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.

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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.