The DAILY requirement of Rossmanisms
TheRossmanChronicle | *YAMACSICO* | TheRossmanExaminer | theDailyRossman | Rossman Reviews & Ratings | NESticision | RossmanPeoples | WhatIsNew | ElectronicMail | Retard'sDigest | ONIcon1998:TheConOfTheCentury! | LinksToTheBeyond

(For more Dailies, check out the Archive Here)

Note to self 178: 08/28/2002

Every year, as all you Rossman-stalkers already know, I climb a mountain near my birthday and then spend a few hours on top pondering the universe and the eternal question of "why must I grow older every fucking year?!?!" This year was no different. I patched up RONNIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!my ankle (that Carl had basically broken for me when he tried to see if human ankles could rotate and move in 360 degrees at the point of connection to the lower leg.... FYI, it can't and he failed his Biology 765 test), got a bit liquored up and then challenged the only sort-of real mountain within 5,000 miles of Athens, Georgia: Stone Mountain. It was a fairly easy climb, but that's never what the patented "Birthday Vision Quest" is all about. Once I made the summit (16.47 minutes after I began... Yeah, it's a bear) I set up camp and began boozing it up even more. Alcohol makes you see things so much clearer sometimes... Especially when you're out of breath and the air is slightly thinner. Very slightly, but slightly none the less.

After a few hundred minutes I thought that I could fly like that Monarch Butterfly that fluttered past me after my first vomit of the day. That experiment basically turned into a concussion though. Soon I was talking to the trees (John was being a dick, and Harry died sometime in the past year... What an ass). Then I was holding arguments with this goddamn stupid ant that kept trying to eat my head. After that I found myself yelling at children who were laughing at me who it turned out weren't even there. It was at that point that I knew that I had attained some sort of enlightenment, so I decided to use it for all the fucked-up-tasity that it was worth. I took out a pad and pen from my back-pack and began drawing something. The next thing I knew I was at the foot of the mountain without my shoes and my pants on my head as some sort of sexy hat. When I took a gander at the piece of paper that I had crumbled into my hand I saw the image that I posted on the right. I honestly don't know if it was the Coyote god, Gray Dog Asslick of Filthy Meadows, speaking through me, or the LSD that I later found out that Robot Pedro had put into my water bottle, but I know now that it means something. It's important. Also it was drawn from my own blood and the pen was still in my wrist when I found it the next day.

Note to self
177: 08/21/2002

That was a full and wild (and maybe even a bit zany) weekend that I just participated in. First of all, last Friday I went to visit Chi-Chi in the Highlands of Atlanta. I got there around 5:30 and the drinking began in earnest. We watched a bunch of Mr. Show episodes that my friend has on DVD and then went out for some very uber-burritos at a shack down the street. Unfortunately (to be made clear later) they had PBR pitchers at a $2 happy hour price and we had to handle 3 between the two of us for reasons I'm still not sure about. Then we had Chi-Chi's roommate drive us to the liquor store to stock up on some mad Killian's Red before plopping down in front of the couch for an all night DVD jam session. At around 10 I ordered some Papa John's supreme pizza which turned out to be one of the top ten worst ideas I've ever had in my life. By around midnight, the unholy mixture of alcohol, burrito and grease-fest pizza (coupled with some disturbing Mr. Show moments) made me start to feel "not so fresh". I thought that I had walked it off, but as I got close to the bathroom my stomach told me that it was time to evacuate. Now, this sensation of "My name is Vomit and here I come!" hit me within only 2.5 seconds of actual ignition. The fact that I actually made it into the bathroom in time still amazes me. But, alas, it was not enough to divert disaster. See, I made it to the john, but as my instincts kicked in, my hand raised to my mouth in a sad sad attempt to keep it shut and the puke safely inside. The attempt failed and my hand turned the spew into a disgusting explosion of half-digested foods and drinks that showered half the room in vile bile. The upshot was that I was then feeling much better. The downside was that my feeling of relief turned back to sickness as I had to spend 45 minutes cleaning the glop up and then disinfecting the floor, walls, toilet and clothes. Plus my new nickname with Chi-Chi is Spewy (after the alien that Chris Elliot made friends with in that Get A Life episode).

After watching the rest of Cowboy Bebop and then the Royal Tenenbaums on Saturday we both got some good burgers in Little Five Points and then bought Criminal Records out of inventory. I headed back to Athens to kill the Skipper (an even longer story I'll save for a rainy day) and get some rest. Sunday came around and Jaime, Kiffand I decided that an eight hour hike (our original plan for the day) would have sucked, so instead we went theater hopping and saw Signs (creepy as all fuck, but a reeeeaally crappy ending), XXX (I want to be Vin Diesel when I grow up) and Austin Powers 3 again. I love college town theaters. They never check for tickets and it's like they expect people to screw them over like this. After sitting on my ass for 7 hours at the movies I sat on my ass again when I got home and read my new Twisted Toyfare Theater book. Then I pissed my pants out of laughter. Spider-man is now my most favorite asshole in the world. After that I went to sleep and had a night-terror that aliens were trying to harvest me. I woke up only after smelling smoke and found myself with a shotgun in my hands and Robot Pedro's almost obliterated corpse at my feet. So see, sometimes good things do come of bad dreams.

Note to self
176: 08/14/2002

Well, all of my big trips are over for the summer. Now I'm just trying to settle back into the daily grind of regular Rossman life. This sucks. Regular life should be more fun. Everyday should be filled with plane rides, nudie dancers, dozens of drunk friends, gambling, crowded hotel rooms and dead prostitutes! Why must these sacred elements be saved for only special occassions and out of town parties? I've started the Shady Dr. Dave and the clever Bob From the Future working on the solution to my problem. So far they've come up with a device that hooks right up to your brain and feeds you with lifelike hallucinations and convincing plot elements of zaniness and fun. I had to pull their funding though when I discovered that all they did was create a helmet that shoots the wearer up with LSD whenever it is put on his/her skull. Thank goodness we only field tested it on puppies and Jimmy Jammer first. Both of which had already had their brains fried on numerous occassions in the past.

Note to self
175: 07/17/2002

Summer time is starting to begin to think about winding down, and therefore vacations need to be planned to immortalize the Summer of '02 forever in the Rossman history archives. So far I have a planned Otakon and wedding in Vegas for the summer (so if any readers want to buy me a drink in Baltimore between the 26th and 29th of July, or Vegas between August 2nd and 5th, let me know now so's I can get my alky tolerance up a bit before hand). Both should be fun, provided Jimmy Jammer doesn't find out about them... In which case I suppose that posting this info on my page for the world to see was a bad idea. Eh, fuck him.

Other than that shiznit I'm pretty bored. I've caught up on some DVD rentals over the past few weeks that I missed in the theater. I've even tracked down some old high school ex's and enemies (mostly the same thing) and did the old Chinese water torture deal. Yeah, I did have Bob From the Future send Robot Pedro to an evil dimension (hoping that the "evil" Robot Pedro in said dimension [who would in fact be a "good" Robot Pedro, considering the Robot Pedro in this dimension is a right bastard] would fight him and they would both blow up), but something seemed to go wrong and Bob From the Future was seemingly vaporized when an "evil" Bob From the Evil Future suddenly appeared and shot him with an atom-destabilizing gun. Out of respect for the sharp dressed chef from the future I scraped his charred remains off the ground and made Dazzlin' Dave cook them into a spicy curry of which we fed Carl without telling him what it was. Bob From the Future would have wanted it that way.

Note to self 174: 06/19/2002

Dammit! Sometimes it just really sucks to be me. Last weekend I found out why my contacts were sticking to the back of my eyelids and why green mucus kept pouring out of my eyes like a disgusting waterfall. It turns out that when I was wearing my disposable lenses for months at a time instead of taking them out daily (or even bi-weekly) it was a bad thing. Now I can't wear them again. EVER. And that's not the worst of the sucky part. The eye doctor who broke the news to me then ordered me to try and crack the crust off of my eyes 4 times a day, enough to administer drops of the steroid Prednisolone and the over-expensive saline solution, Patanol. It's bad enough that Prednisolone turns my vision milky for a few minutes after using it (seriously, it's like putting thick and almost clumpy milk in my eyes except without the good flavor), but it's also hard to say.

After all that shiznit, I went to the Shady Doctor Dave in the hopes that he could give me some corrective laser surgery to fix mi problema. He strapped me to a chair and then Clockwork Oranged my eyelids open as he aimed the giant fucking laser at my cornea. Then he fired a hole right thru my goddamn skull. I'm telling you, if it wasn't for his stash of homeless people bodies of which I can get good parts from, I'd never go to Dr. Dave's place again. At least now I have a green eye though. That's cool.

Note to self
173: 05/22/2002

Last Wednesday at midnight The Megaplayboy, Robot Pedro, Jaime, Kiff and I went to the first showing of Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones at the same theater we saw Phantom Menace three years earlier. We waited in line for an hour, and just as we were about to be let inside (right as Robot Pedro was about to rip Kiff a new one for making fun of his taste in fruity cocktails) Bob From the Future showed up in order "to see the celestial film that started the human cloning project in the early 21st century at its glorious premiere." Everybody behind us was pissed that we let him line cut, but they were even more cheezed off when he proceeded to spoil the whole movie and all of Episode III: The Rise of the Wookiees to their unsuspecting asses (he has seen the whole set of movies 242 times!). Then Bob From the Future started to tell us of the horrible and tragic death of George Lucas in 2006 (something about his son pretending to be Indiana Jones and accidentally whipping the poor fucker around the neck while letting the other end of the bullwhip get tangled in a ceiling fan) and how afterward the Star Wars franchise went to the highest bidder. It turns out that starting in 2008 a new SW movie is produced every 2 years until the early 2200s. The company that bought the rights put the guy who directed Cabin Boy in charge of the next trilogy (which takes place after Return of the Jedi when Luke has to be busted out of the Jedi retirement home on Coruscant by his estranged nephew/son [courtesy of Leia] and the rise of the clones of Palpatine, Vader, Maul, Tyranus and Yoda [who lost his soul in the Jedi afterlife and needs to suck Luke's essence dry to become "Ruler of the Galaxy Far Far Away"]). It all sounded very confusing. Especially the part where the 35th trilogy (the final one... so far) takes place in between the 5th and the 28th trilogy.

After the movie, Bob From the Future was so jazzed up about the experience he used his mad time traveling skillz to try and teleport all of us into the "long time ago" when Star Wars originally happened. Unfortunately he didn't have a distance teleporter on him and we could only bum around ancient Earth while it was a half molten mess of magma as Bob From the Future furiously fixed up his time displacement gizmos (which, we found out, are not very heat resistant). Luckily we got back in time for the Buffy season finale last night, and kookily enough, it turns out that Kiff is probably responsible for starting all life on this planet, seeing as we forgot about him 4 1/2 billion years ago after Bob From the Future dropped us off at my house and ripped back to his own time. Robot Pedro says, "Good riddance to human scum," but I think my sister's kind of sad about the whole thing.

Note to self
172: 05/15/2002

Holeeeeeeeee shitballs! What a wacky past couple of few many weeks. I finally found a subleaser for my old apartment, moved into the house I'm watching for some friends/enemies for a few months, killed a man in drunken anger again, saw some big summer movies, accidentally blew up a full can of "Inflate-O-Tire" in the back seat of my car, put together buttloads of bookshelves and entertainment centers, set Robot Pedro on fire again after I filled the fire extinguishers with gasoline, almost caught a ninja that was spying on me, and finally got my copy of Battle Royale in the mail from my trusty Ebay seller. What a great movie.

Several days from the past month are kind of blurred/melted in my mind though, so I'm not so sure what I was doing between the 12th of last month and yesterday. I still have a large shark tooth jabbed in my thigh, so I might have gone scuba diving, or club hopping on Caribbean Night. And there's also that skull tattoo I found where my skin was still in pain. Now by "skull tattoo" I don't mean a tattoo of a skull, I mean a permanent piece of art etched into my scalp. I shaved off all my hair temporarily to see what it was a tattoo of, and was fairly pleased to see a perfect rendition of a Care Bears' picnic. The one with the cake on his belly is my fave.

Note to self
171: 04/10/2002

This past weekend the Megaplayboy, Chi-Chi and I went to the Classic City Brewfest. It sounded like a good idea: Over 160 different beers from around the world for the sampling at only a $20 cover charge! What self-respecting alcoholic could pass that up? The three of us were very excited. We got an early lunch and got in line before noon (for the 2 o'clock opening). We talked to the other raging alkies in line and we shot spitballs at the llamas that some Mexican cervesa brewer brought for no reason. As soon as the doors opened we pushed to the front where Chi-Chi started shouting "Drink!! Girls!!! Fuck!!!!" But our debauchery was deflated when the people handing out wristbands and tasting glasses informed us that we could only sample 1 ounce of beer at each booth. One ounce. One sixteenth of a pint. One twelfth of a bottle. One SIP. Chi-Chi is a professional drinker himself. He burned out his tastebuds years ago. It takes at least a pint for him to even get a hint of flavor from any booze he "samples". This "brewfest" was bogus. After about 2 hours we barely even had a buzz. And that was after we started cutting in lines and threatening the brewmasters with broken bottles to give us TWO full ounces at each tasting. After that catastrophe we hit happy hour at the Gator Haters bar and got faced the old fashioned way, while hitting on young women with fake IDs while their boyfriends argued over who's dick was shaped most like Gonzo's nose. Biff won that one hands down I heard.

Anyway, after Chi-Chi was killed (or almost killed... I'll have to get back to Doctor Dave on that one) by that drunk pit-bull (I swear that the pooch told me he could handle all those shooters I kept buying for him), I rested for the remainder of the weekend. But when Monday came around I had a violent relapse of either my massive hangover on New Year's, or the DEATH flu from 2 weeks ago that cost me the use of my stomach for a good 12 hours. I spent most of Monday morning playing peek-a-boo with the porcelain god, and the afternoon I tried to regain my ability to walk while I watched such cinematic classics as Billy Madison, South Park the Movie and Shin KOR. It was visions of Ayukawa Madoka that perked me up and made me feel like 1/4th of the man that I knew I was again (I lost 13/14ths of my manhood in cascades of vomit that morning, so that's a good comeback). So now I'm back to the grind and almost fully re-hydrated. I'll be ready to kill Doctor Dave for his bogus medical bill for working on Chi-Chi in no time. I still have to find out if he's alive or not. If not I have dibs on his steins of the world collection.

Note to self
170: 03/13/2002

As a treat, I decided to take Robot Pedro, Carl and the shady Dr. Dave to a classical concert featuring the Ahn Trio (a set of three hot Korean sisters who play the piano, violin and cello for ogling audiences). All was going well for a while, but soon Carl got blitzed off of the baggies of Jack and tequila that he snuck in under his shirt. He shouting out "Take it off, you Chinese whores!!" and then he started pounding on Robot Pedro (who who was really pissed because he claimed that he was actually getting into the music, but I think he was really only trying to calculate the trio's bust sizes). Soon Robot Pedro declared a "Battle Royale" (incidently his favorite movie about humans being killed) and both he and Carl punched and kicked their way onto the stage where they proceeded to use musical instruments to smash in eachothers' faces and CPUs. In all the commotion, Dr. Dave started dumping garbage cans full of dirt onto the center of the stage and then he turned the fire extinguishers on to make a giant mudpool. Then he got me to help him wrassle the Ahns into the dirty dirty muck and a good time was had by all. Except for Robot Pedro (who blew up) and Carl (who died).

Note to self
169: 02/13/2002

The Skipper punched me in the mouth yesterday for no good reason at all. Well, I guess he did it cause Robot Pedro threw that bomb into his bedroom-cabin on his boat a few days ago, but Robot Pedro knew that he wasn't in there at the time. He just did it to "send him a message about fuckin' with the Robots R People Too group meetings" that my sadistic robot pal frequents. It's a group of nice robots that gets together twice a week to discuss ways to make the humans of this world accept robots as peace-loving individuals with electronic souls of their own. From what I've heard the number one thing on their to-do list in accomplishing this task is to give Robot Pedro a decapitation or a major rewiring to destroy his vengeance programming. Apparently he's the only reason that robots are feared and hunted in this world. And he's also the only reason that the Skipper tries so hard to melt every robot he comes across via a vat of robot-eating acid. It's a vicious circle that gives me a headache just thinking about it.... Or maybe that's just my jaw throbbing through the clamps that Doctor Dave used to snap my face back together with.

Note to self
168: 01/30/2002

Well, it's happened. I've gone all "dark" Rossman. Like Angel, Pheonix and Darth Vader before me I've Evil Rossmanleft the light and embraced the darkside. My patented red hat?... Gone. A new black model has been the sombrero d'jour for a while now. But I just took my final step into blackness of both my soul and cinematic cliche over the past two weeks by forsaking the hair on my upper lip and my chin. Yes, the Rossman now has an evil mustache and goatee to help make it known to the world that he has "punched the lightside in the neck".

I had a beard a few years ago, but it only made me look distinguished. That was not what I was after this time though. I needed an appearance that would make the life-draining hose beasts of my city say "DAMN!". Something that would chill those succubi to their forgotten souls and make them cower in the corner whenever my presence was felt (usually on their tight bottoms). This goatee does the trick.

In all honesty though, my turning dark was really just the result of a failed experiment conducted by the shady Dr. Dave. He was trying to merge me with an evil wombat in order to give the wombat a sense of shame and regret, and me more machismo. It backfired of course and now I'm a total evil bastard and the wombat hasn't stopped crying in the dumpster since I said it looked like a "fargin' fat and feeble flavored flan" and dumped him out with the trash. I kinda look like Xanatos from the Gargoyles cartoon, except not as gay.

Note to self
167: 01/23/2002

I got back from Vegas over a week ago and haven't felt right since. I've been feeling queasy, tired, headachey, and dizzy since I stepped off the plane back onto Atlanta soil. Robot Pedro says that it must be "that good and lovable malaria" again, but that's his wish for everything bad that happens to me. Honestly, I think it was all the nudie-dance shows, magicians and crazy comedians that the Wolfman and I saw while we were in the land of the sinful. My theory theorizes that too many live, nekkid hooters with too much mighty magic, mixed with way too many funny crackheads making fun of retarded tourists to their faces all add up to cause the viewer/victim to contract "no-more-naked-funny-magicitus". It is a horrible, debilitating disease that haunts one's psyche and causes one to dream of nothing but hot, nekkid babes making fun of the rabbit that they just pulled out of a hat while they give their ta-tas a gratuitus jiggle just for me. I'd seek professional help, but these are the best dreams ever!

Note to self
166: 01/02/2002

What a great fucking start to the new year. Some sarcasm included. First of all, a great Christmas with a buncha parties and dance contests started the holiday week off right. Nothing like getting faced off of royally spiked eggnog. Then, a couple of fine couples got me a GameCube as a way of saying "Thanks for keeping Robot Pedro from killing us this year!". That was sweet of them. But then Chi-Chi had to commit a horrendous holiday-foul by plaguing both the Wolfman and I with a bad flu-bug just a week before our Vegas stint! That cockfest!!! Not only that, but I had a hot date with the glorious "Heather of the Fields of Gold" last Friday in which I spent most of the night playing catch-up with the conversation due to the fact that one should not take 3 Xs the recommended dosage of Dayquil even if it means passing up incredible beauty and passion and giving in to pain and suffering.... If that made any sense. I'm still hepped up on that mega-dose. This page doesn't make any sense to me right now. Is that what it's like for my readers every day?.... A question for the ages.

Note to self
165: 12/17/2001

The Wolfman and I planned out our whole Vegas trip to the CES Show (January 7-12) this weekend. It's going to be a fucking blast! After checking out all of the cool electronic stuff and all of the hyper-space age digital spy gear that will no doubtably be debuting at the convention we plan to do all that kooky hoo-hoo voodoo that Sin City does sooooo well. From gambling shitloads of counterfeit money away, and eating at every single steak buffet on the strip, to tracking down the CSI lab and getting the number of the cute brunette with the slightly bucked front teeth who solves all of those sexy murders practically by herself... we plan to do it all. If necessary we plan to beat the crap out of two flaming blonde magicians and steal their tiger so we can put together our own version of Ocean's 11, where in we'll just kill and steal and it will only be two of us (and the tiger). Plus, if we don't rock at least one hotel to the ground we will see that as a failure of our mission of awesomeness.

Yes, I do believe that I have waited my whole life for this. Los Angeles? A town of pussies and gay tourists. E3? Pathetic crap! Hawaii? Incredibly sweet, but you knew nothing could compare to that. But that doesn't matter, for soon I'll be chillin' in the only state with legal prostitution! The land of the ludicrous!! The golden town of dreams and more dreams! Take our pictures! Kiss our asses! Buy us drinks!!! Vegas is coming to the Rossman!

Note to self
164: 12/04/2001

Carl and I caught Basement Jaxx's "Where's Your Head At" video on the MTV last night and neither of us could believe our eyes! Carl thought he was high again (the first and last time being when Robot Pedro made those special brownies that he brought over to Carl's parents' house for dinner a few months ago, after which Carl's mom thought she was Grover from Sesame Street and Carl tangoed with his dad thinking he was Carmen Electra until dawn), but I finally convinced him that those images of monkey men on the television were as real as his giant collection of amazon women porn.

Realizing that monkey men might be the key to global domination, both Carl and I ran over to Dr. Dave's shady clinic and demanded that he make some of the mismatched primate abominations for us. Well, it turned out that Dr. Dave was actually the mad scientist who created those original monkey men for the Basement Jaxx video, but he was very disappointed with the outcome (none of them really played those instruments or sang, they merely lip-synced like Milli and Vanilli at the Music Video Awards in '90). He first destroyed the monkey men themselves, and then he set fire to all of his notes and thoughts on the process of making a half man, half monkey so that nobody would ever make another lip-synching midget mammal again. I could tell that he was truly torn up over the experience. So, when I made Carl into a half man, half wombat using a disgarded diagram of a human brain being put into a rodent's head that the good Doctor had forgotten about I never told him of my accomplishment... Or about how I used his own pet wombat in the experiment since I was too clean to go dumpster diving for a rat. Plus Doc Dave seems plenty happy with his new pet, Carl. It's so cute the way he shreiks in surprise every time Dr. Dave sticks a high voltage probe up his ass.

Note to self
163: 11/28/2001

What a fucking week I had! Well, not fucking per se, unless you count fucking food- er, eating fuckloads of fuck I mean. Yes, another patented Rossman Thanksgiving occurred and I fell from grace like I do every year at the end of November. I ate so much turkey and ham and Cap'n Crunch's Peanut Butter Crunch that I felt like I was a contestant on TheSpark's Fat Project. But without the payoff, yet all of the shame. What's even more screwed up is that I gained 30 pounds in less than 7 days. I'm no Doctor Zhivago, and neither is the MegaPlayboy, but we both assumed that I had somehow become impregnated with a fat making alien that grew in the mashed potatoes and turned my intestines into sandwich bags of pure fat after I had ingested it and forgot to get my weekly alien-abortion from my neighborhood shady physician.

In the end it just turned out to be a humongous kidney stone that took me a painful 3 hours to pass. That and Sunday afternoon I puked up 29.99657 pounds of yams, stuffing, corn, turnips and a various (and curious) assortment of meats and fishes. My pants fit fine again, but it's hard to convince my throat that it's really okay to have tasty food go in me again, and to keep it there.

Oh yeah, and Georgia Tech sucks (and this year we can prove it!). Fuck you, you goddamn bumble bees.

For more DAILIES, check out the Archive Here.

Or go Back to the Rossman Chronicle

This site (design and text) is a trademarked and copyrighted Rossman Production. Do not copy any of it or I will come over there and rip off your sack and feed it to your dog. And of course I do not own the rights to either Lum or Samus and her ship, and I never claimed to. People who are richer than I'll ever be own them.