Bible stories

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Everyone except Jonah had hot dogs. Finally, Jonah told them that god was very angry with him for looking like vanilla ice.


Jacob had twelve watches. He also had a beautiful coat made of zebra fur. He'll sell it to you for only 130 dollars.

sketchbook

le sigh

Sigh. They could have had another ticket sale, if only they did what everyone knew was right. I saw The fast and the furious, and it wasn't that bad. Oh, it was silly, but I can't help but like vin diesel. Maybe it's my inner alpha male identifying with his brute exterior, or maybe it's that fact that he is an action star who volunteered to pen a forward to the new edition of Dungeons and Dragons. I guess he was a pretty serious player when he was younger. Either way, as far as lighter fare (By which I mean FUcKING XXXTREMMEEE FARE!!1) goes, the fast and the furious was pretty much what you expected. It was satisfying, like cotton candy. It tastes so good, but you know it isn't actually good. But it is.

And then, a few summer ago, I fell into a crowd of foreign kids. That makes it sound bad, but it wasn't. I was working at a summer camp on schroon lake in upstate new york, and some of the counselors were really good people, but many were the types of kids who, in high school, made me wear black and have a silly haircut and scowl so hard I could strip the paint of a foot locker at a dozen paces. And as it turned out, my day off wasn't with any of my new friends, but instead with these sorry high school retreads. But, all of the foreign staff had the same day off as I did, so I fell in with their group. Most of the kids were from various parts of the UK, but there was also a guy from india, some australians, and a kiwi. They were all nice people, and we had a shit ton of great "oh man it's so different here" and "have you ever had a McGoolianzer bar? Oh shit, seriously? Wow, they're pretty good, I'll send you some when I get home" sorts of conversations.

Most of them had never been to america before, so they really wanted to get out and do something, anything, when we all went places on our weekends off. Sometimes we would just go walk around a mall, which couldn't have been that new to them, they must have had malls at home, but still. I totally understood the desire to immerse yourself in another culture, even the stuff that is commonplace to the locals.

Because of this, it seemed like their taste in movies left a bit to be desired. We saw a couple of good flicks, like pirates of the carribbean, and finding nemo - but I was also involved with some trips to the cinema for what seemed like no reason other than to say they had gone to four or five american movies while across the pond. And it was because of this that I was dragged (with physical force) to go see Charlie's angels 2, and 2 fast 2 furious.

2 fast 2 furious was not good. It was everything you needed for a shite-cock sequel. Stars left? Check. Dubious connection to first film? Check. Being totally and unabashedly bastard awful? Check. The one saving grace was the title. I thought the title was terribly clever, as far as clever titles that can work in the sequel's numerical assignment into the title go. And it was that night, when the theatre let out, that I made this promise to the world, and to all the people who had forced me to watch that pap. I declared "No matter how shitty the next one looks, No matter who stars in it, If they have the balls to name it 3 fast 3 furious, I will see that film in the theatre."

Fucking shit-ass fuck-ass bastards! Everyone knew that's what they should have called it. Never has the name of a sequel been so clearly needed, so obviously the best and only choice possible. Fucking 3 Fast, 3 furious. Say it aloud, it rolls of the tongue - no - it embraces your tongue in a velvet sheath. 3 fast. mmmmmmm.

BUT NO. They let me down, they lost a highly valuable ticket sale, and an unwitting franchise participant. Well listen here, directors and producers, and other high level decision makers behind fast and the furious, tokyo drift. You can eat my ASSHOLE, you complete cowards. You had a job, AND YOU FAILED AT IT.

FAILED!!!!

Pranks: The trifecta

Revenge. Sweet sweet revenge. I truly hold the concept of revenge being best served ice cold close to my heart. I don't need to see the results of a well timed revenge scheme to sleep a little better at night. This is the trifecta of pranks, the relationship enders. The pranks that you should only pull if you have a self defense plan ready.

Powdered milk

This prank is terrible. I'll be the first to admit it. This was told to me with the explicit instructions to forget who told it to me, so if I ever got caught and beaten severely for it, no shit would trickle down to the source. And I tell you all the same thing. You have to have some level of access to the persons house if you are going to pull this prank. Take some powdered milk into the target's bedroom, and pull off the comforter, and the top sheet.

--Now. There are a few ways to proceed from here, maybe you are putting the pieces together. It would be best if you could have the milk on top of the fitted sheet, but unless your target is drunk as a lord, or the sheets are white as snow, they'll probably notice a bitch-load of powdered milk scattered over their bed. An acceptable alternate method is to put a lot more of it under the fitted sheet. This will work if your target is a man (who will sweat a lot) or depending on the season, the air conditioning situation in the house, and the weather.--

If everything works as planned, then things will proceed as such. The target will go to bed and go to sleep. Like everyone else, they will sweat a bit in their sleep. This sweat will mix with the powdered milk and turn into milk. This milk will sit on their skin for the whole night and sink into their pores. Once there, body heat will cause the milk to curdle in their pores. They will smell like curdled milk, and since it is in their pores, it won't be easy to wash out, so they will smell like rotten moldy death for a while, maybe over a week.

This is not to be used lightly, It is the nuclear option in my personal prank arsenal, the atomic solution. Although if you want to do it a little quicker, more on the sly, put a healthy dose of powdered milk in the end of someone's shoes. Their feet will stink like bullshit for weeks, and they will lose exactly one pair of shoes. This version is almost foolproof, because really - who looks in their shoes before putting them on? Rio-grande cowboys looking for scorpions? OK, they are exempt from this, but everyone else is fair game.

Milk-Chicken bomb

Requirements:
-intimate access to someone's home
-said home to have central heating

Sometime in the fall, before the heat is turned on for the year, but after air conditioning season is our time to act. Take a quarter dark of raw chicken, or a whole breast and wing (whatever you want as long as it isn't pre skinned/boned- the gristle and fat is what you need) and put it in a mason jar with about a cup and a half of whole milk in it. Screw the lid on tightly. Make very sure that the seal is set as firmly as it can be.

If they have central heating, then they have vents all over the house. Find one of these vents and remove the metal cover. Depending on the location of the vent, what is past the wall may be of use, or it may not. We are looking for a place set well back from the wall, where a small mason jar can be comfortably placed. The farther away from the wall, and the closer we can get to the source of the heat, the better off we are. About two or three feet back from the wall should suffice.

Now. I've never done this, so I can't speak with authority. As far as my research can determine, the bomb will detonate in either A) one week, B) one month, or C) 3 months. I imagine it has to do with how much milk and chicken are in your bomb, and the exact ratio you have used. Anyway. What will happen eventually is that the mix will create enough gas for the glass jar to crack open, or the lid to pop off, and the smell that would come out would be totally unbearable. Especially if you have timed it right, and it pops in the winter, in the heat vent, causing the smell to be blown into and throughout the house. There is a good chance the house will become temporarily uninhabitable while the bomb's remains are located.

If the powdered milk prank was my atomic option, then this is the hydrogen bomb. Created and discussed, but never used out of fear of the global repercussions. You can adapt this to your needs. I guess it doesn't NEED to be in the heating vent, if you can find somewhere similarly out of the way. And it doesn't need to be limited to just chicken and milk, if you wanted to drop a turd into the mix it probably wouldn't fuck it up. If you want to get a car, put it in the spare tire cavity, under the carpet flap. Or in an office you could put it in the ceiling if the tiles are the right kind. I guess if you were the worst bastard in the whole world you could smash a hole through some drywall, put it in the wall, then plaster, and paint over the hole. That would require some serious time to pull off, but imagine the results. Oh god, imagine them.

Assed toothbrush

Keeping with my military analogy, this would be the assassination with a large rifle option. A direct and unambiguous attack towards one individual.

Get a hold of the toothbrush of the offending party, it helps if it is early in the life cycle of this toothbrush, or if your target is known to infrequently change their brush. Put the toothbrush in your asshole, and take a picture of it in there. This may seem like a small punishment for you, but remember, no pain, no time delayed gain. Take a second picture of the toothbrush back in the place where they keep it, after you rinsed off any easily sighted dingleberries. If you want to let them know who did this, make this second picture of you smiling and holding up their toothbrush.

Give them the picture a few weeks, months, or years later.
Remember, best served ice cold.

Bible stories 2

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After the concert, Stryper prospered and spread across the world. Eventually they began to forget about god, so the lord had to turn their guitars into baskets of devil-fish.

Chuck Norris was not afraid. Would the king of a great city listen to him? It doesn't matter to Chuck.

The best dog story

This is the best dog story ever, and unfortunately, I wasn't there for it. This may lead you to believe that this is a borderline urban legend, the sort of story that at the very least has been embellished until it shines. This is not the case. If this story weren't true, it would dim the light in my life significantly. You'll see.

Police dogs.
The camp I have most recently worked at is scheduled week by week, and by disability. One week it will be children with epilepsy, and the next week it will be adults with traumatic brain injuries. So each week has its own very distinct flavor, which can change drastically the awesomeness of any given activity. The week in question was camp limberlost, for at-risk youth.
This camp is at the same time one of the most touching events in many counselor's lives, and a good reason to develop a twitch. (That makes it sound like you would develop a twitch on purpose, and maybe some people would, I don't know) Kids at limberlost are oh so very good at pushing buttons, ignoring your every basic wish, cussing, running wild like caged animals in the night, and needing you so badly in their lives in more ways than you will ever know or think possible.
So. For this particular camp we have a lot of public servants come in and speak to the kids, police, firemen, the military, so on. Like all thirteen year olds, or children gripped early by the spirit of Christmas seventh grade, they go to Herculean lengths to convince you and everyone near them that this is totally gay, can we please leave? However, with all the assurance of a man who himself has worn a mullet (true) and had a ponytail with the sides shaved up three inches above the ear (true) in an effort to rebel against something, I deny my past and insist that this is good, this will build character. Trust me.
The air thick with the desire to be somewhere else, the police come. And they do the police-for -kids dog and pony show. Talking to strangers? Bad. Drugs? Bad. Listening to authority? Good. And then the Police bring out the K-9 unit. If you've ever seen the K-9 unit in a calm and explanatory manner, then you know how fucking utterly frightening those dogs are. A 105 pound German Shepard? Holy balls, It gives me the shivers just sitting here typing. Then again, I have a history of dog fear, only overcome in the last 5 years or so. So a big actually scary dog is like, ten times worse for me. Anyway.
The police show off what the dog can do. It can follow a trail around the field. It can find a small amount of drugs from hundreds of feet away. It can listen to commands in German (which does not in any way make these dogs less scary) and lay down and so forth. Last, and most assuredly not least, these dogs can bite the ever fucking shit out of you and yours. This is always saved for the finale, as it is the most visceral example of police power able to be displayed legally to children.
So they send one officer away, while the other one holds the dog and talks to the children about what is going to happen. The other officer then comes out from behind the truck with the bite sleeve on, brandishing some sort of club. The dog starts to seriously freak the fuck out, and the cop lets him go. He sprints to the bad guy cop, and bites the sleeve.
Ha. That wouldn't make this the best dog story ever, now would it?
No. The dog sprinted over to the bad cop and bit the shit out of his other arm. Blood was let copiously. Muscle was torn from bone, and exposed to the air. The dog bit the shit out of his unprotected arm, and the good cop had to run over to him, yelling in German. All the while the dog was thinking it was a game and continued to hold his bite, thrashing back and forth, spraying blood everywhere.
Two things. One. These children will never be criminals. Two. I wish so Fucking hard that I could have seen this. This is the lighthouse on the foggy shore of my life, leading me onwards.

Pranks: Food stealers

These pranks are geared towards those unfortunate bastards who are choosing to eat your food, and will only really work if this person eats your food (hopefully against your will) with some regularity. These are not to be done lightly to a spouse, or significant other - these are acts of hostility.

----IMPORTANT SAFETY WARNING!----
If you are going to actually use any of these ideas, please first familiarize yourself with the substances you will be using and their side effects. Please.

-Leave some cooked bratwurst in the fridge, with prominently displayed buns on the counter. Who doesn't like cold brats for a snack? (vegans, many other people) This will work fine with a hotdog, or an Italian sausage. Acquire some Ipecac syrup, and a plastic syringe. Insert the syringe into the end of the brat, and put a full dose into the length of it. Serious professional grade vomiting will be induced within 5-10 minutes or so of consumption. Advise the victim to drink some water afterwards, to re-hydrate them.

-Purchase a beverage that you know will be ganked, and spike it with one dose of flavorless fleet oral laxative. This will induce a loose bowel movement within 30 minutes to a few hours. There are many wonderful products that will replicate this effect. I've actually seen this done, though it was taken willingly by the subject on a dare. They shat prodigiously, and quickly. You should probably stick to the recommended dosage, or maybe 1.5 that, if you trust that your subject is in good health, and if you really want them to shit their pants at work. Again, once they've drank it, have them drink some water, it will help.

-Melt down some chocolate, and place a handful of cotton balls on a sheet of wax paper. Once the chocolate is melted down to a liquid, pour it gently over the balls, covering them completely. Leave out in a candy dish once cooled.

-At either sam's club or wal-mart, they sell bags of dog treats called ole' roy's, or something similar. They look disturbingly similar to the type of beef jerky that comes in a large plastic bag. So, replace the real jerky with the dog treats and abandon in a delicious spot. As I have discovered earlier in my life, dog treats that look like people food do not taste like people food. It tastes like sand mixed with ass.

-Chocolate laxatives have so many uses, it would be criminal just to list one idea. It can be melted down as above, and made into candy, or drizzled over the top of something like donuts, or cookies. It can just be broken up into little squares and mixed in with some trail mix ingredients. The sky is the limit with these things.

Remember, you didn't hear any of this from me.

Dirt McGurt

I don't know how you all see it, but when it comes to the children, Wu-Tang is for the children. We teach the children. Puffy is good, but Wu-Tang is the best. I want you all to know that this is ODB, and i love you all, peace!

Shingle

This Texas things has me all fucked out. I can't summon the will to make a decision about anything else in my life until this is settled. Which, if it falls through, is going to leave me all the way up shitass creek, way up near the falls, with no paddle or boat. Just going over the edge in a burlap sack, sewn shut at the top. But since I want this job so badly, it feels like cheating to even look for other ones in the meantime.

I am excited, but in a calculatedly reserved way. I am excited on the inside, but I tell myself, and anyone who cares to ask that I am not; and that time will tell, right man for the job, good things in Peoria, 110 percent, do it for the gipper. These are lies. Filthy, shit-ridden lies.

My inner depressive is tossing his unwashed bangs to the side and letting me know that no matter how badly I want this it wont work out, specifically because I want it so badly and that is exactly what the pin puller has in store for me. But fuck him, and fuck his mullet. Positive things happen to positive people. Right? RIGHT!?

Favorite Bible Stories

The Boo (AKA The Chop) gave me this book of Bible stories for Valentine's Day this year. It has been my mission since to Sharpie this book without remorse.

Jonah lived a simple life as a Buffalo Gangster.

Jonah prayed for God to improve his chest pass.

King Chad had stolen God's Rumpleminze, and windsurfed all the way to Cozumel.

Serious ranting, avoid if possible

I've always made it a point to be politically aware, but I think I've given up on politics. What's it worth to follow? I truly believe that I will never make even the slightest difference. The system is set up in a way that may be activist-proof. Or revolution-proof. Take gas, as a timely example. The world price goes up, gas prices will raise that afternoon, often times jumping 30 cents while I'm at work. Would the prices ever go down in a similar fashion? Of course not, it is a business geared to make as much money as possible, just like all large businesses. So they lower it slowly, over the course of a few weeks, months. Clearly, this being only one of a great many examples, they are making money from us. And yet on forums, and television, and anywhere you have an opinion being spouted, there are always people to jump to the defense of the oil industry. To claim that they are not trying to make money, that somehow they are an innocent, altruistic commodity dealer in the midst of the wolf pack of corporate America. That is the worst part to me. I can understand full bore bastard capitalism, profit uber alles. I can understand lobbyists, and political maneuvering. But to have the system so wrapped around your fat oily dick as to have a good percentage of the population actually believing that you have no control over the prices, and that these record profits you are posting are somehow unrelated to the sharp rise in the price of the commodity you deal in exclusively - that's what really stings.
But this isn't a rant on gas (lies). Every issue seems to have that side to me lately. It's not that I want everyone to agree with me, I just want there to be a real political arena of the people. One where the issues that affect people are being discussed in an honest fashion. An arena where advertising and push polling and special interest groups and attack ads and hot-button election year issues all fucking wither up and die. I want the corporate dick to come out of the mouths of people, and for them to stop all their wet, smacking mumblings.
I want to stop feeling like I did when I was a child, watching two opposed sides argue at each other, never listening to what the other side says. And all the while the one who is watching this argument is getting fucked over the worst.

Hospitality rider

When BLUEBEARD gets done with his show, he expects to have the following presented on a long table in his dressing room.
- 3 cans of squirt soda
- a number 11 from jimmy johns on sub bread
- a small dish of freshly made guacamole'
- some of those really crunchy tortilla chips that come in a green bag, the salted ones
- a few of those suckers he got on Halloween as a kid that were essentially colored spheres of pure sugar on a stick
- a Friday night fish fry with at least TWO extra helpings of fish, no coleslaw
- a hand made statue depicting BLUEBEARD putting a nationally known asshole in a headlock, and administering a completely fucking ruthless dutch-rub
- 3 forty ounce bottles of natural light brand beer
- one draft horse, feed him the natural light 20 minutes before the show ends
- a 2 square foot pot of dirt containing a large lawn hedge clipped to resemble one character from the film POOTIE TANG, must be at least 80 cm in height
- a blunt large enough to play cricket with (give at least one third of it to the horse)
- a glass boot filled nearly to the top with horchata
- a pillow case 1/3 full of barber clippings, and 4 bear shaped bottles of honey. One minute before BLUEBEARD walks into the room, cover yourself in all of the honey, and have someone else sprinkle the hair evenly over your near naked body. If you don't like this step of the rider then YOU SHOULD GET A NEW JOB, PLEBIAN!

All items with a dash in front of them are absolutely essential,
thanks for all your help,
:) :) :)
Bluebeard

The fished couch story

A long time ago (2001) and in a galaxy far, far away (Normal, IL), I was but the picture of youth (drugs and sex). I lived in the upstairs apartment of a four unit building, and everyone came and went freely. Living below me, in apartment 1, were a bunch of dirty, dirty bastards. They spent all their money on booze and weed, ruling out mere indulgences such as toilet paper, a phone, and food. They had thrown a whiskey bottle through the window of their oven, and loaded up the dishwasher with laundry detergent more than twice. Needless to say they were the main proponents of the "we came and went freely" philosophy, using my oven with a regularity only surpassed by the use of my toilet for shitting.

So, after trying and failing to settle the matter in a diplomatic fashion, I took it upon myself to right what had been wronged.

I let myself into apartment 1 on a sunny day in the very early spring, when it was just starting to get warm during the day, the kind where you never quite remember to open your windows.
I lifted up the cushions of their couch, and removed the staples that keep the cloth under the cushions in place. Inside this virginal couch opening I put one frozen tilapia fish, whole. With a heavy grade stapler I re-stapled the couch, reset the cushions and went on my merry way.

The first week it went unnoticed, as The denizens of apartment one were truly dirty fuckers.
The second week it became apparent that something smelled, but not so much as to raise a general alarm.
The third week it had gotten considerably hotter during the days, and the door was kept open all during this week, as the unmistakable smell of wharf became rather overpowering.
The fourth week left apartment 1 a relatively barren place, devoid of human life during the waking hours. The smell of rotting sea-life had made it firmly into each bedroom, and could be smelled easily from the street. At the end of this week the smell became so strong that the apartment was turned ass over tea-kettle, and the furniture was dismantled piece by piece. The fish was found one month to the day after I had hid it. I was confronted, and I denied any involvement with said tilapia. The matter was never spoken of again.

This has earned me the reputation of "never ever get on his bad side, as he will wreak vengeance upon you in a gruesome fashion" to the people I know. And this is useful, because even though most people trust I wouldn't ass their toothbrush, or fish their couch - they tread lightly near me just to be safe.

Mountains

Only having seen mountains once it was startling to open the window and see them there. Immobile, but staring right back as if to say "Fuck you for ignoring us, we've been around for ages. Who the fuck do you think you are?"
A challenge from the mountains? What was I to do? I Smashed my elbow through the window, things began zipping about the cabin. Children screaming, adults screaming. I grabbed a complimentary airline blanket, held it by the four corners.
"Fear not brave passengers! This challenge most foul shall not go un-avenged!" I crawled out the window, and began to float down. Now the mountains became unsure. Their authority had never really been directly confronted before.
"Hey mountain!" I yelled.
"......"
"I said, hey mountain!"
"Me?"
"Are there any other mountains here?"
"...Well, no." The mountain seemed a bit sheepish, all bark and no bite. I kicked the mountain as hard as I could.
"Who matters now, huh? You like that, bitch? You're a hill!"
The mountain shuffled away. "Please stop, I'’m sorry."
Triumphantly I raise my fist. I rule another day.

ATTN: students of Pekin

Children, children. There's no way for me to say this to you without feeling like my dad, but seriously. Get a haircut. Your shit looks completely tragic right now. I know you think you know what's up, and that's cool. I was the same way. But I also had a fucking tragic string of hair styles, and I regret it now as an adult who has had to seal away a number of years worth of formative photos. So, for your own good, get a haircut. There's no need to be all 50's about it. I'm not looking to cure good Charlotte-itis with a good ole' duck butt, or a pompadour - just get an actual hair style, and get a haircut at least every 6-8 weeks.

This whole shaggy, neo-70's hair thing going on right now is o.k. by me. But in order to do it, you need semi regular upkeep. See, if you are a rock star, or a model, or someone with a regular job well-to-do enough to afford regular hair care - you're going to be ok. Let out that hair, that long beautiful hair. But the children, they don't get it yet. They want to show how seriously rebellious and individual they are. And how much they fit in.

So they just sort of let it go. And unfortunately for them, not getting a haircut is not a style - it just makes you look like a douchebag. Oh, god - and then they do that stupid-ass brush it to one side of your face move, creating hair that comes down their forehead, and then goes at least 4 inches over to one side as well. This also forces them to constantly snap their head back and to one side just a little to shift their hair out of their eyes, but not all they way. Just a little.

So all I'm saying to all the students attending the various junior high schools and upper grade schools in pekin is this: I'm just looking out for you. You don't need to look like me ( please don't look like me) just stop looking like such a bunch of mangy little fucks.

??

Would you rather be locked in a closet with some bees for 100 minutes, or be forced to have an entire night of passionate sex with an ugly clown?

Things I cannot remember

My third grade teacher's name. See, we had a nickname for her (and presumably she had a given name) but in the haze of young adult hood, I've forgotten the difference between the two. Was my third grade teacher's name actually Mrs. Bowser, or was that just our wit-ridden name for her? If it was her given name, that was an amazingly timely coincidence for the children roaming the hallowed halls of Walden grade school in 1988.

My first thought is that my teacher when I was eight sharing a name with the main bad guy of a very popular video game is fairly suspect. She was also, coincidently, the teacher who forced a bunch of bitch-ass book reports (Sword of Shannara), country reports (Poland), and animal reports (sharks) on me. All of which I hated with well publicized passion. This lends credibility to the fact that I would equate her with a dinosaur. Dragon. Turtle.

Furthermore, if it was bowser, then what would our clever name have been? Because I remember clearly having one of those for her. There is no need to further mock a teacher with the misfortune of having a shitty name. You don't call Miss CockenSmack anything but her glorious god given surname, and you don't have to mess with Mrs. Bowser either.

However, if her name wasn't bowser, than I have NO IDEA what it was. Bower? Booser? Bowsen? Nothing. Blank. While logically I can see that there is a low probability that, given the circumstances, her name was indeed bowser, I cannot shake the feeling that it may well have been.

Could I find out with relative ease what her real name was? Yeah.
Do I want to? No. I like some mysteries.