(For more Dailies, check out the Archive Here)
to self 210: 10/08/2003
you, Arnold Swollenpecker!! You stole the damn California
recall election! And I have proof! Last week I called about
15 million registered California voters and convinced them
to vote "Yes" for recalling Gov. Gray Davis, and
then to vote for Gary Coleman into the vacated office for
the prosperity of all mankind. I think that Arnold Swastika
used the name confusion against me though was when I tried
to convince people to vote for Gary Coleman and I'd have
to explain to them who he is/was. The conversations ran a
little something like this:
California citizen. I am calling to tell you that if you
don't recall Gray Davis and vote Gary Coleman into office
my human-hating robot will kill you."
-"Who is this?!"
-"I know what you're thinking, 'Gary doesn't have enough sexual
perversion experience to be Governor. Not like Clinton.' And you'd be right.
But he was Arnold on Diff'rent Strokes! Remember that show?"
-"I'm tracing this call."
-"Remember, vote YES for Arnold from Diff'rent Strokes!"
That Hitler-loving girly man used Gary's character's name
to get elected, just like Eddie Murphy in that crappy movie The
Fuck you, Arnold! Terminator 3 sucked horse
to self 209: 09/24/2003
shave my sack and sew my face to the carpet! My old acquaintance
Tammi With an "I" is back in town. Who'd 'uv thunk
she'd ever set up permanent residence here in almost-rural
Georgia (where there's no military base or red light district
for her to work her stuff in). Anyway, things started off
with a "KA-BOOM!" when Tammi With an "I" showed
up at my office in order to harrass both Carl and I and to
see if we knew of any "lonely boys" who might need
company that night... Trust me, Tammi is the perfect example
of the phrase "You can look but you sure as fuck don't
want to touch," otherwise I'd probably set her up with
a few of my friends. But considering I don't want to be afraid
to use the toilet seats at any of their houses, I refuse
to help the spread of both VDs and Tammi's legs... But I
Tammi With an "I" showed up and immediately got
Carl and I to start playing "Hyper Online Monopoly" with
her instead of doing what we're paid to do... Which is whatever
that may be. I was kicking both their asses for a cool 25
games in a row before Angry Amy kicked in the door and
started pissing her pants over the fact that she'd sent us
over a dozen e-mails and had been calling us for over 4 hours
because her computer came alive or some shit and ate her
boss' head like that scene in that Freddy Krueger movie.
I would have gotten right on that problem except for the
fact that Angry Amy's rude door knocking skillz caused me
to accidently sell my railroads to Carl which caused me to
start throwing things around the room which got me a kick
in the crotch by the angry one herself. Angry Amy took the
opportunity of me being immobilized to start going psycho
(again). She started tearing down all my Playboy centerfolds
on the walls and xacto-knifing my fluffy leather chair to
high hell. The only thing that stopped her ball-stomping
and picture tearing rampage was when Tammi With an "I" boldly
strutted up to Angry Amy's face and grabbed her furious puss
and planted the biggest, wettest, and sloppiest kiss I'd
ever seen right on her lips. After Angry Amy calmed down
a look of bewilderment and almost-pleasure pasted itself
on her mug. That is until Tammi With an "I" informed
her that she had exactly 30 seconds left to wash the gonorrhea
and herpes off her lips before they permanently set in. I
never saw a woman in high heels run so fast to the first
aid cabinet and start gargling the rubbing alcohol. I've
seen them jog, just never sprint.
to self 208: 09/17/2003
and I watched all of the Great Teacher Onizuka live
action drama show last week, and then got so inspired that
we ran out to get teaching jobs of our own. All in all it
was an educational experience (pun not intended... in fact,
sorry 'bout that) for all those involved. See, in order to
emulate Eikichi Onizuka's style of teaching, we only job
hunted at the seediest and most ghetto schools in the area.
Mandy Patinkin High was the best at being the worst, so Carl
and I got ourselves hired on as the newest 12th grade Greco-Roman
Wrestling and Ceramics teachers (I took the Ceramics gig
because I don't like gay sweaty boys... Nothing personal
to all you gay sweaty boys out there, as long as you don't
grab me in a full nelson while you're all gay and sweaty-like).
started off nice and easy. My irrational but ultra-caring
facade allowed for many minutes of my students coming to
terms with having such a cool teacher and life mentor, until "Big
Ass" Bernoquoi Jackson realized that I had slipped elephant
tranqs into the malt liquor I had passed out during my teacherly
introduction. As the whole class surrounded me in a half
dazed mob, ready to roll me in clay and stick me in the kiln,
I tried to convince them that my old motorcycle gang would
avenge my death and use their mad kung-fu skillz on they
sorry asses. But my salvation came from another window of
opportunity that day. The second window from the right to
be precise. Robot Pedro came crashing through it like a drugged
up wrecking ball when his sensors indicated that I was in
immediate peril, and he tore the senior class art students
apart like a howler monkey with a banana stuck up its tailpipe!
It was a gruesome sight to say the least, and a nightmare
inducing scare-shit-fest to say the most... See, Robot Pedro
didn't save me out of the kindness of his unbeating chrome
heart. Nope. See, I accidentally purposefully broke his Talking Hamtaro toy
when I tried to shove it up the MegaPlayboy's anus a few
weeks ago (the MegaPlayboy wanted me to help him perfect
his Richard Gere impression... I swear!), and Robot Pedro
has been trying to figure out a way to punish me in the most
painful way since. And his deluded logic circuits have dictated
that punishment should only come at his own hands. So while
I was temporarily happy that I was saved from the artistic
hoodlums who were about to fire-broil my ass something bad,
I definitely was most unhappy to see that Robot Pedro's evil
evilness would most likely be far worse on me when
he finally finds a punishment worthy of my crime. Pray for
yeah. Carl was killed by his Wrestling students when he demanded
they start wrasslin' "commando".
to self 207: 09/03/2003
year down the proverbial shitter. Though at least this year
I took a four day weekend to deal with the whole aging thing.
Between Thursday evening and late Monday night I vegged out
so completely that I almost put myself in a coma. In fact
I might have as I am missing a good 4 hours of my life Friday
afternoon. I watched all of Giant Robo and The
Big O again, I played Game Cube Mario Golf until
my thumbs went numb, I listened to all the Mr. Show first
through third season commentary tracks while reading old
comic books, and I looked up enough online porn to choke
Terra Patrick... Trust me, that's a lot.
I also got out of the house and climbed the whole mountain
thing again, and on Saturday I drove into Atlanta to hang
with some of the Greenwood folk at Dragoncon. Let me just
set you straight right off the bat. Dragoncon sucks. Imagine
all the fat, smelly, costumed, unbathed losers from an anime
con, but then take away all the good video rooms and actually
interesting panels. Dragoncon's biggest draw is the gaming
rooms and LARPers. The pure stench that eminates from the
lower levels of the convention is overpowering.
Carl passed out from the con funk twice. It was the first
time in my pathetic life that I honestly wished that Robot
Pedro would show up and decimate the masses a bit (charred
human remains smell better than the hellafunk that seeped
into my soul's nostrils that day)... But I digress.
all the freaks who went out to celebrate the one weekend
a year they are allowed to socialize with even freakier freaks,
a good alcoholic time was had by all of Greenwood (thanks
to a laptop carrying-case that posed as a fun loving cooler).
I called the whole con-scene quits late Saturday, early Sunday
and went back home to watch some Simpsons DVDs
and pig out on some deep fried Pizza Hut stuffed crust. Sunday
and Monday were then spent without me so much as even thinking about
putting on my shoes to go outside. I lived like a shut-in,
and I liked it. My muscles actually started to atrophy a
bit come Monday night. That's when I knew that I had had
one of the most special weekends I had ever had the honor
of lazily participating in. It took two days of coaching
just for me to get the will back to type on this here website
webscreen today... Ahhhhhhhhh! God bless the seven deadly
sins... Especially sloth.
to self 206: 08/27/2003
college icon is now dead to me. Long story short, all through
my college life there's always been a vendor on Central Campus
who's sold hotdogs to hungry college kids and faculty/staff
alike. He was known simply as "The Hotdog Man",
and all was right with the world. But a year or two ago,
his selling "spot" was moved for the sake of building
a huge marble staircase up the center of campus, and to make
the sidewalk safer for pedestrians. Well, the Hotdog Man
couldn't understand how come he couldn't stay in his "spot" (in
the center of construction) during all of this, and why his
permit was moved 50 feet down
the street (that's it, 50 feet). He refused to keep selling
his franks because the University treated him so shabbily! Screw
student safety, he silently raged to the world! If
I can't sell my hotdogs on the exact spot that I had for
the past 20 years, then NOBODY would ever taste my hotdogs
again, he must have insanely planned.
an ex-student and a long time lover of the Hotdog Man's weinies
I was angry at the University. Hell, Carl even dumped 2,400
uncooked franks into the University President's car in protest
(he later cooked them by setting said car on fire). But things
slowly returned to normal. When the central campus sidewalk
and stairway project was completed, everyone hoped that the
Hotdog Man would return. Well, he did, but he set up shop
across the street from his permitted space because.... well,
because he's retarded. He tried to stick it to "the
man" (the man being.... God? George Lucas?), and was
arrested for trespassing and selling his wares on UGA property
without a vendors' license.... And for being brain damaged
in a public place.
student body was in an uproar. They called for the head of
the University official who sent the police to talk to the
Hotdog Man and ask him to move his cart. The pigs asked him
3 times to move his cart or be arrested, but being mentally
'tarded (and probably telling his kids he's "Strong
like the Hulk, Grrrrrrrrrrr!"), the Hotdog Man refused,
and was coincidentally confused about why his refusal to
follow a University Police Officer's request to relocate
(as the law dictated) meant that he had to be arrested.
despite his fucktardedness, my buddies and I still supported
the insane little entrepreneur. To us, he was just a small
time businessman just trying to fight the system. Even Robot
Pedro got into the act and snuck in a few brats to the Hotdog
Man's jail cell (sure the bratwursts were made of human flesh,
but for Robot Pedro that was an act of unadulterated hu-man
love). But then we found out the godawful truth... The Hotdog
Man MAKES OVER $100,000 A FUCKING YEAR. That's right, $100K.
That's more than 99% of his customers will ever earn over
the course of their pathetic, protesting lives! Even with
inflation they'll never make that much when their sad little
lives crash down all around them and they're forced to marry
their knocked-up cousins or get stabbed in the back by their
alcoholic Uncles!.. But I digress.
I'd be all like, "Fuck yeah! Way to go, Hotdog man!
Making the big fuckin' bucks!"... But when this umbrella-carted
fucker tries to play the whole "little man versus the
rich establishment" trump card (when he makes more than
all of the University and City officials combined), well,
that just pisses me off. He's not the poor little man, he's
the richest asshole among all those involved in this stupid
whole thing just reeks of a conjob. This "benefactor
of hungry students the campus over" is just another
rich asshole trying to screw students out of a few more bucks
while he oogles the hot co-eds in tight tight shorts. Well,
in the end the joke's on the Hotdog Man. Yeah, he may still
have an army of loyal supporters who would buy his half-cooked
horse testicles and rectum meat-on-a-bun... But the college
co-eds are getting fatter and chunkier every year... Mostly
thanks to his own hotdogs. Oh the sweet irony.
to self 205: 08/20/2003
the past two weeks I had the chance to witness two living
legends perform live right in front of my unbelieving eyes.
That's right, Emo Philips and Dave Attell both came to Georgia!
I took the Wolfman, and Robot Pedro to see their acts so
that maybe my two amigos could both learn to love life again,
and stop trying to kill chickens and humans for their pathetic
sacrifices to either the damned or the Robot Devil.
the Emo show at the Punchline in Atlanta got the two of my
acquaintances to laugh and hug kittens again... But then
I made the mistake of taking them to the Dave Attell show
at UGA this past Friday. Talk about shitting in your own
shoes... Things started out okay; Dave was funny, the crowd
was getting into his act and all was right with the world.
But then Attell had to start talking about drugs, monkey
pussy, fucking pirates, and getting a hernia from shitting
too fast. Don't get me wrong, those are all classic topics
for comedians to cover. It's just that I didn't want my now
impressionable pals to hear such vulgarity and get nasty
thoughts, which is exactly what ended up happening. The Wolfman
started a fire in the middle of Legion Field (where the comedic
concert took place) in the shape of a 25 foot, diameter pentagram.
He then started chucking in freshmen and chanting for Satan
to "sexily satiate" her soul starved self on their
eternal ghosts. Robot Pedro then started trying to give himself
a hernia by crapping too fast. When he came to the realization
that he was indeed an unliving automaton and therefore not
capable of producing any excrement he got pissed and started
jumping up and down on fat people in the hopes of getting
some of them to crap out something.
the end I just left the two psychos to their own devices
and Attell and I retreated to the downtown area (mostly to
avoid any unnecessary lawsuits) and started drinking heavily
at the Sea Wench Pub (where he ended up getting into a brawl
with the Skipper and I ended up having to drive the poor
bastard to St. Helga's E.R. to get the bar stool removed
from his heinie).
to self 204: 07/30/2003
Thursday was horrible. Well, I was horrible on last
Thursday... I mean I felt bad. Really bad. Blew chunks for
a few hours early Thursday morning and then had to lay still
in bed like a mummy for the rest of the day lest I get the
heaves again. That would have been an okay day for me, except
that the Skipper decided that I needed his "man of the
sea" cure for what ailed me. Which translated into him
punching me in the face for 30 minutes until his fist started
to hurt (and he was wearing brass knuckles too). Things got
really messy though when the Megaplayboy, thinking I was
at work, tried to break into my house later on in the day
in order to watch some of his fully immersive and interactive
DVD porn on my big screen and surround sound set up. The
Skipper tried to confiscate the Megaplayboy's stash claiming
that "it be all commie propaganda, ain't it, boyo!" and
some shit. I didn't pay too much attention what with the
icepack on my face and the urge to expunge my innards coming
every 2 minutes. In the end I passed out from all the pain,
and when I came too my whole TV room was covered in a giant
plastic tarp, which in turn was covered in stains of every
shade of the rainbow, and there were footprints on the ceiling...
Or maybe those were from the previous Tuesday.
to self 203: 07/23/2003
much everything that I had planned for this summer has already
happened after this weekend was finished. My company picnic
took place early Saturday, and everything was fine and dandy
until Robot Pedro and Angry Amy got into a shoving match
over the last veggie-burger. Angry Amy won, and Robot Pedro
came running to me to protect his pathetic metal ass, but
I had to ditch the rusty moron in order to prepare for my
class reunion that night in the club room on the top floor
of a downtown Atlanta hotel.
story short: My high school class has gotten OLD. All of
the girls I used to date are married, and half of them have
kids/are preggers. Some of the guys who declared me their "mortal
enemy" (I swear to Christ! I apparently had mortal
enemies way back when I was only 17!) are doctors and
bankers and crap now, and they came up to me and actually
shook my hand and introduced me to their wives/gay lovers
and whatnot. Some classmates went on to become Mormons, some
now direct low budget porn in their basements (too bad Chi-Chi
wussed out and didn't show, he could've gotten that guy's
autograph), and all of them actually shook my hand or hugged
me. Color me surprised! I guess time heals all wounds, and
therapy covers the rest. Anyway, the whole evening came to
a bloody end when the Wolfman called Robot Pedro and told
him where I was. Somehow the thermo-nuclear-run bastard got
hold of a helicopter and crashed it into the rooftop party
just like that scene in the original Die Hard!
Anyway, the good thing about the whole incident was that
nobody connected me to the homicidal flesh-killer... and
the next reunion won't be so damn crowded, what with all
the death and carnage that took place there at the finale.
for any other East Bumblefuck High graduates reading this
shit, "Cheers! And here's to another Ten Years of Freedom!...
And all you married folk, get off your asses and help get
me a woman too, you right bastards!"
to self 202: 07/16/2003
head won't stop spinning. I'm in entertainment overload right
now. I saw a bunch of movies this past weekend, the whole
of Berserk, and read a buttload of books.
Carl, the Megaplayboy and I saw The Pirates of the
Caribbean and then theater hopped into The
League of Extraordinary Gentlemen on Saturday, and
they were good. Despite the LXG getting
royally reamed by most critics, I thought it was pretty good.
Yeah, they changed everything from the original comic book,
but let's face it, the book would have made a very boring
movie. It's mostly character studies and a who's who of fictional
literary heroes. There, I've said my piece. As for Pirates,
that Johnny Depp is the coolest mother fucker on the planet
called Hollywood. His role as Captain Jack Sparrow completely
makes up for his willingness to participate in both Chocolate and The
Ninth Gate. Jack Sparrow is now the coolest movie
character to have ever existed. Oh yeah. The only problem
I had with the movie (the one with the pirate ghosts in it)
was that it made Carl start saying "Arrrrrrrrr!" and "Shiver
me timbers!!" like a retarded version of the Skipper...
Only more retarded.
of the Skipper, he skipped both flicks because he thought
that Pirates would make fun of his career
choice by making pirates in general seem "scabbardy
pussy-like," and he missed out on League because
he thinks that Sean Connery stole his look... or something.
Never bug the Skipper for details.
to self 201: 07/03/2003
on a rock! What a week! Well, not really. The most exciting
thing I did in the past seven days was when Dr. Dave and
I went to see Terminator 3, which honestly
wasn't half bad. I don't know about the good ol' Doc, but
I was expecting a total and complete trainwreck of a film.
You know, no James Cameron writing or directing, no Linda "Buff" Hamilton,
no real vision... But surprise surprise, T3 actually
delivered on summer movie funness. It kicked the crap out
of the Hulk and actually made Charlie's
Angel's cry, and it accomplished all that without
so much as a basic plot. Interesting that.
when I was saying that the movie was the most exciting thing
that happened to me this week, I lied. Actually, what the
movie inspired Dr. Dave and I to make was the most non-boring
part of my early July. As soon as we got out of the theater
Dr. Dave was encouraged to work his evil man brain to its
limits in order to create the ultimate killing machine that
would finally kill Jimmy Jammer once and for all (apparently
JJ crashed on the Doc's couch one too many times in the past
month without even an invite because his apartment had "cockroaches
the size of pinto's" scurrying around, that [quite coincidentally
I'm sure] had somehow migrated to Dr. Dave's secret underground
lab too). What else could I do but help him assassinate the
we spent all night working with some leftover android parts
from that one time that Bob From the Future brought back
that baby-eating robot that was supposed to blow up Robot
Pedro and not eat babies (instead of not blowing
Robot Pedro up and eating babies). Well, by morning
the Doc and I had our Termihater 3000 fully operational.
Its live deer head (my idea) would confuse Jimmy Jammer into
thinking it was a cute woodland creature who needed petting,
while its robotic claws of gleaming doom would crush the
life out of his feeble flesh-body as its robo-boots would
kick him in the yin-yang until he died. Unfortunately I had
mixed up the yellow and blue wires, and instead of trying
to kill Jimmy Jammer the Termihater 3000 initiated its self
destruct program and blew the living shit out of Carl's basement
(where we did the initial testing in case of just such an
emergency). That's the circle of life, I guess.
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