathe” on the wall of the stockroom with a marker, covering the entire wall with them. They were obsessed with a band whose later albums had been the equivalent of someone queefing into a microphone.