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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