January 8th.
Downgraded. Updated. And on the run for being off the hook.

Ok. So here is where we be at right now. The links are probably fucked, our childish hosting company www.hpi.net (nuke them) decided to turn us away for personal reasons of their pussy admin, host of www.rand0m.org (nuke them). And we decided to avoid linking to such sad and dangerous people that promote the internal decay of society. So suck it up, I know only two of your read me right now. But that ain't no thing to me. So the text on the front page works. I promise nothing else. But I'll be back on the hate mail soon. Just bear with me.

Just a couple of thoughts to tide over you monkeys pounding on your keyboard out there. First, I am going to make a book entitled "101 ways to cure Alzheimer's Disease" I will then print the exact same page one hundred and one times. See how they deal with that. Lousy old people and their sucking up of all the ... whatever, you know, the stuff they suck up. Like good crystal and the foot pump you need to inflate your bike tire. Unless you are a man, in which case I am not sure why you need it. Got little tassels and a bell on that bike there longhair? Man, get a paper route and you could pay back Mr. Johnson for the window you broke with the baseball. Gee Whiz. And there is a jump on Mulberry Hill that would be totally neato. We could go do that and then go pick up the dead birds that flew into the power lines. And then we could bury them and you can practice your sermon'n and I could practice my ditch digging. Dad says it is the only thing a little cuss like me can do right. Only we have to keep a bluejay because electrocuted bluejay's are good luck, and we could gross Sally out with it. And you know what Dylan Thomas said about burying a bluejay in springtime.

Random dilapidated signs: "Our Spicy Chicken Now Are"
"Pay at the pum" (yep, I find it funny. I am that sad).
"We are now"
"Prepare"
"Come check out"
I can't not find those not only hilarious, but probably the best advice out there.

And I am giving you a poll. (It is more Laura's creative baby than mine however. So sending love out there.) Naturally it is about the only thing in this godforsaken blasted pre-post-apocalyptic a-neo-wasteland that matters at all. So, you get the chance to use your free hand to tell me:

Current Results
Free Web Polls

January 6th.
Re 'Spondents.

I have been on an alienation spree lately. I'm disregarding my jackass friends, and abusing the help. The number of people that I want to talk to has shrunk to a dozen bottles who have the good sense to know when to shut the fuck up, thank god. Otherwise, it is me and work. And that is depressingly, the way I like it. Makes a sound like a meat grinder you do it long enough. Stuff a hand in a thresher and let's talk about home. But that is just more assitude. I am one happy, anti-depressant filled nigga. Pills are almost better than a roll down a staircase. Without the motion sickness. You vomit like a bulimic (granted, one of the few women that is an attractive weight) when you hit the bottom. Unless it is a curved staircase, then you get a nice coffee break before I kick you the rest of the way down. Assuming you are still alive. If not, the rape starts right then and there. But as they taught me in sex education "Rigor Mortis means no, means no". Anyhow, here is Ben's response to my response. More e-moting.

Ben: I own the fucking ball, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop trying to hump the goddamn thing. Because of you I've been up all night with it and its pathetic ramblings on how horribly you've violated its laces, and it is a basketball for fuck's sake. Pretty soon it will be cutting into my hand and drawing a face on itself with the blood. And not one of those cute faces like Wilson had. More of a flesh eating zombie type of face with the words "Hitler's Bitch" written backwards on its makeshift forehead so it can see it in the reflection of children's eyes before it eats them. This is what you do to things, Matt, and I hope you are really proud of yourself, young man.What's this on the menu? It looks like it says "no dessert for you tonight."

And I vote for olfactory sense enhancement operations for males so we can tell if women are sincerely having PMS or just acting like the innate bitches that they are. Dogs can smell it when THEIR bitches ovulate or whatever it is that a woman's twisted anatomy does to make it bleed like a sieve, so why shouldn't we as humans get all up in that too.

*Throws up gang signal* Purse Snatchas 4 lyfe, nigga. Yo' grandma better watch her ass at the mall this weekend, fool, because school is out and I got a freshly sharpened number 2 pencil. What is that you say? You just called security? I laugh at sec- oh fuck, my MOM is the mall security guard, and she's wearing that thick ass utility belt. Ha ha, this one time I put a batman sticker on it before she went to work and sh- fuck, stop, that shit hurts. Oh oh, I didn't mean to curse, ma, I swear, it slipped out because I heard it from Billy's dad when he was "discussing" things with Billy like why he shouldn't wear pants around the house.

It is much too early for this stupid goddamn sun to be rearing out. And if I see one bluebird on my shoulder it is target practice time with the waffle iron. ONE nigger comes up to me whistling and I will have his blue gummed ass picking threads out of his own t-shirt. The fabric of our lives, Sambo.

Ben has left the building.

January 2nd.
De 'Spondents.

Dearest whining fungus demons. I know I have left you to dwell in your world of perpetual night. How horrid of me to not grace you with an update to facilitate your endless stream of things to open in a separate window while in a hypnotic trance you stare at fetuskill.net. The all singing, all dancing, all open cheerleader weeping site dedicated to more dead babies than you can shake your stick at no matter how much viagra you stole out of your dying grandfather's bottle.

Rather than writing you carnival bound cretins my thoughts on whatever it is I am thinking on, I am just going to give you a letter written to ol' Ben, our Nigga in Ligga and let those of you that can read it do so. The rest of you can go on with your usual pattern of crying and then flinging your subwoofer through the atrium window you had Hanz construct in one of your many whimsical moments that, as always, means you needed to watch a butch Swede build something out of wood and glass. Let the diamond shower begin cock monkey. You probably won't follow it exactly, but a fourth-grade reading level will do that to you.

To Ben: As usual your last letter reeked of homosexuality and was appalling to all the senses. You confused your thesis and your footnotes were laughable. You think I should write you? Ha, perhaps you didn't notice the new name of my site "No Ben's club." I have since added the suffix "Off the hook triple crazy VIP with a twist of lime and a half-gainer off the top board because we is cool like Fonzie and Ben be all cool like Greg Luganis or however that wop / spic / slope / kyke / slope / faggot spelled his ethnic ass name. Boyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!"

I thought you last update had some style to it. Good on the bitterness. Few suggestions if you were serious about doing another update: The overly developed younger girl with the huge rack and the vacant doe eyes that is carrying a bag with "Spirit" or whatever that gay movie about the horse that wasn't getting his animated cock sucked by no less than 4 lesbian virgin sluts, peeking through the bag she has in her arms. Perhaps the obvious lesbian life partners that intimidate you with their gruff voices and multiple piercings with the expandable parts so that they can eventually fit a family of pigs through it and make a living as a gate. And I don't know if you get the vicious bitch with the brat kids that have sapped away her life and youth, but those hold a special place in the methkitchen hall of fame I say. But as it always is, do what you like. Do what you know. Do something that will make those kneebiters at Good Morning America stand up and wet themselves. That is the editorial license my friend. That is the first amendment. That is what freedom of the fucking crazed, libel spouting, plagiaristic press means. It is not only our right as citizens of this rotten nation to do these things, it is our responsibility. We are nothing if not a mirror to hold up to the decay of society, add a splash of lemony zest to it and call it Filet Minion.

Or the Neo-Hag. Those women that you can see the lines in their face deepening, showing the gorges through the once attractive skin that is already so worn with their own neurotic bitchyness, they can no longer stand themselves without a face lift, collagen injections, or that weird poison shit that you inject into your muscles to make them relax. What do you call that shit? Oh yeah, cyanide. I want more contempt. More awkward sexual innuendos. More threats of violence and allusions to the beautiful mistress of alcohol that you must retreat into in order to hide from these, the sick, twisted, degenerative masses. These, the Bourgeoisie that Marx begged the Proletariat to cast into the mire along with several tons of quicksand, bullshit, and little yellow memos on little yellow pieces of paper, written in blue ink by a woman who masturbates with a beer bottle that still holds my stink around the lip of it because it is as close to true satisfaction as she will ever receive in this life so long as she continues her oblivious march and I choose not to fuck raggedy hags. Thank you ladies and gentleman, and goodnight.

And so help me god, the next bitch I run across that has PMS is going to go right into the gutter face first right after I get done emptying my collection of frayed jumper cables still attached to the terminals on Mack trucks into it. And I liked that collection too.

BFF,
Burnz

And remember: Club Soda can get the blood out, but post-mortem sexual charges go on your record forever. Next week: Ben's reply. So wipe off your hands and stay tuned.

December 25th
You think you got site, bitch? You got shit.

You ain't know what hurt is. You ain't been in a vicious, brutal, fight that lasted years. You've still got a daddy, and I don't think you can conceinve of a world where you don't. You ain't been your own fucking parent. You ain't even tried to understnad a place where lost is 100% of the time and there ain't no such thing as being found. There ain't even no breadcrumbs. Where you earned your ego and condescension. Where a night with the family has nothing to do with parents and everything to do with a distillery. I don't want people to acknowledge it, I want people to stop complaining about how good I am not. Because until I beat them until they have to ask neighbors how they look, I am doing a pretty good job. I wish I had a family I could complain about. I've cleaned more nightmarish things out of my sheets than you'll see in a whole 80 fucking years. I just have a little trouble caring about your discomforts right now. Just picture that these are the things I am comfortable talking about. Fuck you. I just can't do it right now. Holidays are synonymous with emergency rooms. I just can't merry christmas you right now. And I cannot stomach another one of you pussy's that thinks you get it. Because it is simple, but no, you dumb shitbags do not get it. So shut the fuck up. Now read on, it gets better. Because amusing you animals is what I am all about.

You think you got site, bitch? You got shit.

You faggots out there think you got content? You think you make with TEH FUNNEY? You gots the sloppy second bone that Burnz tosses you. You got nuthin'. You got fewer contractions, run-on sentences, and uses of the term "crazy bitch". You're site isn't fit to suck the lengthy protrusion that this site whips out EVEN WHEN IT IS FUCKING COLD AS A... SOMETHING THAT IS COLDER THAN MY MOTHER IN LAW'S VAGINA! I only know precisely how cold that is by the fucking glaciar-embalmed neolithic man that fell out of it WHILE YOU WERE BANGING HER WITH YOUR GODAWFUL SITE BECAUSE SHE WAS THE ONLY ONE THAT WOULD HOST IT! In an all too predictable update, here is a conversation betwixt Ben and I "reviewing" the mindsmith (you got words like mindsmith? No. You got words like "my ass" in response to the question "where do you want this rolling lawnmower?" Bitch) behind some of today's hottest ocular criminalities that pass as websites.

Here it be.
Links you'll need: 665.com
SomethingAwful.com.

December 10th
Lapdogs of the Man.

While Ben is abusing the appalling factions of the AAC, I, in my own graceful and elegant way (read arrogant and justifiably so) am fighting with the wicked beast of co-employees of the retail machination as it whiles away trying to simultaneously soak in the funds to keep it's evil presence on every street corner and trying to make it's peons retch up the milky gruel that now serves as their battered soul.

This struggle began when I started finding little correctional notes in my cubby hole / corporate mailbox / opening they like to jam their red tape in with a polite little post-it note instructing me to insert it into my colon at my convenience. But they did word it very nicely. You have to like a rapist with manners. Forced sex be damned, he uses a coaster and is always handy with a handkerchief. These notes were usually scrawled in blue ink and began with "MATT!! Please remember to verify that our little bullshit rules about initialing voided receipts is followed, because despite the fact that we know it was you we need your initials on there so that your handwriting can be processed and then used to identify you later should you be utterly vaporized save for your single, disembodied hand that is etching 'Would you like your receipt in the bag sir? Happy Holidays!' in the dirt. THANKS!!"

The second act that started my hatred of all things corporate, or rather perpetuated it, was the e-mail. I am required to ask the AAC for their fucking e-mail address and must have 2% give it to me or reprimands follow. I took it upon myself to not bother you, the AAC, and began making up e-mail addresses to input. Sadly, I miscalculated how much attention was paid to this act, and was promptly caught, tried, sentenced, executed, brought back from the netherworld (which was incidentally full of spoiled cream cheese for some reason) only to be given a little note and then put into a rail car for a very nasty chicken contest with a train. So now, in our new update string, I bring you some of the Lapdogs of the Man (To hence be called LotM).

The Evil Bean Counter:
His inch-thick glasses are not there to enhance his vision, but rather to hide the flames that leap constantly in his pupils, like some reflection of the eternal flames that burn inside him from the day that he found a pair of gray socks meshed (haphazardly, he will add, his voice distant and cold) into his row of whites. Since then he has sworn anal retentive vengeance upon the heathens that put money into the register drawer (with extreme prejudice he would say, his knuckles white as they crumple into his finely pressed Dockers) facing the wrong way.

He has a finely tuned sense of order, and the time and energy to expend (brutally I might have said before I just died inside) forcing the chaotic into little, legibly marked, bags and then shelving them and cataloging them in a massive ledger that sits atop his desk of skulls in the dank corner that serves as his hovel.

The False Supervisor:
Essentially a grunt like the rest of us. Usually a part time one at that. But they have been around long enough to have "seen the likes of you" and believe you me, the "likes of you" include everyone and everything that isn't also a false supervisor. They criticize the management for being too lax. They watch over your shoulder with contempt and bitterness at your youth and rugged good looks. They report every indiscretion, every unanswered phone, every word spoken. They are the tendrils of the company that then give detailed analysis of your performance to whoever will listen. Like malignant cells they permeate throughout. And they will smugly and pointedly make sure to correct you. The only thing that gives them greater pleasure than correcting your mistake is leaving road kill out to rot, so they can then clear their throat at the laws of decomposition and ask if they really need quite so much foul odor. The only thing that gives them more pleasure than that is to preempt a possible mistake by lurking near you to explain the next step you need to be making in whatever you are doing. And they like that best when they have already done it at least half a dozen times before. Because God knows you can't possibly learn to do anything but bang your cymbals when they wind you up.

The Heat (aka The Hammer):
The heat owns your ass and they make sure you know it. The heat is patient, calculating. They like the phrase "It is company policy that..." They are the ones that shuffle you back into the office to have a conversation about something that has been done. They accumulate knowledge from their operatives (namely the Bean Counter and The False Supervisor) and then good cop bad cop you away from prying eyes. Dividing and conquering. They shove a ream of paper into your hands with several parts highlighted and ask, affably enough, what it is. They try to trap you. Break you down. Make you slip up. They are cunning and wily and full of guile. But that isn't the cream for their coffee. Oh no, it is the payoff. The sadistic glimmer as they put your job on a scale and gradually drop weights on the opposite side. They are Atropos*. They like their ire like they like their women: Always present and ready to dish out justice concentration camp style. Their credo is above the law, and they govern with an iron fist. They're your best friend until the day they get to put on their Brutus** mask and do the pain dance. That be how they gets they jollies.

*Note: Atropos is the name of the third mythological God of fate. She was solely responsible for deciding when a life ended.

**Note: Brutus was Caesar's assassin. His best friend until the time he killed him.

December 10th
The Ben's back, and you're gonna be in trouble. Heeey now, heeey now, the Ben is back.

My line of work necessitates the frequency of an erect skeletal posture, so I am mostly on my feet during the day, wishing I were at home doing something more constructive like bathing in scotch. And the Average American Consumer (heretofore referred to as AAC) doesn't exactly curb my deep visceral need to get plastered any more than a multitude of circus clowns does. So, I try to observe the many visages of coming-and-going humanity present, while at the same time avoiding any personal contact whatsoever with the AAC. Before now, I was in an easy position to do the aforementioned. But since the economy is sucking hind tit, or perhaps sucking a penis, I am forced to drag myself from the far confines of the publicly-shielded back of the store, to the front, and aid in the wonderful facet of business known as retail sales.

I work in a jewelry store, as the man who fixes the bracelet you broke while having rough sex with your butch lesbian lover, or resizing the ring your gelatinous ass outgrew because you've been having too many Heinekens during the weekdays and far, far too many doughnuts for breakfast. I fix the gold necklace that got ripped off of you by an enraged girlfriend, and I make that ring you killed your grandmother to inherit look like new. I'm a quasi-tradesman, and I suck. But it's absolutely impossible for me to suck with the black-hole vacuum power of the darkest and most desolate corners of space that you, as an AAC, do.

I've been called to the front line of war. Dealing with you and the spit flying out of your mouth when you talk, the inane requests, the headache of you viewing everything in the store, fingering the most expensive items because you have "time to kill," and generally making me want to commit a sudden homicide. You lousy goddamned AAC.

However, putting the AAC into generalized groups makes me feel like I'm having an orgasm, and mainly prevents me from doing something I'd regret (as they say) like grabbing the back of the AAC's head and bringing it into contact with the latest snazzy store display. Looks good on you, Jackass. So I guess we'll start with the beautiful duo of potential revenue creating entities known as the Aging Man and the Hot Chick That is Sucking Him Dry (in two senses).

Forty-Something Fuck and Twenty-Something Accomplice:
Why do you come in here like that, Father Time? You're past your prime, and you certainly can't feel the purportedly scintillating effects of true love while doing all you can to slide your arm around the small midsection of this hatchling bloodsucker you're with, while she contorts her luscious body into an elliptical fashion pushing away from yours. You're probably married, and a small businessman that recently got some chump change in your pocket, thinking you are a badass in need of the pussy that I'M supposed to be getting. Suppose you win, on that account, but, sure! Sir, I'd be more than happy to guide you to the one carat diamond in the above section of the store. And I hate to point it out, as you're an AAC, and I'm supposed to pay you the full attention deserve, but your "woman" is eyeing every guy her age in the store, including me, like she needs me to put the sexual whammy on her. And by "sexual whammy" I mean sticking it in once and going to sleep because I haven't had sex in five months. And you've just bought her a six-thousand dollar piece. Great work.

The Know it All:
I loathe this one more than any other I cross paths with, but can oddly tolerate this particular AAC with more grace than most others. He's the equivalent of the guy you know that reads a National Geographic and suddenly is an unparalleled expert on ancient Mongolia. Shut up, motherfucker, nobody likes you.

He likes to tell me (while whipping out his pocket calculator and a crumpled up old sheet of paper with chicken-scratch markings on it from the depths of his empty wallet) why my particular piece of jewelry is priced too high, or where he can get a better deal, and HEY! While he's at it, he may as well tell me where this particular diamond was mined from! My GOD! Africa, you say? Thanks, I will pass that on to De Beers, so they will have a more lucrative slogan than "A Diamond is Forever," because "This is probably from Africa," is much better.

In any case, the diamond in question is certified and graded by the Gemological Institute of America, and I think they are more accredited than you and your barnyard escapades of digging up ugly yellowed quartz rock. But thanks for fucking playing. Asshole. And don't think you are going to walk out of the store wearing that ring you just tried on like I won't notice.

The Disinterested Man and His Very Particular Wife:
She is a very trendy woman, isn't she, sir? Ha ha. Fuck the pair of you.

The man drives up with this childbearing beast, and I can see them from the neon sign-embellished store window, out in the parking lot, removing themselves from a minivan. Please no, you are going next door, to the restaurant, right? Yes, maybe, they look like they may be…… fuck.

She wants to see everything in the display case of interest, commenting on the shortcomings of it all based on her personal aesthetic preferences. I am going to kill you with a soccer ball, bitch. And I am going to tape your mouth shut with that fucking "My Kid is An Honor Student at Queer but Trying High" sticker while I do it. Meanwhile, her husband gives me knowing looks and silent sighs, huffing his chest up and down in a great manner where she can't see, "Honey, they're about to close. Maybe we can come back later this week."

I can see that you are going home to have a cold Budweiser or twelve, and I am having one right now for the both of us.

So, I'm stuck, half angry with management, half angry with people, half angry with myself, and half angry with the lack of money coming in these days. And yes, I know there are 4 halves there. Fuck you and your ghetto math skills. Go cut up your leftover pumpkin pie from Thanksgiving to make sure you are right.

I suppose I will have more on the subject, if Matt is willing and management sees it fit for my awful sales personality to be further placed in the public eye.

Matt save us all.
BEN.

December 4th
You'll ignore it even if you read it. You are that lacking in self-awareness.

Children's books are the most terrifying thing in the world. They have spooky talking animals, talking furniture, talking clothing, and most confusing of all talking black children that never say "Wassup Dog?" or "Gimme your fucking wallet cocksucker". They are also about lonely kittens, sinister rodents, and dinosaurs with grossly disproportionate heads. To consider we were all raised by rainbow colored beasts teaching us about sharing and learning that all people are alike it is a wonder that any of us turned into the well-adjusted bags of self-righteous selfish shit that most of us are. I think we should have kids read more useful and realistic stories in order to properly prepare them for the real world where most of us are fueled not by kindness, camaraderie, and merry times skipping rope but instead use arrogance, cowardice, and hate wrapped up and placed under the tree in delightful obliviousness to the world around us and prefer to hide in a meticulously constructed tin tower in which we convince ourselves of our own bullshit so thoroughly that even when something outside of our realm of understanding is battered into us we still refuse to acknowledge it and then vilify the audacity of the bastards that tried to shake our tree in a way inconsistent with our extremely narrow view. It seems I am a little bitter. And why shouldn't I be? I met you, and your candy-apple with a chewy vomitous center personality. That is quite enough to make anyone ill. You must have some serious funhouse mirrors up in your crib to be able to stand looking into your hollow, ignorant eyes without calling for an exorcism. No, I retract that, you've just got denial bi-focals just in case you catch your reflection in a store window. I wouldn't upholster my chair with you.

Man, got off track there, but you've got to expunge the jive sometimes. Backs up like bile. I've just had an excess of what I like to call listening to your petty bullshit all fucking day long and having my neck get weary of nodding acceptingly and acting like it is of any interest to me how the hell you think you feel. And the needy, whining, crying, accusatory shit ends up dancing around in my head like sugar plums, and then they rot out and this is how they come back once they become too ripe. The point is, I am going to fire up the old printing press and start churning out Burnz Bookz. A series for children, by a man who might as well be a child. You can bet the unfunny bitterness will just keep on coming.

Nope. Maybe I will write it later. I am all beered up now and have nothing better to say than I like some of you because you are protein rich. Otherwise all I can hope is that the Earth doesn't recognize the sewage we are burying in it when you die and thus regurgitate you in some zombie state whose conversation of "Unnnnghhhhhhhhh" and "Hooooooooooommmeee" are much more stimulating than anything you have to say now. That makes this a Fuck you update. And I think you know who you are. *Bows gracefully and proceeds to urinate on pictures of your homely, sad, masturbation addicted children*.

November 21st
Don't let your children grow up to be webmasters.

"Burnz goddamn it, you are getting too close to this update." He had busted into my office screaming early this morning. I had just propped my feet on my desk and was trying to decide whether or not I should shit or go blind. He reeked of cheap cologne and cheaper sex. I lit a smoke and gave him the once over.
"Look," I said slow, so he would get that I was being serious and not trying to sell him a 1984 Dodge Dart, "I have put too much into this update to just bail out now. I had to archive my updates and am rebuilding my link structure and file system. While you and the other boys upstairs can sip imported coffee and think about the good old days when you could get an erection I am down here with the dogs and the shit everyday. I'll tell you when I am getting too close to an update." I then finished off my pepto-bismol with a wine and bourbon chaser. I put a little umbrella in it for effect. Not really a beach side Corona commercial effect but the kind of effect that shows the tattered remnants of the human condition. And they were just giving them away at the bar last night. That was where this whole thing started. At least it could have in theory. It didn't. It began right here. My name's Burnz, I'm a pretentious ass that talks about himself in the third person. I'm a webmaster. When you are in between "Citizen Cum" and "Driving Miss Daisy...to someplace so you can fuck" you come here. It ain't a pretty job. It is a ninety hour a week for minimum wage and all the free shrimp cocktails I can eat in an hour nightmare. It is a flame font eyesore here. Thank the lord you ain't me.

Anyway. Sitting here with a sandwich I made myself. Just to keep with tradition I beat myself into submission before I made it and cried during the process. Ain't nothing like tears to salt a nice hunk of corned beef on rye. My brother just introduced me to his "girlfriend". All I have to say is I hope she has a good personality. He needs to learn that he is a goddamn Byrne and we do not settle for these rotund bitches that are three hands high. I came very close to inspecting her teeth or asking her to complete a simple obstacle course. No, he needs to raise his standards. All I am saying is that not even Jared's Subway diet could save this twat. She needs to put her ass on a treadmill for a solid week and then get her stomach folded. I just cannot abide an overweight woman. I stay rail thin if I have to starve myself. They could do the same if they have to stick their hand down their throat. Do I give a shit? Not at all. Healthy is fine. But if you stuck some chunks of Hershey's in her I swear to god Pillsbury would trap her, tag her, and sell her in a tube with directions to bake at 375°. Unacceptable.

I was at work yesterday, and this little oriental bought the "Girl's gone wild: Sorority Sweethearts Volume 2" on dvd. That is a man who takes his jerking very seriously. He can't take no grainy VHS bullshit. He needs his bitches in Dolby Digital or DTS surround sound. He needs deleted scene's of security battering potential rapists into a pulp. He needs to be able to choose letterbox or standard screen size depending on how romantic he is feeling that night. He needs special fucking editing story boards and director's gravel voiced commentary. Then and only then can he truly get his rocks off.

Speaking of work and women I am standing around behind my little register, using my giraffe neck and titty radar to track down everything in the shop that is now, or could one day conceivably be an attractive woman. Lemme tell you something. I am sick and tired of seeing across the shelves some mousy blonde thing with pouting lips wearing one of those sweaters with the single stripe along the chest who has big, luminous eyes and long fingers pushing a stroller. And so help me god, if one more of them comes up to my register with some greasy looking fuckwad who has a scrotal-growth beard and is wearing either sweat pants or a fucking baseball hat on sideways I am going to go fucking ballistic. My advice to women out there everywhere: Lose some weight and stop letting gas pumping spics stick their unprotected dick in you. However, if you insist on it then tape it. I know a little oriental dude that will probably buy it IF IT IS QUALITY!