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Hello cats and kittens. Are you having a good day today? I'm having a good day today. Does everyone want to know why? I can't hear you, I said does everyone want to know why? All right you little bastards I still can't hear you, probably because you are yelling at your monitor.

Anyhow, I got a bargain from my old Domain company, so hopefully if everyone does their job (hyuk hyuk) then no longer will you have to type that pesky ".nstemp" part of my URL and instead we can all happily go back to being simply terroronthe32ndfloor.com. Of course, that hardly makes life simpler and I bet that many of you want me to go back to being Methkitchen.com and I would if it were not for the fact that I'd have to reinstate all of the old graphics including the delightful rotator images that offended so many of you lovely, lovely, creepy ass internet people. As if my mocking women's history month was somehow worse than living in your parents' basement sucking down cheetos by the gigaton and bitching about how they don't have Mountain Dew Live Wire at the Wal-Mart gives you any room to criticize me. It's just take take take. I'm not sure I even want to keep going with this update.
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Oh, all right. I can't stay mad at you. Anyway, we should shortly be back to our normal domain soon just to save you those six extra keystrokes. God forbid I be on the hook for your carpal tunnel. "Oh no your honor, I swear, it was the '.nstemp' that did it, not the hours and hours I spent searching for the words 'kournikova nude'." Now if I could just get Ben to reemerge from the cocoon his girlfriend has him in we might be able to call this a site again and not an orange font waste of time. But she has him wrapped up so tight I'd have better luck single-handedly raiding a Columbian drug czar's compound to rescue DEA agents. While on fire. This may call for a strike team because when a woman has her talons so deep into you that you ignore me and this...well it is on the internet so I guess you could say website, then some serious shit has to go down to save you. Moving along.

As I typically like to do when the update has gotten too stale and I have no stimulating content to contribute I go back through my extensive e-mail collection and give you (hence to be referred to as "the reader") something to read at work while you wait for that cute little 19 year old intern to walk by. You letch. Hopefully this will not be too painfully boring an experience. Let's get it on:

I grew up in a rather small semi-rural community. It done learned me the value of a hard days work and not to stand behind a bull when you is getting his Rocky Mountain Oysters. Whooowie was that a hard learned lesson. But here are a few fun facts about my dear hometown.
1. We have the highest per capita pregnancy rate in the state...and we're 8th in the nation.
2. Alcoholism runs rampant. Not to say we're all drunks, there are plenty of people that have no trouble with booze...and everyone in town knows both of them.
3. Primarily because we'd all call them late friday night to pick us up from the bars.
4. There are more flatbed trucks in the high school parking lot than there are sedans and coupes combined.
5. During spring break many years ago a few of us went to visit a friend that was going to school at a Mennonite University in Kansas. That was our version of a road trip.
6. Discharging a firearm within city limits was illegal, unless you were doing so straight into the air with a shotgun that you named.
7. And god help you if you had given it a guys name.
8. You could tell the difference between a church picnic and a cookout because no road kill would be brought to a church picnic.
9. Our education system was the lowest funded in the state....well that just is depressing to write. A miracle I write as good as I do.
10. I tried to convince the city to threaten to tear down the school just so that we could hold a fund raiser that would be nothing but tee-shirts that said "Save the school. Help keep Creekside High." Nobody thought I was funny and I got the same old "you're wasting the city council's time just like during the time you wanted to paint the water tower pink" I won't even tell you the slogan I wanted to paint on a big, phallic water tower.
11. The whole town stood around outside when they opened a Safeway and stared in dumbfounded confusion at the magic doors that opened without handles. When the priest sobered up enough, an exorcism was performed.
12. Sunday night we would all go over to the McCafferty's because they gots the color-type picture box.
13. We had an even number of churches and liquor stores...and one restaurant that was not a bar as well.
14. Our football team held a rally when a black guy joined.

So that's your amusement for the time being. I'm even disgusted with my own writing right about now. It seems so murderously trite...Oh well, I just won't tell my ego.

October 23rd.
Kinda an Update.

I updated my story. I didn't break it up, so if you are going to read it, settle in for a while. It's not fun, little bit of the darker Burnz, but goddamn are parts of it good. Give it a read at THIS LINK. It is a little rough right now though. Still enjoyable.

October 7th.
Fourth Quarter Comeback.
By Ben.

Editor's Note: I want to make sure Ben gets his due right out of the gate, so I am putting it at the top. This is old shit that I should have put up then but was either too drunk or way too drunk to slap on. Here it be.

As my compatriot in the land of ridiculous psyche said, it has been a while since either one of us has unleashed the progeny of our ever-changing, impossible to configure rubix-cubes of a thought process into the begging, hatchling mouth of the World Wide Wow. Oh well. Fuck you, both of us are back. And we are eventually, I am sure, going to leave you in the wet spot again when we've blown our figurative load. You also aren't getting any breakfast. Dirty whore.

It isn't like I've voluntarily abdicated the Queen's Chair here at the site, it's just that I haven't had anything to say on the bleeding cusp of Callousness lately. I've not even had the opportunity to really involve myself in the previous glory of acting with crazy female cast members in a real life screenplay about lecherous acts of testosterone-fueled, animalistic gratification, other than trying to force the end of my penis into the mouth of a 40 oz. malt liquor bottle. That is a post-coital relationship I can deal with. "So how do you feel, sweet heart?"

"I feel violated. Can I drink you now?"

We all win when we play the game by my rules, yet we are still losers, somehow.

So, onto my latest contribution. Let's hope it snowballs from here and buries your goddamned ass:

"Here they are," he says, chunking down a thick mass of compiled paperwork onto the desk in front of me, "The files."

"Yeah," I say, absently thumbing through them, scanning the names and places and details, and the obscure notations scribbled in the margins in blue pen, "Thanks."

The woman. She had come into my office just a few days before, with a request. Walked right through the opening that held the frosted glass door reading 'Benjamin Johnson, Private Investigator' and immediately thought I was the I Ching of deduction. I had the air conditioning at a higher level than normal that day because I was trying to waken myself from the stagnant, putrid fog of a bad hangover. And I was visibly agitated, trying to warm myself. She must have mistaken it as work ethic in some obtuse way or another. "You," she had said, "I need you. To fix this for me," and I had agreed. A woman that looks at you like that, with the very face of hopelessness and futility, a woman that has met the end of her ability to either concede and forget, or found a dearth of resources within herself. Well, she is hard to resist.

So there I was, leaning back to the creaking of a shoddy ergonomic chair that had long since ceased to carry its adjective, looking into her brown eyes, saying "I will do it. I will take your case." And I will solve it, I thought to myself, with my head still treading water in an endless expanse of tepid reality, ready to sink.

He leaves the room, pausing at the door with his hand on the knob of it, looking like he wants to shake his head in an act of sincere pity, but refraining. Then he shuts it, effectively helping me to develop a case of slight claustrophobia. I am beginning to hate this fucking office. I reach over to the right side drawer of my desk, the one at the bottom, and I pull on a handle that has been pulled on too many times. It reveals The Bottle, the one I have known so well for so long and felt so damned ambivalent about. I bring it up and unscrew the cap with my left hand, smelling the release of illusory comfort. I run my finger around the rim of a cup and inspect it, satisfy myself with its cleanliness, hover the bottle over it, hesitate, and then stick it straight to my mouth. It is better that way, the hair of the dog. "Let's not get fancy with it," I say to myself, feeling the warm hug of whiskey squeeze down the length of my esophagus and drip into my stomach.

Ben

September 29th.
So Much For a Happy Update.

Those of us that are me and write for this website (as ourselves…or ourself…lousy tense) are not very fond of Avril Lavigne. Actually, I like to live in a fantasy world wherein the cover of Rolling Stone has a split picture of me and Avril back to back glaring at the camera with a headline like "Does pop have to stop?" or "Loving to Loathe" or "The Burnz / Avril War: Whose name is more ridiculous?" It seems that headlines are not exactly something I should try writing. And those of you that just thought "as if he should try writing anything" can snicker and then send me your address so I can skull fuck you. I was working on those headlines for sixteen days, which is almost as long as I spent trying to find a mint condition figurine of the GoBot Screw Head. For personal reasons. Be nice about it, I don't judge you and your fancy pants "Map Tacks of Europe" collection so have a little faith that it is for my son…which I might have. Actually it is for my son just so I can say "I gave my boy a nice Screw Head for his birthday."

Although, for more creepy GoBots: Try this link. People on the internet are spooky.

Anyhow I was in my car. Ok, it wasn't my car, but the guy didn't seem to mind when I took it. To be honest, I minded because it was a six cylinder mustang that I wouldn't waste pissing on to cool down the engine. That's a joke because the fucking engine would have to do something in order for it to require cooling down. Not to mention I wouldn't have to piss on a mustang because after 1995 Ford did it for me. Way to embarrass yourself Ford you worthless bunch of jockless, virgin, mattress fucking, overseers of the bile corral.

Speaking of piss, I was going to talk about Avril's new single that is named "My Happy Ending." This is a reference to the termination of the song, because trust me boys and girls and those of you that…just trust me, there isn't a time that this song plays that it doesn't have a happy ending. Any ending to this song would be happy. Man, that was obvious, anyone still reading?

The song starts with a synthesized background of Avril saying "So much for my happy ending." Thanks Avril, so much for my happy beginning with your cymbal heavy, lame guitar in the background.

I think I am going to just break this down line by painful, scarring line because I hate you and it's funny when eyes bleed.

"Let's talk this over, it's not like we're dead." Why the next line isn't "Because god hates us and there is at least 3 more minutes of this song" is something I will never understand. Bad writing is what I guess, perhaps she could do an update.

"Was it something I did, was it something you said." Does anyone know what the fuck she is talking about? What did I do to her (besides find her songs magically worse than my website)? I am starting to think this song is specifically directed at me, I didn't do anything, but I have said, and I quote "I can't wait to name my first infected goiter Avril."

"Don't leave me hanging in a city so dead. Held up so high on such a breakable thread." I'd leave you hanging anywhere there was a rope and a tree. And possibly a sunrise and / or sunset. And Avril, I promise I will never use breakable thread. Kisses.

"You were all the things I thought I knew and I thought we could be." Shit, she thought they could be? In this town? And she might know things? This is just gibberish. Pfft, knowing, being, what a hag.

At this point we hit the chorus, or at least we want to. Hit the chorus that is. Because…you know, that might hurt them and they suck and stuff. Anyhow, apparently I was everything, everything that she wanted. Which is odd because I look nothing like a basket of muffins and a dictionary of commonly misspelled words to be used in songs. Man this update sucks. She also thinks we were meant to be, supposed to be, but we lost it. Because one of us should be buried alive…Not It.

Apparently all this time I was pretending and so much for her happy ending. As someone who has gotten a good number of massages from attractive women, not having a "happy ending" isn't news. You're young, try something that buzzes when you turn it on, stop using the water pick.

I must give up, I normally enjoy a good Avril attack but just can't get into this for some reason. This will probably get nice and deleted soon, sorry about it.

To add some space, let's add a little Burnz talk.
10. I don't have a drinking problem. I have a life problem with a drinking solution.
9. Taxes are what fear and oppression cost these days.
8. How did you recognize me? I wasn't even walking out of a liquor store or a courthouse. (Hi Justin).
7. Don't tell me to stop drinking, that is what death is for.
6. Never pin a suicide note to yourself when you jump off a building. It will smudge.
5. Date a girl with hot friends so when she leaves you, you at least have a shot at good rebound sex. (Hi Steph).
4. If I wasn't whitey, I'd be pissed. (Hi Jo).
3. People are worthless until you're really hungry.
2. Love is what happens when you are too tired to flee.
1. Never go before a judge with just one offense. Have a felonious horn of plenty.

Expect more.

September 25th.
Juarez Gold.

I think the paper clip office assistant is judging me. He has those eyebrows like Captain Crunch. They defy physical laws and seem to exist in some kind of phantasmal state. It almost pisses me off when I use words like phantasmal and it turns out to actually be a word. Technomancing, babyotomy, terribleness, fuck, terribleness is a word? One of these days I am going to fuck spell check in it's ever loving ass. For shizzle. Bitch.

I'm lying. I am going to fuck spell check in it's glass eye hole, in the hizzy. I have resorted to ebonicals to thwart the spell check demon. This is rock bottom.

Here's a little e-mail I sent off this morning while I was sulking. Which I enjoy doing. Sulking and never apologizing. Duckweed. The first person to tell me what that means wins a prize, I am sick of it showing up when I spell check for "fuckwad". E-mail, here:

A girl spilled my drink last night, took my glasses (yes, I have those now), and my jacket and yet I didn't murder her with something blunt (like my personality hahahaha thanks for playing along). I awoke today with many tequila soaked memories and some uncomfortable notices about myself. Around drunk and obviously flirtatious and willing women I am a gentle and stoic person...sadly that translates into the fact that I am more comfortable with violence than affection. Conversation and not copulation.

I awoke today with the number of a very nice smelling brunette in my pocket as well as an e-mail address I don't recognize on another sheet of paper that doesn't fit any notebook I own. While normally my intoxicated adventures are amusing, if often disturbing, parts of my life, this just makes me uncomfortable. I can't call her, a drunk girl giving you her number is one thing. I'm pretty enough that it isn't uncommon, but sober girls realize what a monster I actually become.

CLIP SOME PAPER YOU WORTHLESS FUCK!!~!~! Get a real job, staring at me with you're dead eyes accomplishes nothing. You have no soul. I hate you Pepper (I named him pepper, because I hate pepper, and I hate him. Well unless it is on an omelet. The pepper, the paper clip can die. Die. And go to hell and burn. Although to be fair he might be good with some bacon and eggs, maybe onions and green peppers. Isn't this a lot of shit to put in parentheses? Man.)

Yeah, I could turn him off. It would be like I do with women…just laugh, you know it's accurate. But that would mean letting the terrorists win (Never Forget). I hate him, but I have to keep an eye on that little shit or he'll be clipping papers to other papers all over the place like he owns the…place. Well, let's see how good you're grammar is after falling down a flight of stairs. In a hospital. To fight for your rights. Because you're a good cop gone bad, framed for crimes he didn't commit. Or she, she didn't commit. Well I suppose she might have framed you for the crimes and then…oh god, just shut up.

It's a short update because now I have to decide if I am going to call this really cute girl or maintain my standard of hermetic, drunken antics that are simultaneously wacky and zany. Although never at the same time. So that wouldn't be simultaneous would it? Oh, GyrLEFrinD, I just hate hate hate English.

Oh, and I have cancer. But seriously, should I call that hunny?

And I justified the site. Not that there is any justification for this crap. Thank god I don't read this worthless shit.

September 13th.
Survival Report #1

Every so often we here at Terroronthe32ndFloor.com like to take a moment to help inform our small readership of some of the dangers that lurk out there for them in the world and give them some easy survival tips. With the hurricane season being unusually bad and several areas being demolished killing off the nearly half dozen fans of this site, we think it is only prudent in the name of self-preservation to keep you slack-jawed animals with your reptile intellect and tendency to run ugly faggot ass fag sites about your faggy little fagotism with your homo-erotic orange fonts. You wacky queers.

Here's just a few of the disasters that plague the world outside of your little magic box that you spend so much time staring at you are starting to literally go blind from eye-strain:

Hurricanes: Hurricanes are caused by squalls far out at sea when Poseidon grows angry at mankind's arrogance and/or hubris and/or blinding of his Cyclops son. Poseidon then sends these giant masses of wind and rain blowing toward coastal cities and island chains. The other cause for Hurricanes is because of the Shrimp Specials and crazy Steel Drum act going on in these areas. Hurricanes are a lot like me in their party-hard lifestyle that often leaves communities in ruin, lots of things destroyed, and large bills missing from your wallet. They resemble hideous storms with high winds and lots and lots of general weather going on. Why weather? Why must you go on?

Surviving Hurricanes: Surviving a Hurricane can be a difficult thing to do considering the average intellect of the islanders and/or coastal dwelling individuals. The best advice is to drop to your knees and thank Poseidon for the bounty of the sea and promise to stop driving your oil tanker around while wasted on Bacardi and Animal Tranquilizers. If that fails, you can try taunting Poseidon by talking about how "Hurricanes are so 1998" and then scoff dismissively and imply that no girl is going to go for a guy with a hurricane. If both of those fail, and usually they won't, just calmly and rationally explain to the hurricane that the shrimp buffet is sold out through the summer and you decided to go with a Mariachi theme instead of the steel drum. You see a lot of Hurricanes hitting Mexico? Nope, Hurricanes don't care for Mariachi because they think you can't really dance to it.

Only if you want to live.

Quicksand: Quicksand has been losing popularity in nature over the years and hasn't put out an album in ages. Most of nature just mocks quicksand as the ugly bastard child of natural disasters in that it lacks mobility of any kind. Rumor has it that there has been some talk of a collaborative effort between quicksand, volcanoes, and earthquakes. Nothing can be said for sure, but an industry insider (yes, a little bird told me) claims the tectonic plates are trying to figure out how to up well quicksand while mixing it with magma just below the surface, adding a blazing sensation to the individual being sucked under the seemingly innocuous surface the quicksand will provide while keeping it's diabolical nature hidden beneath the insulation of the sand.

Surviving Quicksand: Quicksand historically has only been seen swallowing people wearing hats or bandanas. If you avoid such pitfalls as being stranded on a desert island while wearing a pirate bandana, being caught in the jungle with a safari hat and those gay shorts with your socks pulled up, or out in the desert with a wide brim (but not cowboy) hat quicksand will assume you are far too wily a target and probably just sulk. Awww, poor little quicksand, why don't you go home and cry to Mommy Nature you big weenie. This is why even whirlpools snicker at you behind your back and put hot coals in your shoes while you sleep. Pansy ass quicksand. Bring the noise!

Floods: Floods are caused by evil masterminds that bomb dams in order to hold whole towns hostage while they appear on some big ass monitor in some government installation demanding an enormous ransom lest the town be destroyed. It is the strict policy of the government to take a hard-line against these tactics and refuse to capitulate to terror, Cobra Commander, Dr. Claw, Goldfinger, or Skeletor. So I hope you don't live near a dam.

Surviving Floods: Let's see, it's a bunch of water…so I'm thinking…swim? If you can't swim or are me (you sexy thing) get up as high as you can. You can do this by climbing the "always safe around water" power lines, tall buildings, less tall but reasonably sized buildings, a water tower, not because it's high, it just convinces the water you understand where it's coming from and would just appreciate a little mercy, or if you're most of my family you'll just get as high as you can by huffing whatever is under the sink until you either stop caring about the flood, or become convinced you are a fish. Rest in peace Uncle Marty.

You and me Nemo, it's just you and me.

The Kraken: Don't get me wrong, I like a good giant evil sea monster as much as the next webmaster, but the Kraken just takes it too far. He just fucking loves popping up out of the water and sinking ships almost as much as loose lips enjoy the same activity…yeah, I went there. He prefers those ships with wooden hulls as he thinks that the sound of wood cracking underwater is, as stated in his book Kraking Up: Deep Thoughts on the Deep, "Majorly Hella Bitchin'". He will go after metal ships, particularly if captained by anyone named Nemo or at all resembling the Nautilus as part of a blood feud that went between their families due to an unsightly dinner comment made when the Kraken asked for Nemo's daughter's hand in marriage.

Surviving The Kraken: It is most wise to avoid the following: Sailing. If you must sail, try to avoid playfully breaking wooden ships or submarines that look like creepy steel fish. Mother's don't let your babies to grow up named Nemo. If you do find yourself in the grip of a Kraken attack, do not panic. Instead, dress in a purple gown and blonde flowing wig, then wave a handkerchief daintily over the side of the boat while shouting "Dearest Binkley, stop all this foolishness. I still love you." Binkley is the Krakens Christian name and Nemo's daughter, Nemmette (I can't believe I just wrote that) loved purple. This will confuse the near sighted Kraken and he will discontinue his attack, unable to hurt his lady love.
Note: If you are a mad sea captain and wish to hunt the Kraken, sail around tossing out copies of 20,000 leagues under the sea. Man, he hates that shit.

An artist's rendering of Cholesterol.

Cholesterol: One of the biggest killers today is Cholesterol and Saturated Fats. You can identify either of these from afar by their red glowing aura and maniacal laughter. They typically prefer to destroy people one at a time by slowly destroying their life. They begin by seducing your girlfriend away from you and then causing you a long descent into destructive drinking. They'll eventually slip into your house at night and cause shortness of breath, clogged arteries, profuse sweating, unattractive appearance, low self-esteem, poor circulation, chest pains, and a myriad of other problems until such time you decompose into cholesterol or saturated fat yourself and go out in the night seeking to drink the pain of others while weeping silently onto cupcakes and funyuns.

Surviving Cholesterol: The only known method of surviving Cholesterol is through evasion. By using the "Cholesterol Detector" commonly known as "Nutrition Facts" you can be forewarned of an oncoming Cholesterol attack and setup the necessary mine fields and Wheat Germ Laser defense grid around your home.

This Site: This site is characterized by widely inaccurate information and lots and lots of woman-hating dialog. Symptoms of this site include bleeding eyes, bleeding gums, and a desire to write hateful e-mails as well as stop talking to Burnz. Other facets include a few dead links, Orange and Purple conversation texts, poor grammarization, and the need to actually get the right domain name back instead of having the wrong title on the page.

Surviving This Site: You just have to kill yourself before it kills you.

I hope this guide will allow you to venture into the world a bit more prepared that you currently are. Unless you are better prepared in which case why didn't you write the fucking update Capt. Smarts? No, I don't mind slaving away gathering "data" while you arm yourself for the inevitable apocalypse. Not a problem, want me to freshen up your drink while I am at it? God.