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Wednesday 10:31am Hell hath no fury like a moment of The Rag: You people haven't done anything for me lately, and yet I am sure that you are thinking in your little black heart that I should be posting something. And you are using ugly words about me, like "fag" and "bitch" and "uncouth". I don't give a fuck today. I am tired as hell right now. I will talk real quick about the Wal-Mart lost children and then you can have the mildly offensive pictures I made. At Wal=Mart they have a lost child network. They show pictures of missing children on the Wal-Mart TV's within the stores. They (the people who make Wal-Mart. And also make Wal-Mart evil and cruel surprisingly enough) claim that 400,000 children or some other ridiculous number have been found as a result of this system. I wonder how this works. How it is some random Jow is in Wal-Mart buying a vaproizer and three gallons of lotion when he looks up and inbetween ads for DVD players, and infomercials about how great the new ab crunching/ shaking/ stirring device is they see this kids picture. They memorize the picture and then somehow find little Terry Jenkins, age 4. Was she standing in the store? My theory is this: I have seen the degenerates that hang around Wal-Marts (As evidence I submit articles A through K...me). These are the sick fucks abducting the kids. So they see the picture, and go "holy fuck, so that is what Terry looked like before I tied her down in my basement. She was cute. If I release her for a couple of years, they can clean her up and then I can drag her out of her bed in the middle of the night for a fresh game of the travel version of emotionally scarring sex." The same crazy fucker can do this over and over, hence the large number of returns. That is just my opinion though. Here is some badly photoshopped shit. Huh, Blue, that must mean something. If only you could figure out what you were supposed to do with it... Sunday 4:26am I drove through a wasteland in the last couple of days. Twice. Once during the day and once at night when I was drunker than shit. That was great. Thank god there is so fucking much space out there that you can see a cop from from any part of the state. I got excited when I drove by a mound of dirt, whether it was where a cow was buried or not. And usually it was. I commemorated the first day of this journey with an e-mail to Erin that I will now share with you: You've got to help me. I am stuck in the damn dorm room with Amy's roommate who says she is a carnie... As if that isn't bad enough...well that is bad enough. This is a really ugly fucking place. Don't come here. They kill your kind for sport. It is just what they do. And the cops are some seriously anal pricks. They fund their schools in Nebraska via speeding tickets. That means that if Early wants little Bobby-Joe to get book learned then he has ta goes out there and set to fixin up some of us less Midwestern fall guys. I actually have nothing to say but fear that if I am not occupied on the computer, this bitch will try to talk to me. She is not my friend, that much is certain. She can tell that I turned my back on the carnie existence. I was not going to try and shove myself in a box. I had other dreams goddamn it. If they can't see that bodily contortionist is not the only viable career option then fuck them. Although it saddened me greatly to have to leave the trapeze artist, her gaze was wandering to the lion tamer with the club foot anyhow. I don't imagine that midgets get a lot of dates. And when they do, it is always with other midgets. While it is true that the world needs all the midgets it can get, I feel bad for the little guys. I wonder what kind of lovers they would be if paired with a normal sized woman. Or man. Or willing household appliance. Sex with household appliances is a bit risky though. They can't make up their mind. They jump back and forth and back and forth. One minute they are all over you, curling like mad and doing flashy bondage things with the cord and then they are telling their huge ex boyfriend about the horrid things you made them do. And you do not even want to show up with one at the hospital. Always cozying up to the doctor's implements. Followers. Ok, fuck this. I can't keep up this charade. This chair is too uncomfortable. I am going to wander the streets of Chadron Nebraska now. And cry. *checks watch* maybe I can get a public drunkenness charge....I could be bailed by dinner and have an excuse to come back up here, besides the obvious love of the scenery. *vomits into a nearby cornfield...there is always a nearby cornfield. Gas Station, Corn Field, Church, Corn Field, Corn Field, Bar, Bar in a Corn Field.* I'm a bag man, PS - Let me know if you get this. I am breaking the cherry on this mail address. PPS - I don't actually have anything to put here PPPS - Tell Kasey I said Hi, but don't tell her how I said it. I mean like, say I seemed interested yet impassive. No, better yet, say that I might have been distracted and so it had kind of a curt tone. I mean, don't drag it out, just mention that it was odd. You know how to do it, I forgot who I was talking to. But make sure you note that it was in a PPPS. Should I just put a note in her locker? As if that were not nifty enough, I added a little conversation with Holly (net persona not listed on the people page.) to the chat's page. The fearless use this link. The weak will find clicking here much more to their liking. Now for the more serious Burnz to poke out. When I went to see Amy in the heartland of the Midwest I had no real intentions in mind beyond some drinking, some relaxation and whatever came along. I came back home early and without explanation to her. This was due to my severe discomfort. Not to mention the lesser issue of the fact my body hated the climate there. My skin was terrible and I looked lik shit. Amy made every effort to try and make me comfortable and welcome. This is no fault of hers. Here is the story: We skitted off to a party Friday night with some of her people. A mildly inebriated Burnz used his bottle of Jagermeister and whatever beer he could lay his hands on to become a sloppily drunk Burnz. I lost Amy somewhere in this process. I ended up smoking with some guy named Chad. He expressed the belief, shared by me, that the party was slowly dying. It had some time to crawl bleeding through the desert, but would need the help of no less than three trained physicians, and no more than 8 trained chimps to revive it. I left with him and some woman to a place that would be, by his account, "much better". I assumed Chad to be an expert in betterocity, and thus followed him. It seemed to me that Amy was engaged with the other patrons of the party, so my absence would be of little concern. Sloppy drunk Burnz rapidly transformed into alcohollically poisoned Burnz at a place that was sitting on the fence of the ICU Party Unit, in outpatient care. It didn't take long for me to realize I had left the person I had come to see and I demanded that I be returned to the original party to try and locate Amy. Someone drove me. They are nice, and while I haven't got a clue who they are, I love them and will have whatever children they want. Upon reentry to the original party, I staggered my ass to a couch and sat the fuck down. Amy saw me. I procured her keys through an exchange that seemed very complicated at the time. I then went back to her dorm after getting nice and lost on the back streets of Chadron Nebraska. Thank god for numbered streets. I couldn't get through the door to the stairs. This was so frustrating to me that I vehemently laid down on the couch in the lobby. That would show those bastards. I cannot be sure if it was a dream, but some woman asked me if I was all right. Unable to lift my head I answered with a gentle and polite "unnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnghhhh". She seemed to understand this and moved away...I think. She wasn't there when I got up, so I figure she was either bored with me or abducted. If the latter is true, then I would have protected her had I been able to figure out where I was or what in the hell was going on. Alcohollically poisoned Burnz was eventually disturbed by the repeated laughter of some bitch at the reception counter. Realizing that she must know the way upstairs I approached her. She seemed cute at the time, but could have possibly been a German Shepherd. I don't actually know. She directed me to the elevators. These elevators had unnecessarily complicated controls, involving the use of several people who could see straight. They managed to get me to the second floor. I found the room with the help of God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost. I grabbed everything I knew was mine, and things I only suspected to be mine, and left. This was where I drove home boozed out of my damn skull. The important part here is that I left because I was in the way. I didn't belong there. I had nothing to offer to Amy or anyone else. She had become responsible for an admitted alcoholic who hasn't seen a person outside of work for more than 4 hours in the last 5 months. She had a whole college world to attend to, and a life that I just ...am too something for. Too antisocial. Too Set in my ways. Too drunken. Too angry. Something told me that I was an unwanted distraction. I just wanted to come back to work and stop pestering her. Stop making her feel like she had to entertain me when neither of us really knew what to do with the other. She wanted her life and I was looking for mine. Sleep, sloth, and eventual liver failure. Incompatible lifestyle really. I've said it before: I'm a square peg. This was just another in a long line of round holes. She apologized profusely in an e-mail to me. There aren't many people I can be around anymore. I like Amy. She seems ...great. Not the girl I remember, but even more worth knowing now. But I have no idea how to talk to her or...anything. And I sense that she is a little clueless about me too. I wonder why it is she wanted to see me. I figured that she didn't get the body that she expected. I don't know. Flee the situation. It is the way I handle unfamiliar circumstances and unfamiliar people. Tonight's Quote: "If you can find an enemy, fight them. If you can't, run." Wednesday 4:20am First, I want to send a little love out to Holly. She is going through a painful time right now and I honestly hope she feels better. She's been nice to me despite being exposed to some of my thoughtless antics and tons of my irrational writing. If you pray, say one for Holly. If you don't, drink one for her. This Bud's for Holly. She was the recipient of those e-mails on the post below. She is good people in my opinion. Right now I am working on a bender. I have set my mind to staying drunk and losing myself in the feeling. I am accepting whatever comes along at this point. I am completely open and getting ready for my weekend of corn, darkness, and marriages that involve people who had the same last name before the lord joined them in matrimony. If you haven't heard, I am going to Nebraska. I have sliced my toe open through one of my accidental drunken mistakes. How many other wounds will follow before I end this alcoholic mistake is unknown. I plan on keeping you people updated. For anyone who doesn't know, I am going to visit a friend of mine in a place that God forgot a long time ago. I am trying to relax and separate myself from my ass licking boss and her managerially empty style. She shouldn't be in charge of a school of guppies, much less my crew of empty-minded box-movers. The new guy is friendly and personable and everyone loves him. Fuck that. I had my place all picked out and now I have some toothless wonder slurping at my placement. I am the alpha-male. I am the ranking official even if I don't yet hold the enviable position on the pay scale. I do not need an usurper right now. If I have to do it, I will murder him and his flipper children in their sleep. Arson always struck me as a good crime to commit if you must commit a crime. It might just be my time. Time for crime I say unto thee. Time for crime and time for tea. I was going to use this last update before I left for a bit I wrote on "Symbols of Transformation" by Carl Jung. I couldn't find this piece. It was good shit on the nature of introversion complete with examples and personal experience. Since I lack this literary moping, I will give you the meandering dissertation that I wrote when I was stoned out of my head one night. It is a great adventure through my ego and should keep both of the people that read this enthralled. Burnz High: I felt like it was taking me minutes to respond. A very nervous kind of high with energy only to tap my leg and not make me move quickly. Like moving through a strobe light Light was very painful and I was freezing my ass off, feeling like a human puppet with his fingers doing an oddly rhythmic tapping on 38 keys. I did chuckle my ass off thinking about how this might sound later, as at the time it was kind of hilarious in that Burnz sort of way. "I'll edit this!" I thought. Just put in some paragraphs. My roommate is an idiot however. He is one of those "I am really stoned" guys like Julian. The song setting sun by the chemical brothers frightens me a little bit. Most everything does. I was thinking about that drug dealer's mother in American Beauty, and how scary she looked when she said "I'm sorry for the mess" and the room was spotless. Cool stoner moment was in Stir of echoes when Kevin Bacon comes in to tell that girl he sees dead people and she goes "Whoa, I just smoked a phat J with mah dog and you are really freaking me out". I don't think I could handle that right now. The Sixth Sense made me afraid to think about seeing dead people because of that part where they shove the AI kid into the little closet with the dead guy screaming in there with him. Imagine that trapped in an area with no room. Get in the closet and imagine that space with you and this fucking ripped up dead guy all screaming in your face. I would be fucking traumatized. I am mightily afraid. I keep seeing this outline of my brain in like that close up fight club way, with all the lines. And all this THC like killing brain cells like one by one. And I am doing it to my own brain. This whole fucked up Brain Cell war could be stopped by me! I fell asleep in the bathtub last night because I was taking a bath and had been drinking ever clear. That shit scares me too. If you take a shot your fucking throat closes up and you die. Just boozing, I don't think I want to go like that. You ever think about dying? Imagine that no more you. Just no you that anyone could ever know or love, and if you don't have love right now then you die without love and there is no more you to change it. And when people remember you they will see a lifetime empty of love. Reading this sounds hilarious, I think this is the how to know if you are stoned thing, when dumb shit seems funny. And did you ever notice how I make like one serious paragraph and then this objective editorial comment, like I am this announcer for my whole life. The Burnz-Caster I do something and then step back and say "well gee Jim that sure was a silly thing for Burnz to do." And I do this so girl's will like me (insert some face to show this is a joke) =)And then I say something normal. This is my normal paragraph so I have something funny to talk about. Oh well I also think that when you laugh at yourself, you have to repeat doing it. Like you have to laugh at yourself, then laugh at you laughing at you and laugh at you (laughing at you)2. Then you have to laugh at you (laughing at you)3 and on up until you exponentially hit infinity. I mean 888888888 = infinity (because it goes on forever. Not because of the number of 8's just one = infinity a+b = b+c a+c = a+b. My mouth tastes like I just ate a leaf, like that bitter chemical taste of biting a plant leaf. The kind of plants you find out in the woods, not like cabbage. My mouth is like that really bad. Laura: my friends fucking suck rand0m: HI MATTT Went and made myself some food, thought of millions of things to put that have since drifted away. One of them is the fact that I assume I am a genius, I have just always thought so. I can't describe the fear I feel when I think about being ordinary. Being just like everyone with nothing to say "This is mine, I am one of the ones that is able in ways you cannot understand." Like check this out. Logic is the counterpoint to nature. In nature they do. They do not stand around imagining what they are doing, they just do. We do not do. When chemistry says "Breed with that one" there should be no difficult interface. But when logic is added you start planning ahead. Instead of a lay, many are looking for a life partner. So they cannot throw the other party down and set to grabbing and banging. That is illegal and sickening to think about….If you think about it. This leads to our upper mind. The one with the ultimate say in what gets done. People are very frightening. They have little beady eyes and make the classical gesture of aggression as our sign of joy. As our laughter is to the bark. I can imagine the dogs getting up in the morning and saying "I couldn't sleep, the humans next door laughed all fucking day." Internet people are very scary. I am sure a vast majority of them are ok folks that are semi-normal, but you all know with your luck you will get the one that has the swastika on the wall and prays to wooden masks mounted on broom poles. They are the lunatic that want to talk. They are like the homeless version of mankind to complete the cyber-community. Monday 6:07am Just a couple things I threw into e-mails a while back. Thought some of you cowboys might like them. And there are consequences if you don't. Before I get into that, I want to mention that the ex woman (to hence be referred to as "crazy evil bitch") mentioned in an e-mail about the post below that I deleted due to it's pussy nature. Women are fucking nuts. They think they know what they want, they believe they know what they are looking for in a partner. This is untrue. But I am foiling myself. The crazy evil bitch merely said in her e-mail that I had some harsh words for her. No fucking kidding. I didn't write her back partially because I don't want to put some sucker in the position of reading and explaining it to her demented ass. Besides that, her e-mail had no real topic or point other than to express her thought that I was harsh in my speaking of her. To this I retort "Well, no shit." I went home over new years to see some friends of mind. On top of that I figured I would get some free sex out of her. I didn't. But I did have to listen to her and watch her so-called personality in action. This is like a fireman that has to sit by and watch a building burn, unable to do anything about it. I said it before and I'll say it again: "Someone should stab her." That testament goes way beyond the celibacy that she was suddenly so caught up in. It is much much deeper. That is neither here nor there. Now for some random bidness from the outbox of Burnz. Oh how terribly I have missed you people. I would have written sooner were it not for the constant bawling. It is a real Catch 22 that if I had written I would have missed you less. Insanity? Certainly. Painful? Terribly so. Barely able to keep your interest? Without a doubt. I have been doing tons and tons of ...stuff. I am not even sure what, but it has eaten up a lot of my time. My primary dilemma has been the recent attraction held for me by a (dramatic music that is slightly ominous but with a xylophone in the background so that you don't think it is taking itself too seriously) single mother. I always used the no touch policy when it came to weemen with kittens, or whatever the American word is for the smaller people before they grow to be larger capitalist assholes. This posed something of a quandry for me. While I do like quandrys, and will be strangely aroused when they pose for me, I found this one occupying more mental time than I even knew I had. They say you only use 10% of your brain, this means that 90% of the time I wasn't thinking. But over this little fact that I blew way way way out of proportion so as to make life interesting I am now using nearly 17 - 20% of my mind. At this rate I am going to burn a synapse I feel I am being very hard to follow. More evidence to my preoccupation. The Reader's Digest condensed version of this is that dating is hard and I hate it. I hate it when it is just one person I am getting to know. When you throw a child into that equation then the square root of pi over r is .0101010101 and I don't know how to cope with that. She is nice, and strange, and easy to get along with...but Burnz hates kids. Burnz doesn't want to play the "getting to know you" game with mother and son. But as I said, I am making this too big a deal and thinking too far into a future that probably won't exist. This is what I do with my mind. Crap. Eventually I calmed down and reacted to it in a realistic way. I flew to Japan and started an underground gambling ring. Now that is living in the "real world". I am so dumb and easily tensed about miniscule things. Although, what kind of sick woman would be interested in me if she is as secure and adjusted as a woman with child should be? I cut my hair too. What hair you ask. I shaved it and then realized how huge my damn ears are. Big motherfuckers, I wonder why stray wildlife doesn't nest inside them. Oh well. I don't get to sleep anymore. If I had the energy to be angry about it, then I would be livid. As it stands I can barely slap in that girly limp-wristed way about my inability to rest. I bought glasses. They are pretty too....and I mean pretty in that masculine sort of heterosexual "Gee Rick, those big block engines and firearms sure are pretty" way. And a robe, and stuff. I got to sit around last night, drinking warm milk and feeling very haughty and picky about how clean my stuff was and how smooth I looked. I need to stop eating pasta and beer, it is going to make me fat but oh it makes the belly sooooooo contented that if I refrained I think I would undergo some kind of gastro-intestinal depression. My stomach would mope around all day reading Sylvia Plath and wailing in the time that it wasn't too busy popping pills and having self-destructive sex. I don't like the pop-tarts I bought. And I am renouncing almost everyone "from back home" for no real reason. Just seemed like time to totally sever my roots, pack up a single duffle bag and begin my journey to heal the blight of the world....and consume more pasta and beer than is really healthy for a person my size and eventually say things like "I am not heavy for my height" and "anyone can look a little bloated first thing / last thing / in the middle of the day." Reading that over, it makes no sense to go from pop-tarts to my umbilical-esque slashing of my malignant friends. And as I think about it, a guy that cheats on someone, gets caught, then takes her back should be turned over to the technical service department and re-fucking-wired cuz he ain't got all his pistons firing. Not to mention I still need a couch, a TV stand, dishes, and hair regrowth. Speaking of that, when I went and shaved my head I realized that my hairline had receeded since the last time I cut my hair short enough to notice. I may be fucked. Just what I didn't need was baldness to accompany my jitterbug conversation, convulsive temper, and scowling Morlock-ness. Punching three holes in my ear today...two of them are for recreation, the other is a medical condition that I would rather not go into until I can be sure it is entirely safe to talk. That is my past few days in a nutshell. Oh, and I killed a man. That single mother thing is crazy isn't it? Are your intentions here honorable? I drink too much. I say that like you all give a shit whether I live or die at all. When things are going well I really need to break out in song with a playful piano in the background, like one of those really upbeat numbers always playing in saloons in westerns. It would go well with the spurs I wear around. Murder on my carpet, I will tell you what. What. I am in a much better mood. I always am happiest when things are a bit more chaotic. Moving, changing jobs, these things give me the most misery and the greatest pleasure. When I am not sure where I am moving to, have no place to live or am hunting for a job while desperate; then I hate them. When I know I am going to a better place then I am over the moon. Partially because I am happy and partially just to tell everyone that I am over the moon. "Guess where I am calling from..." I am such a poser. It is this same thought process that has made my life miserable. If I don't know that I am going to a better place, then I will kill myself. If any of you are on good terms with any deceased people please ask them to get ready for me. They won't talk to me. I treat them the same way I treat the living so none of them want anything to do with me. Seems like people die and then get really snooty. I'm not sure if that constitutes better off or not. Do enjoy your little "life" if that is what you want to call it. I hate it when a song hits critical mass and you go from loving it to being unable to stand it anymore. You get nostalgic about times when you enjoyed hearing music...I need real memories. Maybe if I didn't have to repress them all into my subconscious to keep my mind from throttling me. Actually I do it that way because I am using my mind as till land for a psychosis harvest. Got a good crop of Obsessive Compulsive Schizophrenia planted that should be taking to seed next spring. And the Bi-Polar Alcoholism is as high as an elephants eye. another week and I can reap. Heart of darkness, Wednesday 9:42pm I don't like eye contact. People who know me get used to my staring at the ceiling or the floor or playing with something in my hands and focusing all my attention on it. I don't like looking anyone in the eye, but I can do it if I feel I should. There are certain people that I am horrified at the idea of making eye contact with. I have made a few comparisons to show the sliding scale of people I will avoid looking into the face of. I would rather look into the eyes of someone I am about to kill than the stripper I am gawking at. See, they say that the eyes of your victims will haunt you. That you will never be able to forget them. While I am worried about that, I certainly would take the nightmarish gaze that comes to me in an endless hunt within my own mind than the humiliating feeling of having a woman grind and see you stare. That makes me feel (rightly) like a pervert, an animal. I don't want to see the distance in her eyes as she fights the urge to vomit at my hungry leer. The stripper would be better than catching the eyes of another guy while I am masturbating. For the rest of my life I couldn't even reach down in the shower without that moment coming back on me. That split second where he and I were sharing an intimate moment. Why would this ever happen you ask. Why would I be around another guy while doing the one handed cue polish? I don't know the answer really. Unless I lived in a commune or something. The time that worries me is watching porn. All the dude handling the rammin' jammin' has to do is glance into the camera and my sex life is fucked. Pardon the pun. I might be able to repress that nightmare better than I could the actual physical pain that would come if I made eye contact with my cell mate. He'll think I am challenging his dominance and after taking away my rawhide chew bone he would certainly rape me. No thank you. Especially if I am masturbating when I see him. This one is preemptive. I can just take endless pills and pack blood-absorbing cotton into my reamed out body. But the point would be to never end up in that prison situation. So I don't want to see the eyes of the Emergency Medical Technician that revived my wife. He would instantly see the remorseless, empty soul I've got. The cold indifference as my spouse lay in her hospital bed after he brought her back from the precipice of death. He would slip off to have three orderlies subdue me, alert the police, and finally testify against me. If not for him, I could get away with it. How the neighbor found her is a mystery to me. He always was too nosy. Finally under no circumstances will I look at the Fire Marshal I have my reasons. Now I am going to some of what I have learned about the nuances of the human heart. This is for all you fellas out there trying to woo (dupe) that special lady. These also work if you have done the typical thing and given up on the special woman and need to woo (dupe) the highest rung you can reach on the ladder of minimum wage illiterate tramps. Try Suzie, you might not be her cousin, but I still think you have a good shot. And that eye of hers just sparkles. Winner. Follow the do's of this guide and avoid the don'ts you will be a modern-day Casanova (I mean Casanova Berkowitz, not the original. If Marilyn Manson ever asks me to join his band I think I am changing my name to Casanova Berkowitz.). Burnz Guide to Romance
Lastly, I have an addition or two to the Chats Page. Some are kinda long, but they were amusing the whole way through. And if you are hankering for a new personal ad, then there is one right here. Tonight's Quote: "My favorite part of sex is apologizing during the afterglow." Wednesday 7:51am I had an enormously long night tonight/ today. Nothing like a 14 hour day to make you remember why you used to compete in pie eating contests as a career. Fifteen minutes of swallowing and you have yourself the grand prize: Either thirty dollars or a pig you can kill and make bacon and other more unmentionable pork by-products....like film directors or people that wear those sport strings on their glasses all the time. Why do this to myself? Why suffer for Wal-Mart? Why break my back picking up the slack? Shit, I wish I had a really good reason to put down but mostly it is my lack of anything better to do and my school yard crush on the woman that runs the night crew. I just wish she would give up that "longshoreman" look, lose 180 pounds, stop snorting OxiClean through a neon flexi-straw while she dodges oncoming traffic. You can keep the dodging traffic part, I do love to watch her move. Like a cougar with the bends lurching around on an OxiClean bender. You would have to imagine a woman that can out swear ex-cons, has an ass that is the perfect combination of round and tight, and is utterly convinced of her own ability in that big front kind of adorable way. Not to mention that there are two people in the whole fucking store that work as hard and fast as she does. Be cute and bust your ass and I'll follow you straight into hell. I think the fact I work at Wal-Mart with her is proof of that. Snowed today. And I am not drinking. I don't think there is any correlation between those two happenings, but I could be a weather God. I have a crackerjack team of specialists working round the clock to give me a definitive answer on that. By crackerjack I mean I found them in the bottom of a box of caramel corn. By specialists I mean they all can identify three out of every 200 shapes put on flash cards and shown to them. By working round the clock I mean they are pacing a timing device with spears. Except for one guy that just keeps asking for it's name and then eyeballing the second hand with the look that I give to really good fire-starting logs. I just have to keep making paragraphs to get any kind of point across. So I was driving, in the snow. I realized another in my long list of jobs I think I should create so that I can then fill the position assuming I am qualified. Which I won't be unless I make the position something like "being incoherent" or "being above 6 feet tall barefoot". The job I am referring to this time is shit-box ice cowboy. It would involve being given a shit-box car on an ice rink or in a snowy obstacle course and then performing various acts of vehicular dexterity. You could have a whole chain of competitions for it. Like: Pointlessly complicated barrel races - Participants must go through a set path of barrels showing off their handling ability, sharp angle prowess, futile state of mind, and capacity to swear at the dents put into their car when they hit the stupid fucking barrels. I sure do like that "F" word an awful lot. Shock Destruction - Here I don't mean like the shock destruction like the people of Hiroshima underwent. One minute alive, next minute strangely resembling the kids in the dream that Sarah Conner had in T2. I am talking about destruction of the shocks. Big ice rink full of bumps and mounds of varying sizes while control of your vehicle's acceleration and braking is given to a random Down's Syndrome patient in the stands. This is my personal favorite because then I would get to whip off my oversized and excessively sweaty hat just to mock the whole debacle and gently but insistently allude to the ....awww fuck it, I just think it would be dope to yank my hat off and wave it while spinning around an ice rink like a lunatic. Incarceration Transport - You're given a massive labyrinth to escape from. You are driving a huge prisoner transport with awkward steering and an oil light that will not stop blinking. The men kept in the back of your truck have all been maddened by days without feeding and then being stuck inside a car with an idiot driving it out of a maze. They have been told that you hold the key to their chains in your stomach. The goal is to keep the transport from crashing, allowing the prisoners to escape and try to get their hands on your entrails. Just to tell you, most of them like to go in from the anus. A good betting pool can go with this event. Think of it, how they will rend you apart, will the eat your carcass, can you navigate to safety, will you start crying. Survival of the fittest - This is off topic. 10 people are selected to show up at a designated time and whoever has the best muscle tone, as determined by late night infomercial star Tony "The Other Body" Rawlins, gets to survive. Tony will even be the presenter of your prize. The winner gets more empty years of life and if you act right now we will throw in melancholy and over 40 hours of actively waiting to die. Hype Bowl - Two cars. Or two groups of cars. I haven't really worked it out yet. One arctic wasteland. Four months of endless media buildup. A battle to determine who will be the ultimate champion in this semi-greuling, overpaid sport until we do it again in a year. Available only on pay-per-view for 49.99 US dollars. That's like 200 francs, 38 pounds, or all the pesos you can load into a trunk before shot dead you lousy gringo. If you haven't got 49.99 US dollars then a hay-penny will do. If you haven't got a hay-penny then God Bless you. That is all I am going to put up for now. This was originally supposed to be a post with the do's and don'ts of romance on it. In table form no less. And we don't have less so even if you wanted less you couldn't get it. And that means that you couldn't get it cheaper. So aren't you the thrifty consumer? I'll get that romance thing up eventually. And I have some conversations that will satisfy your desire to act like you talk to real people and aren't just staring at a screen. I sure do like writing in the second person. And so do you... Tonight's Quote: "The nagging problem in my life is that I have a life with a nagging problem." Monday 4:33am *This post removed by The United Bureau to Try and Save Burnz from Himself* Saturday 5:25am It is still technically Thursday night as I am writing this. By technically, I of course mean that it is Friday because in Friday nothing exists in the same way. Now it is technically Monday, and I am technically married. She is a technical woman...and all the terrible Homo-eroticism that is implied in that. Her name is technically Earl for God's sake. But thankfully it is now technically Arbor Day and I am the technical prime minister of Arbekistanzia. The reason I am still awake now and writing total unfunny bullshit (see above) is that I cannot sleep. My ability to sleep is directly proportional to the amount of booze I put into my system. My drinking now can best be summed up as "Embalming". I am trying to lower it to merely "self-destructive". My pie in the sky dream is to one day bring it down to the level of "problem drunk" or perhaps even "borderline binge drinker". I am suffering greatly for my insubordinate attitude toward my bottled God. And I don't mean the fact I didn't punch holes in the top of Jesus's jar. I get robbed of hours of sleep, comfort, and peace of mind. This has given me a desire to discover what it is that creates addiction, what empirical scientific steps can be taken to prevent it, and where that fucking remote is so I can switch off the early morning crazy gospel preachers. I started by going to the best resources I have at my disposal...but Bernie at the auto-shop wasn't home, so I took this query to the two people who were intimately familiar with addiction - My parents. They are both former alcoholics, and having fought addiction, I figured that they would have insight (or at least a good supply of cooking sherry that would get me through this pinch). Here is a transcript of the approximate conversation I had with them. Me: "Hi mother, it's Matt." Mother: "Matt who?" Me: "Ahhhh, what delightfully predictable humor. I seem to be under the illusion that my small readership is comprised entirely of morons. Matt, your son Matt. I had a question for you about addiction." Mother: "Do you know what time it is? I pushed you out, what the hell else do you want? Besides to suck another 20 years out of my life." Me: "You seem to forget that it is Friday." Mother: "Oh, right, and so nothing exists in the same way. How is that joke milking thing going for you? Get any cheap laughs?" Me: "Possibly. Now let me ask you about addiction. What was it that made you crave alcohol?" Mother: "You mostly. From the moment I conceived I drank like a fish. Those nine months went by like nothing at all. Hell, I don't remember your birth. I think there is a video of it somewhere, I watched it once. That messed me up. I hit the rewind button a couple times, and I will tell you that it is funny shit if you see it backwards. I'd send it to you, you seem like the type that would enjoy gaping at your mother's nether regions. Pervert." Me: "Be that as it may, what I really need to know is what made alcohol so attractive to you. Do you feel you were unique, or was it a chemical stimulation that exists in mankind?" Mother: "Mostly it was your bullshit what with the cutting teeth all the time and then having those fall out and crawling and walking and then having to have the dentist yank more teeth. I never quite got that with you and your teeth. I mean enough is enough. Here, talk to your father. Maybe he can answer your damn fool question. (Background yelling) Hey! You! It's Matt. Talk to him. Father: "Matt who? I know that joke was already made, but I am pretty sure that his small readership is entirely comprised of morons. He is even beating the beating into the ground joke into the ground. And frankly this is getting a little long. So I will just say something here about how it was him and that other little person that fucked around here that drove me to drink. Now inexplicably hang up on him." So the conversation with my parents didn't go as planned. I then broke out my high school chemistry and biology textbooks to milk them for knowledge about the chemistry of the brain. Why do I still have my high school textbooks you ask? Well...because I stole them and tried to pawn them for enough money to get a prostitute. I somewhat overestimated the demand for black-market textbooks with "White Trash Flatbed High" printed on the edge of the pages. Hence I couldn't sell them, but I could screw the school out of the money to replace them. I like to think that I am the reason that there was no room in the school budget for a pool...or teachers...or a building that wasn't constructed by the shop class. But honestly how much room do 14 students need? My hometown was that sprawling. God the chick on that Mick Jagger Lenny Kravitz video is cute. After opening the textbooks (an act that my teachers never thought of for them) I pored over the words and hungrily consumed the wisdom contained. Reading both of them cover to cover gave me an excellent idea of what a Cell does, and what the periodic table looks like. As well as a healthy snicker at the repeated use of the word penis. *chuckle* Oh that is good. But it seems that brain chemistry was something that was not really thought of as "high school biology" it is more something studied by "normal non-public high school biology that takes place somewhere other than opposum-shoot county USA". So I jumped online and tried to glean a little information from a more reputable and informed source. I IM'ed MACKIN_TOSH and asked for his thoughts. Me: "Hey. I need to know about addiction and brain chemistry." MACKIN_TOSH: "All right. A/S/L?" Me: "Whoa, you are talking over my head. I don't know anything about A/S/L. Explain please." MACKIN_TOSH: "You like to cyber? Just tell me if you are over 18 because I only like young chicks. I don't hump grandmas. So if you are like 20 or some shit take your wrinkled ass out of here. I would break your hip!" Me: "Are you saying age has something to do with it? I can't follow this. What is cyber?" MACKIN_TOSH: "Oh damn baby. I'm cumming. Oh shit, it is after 8, my mom is gonna be mad if she catches me on here. I should have been in bed like 5 minutes ago!" MACKIN_TOSH logged off. I was once again foiled in my search. So I used the great Google search engine and looked for the explanations that had now become my passion. Right after I ate a tub of Hagen-Daz. Caramel swirls, now that is something to get addicted to. Here is what I finally learned.
Addiction occurs when the system becomes accustomed to a daily influx of the chemicals that bring about the altered state. This is physical addiction. It differs greatly from emotional addiction wherein you just sit by the phone waiting for Tommy to call and ask you to the prom. When he doesn't, then you fly into an occult rage and use your supernatural powers to destroy all those that opposed you. Emotional addiction is rare, but can manifest in girls named Carrie. If you are a girl named Carrie, then you might want to rethink that voodoo doll you made of AJ from the Backstreet boys. Not because it is dangerous, but you can do better. And it is shoddy craftsmanship even for a token of black magic. I'm just giving you constructive criticism.
I know I went with the ancient egg drug joke and it didn't really fit. With such an open area, I had too many choices of brain pictures and captions. Thursday 5:52am I am degrading. And this time I am not referring to my increasingly rapid erosion into accidental priesthood. No, that is coming about due the factors in my life making me speak less, fuck less, eat less, and live in a temple while I proportionally pray more, cry more, and act self-righteous. Why I live in a temple is actually a very funny story involving the systematic hunting I did of four friends that ran over my father one summer. I will never let them forget that I know. But I am off topic as usual, and I am most certain you are not following me. The degradation that is occurring tonight is the ripening of my need for sensory input. I am only happy when the computer is on, the TV is on, the stereo is on, and they are all playing music of some kind that all mixes and jumbles together. It is like being a DJ only without the groovy drugs, hip surroundings, tons of women, and fear that your secret identity will be discovered and no more can you prowl the night helping downtrodden strangers and fighting crime in your overpriced automobile. Other than those facets, it is just like being a DJ. Oh, and I don't get a cool name like DJ Swift, DJ ThunderHouse, DJ Prosthesis, DJ Noise Pollution, and the ever popular Swedish DJ, DJ Master Yodel. I am not sure why I do this. I have made a list of possible reasons behind it. I Acted as my own psychologist. Except I didn't touch myself when I talked about fire or prescribe a rainbow of pills. I also didn't roll around naked in the money I made because I kept my patients perpetuating their diseases rather than solving them. Loneliness - I need stuff that makes the emptiness of the room less. The blow up doll just doesn't work. I have to add noise or I will sit in my picture window staring at the sunset 24 hours a day while I write poetry and toy with a good way to start off my suicide note. I have a couple good ones already. "You are the winner of the 'Be the first to see Burnz slow-rotting corpse' competition", "If you can read this, please call the mortuary", "Poke here + I made you touch a dead person!" or "This Husk: Now for Rent." Go ahead and ask me where I got a picture window and how I made the sunset 24 hours a day. Go on, I dare you. I double dog dare you. *throws your coffee in your lap and runs away*. Fear of my own mind - I am worried that if I have to sit in a room that is too quiet I might hear the laborious clunking of my own mental activity. I have all this noisy shit as redundancy just in case one fails. I discard this theory because I like the sound my mind makes. It sounds much like a steel bucket of rocks falling down a fire escape. Actually the only difference between my mind and a steel bucket of rocks falling down a fire escape is the fact that there is a slim chance that the bucket might somehow accomplish something accidentally. There is no such risk of that with my mind. I don't want to miss anything - Look here. There is three outlets in my house where I can get a solid 2000 calorie diet of shit, I'll be goddamned if I am going to keep one of them from trying to sell me something. I got 16 banner ads shoving me penis enlargement, a string of radio spots paid for by a natural alternative to Viagra, and 4 minutes of commercials telling me that orange juice prevents prostate cancer. This means that I just had my own dick sold back to me. That is a lot of people that have their mind in my pants. And yet not one of them could take the time to put their mouth in there. Sorry, I was just listening to rap, makes me vulgar. But I postulate that I am just too plugged in. That the only real downfall is my ability to take in all this data. Violence on the radio, anorexics on the TV, and 14 year olds getting their first anal sexual experience on the web. America is giving me too much to hate. *Strikes a severe and vulnerable pose* Sometimes there is so much sickness in the world, I don't think my heart can take it and it beats so fast and just wants to explode. Competition -While I didn't really plan on having a three way cage match, I like it when the things I love compete for my attention. I would often put my mother and my favorite puppy together in a drained swimming pool strewn with spears, chains, and lawnmower blades with belts wrapped around the handle. I would then place a wooden block spray painted gold on a pike in the center. Whoever held the block at the end of 40 minutes would be allowed to sleep at the foot of my bed for the the whole month. This was my greatest joy. So subconsciously, since I had to eat my mother and my puppy ran off with the guy that cleaned the pool there is no one around to wear camouflage and club each other with a rolled up newspaper dipped in bronze, I am using my new friends. The challenge now is to see what can draw my visual attention and who can cause brain cancer the fastest. On top of all that, I have to cope with the fact that I am trying to slow down my drinking. I woke up in bad fucking shape the other day. I had muscles in my face that I couldn't hold still for almost three hours after I woke up. For those of you that are used to muscle spasms, I know you think I am a pussy. But not really acclimated to twitching like I just walked out of eletro-shock therapy it made me feel a little worried. Aches, pains and dehydration made me realize that I need a little reload time and to keep a closer eye on where my limit is and register when I am going to get fucked up. Why the hell does the black community find having metal and stones in their mouth to be attractive? I mean, yes it is a sign of wealth but so is how you dress. There just isn't anything sexy to me about a man with a maw full of metal and a diamond chain that says "player" on it. Not that there is anything sexy about any man to me, for those of you that were getting ready to invite me to your next Crisco and man cream night down at the Pit's tribute to G-strings. But I am not a woman, and women are easily suckered by the dumbest things. Like musicians. But that is a whole other update of theories on the female psyche...or lack thereof. Until then, this is Burnz saying goodnight and good misogyny. Not that there is a bad kind of misogyny. Hating women just means you have full control of all your senses. I would worry about them reading this, but if you can find one that can read, understand, use a computer, and wasn't distracted paragraphs ago by something flashy then she obviously used to be a man and doesn't really count. Oh, it was time to archive the updates. So I did that, and it was better than I expected. Not like Keanu Reeves on fire good, but Love Hewitt in a white shirt and no bra good at least. Tuesday 4:59am I don't have anything nearly to the *ahem* quality of the last update. I was drinking (imagine!) and watching PBS while I was waxing philosophical. If you liked it, thank you, if you didn't...you're lying. Quickie- A bit of Burnz advice. Impotency happens. If you end up "getting intimate" with a "woman" and you get a case of "Mr. Floppy" the best way to deal with it is not to scream out "I'm Gay" and then cry into your hands. This works on one level, because after that you can tell her that she turned you and get sex whenever you want. This is starting to sound like a really good idea. Just try to fuck all the time using the excuse "I have always lived one way, I want to explore this new heterosexual joy". She will be so thrilled with her woman-ness in converting you that she can't say no. And if she does: roofies, reach for them. The problem being that if she thinks you are gay she will want to shop with you all the time. Face it brother, you don't know what chiffon is and can't coordinate at all. That is why your nickname in high school was "Mr. Plaid Pants with a striped shirt who do you think you are kidding?". Interesting high school you went to though. Second person, write in it. Do you suppose that Italians had competitions to decide whose sauce and meatballs and pasta tasted the best? Like some big festival called "The WOP off" where they all got together and fought over whose home recipe they would give to Prego and who would be the shmuck that gave the tomato and garlic label to the Great Value Sam's choice for shit that tastes like shit recipe? It makes me wonder if we know anything about real Italian food. But it also makes me not care. How is that for a Catch-22? So lacking anything usefully useless to say I am putting the Burnz Drug Pyramid. It started as some bullshit thing I put on another site and it sounded fun, so I actually made this. It is a guide to drug users on what drugs to take to counteract the side effects of other drugs as well as what not to combine in your system. Enjoy!.
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