Since everyone else is already starting their stupid, self-deceiving bullshit already, I figured I'd go ahead and get mine out of the way. Y'know, a little initiative. Take the bull by the horns.
...Also, I have nothing else to write about.
Rem's List Of Things That Should, But Probably Won't, Get Done In 2009
-Stop getting romantically and/or sexually involved with self-absorbed, polygamy-obsessed, psychotic bitches (let's face it, this has the potential to be the biggest lie of the whole list).
-Find a different way to pay the bills.
-Slap someone in the face at current job should I be accepted to a new one.
-Stop being a chump and finish my stupid novel.
-Berate various publishers with obscene phone calls until said novel is published, thereby ending my dependence on slave wa--uhm, traditional employment.
-Start getting romantically and/or sexually involved with responsible, upstanding, morally rich womehahahahahaHAHAHAHA!!!!
-Get a blow job on my birthday. Yeah, what, I said it.
-Step outside domicile for purposes other than work, procuring foodstuffs or smoking a cigarette.
-Don't get federal drug charges brought up against me.
-Don't violate probation from last set of federal drug charges.
-Stop poking fun at instances and decisions that have/will have serious negative effects on my life.
-Kick myself in the junk should I actually accomplish the previous resolution.
-Take yoga classes to prepare for previous two resolutions.
-Start talking to my friends so that they hear more about my life from me than they do from my blog.
-Stop being a jackass and getting to bed on time.
-Get a better profile picture.
-Break my dependency on technology.
-Buy a gun.
Well, on that delightful and not at all disconcerting note, I'm going to bed. Sleep tight!
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I have no delusions about my station in life. While I might be a wise-crackin', beer-guzzlin', skirt-chasin' rock 'n' roll anti-hero while I'm out in the world, as soon as I punch my time card, I'm essentially nothing more than a geek. Worse still, an underpaid geek. No danger, no sexual mysteriousness, just a brain who's one pocket protector away from inspiring the next Revenge Of The Nerds movie.
At least, that's what I would've said prior to two hours ago. Now, I'm an odd mix of stoked and disappointed that my attempts at portraying the mild-mannered technology guru have not only failed, but failed dismally. What brought about this epiphany, you might ask? Well, it all happened at around forty-five minutes before I was supposed to clock out. I'd just finished helping a couple pick out a decent machine, when all of a sudden I hear my name over the intercom, asking me to make my merry way up to register six for "customer service."
First of all, customer service is usually a euphemism for "placatory acts that would insult a retarded chimp's intelligence." I've got no patience for this bullshit under normal circumstances, but like I said, it was the last stretch of my shift, so I was only mildly irritated that I was going to spend the remainder of the evening cowtowing to some upper-middle class soccer mom whose shoes were probably, in their own native footwear dialect, crying out in agony as they struggled to support her gargantuan ass.
I get up there and, to my surprise, it isn't a soccer mom waiting, nor is it one of the tools that hide their Craftsman logo under their management-issue name badges. It's Laura, probably one of a small handful of people I'd warn ahead of time if I ever got so fed up with my job that I decided to firebomb the place, and an average looking woman, mid-thirties probably, looking absolutely humiliated. As soon as I get close enough to ask what's up, Laura tenses up a bit. "This lady locked her keys in her car, and uh..." She pauses, in retrospect, obviously trying to figure out how to string the next few words together diplomatically. "Do you think you could help her out somehow?"
Now, for those of you who are between-the-lines illiterate, let me translate. My manager was asking me to break into this chick's car. Folks, this is Wal-Mart. The employees aren't exactly from the finer walks of life. There's a few who fake it really well, but for the most part, we've all fucked something up really, really badly at some point in our lives. That's why we work at Wal-Mart. So, to review, out of all the screw-ups working this infernal occupation, the pissed off alcoholics, the toothless, recovering meth addicts, who does management call when they need a service rendered that, ninety-nine percent of the time, is illegal to perform in the first place?
I was offended.
I was appalled.
I was outraged.
...Ah, who am I kiddin'? I was halfway to the car, still laughing my ass off at the whole situation, before it even occurred to me that someone could've had a less than favorable reaction to the assumption that they had the slightest idea how to bust into a car. Unfortunately, the best substitute slim jim I could muster out of what Wal-Mart carries was a bunch gardening wires taped together. While I managed to snake them into the door and nudge the lock a little, they were too flimsy to push it all the way. Then, I notice a guy standing nearby and staring at me. Not missing a beat, I look at him and say "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any tools, would you?" As luck would have it, he had two things that coupled into fairly decent locksmith implements: a crowbar and a bucket handle.
Five minutes later, a family was on their way home, and my resume was a lot more interesting than it'd been forty-five minutes earlier.
Triple A, eat your heart out!
At least, that's what I would've said prior to two hours ago. Now, I'm an odd mix of stoked and disappointed that my attempts at portraying the mild-mannered technology guru have not only failed, but failed dismally. What brought about this epiphany, you might ask? Well, it all happened at around forty-five minutes before I was supposed to clock out. I'd just finished helping a couple pick out a decent machine, when all of a sudden I hear my name over the intercom, asking me to make my merry way up to register six for "customer service."
First of all, customer service is usually a euphemism for "placatory acts that would insult a retarded chimp's intelligence." I've got no patience for this bullshit under normal circumstances, but like I said, it was the last stretch of my shift, so I was only mildly irritated that I was going to spend the remainder of the evening cowtowing to some upper-middle class soccer mom whose shoes were probably, in their own native footwear dialect, crying out in agony as they struggled to support her gargantuan ass.
I get up there and, to my surprise, it isn't a soccer mom waiting, nor is it one of the tools that hide their Craftsman logo under their management-issue name badges. It's Laura, probably one of a small handful of people I'd warn ahead of time if I ever got so fed up with my job that I decided to firebomb the place, and an average looking woman, mid-thirties probably, looking absolutely humiliated. As soon as I get close enough to ask what's up, Laura tenses up a bit. "This lady locked her keys in her car, and uh..." She pauses, in retrospect, obviously trying to figure out how to string the next few words together diplomatically. "Do you think you could help her out somehow?"
Now, for those of you who are between-the-lines illiterate, let me translate. My manager was asking me to break into this chick's car. Folks, this is Wal-Mart. The employees aren't exactly from the finer walks of life. There's a few who fake it really well, but for the most part, we've all fucked something up really, really badly at some point in our lives. That's why we work at Wal-Mart. So, to review, out of all the screw-ups working this infernal occupation, the pissed off alcoholics, the toothless, recovering meth addicts, who does management call when they need a service rendered that, ninety-nine percent of the time, is illegal to perform in the first place?
I was offended.
I was appalled.
I was outraged.
...Ah, who am I kiddin'? I was halfway to the car, still laughing my ass off at the whole situation, before it even occurred to me that someone could've had a less than favorable reaction to the assumption that they had the slightest idea how to bust into a car. Unfortunately, the best substitute slim jim I could muster out of what Wal-Mart carries was a bunch gardening wires taped together. While I managed to snake them into the door and nudge the lock a little, they were too flimsy to push it all the way. Then, I notice a guy standing nearby and staring at me. Not missing a beat, I look at him and say "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any tools, would you?" As luck would have it, he had two things that coupled into fairly decent locksmith implements: a crowbar and a bucket handle.
Five minutes later, a family was on their way home, and my resume was a lot more interesting than it'd been forty-five minutes earlier.
Triple A, eat your heart out!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Alright, I'm gonna' tell you a story. A man's family is murdered in a park. The man is an ex-cop/soldier/FBI Agent/everything shy of a ninja, so he decides he's going to kill everybody with a mob-affiliated accent. He loads up on ammo and opens up with the mayhem.
Now imagine how this would translate to a movie trailer. Now imagine how said trailer would translate to a full-length motion picture. Take a moment and try to guess how it's all going to turn out. If you said "Oscar", please remove yourself from the gene pool.
What the fuck were you expecting, people? Walking out of the theater with your panties in a knot because The Punisher: War Zone wasn't some epic cinematic masterpiece is like getting pissed off because the lesbian porn flick you rented last weekend didn't have enough backstory. Honestly, if I read one more review that criticizes that one of the single most overplayed cliches, a man fighting crime because his family was killed, didn't translate to celluloid gold, I'm going to put on a flak jacket and start killing people! Look, this is The Punisher we're talking about. There are no moral quandaries, no lesson to be taken from the story, no fuzzy feelings to be had after all is said and done. He's an anti-hero. He does things that heroes don't do. He blows peoples' brains out of the back of their heads (gloriously, I might add), and then goes home to sleep so he can do it again the next night.
This ain't Schindler's List material, folks. Leave Lexi Alexander alone if you're not going to give her credit for making a fun, if completely illogical and over-the-top, film.
Now imagine how this would translate to a movie trailer. Now imagine how said trailer would translate to a full-length motion picture. Take a moment and try to guess how it's all going to turn out. If you said "Oscar", please remove yourself from the gene pool.
What the fuck were you expecting, people? Walking out of the theater with your panties in a knot because The Punisher: War Zone wasn't some epic cinematic masterpiece is like getting pissed off because the lesbian porn flick you rented last weekend didn't have enough backstory. Honestly, if I read one more review that criticizes that one of the single most overplayed cliches, a man fighting crime because his family was killed, didn't translate to celluloid gold, I'm going to put on a flak jacket and start killing people! Look, this is The Punisher we're talking about. There are no moral quandaries, no lesson to be taken from the story, no fuzzy feelings to be had after all is said and done. He's an anti-hero. He does things that heroes don't do. He blows peoples' brains out of the back of their heads (gloriously, I might add), and then goes home to sleep so he can do it again the next night.
This ain't Schindler's List material, folks. Leave Lexi Alexander alone if you're not going to give her credit for making a fun, if completely illogical and over-the-top, film.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Yes, I WOULD like cheese with my comic-to-cinema translaton.
This summer, for the first time in a very, very long time, Hollywood impressed me. Those of you who know me have at least a minimal understanding of just how hard this is to accomplish. Contrary to what a passing glance might make you think, I hold myself to ridiculously high standards in terms of what I contribute to something once I've decided that a contritbution is merited, and those standards aren't exclusively applicable to me. If you're going to do something, do it right, or run away before I get there to see the finished product of your half-assed labor.
After a virtual cornucopia of failures and disappointments (yes, I'm talking to you, Brian Singer. You too, Ang Lee), 2008 finally gave the geek fringe what they wanted: quality portrayals of their favorite characters. I'm still floored every time I watch Robert Downey, Jr., Edward Norton and Christian Bale bring characters to life in a way that the X-Men trilogy and 2003's The Hulk had more or less made me think was impossible. Downey, Jr., Norton and Bale will go down in history as the men who brought something to comic book films that was, until now, sorely lacking. After watching Ray Stevenson portray Frank Castle, Marvel's flawlessly definitive anti-hero, I honestly can't say whether or not he's continuing in that capacity or starting us back down the path to cinematic mediocrity.
Before I say anything else, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I enjoyed The Punisher: War Zone. Despite walking into the theater with a negative attitude due to unfavorable reviews, I genuinely liked the movie. To say that Stevenson portrays Castle with unprecedented accuracy would be a gross understatement. I enjoyed Tom Jane's portrayal, but all too often Jane's performance robbed the audience of one critical element of The Punisher's dynamic. Frank Castle was not a man driven by revenge, but rather a man on a mission to do just what his moniker implies. Stevenson doesn't come off as some broody ex-soldier shooting people because he misses his wife and children. He shows the audience a bloodthirsty mass murderer trying to right the wrongs he sees in the judicial system.
Not to be ignored, the film was graced with a terrific supporting cast, whose names I won't bother looking up because, frankly, I doubt their names will be any more familiar to anyone else as they were to me. As a matter of fact, the only face I recognized from start to finish was Wayne Knight of Seinfeld fame. Oddly enough though, not recognizing the vast majority of the performers actually lent a certain credence to the story. "Hey, that's not (insert famous actor's name here), that's Jigsaw's crazy, cannibalistic brother, Looney Bin Jim!" Each unknown brought something of their own to the film, and while their own contributions didn't always mesh perfectly, Stevenson's talent was by no stretch of the imagination unparalleled.
If I had to pick one thing about the experience that I found a bit off-putting, it was the excessive violence. It isn't that War Zone struck me as being too reliant on firefights and gory death scenes, but simply that at times it went a bit over the top. Whether this was intentional of simply a matter of the film's dismally low budget I can't say. What I can say is that I would imagine it takes more than a few rounds from an automatic pistol to make someone's head literally explode. Granted, I don't have a great deal of experience with handguns, and what little I do have was gained while firing at empty aluminum cans, but the logic is sound. Three bullets does not equal cranial detonation.
Despite the B-movie feel of a few random deaths, there's a great deal more positive things to say about Punisher: War Zone than there are negative. An appropriate (if not always convincing) cast, solid camera work, well directed combat scenes and more than a few elements derived from the source material are all present. While they don't come together in such a way that you walk into the theater lobby feeling as if your life will never be the same, they do form a coherent, enjoyable genre piece that will put a smile on your face, assuming you enjoy the genre itself and don't walk in with impossible expectations. Easily worth the price of admission, and a great way to kill two hours if you've nothing better to do.
After a virtual cornucopia of failures and disappointments (yes, I'm talking to you, Brian Singer. You too, Ang Lee), 2008 finally gave the geek fringe what they wanted: quality portrayals of their favorite characters. I'm still floored every time I watch Robert Downey, Jr., Edward Norton and Christian Bale bring characters to life in a way that the X-Men trilogy and 2003's The Hulk had more or less made me think was impossible. Downey, Jr., Norton and Bale will go down in history as the men who brought something to comic book films that was, until now, sorely lacking. After watching Ray Stevenson portray Frank Castle, Marvel's flawlessly definitive anti-hero, I honestly can't say whether or not he's continuing in that capacity or starting us back down the path to cinematic mediocrity.
Before I say anything else, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I enjoyed The Punisher: War Zone. Despite walking into the theater with a negative attitude due to unfavorable reviews, I genuinely liked the movie. To say that Stevenson portrays Castle with unprecedented accuracy would be a gross understatement. I enjoyed Tom Jane's portrayal, but all too often Jane's performance robbed the audience of one critical element of The Punisher's dynamic. Frank Castle was not a man driven by revenge, but rather a man on a mission to do just what his moniker implies. Stevenson doesn't come off as some broody ex-soldier shooting people because he misses his wife and children. He shows the audience a bloodthirsty mass murderer trying to right the wrongs he sees in the judicial system.
Not to be ignored, the film was graced with a terrific supporting cast, whose names I won't bother looking up because, frankly, I doubt their names will be any more familiar to anyone else as they were to me. As a matter of fact, the only face I recognized from start to finish was Wayne Knight of Seinfeld fame. Oddly enough though, not recognizing the vast majority of the performers actually lent a certain credence to the story. "Hey, that's not (insert famous actor's name here), that's Jigsaw's crazy, cannibalistic brother, Looney Bin Jim!" Each unknown brought something of their own to the film, and while their own contributions didn't always mesh perfectly, Stevenson's talent was by no stretch of the imagination unparalleled.
If I had to pick one thing about the experience that I found a bit off-putting, it was the excessive violence. It isn't that War Zone struck me as being too reliant on firefights and gory death scenes, but simply that at times it went a bit over the top. Whether this was intentional of simply a matter of the film's dismally low budget I can't say. What I can say is that I would imagine it takes more than a few rounds from an automatic pistol to make someone's head literally explode. Granted, I don't have a great deal of experience with handguns, and what little I do have was gained while firing at empty aluminum cans, but the logic is sound. Three bullets does not equal cranial detonation.
Despite the B-movie feel of a few random deaths, there's a great deal more positive things to say about Punisher: War Zone than there are negative. An appropriate (if not always convincing) cast, solid camera work, well directed combat scenes and more than a few elements derived from the source material are all present. While they don't come together in such a way that you walk into the theater lobby feeling as if your life will never be the same, they do form a coherent, enjoyable genre piece that will put a smile on your face, assuming you enjoy the genre itself and don't walk in with impossible expectations. Easily worth the price of admission, and a great way to kill two hours if you've nothing better to do.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Disappointment
One of the most interesting things about true paranoia is that it rarely affects those of substandard intelligence. Victims think that everyone's gunning to out think them. This, of course, goes hand in hand with the assumption that everyone's as smart as they are.
Imagine how bittersweet it must be for all those poor bastards who've wasted all that time jumping at their own shadows when they realize how stupid the general population is.
Imagine how bittersweet it must be for all those poor bastards who've wasted all that time jumping at their own shadows when they realize how stupid the general population is.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Remmy Phoenix Relocation Program
Everybody had one of those people in high school that they just absolutely could not fucking stand. You know the one, the hopelessly self-absorbed little waste of life that Mommy and Daddy coddled to the point of rendering them completely fucking useless for the rest of their miserable life. Some people ignored this person. Others poked fun at them. Others still beat the piss out of 'em on a daily basis, attempting to knock the fucktarded right out of 'em.
Me? I drove across the country and moved in with 'em.
Don't get me wrong, California is slowly growing on me. I mean, between the wildfires, the earthquakes, the barren landscape and a populace that is so self-involved that they can't even acknowledge the presence of someone else on the road long enough to not cut them off three times in two minutes, what's not to love? Now I know what you're thinking. Probably the same thing I was on my way out here, actually. Bikini-clad beach bunnies, gorgeous sunsets, the sand, the sun, famous actors and rock stars. Well, if you are, then you're just as retarded as I was. This place is a carefully camoflauged nightmare, and when you finally get over the "OMG, im in teh cali! r0xx0rz!" mentality, you realize it's just a place like any other, with slightly better weather, and people who're barely with the spit it'd take to non-verbally tell them they ain't worth shit.
So it really shouldn't come as any surprise that the bitch that I hated in high school moved here and thought it was incredible. Hell, how could she not? The whole state's filled with people just fucking like her. Yeah, chew on that for a minute. A whole state full of people just like the one that came to mind when you read the first paragraph of this blog. Fuck you, Governator, I just killed your tourism revenue! Try to fix that with some bullshit, pseudo-hippie environmentalist policy.
Anyway, this fucking backbirth is the very epitome of irresponsible. Both she and her husband can't manage money to save their lives, and whooooooo do they come to when they're short on rent? Their parents, whose collective income is indicative of just how much dosh we dish out to people who aren't worth a small fraction of it? No, they turn to the wage slave who's currently looking for a second job in order to make ends meet while still chipping in on their share of the rent. I don't know how many times I've had to throw more money into the pool just to keep this place goin'. Are they paying more than I am? Hell yes they are. There's two of them and one demon seed offspring on the way. Why the fuck should I match them when I can't even leave my room because they've fucking trashed the place, what few square inches of carpet they've left alone being dutifully soiled by their mangy feline demons?
Well, this month I'd had enough. I finally put my foot down. After dishing out an extra fifty bucks, and being told two weeks later in a phone call that Slutty McTootall put in while I was at work that I owed fifty for electricity, I drew the line. And I didn't even draw it that close to me! I drew the fucking thing several feet behind me by telling them I'd split it down the middle with them! For those of you who aren't that stellar at math, that leaves them with twenty-five bucks of my money for doing, what again? Not a damn thing. I told Miss Tootall that I'd crunch the numbers and see what I could do, but I didn't. I just told her we'd divvy it up down the middle and that was that. Well, that led to a brief exchange about how I'm a ginormous prick, but it was brief and I went to bed feeling accomplished.
The next day, I'm not out of my room for five minutes before the little priss chimes in with "From now on, we're going to sit down and divide up all the bills so we know exactly what you owe. I can't keep chasing you around for money." Excuse me? Who's the lazy skank who refused to even try to get a job because, oh my God, she was two months pregnant? And don't feed me that right to nurture bullshit, every woman in my family has worked as long and hard as possible when they were carrying. So, still remaining uncharacteristically calm, I reply with "Y'know, I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't try to villify me because you're only ending up with twenty-five dollars of my paycheck instead of fifty."
Bitch. Flips. The fuck. Out. Jumps off the couch and starts slamming her chubby little hand on boxes that've been sitting in the living room for days because they're too lazy to move properly, screaming about how she's tired of people using her, tired of being taken advantage of, tired of this, tired of that.
The conversation goes nowhere. "Woe is me and my poor husband, blah blah blah" for about fifteen minutes. Finally, I get tired of the sob story and say I've got things to do. I say this with an arm full of laundry, my jacket, all obvious indicators that I don't have time to nurse her royal ego while forking over more money from my treasury. I turn and make for the door, when I hear the words that have fully convinced me that she has absolutely no fucking brainpower left.
"Don't you walk away from me!"
Heh. Heh heh. Heh heh hehehahaHAHAHAHA!!! Bitch, did you just try to tell me what the fuck to do? Did you even just look at me, scream an order, and expect me to turn and pad back to the couch you've planted your ass on so frequently during the last few months that I'm amazed it hasn't taken root, like I'm some kind of domesticated house pet? Newsflash, cunt stain. My license might tell you different, but this is Remmy motherfucking Phoenix you're talkin' to. I turned, very slowly because I'm not wholly convinced I'm not gonna' choke this dumb broad, and start moving my lips. Hell, at this point, I don't even know what's gonna' come out.
"Excuse me? Look, just because you're going to be a mommy doesn't mean you get to be my mommy. Don't you ever try to yell at me and think it's gonna' get you somewhere. Now, I've got shit to take care of. I'm done."
She screams it again. I don't even break stride. I hear "Can't even talk to me, you fucker! I'm you're roommate!" through the screen door as I'm making my way down the stairs. "No, you're the irresponsible chick who has no sense of self-control. Later."
Today, I made arrangements to move in with one of the people at work who rents out rooms. I also found out they'd started looking at apartments. The difference? I actually made an effort to explain to them that they were going to have to find an alternative living arrangement. They didn't even shout a status report at my door, the self-absorbed fucks.
But hey, the sun's great! Come on out, catch some rays, and strike up a conversation with some spoiled, image-obsessed yuppie larvae!
Fuck California. Phoenix out.
Me? I drove across the country and moved in with 'em.
Don't get me wrong, California is slowly growing on me. I mean, between the wildfires, the earthquakes, the barren landscape and a populace that is so self-involved that they can't even acknowledge the presence of someone else on the road long enough to not cut them off three times in two minutes, what's not to love? Now I know what you're thinking. Probably the same thing I was on my way out here, actually. Bikini-clad beach bunnies, gorgeous sunsets, the sand, the sun, famous actors and rock stars. Well, if you are, then you're just as retarded as I was. This place is a carefully camoflauged nightmare, and when you finally get over the "OMG, im in teh cali! r0xx0rz!" mentality, you realize it's just a place like any other, with slightly better weather, and people who're barely with the spit it'd take to non-verbally tell them they ain't worth shit.
So it really shouldn't come as any surprise that the bitch that I hated in high school moved here and thought it was incredible. Hell, how could she not? The whole state's filled with people just fucking like her. Yeah, chew on that for a minute. A whole state full of people just like the one that came to mind when you read the first paragraph of this blog. Fuck you, Governator, I just killed your tourism revenue! Try to fix that with some bullshit, pseudo-hippie environmentalist policy.
Anyway, this fucking backbirth is the very epitome of irresponsible. Both she and her husband can't manage money to save their lives, and whooooooo do they come to when they're short on rent? Their parents, whose collective income is indicative of just how much dosh we dish out to people who aren't worth a small fraction of it? No, they turn to the wage slave who's currently looking for a second job in order to make ends meet while still chipping in on their share of the rent. I don't know how many times I've had to throw more money into the pool just to keep this place goin'. Are they paying more than I am? Hell yes they are. There's two of them and one demon seed offspring on the way. Why the fuck should I match them when I can't even leave my room because they've fucking trashed the place, what few square inches of carpet they've left alone being dutifully soiled by their mangy feline demons?
Well, this month I'd had enough. I finally put my foot down. After dishing out an extra fifty bucks, and being told two weeks later in a phone call that Slutty McTootall put in while I was at work that I owed fifty for electricity, I drew the line. And I didn't even draw it that close to me! I drew the fucking thing several feet behind me by telling them I'd split it down the middle with them! For those of you who aren't that stellar at math, that leaves them with twenty-five bucks of my money for doing, what again? Not a damn thing. I told Miss Tootall that I'd crunch the numbers and see what I could do, but I didn't. I just told her we'd divvy it up down the middle and that was that. Well, that led to a brief exchange about how I'm a ginormous prick, but it was brief and I went to bed feeling accomplished.
The next day, I'm not out of my room for five minutes before the little priss chimes in with "From now on, we're going to sit down and divide up all the bills so we know exactly what you owe. I can't keep chasing you around for money." Excuse me? Who's the lazy skank who refused to even try to get a job because, oh my God, she was two months pregnant? And don't feed me that right to nurture bullshit, every woman in my family has worked as long and hard as possible when they were carrying. So, still remaining uncharacteristically calm, I reply with "Y'know, I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't try to villify me because you're only ending up with twenty-five dollars of my paycheck instead of fifty."
Bitch. Flips. The fuck. Out. Jumps off the couch and starts slamming her chubby little hand on boxes that've been sitting in the living room for days because they're too lazy to move properly, screaming about how she's tired of people using her, tired of being taken advantage of, tired of this, tired of that.
The conversation goes nowhere. "Woe is me and my poor husband, blah blah blah" for about fifteen minutes. Finally, I get tired of the sob story and say I've got things to do. I say this with an arm full of laundry, my jacket, all obvious indicators that I don't have time to nurse her royal ego while forking over more money from my treasury. I turn and make for the door, when I hear the words that have fully convinced me that she has absolutely no fucking brainpower left.
"Don't you walk away from me!"
Heh. Heh heh. Heh heh hehehahaHAHAHAHA!!! Bitch, did you just try to tell me what the fuck to do? Did you even just look at me, scream an order, and expect me to turn and pad back to the couch you've planted your ass on so frequently during the last few months that I'm amazed it hasn't taken root, like I'm some kind of domesticated house pet? Newsflash, cunt stain. My license might tell you different, but this is Remmy motherfucking Phoenix you're talkin' to. I turned, very slowly because I'm not wholly convinced I'm not gonna' choke this dumb broad, and start moving my lips. Hell, at this point, I don't even know what's gonna' come out.
"Excuse me? Look, just because you're going to be a mommy doesn't mean you get to be my mommy. Don't you ever try to yell at me and think it's gonna' get you somewhere. Now, I've got shit to take care of. I'm done."
She screams it again. I don't even break stride. I hear "Can't even talk to me, you fucker! I'm you're roommate!" through the screen door as I'm making my way down the stairs. "No, you're the irresponsible chick who has no sense of self-control. Later."
Today, I made arrangements to move in with one of the people at work who rents out rooms. I also found out they'd started looking at apartments. The difference? I actually made an effort to explain to them that they were going to have to find an alternative living arrangement. They didn't even shout a status report at my door, the self-absorbed fucks.
But hey, the sun's great! Come on out, catch some rays, and strike up a conversation with some spoiled, image-obsessed yuppie larvae!
Fuck California. Phoenix out.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Now that you mention it....
Stewie: "Well, let's see what fascinating pubescent treasures Chris has got hidden away. Oooh, Hustler Magazine. I finally get to see what a vagina looks li--AH! AH! Oh, God! Oh my God! Ah!
(Stewie blows the issue of Hustler to shreds with an Uzi)
Stewie: "You...can't hurt...anyone...anymore..."
Y'know, maybe it's the beer talking, but this is by far the funniest scene from The Family Guy that I've ever seen.
(Stewie blows the issue of Hustler to shreds with an Uzi)
Stewie: "You...can't hurt...anyone...anymore..."
Y'know, maybe it's the beer talking, but this is by far the funniest scene from The Family Guy that I've ever seen.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Ignore it. Just a new song, and if I post it here no one can steal it.
Wake up in the mornin'
Alarm's shoutin' a warnin'
You better stay in bed
If you get out, beware
Wipe your tired eyes
You're still hypnotized
Remember once upon a time
And wish you were there
Memory will decieve you
And no one will believe you
When you look back
And say it once was great
You romanticize
Lend credence to the lies
You tell yourself
While you sit and wait
(Chorus)
You wait, you wait
For happily ever after
You wait, you wait
For somethin' to make sense
You wait, you wait
Around for things long past
You wait, you wait
For somethin' to believe in
Shuffle out the door
Gearin' up for more
Of what you've become
Opposed to fate
Sea of empty faces
All runnin' the races
Goin' through the motions
Earn your hate
Hell from nine to five
Tryin' to survive
Head above water
Keep your hold
Routine wears on you
Walkin' through the zoo
Try to get out
With a shred of your soul
Alarm's shoutin' a warnin'
You better stay in bed
If you get out, beware
Wipe your tired eyes
You're still hypnotized
Remember once upon a time
And wish you were there
Memory will decieve you
And no one will believe you
When you look back
And say it once was great
You romanticize
Lend credence to the lies
You tell yourself
While you sit and wait
(Chorus)
You wait, you wait
For happily ever after
You wait, you wait
For somethin' to make sense
You wait, you wait
Around for things long past
You wait, you wait
For somethin' to believe in
Shuffle out the door
Gearin' up for more
Of what you've become
Opposed to fate
Sea of empty faces
All runnin' the races
Goin' through the motions
Earn your hate
Hell from nine to five
Tryin' to survive
Head above water
Keep your hold
Routine wears on you
Walkin' through the zoo
Try to get out
With a shred of your soul
Sunday, November 16, 2008
It's that time again.
Y'know, I don't ask for much. A better paycheck, maybe my own place in the middle of a decent part of town, world domination, y'know, the simple things. The simplest of all, however, is something that every able-bodied female on the face of the planet has the power to give, and given the amount of time that's passed since the last time one of them gave it well, it probably wouldn't even take that long.
I'll keep this short. Tomorrow, I'm turning twenty-five. So help me God, if I have to get myself off instead of having it done for me by someone with tits, you're going to see a very, very unhappy (see also: angry, bitter and generally disdainful of the opposite sex in it's entirety) Remmy Phoenix, and don't feed me all that "Sex is supposed to be a beautiful thing shared between two people blah blah blah I can use my twat to make ice cubes" bullshit, we've covered this before. I've got some of the most funny moralled people on the planet in my social circle, and damn it, I deserve a blowjob to celebrate surviving a quarter of a century in this God forsaken land of disappointment we call Earth.
...Please?
I'll keep this short. Tomorrow, I'm turning twenty-five. So help me God, if I have to get myself off instead of having it done for me by someone with tits, you're going to see a very, very unhappy (see also: angry, bitter and generally disdainful of the opposite sex in it's entirety) Remmy Phoenix, and don't feed me all that "Sex is supposed to be a beautiful thing shared between two people blah blah blah I can use my twat to make ice cubes" bullshit, we've covered this before. I've got some of the most funny moralled people on the planet in my social circle, and damn it, I deserve a blowjob to celebrate surviving a quarter of a century in this God forsaken land of disappointment we call Earth.
...Please?
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Easy Out Clause
Crazy lady introduces herself. We hit it off. Crazy lady tells me she's not interested in a relationship. We make out a lot. Crazy lady gets blasted and tells me she's falling for me, but isn't going to let it go any further. We have sex. Crazy lady tells me she doesn't wanna' see me anymore. We make up. Crazy lady tells me she loves me. I don't hear from her for days. Crazy lady tells me to leave her alone. I laugh at the unbelievable insanity of the entire situation, wash my hands of it, and happily oblige.
Since I'm sure she'll read this, considering the last time she told me she didn't want anything to with me she bitched me out within twenty-four hours for the post resulting from her blatant insanity (see: Crazy lady tells me she doesn't wanna' see me anymore), here's a little open love letter. Mature? No. Liberating? Oh, you'd better believe it.
You? You're a fucking vulture. You're the reason guys like me become guys like the one you're still hung up on. You're the reason that men and women don't get along, because by the time people like you are done creating bastards out of decent men with your amoral, inconsiderate bullshit, they've already dicked around enough women to create even more selfish bitches. Sure, we could argue about which came first, but it wouldn't matter. You're perpetuating the cycle. You're drawing out the battle of the sexes.
And in the end? You're the one who loses. There's no crawling back this time, so please save us both the embarassment and don't try. There is no amount of humility that can buy you another shot at being more than just another notch on the bedpost, another mistake, another pothole on the road to happiness. To you, I was the guy you were afraid to admit you loved. I was the guy who was good enough to make you fall, and would've made you happy if you weren't too afraid to give me the opportunity. I was the guy who could've, possibly, if you'd dumped all your baggage off sooner, been something real.
You? You were just another headcase, one of many in a long line of nihilistic sluts who fuck early and leave even earlier.
You were number thirty-one.
You were beneath me.
And now? You're a bad memory.
Peace, bitch. I'm out.
Since I'm sure she'll read this, considering the last time she told me she didn't want anything to with me she bitched me out within twenty-four hours for the post resulting from her blatant insanity (see: Crazy lady tells me she doesn't wanna' see me anymore), here's a little open love letter. Mature? No. Liberating? Oh, you'd better believe it.
You? You're a fucking vulture. You're the reason guys like me become guys like the one you're still hung up on. You're the reason that men and women don't get along, because by the time people like you are done creating bastards out of decent men with your amoral, inconsiderate bullshit, they've already dicked around enough women to create even more selfish bitches. Sure, we could argue about which came first, but it wouldn't matter. You're perpetuating the cycle. You're drawing out the battle of the sexes.
And in the end? You're the one who loses. There's no crawling back this time, so please save us both the embarassment and don't try. There is no amount of humility that can buy you another shot at being more than just another notch on the bedpost, another mistake, another pothole on the road to happiness. To you, I was the guy you were afraid to admit you loved. I was the guy who was good enough to make you fall, and would've made you happy if you weren't too afraid to give me the opportunity. I was the guy who could've, possibly, if you'd dumped all your baggage off sooner, been something real.
You? You were just another headcase, one of many in a long line of nihilistic sluts who fuck early and leave even earlier.
You were number thirty-one.
You were beneath me.
And now? You're a bad memory.
Peace, bitch. I'm out.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Brevity. Or not.
So after careful consideration, I've determined that the only way to truly know yourself is to seperate yourself from any and all attachments. Friends, family, job, home, society. Total seclusion, armed with nothing but your instincts, and exercising nothing short of total honesty regarding your reactions to every situation you face in the savage wild.
On the other hand, fulfillment, and thus, happiness, comes from action, and actions in the wild have no meaning beyond survival. No helping little old ladies cross the straight, no stealing a candy bar because you're positive that no one's looking, no indecision stemming from socially ingrained concepts like right and wrong, morality and depravity. So, in a sense, one could argue that accomplishment is only possible through interaction with a society, though not necessarily a community.
The objective then, if the preceding concepts are held as truth, is balance. Integrating one's self with society without losing one's autonomy, accepting a mutually understood code of ethics without submitting completely to it, without becoming nothing more than just another copy of a template that someone, at some point, made the decision was ideal. That person, after all, possessed individual will, created a standard, and set it into action, thus creating the ideal society that you risk allowing yourself to become engulfed in.
Without accepting the rules of a society while keeping one's mind open to the possibility of a flaw, a chink in the armor of social order, the world would fall into a stagnant routine, and growth would become myth, evolution a forgotten concept, progress an impossibility, and the status quo a dictator of itself.
So there're no answers here, no epiphany, only opinions, ramblings of a borderline insomniac trying desperately to find or make a place in the world, and the echoes of men who've lived since the dawn of time who dare to question what they're told and attempt to find a better way, their own way. You swim upstream to either drown or find the source, and when you get there, you're faced with yet another question. Leave it as it was, attempt to shore it up so as to make the journey of the fish you passed along the way less difficult, or block it off, thus leaving everyone in the river twitching in their final moments, some deprived of momentum, others robbed of something to rail against, and a painfully select few laying in the same place they fought to stay in, watching the swimmers on either other side of the spectrum dying despite their own hopes and dreams, fear and dread.
So many questions.
And I'm out of caffeine.
'Night.
On the other hand, fulfillment, and thus, happiness, comes from action, and actions in the wild have no meaning beyond survival. No helping little old ladies cross the straight, no stealing a candy bar because you're positive that no one's looking, no indecision stemming from socially ingrained concepts like right and wrong, morality and depravity. So, in a sense, one could argue that accomplishment is only possible through interaction with a society, though not necessarily a community.
The objective then, if the preceding concepts are held as truth, is balance. Integrating one's self with society without losing one's autonomy, accepting a mutually understood code of ethics without submitting completely to it, without becoming nothing more than just another copy of a template that someone, at some point, made the decision was ideal. That person, after all, possessed individual will, created a standard, and set it into action, thus creating the ideal society that you risk allowing yourself to become engulfed in.
Without accepting the rules of a society while keeping one's mind open to the possibility of a flaw, a chink in the armor of social order, the world would fall into a stagnant routine, and growth would become myth, evolution a forgotten concept, progress an impossibility, and the status quo a dictator of itself.
So there're no answers here, no epiphany, only opinions, ramblings of a borderline insomniac trying desperately to find or make a place in the world, and the echoes of men who've lived since the dawn of time who dare to question what they're told and attempt to find a better way, their own way. You swim upstream to either drown or find the source, and when you get there, you're faced with yet another question. Leave it as it was, attempt to shore it up so as to make the journey of the fish you passed along the way less difficult, or block it off, thus leaving everyone in the river twitching in their final moments, some deprived of momentum, others robbed of something to rail against, and a painfully select few laying in the same place they fought to stay in, watching the swimmers on either other side of the spectrum dying despite their own hopes and dreams, fear and dread.
So many questions.
And I'm out of caffeine.
'Night.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
The 90s were bullshit, man.
So by the time I started really getting into music, I was probably like nine or ten years old. Well, to me, that was an awesome time to jam out. You could turn on the radio and flip to any alt station you wanted, and there was always something good on. It was like a law, at all times, something had to be playing that just rocked your fucking socks off. Tonight, I looked a few of those songs up on YouTube and checked out the lyrics. If you ever get the compulsion to revisit your old favorites, let me just say this.
Don't. Seriously, like ever. I don't care if you're two steps away from blowing off the back of your skull and the only possible thing that can stop you is revisiting some old alternative music to remind you what it was like to be an enthusiastic, wide-eyed child. Save yourself the trouble and just pull the trigger, because you're only setting yourself up for disappointment. Anybody remember a band called The Spin Doctors? Yeah, those guys need to be assraped by the business end of a shotgun for the level they've put me at tonight in terms of disappointment.
Fuck childhood.
Don't. Seriously, like ever. I don't care if you're two steps away from blowing off the back of your skull and the only possible thing that can stop you is revisiting some old alternative music to remind you what it was like to be an enthusiastic, wide-eyed child. Save yourself the trouble and just pull the trigger, because you're only setting yourself up for disappointment. Anybody remember a band called The Spin Doctors? Yeah, those guys need to be assraped by the business end of a shotgun for the level they've put me at tonight in terms of disappointment.
Fuck childhood.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
And gettin' out on bail the same fuckin' day.
Dear Uncle Sam,
So I was looking back on my misspent youth this morning, and I remembered that I loaned twenty bucks to this pot head in high school. I mean, it was a decent chunk of change for a sixteen year-old kid, but it didn't break me and I'd just gotten paid, so I figured 'What the hell?'. I was thinkin' though, since you seem to be in the business of picking up greedy assholes' debt lately, think there's any chance you could throw some scratch my way?
Now, I know what you're thinking. How is giving me money because I was dumb enough to loan money to someone when the likelihood of ever seeing that money again was so slim that it could hardly be measured? Well, personally, I think the answer's obvious. It'll stimulate the economy! No, seriously, I know it sounds like the most illogical thing that's ever come out of a down syndrome baby's drooping, drooling mouth, but giving me money because I gave money to Johnny Rolls More Than An Olympic Gymnast, thus putting a dent in the country's collective coffers and driving everyone further in debt, will be good for the everyone in the long run. Just think, if you do this, I'll have twenty bucks that I can loan to another asshole who can't afford to pay me back! And then...
Y'know what? Nevermind. I just realized that ultimately it'll put everyone in a worse position than where we started, because paying off bad debt on behalf of people who are stupid enough to extend credit to those who haven't earned it and have no apparent way to pay it back is something that only an irresponsible, morally bankrupt bastard would ever consider. Silly fucking me.
Regards,
Rem Phoenix
So I was looking back on my misspent youth this morning, and I remembered that I loaned twenty bucks to this pot head in high school. I mean, it was a decent chunk of change for a sixteen year-old kid, but it didn't break me and I'd just gotten paid, so I figured 'What the hell?'. I was thinkin' though, since you seem to be in the business of picking up greedy assholes' debt lately, think there's any chance you could throw some scratch my way?
Now, I know what you're thinking. How is giving me money because I was dumb enough to loan money to someone when the likelihood of ever seeing that money again was so slim that it could hardly be measured? Well, personally, I think the answer's obvious. It'll stimulate the economy! No, seriously, I know it sounds like the most illogical thing that's ever come out of a down syndrome baby's drooping, drooling mouth, but giving me money because I gave money to Johnny Rolls More Than An Olympic Gymnast, thus putting a dent in the country's collective coffers and driving everyone further in debt, will be good for the everyone in the long run. Just think, if you do this, I'll have twenty bucks that I can loan to another asshole who can't afford to pay me back! And then...
Y'know what? Nevermind. I just realized that ultimately it'll put everyone in a worse position than where we started, because paying off bad debt on behalf of people who are stupid enough to extend credit to those who haven't earned it and have no apparent way to pay it back is something that only an irresponsible, morally bankrupt bastard would ever consider. Silly fucking me.
Regards,
Rem Phoenix
Sunday, October 19, 2008
I love that word.
Y'know, this entry was like four or five pages long, but if you've read one hate diatribe inspired by a woman, you've read them all, and I try to maintain an element of originality here. So, in an effort to curtail the redundancy a bit, as well as inject a much needed dose of maturity into this collection of rants, I'll just say that putting faith in someone who has even more issues than I do was a mistake, I should've seen this coming, and I have no one to blame but myself.
...Also, you're a cunt.
...Also, you're a cunt.
Friday, October 17, 2008
The Anti-Viagra
So I have a friend who, despite recent developments, has actually been a really cool person for the last few years. We talk, we laugh, we make frequent sexu--okay, I make frequent sexual comments to her and she doesn't hit me for it. All things considered, pretty solid dynamic. I'd probably do just about anything for her, shy of putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. After heeding her recommendation that I rent and watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall, however, I kind'a feel like I should.
Five minutes into this movie, I knew how it was going to end. Ten minutes into the movie, I wasn't sure I wanted to find out if I was right. Twenty minutes into it, I shit you not, I swear I was convinced that I'd never have a full erection again. This movie obviously wasn't written to attract a male audience. I'll admit I laugh when someone gets hurt as hard as the next guy, probably even harder, but seriously, how many times can you cringe through some jackass crying over some celebrity bitch without wanting to reach through the screen, pull the actor out of it and scream into his grotesquely assymetrical face? "You tool! You mother! Fucking! Tool! How the hell can you have even a sliver of self-respect after allowing yourself to be portrayed as everything that every man in the fucking world fears his son will grow up to be!"
I know, I know, it's just acting, right? Just a fun time in front of the screen watching people react humorously to unlikely situations. If that's what you're thinking, go fuck yourself. I've got a fucking cramp in my abs from keeling over in agony from watching this piece of shit. I don't give a rat fuck how popular the movie is. Y'know why it's popular? I'll tell you in one word. Women. More specifically, women who need to feel like they have ultimate power over the opposite sex. Women who need to feel important so badly that they'll drag their friends, and their friends' friends, and all the poor bastard boyfriends associated with each tier, to watch someone pretend to be a whiny little love sick bitch because his girlfriend is fucking someone else. Women who will repeat this over, and over, and over again, their egos getting blown up to the size of a stay at home soccer mom with a thyroid disorder, until they finally feel assured that they're holding the power because, hey, if they leave their current love interest for a retarded pop star, he'll go to Hawaii and make an ass of himself. It's how it happens in real life, right? Right?! Please God, just let me feel beautiful again!
Long story short, I'm actually gonna' take the financial hit and not return this movie to the Red Box I got it out of. Instead, I'm gonna' go down to the beach Sunday night, start a bonfire, and commit this God-awful disc to the subsequent blaze, for no other reason than I want it to experience the closest possible thing to Hell in case there is no such place for inanimate objects. Anyone who wants to take a stand against whiny emo bitchery, bring a six pack and join me. Anyone else, keep waiting patiently for the next ego bang. I hope your ass spreads so wide that the subsequent bedsores litter it's rotting flesh in such a way that it looks like the surface of the moon after being bombarded by nukes, you fucking sheep.
Five minutes into this movie, I knew how it was going to end. Ten minutes into the movie, I wasn't sure I wanted to find out if I was right. Twenty minutes into it, I shit you not, I swear I was convinced that I'd never have a full erection again. This movie obviously wasn't written to attract a male audience. I'll admit I laugh when someone gets hurt as hard as the next guy, probably even harder, but seriously, how many times can you cringe through some jackass crying over some celebrity bitch without wanting to reach through the screen, pull the actor out of it and scream into his grotesquely assymetrical face? "You tool! You mother! Fucking! Tool! How the hell can you have even a sliver of self-respect after allowing yourself to be portrayed as everything that every man in the fucking world fears his son will grow up to be!"
I know, I know, it's just acting, right? Just a fun time in front of the screen watching people react humorously to unlikely situations. If that's what you're thinking, go fuck yourself. I've got a fucking cramp in my abs from keeling over in agony from watching this piece of shit. I don't give a rat fuck how popular the movie is. Y'know why it's popular? I'll tell you in one word. Women. More specifically, women who need to feel like they have ultimate power over the opposite sex. Women who need to feel important so badly that they'll drag their friends, and their friends' friends, and all the poor bastard boyfriends associated with each tier, to watch someone pretend to be a whiny little love sick bitch because his girlfriend is fucking someone else. Women who will repeat this over, and over, and over again, their egos getting blown up to the size of a stay at home soccer mom with a thyroid disorder, until they finally feel assured that they're holding the power because, hey, if they leave their current love interest for a retarded pop star, he'll go to Hawaii and make an ass of himself. It's how it happens in real life, right? Right?! Please God, just let me feel beautiful again!
Long story short, I'm actually gonna' take the financial hit and not return this movie to the Red Box I got it out of. Instead, I'm gonna' go down to the beach Sunday night, start a bonfire, and commit this God-awful disc to the subsequent blaze, for no other reason than I want it to experience the closest possible thing to Hell in case there is no such place for inanimate objects. Anyone who wants to take a stand against whiny emo bitchery, bring a six pack and join me. Anyone else, keep waiting patiently for the next ego bang. I hope your ass spreads so wide that the subsequent bedsores litter it's rotting flesh in such a way that it looks like the surface of the moon after being bombarded by nukes, you fucking sheep.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Look, up in the sky!...is he really wearing that?
Ladies and gentlemen, my job sucks. Between pretending I give two shits about the mouth breathing bottom feeders that walk into my department asking for "That cord that connects to that thing to do that whatchacallit," hiding my unadulterated contempt for the corporate shills that make up management and pretending to be shocked when one of the many, many flaming homosexuals that've been hired because, well, it's California, comes out of the closet, I really don't have much time for daydreaming. However, a thought came to me when I was listening to random Mexican 491 trying to describe what he wanted in high-speed Spanish after I told him, twice, that I didn't understand.
We live in a dangerous world. Between the ever-present threat of nuclear war, the AIDS epidemic and fat women who still, for some reason only God can possibly comprehend, think they look good in revealing clothing, sometimes it's easy for a recovering comic book geek to wish for some ethnically diverse, super-powered group of selfless adventurers to fly by in their supersonic jet that they managed to acquire without any apparent source of funding and save the day. Well, unless you're a recovering comic book geek with the kind of cynical personality that can look at a baby and think to himself "At some point, Charles Manson was probably an adorable, thumb-sucking toddler, too." Then you immediately get into The Zone and start thinking of reasons why the world would suck even more if superheroes existed.
First of all, a subset of humans who can fly and shoot lasers out of their eyes couldn't possibly be far removed from the rest of the Earth's sentient bipeds. The presence of superheroes would inevitably bring about the presence of supervillains. You think I'm an asshole? Just wait until Johnny Traumatic Childhood suddenly discovers that he can make lightning shoot out of his palms. All those wedgies and date rejections he had in high school just left a crater where your favorite multiplex used to be. So much for the Iron Man sequel, suckers! Hell, we'll entertain the idea of a supervillain coming into his own just because. No sordid past, the guy's just bored. This has the potential to be much, much worse. Ultraprick with a grudge against jocks might stop at using his anthropomorphic knife fingers to make sure the captain of the football team sings like a ten year old choir boy for the rest of his life. You get a guy who can blow shit up with his mind and wants to fuck everything up just to see what happens? Insurance brokers'll be pissing their pants in the first fifteen minutes.
If that's not bad enough, think about what happens whenever somebody gets really good at something that everybody wants to be good at. You'd never admit it, but when the realization hits you that you'll never be that guy, your opinion of him suddenly drops like a cock at a senior citizens meeting. Now, with people who can set themselves on fire with a thought, save the world and not even smell like burnt hair afterwards, you're gonna' get mighty envious with the fucking quickness. Mobs form for the express purpose of proving they've got bigger dicks than the dude who just saved a bus full of retarded kids while breastfeeding a newborn puppy, and all of a sudden you have really big piles of corpses killed completely out of self-defense, just because the middle-age stockbroker got a hair up his ass over not being able to freeze oceans with his breath.
Breeding poses an issue, too Believe it or not, but there are actually women out there who choose mates based solely on how they believe said mate's sperm will mingle with their egg and ultimately create the most awesome offspring ever. So let's say Susie Sorority manages to shack up with some ruggedly handsome superhero. What happens when one of the kids turns out to be a dud? The firstborn can run the mile in less time than it takes a virgin to get off fucking a head cheerleader, but his younger brother, well, he's got a decent free-throw. "Why can't you be more like your brother?" is gonna' drive up the suicide rate in this country so fast you'll start wondering if Emo's been declared the only music able to be legally played for the rest of eternity.
Hell, fuck breeding, just think about how you're gonna' measure up to these broad-shouldered knight errants? You think it's hard finding a date now? Wait until you're suddenly in a wooing competition with some gargantuan, green-skinned behemoth who, let's face it, is pretty likely to have grown at least somewhat proportionately. Suddenly that sports car doesn't seem so great, does it, sparky? You'll be lucky if the eighty year-old widow with shingles and halitosis down the street looks at you twice.
Lastly, government regulation. Marvel ran a little story arc called Civil War a while back that featured their world's American government trying to regulate superhumans' usage of their powers and force them to get a license to superhero (fuck you, I'll use superhero as a verb if I want to). Folks, you have to fork over a hundred bucks just to fish in this country. How long do you think it's gonna' be before some South-bred politician puts his foot down and declares war on all these flying, spandex-clad fanboy wetdreams come true? I give it a week, a month tops, before the skies have so many missles flying around trying to take out the chick they called a gift from God the day before because she pisses Super Unleaded.
So before you go all giddy fantasizing about a world where Milo Ventimiglia can swoop down and end all the world's problems in five minutes with a sweep of his emo haircut, chew on that for a while. There are no easy solutions. Especially with Halloween around the corner. You think it's hard to find a costume now? Just wait until the indecisive horror film fanatic who just figured out he can punch through mountains comes to town. Have fun being the Easter Bunny every October 31st for the rest of your life!
We live in a dangerous world. Between the ever-present threat of nuclear war, the AIDS epidemic and fat women who still, for some reason only God can possibly comprehend, think they look good in revealing clothing, sometimes it's easy for a recovering comic book geek to wish for some ethnically diverse, super-powered group of selfless adventurers to fly by in their supersonic jet that they managed to acquire without any apparent source of funding and save the day. Well, unless you're a recovering comic book geek with the kind of cynical personality that can look at a baby and think to himself "At some point, Charles Manson was probably an adorable, thumb-sucking toddler, too." Then you immediately get into The Zone and start thinking of reasons why the world would suck even more if superheroes existed.
First of all, a subset of humans who can fly and shoot lasers out of their eyes couldn't possibly be far removed from the rest of the Earth's sentient bipeds. The presence of superheroes would inevitably bring about the presence of supervillains. You think I'm an asshole? Just wait until Johnny Traumatic Childhood suddenly discovers that he can make lightning shoot out of his palms. All those wedgies and date rejections he had in high school just left a crater where your favorite multiplex used to be. So much for the Iron Man sequel, suckers! Hell, we'll entertain the idea of a supervillain coming into his own just because. No sordid past, the guy's just bored. This has the potential to be much, much worse. Ultraprick with a grudge against jocks might stop at using his anthropomorphic knife fingers to make sure the captain of the football team sings like a ten year old choir boy for the rest of his life. You get a guy who can blow shit up with his mind and wants to fuck everything up just to see what happens? Insurance brokers'll be pissing their pants in the first fifteen minutes.
If that's not bad enough, think about what happens whenever somebody gets really good at something that everybody wants to be good at. You'd never admit it, but when the realization hits you that you'll never be that guy, your opinion of him suddenly drops like a cock at a senior citizens meeting. Now, with people who can set themselves on fire with a thought, save the world and not even smell like burnt hair afterwards, you're gonna' get mighty envious with the fucking quickness. Mobs form for the express purpose of proving they've got bigger dicks than the dude who just saved a bus full of retarded kids while breastfeeding a newborn puppy, and all of a sudden you have really big piles of corpses killed completely out of self-defense, just because the middle-age stockbroker got a hair up his ass over not being able to freeze oceans with his breath.
Breeding poses an issue, too Believe it or not, but there are actually women out there who choose mates based solely on how they believe said mate's sperm will mingle with their egg and ultimately create the most awesome offspring ever. So let's say Susie Sorority manages to shack up with some ruggedly handsome superhero. What happens when one of the kids turns out to be a dud? The firstborn can run the mile in less time than it takes a virgin to get off fucking a head cheerleader, but his younger brother, well, he's got a decent free-throw. "Why can't you be more like your brother?" is gonna' drive up the suicide rate in this country so fast you'll start wondering if Emo's been declared the only music able to be legally played for the rest of eternity.
Hell, fuck breeding, just think about how you're gonna' measure up to these broad-shouldered knight errants? You think it's hard finding a date now? Wait until you're suddenly in a wooing competition with some gargantuan, green-skinned behemoth who, let's face it, is pretty likely to have grown at least somewhat proportionately. Suddenly that sports car doesn't seem so great, does it, sparky? You'll be lucky if the eighty year-old widow with shingles and halitosis down the street looks at you twice.
Lastly, government regulation. Marvel ran a little story arc called Civil War a while back that featured their world's American government trying to regulate superhumans' usage of their powers and force them to get a license to superhero (fuck you, I'll use superhero as a verb if I want to). Folks, you have to fork over a hundred bucks just to fish in this country. How long do you think it's gonna' be before some South-bred politician puts his foot down and declares war on all these flying, spandex-clad fanboy wetdreams come true? I give it a week, a month tops, before the skies have so many missles flying around trying to take out the chick they called a gift from God the day before because she pisses Super Unleaded.
So before you go all giddy fantasizing about a world where Milo Ventimiglia can swoop down and end all the world's problems in five minutes with a sweep of his emo haircut, chew on that for a while. There are no easy solutions. Especially with Halloween around the corner. You think it's hard to find a costume now? Just wait until the indecisive horror film fanatic who just figured out he can punch through mountains comes to town. Have fun being the Easter Bunny every October 31st for the rest of your life!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
A Change Of Ideas
To whom it may concern,
I, Remiel Enduro Phoenix, do hereby certify that my faith in the existence of at least one female whose sole purpose in life is not to A) destroy my faith in humanity, B) drive me to homosexuality, or C) increase alcohol sales due to the frustration brought about by amoral and/or inconsiderate actions, or any combination of the above, has been rekindled. Thusly, as of today, September 22, 2008, I am hereby lifting my ban on members of the opposite sex taking more than a platonic role in my life.
Thank you, and stop laughing at me.
Sincerely,
Rem Phoenix
You don't need to see my identification. These are not the cliches you're looking for. Move along.
Thank you, and stop laughing at me.
Sincerely,
Rem Phoenix
You don't need to see my identification. These are not the cliches you're looking for. Move along.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Too far.
Dear Internet Pornography,
First of all, I wanna' thank you for everything you've done over the years. Honestly, without you, I don't think I could've managed to stay away from the hell that is romantic attachment for as long as I have. You've given me my freedom, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.
Lately though...things have changed. You're not the same as you used to be. Back in the good old days, I could sit down, type in a URL, get everything out of my system and not have a single negative thing to say about the experience. Maybe, I don't know, maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one who's changed. Maybe it's not your fault at all. I guess what I'm trying to say is...well, it's over.
I hope we can still be friends.
-Rem
The point of this disgusting little open letter is that, when there's a gorgeous fishnet-clad German girl with blond hair and blue eyes engaging in x-rated activities, the last thing I wanna' hear is a fucking Madonna song. Fuck's sake, you know the world's fucked up when even your spank material is going emo. The Power Of Goodbye has officially scarred my penis for life.
Thank you, and I'm sorry.
First of all, I wanna' thank you for everything you've done over the years. Honestly, without you, I don't think I could've managed to stay away from the hell that is romantic attachment for as long as I have. You've given me my freedom, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.
Lately though...things have changed. You're not the same as you used to be. Back in the good old days, I could sit down, type in a URL, get everything out of my system and not have a single negative thing to say about the experience. Maybe, I don't know, maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one who's changed. Maybe it's not your fault at all. I guess what I'm trying to say is...well, it's over.
I hope we can still be friends.
-Rem
The point of this disgusting little open letter is that, when there's a gorgeous fishnet-clad German girl with blond hair and blue eyes engaging in x-rated activities, the last thing I wanna' hear is a fucking Madonna song. Fuck's sake, you know the world's fucked up when even your spank material is going emo. The Power Of Goodbye has officially scarred my penis for life.
Thank you, and I'm sorry.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
How to laugh for fifteen minutes straight.
Two of the most common statements I make at work are "They don't pay me enough to lie" and "Just don't tell my boss I said that."
Have fun with your high-salary jobs and three-story houses, bitches. I'm the guy who works for one of the most evil corporations on the planet and still manages to hold on to his integrity. That, my friends, is character.
Unfortunately, it looks horrible on a resume.
Have fun with your high-salary jobs and three-story houses, bitches. I'm the guy who works for one of the most evil corporations on the planet and still manages to hold on to his integrity. That, my friends, is character.
Unfortunately, it looks horrible on a resume.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
I fought the law, and I'm not sure who won.
Let me paint a picture for ya'. There's a skinny rock 'n' roll fuck-up sittin' outside a room in a federal courthouse, more than a little nervous, at 8:00 AM, figuratively resembling a dog walking comfortably on it's hind legs because he's wearing decent clothes and a tie. There's five chairs, each occupied by someone waiting to take care of their case.
And a line of roughly thirty-something people waiting to do the same.
We get called in at the same, time, cramming into a tiny court room designed for about half of the people who were actually in it. There's about six or seven defense attorneys standing, calling names and talking with their respective "clients". Eventually, the rocker gets called up, his heart skips a beat, and he makes his way to his own court appointed lawyer, expecting the worst.
Ten minutes later, he walks outta' the courtroom with a year's probation and a five hundred dollar fine.
This is what I've been stressin' about for the last six months? For fuck's sake, it would've taken longer to smoke the roaches I got caught with than it did to get all this taken care of! I was expecting a judge, a prosecutor, and a jail sentence. What I got was the equivalent of a drive-through justice window. Don't misread, I'm totally stoked that I essentially got off with a slap on the wrist, but is this really how they handle federal offenses? As a taxpayer I'm pissed, but as a guy who's not getting assraped, I'm elated.
So, essentially, as long as I can come up with the money to pay the fine, and I somehow manage not to do anything stupid for the next three hundred and sixty-five days, I'm in the clear.
God bless our indifferent justice system.
And a line of roughly thirty-something people waiting to do the same.
We get called in at the same, time, cramming into a tiny court room designed for about half of the people who were actually in it. There's about six or seven defense attorneys standing, calling names and talking with their respective "clients". Eventually, the rocker gets called up, his heart skips a beat, and he makes his way to his own court appointed lawyer, expecting the worst.
Ten minutes later, he walks outta' the courtroom with a year's probation and a five hundred dollar fine.
This is what I've been stressin' about for the last six months? For fuck's sake, it would've taken longer to smoke the roaches I got caught with than it did to get all this taken care of! I was expecting a judge, a prosecutor, and a jail sentence. What I got was the equivalent of a drive-through justice window. Don't misread, I'm totally stoked that I essentially got off with a slap on the wrist, but is this really how they handle federal offenses? As a taxpayer I'm pissed, but as a guy who's not getting assraped, I'm elated.
So, essentially, as long as I can come up with the money to pay the fine, and I somehow manage not to do anything stupid for the next three hundred and sixty-five days, I'm in the clear.
God bless our indifferent justice system.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
It's curtains for you, Phoenix!
Well folks, this is it. By this time tomorrow, I'll either be lounging comfortably in my chair, still breathing the longest sigh of relief in history, or I'll be meeting my new cellmate. Put in a word with the man upstairs for me, eh? I don't wanna' be somebody's girlfriend.
After all, there's too much hair on my tits.
After all, there's too much hair on my tits.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Leave the driving to us!...but if a cannibal gets hungry, you're fucked.
Once upon a time, I took a Greyhound bus to Florida.
Shut the fuck up and let me finish!
Anyway, couple years back, hopped a Hound. No real rhyme or reason, pretty much the same situation as when I moved out here to Cali, only I didn't get busted for possession on federal property. Pretty straightforward process though, you walk into the station, you buy your ticket, and you look around at all the other social rejects with whom you're going to be sharing a cramped, poorly ventilated tin can on wheels with for the next day or two. I vaguely recall a few guidelines, no drinking, no smoking (great idea when you're in close quarters with people who're just as pissed off about their station in life as you are, by the way) but for the most part, there wasn't a whole lot of jargon regarding the rules and regulations attached to the experience.
Well, apparently Greyhound needs to either see about getting the rights to the name "Meals On Wheels", or throw in an addendum to the passenger conduct expectations about not eating your seatmeat. For those of you who live under a rock or just plain have no fucking clue what's going on outside of your apartment, a few days ago a Chinese man who'd immigrated to Canada was apparently so fed up with hearing "Eh?" at the end of every sentence that he took it into his mind to make his seatmate's innards his...well, outtards.
In case I lost you there, let me clarify. A Canadian. Was Killed. On a Greyhound.
Am I the only person who couldn't wait to hit up YouTube and see if someone caught some video of this shit? The guy was Canadian, for fuck's sake! What could he have possibly done? Gotten so drunk on piss beer that he spilled maple syrup on the murderer's leg and only apologize fourteen times instead of twenty? Folks, I've met Canadians. Granted, the first one I met was a little dim, evidenced by proclaiming that she originally hailed from "Canadia" (sorry Missy, but it needed to be said), but I've never had an argument with one.
While sober.
So this guy, Tim McLean, is just sitting in his seat, probably thinking about maple leaves or some such Canadian nonsense, everyone's watching Zorro which had me floored the first time I heard the story, and Lee Wong Stabbyface over here goes ballistic and starts chest-fucking the poor guy with a knife. Obviously everyone on the bus panics, the driver slams the brakes and everyone piles out like this fucker just turned into a coked up Godzilla. As if killing this guy isn't bad enough, dude cuts the victim's head off and holds it over his head like it's the Olympic gold medal in brutality, then decides to celebrate by eating McLean's various severed body parts.
Yeah, you heard me. He goes Michael Myers on the victim's chest, cuts his head off, starts choppin' other bits and pieces off and downs 'em like they're something he picked up at McDonalds.
Cops finally showed up and brought the guy down and hauled him off to what I hope was a private cell with an open vending machine, and the world is left with yet another astounding "What the fuck?" So, basically, we can't fly because of terrorists, we can't ride busses because of...what, diabetics?...we can't hitch, am I missing anything here? What's next, the BMX Sniper? The Kick-n-Go Strangler? Are we just supposed to chill in our own patches and pray to God nobody decides to paint a taxi's backseat with our brains? It's a fucked up world we live in, folks, and apparently it ain't gettin' any better.
Especially if you're in Coach.
Shut the fuck up and let me finish!
Anyway, couple years back, hopped a Hound. No real rhyme or reason, pretty much the same situation as when I moved out here to Cali, only I didn't get busted for possession on federal property. Pretty straightforward process though, you walk into the station, you buy your ticket, and you look around at all the other social rejects with whom you're going to be sharing a cramped, poorly ventilated tin can on wheels with for the next day or two. I vaguely recall a few guidelines, no drinking, no smoking (great idea when you're in close quarters with people who're just as pissed off about their station in life as you are, by the way) but for the most part, there wasn't a whole lot of jargon regarding the rules and regulations attached to the experience.
Well, apparently Greyhound needs to either see about getting the rights to the name "Meals On Wheels", or throw in an addendum to the passenger conduct expectations about not eating your seatmeat. For those of you who live under a rock or just plain have no fucking clue what's going on outside of your apartment, a few days ago a Chinese man who'd immigrated to Canada was apparently so fed up with hearing "Eh?" at the end of every sentence that he took it into his mind to make his seatmate's innards his...well, outtards.
In case I lost you there, let me clarify. A Canadian. Was Killed. On a Greyhound.
Am I the only person who couldn't wait to hit up YouTube and see if someone caught some video of this shit? The guy was Canadian, for fuck's sake! What could he have possibly done? Gotten so drunk on piss beer that he spilled maple syrup on the murderer's leg and only apologize fourteen times instead of twenty? Folks, I've met Canadians. Granted, the first one I met was a little dim, evidenced by proclaiming that she originally hailed from "Canadia" (sorry Missy, but it needed to be said), but I've never had an argument with one.
While sober.
So this guy, Tim McLean, is just sitting in his seat, probably thinking about maple leaves or some such Canadian nonsense, everyone's watching Zorro which had me floored the first time I heard the story, and Lee Wong Stabbyface over here goes ballistic and starts chest-fucking the poor guy with a knife. Obviously everyone on the bus panics, the driver slams the brakes and everyone piles out like this fucker just turned into a coked up Godzilla. As if killing this guy isn't bad enough, dude cuts the victim's head off and holds it over his head like it's the Olympic gold medal in brutality, then decides to celebrate by eating McLean's various severed body parts.
Yeah, you heard me. He goes Michael Myers on the victim's chest, cuts his head off, starts choppin' other bits and pieces off and downs 'em like they're something he picked up at McDonalds.
Cops finally showed up and brought the guy down and hauled him off to what I hope was a private cell with an open vending machine, and the world is left with yet another astounding "What the fuck?" So, basically, we can't fly because of terrorists, we can't ride busses because of...what, diabetics?...we can't hitch, am I missing anything here? What's next, the BMX Sniper? The Kick-n-Go Strangler? Are we just supposed to chill in our own patches and pray to God nobody decides to paint a taxi's backseat with our brains? It's a fucked up world we live in, folks, and apparently it ain't gettin' any better.
Especially if you're in Coach.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Matrimonial bliss my ass
Really, guys? Eight people married in the last three months? Really? Are you fucking serious? Look, I'm sure you're all lubed up about finding that special someone to spend the rest of your miserable, nine-to-five life with, but give me a fucking break! This shit is spreading faster than AIDS in Africa and I'm getting a little sick of hearing about it, so guess what? You get to read about me trashing what you're calling the greatest thing that ever happened to you, and what you'll probably call the biggest mistake of your life a year from now.
First of all, think about how many people there are in the world today. Hell, up the odds in your favor a bit and just think about how many people are in your fucking state. Are you honestly naive enough to think that you found the one person out of every example of the genetic AmTrak that takes place when a race is propagated from two people (or amoeba if you're an evolutionist, I don't really give a shit, somebody took their sister to prom at some point either way), you actually managed to find your so-called soulmate? Are you fucking kidding me? If you were so spiritually connected to one another, you wouldn't bitch at each other like one of you just got caught finger fucking the family dog every time the cable bill came in the mail. Shut the fuck up.
Second, life-long commitment, and don't give me that "people have been getting married for millenia" bullshit, either. Look, life-long commitment was all fine and dandy when the average human life expectancy was rivaled by the shelf life of a gallon of milk, but this the twenty-first century for fuck's sake! People live long enough to see their great-grandchildren fuck up just as bad as they did when they were kids, and you're telling me that you're going to share living space, a bed, financial burdens and bodily fluids for the rest of your life? Hey, here's an idea. Why don't you adopt a unicorn while you're at it, jackass?
Third, procreation. Yeah, that's right, pooling your wretched, polluted genetic data into one (or ten if you're Catholic) bundle of cliche joy that, despite it's deceptively unthreatening stature, is going to assrape you out of every spare cent you're ever going to make? I can't even manage to love one person, and you honestly think you're going to glide through putting up with two other people under your roof that you're legally obligated to devote yourself to without question or complaint? Which fucking truck did you fall off of, exactly, and what kind of mind-altering substance were you packed away with before you did?
Look, I've been to the movies, too. Y'know why they never show what happens after the charming, Hollywood-handsome male hooks up with the sweet, innocent, big-titted closet nymphomaniac female? Because it's all downhill from there, fucktard! Marriage isn't the solution to your problem. A six-pack, a magazine and a lock on your door is more cost-efficient, less stressful and a hell of a lot less soul-crushing than putting a ring on someone's finger ever will be.
And it doesn't bitch about curtains and wallpaper, either.
First of all, think about how many people there are in the world today. Hell, up the odds in your favor a bit and just think about how many people are in your fucking state. Are you honestly naive enough to think that you found the one person out of every example of the genetic AmTrak that takes place when a race is propagated from two people (or amoeba if you're an evolutionist, I don't really give a shit, somebody took their sister to prom at some point either way), you actually managed to find your so-called soulmate? Are you fucking kidding me? If you were so spiritually connected to one another, you wouldn't bitch at each other like one of you just got caught finger fucking the family dog every time the cable bill came in the mail. Shut the fuck up.
Second, life-long commitment, and don't give me that "people have been getting married for millenia" bullshit, either. Look, life-long commitment was all fine and dandy when the average human life expectancy was rivaled by the shelf life of a gallon of milk, but this the twenty-first century for fuck's sake! People live long enough to see their great-grandchildren fuck up just as bad as they did when they were kids, and you're telling me that you're going to share living space, a bed, financial burdens and bodily fluids for the rest of your life? Hey, here's an idea. Why don't you adopt a unicorn while you're at it, jackass?
Third, procreation. Yeah, that's right, pooling your wretched, polluted genetic data into one (or ten if you're Catholic) bundle of cliche joy that, despite it's deceptively unthreatening stature, is going to assrape you out of every spare cent you're ever going to make? I can't even manage to love one person, and you honestly think you're going to glide through putting up with two other people under your roof that you're legally obligated to devote yourself to without question or complaint? Which fucking truck did you fall off of, exactly, and what kind of mind-altering substance were you packed away with before you did?
Look, I've been to the movies, too. Y'know why they never show what happens after the charming, Hollywood-handsome male hooks up with the sweet, innocent, big-titted closet nymphomaniac female? Because it's all downhill from there, fucktard! Marriage isn't the solution to your problem. A six-pack, a magazine and a lock on your door is more cost-efficient, less stressful and a hell of a lot less soul-crushing than putting a ring on someone's finger ever will be.
And it doesn't bitch about curtains and wallpaper, either.
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Mean Green Redeeming Machine
Ever since the news came out that Edward Norton and Liv Tyler were starring in the new Incredible Hulk movie, there've been naysayers coming out of the woodwork insisting that this "sequel" was nothing but a bunch of big-name actors trying to make up for the cinematic fiasco in which Eric Bana and Jennifer Connell shamelessly displayed their respective suck-factors. To those people who groaned in disbelief that Marvel could showcase their raging steroid gamma monstrosity without disappointing the world, I have five words for you.
Nah, nah, nah nah, nah!
From the flashback sequence that swiftly retconned the dismal 2003 attempt at bringing Bruce Banner's alter ego to the big screen to the much-anticipated Robert Downey Jr. cameo at the end of the film, The Incredible Hulk breaths life into the big green walking anger management issue. Edward Norton's portrayal of a man who must constantly ration his emotions is both enjoyable and saddening, as we see the effect that desperation and isolationism has on someone whose genius would otherwise likely garner him everything in life that he could want. The fact that Norton also had creative liscense with the film proves that he's not only one of the best actors in Hollywood, but also one of the best imaginations.
As for Liv Tyler, gone are the days of Empire Records. Instead, she's at a point in her life and her career where she can do just about anything she puts her creative mind to, as evidenced by the way she surpasses Jennifer Connelly's take on Dr. Betty Ross by leaps and bounds. Tyler shows the audience that Bruce Banner isn't the only tragic character in this story; a woman who believes the man she loves is dead, only to be reintroduced to him as a fugitive that she must risk everything to reunite with. Where Edward Norton brings his fair share of action and drama, Liv Tyler brings something that's sorely lacking in female love interests in cinema today: heart.
As for William Hurt playing General Ross, I'm not really sure what he brings. Granted, the man's made a name for himself as a stoic personality, and the military strives to convince the world that stoicism is it's stock in trade, Hurt's performance brings little to the story but someone to hate for being a tool of his own ambition and distorted sense of patriotic duty. The only scene where he shows any sign of life is his meeting with Tony Stark, and I'm not entirely convinced that the positive impression I gleamed from their interaction wasn't due to Downey Jr.'s unfailing presence in the billionaire industrialist turned superhero's shoes.
Tim Roth as The Abomination. Need I say more? Now, first of all, I enjoyed Ted the Bellboy as much as anyone, but the man was born to be a villain. There's something about that cockney intensity that just screams "You need to be afraid of me, even though I weigh about as much as a fourteen year-old Asian girl." From start to finish, the man oozes that sort of unassuming tough-as-nails hard-ass persona. If anything, his mutation actually makes him seem like less of a threat. There's something about a gigantic freak with skeletal protrusions that will never have a chance at combating a soldier who's out of ammunition and still walks up to The Hulk and says "Is that all you got?", knowing full well that the latter juggernaut could grind him into the asphalt.
The rest of the cast, while none of them individually noteworthy, did a terrific job of contributing to the story, with the exception of Mr. Blue (no, despite Roth's presence, Tarrantino had nothing to do with the picture to the best of my knowledge). The implications made by his character and fate were amusing, but let's face facts. An annoying scientist will always be an annoying scientist. That aside, The Incredible Hulk succeeds in every area that it's predecessor failed in. If you need any further incentive to go see it, I couldn't even force myself to sneak into another show afterward. I was that impressed.
Even though there was no Sam Jackson appearance after the credits. Damn it.
Nah, nah, nah nah, nah!
From the flashback sequence that swiftly retconned the dismal 2003 attempt at bringing Bruce Banner's alter ego to the big screen to the much-anticipated Robert Downey Jr. cameo at the end of the film, The Incredible Hulk breaths life into the big green walking anger management issue. Edward Norton's portrayal of a man who must constantly ration his emotions is both enjoyable and saddening, as we see the effect that desperation and isolationism has on someone whose genius would otherwise likely garner him everything in life that he could want. The fact that Norton also had creative liscense with the film proves that he's not only one of the best actors in Hollywood, but also one of the best imaginations.
As for Liv Tyler, gone are the days of Empire Records. Instead, she's at a point in her life and her career where she can do just about anything she puts her creative mind to, as evidenced by the way she surpasses Jennifer Connelly's take on Dr. Betty Ross by leaps and bounds. Tyler shows the audience that Bruce Banner isn't the only tragic character in this story; a woman who believes the man she loves is dead, only to be reintroduced to him as a fugitive that she must risk everything to reunite with. Where Edward Norton brings his fair share of action and drama, Liv Tyler brings something that's sorely lacking in female love interests in cinema today: heart.
As for William Hurt playing General Ross, I'm not really sure what he brings. Granted, the man's made a name for himself as a stoic personality, and the military strives to convince the world that stoicism is it's stock in trade, Hurt's performance brings little to the story but someone to hate for being a tool of his own ambition and distorted sense of patriotic duty. The only scene where he shows any sign of life is his meeting with Tony Stark, and I'm not entirely convinced that the positive impression I gleamed from their interaction wasn't due to Downey Jr.'s unfailing presence in the billionaire industrialist turned superhero's shoes.
Tim Roth as The Abomination. Need I say more? Now, first of all, I enjoyed Ted the Bellboy as much as anyone, but the man was born to be a villain. There's something about that cockney intensity that just screams "You need to be afraid of me, even though I weigh about as much as a fourteen year-old Asian girl." From start to finish, the man oozes that sort of unassuming tough-as-nails hard-ass persona. If anything, his mutation actually makes him seem like less of a threat. There's something about a gigantic freak with skeletal protrusions that will never have a chance at combating a soldier who's out of ammunition and still walks up to The Hulk and says "Is that all you got?", knowing full well that the latter juggernaut could grind him into the asphalt.
The rest of the cast, while none of them individually noteworthy, did a terrific job of contributing to the story, with the exception of Mr. Blue (no, despite Roth's presence, Tarrantino had nothing to do with the picture to the best of my knowledge). The implications made by his character and fate were amusing, but let's face facts. An annoying scientist will always be an annoying scientist. That aside, The Incredible Hulk succeeds in every area that it's predecessor failed in. If you need any further incentive to go see it, I couldn't even force myself to sneak into another show afterward. I was that impressed.
Even though there was no Sam Jackson appearance after the credits. Damn it.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Indiana Jones and the Ruined Franchise
The only thing that could possibly make this film better is fire, directly applied to every copy in existence, and the execution of George Lucas, whose status as an alzheimer's patient is made blatantly apparent by this fourth installment in a series that, once upon a time, made me happy. It was bad enough when he ruined Star Wars, not once, not twice, but three fucking times, and every time the public lapped it up with the abandon of a cum-addicted whore working overtime. Fuck you, Lucasarts. Fuck you, George Lucas. Most of all, fuck you, Harrison Ford, for allowing your second greatest character to be completely destroyed in the eyes of everyone unfortunate enough to be suckered into paying eight bucks to watch this sub-par genre piece. If I hadn't theater jumped after the flick, I'd probably be on my way to kick your ass.
In other news, there's a new Mummy flick comin' out. I'm warning each and every one of you, if I find out that they replaced Rachel Weisz for any reason other than she's too busy reading my rants and fantasizing about the more integral portions of my anatomy, I'm going. To kill. Everyone.
Except Rachel Weisz.
In other news, there's a new Mummy flick comin' out. I'm warning each and every one of you, if I find out that they replaced Rachel Weisz for any reason other than she's too busy reading my rants and fantasizing about the more integral portions of my anatomy, I'm going. To kill. Everyone.
Except Rachel Weisz.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Re: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Please tell me I'm not the only one thinking about the finer points of having sex with Summer Glau's version of the Terminator. I mean, c'mon, they can bleed, they can sweat, they can have bad breath...there's gotta' be something at least resembling a vagina on that thing.
...Sweet Jesus, but I need a hobby...
...Sweet Jesus, but I need a hobby...
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Time to put the brakes on your sex organs, people.
Look, I know my friends and I are all at that age where we start thinking about how warm and fuzzy we'd feel if we settled down and started our own families. It's the curse of getting older, we start worrying about our own genetic progeny, we start entertaining thoughts of how wicked cool our offspring would be. We play mental scenerios of baseball games, birthdays, sex talks and embarassing the shit out of them in front of their first serious significant others.
Sorry to burst your bubble folks, but in case you've forgotten, life sucks. S'true.
There isn't enough food on the planet at this point in time to adequately feed the current population, and at the current rate of knocked up prom dates per capita, it's only slated to get worse. Overpopulation and resource scarcity is an escalating problem, and guess what? It's our fault! Yeah, I know, it's a buzzkill, and having been raised Catholic I'm probably in no place to preach, but humanity's rapid spread across the globe is destroying this planet.
While I'll grant you that after the inevitable death of one of God's most disastrous oversights, more commonly known as the baby boomers, things'll get a little better, it isn't enough. What would be enough is if someone got America and China together, sat them down in the biggest gymnasium in history and instructed our respective cultures on how to use a fucking condom. At least China's trying. Killing babies isn't the coolest thing they've ever done, but they're putting forth an effort, and I respect that. America, on the other hand? America rewards it's populace for fucking like rabbits with free money. Free. Fucking. Money. What kind of incentive is that to pay a little fucking courtesy to the rest of the world? "Y'know, overpopulation is going to result in planet-wide food shortages, and we're not gonna' have enough space for these little bastards to stand and wave their arms around without smacking their neighbors in their scrunched up little faces, but hey, we're fine at the moment. Here's twenty bucks, Miss Legswideopen. The rest is in the mail."
And yes, I know how this is gonna' go over with those of my friends who already have children and think that they're the greatest thing since Nintendo, but y'know something? Every parent on the planet thinks their kid is going to grow up to be a Nobel Peace Prize winner. They're not. In all likelihood, they're gonna' end up just like everyone else; subsisting on frozen pizza and working some stupid, underpaying job, driving like idiots, and generally wasting more oxygen than they're worth.
"But Rem, the sanctity of life, the miracle of childbirth, the first time they burp, baby blue walls with rubber ducky wallpaper and-" shut the fuck up. Children are loud, obnoxious, and smell funny even on the best of days. I refuse to respect any human being as a worthwhile individual until they can wipe their own ass, and by that time they've usually picked up enough jackass habits that I hate them anyway. Long story short, pop the pill, wear the patch, make your skeezy-assed boyfriend double wrap it, I don't care. Just stop multiplying, and stop pretending it's a miracle.
Fuck's sake, you shit all over yourself popping the little bastards out. What's so miraculous about that?
Sorry to burst your bubble folks, but in case you've forgotten, life sucks. S'true.
There isn't enough food on the planet at this point in time to adequately feed the current population, and at the current rate of knocked up prom dates per capita, it's only slated to get worse. Overpopulation and resource scarcity is an escalating problem, and guess what? It's our fault! Yeah, I know, it's a buzzkill, and having been raised Catholic I'm probably in no place to preach, but humanity's rapid spread across the globe is destroying this planet.
While I'll grant you that after the inevitable death of one of God's most disastrous oversights, more commonly known as the baby boomers, things'll get a little better, it isn't enough. What would be enough is if someone got America and China together, sat them down in the biggest gymnasium in history and instructed our respective cultures on how to use a fucking condom. At least China's trying. Killing babies isn't the coolest thing they've ever done, but they're putting forth an effort, and I respect that. America, on the other hand? America rewards it's populace for fucking like rabbits with free money. Free. Fucking. Money. What kind of incentive is that to pay a little fucking courtesy to the rest of the world? "Y'know, overpopulation is going to result in planet-wide food shortages, and we're not gonna' have enough space for these little bastards to stand and wave their arms around without smacking their neighbors in their scrunched up little faces, but hey, we're fine at the moment. Here's twenty bucks, Miss Legswideopen. The rest is in the mail."
And yes, I know how this is gonna' go over with those of my friends who already have children and think that they're the greatest thing since Nintendo, but y'know something? Every parent on the planet thinks their kid is going to grow up to be a Nobel Peace Prize winner. They're not. In all likelihood, they're gonna' end up just like everyone else; subsisting on frozen pizza and working some stupid, underpaying job, driving like idiots, and generally wasting more oxygen than they're worth.
"But Rem, the sanctity of life, the miracle of childbirth, the first time they burp, baby blue walls with rubber ducky wallpaper and-" shut the fuck up. Children are loud, obnoxious, and smell funny even on the best of days. I refuse to respect any human being as a worthwhile individual until they can wipe their own ass, and by that time they've usually picked up enough jackass habits that I hate them anyway. Long story short, pop the pill, wear the patch, make your skeezy-assed boyfriend double wrap it, I don't care. Just stop multiplying, and stop pretending it's a miracle.
Fuck's sake, you shit all over yourself popping the little bastards out. What's so miraculous about that?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Oh, the humanity...no, seriously.
I hate nights like this. Nights when my mind's going in a million different directions at once, gears turning a mile a minute in some desperate attempt to distract me from my own frail mortal bullshit. I've got worries, problems, hopes, fears, desires and things I pray with every fiber of my being that never come to pass, whether I know they will or not.
I'm human, a member of the worst thing to ever happen to Earth since it's creation. Strong in some ways, weak in others, and towing the line between both in most. I brave up, I get scared, and at the end of the day it doesn't really matter which I do more. All the jokes and rantings won't change a damn thing in the long run, no matter how many people think they make me sound like a genius or a prick, depending on who they are and how much shit they had to swallow that day.
See? Perfect example. Yeah, everything above pertained to the same thing, but it was all about as random as Indiana weather.
Indiana. Never thought I'd say, or in this case type, that word and have any sense of longing whatsoever. I miss people there, more than I ever would've thought. Fact is, moving to California wasn't even a knee-jerk reaction. It was just one of those "What If" scenerios that spiraled way the fuck outta' control way too quick. Do I regret it? Hell no. I proved something to myself by coming out here with nothing but a paycheck, some old debts called in, my car and a place to crash. I found a job damn quick, especially by West coast standards. By some minor miracle I managed to attract the positive attention of a few people who, in all honesty, don't know me from Adam, and all that's kept me warm on nights that would otherwise probably have frozen me solid. None of that changes the fact that I bailed on a lot of what I had back East without even knowing it. Same old story, the grass looks greener on the other side of the fence, only when you get there, you realize that the grass on the old side wasn't so bad after all.
I know what would've happened if I'd have stayed, though. I felt it happening, a flippancy that could've turned me into something that I never wanna' be. I don't mind having the mindset of an anarchic criminal, that much is pretty well hardwired into my DNA. The day I'm afraid of is when I finally break the moral compass that seperates being a criminal from being irredeemable.
You'd never know it to look at or listen to me, but redemption's a big part of my daily thought processes. Fact is I've done some rotten things to people in my life, and that keeps me awake a lot more than I'd like to admit. Disregard for the law I can handle; it was written by people who don't have a clue how the world I'm from works. It's disregard for people that I'm afraid of. When my apartment was broken into, it wasn't that my stuff got ganked that bothered me. What bothered me was that someone out there didn't have a rip about whose stuff they ganked. Ya' wanna' hit up some rich fuck's summer house for some extra dosh, be my guest, but don't rip off the lower-middle class working stiff who just wants to come home, jam out on his guitar, play an old beat up PS2 and pretend he's got it better than he does. That's just dick.
More immediately, I ain't scared of jail; I've been around too long and known too many convicts to buy into the media craze that prison's a bunch'a big, burly, tatted-up fags trying to assrape anyone who walks through the door. What's got me wigged out is what it's gonna' mean for my life when I get out. I've got a relatively decent job, I've got a place to live and, more importantly, other people living here who depend on my contributions to maintain their own lives. I go away, I lose my job. I lose my job, we might all lose our place, and that throws all manner of wrenches into the cogs. I can't afford a plane ticket back to Missouri for this shit, and the legal office has me chasin' my own tail tryin' to get this transfer sorted out. Likely, it won't happen, and then my ass'll really be in the fire.
I'm watching everyone around me get into relationships that don't seem as stupid and inconsequential as they used to. Sleeping alone sucks, and they fact that I'm one of the few still doing so sucks even worse. Worst of all, it's got me looking back on past relationships that weren't worth shit like they were the golden days, and that's got me a little pissed at the world in general. Life, thy flavor is bitterness. Also, fuck you.
I miss my brother and his dumbass antics that made me feel like I wasn't the only one afraid to take a chance and fuck up a little. I miss his crazy girlfriend who said I was a junked out car with a bad-ass engine that just needed a little tweaking, after she and her siblings agreed I looked a little like Johnny Depp. I miss my sister, even though we almost never hung out, because I spent most of my life wondering who and how she was and now that I'm two thousand miles away I'm afraid I might never see her again. I miss Will for being obnoxiously right and knowing me better than I know myself, I miss Scott and all his self-deprecating comments and seeming reliance on me to dispute them. I miss that stupid apartment on Main Street that everyone told me kicked ass. I miss Felicia and Penny, and the way they acted like me showing up on their doorstep looking like death warmed over was the best thing that happened to them every time I stopped by. Hell, I even miss my old man a little, even though I'm a little pissed that it took moving across the country to get a phone call out of him.
I miss my old life, no matter how much promise the new one has.
I wanna' go home, I wanna' stay here, I want everything, damn it.
And after all this ranting, I wanna' go to bed.
I'm human, a member of the worst thing to ever happen to Earth since it's creation. Strong in some ways, weak in others, and towing the line between both in most. I brave up, I get scared, and at the end of the day it doesn't really matter which I do more. All the jokes and rantings won't change a damn thing in the long run, no matter how many people think they make me sound like a genius or a prick, depending on who they are and how much shit they had to swallow that day.
See? Perfect example. Yeah, everything above pertained to the same thing, but it was all about as random as Indiana weather.
Indiana. Never thought I'd say, or in this case type, that word and have any sense of longing whatsoever. I miss people there, more than I ever would've thought. Fact is, moving to California wasn't even a knee-jerk reaction. It was just one of those "What If" scenerios that spiraled way the fuck outta' control way too quick. Do I regret it? Hell no. I proved something to myself by coming out here with nothing but a paycheck, some old debts called in, my car and a place to crash. I found a job damn quick, especially by West coast standards. By some minor miracle I managed to attract the positive attention of a few people who, in all honesty, don't know me from Adam, and all that's kept me warm on nights that would otherwise probably have frozen me solid. None of that changes the fact that I bailed on a lot of what I had back East without even knowing it. Same old story, the grass looks greener on the other side of the fence, only when you get there, you realize that the grass on the old side wasn't so bad after all.
I know what would've happened if I'd have stayed, though. I felt it happening, a flippancy that could've turned me into something that I never wanna' be. I don't mind having the mindset of an anarchic criminal, that much is pretty well hardwired into my DNA. The day I'm afraid of is when I finally break the moral compass that seperates being a criminal from being irredeemable.
You'd never know it to look at or listen to me, but redemption's a big part of my daily thought processes. Fact is I've done some rotten things to people in my life, and that keeps me awake a lot more than I'd like to admit. Disregard for the law I can handle; it was written by people who don't have a clue how the world I'm from works. It's disregard for people that I'm afraid of. When my apartment was broken into, it wasn't that my stuff got ganked that bothered me. What bothered me was that someone out there didn't have a rip about whose stuff they ganked. Ya' wanna' hit up some rich fuck's summer house for some extra dosh, be my guest, but don't rip off the lower-middle class working stiff who just wants to come home, jam out on his guitar, play an old beat up PS2 and pretend he's got it better than he does. That's just dick.
More immediately, I ain't scared of jail; I've been around too long and known too many convicts to buy into the media craze that prison's a bunch'a big, burly, tatted-up fags trying to assrape anyone who walks through the door. What's got me wigged out is what it's gonna' mean for my life when I get out. I've got a relatively decent job, I've got a place to live and, more importantly, other people living here who depend on my contributions to maintain their own lives. I go away, I lose my job. I lose my job, we might all lose our place, and that throws all manner of wrenches into the cogs. I can't afford a plane ticket back to Missouri for this shit, and the legal office has me chasin' my own tail tryin' to get this transfer sorted out. Likely, it won't happen, and then my ass'll really be in the fire.
I'm watching everyone around me get into relationships that don't seem as stupid and inconsequential as they used to. Sleeping alone sucks, and they fact that I'm one of the few still doing so sucks even worse. Worst of all, it's got me looking back on past relationships that weren't worth shit like they were the golden days, and that's got me a little pissed at the world in general. Life, thy flavor is bitterness. Also, fuck you.
I miss my brother and his dumbass antics that made me feel like I wasn't the only one afraid to take a chance and fuck up a little. I miss his crazy girlfriend who said I was a junked out car with a bad-ass engine that just needed a little tweaking, after she and her siblings agreed I looked a little like Johnny Depp. I miss my sister, even though we almost never hung out, because I spent most of my life wondering who and how she was and now that I'm two thousand miles away I'm afraid I might never see her again. I miss Will for being obnoxiously right and knowing me better than I know myself, I miss Scott and all his self-deprecating comments and seeming reliance on me to dispute them. I miss that stupid apartment on Main Street that everyone told me kicked ass. I miss Felicia and Penny, and the way they acted like me showing up on their doorstep looking like death warmed over was the best thing that happened to them every time I stopped by. Hell, I even miss my old man a little, even though I'm a little pissed that it took moving across the country to get a phone call out of him.
I miss my old life, no matter how much promise the new one has.
I wanna' go home, I wanna' stay here, I want everything, damn it.
And after all this ranting, I wanna' go to bed.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Now you, yes, you, can be a hero just like me!
Ladies and gentlemen, this is Drew. Drew, unlike the bastard who's writing this bulletin, is good people. Drew, not unlike the bastard who's writing this bulletin, has friends who occasionally are absent-minded and forget things.
Like his birthday.
Now, I'm not going to point out all of the times that I've made you laugh, helped you through some sort of crisis or otherwise gone out of my way to make your lives a bit more jolly. I'm not going to remind you how much it sucks to be forgotten on a day that, really, should be all about you. I'm not even going to guilt you into doing something nice by pointing out that this ten kinds of kick-ass and stand up guy's already had a hard time of things and deserves a smile more than most of the people walking this cursed planet. All I'm going to do is ask that you head on over to Drew's MySpace and wish him a belated happy birthday. Y'know, because it's the kind of thingGod Jesus I would do.
And Mike Ness.
Like his birthday.
Now, I'm not going to point out all of the times that I've made you laugh, helped you through some sort of crisis or otherwise gone out of my way to make your lives a bit more jolly. I'm not going to remind you how much it sucks to be forgotten on a day that, really, should be all about you. I'm not even going to guilt you into doing something nice by pointing out that this ten kinds of kick-ass and stand up guy's already had a hard time of things and deserves a smile more than most of the people walking this cursed planet. All I'm going to do is ask that you head on over to Drew's MySpace and wish him a belated happy birthday. Y'know, because it's the kind of thing
And Mike Ness.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Apparently no one told you...
...But sex is a good time. No shit (and feel free to take that in more than one context, ya’ miserable deviants). Yep, fucking is pretty much the only reason that most men even bother getting out of bed in the morning. You could say that they wake up in order to go to work, but that’s just part of the trip. See, men work to support themselves, and having a place is part of supporting one’s self. Why? So we have somewhere to bring back the chicks who bought into our attempts at being charming and, thusly, plan to spread their legs while we grunt and sweat all over them for an hour or two.
Unfortunately, there are a great many issues that women, for whatever reason, seem to think merit not having sex. For those in a hurry, I’ll sum up this entire blog in one very simple statement: Unless your vagina is resembles some sort of hideous B-movie space alien, it’s a safe bet that we still wanna’ stick and stir you. For those of you who aren’t in a hurry, proceed below for...
Rem’s List Of Stupid Things Women Overreact To In The Bedroom
1. You forgot to shave your legs that day. So you forgot to pick up a new pack of Lady Bics on your way home from work last night and got a little stubbly. It’s not the end of the world. Honestly, unless you’re some kind of hippie scumcunt who found money under your pillow for a baby tooth more recently than you trimmed up, we don’t care.
2. You don’t think it’ll be special. Sex isn’t special. It isn’t some magic pagan ritual signifying the union of two hearts that beat only for each other, and honestly, every time you call it ’making love’, the world gets a little more gay. Make what? No, you fuck, and then the room smells weird because all you really made was a mess. I’ve used that line once before in my blogs, I know, but it fits. Put away the romance book, close your eyes, I’ll get a towel ready and we can get to work.
3. You have to be up early tomorrow. Ladies, there is absolutely no reason at all why this sentence shouldn’t be the best thing any man can hope to here. Sex isn’t always a long process. God blessed us with The Quickie for a reason; wham, bam, thank you ma’am, no I’m not cuddling because you’re not the only one who has to be up early tomorrow. Go to sleep.
4. You think we won’t respect you. Personally, I respect someone who doesn’t deny herself a good time a hell of a lot more than someone who turns it down for fear of some non-existent stigma that a woman who sleeps with a friend/a boyfriend/a husband/me is a sloptwat. Remember, no one likes a prude; we just pretend to until you put out and we mount our cumsoaked sheets on the wall as a tribute to our unerring tolerance for puritanical bullshit in the face of potential naked feel-good happy time.
5. You have morning breath. This is another one of those "We don’t give a shit" situations. Honestly, if you’re that concerned about it, keep a box of Tic Tacs by the bed and let’s start the day out right, damn it!
6. You have a headache. Well, my nad ache is worse, I guarantee it.
7. You’re on your period. Are you fucking kidding me? The other three and a half weeks of the month we swap spit, semen, sweat and God only knows how many germs in more capacities than even I’m comfortable thinking about, and you’re worried about a little blood getting on the sheets? Every time I hear this I wonder if there’s a way to tell someone to stop being a fucktard without hurting my chances of getting my cock wet. Seriously, have a little common sense.
8. You’re afraid the neighbors will hear. That’s funny, because I’m hoping the neighbors’ll here. The wife’s kind’a hot, and I’ve got a reputation to think about.
9. You’re afraid the children will hear. Though not something I’ve experienced personally due to the fact that all the single mothers I’ve had sex with came to my place and left their children with someone else, it does come up. Not to contaminate you with that nasty logic stuff, but it didn’t seem to bother you when you were horny and your partner’s cock was probably a quarter’s width away from little Timmy’s face as he was nestled snugly in your womb. Seriously, which do you think is worse: hearing the headboard hit the wall a few times, or staring in wide-eyed terror as your first introduction to the outside world keeps trying to hit you in the forehead and, upon failure, spits at you and leaves?
10. You’re still angry over an earlier dispute. Look, I understand grudges better than anyone, but what the hell? What’s the point in both of us being miserable because I didn’t like the toilet seat cover you thought made the bathroom so much prettier? Besides, when you get right down to it, when the hell else are you going to get a free pass to do so much damage? Have you ever once, in your entire life, heard a man complain because you left too many claw marks on his back? It’s the perfect solution to the domestic confrontation! You get to draw blood, I get to grudge fuck you, and both of us get our rocks off and feel better afterward.
In closing, I have absolutely nothing more to say. Good night, good luck, and good grief, put out a little more often!
Unfortunately, there are a great many issues that women, for whatever reason, seem to think merit not having sex. For those in a hurry, I’ll sum up this entire blog in one very simple statement: Unless your vagina is resembles some sort of hideous B-movie space alien, it’s a safe bet that we still wanna’ stick and stir you. For those of you who aren’t in a hurry, proceed below for...
Rem’s List Of Stupid Things Women Overreact To In The Bedroom
1. You forgot to shave your legs that day. So you forgot to pick up a new pack of Lady Bics on your way home from work last night and got a little stubbly. It’s not the end of the world. Honestly, unless you’re some kind of hippie scumcunt who found money under your pillow for a baby tooth more recently than you trimmed up, we don’t care.
2. You don’t think it’ll be special. Sex isn’t special. It isn’t some magic pagan ritual signifying the union of two hearts that beat only for each other, and honestly, every time you call it ’making love’, the world gets a little more gay. Make what? No, you fuck, and then the room smells weird because all you really made was a mess. I’ve used that line once before in my blogs, I know, but it fits. Put away the romance book, close your eyes, I’ll get a towel ready and we can get to work.
3. You have to be up early tomorrow. Ladies, there is absolutely no reason at all why this sentence shouldn’t be the best thing any man can hope to here. Sex isn’t always a long process. God blessed us with The Quickie for a reason; wham, bam, thank you ma’am, no I’m not cuddling because you’re not the only one who has to be up early tomorrow. Go to sleep.
4. You think we won’t respect you. Personally, I respect someone who doesn’t deny herself a good time a hell of a lot more than someone who turns it down for fear of some non-existent stigma that a woman who sleeps with a friend/a boyfriend/a husband/me is a sloptwat. Remember, no one likes a prude; we just pretend to until you put out and we mount our cumsoaked sheets on the wall as a tribute to our unerring tolerance for puritanical bullshit in the face of potential naked feel-good happy time.
5. You have morning breath. This is another one of those "We don’t give a shit" situations. Honestly, if you’re that concerned about it, keep a box of Tic Tacs by the bed and let’s start the day out right, damn it!
6. You have a headache. Well, my nad ache is worse, I guarantee it.
7. You’re on your period. Are you fucking kidding me? The other three and a half weeks of the month we swap spit, semen, sweat and God only knows how many germs in more capacities than even I’m comfortable thinking about, and you’re worried about a little blood getting on the sheets? Every time I hear this I wonder if there’s a way to tell someone to stop being a fucktard without hurting my chances of getting my cock wet. Seriously, have a little common sense.
8. You’re afraid the neighbors will hear. That’s funny, because I’m hoping the neighbors’ll here. The wife’s kind’a hot, and I’ve got a reputation to think about.
9. You’re afraid the children will hear. Though not something I’ve experienced personally due to the fact that all the single mothers I’ve had sex with came to my place and left their children with someone else, it does come up. Not to contaminate you with that nasty logic stuff, but it didn’t seem to bother you when you were horny and your partner’s cock was probably a quarter’s width away from little Timmy’s face as he was nestled snugly in your womb. Seriously, which do you think is worse: hearing the headboard hit the wall a few times, or staring in wide-eyed terror as your first introduction to the outside world keeps trying to hit you in the forehead and, upon failure, spits at you and leaves?
10. You’re still angry over an earlier dispute. Look, I understand grudges better than anyone, but what the hell? What’s the point in both of us being miserable because I didn’t like the toilet seat cover you thought made the bathroom so much prettier? Besides, when you get right down to it, when the hell else are you going to get a free pass to do so much damage? Have you ever once, in your entire life, heard a man complain because you left too many claw marks on his back? It’s the perfect solution to the domestic confrontation! You get to draw blood, I get to grudge fuck you, and both of us get our rocks off and feel better afterward.
In closing, I have absolutely nothing more to say. Good night, good luck, and good grief, put out a little more often!
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I have a theory...
...Regarding my love life and the attendant disasters thereunto. While at one time I assumed that there was just something fundamentally wrong with me, I’ve since learned otherwise.
It’s your fault, you rotten bastards.
No, honestly. Every time the proverbial shit hits the fan as a result of my developing an interest in someone or vice versa, one of you shitheads ends up either A) finding a metaphorical long-term parking space for your genitals, B) having some life-altering epiphany that leads to finding a metaphorical long-term parking space for your genitals, or C) fucking someone so far out of your league that, were I not so miserable, I’d be tempted to give a standing ovation while screaming "Grand Slam!" at maximum volume.
Seriously, enough with stealing my love karma, folks. I ain’t gettin’ any younger.
It’s your fault, you rotten bastards.
No, honestly. Every time the proverbial shit hits the fan as a result of my developing an interest in someone or vice versa, one of you shitheads ends up either A) finding a metaphorical long-term parking space for your genitals, B) having some life-altering epiphany that leads to finding a metaphorical long-term parking space for your genitals, or C) fucking someone so far out of your league that, were I not so miserable, I’d be tempted to give a standing ovation while screaming "Grand Slam!" at maximum volume.
Seriously, enough with stealing my love karma, folks. I ain’t gettin’ any younger.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Then again...
I know there was that whole jumpin’ the gun and assuming the worst about yet another woman who seemed genuinely interested in me thing earlier, thus dealing yet another blow to the possibility of ever bridging the gap between genders and ending the battle of the sexes once and for all, but y’know somethin’? It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia is a damn good show. I don’t think I’ve stopped laughing since I started watching it on Veoh two hours ago. Yup. All’s well again. Thanks, fictional television situation comedy!
...I am so gonna’ rot in Hell.
...I am so gonna’ rot in Hell.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Okay, which one of you chuckleheads brought the voodoo doll?
So here’s a list of everything that’s happened to me today.
-Found out one of my grandmothers is dying.
-Found out I have a court date after all.
-Found out my brother is in jail. Again.
-Found out I can’t work at Circle K for at least a month because of a fucking computer error.
-Found out I got the job at Wal-Mart (whether this is good or bad I’m still trying to determine).
-Found out that if the two aforementioned jobs fall through, pretty much the only thing I’ll be able to do is work at Subway.
Oh, the best part? I’m pretty sure I got blown off. Again.
Psst, hey life. Fuck you.
-Found out one of my grandmothers is dying.
-Found out I have a court date after all.
-Found out my brother is in jail. Again.
-Found out I can’t work at Circle K for at least a month because of a fucking computer error.
-Found out I got the job at Wal-Mart (whether this is good or bad I’m still trying to determine).
-Found out that if the two aforementioned jobs fall through, pretty much the only thing I’ll be able to do is work at Subway.
Oh, the best part? I’m pretty sure I got blown off. Again.
Psst, hey life. Fuck you.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Damn it, but I'm getting old...
Note: This blog has been obviously seamlessly edited to reflect certain changes in the state of things, as well as my m4d 1337 ever-increasing proficiency with HTML.
...And have thus begun to ponder the question that I’m convinced is what leads people into that ulcerated, xanax-dependent period of their lives called adulthood. Once upon a time, I was content to wake and bake, drop a cinnamon raisen begal into the toaster, slap a few dime-store slices of turkey on it, reach for my keys...and realize I had nothing better to do than plant my skinny ass on the couch and watch season 1 of Invader Zim on the idiot box because, let’s face it, nothing’s on TV at 2:00 PM anymore.
What now?
Well, in the immediate sense, now I feel like I’m incomplete because I don’t have a job. I’ve been psychologically kicking the shit out of myself because I’ve been in southern California for a whoppin’ week and a half and I’ve only had four interviews, and only have two scheduled for this week. What the fuck happened to me? Well, the answer’s fairly obvious. Scroll up if you’re too dense to figure it out. I grew up, and boy, does it suck. On the plus side, there’s all of the nifty shit that comes with being an adult.
Apparently, friends don’t set you up on dates, you don’t necessarily graduate from college before getting pegged with a lame-ass drug charge that disqualifies you for financial aid, and your cars still go through the same bullshit problems they did when you were fresh into eighteen. There are leases, electric bills, overdraft fees, credit card statements and permanent records (they do exist, only mine’s called a rap sheet). There are piss tests at every decent job to be had which, ironically, aren’t that common. There are bad dates in the rare event you can take enough time away from worrying your ass off about everything else to actually have one. There are friends you still think about but, when you run into them on the street, haven’t the foggiest notion who you are and if you’re lucky, the feeling’s mutual. Dental plans you dream about but can’t land a good enough job to pay for, medical insurance that doesn’t cover the damage of the assraping they deal you on a monthly basis, and social security that’s taken out of your check even though you’ll likely never see a dime of it because the assholes you didn’t bother voting for don’t give a dead rat’s testical about you. Cleaning the gutters, getting by, looking ahe--
Sorry, Irvine Welsh infected my brain with an overwhelming fear of getting older long before life did. Moving on...
Obviously, I’ve been overanalyzing the hell out of my existence, and so far the only thing I’ve got going for me is that I made it to California and have a marginal chance of being able to survive out here. Plus. My car is still in one piece after the trip. Plus. I’ve managed to party with a group without pissing every last one of them off (even though one of them made a snide comment about my shoes). Plus (minus the bitch who was one hundred percent all style and no substance). There’s a few people who’ve been blowing up my phone ever since I got out, namely Jenny, Scott and Stick. Even got a phone call from Will, and that never happens. Plus. Theicing on the cake only indication that I'm still, in fact, living my own life as opposed to having taken over someone else's is that this chick got ahold of me who, I shit you not, may almost have as many geeky interests as I do, despite being the single most adorable female I’ve ever seen a bitch. Definate plus standard operating procedure.
I guess what I’m trying to get at is that getting older is always going to suck, no matter who you are. You could have a claim on every dollar in America, and getting on in years is still going to eat ass. There is, however, solace to be found in that even though aging sucks, life doesn’t necessarily have to. You can piss away the idea of a career, live in a low-class part of town, drive a car that’s almost as old as you are, and still find a few smiles here and there.
No matter who you are, what you do, who you know or don’t know, if you play your cards right, you can still make it and have time at the end of the day to curl up next to someone of your gender of choice, and pass out secure in the knowledge that the sun will more than likely rise tomorrow, and so will you.
Keep your chin up, people. Phoenix out.
...And have thus begun to ponder the question that I’m convinced is what leads people into that ulcerated, xanax-dependent period of their lives called adulthood. Once upon a time, I was content to wake and bake, drop a cinnamon raisen begal into the toaster, slap a few dime-store slices of turkey on it, reach for my keys...and realize I had nothing better to do than plant my skinny ass on the couch and watch season 1 of Invader Zim on the idiot box because, let’s face it, nothing’s on TV at 2:00 PM anymore.
What now?
Well, in the immediate sense, now I feel like I’m incomplete because I don’t have a job. I’ve been psychologically kicking the shit out of myself because I’ve been in southern California for a whoppin’ week and a half and I’ve only had four interviews, and only have two scheduled for this week. What the fuck happened to me? Well, the answer’s fairly obvious. Scroll up if you’re too dense to figure it out. I grew up, and boy, does it suck. On the plus side, there’s all of the nifty shit that comes with being an adult.
Apparently, friends don’t set you up on dates, you don’t necessarily graduate from college before getting pegged with a lame-ass drug charge that disqualifies you for financial aid, and your cars still go through the same bullshit problems they did when you were fresh into eighteen. There are leases, electric bills, overdraft fees, credit card statements and permanent records (they do exist, only mine’s called a rap sheet). There are piss tests at every decent job to be had which, ironically, aren’t that common. There are bad dates in the rare event you can take enough time away from worrying your ass off about everything else to actually have one. There are friends you still think about but, when you run into them on the street, haven’t the foggiest notion who you are and if you’re lucky, the feeling’s mutual. Dental plans you dream about but can’t land a good enough job to pay for, medical insurance that doesn’t cover the damage of the assraping they deal you on a monthly basis, and social security that’s taken out of your check even though you’ll likely never see a dime of it because the assholes you didn’t bother voting for don’t give a dead rat’s testical about you. Cleaning the gutters, getting by, looking ahe--
Sorry, Irvine Welsh infected my brain with an overwhelming fear of getting older long before life did. Moving on...
Obviously, I’ve been overanalyzing the hell out of my existence, and so far the only thing I’ve got going for me is that I made it to California and have a marginal chance of being able to survive out here. Plus. My car is still in one piece after the trip. Plus. I’ve managed to party with a group without pissing every last one of them off (even though one of them made a snide comment about my shoes). Plus (minus the bitch who was one hundred percent all style and no substance). There’s a few people who’ve been blowing up my phone ever since I got out, namely Jenny, Scott and Stick. Even got a phone call from Will, and that never happens. Plus. The
I guess what I’m trying to get at is that getting older is always going to suck, no matter who you are. You could have a claim on every dollar in America, and getting on in years is still going to eat ass. There is, however, solace to be found in that even though aging sucks, life doesn’t necessarily have to. You can piss away the idea of a career, live in a low-class part of town, drive a car that’s almost as old as you are, and still find a few smiles here and there.
No matter who you are, what you do, who you know or don’t know, if you play your cards right, you can still make it and have time at the end of the day to curl up next to someone of your gender of choice, and pass out secure in the knowledge that the sun will more than likely rise tomorrow, and so will you.
Keep your chin up, people. Phoenix out.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
The world abso-fucking-lutely did NOT need...
...Another Harold and Kumar movie. Honestly, if this turns into another shitty trilogy, I’m taking over the White House and declaring eugenics as a national policy.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Because the copyright's free.
Started out hard, born screamin' loud
I was a punk rock kid 'cause I loved the sound
Never cared too much for the quiet life
There's a world out there, wonders abound
A poor Indiana boy with a lust for more
Sight's on Vista, California, walked out the door
Thinkin' now that that I'm here, never look back
Don't matter if I hit it big, or drunk, passed out on the floor
(Chorus 1)
They say it's hard to make it out here
Fifty a week, just gettin' by
And y'know I miss my Indy people
Sometimes so bad I think I might just die
But then I look up at the Cali sun
Look side to side, left to right
Smile to ear to ear, got people here
I know it'll be alright
Wake up at 4AM, two hours of sleep
It's a mad world, I'm in so deep
Drug charge over my head, gotta' keep it clean
Gotta' P.O., gets his rocks off bein' a creep
Pay my dues and a pack of smokes
Hope whatever's left gets me to the show
A couple smilin' faces, hit the streets and roam
Trouble out here, get clear, no worries, I'll make it home
(Chorus 2)
It ain't so hard to make it out here
Fifty a week, it flies right by
Still miss my Indiana people
Got love that'll never die
'Cause I got that Cali sun
Got my crew on my left and right
Smile ear to ear, I made it here
I know it'll be alright
(Chorus 2)
Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know I'm gonna' be just fine
I was a punk rock kid 'cause I loved the sound
Never cared too much for the quiet life
There's a world out there, wonders abound
A poor Indiana boy with a lust for more
Sight's on Vista, California, walked out the door
Thinkin' now that that I'm here, never look back
Don't matter if I hit it big, or drunk, passed out on the floor
(Chorus 1)
They say it's hard to make it out here
Fifty a week, just gettin' by
And y'know I miss my Indy people
Sometimes so bad I think I might just die
But then I look up at the Cali sun
Look side to side, left to right
Smile to ear to ear, got people here
I know it'll be alright
Wake up at 4AM, two hours of sleep
It's a mad world, I'm in so deep
Drug charge over my head, gotta' keep it clean
Gotta' P.O., gets his rocks off bein' a creep
Pay my dues and a pack of smokes
Hope whatever's left gets me to the show
A couple smilin' faces, hit the streets and roam
Trouble out here, get clear, no worries, I'll make it home
(Chorus 2)
It ain't so hard to make it out here
Fifty a week, it flies right by
Still miss my Indiana people
Got love that'll never die
'Cause I got that Cali sun
Got my crew on my left and right
Smile ear to ear, I made it here
I know it'll be alright
(Chorus 2)
Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know I'm gonna' be just fine
Monday, March 10, 2008
I Love You (Please Send Money)
So I'm in California, relatively no worse for the wear. It's fuckin' beautiful out here, if a little warm. The summer's gonna' be interesting, given my tendency toward not drinking water.
First and foremost, a lesson in irony. Hopeful youth leaves Indiana and all the people he loves there behind with a clean record, and arrives in California with a speeding ticket and pending U.S. District Court charge, the specifics of which I'm omitting for the sake of someone close to me. Granted, class A misdemeanors rarely culminate in anything but probation and fines, but federal involvement has got me massively spooked. After all, Uncle Sam is sneaky; who knows what he's packin' in those star-spangled shorts?
Legal difficulties aside, I've got an interview at a Starbucks tomorrow, a mental image that my brain flat refuses to form. Remmy Phoenix working at Starbucks. Can you say "Large, Tall or Vente, you pretentious yuppie fuck?", boys and girls? Because I imagine we'll find out soon enough if I can. Nah, it actually seems like a pretty decent job, as far as service gigs go. Now if someone would be so kind as to tell me exactly what the fuck a scone is, I think I'll be set.
Last, I'm broke. The speeding ticket cleaned out what little I hadn't spent on food, cigarettes, gas, and a bullet bracer that I had no one to tell me not to buy (shiny things be damned). It's cool, though; I'm pretty sure I'm still getting my disbursement from Ivy Tech. If that's the case, I'll be alright for at least a month or so. I guess the slim and skinny of it is that I'm alive, I'm not sleeping in my car, and most of all, I'm here in SoCal where I've dreamed of living since I was old enough to figure out that Pennywise kicks ass. Love at everyone who blew up my phone during the trip, and I still refuse to apologize for the message. I had to keep ya' a little worried, after all. Be good, folks. Phoenix out.
First and foremost, a lesson in irony. Hopeful youth leaves Indiana and all the people he loves there behind with a clean record, and arrives in California with a speeding ticket and pending U.S. District Court charge, the specifics of which I'm omitting for the sake of someone close to me. Granted, class A misdemeanors rarely culminate in anything but probation and fines, but federal involvement has got me massively spooked. After all, Uncle Sam is sneaky; who knows what he's packin' in those star-spangled shorts?
Legal difficulties aside, I've got an interview at a Starbucks tomorrow, a mental image that my brain flat refuses to form. Remmy Phoenix working at Starbucks. Can you say "Large, Tall or Vente, you pretentious yuppie fuck?", boys and girls? Because I imagine we'll find out soon enough if I can. Nah, it actually seems like a pretty decent job, as far as service gigs go. Now if someone would be so kind as to tell me exactly what the fuck a scone is, I think I'll be set.
Last, I'm broke. The speeding ticket cleaned out what little I hadn't spent on food, cigarettes, gas, and a bullet bracer that I had no one to tell me not to buy (shiny things be damned). It's cool, though; I'm pretty sure I'm still getting my disbursement from Ivy Tech. If that's the case, I'll be alright for at least a month or so. I guess the slim and skinny of it is that I'm alive, I'm not sleeping in my car, and most of all, I'm here in SoCal where I've dreamed of living since I was old enough to figure out that Pennywise kicks ass. Love at everyone who blew up my phone during the trip, and I still refuse to apologize for the message. I had to keep ya' a little worried, after all. Be good, folks. Phoenix out.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Indications that Valentine's Day is way overdue for cancellation.
1. The ratio of disgruntled, near-homicidal bitter assholes to happy couples narrows and, eventually, the former surpasses the latter in number.
2. The only times you've managed to have sex on February 14th are when you found an ex-girlfriend who was just as pissed off at the opposite sex as you were.
3. The suicide rate in mid-February actually surpasses that of the Holiday Season.
4. Every time you see someone kiss their significant other, a piece of your soul dies and is replaced by the compulsion to stockpile ammunition and weapons in preparation for what you refer to only as "The Final Solution."
5. You're so depressed about the stupid pseudo-holiday that you can't even work up the desire to jerk off to Internet porn on one of the few nights that your roommate isn't home.
6. You scour Limewire or a similar program looking for songs titled "Valentine's Day Sucks", or something similar.
7. Your idea of a screamin' fine time is, instead of trying to sleep with one of your ex-girlfriends, taking one somewhere public and taking turns imagining new and exciting ways for random couples to break up.
8. The aforementioned idea is met with total silence, because Jess is a buzzkill.
9. You wake up due to a feeling of disorientation and dread that you can describe only as "a disturbance in the Force".
10. The sight of anything with a vagina and a pulse is enough to inspire yet another anti-Valentine blog, which has become something of an annual tradition in and of itself.
11. You start wondering what, or who, that chick who works at the gas station you always stop at for cigarettes is doing to celebrate.
12. You're actually grateful that you have class at 9:00 AM the next day, because it gives you an excuse to stay the fuck home and go to sleep.
13. You realize, with no small amount of satisfaction, that most people have to work the next day and will thus be unable to enjoy the hours upon hours of semi-drunken sexcapades that they had originally hoped for. Pricks.
14. You begin imagining ways to foil the attempts at coital union of those who don't have to be at work Friday morning.
15. You realize that everything you've laid out for the whole world to read is probably part of the reason that no one can stand your sorry ass, be it in a romantic or platonic setting, and decide to simply give up and go to bed.
2. The only times you've managed to have sex on February 14th are when you found an ex-girlfriend who was just as pissed off at the opposite sex as you were.
3. The suicide rate in mid-February actually surpasses that of the Holiday Season.
4. Every time you see someone kiss their significant other, a piece of your soul dies and is replaced by the compulsion to stockpile ammunition and weapons in preparation for what you refer to only as "The Final Solution."
5. You're so depressed about the stupid pseudo-holiday that you can't even work up the desire to jerk off to Internet porn on one of the few nights that your roommate isn't home.
6. You scour Limewire or a similar program looking for songs titled "Valentine's Day Sucks", or something similar.
7. Your idea of a screamin' fine time is, instead of trying to sleep with one of your ex-girlfriends, taking one somewhere public and taking turns imagining new and exciting ways for random couples to break up.
8. The aforementioned idea is met with total silence, because Jess is a buzzkill.
9. You wake up due to a feeling of disorientation and dread that you can describe only as "a disturbance in the Force".
10. The sight of anything with a vagina and a pulse is enough to inspire yet another anti-Valentine blog, which has become something of an annual tradition in and of itself.
11. You start wondering what, or who, that chick who works at the gas station you always stop at for cigarettes is doing to celebrate.
12. You're actually grateful that you have class at 9:00 AM the next day, because it gives you an excuse to stay the fuck home and go to sleep.
13. You realize, with no small amount of satisfaction, that most people have to work the next day and will thus be unable to enjoy the hours upon hours of semi-drunken sexcapades that they had originally hoped for. Pricks.
14. You begin imagining ways to foil the attempts at coital union of those who don't have to be at work Friday morning.
15. You realize that everything you've laid out for the whole world to read is probably part of the reason that no one can stand your sorry ass, be it in a romantic or platonic setting, and decide to simply give up and go to bed.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Stop taking advantage of my vices, Interplay!
Dear Video Game Industry,
You are bastards.
Fucking. Bastards.
Dirty, rotten, inbred bastards.
Now that we've gotten that out of the w-
Bastards!
Okay, I'm done wasting space. I promise. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Though I am loathe to admit it due to your inevitable assumption that I am an overweight mid-thirties virgin living in my parents basement, I am a gamer. Thus, I am also a user of certain substances that I shall refrain from specifying.
There. Stereotype away.
You know that the correlation between substance usage and video games is undeniable. Yet, instead of simply leaving things the way they are, you choose to exploit this. This has lead to countless hours of sleep lost, due in large part to one of your more diabolical gimmicks..."Are You Sure You Want To Quit?"
Once more, just for the record, you're all fucking bastards.
Three hours! Three! Fucking! Hours! I'd decided I wanted to stop playing at 12:30, and three! Fucking! Hours! Later! I finally made it past that fucking life-sucking pop-up that springs into action like a cranked out cheetah every time you try to escape from it's previous assault on your self-assurance.
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" Well, uhm, yeah...I mean, no, but I need to go to bed because I have work in the morning...but...well...I guess another fifteen minutes wouldn't hurt...twenty, tops.
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" Totally, totally. It's getting way too late. I was supposed to study tonight...but...
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" Ah, hell, the rubber tube's still hanging there from last time...
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" Leave me the hell alone, you sick fuck!"
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" ...*BLAM!*
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" *...drip...drip...drip...*
Okay, okay, I went a little over the line, but screaming fuck, Interplay, why do you do this to us? We forgave you for Brotherhood Of Steel and Tactics, we're psyched about Fallout 3, keep this shit out! You're destroying lives here, people. Do what's right, not what's best for your bottom line.
Sincerely,
Remiel Enduro Phoenix
You are bastards.
Fucking. Bastards.
Dirty, rotten, inbred bastards.
Now that we've gotten that out of the w-
Bastards!
Okay, I'm done wasting space. I promise. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Though I am loathe to admit it due to your inevitable assumption that I am an overweight mid-thirties virgin living in my parents basement, I am a gamer. Thus, I am also a user of certain substances that I shall refrain from specifying.
There. Stereotype away.
You know that the correlation between substance usage and video games is undeniable. Yet, instead of simply leaving things the way they are, you choose to exploit this. This has lead to countless hours of sleep lost, due in large part to one of your more diabolical gimmicks..."Are You Sure You Want To Quit?"
Once more, just for the record, you're all fucking bastards.
Three hours! Three! Fucking! Hours! I'd decided I wanted to stop playing at 12:30, and three! Fucking! Hours! Later! I finally made it past that fucking life-sucking pop-up that springs into action like a cranked out cheetah every time you try to escape from it's previous assault on your self-assurance.
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" Well, uhm, yeah...I mean, no, but I need to go to bed because I have work in the morning...but...well...I guess another fifteen minutes wouldn't hurt...twenty, tops.
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" Totally, totally. It's getting way too late. I was supposed to study tonight...but...
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" Ah, hell, the rubber tube's still hanging there from last time...
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" Leave me the hell alone, you sick fuck!"
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" ...*BLAM!*
"Are You Sure You Want To Quit?" *...drip...drip...drip...*
Okay, okay, I went a little over the line, but screaming fuck, Interplay, why do you do this to us? We forgave you for Brotherhood Of Steel and Tactics, we're psyched about Fallout 3, keep this shit out! You're destroying lives here, people. Do what's right, not what's best for your bottom line.
Sincerely,
Remiel Enduro Phoenix
Friday, February 8, 2008
Velentine's Day is still stupid. I promise.
Scott's picking out candy hearts for Susie.
Picking.
Them.
Out.
As in sorting through a box to form the best possible message.
Sober.
You people make me ill.
Picking.
Them.
Out.
As in sorting through a box to form the best possible message.
Sober.
You people make me ill.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
For the love of all that's Holy...
People, I know I post one of these about, what, every six months, but please, please, screaming fucking please stop posting mindless bulletins on MySpace. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. My page says there's over a million people in my network and I'm bettin' you're in there somewhere. It's fucking infuriating the way people will buy into anything. Stop it. I've gone so far as to compile a list of bogus gimmicks, just in case you get too stoned and need a reference.
1. Fuck's sake, Tom makes more money on MySpace than everyone else in your network will ever make combined. That said, he's never going to start charging for MySpace, close MySpace, or otherwise alter MySpace's availability to every broke ass Tom, Dick and Harry on the planet. If you see a bulletin supposedly by Tom, e-mail the stupid motherfucker who posted it last and tell them that the best part of them obviously didn't make it all the way to the egg. Rest assured, I'll do the same for you.
2. You're never going to know who visits your profile. I promise. You're just going to have to keep dilluding yourself into believing that people flock to your page to marvel at it's ridiculously high level of awesome, and occasionally touch themselves to. Trust me, if there really was a counter out there, and you were so pathetic that you cared enough to risk looking like a dumbass by reposting the bullshit, and you were subjected to the horrible truth that no one has checked your page since you begged them to via e-mail, you'd probably kill yourself.
Oops.
3. Those inhabiting the Ether have abso-fucking-lutely no interest in what you do on your MySpace. That said, if you repost anything that threatens you with the imminent arrival of some trumped-up urban legend demon who will kill you, rape you and eat you (and if you're lucky, in that order) if you don't repost in seven hundred and seventy seven seconds, it's a safe bet that you were a crack baby. I know of no other substance under no other circumstances that could make someone that retarded.
4. I won't say that there's no one who cares about your new pictures. I, however, am one of the people who don't. Those who do have likely subscribed to you anyway (more on this later, you bastards) and can see plainly when you add fifty-seven face shots that you tried so, so hard to make look like you didn't take them yourself because you're a fucking narcisist. In short, the three people who actually give a rat fuck about seeing your face from ten different angles will figure it out. Stop bugging me with it.
5. I brought up subscriptions earlier, and said I would return to it. People. Honestly. What the hell kind of non-stop minisode adventures are you going on that you have to change your page fifteen times a day? What the hell is wrong with you? I'll change my status a couple times, that's two for those of you who didn't know that, in a month. Tops. Sure, I work a lot, but so does the rest of the world. If you have nothing better to do than change your profile information every time the last two braincells you have left bump into one another and form a thought, you don't need a computer. You need a shrink.
6. Granted, there are a lotta' people on MySpace, but Osama bin Laden isn't one of them. Enough with the "Stop This Terrorist Group!" bulletins. Back when I saw it for the first time in 2005, and tried to look up the group so I could see what the qualifications were for joining just 'cause my curiosity makes me a freak like that, they didn't exist. Guess what? They still don't. Go have a cookie and wave a flag you callow, easily manipulated fucks.
These are merely guidelines. There are all manner of lame-ass examples I could give, and all of them are just as annoying to those of us intelligent enough to recognize shit before we spread it, but I don't really feel like holding your hand on the way to becoming a more intelligent person. Or, at the very least, halting the spread of material that makes people less intelligent. Have a pleasant day, though may you rot in hell tomorrow and for eternity, morons.
1. Fuck's sake, Tom makes more money on MySpace than everyone else in your network will ever make combined. That said, he's never going to start charging for MySpace, close MySpace, or otherwise alter MySpace's availability to every broke ass Tom, Dick and Harry on the planet. If you see a bulletin supposedly by Tom, e-mail the stupid motherfucker who posted it last and tell them that the best part of them obviously didn't make it all the way to the egg. Rest assured, I'll do the same for you.
2. You're never going to know who visits your profile. I promise. You're just going to have to keep dilluding yourself into believing that people flock to your page to marvel at it's ridiculously high level of awesome, and occasionally touch themselves to. Trust me, if there really was a counter out there, and you were so pathetic that you cared enough to risk looking like a dumbass by reposting the bullshit, and you were subjected to the horrible truth that no one has checked your page since you begged them to via e-mail, you'd probably kill yourself.
Oops.
3. Those inhabiting the Ether have abso-fucking-lutely no interest in what you do on your MySpace. That said, if you repost anything that threatens you with the imminent arrival of some trumped-up urban legend demon who will kill you, rape you and eat you (and if you're lucky, in that order) if you don't repost in seven hundred and seventy seven seconds, it's a safe bet that you were a crack baby. I know of no other substance under no other circumstances that could make someone that retarded.
4. I won't say that there's no one who cares about your new pictures. I, however, am one of the people who don't. Those who do have likely subscribed to you anyway (more on this later, you bastards) and can see plainly when you add fifty-seven face shots that you tried so, so hard to make look like you didn't take them yourself because you're a fucking narcisist. In short, the three people who actually give a rat fuck about seeing your face from ten different angles will figure it out. Stop bugging me with it.
5. I brought up subscriptions earlier, and said I would return to it. People. Honestly. What the hell kind of non-stop minisode adventures are you going on that you have to change your page fifteen times a day? What the hell is wrong with you? I'll change my status a couple times, that's two for those of you who didn't know that, in a month. Tops. Sure, I work a lot, but so does the rest of the world. If you have nothing better to do than change your profile information every time the last two braincells you have left bump into one another and form a thought, you don't need a computer. You need a shrink.
6. Granted, there are a lotta' people on MySpace, but Osama bin Laden isn't one of them. Enough with the "Stop This Terrorist Group!" bulletins. Back when I saw it for the first time in 2005, and tried to look up the group so I could see what the qualifications were for joining just 'cause my curiosity makes me a freak like that, they didn't exist. Guess what? They still don't. Go have a cookie and wave a flag you callow, easily manipulated fucks.
These are merely guidelines. There are all manner of lame-ass examples I could give, and all of them are just as annoying to those of us intelligent enough to recognize shit before we spread it, but I don't really feel like holding your hand on the way to becoming a more intelligent person. Or, at the very least, halting the spread of material that makes people less intelligent. Have a pleasant day, though may you rot in hell tomorrow and for eternity, morons.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Breaking News!
Heath Ledger is dead. In other news, Jake Gyllenhaal has been placed on suicide watch. We will continue to make up correlations between these two incidents as more information becomes available.
Friday, January 18, 2008
And now, a Haiku.
I pump gas for pay
But still, I've found happiness
There are no drug tests
Thank you.
But still, I've found happiness
There are no drug tests
Thank you.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
If it didn't work for George Lucas, it's not going to work for anyone.
Once upon a time, I loved Star Wars. I don't mean I was a fan, I mean I had a passion for the holy trilogy to such a degree that even as a Freshman in high school, I nearly creamed myself every time they came out with a new Luke Skywalker action figure. My compulsive browsing through the toy aisle at Wal-Mart after they released the Shadows Of The Empire line alone probably bought some Fruit Of The Loom executive a new yacht. So, naturally, when I heard they were releasing the first three episodes...well, I don't think I'd ever been that happy in my life.
All was good, all was right, I had achieved nerd nirvana. I was finally going to witness the transformation of a promising young Padawan into the universal menace that was Lord Vader. Then I saw Phantom Menace. Ever see the look on a kid's face when he goes downstairs on Christmas morning expecting gifts, and all he gets is an eyeful of his mom sucking off the mailman? My expression of disappointment was kind'a like that. For about a month.
It's a universal fact. When franchises are abandoned for over a decade, then the creators attempt to resurrect said fanchises, the result usually falls somewhere between God-Awful and Daddy Drinks Too Much And Beats Up Mommy While He Shoves Tampons Up My Asshole. That said, I'd like to pose a question to a man who was once a respected figure in my reality, Sylvester Stallone.
Just what the fuck do you think you're doing? Honestly, who the hell do you think you're fooling? Look, I understand the whole mid-life crisis thing, but why do you have to drag all of America down with you? You've got the money, go buy a kick-ass car, fuck an eighteen year-old cheerleader, I don't care, just stop trying to relive your past glory! Don't get me wrong, I loved First Blood. Hell, I didn't even really mind the Rocky series all that much, aside from your all-too-comfortable portrayal of the boxer as a mentally retarded hood rat whose love for concussions was only surpassed by his love for fugly chicks. Stop Or My Mom Will Shoot? Forgivable. Everybody makes a few bad ones, but this kick you're on now, making unnecessary sequels to movies that are best left as they are needs to stop.
You need help, Sly. Please, for the love of all that's holy, please get it before I see previews for Cobra 2: Still Compensating. Phoenix out.
All was good, all was right, I had achieved nerd nirvana. I was finally going to witness the transformation of a promising young Padawan into the universal menace that was Lord Vader. Then I saw Phantom Menace. Ever see the look on a kid's face when he goes downstairs on Christmas morning expecting gifts, and all he gets is an eyeful of his mom sucking off the mailman? My expression of disappointment was kind'a like that. For about a month.
It's a universal fact. When franchises are abandoned for over a decade, then the creators attempt to resurrect said fanchises, the result usually falls somewhere between God-Awful and Daddy Drinks Too Much And Beats Up Mommy While He Shoves Tampons Up My Asshole. That said, I'd like to pose a question to a man who was once a respected figure in my reality, Sylvester Stallone.
Just what the fuck do you think you're doing? Honestly, who the hell do you think you're fooling? Look, I understand the whole mid-life crisis thing, but why do you have to drag all of America down with you? You've got the money, go buy a kick-ass car, fuck an eighteen year-old cheerleader, I don't care, just stop trying to relive your past glory! Don't get me wrong, I loved First Blood. Hell, I didn't even really mind the Rocky series all that much, aside from your all-too-comfortable portrayal of the boxer as a mentally retarded hood rat whose love for concussions was only surpassed by his love for fugly chicks. Stop Or My Mom Will Shoot? Forgivable. Everybody makes a few bad ones, but this kick you're on now, making unnecessary sequels to movies that are best left as they are needs to stop.
You need help, Sly. Please, for the love of all that's holy, please get it before I see previews for Cobra 2: Still Compensating. Phoenix out.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Hang, Piss. Vomit.
Dear Hollywood,
Look, you pull in billions of dollars every day. The entertainment industry is one of the most lucrative markets on the planet. Is a little more dosh for the people responsible for the content that puts you in your fucking Beamers really too much to ask?
I know you think that you're fighting the good fight, but while you're sitting in your ivory towers on top of mountains of cash, the American public is being subjected to some of the most mindless programming in the history of television. This won't come as a shock to you since you're the ones airing it, but tonight I saw yet another reality show where a man was challenged to hang on a bar longer than an orangutan. Let me repeat that in the vain hope that it might sink in and give you an idea of just how badly you're hurting my brain. A man. Was challenged. To hang on a bar. Longer than an orangutan. The highlight of the competition? When the ape pissed all over himself.
Don't get me wrong, I've always been under the impression that television offered very little in the way of redeeming qualities, and certainly Jack Bauer isn't exactly bolstering the intelligence of America's youth, but for fuck's sake, hanging competitions? What's next, prime time staring contests? Syncronized masturbation?...alright, if you got a couple of nubile, perky-titted coeds who shaved on there, I'd watch, but you get the idea.
You can't train someone to produce good content, it's a skill you're either born with or aren't. Whatever attempts you plan on making of replacing the writers who only want their due are destined to fail, and dismally at that. Long story short, cough up the greenback, you greedy fucks, because if I have to sit through one more new reality show, I think I might just kill myself.
Sincerely,
Remiel Enduro Phoenix
P.S. Reality shows are the television equivalent to a retarded meth head having an abortion after being impregnated by Satan's unholy spooge. Stop it.
Look, you pull in billions of dollars every day. The entertainment industry is one of the most lucrative markets on the planet. Is a little more dosh for the people responsible for the content that puts you in your fucking Beamers really too much to ask?
I know you think that you're fighting the good fight, but while you're sitting in your ivory towers on top of mountains of cash, the American public is being subjected to some of the most mindless programming in the history of television. This won't come as a shock to you since you're the ones airing it, but tonight I saw yet another reality show where a man was challenged to hang on a bar longer than an orangutan. Let me repeat that in the vain hope that it might sink in and give you an idea of just how badly you're hurting my brain. A man. Was challenged. To hang on a bar. Longer than an orangutan. The highlight of the competition? When the ape pissed all over himself.
Don't get me wrong, I've always been under the impression that television offered very little in the way of redeeming qualities, and certainly Jack Bauer isn't exactly bolstering the intelligence of America's youth, but for fuck's sake, hanging competitions? What's next, prime time staring contests? Syncronized masturbation?...alright, if you got a couple of nubile, perky-titted coeds who shaved on there, I'd watch, but you get the idea.
You can't train someone to produce good content, it's a skill you're either born with or aren't. Whatever attempts you plan on making of replacing the writers who only want their due are destined to fail, and dismally at that. Long story short, cough up the greenback, you greedy fucks, because if I have to sit through one more new reality show, I think I might just kill myself.
Sincerely,
Remiel Enduro Phoenix
P.S. Reality shows are the television equivalent to a retarded meth head having an abortion after being impregnated by Satan's unholy spooge. Stop it.
The Story So Far
The following is a collection of posts that I've made on other sites that I felt merited attention.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
I, Remiel Enduro Phoenix, do hereby resolve to do the following:
-Make even more tasteless jokes than I did in 2007.
-Keep a job for longer than four months without getting fired or flat out quitting due to someone else's complete lack of common sense and/or intelligence.
-At least make an effort to illustrate to my roommate Scott that the line does, in fact, exist, and that sometimes it's best not to cross it ('cause being a hypocrite is fun).
-Give a woman more than the previous alotted time of thirty seconds before I write them off as a gold-digging, money-grubbing, open-like-an-all-night-liquor-store Slutty McSlutfaces.
-Spend a bit more time with my family, because it's nice to know I'm not the only blunt person on the planet.
-Worry less about everything because at this point, if my blood pressure were driving a car, the abandon with which it would be breaking the speed limit would likely incur the death penalty in most states.
-Stop trying to save the world and start trying to save myself.
-Have more sex.
-...Have...even more sex?
-Learn to play guitar better.
-Learn to stop hating everything capable of maintaining a constant heart rate.
-Learn to evenly distribute my pent up anger and frustration as opposed to finding one target and stopping only when they're crying on the floor curled up into the fetal position.
-Stop ending up on the floor beside them rolling from side to side in a fit of maniacal laughter should I fail at the above resolution.
-...Feel a bit of remorse should the preceding two attempts fail as, let's face it, they're more or less destined to.
-Have sex with a fat chick, because I wanna' see if it's truly as fun as go-karts.
-Stealthily slip out of bed and leave the country for three months if I accomplish the above, regardless of the effects taking such action will have on my employment status, GPA, or inevitable probation.
-Stop ending bouts of sobriety with glorious acts of inebriation the likes of which would make Rodney King appear to be a viable candidate for Alcoholics Anonymous leadership.
-Come up with better resolutions for 2009.
Aaaaand finally, a tip for all you rascals partying with utter abandon tonight. Be sure to drink lots before you drive home. It'll make you more careful around the police cruisers lining the streets. Happy New Year, ya' miserable bastards. Phoenix out.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
So Cincinnati has this club called Metropolis. Now mind you, I hate clubs. Prior to tonight, I'd been to one in my entire life, and the experience left a bad taste in my mouth and so help me God, the first person who makes a joke about gay bars is getting shot. Anyway, tonight I made an exception and went with a couple of friends to the fucking place, just to see if maybe the first time was a fluke.
I'll sum it up for those of you who're in a hurry, it wasn't.
What the fuck is so appealing about these places? Jake paid my cover, but I still feel like I got cheated. Overpriced beer, horrible music and overcrowded dance floors comprised of little other than drunken frat boys whose sole purpose in life seems to be to find the sluttiest stuck up cunt in existence, grind against them for two minutes at a time and still go home alone. What's the point? That's kind'a like sitting in the seat of a Ferrari when you know damn well you're never gonna' drive the fucking thing.
Speaking of the women, what the hell's up with the mentality these bitches exhibit? "Hmm, what should I do tonight...oh, I know! I'll dress like my feet spend more time in the air than a 747, act like I was raised in a Turkish harem and treat anyone who looks like they have even the slightest bit of propriety and respect like they're something that dropped out of my disease-ridden vagina!" I'll admit that I may not be the most pious person ever to walk the earth, but even I have a hard time walking up to someone I've never met before in my life and pushing my cock against their ass while I randomly grope them without so much as a hello. Laugh all you want, but I need at least name before I start dry humping someone from behind.
Long story short? If you ever want to find me, don't look in a club. I'll stick to my seedy, hole in the wall dive bars. At least those shitholes have decent music. Phoenix out.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Let's play a little game I like to call "Wake Up And Smell The Shit You Sleep In". It's real easy. First, you wake up. Shouldn't be too hard, right? Then, upon waking, you take a nice big drink of water, you look at yourself in the mirror, and you accept that fact that life wasn't designed to be fun, let me repeat that just to make sure you got the message, life is not designed to be fun!
Life is designed to be a struggle, survival of the fittest, the kid who drinks the most Drano doesn't get to grow up and have idiot kids of their own. There's probably a grand design, but we're never gonna' learn it in life and it's only marginally possible that we'll learn it in death. This isn't me telling you to go see if the answer's on the other side, though in all honesty if you feel the compulsion to do so, all I ask is that you inform me in advance so I can gather up some etching tools for the express purpose of vandalizing your headstone with "Weak Motherfucker."
It ain't all shits and giggles, people. Sometimes it's a blast, but most times you just need to sit down, shut up, put on a fuckin' helmet and take the ride for what it is. Most of all, you need to stop bitching about it and change whatever you're not happy about. Bitching never solved anything.
Unless you're a blogger. Phoenix out.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Dear Mountain-bred, Sheep-fucking Redneck Throwbacks,
You're stupid. We get it. You can go back home now.
-Rem
There's two things that can really get under my skin. Okay, two is a ridiculously conservative value and it probably needs it's decimal place dropkicked to the right, but we'll deal with that later. Right now, I'm on a mission, nay, a holy quest for the one true answer to a question that's plagued my mind since I fought my way, kicking, screaming and shooting, out of my mother's cursed womb (seriously, every time she pops a kid out, crystal balls the world over display the message "A horseman is manifest").
WHY THE FUCK HAVEN'T WE STERILIZED THE SOUTH?!
Seriously! Is there some redeeming quality I just haven't witnessed yet? Are they actually nothing more than a depository for recessive genes that would otherwise express themselves among the general populace? If not, I see absolutely no valid reason not to take everyone who ties fake testicles to the back of their gas-guzzling, dual-exhaust, extended-cab/bed F-350s or refers to anyone of African descent as "The Problem", strap them to a rocket on a collision course with infinity, hit the red button and wave bye bye to ignorance incarnate.
I'm not talkin' about the south as a geograpical location; hell, everyone loves Bourbon Street. I'm talking about that nauseating little group of people who put their trucks on cement blocks like trophies and have more half-naked children running around their yard screaming like lunatics than John Wayne Gacy had in his basement. You know the types; sadly, anyone who hasn't spent their entire lives in a suburban bubble has lived next to, or at least near, one of these families. The ones who celebrate New Years by breaking open a fresh pouch of chewing tobacco, punching their wives after ordering them to go get them "another b'er", and firing off their heirloom shotguns into the sky as they sing Garth Brooks tunes at the top of their tar-lined lungs.
These things, if that's not an insult to italicized things everywhere, are not people. They're not human beings deserving of the same right to the pursuit of life, liberty and blowjobs as everyone else. They're a barnacle on the ass of whatever common sense this crazy planet has left, and we need to isolate their water supply and introduce large amounts of ingestible spermicides (Mountain Dew should suffice), lock them in cages, and visit them in Zoos so that we can teach our children what happens when you make naughty moves on your sister.
Then again, maybe I just should've tried to get a bit more sleep. I get cranky sometimes.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Alright. That's it. This shit's gone way too far. It was cute and kind of amusing in the beginning, back when crying was something that little emo fucktards did in the middle of their four black walls, into their black pillows before finally passing out on their black carpeted floors after throwing a tantrum to My Chemical Romance. Honestly, as much as I bitched, I was cool with it. I laughed at them in public without having to deal with the aftermath. Hell, in retrospect, I couldn't have asked for a better arrangement.
That was before Chris motherfucking Crocker.
You know who the fuck I'm talking about. Mr./Ms./Undetermined "Leave Britney Alone!" Him/Her/Itself. The first time I saw the video, I thought it was a joke. Y'know, some punk chick, yes, chick, employing satire as a means of poking fun at a former teen popstar/current professional disaster. Then, I realized two things.
1. It wasn't a chick. It was an...an it.
2. Whatever it was, IT WASN'T FUCKING JOKING!
Something in me broke at that point. Rather, the last of something that had taken punch after shot after jump after boot in the face finally collapsed from the ever-present abuse. Most people call this unnamed thing faith. Me? I just call it dead.
Dude, first of all, if Britney Spears actually takes time out of her day (which as I understand it primarily consists of masturbating to videos she made when she was still somewhat attractive and blaming her children and two ex-husbands for ruining her life) to watch your shit, she isn't going to be moved. Not in the way you're hoping for anyway. I promise, the only moving being done here is her no-talent, washed up ass moving from her home to her attorney's office to fill out the paperwork for a restraining order.
Second, and if you haven't already determined this you may just be the dumbest mass of tear-soaked dogshit I've ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on, no one is going to take a flaming homosexual in his early twenties seriously when he says that anyone who wants to talk shit about his obsession is going to have to go through him. Fuck's sake, I'd be willing to bet you couldn't fight your way out of a condom five years past it's expiration date with a machette. Protip: In order to throw a punch, you have to be able to make a solid fist. This includes keeping your wrist locked, and as yours is about as limp as shit in a thunderstorm, I'm thinkin' it's a safe bet the world's Britney haters are pretty much in the green as far as their safety goes.
Third, and in closing, I have two questions. Two questions that may just solve all of my problems, and lead me to an era of unprecedented peace and tranquility.
What the fuck are you on, and where the fuck can I get some?
Thursday, September 6, 2007
...So. The Dollyrots. You know you've heard them. You know you hate them. You know that somewhere, the physical incarnation of Death is listening to a radio, chompin' at the bit and screaming "Please! Please, just this once, let me kill someone for no other reason than I fucking want to!" It's not like you didn't know what they were going to sound like. The name says it all. Personally, I'd be willin' to put money on that being their second choice in lieu of a more fitting name, though.
I guess "Two Emo Fags And A Gutterslut" was already taken. Shit happens.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Everything I Need To Know, I Learned From Sid Vicious
1. Two things that'll ruin your life: heroin and women.
2. No talent? No worries. Just stand in the audience long enough.
3. Drugs + Sharp Objects + Nagging Girlfriend = Bad
4. What's a Swastika?
5. ...What's a Jew?
6. Cutting yourself is cooler if you're on a stage.
7. Alcohol makes everyone a better musician.
8. Gary Oldman is a great actor.
9. John Lydon may have had a fairy tale witch's smile, but he stuck by his friends.
10. Solo careers never work.
11. If you're British, no one will notice you're actually a strung out loser with little to no redeeming qualities.
12. Gary Oldman is a great fucking actor.
13. The American Judicial System gives every celebrity at least one Get Out Of Jail Free card.
14. Groupie whores have commitment issues.
15. Don't be afraid to dream. If it crashes and burns, you always have your dealer.
16. Sweatbands never need to be washed.
17. If you piss off enough people, eventually you'll become an international celebrity.
18. If you aid in the spawning of a counter-culture, they'll all think you're innocent if you're ever accused of something.
19. Anyone can be a role model.
20. When in doubt, stop thinking. Forever.
Sunday, September 3, 2007
Dear Twentieth Century Fox (and all subsequent Century Foxes),
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I mean, considering that whole pact you people obviously made with Satan and all. I'm writing to you because I am a genius, and as such, have had a brilliant idea for a new program. Given your respectable reputation...
...Sorry, fell out of my chair laughing...
...I'm bringing to your attention an innovative new idea that will not only entertain millions of Americans without fail, but will reduce the numbers of an entirely pointless subculture that annoys millions of Americans without fail. A show that will warm the hearts of families, and discourage a lifestyle that is slowly eating away at the core of America's youth. Sir or madam, I ask one thing of you: Emo Hunting.
Now, I know what you're thinking, that televised murder will not be the ratings sensation that I think, but you're wrong. I've already done your marketing research, done interviews with numerous people from various demographics, and the numbers all suggest the world wants one thing: dead emo kids. Should your consciences be chiming in with inhibitions regarding murder, I have also been consulting with many clergy members, and a great many agree that it is also God's wish to see the emo subculture reduced to nothing more than a lot of blood, guts, and hair grease, ashes to ashes, whiny bitches to dust.
As a final suggestion to improve this endeavor, I suggest approaching Henry Rollins about hosting the program, as it is my personal opinion that the only thing better than a dead emo shitwit kid is a dead emo shitwit kid with a steroid monstrosity with a shaved head bending over and screaming "Black Flag" into his prey's lifeless face. A possible close for the show would be Mr. Rollins stabbing the catch's eyes with broken shards of glass from their standard issue black hornrimmed glasses.
You have a chance here. You have a chance to not only provide wholesome entertainment, but to also help make America a better place to live. You have a chance to make a difference. Thank you for your time, and I hope you'll make the right decision.
Kindest personal regards (even though you bastards cancelled Firefly),
Rem Phoenix
Monday, August 27, 2007
Some days are better than others.
Other days, you wake up, you look at your clock, and you realize it doesn't matter what time it is because you've got nothing better to do than just lay there and wish you could go back to sleep and wake up past all the shit you deal with on a daily basis, all the memories, all the pain. You wish for better days, you pray for the strength to make 'em happen, and then you wonder why you even bother at all.
You pull your ass out of bed, you stumble outside, maybe light up a cigarette, and you just stand there with a stupid, blank expression plastered to your stubbled, weary face. You start thinking, and you can't help but whisper "Fuck" under your breath because you know you won't be able to stop. You think about the bitch who ripped your heart out and probably smeared the blood on her new boyfriend's cock just for the extra slick. You think about both the families that've more or less told you to go fuck yourself, only they won't say it out loud because lying to your face and putting up all manner of facade and deception is the right thing to do. The only father you ever really knew tellin' you with his actions that you're not good enough for his new family, while spewing all his nifty little colloquialisms and saying anything but what he really means. The uncle who's the only one on either side of that family who's got the balls to verbalize what a bastard he thinks ya' are, and how he's a prick because he's got you pegged as one for all the wrong reasons. The matriarch who stands by both of the aforementioned wastes of life because, hey, those're her boys. The guy who swore he had your back when it turned out he was only there to get a better shot with his knife. The crew you would'a thrown everything on the line for that turned out to be as stupid as they were mutinous. You think about the dead adoptive mother you weren't at all sorry to see go into the ground, except that maybe someday she could've gotten better and maybe, just maybe, you could've started believing that she gave a damn. You think about the friend you lost four days before you turned sixteen because some fuckstain couldn't be bothered to pay a little more attention to his speedometer. You think about all the friends you've left behind searching for greener pastures and finding nothing but dying grass in front of a run-down house that's the perfect example of how you see your life turning out when it finally spins outta' control. You think about the hand you were dealt in life, you wonder where the rest of the cards are, and you look up and you want with everything you have to scream "When, God?! When the fuck does it stop hurting?! When does all this shit start to make sense?!"
That was last year.
Then one day, it stopped hurting, at least in the most literal definition of the word. You know you're hurting, but it doesn't feel like pain anymore. At some point it changed. The gaping wounds stopped bleeding and scabbed over, and that ache in the middle of your chest quit making you want to break down and cry and started feeling a lot like strength. Pride did it's job, and all of a sudden all the rotten shit that made you who you were was something to brag about to yourself when you were sitting alone and you hadn't managed to wrap yourself up in something trivial. You realized that none of it mattered, aside from the fact that it had twisted your perception into something that made everything ugly, and you couldn't wait to share this nifty insight with all of your friends.
The catch? You couldn't, because the only person that had any idea of who you were only knew because they'd watched you go from a bright-eyed, somewhat optimistic kid to the bitter, jaded adult that looked you in the eyes every morning when you were shaving. They'd kept an eye on you, probably saw your epiphany coming the night before, and just smiled because that's what friends do when they've got your back but don't have a clue how to protect you from yourself. No, the people who didn't know you, the people you were waiting to meet, you couldn't tell 'em. Not the way you were. None of your private hell mattered anymore, you kept lying to yourself, except for that pesky wall you'd built up around your heart to military specs that kept you locked in as sure as it kept everyone else locked out, and all of a sudden, you had a new problem.
That was four months ago.
Then one day, you realized you were almost twenty-four years old and you still didn't have the slightest fucking clue what everything meant, where everything was going, or if you even wanted to live to find out. The pain was still your strength, your heart was still shut off and, what was worse, you weren't sure you knew how to turn it back on again. You kept your eyes peeled for that special someone, the last person you'd fuck for the rest of your life, who'd see what a miserable fuck you were, decide you were worth it anyway and beat her way past the mortar, brick, steel and titanium. You realized you didn't trust anyone, not completely anyway. Then you sat down at your computer and typed it all out in some stupid blog that most everyone you know never read anyway, you tried to write it out hoping you'd get something out of it, and when you didn't you said fuck it and decided to go to bed after just one more line.
So here we are.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Shitwit Sonywhore - "Wow, I'm bored."
Four days later...
Shitwit Sonywhore - "...Still bored..."
Three bowls later...
Shitwit Sonywhore - "Oh shit, man! I was supposed to be at (Japanese expletive) work like a week ago!"
Some time later...
Shitwit Sonywhore - "But...you can't fire me yet! I've got the perfect design for the next Playstation, and the most ten kinds of awesome name for it ever!"
Later that day...
Shitwit Sonywhore - "...3. Man, I'm a genius. Now, what to make it out of..."
Five minutes later...
Shitwit - "No, you can't fire me! I know that titanium is expensive, but we'll pass the cost onto the gamers, they'll be fine with it because the graphics are going to be amazing!"
Six months later...
Shitwit - "...Note to self: Titanium is hard to drill screws into..."
Five minutes later...
Shitwit - "No, don't fire me! We'll still keep the cost of all that titanium in the units, use plastic, and no one will ever think anything about it because the graphics will be amazing!"
Three months later...
Shitwit - "We lost how many exclusive rights?!"
Ten minutes later...
Shitwit - "Okay, this one's not even my fault, don't fire me! We've got plenty of games left, and the graphics will be amazing!"
Two days, and three dead virgins, later...
Shitwit - "...I invoke thee, o dark lord of the underworld, hear my plea..."
Fifteen minutes later...
Shitwit - "Look, I know calling on the Prince Of Darkness on company time wasn't the best idea ever, but we needed a hip new look for the unit to compliment the amazing graphics and he's got the youth market pegged like...no, I have no idea where your daughter is..."
And finally....
Shitwit - "Ah, done at last! The world will love it...because the graphics are amazing!"
Six months later...
Shitwit - "...Okay, y'know what? Fire me. I deserve it."
Fuck Sony. Phoenix out.
Monday, July 2, 2007
I'm gonna' put this as simply as I possibly can. I. Have had. Enough. After this blog, I will henceforth no longer offer solutions to your problems. Since I have a little heart left in me, though, I will post these last few tidbits of wisdom before I clear your stupid, self-perpetuated problems from my conscience and proceed with the incessant laughter at your expense.
1. Your significant other is not important. Seriously. You functioned before you met them, and you'll continue to function when they finally grow tired of your ceaseless stupidity. Buy a magazine, hit the bathroom, and shut the fuck up.
2. Your job is probably screwing you. Quit. Do you really need to ask me whether or not slaving away for pennies above the legal pay prerequisite is worth your time? Getting paid minimum wage is essentially the same thing as your employer walking up to you and saying "If we could fuck you harder, we would. Enjoy your weekend."
3. Your family is a series of headaches just waiting to happen. Why the fuck do you bother? It's not like these people associate with you because they choose to. You have a genetic bond with them brought about by a completely unfair natural tendency toward bloodborn kinship. It's like the lottery, only everyone gets to be the loser.
4. Your significant other still isn't important. For the love of all that's Holy on Earth, MOVE ON!
5. Your children are not special. I know you think that because your offspring are yours that they're destined for greatness but, face it, they probably aren't. You want proof? Go for a walk through Cinci. See the crackhead shaking like a leaf and begging for change? His parents thought he was special, too. Sleep tight.
6. The Anti-Christ really is among us. In fact, there's a whole family of them. One of them's in the oval office.
7. It's TV's job to make you stupid. Though in retrospect, it deserves some props. It's probably the only thing in this country that does it's job well.
8. No matter how great you are, someone will always be better. So quit walking around like you're God's gift to humanity. You're not, I promise. The assumption's probably given the Big Man a few chuckles though, so what the hell, keep at it.
9. Stop telling everyone you see to cheer up. Some of us like the fact that we haven't dilluded ourselves into a false sense of elation. Leave us alone and get back to doing that whole being an idiot thing that you do so well.
10. I'm not being mean. It's just that I don't care anymore.
There. The answer man is now officially dead. Phoenix out.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Recently, my sister posted a blog asking for a definition of love. Enjoy.
love [luhv] - noun, verb - loved, lov·ing.
1. the complete absence of common sense and/or ability to act rationally.
2. an open invitation to let another human being (using the term loosely, more often than not) wreak total havoc on one's emotional, professional and personal life
3. a dead concept that, in the late twentieth century, was reduced in practical meaning to little more than lewd acts in the backseat of a car, typically followed by emergency contraceptive procedures (assuming the individuals in question have any sense)
4. i am not bitter.
5. concisely put, a ginormous pain in the ass.
There ya' have it, folks. Phoenix out.
Monday, April 9, 2007
As damn near everyone who reads this knows beyond the shadow of a doubt, I rock when it comes to advice. I couldn't sort my own life out to save it, but when it comes to objectively offering guidance to people, I can count on one hand how many times I've been wrong in my life. People ask questions, I give answers, and I do it better than any psychologist, talk-show host or otherwise that you can fucking name.
SO WHY THE FUCK DOESN'T ANYONE EVER LISTEN TO IT?!
Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you people?! Was there a baby dropping convention that I just wasn't lucky enough to be let in on when we were all children? You know who you are, the whiny-assed, teary-eyed malcontents who think all is wrong with their lives and that they're in no way responsible for any of it.
"Oh Rem, you always give brutally honest advice, and I need it!' Why, so you can turn it around in your hands like it's some alien artifact that fell outta' the fucking sky and you just can't figure out how to switch it on? I swear, it's like watching the same kid with down syndrome run head-first into the same fucking wall over and over after you've shown them where the door is, the only variation between impacts being that they laugh harder and harder every time they get up to do it again!
Stef, I'm sorry that you have so little faith in your ability to size people up that you choose to ignore your better judgement every...single...fucking time that you meet someone. Yeah, the trad skin with the nifty bracers might look spiffy in plaid, but if you can tell he's an inconsiderate asshole, here's an idea. Don't fuck him! How fucking hard is that?! Don't make being a selfish prick your primary prerequisite for giving someone a blowjob! I swear it's not as difficult as it sounds. Here, I'll even give you a step-by-step list of the procedure. First, listen close now, first, stop listening to your friends when it comes to who you should date. They obviously have about as much common sense as the monkey in the back of the cage eating it's own feces. Second, stop thoughtlessly taking your clothes off for people. I swear, it's not that hard. I'm doing it right now, and I'm managing to make the five people this rant isn't aimed at laugh and pissing off everyone else at the same time! See? Not getting naked is easier than getting naked. Third? Cut your fucking throat, because you've demonstrated with crystal clarity that you're too fucking stupid to function in the world.
Jenny, I apologize for telling your sugar daddy that you tried to fuck everything with a pulse and a dick that lives in my building after he went to all the trouble to find me online and ask me specifically how many cocks you'd sucked while you were here. It must be hard trying to explain to him that you can't help but be open like an all-night liquor store, and harder still rationalizing getting sloppy trashed with a dirty hippie every night while your children are being cared for by someone else. Oh, and the pain you must've experienced every time you bitched about not being able to visit with said children while everyone just looked at you with the most "What the fuck?" expression on their faces due to the fact that you went out of your way to move a hundred miles away from said children! Oh, and come get your shit. I'm tired of explaining to people that I have a car seat in my room because some pilled-out, spread-eagled cuntwipe left to be reunited with her cherished baby boy and didn't bother to take it with her.
Oh, and Ashley. Ashley, Ashley, Ashley. Fuck's sake, but I don't even know where to begin with you. I guess I could start off by begging for forgiveness for the fact that you were lying to anyone and everyone who'd listen to your yuppie ass about Steve being gay. I'm such a horrible friend for stepping up to defend someone who jeopardized his fucking job to help me drive home, despite the fact that as far as the law was concerned I probably had as much business driving a car as I do spearheading a social movement based around anger management. God, the agony that you must've endured while being made to take responsibility for your dishonest, amoral actions. I don't even think I can forgive myself. Matter of fact, I'm gonna' go put one between my eyes as soon as I'm done writing this for being so inconsiderate that I put a damper on your malicious tirades, because I can't even hope to cope with slamming the door in your face after you spend roughly an hour attempting to tear down whatever confidence I'd managed to build up regarding the life I've made for myself. I hope you can forgive me.
There's a whole slew of other people I'd like to make mention of in this, but I think I've made my point. I've tried to help all of these people sort through their respective issues, insecurities and blatant stupidity. I didn't ask to help, they came to me and begged for honesty. Well, just for the sake of tradition, I'll give one more little nugget of wisdom before I write all of you off until such time as I either forget how maddening you all are due to all the substance abuse I'm going to have to indulge in to relax after dealing with this shit, or die.
Do the world a favor and go blow an exhaust pipe. Phoenix out.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Let me tell you a little about my morning. I woke up still fully dressed, reeking of marijuana, right leg draped over the back of my futon like a drugged up prom date, pizza boxes strewn everywhere like some junk food tornado passed through on it's way to the john and couldn't quite keep everything to itself. My stomach was turning in the opposite direction as everything in it, because let's face it, it just isn't Papa Johns unless you feel like you washed down every bite with a nice big slug of Hydrogen Peroxide. Oh, and it was 8 AM, which if my internal clock is correct was about fourteen hours earlier than I should have woken up.
It doesn't stop there, however! No, apparently I was such a remarkable embodiment of bastard yesterday from roughly 2PM to whenever I passed out that when I was somewhere between my room and the shower, fate decided I haven't taken enough cold showers in life and, thus, reduced my apartment's water heater to little more than an expensive paper weight. My head's pounding, I have a black hole where last night's exploits should be playing, my room looks like the remains of a Dropkick Murphys afterparty, and there's no one to be found.
In short? Today would not be the day to ask me for anything that requires any measurable amount of effort. Or thinking. Or breathing. Y'know what, just do yourself a favor and stay clear of me today. After all, imagine how embarassed I'd be if I accidentally ripped your face off and ran through town wearing it as a mask while singing Joy To The World.
Off-key.
Phoenix out.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Okay, so I was taking a look at my life in comparison to those of other people, and I realized something. Something inside of my brain is very, very broken. How'd I come to this realization? Well, I should think the most obvious answer would be the same way I come to every other realization I've had between 2AM and 6AM on any given night. Namely, mind-altering substance abuse, and lots of it.
See, I was hanging out with my friend Jackie a couple weeks ago, who I happen to have slept with. I've mentioned her before in passing. Now, Jackie wasn't the same as the other twenty-four. This took time. We alternated between being friends and tearing at each others' throats for three years before we made the informed, well thought out (drunk) decision to get drunk seperately and end up sleeping together on my last birthday in a fit of beer-bonging, whiskey-shooting drunken drunkenness. I think the booze may have had something to do with it.
Anyway, Jackie and I are friends. We don't have sex anymore, but we do smoke enough between us to make Jerry Garcia look straight-edge. On one particular occasion, we were partaking with another couple of friends of mine, Jenny and Sara, who I also happen to have slept with. I wasn't thinkin' about it, just so happened that we all ended up in the same room together. I didn't see a problem until I noticed them eyeballing each other and it hit me that I'd seen all three in various states of undress. That's when there was a problem. I'm sure you think you can imagine, but trust me, you can't. I look at Jackie, who's looking at Jenny, who's looking at Sara, who's just sitting there packing up, oblivious to the sizing up that's going on. Then, at one point, they all look at me, and suddenly it occurs to me that this is...
...Quite possibly...
...The most hilarious fucking thing that's ever happened to me. Hey, I didn't make this shit happen. At least not intentionally. This wasn't one of my practical jokes that pissed someone off, this was life in action being very, very funny. Nothing came from it, of course. They all just pretended not to think about it, and I pretended that I wasn't drawing blood from having to bite my tongue so hard. Seriously, there must'a been fifty or sixty jokes that I wanted to make at that point. I can't even describe how much self-control it took to not look at all three and say "Hey, what do a sorority princess, a feminazi and a pill-head all have in common? Give up? Me!"
So yeah, I'm well-aware that this post probably has everyone who reads it convinced that I'm a disease-ridden manwhore, but you couldn't be more wrong (the tests all came back negative). Granted, my track-record's a little more colorful than most but, in my defense, I was genuinely interested in every one of them. This isn't about justifying my astounding lack of moral fortitude, though. This is just me telling a funny story, giving yet another glimpse at just how fucked up my mind really is, and hopefully putting a smile on your face. Phoenix out.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
I, Remiel Enduro Phoenix, do hereby resolve to do the following:
-Make even more tasteless jokes than I did in 2007.
-Keep a job for longer than four months without getting fired or flat out quitting due to someone else's complete lack of common sense and/or intelligence.
-At least make an effort to illustrate to my roommate Scott that the line does, in fact, exist, and that sometimes it's best not to cross it ('cause being a hypocrite is fun).
-Give a woman more than the previous alotted time of thirty seconds before I write them off as a gold-digging, money-grubbing, open-like-an-all-night-liquor-store Slutty McSlutfaces.
-Spend a bit more time with my family, because it's nice to know I'm not the only blunt person on the planet.
-Worry less about everything because at this point, if my blood pressure were driving a car, the abandon with which it would be breaking the speed limit would likely incur the death penalty in most states.
-Stop trying to save the world and start trying to save myself.
-Have more sex.
-...Have...even more sex?
-Learn to play guitar better.
-Learn to stop hating everything capable of maintaining a constant heart rate.
-Learn to evenly distribute my pent up anger and frustration as opposed to finding one target and stopping only when they're crying on the floor curled up into the fetal position.
-Stop ending up on the floor beside them rolling from side to side in a fit of maniacal laughter should I fail at the above resolution.
-...Feel a bit of remorse should the preceding two attempts fail as, let's face it, they're more or less destined to.
-Have sex with a fat chick, because I wanna' see if it's truly as fun as go-karts.
-Stealthily slip out of bed and leave the country for three months if I accomplish the above, regardless of the effects taking such action will have on my employment status, GPA, or inevitable probation.
-Stop ending bouts of sobriety with glorious acts of inebriation the likes of which would make Rodney King appear to be a viable candidate for Alcoholics Anonymous leadership.
-Come up with better resolutions for 2009.
Aaaaand finally, a tip for all you rascals partying with utter abandon tonight. Be sure to drink lots before you drive home. It'll make you more careful around the police cruisers lining the streets. Happy New Year, ya' miserable bastards. Phoenix out.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
So Cincinnati has this club called Metropolis. Now mind you, I hate clubs. Prior to tonight, I'd been to one in my entire life, and the experience left a bad taste in my mouth and so help me God, the first person who makes a joke about gay bars is getting shot. Anyway, tonight I made an exception and went with a couple of friends to the fucking place, just to see if maybe the first time was a fluke.
I'll sum it up for those of you who're in a hurry, it wasn't.
What the fuck is so appealing about these places? Jake paid my cover, but I still feel like I got cheated. Overpriced beer, horrible music and overcrowded dance floors comprised of little other than drunken frat boys whose sole purpose in life seems to be to find the sluttiest stuck up cunt in existence, grind against them for two minutes at a time and still go home alone. What's the point? That's kind'a like sitting in the seat of a Ferrari when you know damn well you're never gonna' drive the fucking thing.
Speaking of the women, what the hell's up with the mentality these bitches exhibit? "Hmm, what should I do tonight...oh, I know! I'll dress like my feet spend more time in the air than a 747, act like I was raised in a Turkish harem and treat anyone who looks like they have even the slightest bit of propriety and respect like they're something that dropped out of my disease-ridden vagina!" I'll admit that I may not be the most pious person ever to walk the earth, but even I have a hard time walking up to someone I've never met before in my life and pushing my cock against their ass while I randomly grope them without so much as a hello. Laugh all you want, but I need at least name before I start dry humping someone from behind.
Long story short? If you ever want to find me, don't look in a club. I'll stick to my seedy, hole in the wall dive bars. At least those shitholes have decent music. Phoenix out.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Let's play a little game I like to call "Wake Up And Smell The Shit You Sleep In". It's real easy. First, you wake up. Shouldn't be too hard, right? Then, upon waking, you take a nice big drink of water, you look at yourself in the mirror, and you accept that fact that life wasn't designed to be fun, let me repeat that just to make sure you got the message, life is not designed to be fun!
Life is designed to be a struggle, survival of the fittest, the kid who drinks the most Drano doesn't get to grow up and have idiot kids of their own. There's probably a grand design, but we're never gonna' learn it in life and it's only marginally possible that we'll learn it in death. This isn't me telling you to go see if the answer's on the other side, though in all honesty if you feel the compulsion to do so, all I ask is that you inform me in advance so I can gather up some etching tools for the express purpose of vandalizing your headstone with "Weak Motherfucker."
It ain't all shits and giggles, people. Sometimes it's a blast, but most times you just need to sit down, shut up, put on a fuckin' helmet and take the ride for what it is. Most of all, you need to stop bitching about it and change whatever you're not happy about. Bitching never solved anything.
Unless you're a blogger. Phoenix out.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Dear Mountain-bred, Sheep-fucking Redneck Throwbacks,
You're stupid. We get it. You can go back home now.
-Rem
There's two things that can really get under my skin. Okay, two is a ridiculously conservative value and it probably needs it's decimal place dropkicked to the right, but we'll deal with that later. Right now, I'm on a mission, nay, a holy quest for the one true answer to a question that's plagued my mind since I fought my way, kicking, screaming and shooting, out of my mother's cursed womb (seriously, every time she pops a kid out, crystal balls the world over display the message "A horseman is manifest").
WHY THE FUCK HAVEN'T WE STERILIZED THE SOUTH?!
Seriously! Is there some redeeming quality I just haven't witnessed yet? Are they actually nothing more than a depository for recessive genes that would otherwise express themselves among the general populace? If not, I see absolutely no valid reason not to take everyone who ties fake testicles to the back of their gas-guzzling, dual-exhaust, extended-cab/bed F-350s or refers to anyone of African descent as "The Problem", strap them to a rocket on a collision course with infinity, hit the red button and wave bye bye to ignorance incarnate.
I'm not talkin' about the south as a geograpical location; hell, everyone loves Bourbon Street. I'm talking about that nauseating little group of people who put their trucks on cement blocks like trophies and have more half-naked children running around their yard screaming like lunatics than John Wayne Gacy had in his basement. You know the types; sadly, anyone who hasn't spent their entire lives in a suburban bubble has lived next to, or at least near, one of these families. The ones who celebrate New Years by breaking open a fresh pouch of chewing tobacco, punching their wives after ordering them to go get them "another b'er", and firing off their heirloom shotguns into the sky as they sing Garth Brooks tunes at the top of their tar-lined lungs.
These things, if that's not an insult to italicized things everywhere, are not people. They're not human beings deserving of the same right to the pursuit of life, liberty and blowjobs as everyone else. They're a barnacle on the ass of whatever common sense this crazy planet has left, and we need to isolate their water supply and introduce large amounts of ingestible spermicides (Mountain Dew should suffice), lock them in cages, and visit them in Zoos so that we can teach our children what happens when you make naughty moves on your sister.
Then again, maybe I just should've tried to get a bit more sleep. I get cranky sometimes.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Alright. That's it. This shit's gone way too far. It was cute and kind of amusing in the beginning, back when crying was something that little emo fucktards did in the middle of their four black walls, into their black pillows before finally passing out on their black carpeted floors after throwing a tantrum to My Chemical Romance. Honestly, as much as I bitched, I was cool with it. I laughed at them in public without having to deal with the aftermath. Hell, in retrospect, I couldn't have asked for a better arrangement.
That was before Chris motherfucking Crocker.
You know who the fuck I'm talking about. Mr./Ms./Undetermined "Leave Britney Alone!" Him/Her/Itself. The first time I saw the video, I thought it was a joke. Y'know, some punk chick, yes, chick, employing satire as a means of poking fun at a former teen popstar/current professional disaster. Then, I realized two things.
1. It wasn't a chick. It was an...an it.
2. Whatever it was, IT WASN'T FUCKING JOKING!
Something in me broke at that point. Rather, the last of something that had taken punch after shot after jump after boot in the face finally collapsed from the ever-present abuse. Most people call this unnamed thing faith. Me? I just call it dead.
Dude, first of all, if Britney Spears actually takes time out of her day (which as I understand it primarily consists of masturbating to videos she made when she was still somewhat attractive and blaming her children and two ex-husbands for ruining her life) to watch your shit, she isn't going to be moved. Not in the way you're hoping for anyway. I promise, the only moving being done here is her no-talent, washed up ass moving from her home to her attorney's office to fill out the paperwork for a restraining order.
Second, and if you haven't already determined this you may just be the dumbest mass of tear-soaked dogshit I've ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on, no one is going to take a flaming homosexual in his early twenties seriously when he says that anyone who wants to talk shit about his obsession is going to have to go through him. Fuck's sake, I'd be willing to bet you couldn't fight your way out of a condom five years past it's expiration date with a machette. Protip: In order to throw a punch, you have to be able to make a solid fist. This includes keeping your wrist locked, and as yours is about as limp as shit in a thunderstorm, I'm thinkin' it's a safe bet the world's Britney haters are pretty much in the green as far as their safety goes.
Third, and in closing, I have two questions. Two questions that may just solve all of my problems, and lead me to an era of unprecedented peace and tranquility.
What the fuck are you on, and where the fuck can I get some?
Thursday, September 6, 2007
...So. The Dollyrots. You know you've heard them. You know you hate them. You know that somewhere, the physical incarnation of Death is listening to a radio, chompin' at the bit and screaming "Please! Please, just this once, let me kill someone for no other reason than I fucking want to!" It's not like you didn't know what they were going to sound like. The name says it all. Personally, I'd be willin' to put money on that being their second choice in lieu of a more fitting name, though.
I guess "Two Emo Fags And A Gutterslut" was already taken. Shit happens.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Everything I Need To Know, I Learned From Sid Vicious
1. Two things that'll ruin your life: heroin and women.
2. No talent? No worries. Just stand in the audience long enough.
3. Drugs + Sharp Objects + Nagging Girlfriend = Bad
4. What's a Swastika?
5. ...What's a Jew?
6. Cutting yourself is cooler if you're on a stage.
7. Alcohol makes everyone a better musician.
8. Gary Oldman is a great actor.
9. John Lydon may have had a fairy tale witch's smile, but he stuck by his friends.
10. Solo careers never work.
11. If you're British, no one will notice you're actually a strung out loser with little to no redeeming qualities.
12. Gary Oldman is a great fucking actor.
13. The American Judicial System gives every celebrity at least one Get Out Of Jail Free card.
14. Groupie whores have commitment issues.
15. Don't be afraid to dream. If it crashes and burns, you always have your dealer.
16. Sweatbands never need to be washed.
17. If you piss off enough people, eventually you'll become an international celebrity.
18. If you aid in the spawning of a counter-culture, they'll all think you're innocent if you're ever accused of something.
19. Anyone can be a role model.
20. When in doubt, stop thinking. Forever.
Sunday, September 3, 2007
Dear Twentieth Century Fox (and all subsequent Century Foxes),
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I mean, considering that whole pact you people obviously made with Satan and all. I'm writing to you because I am a genius, and as such, have had a brilliant idea for a new program. Given your respectable reputation...
...Sorry, fell out of my chair laughing...
...I'm bringing to your attention an innovative new idea that will not only entertain millions of Americans without fail, but will reduce the numbers of an entirely pointless subculture that annoys millions of Americans without fail. A show that will warm the hearts of families, and discourage a lifestyle that is slowly eating away at the core of America's youth. Sir or madam, I ask one thing of you: Emo Hunting.
Now, I know what you're thinking, that televised murder will not be the ratings sensation that I think, but you're wrong. I've already done your marketing research, done interviews with numerous people from various demographics, and the numbers all suggest the world wants one thing: dead emo kids. Should your consciences be chiming in with inhibitions regarding murder, I have also been consulting with many clergy members, and a great many agree that it is also God's wish to see the emo subculture reduced to nothing more than a lot of blood, guts, and hair grease, ashes to ashes, whiny bitches to dust.
As a final suggestion to improve this endeavor, I suggest approaching Henry Rollins about hosting the program, as it is my personal opinion that the only thing better than a dead emo shitwit kid is a dead emo shitwit kid with a steroid monstrosity with a shaved head bending over and screaming "Black Flag" into his prey's lifeless face. A possible close for the show would be Mr. Rollins stabbing the catch's eyes with broken shards of glass from their standard issue black hornrimmed glasses.
You have a chance here. You have a chance to not only provide wholesome entertainment, but to also help make America a better place to live. You have a chance to make a difference. Thank you for your time, and I hope you'll make the right decision.
Kindest personal regards (even though you bastards cancelled Firefly),
Rem Phoenix
Monday, August 27, 2007
Some days are better than others.
Other days, you wake up, you look at your clock, and you realize it doesn't matter what time it is because you've got nothing better to do than just lay there and wish you could go back to sleep and wake up past all the shit you deal with on a daily basis, all the memories, all the pain. You wish for better days, you pray for the strength to make 'em happen, and then you wonder why you even bother at all.
You pull your ass out of bed, you stumble outside, maybe light up a cigarette, and you just stand there with a stupid, blank expression plastered to your stubbled, weary face. You start thinking, and you can't help but whisper "Fuck" under your breath because you know you won't be able to stop. You think about the bitch who ripped your heart out and probably smeared the blood on her new boyfriend's cock just for the extra slick. You think about both the families that've more or less told you to go fuck yourself, only they won't say it out loud because lying to your face and putting up all manner of facade and deception is the right thing to do. The only father you ever really knew tellin' you with his actions that you're not good enough for his new family, while spewing all his nifty little colloquialisms and saying anything but what he really means. The uncle who's the only one on either side of that family who's got the balls to verbalize what a bastard he thinks ya' are, and how he's a prick because he's got you pegged as one for all the wrong reasons. The matriarch who stands by both of the aforementioned wastes of life because, hey, those're her boys. The guy who swore he had your back when it turned out he was only there to get a better shot with his knife. The crew you would'a thrown everything on the line for that turned out to be as stupid as they were mutinous. You think about the dead adoptive mother you weren't at all sorry to see go into the ground, except that maybe someday she could've gotten better and maybe, just maybe, you could've started believing that she gave a damn. You think about the friend you lost four days before you turned sixteen because some fuckstain couldn't be bothered to pay a little more attention to his speedometer. You think about all the friends you've left behind searching for greener pastures and finding nothing but dying grass in front of a run-down house that's the perfect example of how you see your life turning out when it finally spins outta' control. You think about the hand you were dealt in life, you wonder where the rest of the cards are, and you look up and you want with everything you have to scream "When, God?! When the fuck does it stop hurting?! When does all this shit start to make sense?!"
That was last year.
Then one day, it stopped hurting, at least in the most literal definition of the word. You know you're hurting, but it doesn't feel like pain anymore. At some point it changed. The gaping wounds stopped bleeding and scabbed over, and that ache in the middle of your chest quit making you want to break down and cry and started feeling a lot like strength. Pride did it's job, and all of a sudden all the rotten shit that made you who you were was something to brag about to yourself when you were sitting alone and you hadn't managed to wrap yourself up in something trivial. You realized that none of it mattered, aside from the fact that it had twisted your perception into something that made everything ugly, and you couldn't wait to share this nifty insight with all of your friends.
The catch? You couldn't, because the only person that had any idea of who you were only knew because they'd watched you go from a bright-eyed, somewhat optimistic kid to the bitter, jaded adult that looked you in the eyes every morning when you were shaving. They'd kept an eye on you, probably saw your epiphany coming the night before, and just smiled because that's what friends do when they've got your back but don't have a clue how to protect you from yourself. No, the people who didn't know you, the people you were waiting to meet, you couldn't tell 'em. Not the way you were. None of your private hell mattered anymore, you kept lying to yourself, except for that pesky wall you'd built up around your heart to military specs that kept you locked in as sure as it kept everyone else locked out, and all of a sudden, you had a new problem.
That was four months ago.
Then one day, you realized you were almost twenty-four years old and you still didn't have the slightest fucking clue what everything meant, where everything was going, or if you even wanted to live to find out. The pain was still your strength, your heart was still shut off and, what was worse, you weren't sure you knew how to turn it back on again. You kept your eyes peeled for that special someone, the last person you'd fuck for the rest of your life, who'd see what a miserable fuck you were, decide you were worth it anyway and beat her way past the mortar, brick, steel and titanium. You realized you didn't trust anyone, not completely anyway. Then you sat down at your computer and typed it all out in some stupid blog that most everyone you know never read anyway, you tried to write it out hoping you'd get something out of it, and when you didn't you said fuck it and decided to go to bed after just one more line.
So here we are.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Shitwit Sonywhore - "Wow, I'm bored."
Four days later...
Shitwit Sonywhore - "...Still bored..."
Three bowls later...
Shitwit Sonywhore - "Oh shit, man! I was supposed to be at (Japanese expletive) work like a week ago!"
Some time later...
Shitwit Sonywhore - "But...you can't fire me yet! I've got the perfect design for the next Playstation, and the most ten kinds of awesome name for it ever!"
Later that day...
Shitwit Sonywhore - "...3. Man, I'm a genius. Now, what to make it out of..."
Five minutes later...
Shitwit - "No, you can't fire me! I know that titanium is expensive, but we'll pass the cost onto the gamers, they'll be fine with it because the graphics are going to be amazing!"
Six months later...
Shitwit - "...Note to self: Titanium is hard to drill screws into..."
Five minutes later...
Shitwit - "No, don't fire me! We'll still keep the cost of all that titanium in the units, use plastic, and no one will ever think anything about it because the graphics will be amazing!"
Three months later...
Shitwit - "We lost how many exclusive rights?!"
Ten minutes later...
Shitwit - "Okay, this one's not even my fault, don't fire me! We've got plenty of games left, and the graphics will be amazing!"
Two days, and three dead virgins, later...
Shitwit - "...I invoke thee, o dark lord of the underworld, hear my plea..."
Fifteen minutes later...
Shitwit - "Look, I know calling on the Prince Of Darkness on company time wasn't the best idea ever, but we needed a hip new look for the unit to compliment the amazing graphics and he's got the youth market pegged like...no, I have no idea where your daughter is..."
And finally....
Shitwit - "Ah, done at last! The world will love it...because the graphics are amazing!"
Six months later...
Shitwit - "...Okay, y'know what? Fire me. I deserve it."
Fuck Sony. Phoenix out.
Monday, July 2, 2007
I'm gonna' put this as simply as I possibly can. I. Have had. Enough. After this blog, I will henceforth no longer offer solutions to your problems. Since I have a little heart left in me, though, I will post these last few tidbits of wisdom before I clear your stupid, self-perpetuated problems from my conscience and proceed with the incessant laughter at your expense.
1. Your significant other is not important. Seriously. You functioned before you met them, and you'll continue to function when they finally grow tired of your ceaseless stupidity. Buy a magazine, hit the bathroom, and shut the fuck up.
2. Your job is probably screwing you. Quit. Do you really need to ask me whether or not slaving away for pennies above the legal pay prerequisite is worth your time? Getting paid minimum wage is essentially the same thing as your employer walking up to you and saying "If we could fuck you harder, we would. Enjoy your weekend."
3. Your family is a series of headaches just waiting to happen. Why the fuck do you bother? It's not like these people associate with you because they choose to. You have a genetic bond with them brought about by a completely unfair natural tendency toward bloodborn kinship. It's like the lottery, only everyone gets to be the loser.
4. Your significant other still isn't important. For the love of all that's Holy on Earth, MOVE ON!
5. Your children are not special. I know you think that because your offspring are yours that they're destined for greatness but, face it, they probably aren't. You want proof? Go for a walk through Cinci. See the crackhead shaking like a leaf and begging for change? His parents thought he was special, too. Sleep tight.
6. The Anti-Christ really is among us. In fact, there's a whole family of them. One of them's in the oval office.
7. It's TV's job to make you stupid. Though in retrospect, it deserves some props. It's probably the only thing in this country that does it's job well.
8. No matter how great you are, someone will always be better. So quit walking around like you're God's gift to humanity. You're not, I promise. The assumption's probably given the Big Man a few chuckles though, so what the hell, keep at it.
9. Stop telling everyone you see to cheer up. Some of us like the fact that we haven't dilluded ourselves into a false sense of elation. Leave us alone and get back to doing that whole being an idiot thing that you do so well.
10. I'm not being mean. It's just that I don't care anymore.
There. The answer man is now officially dead. Phoenix out.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Recently, my sister posted a blog asking for a definition of love. Enjoy.
love [luhv] - noun, verb - loved, lov·ing.
1. the complete absence of common sense and/or ability to act rationally.
2. an open invitation to let another human being (using the term loosely, more often than not) wreak total havoc on one's emotional, professional and personal life
3. a dead concept that, in the late twentieth century, was reduced in practical meaning to little more than lewd acts in the backseat of a car, typically followed by emergency contraceptive procedures (assuming the individuals in question have any sense)
4. i am not bitter.
5. concisely put, a ginormous pain in the ass.
There ya' have it, folks. Phoenix out.
Monday, April 9, 2007
As damn near everyone who reads this knows beyond the shadow of a doubt, I rock when it comes to advice. I couldn't sort my own life out to save it, but when it comes to objectively offering guidance to people, I can count on one hand how many times I've been wrong in my life. People ask questions, I give answers, and I do it better than any psychologist, talk-show host or otherwise that you can fucking name.
SO WHY THE FUCK DOESN'T ANYONE EVER LISTEN TO IT?!
Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you people?! Was there a baby dropping convention that I just wasn't lucky enough to be let in on when we were all children? You know who you are, the whiny-assed, teary-eyed malcontents who think all is wrong with their lives and that they're in no way responsible for any of it.
"Oh Rem, you always give brutally honest advice, and I need it!' Why, so you can turn it around in your hands like it's some alien artifact that fell outta' the fucking sky and you just can't figure out how to switch it on? I swear, it's like watching the same kid with down syndrome run head-first into the same fucking wall over and over after you've shown them where the door is, the only variation between impacts being that they laugh harder and harder every time they get up to do it again!
Stef, I'm sorry that you have so little faith in your ability to size people up that you choose to ignore your better judgement every...single...fucking time that you meet someone. Yeah, the trad skin with the nifty bracers might look spiffy in plaid, but if you can tell he's an inconsiderate asshole, here's an idea. Don't fuck him! How fucking hard is that?! Don't make being a selfish prick your primary prerequisite for giving someone a blowjob! I swear it's not as difficult as it sounds. Here, I'll even give you a step-by-step list of the procedure. First, listen close now, first, stop listening to your friends when it comes to who you should date. They obviously have about as much common sense as the monkey in the back of the cage eating it's own feces. Second, stop thoughtlessly taking your clothes off for people. I swear, it's not that hard. I'm doing it right now, and I'm managing to make the five people this rant isn't aimed at laugh and pissing off everyone else at the same time! See? Not getting naked is easier than getting naked. Third? Cut your fucking throat, because you've demonstrated with crystal clarity that you're too fucking stupid to function in the world.
Jenny, I apologize for telling your sugar daddy that you tried to fuck everything with a pulse and a dick that lives in my building after he went to all the trouble to find me online and ask me specifically how many cocks you'd sucked while you were here. It must be hard trying to explain to him that you can't help but be open like an all-night liquor store, and harder still rationalizing getting sloppy trashed with a dirty hippie every night while your children are being cared for by someone else. Oh, and the pain you must've experienced every time you bitched about not being able to visit with said children while everyone just looked at you with the most "What the fuck?" expression on their faces due to the fact that you went out of your way to move a hundred miles away from said children! Oh, and come get your shit. I'm tired of explaining to people that I have a car seat in my room because some pilled-out, spread-eagled cuntwipe left to be reunited with her cherished baby boy and didn't bother to take it with her.
Oh, and Ashley. Ashley, Ashley, Ashley. Fuck's sake, but I don't even know where to begin with you. I guess I could start off by begging for forgiveness for the fact that you were lying to anyone and everyone who'd listen to your yuppie ass about Steve being gay. I'm such a horrible friend for stepping up to defend someone who jeopardized his fucking job to help me drive home, despite the fact that as far as the law was concerned I probably had as much business driving a car as I do spearheading a social movement based around anger management. God, the agony that you must've endured while being made to take responsibility for your dishonest, amoral actions. I don't even think I can forgive myself. Matter of fact, I'm gonna' go put one between my eyes as soon as I'm done writing this for being so inconsiderate that I put a damper on your malicious tirades, because I can't even hope to cope with slamming the door in your face after you spend roughly an hour attempting to tear down whatever confidence I'd managed to build up regarding the life I've made for myself. I hope you can forgive me.
There's a whole slew of other people I'd like to make mention of in this, but I think I've made my point. I've tried to help all of these people sort through their respective issues, insecurities and blatant stupidity. I didn't ask to help, they came to me and begged for honesty. Well, just for the sake of tradition, I'll give one more little nugget of wisdom before I write all of you off until such time as I either forget how maddening you all are due to all the substance abuse I'm going to have to indulge in to relax after dealing with this shit, or die.
Do the world a favor and go blow an exhaust pipe. Phoenix out.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Let me tell you a little about my morning. I woke up still fully dressed, reeking of marijuana, right leg draped over the back of my futon like a drugged up prom date, pizza boxes strewn everywhere like some junk food tornado passed through on it's way to the john and couldn't quite keep everything to itself. My stomach was turning in the opposite direction as everything in it, because let's face it, it just isn't Papa Johns unless you feel like you washed down every bite with a nice big slug of Hydrogen Peroxide. Oh, and it was 8 AM, which if my internal clock is correct was about fourteen hours earlier than I should have woken up.
It doesn't stop there, however! No, apparently I was such a remarkable embodiment of bastard yesterday from roughly 2PM to whenever I passed out that when I was somewhere between my room and the shower, fate decided I haven't taken enough cold showers in life and, thus, reduced my apartment's water heater to little more than an expensive paper weight. My head's pounding, I have a black hole where last night's exploits should be playing, my room looks like the remains of a Dropkick Murphys afterparty, and there's no one to be found.
In short? Today would not be the day to ask me for anything that requires any measurable amount of effort. Or thinking. Or breathing. Y'know what, just do yourself a favor and stay clear of me today. After all, imagine how embarassed I'd be if I accidentally ripped your face off and ran through town wearing it as a mask while singing Joy To The World.
Off-key.
Phoenix out.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Okay, so I was taking a look at my life in comparison to those of other people, and I realized something. Something inside of my brain is very, very broken. How'd I come to this realization? Well, I should think the most obvious answer would be the same way I come to every other realization I've had between 2AM and 6AM on any given night. Namely, mind-altering substance abuse, and lots of it.
See, I was hanging out with my friend Jackie a couple weeks ago, who I happen to have slept with. I've mentioned her before in passing. Now, Jackie wasn't the same as the other twenty-four. This took time. We alternated between being friends and tearing at each others' throats for three years before we made the informed, well thought out (drunk) decision to get drunk seperately and end up sleeping together on my last birthday in a fit of beer-bonging, whiskey-shooting drunken drunkenness. I think the booze may have had something to do with it.
Anyway, Jackie and I are friends. We don't have sex anymore, but we do smoke enough between us to make Jerry Garcia look straight-edge. On one particular occasion, we were partaking with another couple of friends of mine, Jenny and Sara, who I also happen to have slept with. I wasn't thinkin' about it, just so happened that we all ended up in the same room together. I didn't see a problem until I noticed them eyeballing each other and it hit me that I'd seen all three in various states of undress. That's when there was a problem. I'm sure you think you can imagine, but trust me, you can't. I look at Jackie, who's looking at Jenny, who's looking at Sara, who's just sitting there packing up, oblivious to the sizing up that's going on. Then, at one point, they all look at me, and suddenly it occurs to me that this is...
...Quite possibly...
...The most hilarious fucking thing that's ever happened to me. Hey, I didn't make this shit happen. At least not intentionally. This wasn't one of my practical jokes that pissed someone off, this was life in action being very, very funny. Nothing came from it, of course. They all just pretended not to think about it, and I pretended that I wasn't drawing blood from having to bite my tongue so hard. Seriously, there must'a been fifty or sixty jokes that I wanted to make at that point. I can't even describe how much self-control it took to not look at all three and say "Hey, what do a sorority princess, a feminazi and a pill-head all have in common? Give up? Me!"
So yeah, I'm well-aware that this post probably has everyone who reads it convinced that I'm a disease-ridden manwhore, but you couldn't be more wrong (the tests all came back negative). Granted, my track-record's a little more colorful than most but, in my defense, I was genuinely interested in every one of them. This isn't about justifying my astounding lack of moral fortitude, though. This is just me telling a funny story, giving yet another glimpse at just how fucked up my mind really is, and hopefully putting a smile on your face. Phoenix out.
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