My least favorite animal

I promise to stop the animal bit, but something happened this morning that gave me the overwhelming urge to buy a gun. I don't own a gun, never have, and always thought that I never would, until now. I woke up at the asscrack of dawn this morning. It doesn't happen very often on a Saturday, so I felt the need to be productive. I drank coffee and played piano for awhile before I decided to walk to the coffeehouse to grade some papers. It was a glorious fall morning as I strolled to my destination, rocking out to the Exploding Hearts (I'm not sure if I could've have been more stereotypically indie at this point. I apologize. I didn't realize it at the time, but I do know. Please excuse me while I punch my own face. Okay, I'm back...and bleeding). As I was saying, it was a beautiful morning and I was soaking it all in when all of a sudden, I felt a burning sensation on my arm. My first thought was Ohh shit, time to go to the hospital (for those of you that don't know...I can die from a single yellowjacket sting...I know...it only adds to my superbadassness that a fuckin bug can take me out just as easily as a bullet to the head). To my surprise, the burning sensation was not an insect bite/sting at all. I would've been thankful if the culprit was not in fact a hot, steamy pile of bird shit. I'd never been shat upon before. Now I can honestly say that I received my first Cleveland Steamer from a bird. I should start a website. I could make millions. In all seriousness, it probably should've ruined my day, but I was(and still am) thoroughly impressed by the temperature of the aforementioned bird poo (It felt gooey cheese eggs fresh off the skillet). So I think my next order of business it to invest some money in a coonskin cap and a double barrel shotgun and avenge the shatting. Or maybe I'll just feed the fuckers rice and Alka Seltzer.

My new favorite animal

I can't believe I haven't talked about this yet. So, I was watching the Discovery Channel(go ahead...point and laugh). In any event, my lameness paid off. There was a special on Hippos. I've always had a special place in my heart for Hippos ever since the gloriously entertaining Hungry Hungry Hippos came out. I can identify with that. I'm hungry. So yeah...back to your regularly scheduled program. Apparently, the Head Hippo is called the Beachmaster. The Beachmaster has his pick of the ladies and is responsible for keeping order among the rest of the gang. In one nail-biting segment, a young Hippo dared to challenge the Beachmaster. They tussled in the water, but it looked more like two fat kids sloshing around in a kiddie pool than two fierce animals beefing for sweet poon. The skirmish then moved to the beach, where the Beachmaster showed the television audience how he gained his nickname. The Beachmaster won (big surprise) but that's not the point. When Hippos get ready to fight, they wander around looking tough and do two things before the fight begins. Those two things are as follows, in no particular order: they drool all over the fucking place and they shit...all over themselves...as they swat fesces with their little bitty nubbin of a tail. I was thoroughly impressed. I think I'll incorporate it into my super badass kung fu fighting routine. Nobody wants to get anywhere near a man that's just shit himself, let alone get close enough to beat his ass. In conclusion, Hippos are super badass fighting machines and shittin on yourself is cool.

Dry Clean Only

Yeah...so I was being a good lil boy today and decided to do some laundry. I think I fucked up a pair of pants. Apparently "Dry Clean Only" isn't a friendly suggestion, but an ultimatum with serious consequences. No big deal. I bought the pants for 3 bucks at a Goodwill. Worse case scenario, I've just gained a fancy pair of shorts. Besides, noone expects a man to be good at laundry. That would be like a woman that's good at voting. Just because the means to do something is there doesn't mean that one will excel at it. Take that bitches.
Your Brother in Christ,
Cecil

Five Years

Yeah...So I was inadvertently rocking out to Ziggy Stardust on Sept. 11th and "Five Years" took on a whole new meaning. I still can't believe that movies/TV specials are being made about it. It's still too soon. Especially if it's being used for political or commercial gain. But that's another story entirely.
In other news, I broke up another fight this week. Very exciting indeed. Just another day in paradise with about 150 more to go. The guy that I had to single-handedly restrain is about my height, except he's pushing about 300 pounds. Probably more. But I've never been good at guessing one's weight. I'd never make it as a carnie. Fuck it and God Bless.
Hello, my name is May 25th.

The Brotherhood of Damn Sassy Mutants

Yeah...So I decided to meet up with my friends for the ol' DC '06 convention in the ATL. (where apparently more than playas play). I had to let it sink in for a day or so before I made a valiant attempt at describing the goings on of this blessed conference for all of the maladjusted members of society. I'm not gonna try to explain what happened in a narrative of any sort, b/c it wouldn't do the experience justice (besides...I was hammered for the entire experience). So just imagine me sporting an Alf mask and a bag full of booze, witnessing the following events unfold, in no particular order (you can trust the accuracy of the events, b/c like any good journalist, I had a trusty notepad and pen handy for the entire escapade): a man/woman Wonderwoman (very convincing except for the mysterious bulge); a drunk black man dressed a Winnie the Pooh grunting various unintelligible bits of what I can only imagine was profanity; trashcan and maidcart pissing (when a drunk man's gotta go, he's gotta go, Alf mask or not); a man that was saved by a Spam sandwich at 4 in the morning; chucking beer cans at super crappy goth bands in front of ten thousand people; Jabba the hut wearing my world famous punk rock hat; finding "To do before I die-lick a storm trooper" scrawled in my notebook in someone else's handwriting w/o the faintest idea of how that happened; awkwardness and Mayo (even I don't know what the fuck that means); overhearing the grandest pick up line ever: "you look like my ex-wife"; wandering into a "gaming" room at 3 in the morning; coming to the following conclusion at the end of the DC experience "we should go somewhere that doesn't smell like SPAM; stumping a geek with the following question "How was it possible for Lois Lane to have Superman's kid in the last Superman movie? His sperm had to have blown out her fuckin gasket."; realizing that after two days of solid drinking w/ a sprinkling of SPAM ingestion that my farts smelled like vintage colon cancer; overhearing the following statement "I'm not racist, but the thought of having sex with a black man makes me choke." White people scare me. Especially a hundred thousand of them in costumes. But they're fun to fuck with. Especially when one is inebriated and wearing an ALF mask with "I eat Pussy" scrawled on one's bare chest. I say it once more. White people scare me. Especially when they go by the name of Cecil.

What a long, strange trip its been

Let me start off by saying that I abhor the Grateful Dead and most of the people that dig them. That being said, that quote pretty much sums up the past week. I broke up two fights in the past week, which was pretty exciting I suppose. I don't know what the fuck they're feeding these kids but they need some more fiber in their diets or something. So young and angry. I blame the schools. The winner for the most surreal experience of the past seven days has absolutely nothing to do with the schoolhouse or work-related incidents. I had the esteemed pleasure of visiting a local watering-hole in neighboring Twiggs county(the most appropriately named county in our blessed state). The aforementioned watering-hole is a cinder block structure that has been painted white(or was white at one time). My roommate noticed that "Monday-FREE POOL" was scrawled on the wall as he was driving home from work. We decided that this would be the perfect jumpstart to our week, playing pool and probably being shot at by Twiggs County's finest. After chugging a few beers to muster the courage to actually go, we made our way to the establishment, which I vaguely recall being called "Harvey's." I was greeted by a pack of mutt puppies upon entering the door and the cordial atmosphere stopped with the canines. If there was a record player in the house it would've stopped, unplugged itself, and broken itself on my face. I sat down at "the bar," if you will, and drank the most uncomfortable PBR of my life. As I sat there, I made the following observations, in no particular order: an older gentleman in overalls who had left his oxygen tank in the car so he could smoke in the bar; a bartender named Tammy with three good teeth and no shoes; a portly teenage girl wandering around the place greedily munching on a box of Nilla Wafers; fesces on the restroom floor that I can only hope the friendly puppies were responsible for; a mysterious back room that produced a lawn mower, gasoline, an industrial-sized fan, a garden house, and more random people in the 10 minutes that I was there; single-serve, microwavable Hamburger Helper packets(didn't know such things existed); and last but not least, a group of four or five grown men that went out to a minivan that didn't leave and smelled like burning. Let's just say we paid our tab and skeedaddled the fuck outta there. If the South rises again I'm going to shoot myself.