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Note to self 200: 06/24/2003

Shit on a stick!.... Well, Potter-mania is in full swing, and thanks to Karen I'm in it up to here (pointing to belly button) with talk of Harry, Ron, Hermititty, Dumbledorf and Voldimold. I was forced to stand on line Friday night for the midnight release of the fifth book in the Potty septology, amid freaks and losers more pathetic than me who were dressed in Hogwarts uniforms and had lightning bolts painted on their foreheads. Christ, at least I was pretty damn sure that I was getting to second base that night for my heroics of looking like a pansy amid a sea of Griffindor wannabees and Hagrid erotic-fan fiction writers... All they were getting for the waste of their lame time was a slight buzz from the mass amounts of fan-funk that was filling the Walden Bookstore that we were trapped in for a few hours, and maybe a self-flaguration while thinking about Hermimoninne in her furry-cat-look when they got home.

Karen and I read the whole damn thing (Pothead 5) in less than three days, but to make up for the weekend that I missed for her sake she then dressed up in a kinky witch's outfit and let me ride her "like a Firebolt" for a few magical minutes. Abracadabra!! Oh, by the way, *********** is the one who dies. (That last part was edited by me, Karen. Ummm, nobody dies in the end. I swear! Don't worry.)

Note to self 199: 06/18/2003

I got back from a two week long road trip to find that my house had been turned into a "pay by the barrel" plutonium nuclear waste dump. Courtesy of Robot Pedro of course. He got away scott free by throwing some glowing green ooze in my face and then poking me in the eyes while doing Curly's "Woo woo woo woo woo woo!" and then running away in fast motion like a Benny Hill skit gone wrong.

That was all well and good, but I was still pretty pissed off that he hawked my bootleg Jem and the Holograms DVD collection... and that big mountain of toxic mung in the back yard was starting to make me feel all- HULK SMASH!!!!! RAAAOOOOOOOOWWWWRRR!!!!... kinda agitated. And sticky.

In the end I was able to sell the plutonium to Dr. Dave for $6.50 (that's all he had to his name). He's been trying to make some kind of hybrid teenage ninja mutant spider man thingy or something, and apparently he was just trying to mate a ninja, a turtle and a spider together and it just wasn't working. So he's going to throw them all into a giant blender with some of the nuclear shiznit and hit "puree". I'll let you know what comes of it, though I'm willing to bet that all that's going to happen is that everybody'll be eating the good doctor's "Mystery Soup" again for a few weeks.

Note to self 198: 05/28/2003

Holy fucking titty craps! Know how you feel when you get blindfolded, spun around, and then beaten by baseball bats for a couple of hours while your little brother feels up your girlfriend and there's nothing you can do about it?.... That's where I am right now. It all started a few months ago when a good friend got me involved in my most recent freelance project (confidentiality papers, otherwise I'd tell you all about it). Things started off great; easy work, free trips to the Caribbean to meet with the head honchos of the venture, and lots of free dinners when everybody on the job gathered to talk shop. But then my real work started picking up. Overtime started piling on top of me and because I'm a big baby I felt kind of suffocated by the whole experience. Yeah, Curacao (the Caribbean island) sucks as a tourist destination, but the people there are pretty sweet... Plus it doesn't hurt that the ladies there are hotties and pretty easy. But I digress. It was on my last trip there that I cracked. Major projects surrounded me and all the island natives kept making me drink drink drink. Then came the visions.. Horrible visions that I could not make heads or tails of... There was lots of nudity though, and that's always good. But then I hit a wall. I came crashing down hard and fast, which is usually what my love life is all about, but now I'm confusing myself again. Anyway, the point is I just spent the past two weeks in a mental institution where I'm pretty sure that the past 7 years of my life being the Rossman were all a bunch of cruel hallucinations brought on by accidentally seeing my own asshole in the mirror one morning while racing to make it to my 8AM Philosophy class. Either that or the "crazy farm" is the made up world and I'm really the coolest guy on the planet hands down. Either is acceptable to me right now. I need sleep. And loose women.

Note to self 197: 05/07/2003

It's the end of the world as we know it... And I feel pretty fucked up by the whole experience, to be quite honest with you. This past week we had an earthquake, flash flooding, hail, a tornado, and a funny Adam Sandler movie. Well, another funny one. Anger Management wasn't as good as Billy Madison and Happy Gilmore per se, but it was his best since those two. To backtrack a bit, after all those previously mentioned natural disasters that occured around town over the past 7 days, the Wolfman was getting a bit antsy and uber violent. He started saying that he could "feel the earth" telling him to sacrifice more hamsters to Satan (it was a bad habit I was trying to break him of... he was spending upwards of $150 a week on the mini proverbial sacrificial lambs!). Well, I knew for a fact that Satan doesn't even give a shit about that kind of stuff (she thinks that blood from rodentia is "icky"), and that the Wolfman was just suffering from some anger management issues of his own. So instead of paying the Skipper to take a look at his noggin, I splurged on a couple of tickets to the Nicholson/Sandler film and hoped that watching Jack dish out the healing to Adam would have a possitive effect on my hairy amigo. It did seem to sooth him for a while, but then he started getting a major jonsing for the ever unattainable Marisa Tomei... and, well, to make a long story short I got stuck with the bills to fix the shredded silver screen and dry clean the wolfman-juice out of all the other film-goers' clothes (and I had to buy the prissier movie patrons some shampoo too). In the end it would have been shitloads cheaper to simply buy the Skipper a six pack of vodka and let him beat the living shit out of the Wolfman until he promised to stop slaying the gerbils. Hindsight is 20/20.

Note to self 196: 04/09/2003

Fuck yeah! I haven't had a week like that in over a decade! Sure, I was sick for the first part of last week, but I got better. Then Thursday rolled around and in preparation for what would soon become known as "The Great Weekend of Sloth" I hit the supermarket and stocked up on Peanut M&Ms, Coca-Cola, and ass-loads of mini Hershies candies. Then I hit the local Gumby's Pizza and got myself 2 twenty-inch pies with everything on them. After that I holed myself up in my house, unplugged all the phones, locked the doors, and turned on my GameCube. From Thursday night, 6:30PM to Tuesday morning 7AM I didn't do much else other than play The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker, eat, drink, look up a little online porn, and catch some necessary catnaps to keep me going. I finished the whole game 2 minutes before I ran out the door for the office on Tuesday, so I didn't get to absorb the raw emotions I had just sludged through fully, but it was an incredible feat that very few people could accomplish! Not to brag or anything, but I honestly don't know anybody else who could veg out so goddamn completely for an entire extended weekend like that, still complete a kinda challenging game (Fuck you! I thought some of those puzzles were tough!), eat and drink their weight in nothing but caffeine-filled junkfood, and still make it to work on time the following Tuesday... which was bad since I meant to go in on Monday, but que sera. For a little while I was the laziest mo-fo on the pimpin' planet, and I am daaaaamn proud of it!

Thinking back, the last time I did something like that was for Zelda: A Link to the Past for the SNES all the way back in '92. I didn't go as extreme in my slothiness back then as I did this time around, but I was well on my way. Man, if only I could steal Bob From the Future's time travel device and go back in time to when I first beat the SNES Zelda and tell myself that I was on the right path... But that would require me getting up off my duff, and that ain't gunna happen. Hmmmm, let's just hope this laziness wears off before I have to hire somebody to sponge bathe me... Unless it's that hottie at the gym in the leopard print leotard who likes to bend over in front of me in order to stretch her tight buttocks whenever we cross paths... Then that'd be okay.

Note to self
195: 04/02/2003

That's right, asswipes. No April Fools Day shennanegans from the Rossman. Not that I disaprove of the day (I love it when people the world over act like total fuckers to eachother and lie to friends' faces just so they can shout "April Fools!" and make their acquaintances look like morons), it's just that I was horribly horribly sick for the past week and couldn't come up with jack shit to do in celebration of the mini holiday. I did get to surf around to see some of the retarded attempts at "April Fools Day" pranks that juvie contenders tried to pull. Most were just lame "The US Government has taken over this site due to it's unconstitutional nature..." pranks. But I digress. I meant to talk about my sickness here. There were points this past weekend when I was dripping stuff from six orifices at the same time. Pretty heinous. I even had to take two days off from work, and I didn't get to enjoy the free time at all. That's so sad when sick leave must be used for actual puking time. I did get plenty of movie watching in though, just very little Game Cube Zelda time. That really pissed me off. I have fond memories of playing the original Zelda back in '88 while I played sick and got to stay home from school for a few days (the key to faking out your parents is to actually vomit in front of them, and make sure they don't see you sticking your finger down your throat to activate the hurl-glands). *Sigh* Those were the good old days. Mom would make me hot lunches, I could read comic books and play Nintendo all afternoon, and I could usually get out of doing any homework by getting sympathetic friends to loan me their assignments right before class for some quick copying.

Unfortunately things change. Using your sick leave for being sick when you're an "adult" just blows. I spent my time shivering/sweating in bed or drinking expired OJ that had been in the fridge since the Clinton administration. I also mailed some bills in the hopes that some of the collectors would catch my illness throught the envelopes I licked. After all that was done I silently curled up in a ball and waited to die. My wish almost came true when Angry Amy and Robot Pedro teamed up to do me in when they had heard that I was sick and weak. First, Angry Amy tried to poison me with some chicken noodle and Lysol soup, but I was on to her and "accidently" dropped it in the toilet with her purse. Then Robot Pedro took the direct approach and kicked in my front door while blasting away with some sort of evil laser gun that seemed to turn everything that he shot into fluffy bunnies and rainbows. I had to pretend that I was shot and stop breathing for a good 10 minutes in order for the two allies of injustice to get sick of their unitedness and punch and kick eachother out the frontdoor-hole. Then I went out and bought some Ny-quil and Vodka. Lots of Vodka.

Note to self
194: 03/19/2003

Of all the damn times I didn't leave my dream-recorder machine on! That little present that Bob From the Future got me for my birthday a few years back has become one of my most treasured possessions. I can now relive the time that I won that Nobel Peace Prize, the time that I met Hitler and punched him in the ear, and that one time that I had "Weird Al" Yankovic kidnapped and forced him to play Yoda over and over again for an entire weekend... Great dreams all. But this past Friday I had the bestest dream of my life, and I left the damn recorder on the kitchen counter. I am so pissed off!

See, it all started off after I had just finished watching the Buffy Season 3 finale for the 5th time on DVD, and I decided to go to bed early (midnight is like 5PM for me on a weekend). In my sluggish haste to hit the sack, I totally forgot about the dream-recorder that I was using to playback my previous night's nocturnal vision of eating s'mores around a campfire with Abraham Lincoln, Margaret Thatcher and Duncan MacCleod of the Clan MacCleod... but I digress. My Friday Spectacular Dream (as it shall forever forth be known) was one of the greatest (imaginary) moments of my life! It all started out with Buffy, Faith (both vampire slayers), and myself running around Athens, GA killing lots of evil looking demons and human assholes, jumping over barbed wire fences, and swimming in the pool that suddenly sprung up in my backyard. Then, I toweled off, and went inside to take a nap on my bed. I was almost asleep in my dream, when Faith (played by the ever-enchanting Eliza Dushkuzuzu) silently crept into the room. She was already dry and she was only wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Without saying a word she climbed up on top of me and fell asleep herself. After my heart slowed down, I could feel her heartbeat getting faster and faster until she grabbed my head, kissed me hard, and began to... Well, even though she was just a vision I still don't really kiss and tell about my exploits. Oh man! I could so FEEL everything. Her skin was so warm and soft. I swore to God that it was really happening. Hmmmm, I wonder what Freud would say about THIS one... Yeah, pretty sure he'd say "Hot damn, bizatch! That's some fiiiiiiiiine dreamin' there!"

After I had woken up and realized that I didn't have a dream recorded copy of that fabulous fantasy, I tried to relive the whole thing for posterity's sake. But after that all I could get was me eating fudge-pops with Andy Rooney while we discussed why he's fed up with everything about this world, but refuses suicide.

Note to self
193: 03/12/2003

Another lazy weekend. Ahhhh, it was glorious! Nothing but bumming around and drinking the brew. The MegaPlayboy invited me over to his crib and the two of us ended up getting trashed while watching Red Dwarf on DVD all day Sunday. After the MPB was good and tanked I painted an "H" on his forehead and convinced him that he was a "MegaHologram" and watched with glee as he continually walked face first into walls and doors and frying pans. After the joy of that wore off we started discussing what it would be like if we were the last two humans ever, and we were stuck on a spaceship 3 million years away from Earth. The MPB said that if that ever happened he'd try to find a way to turn me into a woman. I said I'd kill him before he even tried. That was when Bob From the Future showed up and asked what was going on. We told him all about Lister, Rimmer, the Cat, Kryten, Kochanski, and Holly and their crazy hijinks through 8 seasons of sci-fi delight. That turned out to be a terrible thing to do. See, Bob From the Future thought it would be a cool idea to recreate the whole Britcom so he teleported us 3 million years away from Earth, turned the MegaPlayboy into a self absorbed feline, and programmed his starship, that we were trapped in, with his own personality in an attempt to drill home his sarcastic and almost senile wit. Thank God that Bob From the Future is a stickler for details though! He reconstructed everything so perfect that I was able to find the Holly Hop Drive and jump to the alternate dimension from the show (where I'm a hot and sexy woman) rather quickly and spent the next few days shagging the shit out of myself. Freud would have a lot to say about that I'm sure.

Note to self 192: 02/12/2003

I am disillusioned. And pissed! Pissed off and disillusioned... Let me backtrack a little and probably confuse you up some more. The original Metroid video game for the Nintendo Entertainment System was/is tied for the greatest video game ever made. It ties the original Zelda for the same system, FYI. Metroid II for the Gameboy was pretty fun, if not a bit constricting in its gameplay, but hell, it was on the B&W Grandaddy Gameboy. What'd you expect, ass? Super Metroid, for the Super Nintendo, was almost as good and almost as much fun as the original! Can you believe that?! But then we had to wait about 8 years before we even the wisperings of a new Samus adventure. Nintendo rewarded our patience though by releasing TWO Metroid games in one year! The GameCube's Metroid Prime and the Gameboy Advance's Metroid Fusion.

Now to get back to my original story. I was hesitant to get MP for the GameCube for the sole reason that it looked like a 1st person shooter instead of the classic Metroid platformer that I (and every sane man woman and child on this planet) knew it should have been. EVERYBODY kept ragging on me though, by telling me that I was ka-raizy. "It doesn't play like a 1st person shooter AT ALL! It plays exactly like Metroid should in a 3D world!" They all promised me. So this past weekend I finally broke down and bought Metroid Prime at Best Buy (mostly because they had the wrong sticker price on it and a CSR let me have it for $30). Then I brought it straight home and plopped it into my system.... And then I hated my life. Let me state this quite clearly: This is NOT a Metroid game. It IS a 1st person shooter. And it sucks. The only reason it's been selling so damn well is because fuckers who cream their pants everytime a 1st person Doom rip-off is released similarly creamed their pants over Nintendo's personal rip-off, and now they fuck their dogs.

I played Prime for about 2 hours, but was still beyond uber-ticked and never fully got into it. So I stowed away all my anger and got my receipt out and brought it right the hell back to the damn store the next day... I won't tell you how I did it (trade secret), but I exchanged my incredibly crappy (and opened) MP for the insatiably snazzy Metroid Fusion (and a Super Troopers DVD) and still got a buck seventy-five back. Anyway, MF is just what the sleazy Doctor Dave ordered. I can't get enough of it. That fucking evil Samus suit is a bitch and a half, but I'm at last playing a REAL Metroid game again. So that was my weekend... Oh yeah, I also had Dr. Dave clone Kuni for me so that I could kill him a few times and not feel guilty.

Note to self 191: 02/05/2003

Lot of shit going on 'round my life. Saturday I helped my sister move... again. Nothing too painful. I just made sure that all her friends' boyfriends carried all the heavy crap up and down the stairs. The only things that I moved were the extra toilet paper and the year old beer from the fridge. Sunday was a bit different though. I had a date all planned for Sunday afternoon (lunches are cheaper than dinner, and with all the "one-date wonders" I've been having lately, a cheap first meeting is the way to go), but after I drove all the way to downtown Atlanta to pick the girl up, she was a no show. Can you believe that shit?! I know where she lives (I was supposed to pick her up at her place), I know her phone number (called her a few times), and even her work number. I'm thinking it might be time for a little pizza delivery to her house at around 1 in the morning. OH YEAH!!

Anyway, after that whole date thing fizzled through, I kicked in Chi-Chi's door (he lives down the street from the wonder ho) and made him entertain me. Since I woke him up (he's a late sleeper) he was kinda pissed, but hungry, so he made up for both emotions by forcing me to go to Moe's Burrito Place so that he could feed and then have ammunition to pepper me with for the rest of the afternoon. After the feeding frenzy we went back to his place and were forced to watch Marky Mark in the bomb, Rock Star, on HBO5. Holy ball busting sack kickers! That was one of the all time worst of the crappiest worst movies I had ever been unfortunate enough to watch. It was stupid. It was HORRIBLY poorly slipshoddedly written. It had painful acting (mostly from the Markster himself). It was an all around bad experience. What heightened the pain levels of the room though, was the fact that Chi-Chi was unloading his beany burrito-y discharge at a rate of one colon explosion per minute. And they were ripe. Honestly, I think some U.N. inspectors need to check Chi-Chi's ass out for weapons of mass destruction! Damn! I mean, lighting matches became useless, and the giant candle I kept under my nose did nothing. The doctor says that it will be months before my smelling trusts me enough to sniff things again.

After Rock Star faded from our memories (about one and a half minutes after it ended), we came up with a great idea on how to get the bizatch back who stood me up. I drove Chi-Chi over to her place and we broke into her car and he took a whopgumbo "number two" in the back seat, which we covered up with an old pizza box. At least I think it was her car. It had the license plate "LEZFISH" on it. Which either meant that she was trying to say "Let's fish", being an avid outdoors woman, or she liked to nail carpet for the other team. Either one would probably explain why she never showed... At least that's what I keep telling myself.

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