Let's face it: shit happens.

You're just sitting down, reading a good book (I won't give any examples, because that's very subjective, so just assume it's "Crime and Punishment") when out of nowhere, you snap your tibia. Minutes later, you're breathing through a tube and being rushed into an emergency room where the doctors all are fucking each other and have a lot of emotional problems, and the senior surgeons try to mentor their apprentices on life issues while performing open heart surgery on you. You wake up 28 years later, and find out there is a Gay Muslim President in America, and that women's shoes are more uncomfortable than ever.

What I just described happens everyday, especially to children with sad, soulful eyes. However, life goes on, and you are in luck, in fact! Now that your leg was mangled in a yogurt-machine, people will feel sorry for you and do you favors, and you can get to the front of all the rides. There is no better feeling than saying "Pardon me, but I was horribly injured, and I may not live much longer and before I go, I want to live life to the fullest." and the rollercoaster-ride-guy goes "Certainly, right this way! You don't have to wait." then you go "Bless you, sir!" then get into your seat, and just before the ride goes, you turn to all the people waiting in line and give them all the finger. The middle finger.

Now, if you encounter someone who is injured, the first thing you should do is ask "Are you okay?" in the stupidest-sounding voice possible. This will feign concern, which is vital to Looking Good In Front Of Everybody. When they groan "No." the next thing you should do is elevate the injured part of their body. This won't do anything, but it may make you seem knowledgeable about first aid, like you read a pamphelet. The next step is to put ice on it. Just loads and loads of ice, because when someone hurts, you have to just do something; it doesn't really matter what, just as long as it appears helpful to the person in question, and onlookers. If there is no ice, take off your pants and soak them in toilet water, then wrap them around the victim's foot. The next step is to find out if they need to go to the hospital. NEVER take them to the hospital yourself, because you'll be in there for a long time, and that's quite a drag, so always just help load them into someone else's car then look on as they are driven off into the sunset, feeling good about how you handled that situation.

Getting seriously injured is great for collecting money from liability suits against companies, so advise all of you get into an altercation with a work-related machine so you can get paid da money money. A hand or finger is a small price to pay for 22 million dollars, but I'd say it's a fairly good trade-off, just so long as it appear that the company is responsible. Don't just stick your hand in a chopping machine; that's just silly, but rather, do something like step in front of a forklift while wearing ear-protecty-headphone-thingies and then later say "I couldn't hear the forklift, and because the company makes me wear these, it's their fault."

If you are injured, you are the most important person in the world. If someone is rude to you, they're a terrible person, because they should be thankful that they're healthy and in one piece while your walking on crutches. That's the most important of post-injury: the attitude. You have to let people know, constantly, just how much pain you were in, and how much psychological pain you're in. You weren't just hurt on the outside; your very soul and being was crippled and the only way you can be restored to full health is to receive a lot of sympathy from other people, but especially, strangers. If someone doesn't just gush with sympathy and compassion about injury, then they're a piece of shit! Fuck them!

For those who encounter the crippled: it is best to avoid them at all costs. After all, they want to waste your time with their burden. On top of that, they never just want to talk about normal things, like sex and drugs, no, they always want to talk about their injuries. As a non-crippled person, you want to get your mind positive by surrounding yourself with positive energy, and discuss non-crippled topics with fellow non-crippled people. Now, if you're trapped and a cripple has cornered you, and you can't just jump from wall to wall, gradually gaining height to escape to the roof like in a Jackie Chan movies, then you should do the following: Pretend to be 'treating them normally', but talk in a awkward voice, slightly louder than normal. Always ask them why they're wearing a cast. "Why are you wearing a cast?" you ask. "I slipped on my cat and fell down the stairs." they reply, to which you follow up by asking "Are you okay?", which is kind of a weird question, because their foot is obviously hurt or broken, but in theory, they could lead a long, productive life full of happiness, but you have to assess how they feel about their injury. If they go "Eh, oh this? It's fine." then they'll heal in a matter of weeks, thus giving you permission to not really care, but maybe help them out with a few tasks, then sign the cast for fun. If they complain about the injury, then odds are, they will never heal, ever. Years after the cast is off, they'll still say their foot hurts, so it's a good idea to never speak to them again. End the conversation by telling them you're late for a very important appointment with the vet, even if you don't own a pet, and in fact, especially if you don't own a pet.

Remember, above all else, just remember to pretend you care, but that's the glue that holds the house-of-cards that is society together.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving, and don't try to deep-fry your turkey, because that will likely start a large grease fire.

 Over the course of the last couple of seasons, I haven't posted very much. I haven't been engaged much in blogging since last December, but I pop back in occasionally, kind of like driving through your childhood hometown to see how it is, and you see some of the same people, some of have moved away. The sidewalks are cracked, the houses need paint, there's garbage on the broken avenues, and that little shop that used to sell those gigantic lollipops has closed down.

As I stroll down those tattered walkways, people wave to me and say they miss me. I missed them too. They smile at me, and I smile back. They ask me where I've been, and I say...


An ominous charcoal-black windowless full-size van came screeching from beyond yonder spontaneously as I stood posed in serene equanimity. Suddenly, I was punched with the compunction to be terrified; my legs turned to liquid, the cartilage transmogrified into tapioca pudding. If I was canine, the hackles would factually stand on my back, however, my limbs would render themselves immobile as if latched in cast-iron shackles. Lurid silhouettes orbited by malign ambiance awarded no contradiction to my steadfast optimism, as they darted about ubiquitously. I became infinitesimally miniscule, but remained fastidiously captivated by the capricious cavalcade of camaraderie surreptitiously circling in the shadows. No doubt they were rendered flabbergasted by my profluence of equanimity, and had I been able to navigate through a labyrinth of lenient masked harbingers, I certainly would've evaded seizure, however, they were relentless. Prior to being tossed like Caesar Salad into their van, I opened my thesaurus and said "Well, this is quite...", turning a page to find the word I said, "...vexing." They did not engage a tête-à-tête.

Anyhoo, I was kidnapped by a quinessential polygamist cult with it's citadel situated in the heart of Wyoming (Where else would it be? Nebraska?). You know, an insidious anti-hedonistic threshold of hypnotized lemmings serenading a singular totalitarian esoteric ostentatious modern-era messiah with a litany of hallelujahs, or verily be ostracized by the cattle-like stoic congregation, envisaged as a prefidious Benedict Arnold to the Sovereign Savior, who merely confabulates fabrications fabulously and causes the fabric of reality to stand flabbergasted as his mere whim constitutes ultimate unequivocal actuality! Upon arrival, he brusquely began courting me for coitus, as his role as fucking Jesus revolved about a routine of copulating preadolescents of the xx-deoxyribonucleic acid persuasion, but also an occasional fully-developed female mammal.

So naturally, I escaped with a nail file.

Fucking weirdos. So, after I made haste from the cult (I was saved, in part, by a time-traveling, crime-fighting monkey named Nomac, who slashed peoples' Achilles Tendons as his main attack.) I got on a bus that took me to Kalamazoo, where I took a plane to Albuquerque, and then I took a helicopter to Ouagadougou, and then I took two aspirin, some painkillers, a Jack, and a coke, and woke up in a crate that sent me back home, where I finally sat down to blog, but I had such a headache that I was able to write was "CRIPES!" before passing out.

I actually wrote a lot of posts, but I never made any of them public, because they didn't "feel right". Maybe you know about those posts that you write, but keep going back and deleting whole paragraphs that just came out wrong, then, after finishing it, it still wasn't right. You looked at it, and concluded to yourself "I guess some things are just better off left unsaid."

Remember when Obama said that police officer acted stupidly? Sure, it's stupid for arresting someone for trying to get into their own house when they clearly identify themself as the legal resident, but apparently, the President wasn't allowed to have an opinion, because it "undermines the police's decisions". Really, that makes sense, because there are times when a minority person pulls out a wallet that looks like a weapon, and he has to be shot 127 times. Anyhow, the point is, I had things to say, but I didn't post them for ze world to see for a change, thus disengaging me from the Xanga Scene for awhile. I still feel disengaged, disgruntled and disconnected from the Xanga world in general. I stilll feel guilty about some of the things that I did on xanga before, and I have cloud over me telling me that I'll never be as "big" as I was before.

It's both freeing and disappointing to not be writing for an audience of thousands anymore, because in general, mass audiences don't catch subtlety very well, but laugh at pictures of sandwiches and pop-culture jokes. On the other hand, if you think it's fun having a handful of people care about what you write, imagine having a fuckton more people caring. That kind of grew on me for awhile, and I had a hard time letting it go. Most of my life, nobody has cared about what I thought, and I mean literally nobody. I'm not trying to get pity points by saying that, I'm just saying that when you crave validity, and then it comes in truckloads, it's very overwhelming but incredible.

If you're worried about me, never fear... I've grown up somewhat since I started this blog, and I feel like I have more confidence now, and I think the people in my life notice it too. To be honest, Xanga may have something to do with that, so thank you.

Peace!

I love when people ask me this question, I simply love it. As those syllables spill from their mouths, shivers of euphoria pour down my spine like cascades of warm water during a shower after having shoveled snow for, like, two hours and having cold nipples. Now, you're probably wondering why I love this question so much. First of all, it treats me good, with respect, like no other question ever has. It whispers "I love you" into my ear and kisses me softly, and holds me tight when I'm feeling blue, and when I feel like the sky is always grey, it shines beautiful rays of sunshine down onto my face. It tells me I'm beautiful when I feel disgusting. It opens doors for me and when motorcycle-riding ninjas attack, it doesn't scream like a pussy and leave me in a dark alley to be raped. Our sex is amazing.

Oh dear... I think I may have said too much. Crud.

But I love this question, because when someone is trying to make small-talk with me when I'm stocking shelves with boxes of kleenexes, I turn to them and say "Excuse me, I'm trying to do my thankless job here." and then they look at me like I just hawked a loogie in their face and ask "What is your problem!?", as if. You know, as if. AS IF. First of all, they're assuming I have just one problem. I have many problems. Second, do they seriously want to know? Imagine if I turned to them and said "Well, I recently ran out of Vagisil and my itchy crotch is irritating me, and on top of that, my cat has a bladder infection and the vet bill for shots is 500,000 dollars." then, being the thoughtful little people they are, would come up with some clever one-step solutions to every problem, like "Just use some duct tape." or simply go "I'm sorry to hear that, but you don't need to be so rude." but listen; I do in fact, need to be rude.

So, I was sitting at a very sophisticated coffee shop with World Wide Web wireless magic witchcraft shit, right? And it wasn't Starbucks. Definitely not. But I was there, brutally pounding away on the keyboard of my laptop that I borrowed, but planned to break from my intense typing, and all of a sudden, this guy says "Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice that you were typing very loudly, and if you could type quieter, I would appreciate it." I sat silently, because there were no words. In the entirety of human communication, there aren't words that can possibly come close to properly expressing the level of stupidity in his request. "Are you kidding me?" I said, and he cleverly retorted with "Yeah."

I laughed, then whipped off my glasses dramatically, or attempted to, but they clung to one of my ears, so they came off very awkwardly, but he got the point.

"Do you even realize that I am Celebrity on Xanga?" I scoffed, adding "You're an insect to me, and I am a shoe, and I step on you."

"What is your problem?" he asked.

I reached into my bag, and pulled out a sai. As soon as he saw it, his eyes widened, and he shuffled away nervously, realizing that his life could've ended right there. I was then asked to leave by the management.

I changed a few tiny minor details in this story, like the name of the guy, who was named Peter or something, but I changed his name to "The guy" to protect his identity. Also, by the way, whenever you say "identity", you also are saying "titty", you perv!

So I ask you,

What is your problem?