The Daily Rossman (est. 1975) is the world's oldest web B.L.O.G.G. (Bitchin' Legendary Online Godcomplex Gazette). Not that I live an extraordinary life or anything (the government hit squads and the Ninja Assassins Guild have all cut back on their programs directed at ME lately, mostly thanks to a couple of well-placed letters in Jimmy Jammer's handwriting threatening all of their mothers), but sometimes I do accidentally maim a couple of dozen people, or unwittingly have my robot kill an assload of old folks; and I find that I want to share these happy stories with you, the general public.
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ONIcon 1998: The Con Of The Century!
Note to self 322: 01/23/2008
This has been a helluva week for me. First of all I got a new job over at the blow-up doll factory. I originally applied for "Product Tester," but had to settle for "Refurbishing" (patching up punctures).
After that huge shake-up, I then had to babysit my youngest nephew this past weekend. Guy's cute and all, but goddamn! His diaper nearly killed me (or at the very least it almost ruined my fantastic Polo shirt)! We'd been playing with his blocks and his many noisy toy appliances, when all of a sudden I smelled something that gave me major flashbacks to that time I threw up on that bum who then threw up back on me in the garbage-filled back alley behind the Sea Wench Pub a few years back. Yes, it's cliche as fuck to say that a baby's diaper stinks when filled with poopy, but this package had me gagging, and that was while it was still contained.
Now, I had always prided myself that despite the fact that my siblings have pumped out like 12 kids between them, along with all my adult cousins cranking out their own chillun over the years, I had NEVER changed a poopy diaper in my entire life. Ever. Yes, and I even babysat as a job for a good 3 years back in high school; still not one dirty, dirty diaper. There was no way to just ignore this dirty bomb and wait for his parents to come home this time though. If I didn't tie it up in four plastic baggies and then bury it in the backyard this thing would have seriously wounded either me or their dog.
So, I carried the little guy up the stairs to his changing room with both arms extended as far as they'd go, got him out of his footsie pajamas, and just as I was going to undo his diaper he started reaching for it. I don't know if he was trying to play with his dinkle or if he was a just a fecalfeliac in training, but I could not keep both his feet up, keep his hands away from the epicenter of the disaster, AND pull out the bad diaper, wipe his bum, and replace the wrapper with a clean one. I seriously had no idea what to do. So I called my mother.
She laughed at me at first, which did not help my sense of terror and my attempts to hold my breath, but she soon calmed down and told me to give the tyke something to play with while I cleaned out the basement. I found a sippy-cup top — he seemed confused but eager to try and eat it — and I went to work. The load was as large as my fist. And it was angry. I don't know how somebody so cute can make something so ferocious and puke-inducing, but there it was. I started cursing at the diaper and the load, all the while trying to place the filled di-dee in a previously opened plastic bag, wipe the bum clean, and then apply a new safety lining. I didn't realize that my mom was still on the phone until I buttoned up his new pajama set and saw it on the table. I don't think she ever heard me say those words ever before. And she never will again.
Note to self 321: 01/02/2008
Karen put it best last year when she stated, "Yay! It's 2007!.... Um, so now what the fuck?" Change out "2007" with any year and you have my opinion about it.
Though to be fair 2007 had a pretty good end to it. The last few weeks I had a couple of movie weekends either at Greenwood or at Chi-Chi's pad, watching all my holiday faves (like the greatest Christmas movies of all time: Die Hard, Christmas Vacation, and the unrated version of Robocop [that last one not a Christmas-themed movie per se, but a holiday tradition nonetheless]), I got to hang out with all my (rapidly multiplying) nephews and nieces, got a few new movies and video games on Christmas morning, watched the entire first season of Showtime's Dexter within a 24 hour period (don't try this at home as it will FUCK YOU UP), made a pre-Christmas movie-hopping weekend in which I did an unprecedented THREE jumps (bought a ticket for Golden Compass, then hopped to Sweeney Todd, and then caught the last show of No Country for Old Men), watched a couple of complete anime series, found out that both The Hobbit and The Disappearance of Haruhi Suzumiya were being made into a movie and a TV series respectively, had a fantastic date on New Year's Eve, and had everything culminate into a UGA romping of the uberly overrated Hawaii at the Sugar Bowl on New Year's Day. I guess UGA could have been 12-0 too if our biggest game of the year prior to the Sugar Bowl was against Saint Edna's School for Homemakers.
Honestly, I never thought I'd ever say this, but FUCK YOU, Hawaii. Pansies.
Oh, and Florida lost their bowl to fucking Michigan. Ha!
Note to self 320: 12/12/2007
Goddammit... I've fucking done it again. I've fallen in love with a fictional character (as previously seen with the X-Men's Rogue from the 80s comic run, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Ayukawa Madoka). This time it's The Office's Pam Beesly.
I know, I know, I'm a late comer to the whole Office bandwagon. The reason I waited so long before really checking it out was because I had seen the two seasons of the British Office and simply hated the uncomfortable comedy that permeated every aspect of it; I also can't handle Curb Your Enthusiasm and Extras for the same damn reason. I watch comedies to laugh, not cringe. Anyway, Tammi With an "I" finally talked me into giving the American Office a chance, but she told me to start with the second season (which is when, I was told, it started to find its own way and was coming out from under the shadow of the original series). Well, I did, and then after blasting through that DVD set I started on the third season, then back to the first (which I eventually had to see), then I went online to download what's currently out for season four. I am here to tell you that this week I declare the American Office to be the GREATEST TV SHOW EVER. Well, tied with Buffy.
What makes it so great? Well, there's no lesbian witches in The Office, but there is the previously mentioned Pam Beesly. Pam is my ideal woman: She's very attractive, funny, and loves to help people play pranks on office dicks. Oh my GOD! If we could team up against Johnston in Accounting and make him crazy like Andy... That would be the bestest! Her smile, her wit, and her cute glances at the camera whenever Michael does something dumb.... Oh, my heart melts whenever she raises an eyebrow or two in concern or confusion. I even like the newly assertive Pam more than beat-down Pam. Pam, Pam, Pam. PAM-PAM!
Jenna Fischer, if you ever want to make a guy's dream come true, let me go on a date with Pam. Please! I know that you're two different people and that she's fictional, but just put on an act for one night. Pretend I'm Jim! I can do that. I'll just mess up my hair a bit and try to goofy-up my demeanor for the evening (it'll be hard, but I'm willing to try). Or at the very least can you send me a cardboard cutout of Pam at her desk? Then I can put it on Angry Amy's counter so that whenever I glance up at the clock I can see you instead of her. Oh Pam, Pam, Pammy, Pam! I love you thiiiiiiiiiiiiiis much! Accept my feelings while you can, because I think I feel myself falling for Veronica Mars again next week.
Note to self 319: 11/28/2007
Second worst Thanksgiving ever. Nothing will ever top number one on that list, but this year tried. Man did it rise to that challenge... No details will I provide since I found out that some family members actually read this shitty site, and I don't need any more grief over last Thursday. I've just got to let it go.... Let it go, man. Deeeeeeeeeep breath. Continue.
Other than Turkey Day itself, the week was filled with overstuffing myself with buffalo wings, Gumby's pizza, and a wide assortment of other pure junk foods that turned my insides into a volcano of bubbling ferocity that caused some major property damage when it finally escaped. The week was Uber-Week '07. The game was Final Fantasy XII — one of the highest rated games in the series (according to some Frankenreviews out there in Internet Land), and a story that promised to stay away from romance and simply tell a deep political yarn. I was very excited. Then I fell asleep during it. Several times actually. This was a first for me. Square-Enix Inc. should be ashamed.
The plot was so TEDIOUS and was simply full of who-gives-a-fuck "twists".... Oh, who the fuck am I kidding, there were absolutely no twists or turns in this bad boy; unless you count an evil twin as a twist. And I do not. I count "evil twin syndrome" as balls storytelling. After 4 full nights of playing (well, 4 full nights of trying to force myself to play) I was still only 18 hours in; I'm usually done with 35 hour games at that point in the week. When I realized what day it was (Tuesday at about 1 in the AM) I put down my controller, turned on my computer, opened up Wikipedia and read the rest of the trite and unexciting plot in about 2 minutes. Then I watched the ending animation on Youtube. I was very glad that I did. The plot to FFXII was like a Sci-Fi Channel original movie (Let's say DinoCroc) compared to FFX's $200million theatrical release of something awesome (Let's say Beowulf). FFXII just felt like a lame attempt at making a real Final Fantasy game, but with none of the charm, none of the typical heavenly musical score (oh yeah, even the music blew), none of the gameplay (FFXII's battle system was like a really dumb attempt to make it like an MMORPG... Trying to keep the battle going while running three characters in real time was just insane! And if you tried to automate the back-up characters it was like turning a couple of 25 year old, 250lb mongoloids loose in a candy shop — they'd be bouncing off the walls doing everything BUT what you really wanted them to do), and none of the trademarked, likeable characters of previous games in the series. After I found out that I would miss absolutely nothing if I stopped playing it, I took the disc out of my PS2, and then had a neighbor's dog shit all on it just like an Angry Nintendo Nerd. Then I just spent the rest of my holiday week gathering stars in Super Mario Galaxy and blasting through Lego Star Wars for the Wii.
Yes, I know. I'm pathetic. But look in a mirror before casting the first stone, freak.
Note to self 318: 11/14/2007
I was out with my family for my parents' anniversary when I saw my sister and her boy toy talking to a very pretty blonde girl. I of course jumped into the conversation and started flirting awesomely with the stranger, eventually removing ourselves from the group I came with and ending up at the bar in the restaurant we were at. I found her striking, but very familiar. I simply couldn't shake where I had met her before, or if I actually had met her before.
We kept talking, flirting, laughing and just simply getting drunk until she caught me studying her face over the rim of my drink. She stopped smiling, dropped all pretenses and asked me outright, "Do you remember who I am?" I was a little stunned, and a little tipsy, so I just said, "I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself earlier. I'm—"
"Oh, you know me," she cut me off.
"................................" I just stared appreciatively at her.
"In the Biblical sense of the term...."
"..................Um, uh, Jan? No, huh.... Ummm, Leslie?" Two decent, but apparently incorrect guesses as the wine in my face proved.
I am not a player. I'll be the first to tell you that. I AM a one-date-wonder most of the time though, going through first dates like popcorn. This one still surprised me though. I never thought I'd ever forget somebody I'd gone out with before. It wasn't until sister Jaime reminded me later about dating one of her old friends that I recalled Kyra's name and.... abilities. Those memories made me forget the $75 wine-stained button down I was wearing and warmed me to the bone.
Kyra, if you're reading this, call me! I fixed the swing and have enough KY to fill the bathtub again!
Note to self 317: 11/07/2007
Holy fuck.... I've felt this sense of loathing towards both Best Buy and George Lucas for a while now, but this past week REALLY made me remember WHY I detest them both so. It all started out with me picking up The Adventures of Young Indiana Jones Volume 1 DVD set at Best Buy last week; I figured, "Hell, if this show is even just half as entertaining as the flashback to Indy's youth that we got to see in the beginning of Last Crusade then I'm in for a humdinger of a treat!" It turns out that instead of ANY kind of action (or any kind of plot or storytelling in the least), we got hour-long history lessons in which history is rewritten and made even more lame and boring than it actually was. What the FUCK, Lucas?
I only made it through the first disc, which had two episodes of young Indy (age 10), first bumbling around Africa on a safari with Teddy Roosevelt, and then tripping through Paris with Norman Rockwell and Pablo Picasso. No development, no structure or even any narrative, simply young Indy walking around meeting horrible actors pretending to be dead famous people. It was actually more Young Forrest Gump than Young Indiana Jones... Only young Indy was dumber than young Forrest.
After watching these first two episodes (which even had the cool, old Indiana Jones bookended narratives [which opened and closed each episode when originally aired] driving the "plot" REMOVED for whatever reason) I just stared in disbelief at my TV. Not only did I just waste about an hour and forty minutes of my life just then, but I blew about $65 on this shitty DVD set! No. Fuck no. So I put the discs back in their box, grabbed the receipt and ran back to Best Buy to return the thing.
I was lucky to find a cute Customer Service Rep. behind the returns counter, and I flirted horrendously with the 10-years-my-junior girl for a little while before presenting my problem to her: "This show sucks. I need to return it." She said, "Oh, sorry, but we can't take something back because you didn't like it." I said, "Oh, by 'sucks' I meant it doesn't play on my DVD player. None of the discs. I need to return it." She looked slightly confused, but asked her manager in the back if this would be okay. I was told that they would let me replace my set for another (which they promptly opened so that I couldn't just turn around and return that new set for store credit), and if this new set didn't work I would then be able to get something else.
I thanked the cutie and left. I went grocery shopping for an hour then returned claiming that this new set was having the same problem as the first (which wasn't a lie, the main problem being that they both sucked rhino balls). Unfortunately my CSR cutie wasn't the one behind the counter, but instead I stood face to face with Large Marge (her honest to God name was Marjorie.... And she was large're'n me... And stuffing her face with a bag [family-sized] of Doritos the whole time I talked to her). I explained the situation to Large Marge, and the fat bitch (oh, and she was... BOTH) just stood there with a dazed expression on her fat face as she continued to shove tasty corn chips down her chunky throat. When I was done she said "Let me see th... Ummm..." and then grabbed the DVD set from my hands and disappeared into the Staff Only room. For 30 minutes. I just stood at the returns desk for thirty goddamn minutes waiting for her to waddle back out again. Finally, she emerged (like a large moon on the horizon) from the back room, tearing into a new back of chips (this time Fritos). Still looking dazed she informed me "I'm sorry, sir *MUNCH MUNCH*, but it plays fine. We can't exchange it."
I kept my cool and calmly relayed the message that my CSR cutie had originally told me: If this set didn't work on my player they'd refund it for me. Large Marge said "*MUNCH MUNCH* Nope. We, uh, can't.... It plays on our stuff. Nope *MUNCH*." I asked if they played it on the same player that I have to which Large Marge spit out, "Uh, how would I know what you played it on..." I said, "Exactly, you fat fu-... Exactly. You didn't even ask. My Pioneer player has problems with it, and I bet you ALL of the same model of players will have the same problem with it!" And they would — it would be just as terrible on any Pioneer DVD player as it had been on mine — but Large Marge would have none of it.
I politely argued for another ten minutes with the stunned-looking bovine across the counter from me until the original CSR cutie popped back up again. I asked the cutie to tell Marge what she had told me earlier, that if this set still had problems I could return it. She looked sheepish and then quietly stated that if Marge said I couldn't return it, I couldn't return it... Marge was her immediate supervisor.
At that I lost it. I knew that I could not win (what with Large Marge having the same stupid look on her face that that fat kid in The Big Lebowski had on his when John Goodman asked him if he knew what would happen if he fucked a stranger up the ass). So I then looked at Large Marge and directed my question to the CSR cutie, "Wait, did you just say that Large Marge here ATE your direct supervisor?" They both looked stunned (Large Marge even more so than normal). I then went on. "Is that how one gains a position of power in this shitty place? You must devour your competition? Margie, did you know that ahead of time and did you eat this supervisor on purpose, or did you just miss third breakfast that day and chow down on the closest edible thing nearby when the hunger pangs got too much for you after going 6 minutes without stuffing something down your FAT FAT FACE? You know what? Fuck it." I grabbed my DVD set from Large Marge's fat, sausage-like, chewed-nailed fingers. "I'll just keep this. Yes, the reason I tried to return it was because it is a terrible show, but you know what, Large Marge, I actually have a good job that pays me a lot of money (lies, but she didn't know), and I can afford to waste $70 on this thing. Unlike you, who needs every last penny that you earn by painfully standing on those poor, over-strained, meaty legs of yours all day long in order to eat more crap and gain more weight, I can blow a few thousand bucks a month if I want to and I'll never feel it in my bank account (an even bigger lie, but fuck Large Marge). So good day to you, you fat fuck, and good luck to you, cutie." I bowed to the cutie. "And fuck Best Buy for fucking me over." Then I left while extending both hands in the one-fingered salute to whomever looked in my direction.
Once again, I feel I must state that I have nothing against fat people. The funniest people I know are fat. Large Marge though was morbidly obese and just stupid as a McNugget. That's what pissed me off the most. In the end I was actually able to Amazon sell the DVD box set for more than I originally paid for it, so I'm no longer pissed. No, that's a lie — I still really hate Large Marge and her mouth breathing moronicness, but.... Fuck, I don't know if I learned anything or what. Fuck Best Buy, and fuck George Lucas.
Note to self 316: 09/26/2007
A very strange week past. Lots of good and bad things going on. First, good: The Upright Citizens Brigade (the second greatest sketch comedy troupe of my generation) 2nd Season DVD set came out. Bad: The "president" of Iran got invited to give a speech at both the UN and Columbia University. Good: A good number of the people at Columbia treated him like the terrorist-funding, nuke-seeking, all around douchebag that he is. Bad: The UN treated him like a demi-god. Good: I got through the second season of the "I can't believe a show aimed at kids like this can really be this fucking great" show Kaleido Star, and the follow-up OVAs. Bad:..... No more Kaleido Star to watch...
Anyway, after cruising through the second season of Kaleido Star I was just so inspired to follow in Sora and Layla's (literal) tightrope act that I paid Kuni $15.62 to find me a bunch of Asian gymnasts to help me prepare for my big debut (which I thought would either be The Legendary Amazing Maneuver, The Angel Maneuver, or The Triple Penetration Trapeze Happy Ending Maneuver), which I already booked for three days from then in Marksy's backyard. Well, Kuni apparently spent all that cash on a new drill to drill holes between his and his sister's bedroom, and he ended up bringing me 3 Chinese crack whores on a C.O.D. promise (that I was expected to cover of course) on the DAY OF my historic debut! I took it all in stride though, talked the
girls whores through the act (explaining all the flips, trampoline jumps, somersaults, leaps and acts of dexterity down to the last twirl), gave them all a slap on their butts for good luck, and then hit the stage... Unfortunately that "butt paddle" was apparently the Chinese equivalent of telling an American whore that you're not a cop, because as they ran out onto the stage all three of them used the trampoline to bounce into the audience, beginning what would soon become known as "The Marksy's House Herpes Orgy '07."
As soon as Ming Che-Wen ripped Jimmy Jammer's pants off I calmly walked off the stage, siphoned some gasoline out of one of the cars parked out front, and then used it to set everything on fire. House, whores, heathens.... All of it. True, I liked about half of the people who were in the audience that night, but after seeing one of those blistered whores sitting on any one of my pals' faces (and they sat on ALL of their faces — even the women's... Especially the women's) I just knew I'd never be able to look my friends in their faces again. Not without vomiting or scrubbing my brain with bleach. I mean, Tsing Mou-Ling's ass looked like a bubbling mound of lava... It was all red, pustuley, and oozy...Ugh... Here comes the vomit train again.
Note to self 315: 09/19/2007
This past weekend I learned a lot. For example, did you know that that one guy on the Food Network who travels all over the place eating exotic shit wherever he goes bragged about (in his book) eating monkey brains from live monkeys while in SouthEast Asia? Apparently, while you're eating the brains, you're supposed to either fondle or kick the monkey balls underneath the table for more flavor as they scream and spit at you with their lil' monkey grey matter all exposed and such.
I also learned that patients in mental institutions (like Arkham and that place where they kept Hannibal Lecter) get to work actual jobs while whistling the day away thinking that they're Abe Vigoda (can't blame them; that's how I wish to go crazy if I ever do). The crazy people put together plastic-wrapped sporks, plastic knives, napkins and salt and pepper packets for hours upon hours each day. I was told that they get a nickel for each one that they complete, and I was also warned to never try to even approach any piles of plastic cutlery that've already been sealed, since, well, they're crazy fucking people who put them together, and they're very territorial and prone to fling things at people who get too close. Bodily things.
Anyway, the guards who watch them work love to count the completed packages for the patients.
"One, two, three and four. Good job, Mr. Johnson. You made four today!"
"B-b-b-b-b-but I sp-sp-spent 6 hours making my packets! Th-th-th-there are at least 2,000 there! I Kn-kn-kn-kn-know it!"
"Four! Good job. Now on to Ms. Lorna. Wow! That's gotta be at least 80gajillion! You'll be getting a large paycheck this month, Ms. Lorna."
"N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-no! She only has t-t-t-t-t-t-t-ten! I can c-c-c-c-count them from here! No!"
"Oh, good job, Mr. Johnson! I see you have one, two, three... Three today! Yay! Three nickels for you!"
When I asked what they can buy with their hard-earned money while in the fucking mental farm, I was told that there was indeed a small shop in there where they could spend their nickels. "What do they sell there?" I asked. "What could they possibly allow certifiable psychos to purchase?" I was told that they could buy small, plastic-wrapped packages of sporks, plastic knives, napkins and tiny salt and pepper packets for 5 cents each.
Note to self 314: 09/12/2007
What a goddamn sucky weekend... Well, actually it was the first time I did it. I had a crippling migraine most of Friday, Saturday the UGA Bulldogs got trounced by the Cocks from South Carolina, I then got drunk-called by some chick I never even nailed at around midnight (never even went out with her), And Sunday turned into an all-day shopping trip with Kare for losing a bet about something I don't even remember betting on (she knows she can get me with that one every time... My memory absolutely sucks unless it comes to movies, TV, pr0n, and, well.... I already said pr0n).
So late Sunday night I tracked down one of Bob From the Future's ancestors and pretended I was going to kill her (in order to get my friend's attention from way in the future), and when he showed up to lecture me (about actually accidentally killing her — and wiping him out from the timeline — for a good 5 minutes before performing CPR and bringing her back) I told him that there were more important things at stake than that... I needed to go back to Friday and have myself a MAN'S MAN WEEKEND! GRRRRR!!! And Bob From the Future, being such a swell guy, obliged.
Together Bob From the Future and I hit the dance club Toppers (nudie dancing that is) and got piss drunk downtown Friday night, made a couple of bets on the outcome of the Game on Saturday, made some mad bank and then hit Toppers again on Saturday (when they said Ezmerelda and her Enormous Fun Bags would be headlining), and then theater hopped on Sunday catching the manliest of manly movies that the theater had to offer: 3:10 to Yuma and Shoot 'Em Up. Both rocked for different reasons (well, different other than being kick-ass, manly flicks). After all was said and done, and Bob From the Future had to return to his own time, I apologized for whacking his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, and then went back to Toppers again by myself in order to try and buy Ezzy from the owner (he wanted $3 grand, and two high-class hookers in exchange... If I had two high-class hookers on me I wouldn't need Ezzy now would I!). In the end, I successfully pulled out a pretty tight weekend from out of my ass. A MANLY weekend! Out of my MANLY ass! Grrrrr!
Note to self 313: 08/29/2007
And so it goes... Yet another year down the old crapper, and one more step closer to an eternity of constant flesh burning and never-ending reruns of Sex and the City (don't try to humor me, I know where I'm going when my time comes).
I did the old climb up Stone Mountain again for some minor meditation and sweat-letting (why Stone Mountain, you ask? Well, it's the ONLY goddamn mountain within 100 miles of me. Yes, I know that it's basically just an Ode to the Confederacy created by a bunch of white, racist, Nazi sympathizers [well, that sounds about right at least], but it's got a nice mile-long walking trail up to the peak [well, what they call a peak], and I have a quiet spot all to myself, far away from the main side of the mountain where I can scream at the top of my lungs about all of the shit that has pissed me off over the past year... and then run away before my profanity-filled bellows attract mountain security).
Afterwards I met Chi-Chi at my favorite restaurant on the whole goddamn planet: Fire of Brazil. We ate at least 15 pounds of prime rib, beef and pork tenderloin, mini filet mignons, bacon-wrapped chicken cuts, succulent sausages, and other heavenly slices of meat that never stopped being slopped onto our plates! Yeah, they have a fancy salad bar there too, but if I get unlimited meat, I am going to do my best to run them out of business on their silly generosity. I had to unbutton my pants and loosen my belt by three notches by the time I finished two hours later. I want to marry Fire of Brazil. After that we bar hopped for a while and then caught Pirates 3 at some shady, second-run movie theater. Good times.
Now, I don't believe in the idea of "the Birth Week" like Tammi With an "I" does, but this year it seemed that the stars had all aligned and the gods were smiling down upon me, silently nodding while insinuating "Go ooooooon. Celebrate an entire week. You deserve it." For you see, Ron Jeremy was scheduled to come to the college campus in town and have a debate about pornography with some hard-up, Christian fundy the day before my big day. I was ecstatic! I planned the perfect photo to take with the Hedgehog too (which included props, and which I won't give away because I do plan to take it with him some day) and everything... But then I found out from Chi-Chi that these same two people go around and give the same old back and forth debate all over the goddamn country. It's a fucking rehearsed play! Here I was thinking that this college had the genius to invite these two totally different yahoos to openly (and hopefully violently) debate the ethics of pr0n... What a let down. I did not even think it worth the $2 ticket to sit through that crap. Not even to get my awesome picture with the main man himself. I figured my time was worth much more than that, and instead I spent my evening looking up some of Jeremy's classier titles from years gone by on Limewire. So sad.