The Daily ROSSMAN! Read it, Love it, Live it.

Bob From the Future showed up and was planning to take me back in time to see the first Thanksgiving or something in order to learn the importance of sharing and freedom and turkey. Instead, I tricked him into sending me to the late 1800s. I brought with me an high definition TV, a DVD player, and a ton of special effects-driven movies. I just wanted to fuck with their minds a bit.

I got an audience with President James A. Garfield and played some of my late 20th Century movies for him. I convinced him that the "moving pictures" on the flat screen were part of a documentary on human history in the future and I told him to do his best to help prevent these "scientific atrocities" before they happened. You should have seen his face :). Especially after I showed him Jurassic Park and told him that dinosaur cloning was a piece of cake in my time and that many escapee thunder lizards still roam free in the great American wilderness and in the California Territory where they eat all the expansionists with impunity. Then I showed him Independence Day and convinced him that the Alien War came damn close to making humans extinct in the universe (and right after we had just recovered from Judgement Day and Skynet's forces from Terminators I and II) . But after that I let him see some Star Trek movies just to let him know that our future was going to be okay (he was a little confused about the whole "time traveling whale collecting documentary", but I just brushed it off and told him that that one was made by a Vulcan, and that we're still trying to figure them out). In the end I think he was most impressed and scared of the original Star Wars trilogy. I tried to explain that they were not future events, but that they happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, but he couldn't even understand the concept of "the force", so I just let it go.

After I got back to my own time I found out that history had changed and that instead of President Garfield becoming our nation's greatest leader of all time (winning an unprecedented 6 terms), he was killed in his first year in office and something called World War II had occurred in the 1940s. That Hitler guy sounds like a total asshole.

Last night Chi-Chi, the Wolfman, the Skipper, Jen, Robot Pedro and I went to Luigi's Pizzeria for some damn fine Italian cuisine. Everything was going fine until the Skipper made a comment about how "Evil cum-sucking robots are the cause of all the shittiness in the world today. Arrrrgh!" Robot Pedro didn't think that that was the case (even though he was the one who burned the Skipper's boat "The Gingivitis" down to its keel last week) and he tried to express his own opinion by attempting to remove the Skipper's trademarked beard with a pizza slicer. The Wolfman took the opportunity to bite Robot Pedro's left arm off and use it like a mace against our waitress who was taking her sweet-ass time with our order. Bottles and pizza pies started flying and Chi-Chi used the commotion to sneek behind the counter and start pillaging the keg of Peroni Lager. I snuck underneath a booth with Jen and didn't see exactly what happened next, but the Wolfman told me that some guy's baby threw a bag of Cheerios on top of our meatsa meatsa pizza after parts of the Skipper's facial hair landed on their food. The dude didn't even apologize, so Robot Pedro, the Skipper and the Wolfman teamed up and stuffed the asshole into a delivery box and shoved him in the oven. Then they got drunk and forgot about him until the fire spilled out of the kitchen and we were forced to flee the crime scene. That kid with the Cheerios was still bitchin' as we bolted. He'll probably grow up to be another annoying Gilbert Gottfried.

On Saturday the MegaPlayboy, Jaime and Dan, Meredith, and I went over to Carl's place to watch the UGA vs. UF football game. Everything started out nice with Carl cooking each of us a 17 once T-bone steak, potato wedges, a salad and stuff, but then we made the mistake of force feeding him lots of Killian's Irish Red as he tried to cut up some spuds for a potato salad. He was so plowed that he ended up slicing off 4 of his fingers and 2 toes in the course of 10 minutes during halftime. He kept bleeding all over the food and all, but he claimed that he was just fine and that all he needed was a good "head-clearing bleed" to make him feel all right... Plus nobody wanted to miss the second half kick-off to drive him to the emergency room. After the game we found him in a puddle of his own crimson life fluid and thought it might be best to let a physician take a look at his sorry ass. But once again none of us liked the idea of going to the hospital (did you see that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where that invisible demon killed kids in the children's ward?!?! Holy shit! I'm still a child at heart. What if it tried to get me too? My weekend would be shot!), so we took his pale body to Doctor Dave's shady clinic instead. The good doc said that Carl had been clinically dead for around 50 minutes by the time we got him to the operating table, but after giving Doc Dave enough money he agreed to give resuscitation a shot (Don't worry, we only pay Dr. Dave in Monopoly money now since that one time he reattached the MegaPlayboy's penis by using Juicy Fruit and scented candle wax. We would never throw away our hard earned cash towards a cause that would more than likely cause our friend to be brought back as a living dead hell demon who would also more than likely prefer eating our brains than a Chinese buffet). So after about 20 minutes of creepy sounds from the operating room (sounds like a jackhammer sloshing in Vaseline, a buzzsaw on a melon, and Doctor Dave yelling "Who's your daddy?!?!" over and over most everybody snuck away in shame. When Doctor Dave finally brought Carl out into the waiting room I was the only one left. I took the big lug back to his place and then ran home as fast as I could to watch that creepy hospital episode of Buffy again (I had been thinking about how cool it was the whole time I was waiting for Carl to be brought back to life). This morning I ran into Carl at the office and he wasn't looking that good. He kept mumbling something about "being dragged away from light" and the unprecedented pleasure of an angelic gang bang that he must get back to or something. He didn't seem to be completely there. Also, since we never brought Carl's fingers or toes with us to the doc's place I noticed that they had been replaced with hotdogs and Slim Jims.

Well, I started out trying to do something good, but of course with The Skipper involved my intentions totally backfired and many kittens and sea otters died. See, it all started when The Skipper came back from his travels abroad a few weeks ago. His driver's license had expired back in '94 and I had somehow been volunteered to be the scurvy bastard's chauffeur to every place he had to go and all the bars he had to plunder. So in order to free myself of the chains of automobile slavery that I had been tangled into I took the crusty one to the DMV so that he could battle the angry fat women behind the counter for the chance to honor himself with a "land lubber's vehicle license". Since he had not been behind the wheel of a car in so long those horse wankers made the good Skipper take a bunch remedial driver's ed. classes with a bunch of 16-year-olds. That situation would have been pretty funny had The Skipper not threatened my life with his hook (not to confuse you, but The Skipper doesn't have a hook for a hand, he just carries numerous sharp weapons around with him so that he can "cut" or "gouge" anything that he desires when the mood strikes him) and ordered me to stay and wait for him "in case he had to bleed a few of the little ones in the oft chance that they might get even more annoying than they were at the beginning of class" and he "might be in need of a hasty getaway. Arrrrrrrrrr!" In order to kill some time I went into the class too. All they did was watch a bunch of movies like Blood on the Highway, Blinker of Death, and I Swear, Officer, I Did Not Know I Was Intoxicated. The Skipper thought that that last one was the most entertaining. He kept laughing like a barbarian and slapping his knee in joy whenever a true life testimonial came on. When little Billy explained how he got arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol he broke down in tears and told us how his life was ruined and how he should have known better. Well The Skipper actually fell out of his chair he was "Arrrrrrrr!"-ing so loud and violently. He then got up in front of the class, killed the teacher (after calling him a "poofter") and taught the kids all of the things that little Billy did wrong.

First of all his tolerance level was apparently pitiful. Before you try to outrun the police after a night of getting plowed you must make sure that the G-forces of a turn at 75mph won't make you vomit all over the steering wheel making it all slippery.
Secondly, Billy's friends were not encouraging him as he drove away from the pigs. One needs constant encouragement from one's amigos in order to keep up the will and mind set of a high speed chase on slick roads at night without headlights. It's easy to lose interest in the chase when you're by yourself.
And most importantly was the fact that little Billy apparently cried when the officers pulled him over. The Skipper made all of the teenagers in the class promise him that if the cops ever did get them to pull over for a D.U.I. that they would run or fight with all of their might while one of their friends videotaped everything (in case the pigs won and it all had to go to court, or just for friendly viewing later on so that they could see just how cool they looked when they followed The Skipper's advice).

After that The Skipper took everybody behind the counter and gave them all driver's licenses that said each of them was at least 26 and a war veteran.

The War of the Thermostat is now over. It was basically just one long, drawn-out battle, but it left its scars on all those involved like a bad case of the chicken pox. It all began a few weeks ago when it was averaging around 90 degrees outside during the day. The main office thermostat was set at a comfortable 73. Well, it was until Angry Amy decided that 73 was too cold for her, so she cranked the thing up to 82 degrees. In case you were wondering, that is very fucking hot. Anything above 77 inside is considered "beyond warm". Anyway, she cranked it up and I immediately cranked it back down to 73, but our air system is screwed up and so it took it down to 69 instead. That was basically the "Assassination of Arch-Duke Ferdinand" of the War of the Thermostat. For two weeks after than incident we kept flipping the air up and down between 88 and 62 degrees. The casualties were staggering. Many innocent bystanders were caught in the cross fire as they didn't know whether to bundle up or wear shorts or simply get naked. I actually killed two people with a stapler too... but that's a different story.

So, after those two weeks I decided to go beyond the trench warfare tactics that Angry Amy and I had found ourselves stuck in. I got a lock box installed over the wall-mounted temperature gauge. And I kept the key. Normally it would have been a brilliant tactical maneuver, but I forgot that Angry Amy can get VERY angry when provoked. And I didn't just provoke her, I pushed her off of the cliffs of sanity straight into the jungles of ire... And I smiled and waved to her as she plummeted. Well, the next day I found that she had ripped the box from the wall and smashed it into my computer monitor along with turning the entire office into a sauna by leaving the dial at 95 degrees Fahrenheit.

Finally, I ended up being the level headed one as I got the building planners to come upstairs and find out what could be done about the temperature for each room. It turned out that the main thermostat that we were fighting over didn't even control either of our rooms directly. I really share my air conditioning with the old guy next door who likes it really cold, and Angry Amy found out that her boss controls her temp... Unfortunately for Amy her boss likes it colder than I did. After all was said and done and the Peace Treaty had been signed, I kinda felt sorry for Angry Amy and the fact that I had Robot Pedro crush her car into a 2 foot cube. It was a nice car too.

Damn you, Chi-Chi!! Damn you to HELL!!!!!
Now to explain my uncontrollable outburst. Last Friday night Chi-Chi had me meet him at his favorite tavern in Atlanta (well, one of 53 that can be considered his favorite). It was an okay place with some really hot waitresses and I'd tell you the name of it if I could remember it. I don't even recall how I got there or back. Anyway, we planned to meet up at this tavern, have a few drinks, then go to see Nicole Kidman in that haunted house movie The Others. But, as I usually find out when plans mix with alcohol and my friends, the original idea got scrapped in order to make room for more drinking time. We both started out on strict beer intakes and by ruining each other's jokes by telling the punchlines to ones we've already heard (which is all of them by now... I really need to find some more dirty joke websites). Within the first hour though our good intentions of not mixing vodka and beer were thwarted when the cute blonde bartender-girl gave us each a complimentary "purple hooter" shot.

That was the beginning of the end. By 2 o'clock in the morning I was starting to feel not so manly, so we left. Unfortunately we just went to another of Chi-Chi's favorite bars. There I was forced to prove my fake alcoholism by downing 10 shots of tequila in half an hour or lose face in front of a bunch of strangers. By the time I was on number 7, "the Skipper" popped up out of nowhere, punched me in the stomach a few times, pissed on my shoes and called me a baby for complaining about my water logged moccasins. Normally I would have carved off a person's face with a lime-peeler if he had broken my concentration at such a crucial point like that, but it was the Skipper.... And you don't fuck with the Skipper. Actually, I was wondering just what the Skipper was doing there. Last I heard he was getting monkeys addicted to tobacco in the jungles of Africa. I don't remember if it was some kind of scientific experiment or what, but his "Gorilla Research" in the Congo got a mention in National Geographic as being the only place in the world with chain smoking silverbacks, and orangutans with throat goiters the size of softballs.

Oh yeah, after my tenth shot of tequila I got up on the bar, did my Pee-Wee Herman dance, and puked all over Chi-Chi and the hot and sexy barmaids in a spew that would do Linda Blair proud.

Horrified. I am simply horrified. As you already know by now, terrorists have flown two giant jet planes into the World Trade Towers, one into the Pentagon, one into the ground South of Pittsburg, and supposedly set off numerous explosions all over D.C. and Manhattan. The Trade Towers have fallen. Thousands of people died. The West side of the Pentagon is rubble. Every single American is confused, scared and PISSED THE FUCK OFF. And you want to know what's the second worst thing about this (after the death and destruction of course)? People in the Middle East are DANCING IN THE GODDAMN STREETS. They are dancing for joy. They think that by killing 20,000+ Americans they will be happier and live lives that don't include sleeping in dirt, eating crap from the dumpster and getting stepped and shat upon by their own leaders who don't give a fuck if they die of starvation and/or disease in the rat filled gutters. They think that by killing innocent Americans they will be raised above their toilet bowl existence.

You know what I wish?.... besides those fuckers not crashing four planes.... I wish that I could line all those camel-raping, turban-wearing, dancing shit heads up and challenge each of them to a fight: Man to man. But in order for those sister-sodomizing bastards to understand the hell they've forced upon us, I would be allowed to weild a machette and a machine gun (with unlimited ammo) and each of them would only get one small furry woodland animal to use as a weapon. And when I got my hands on Bin Laden himself I would first strangle him with his own tableclothed turban, then I would wipe that shit eating grin off his face with a few gallons of hydrocloric acid. Then when he was good and bleached white (with a blonde dye job) I'd drop him in the middle of one of his terrorist training camps with lots of tatoos on him saying "I'm gay" and "The Al Qaeda Sucks Floppy Donkey Dick".

It all started last week when I noticed that the news in the morning sucked and that I'd seen all the cartoons that are on between 7 and 8am at least 30 times. That's when I found out that Saved By The Bell is on TBS at 7:35! Yeah, I know that my old doctor said that my addiction to that show would never end unless I kept away from those Bayside kids as if they were the plague... But I had forgotten just how hot Kelly, Jessie and Lisa were! By Friday morning I was beyond OD-ing on Kelly's pom-poms and I began foaming at the mouth. That's when Clarice dragged me over to Dr. Daves shady clinic to try and cure me.... again. By the time the doc was free to see me I was still a bit high off of Zack's charsima and Jessie's feminism, and I think I made a decision that I may regret later. In my Belled up delirium I requested that Dr. Dave give me an "on the spot" face transplant so that I could look just like Screech and be a real ladies' hombre. He fucked up though and I ended up with a mirror image of Mr. Belding on my puss. Clarice said it was sexy, but the balding thing is gunna take a bit to get used to. I just pray to God that California Dreams doesn't take Saved's time slot any time soon. Or even worse, Charles in Charge! I went cold turkey from that years ago and am still suffering from the DTs.

For my birthday this past weekend the Wolfman took me to downtown Atlanta for the yearly sci-fi convention, DragonCon. At first I thought that we were going in order to actually try and get into the whole fiasco and become geeky freaks who only come out to interact with the rest of humanity once a year at such retarded festivities that feature guests such as "That guy that got killed in the original Star Trek episode 51" and "The woman in the Matrix who walked past the camera in the background at 1 hour and 13 minutes into the movie". Thankfully the Wolfman had a better idea. We went to beat the living shit out of those losers. Either physically or mentally (the Wolfman is the master of mental rapings). When we first got there we were totally embarrased about the situation we had gotten ourselves into. We were the only ones not in a faggy Klingon or Storm Trooper costumes and we would only refer to ourselves with our real names (and not shit like "Urrgak Kreslovor the Mighty" or "Trooper designate #452 of Branch Ass-Fucker Alpha"). We stood out like a politician in Washington with a heart of gold that simply warms the human spirit. Despite our amazing fitness advantage (we could actually run, kick, punch and head-butt without dropping dead on the spot of a coronary), we were in fear for our lives. The Wolfman and I were outnumbered 30,000 to 2. But we had a mission, and we were no pansies (well, I know that the Wolfman ain't). We started out by setting up a booth for "$1 Kisses Given by Seven of Nine" which really only lined up the grown bed-wetters so that we could hit them in the face with a steel replica of the Babylon 5 ship several times each. What was great about that idea was that despite the fact that the star-spankers in the line could clearly see that Jeri Ryan was not really in our booth (the Wolfman stole a cardboard cut out of the beautiful and breastiful actress from the dealers' room), and the fact that we were smashing in skulls of their fellow X-Files-loving hard-ups in plain view they kept on coming! Some even got in line 4 to 5 times in the vain hope that Jeri would actually show up later and give them a dollar's worth of lovin'. By around 8pm that night both the Wolfman and I were pretty tired after smashing all of those acne smothered heads in (we got around 7,000 by that point), and we decided to go another route. So we just barred up all the doors to the hotel from the outside and set the whole place on fire. The news didn't even cover it because it would have meant giving those fat fucks some sympathy. Man, what a happy b-day!

I had nothing better to do on Friday, so the Megaplayboy easily talked me into going with him to the Atlanta Motor Dragway to watch him race his Audi Quatro A4 against people with faster cars. Knowing how sweet it was going to be after his crushing defeats at the wheels of Geos and trucks, I invited Chi-Chi and Robot Pedro to tag along too (Robot Pedro didn't have to pay admission since we hid him in the trunk... He fucked up the Megaplayboy's first two runs too, cause we forgot to get him out and he weighs like 3,000 lbs). After Chi-Chi, Robot Pedro and I got settled in the stands we realized how shit-watching boring drag racing truly is. Cars move up to the line. Green light. They race. 10-19 seconds later more cars line up. Multiply that by 1,345 times and you basically have our night up until 10PM. At that time Chi-Chi and I lost track of Robot Pedro. Normally we wouldn't care too much about something that trivial, but we learned the hard way that leaving Robot Pedro alone when there are lots of machines and things that can go "BOOM!" lying around is almost always a bad idea. So we split up to find the cum guzzling cyborg. I had only made it to the snack bar for the fifth time when I heard an awful sound that made me queazy and fear for my life. It was Chi-Chi on the loud speakers and he was reciting the "Wassuuuuuuuuuup" Bud commercials. I wanted to beat the tar out of him, but I had to wait in line. There were people with crowbars ahead of me. Right before it was my turn to crunch his noggin in, I saw Robot Pedro back in the bleachers. He was sneaking up on this annoying fat fuck who through out the entire night had pissed off the entire audience by shouting out "YEAH, Goddammit, YEAAAAH!" whenever a car would rev its engine... Which was every 6.4 seconds. Nobody tried to stop Robot Pedro and his metal-footed clog dance on the chubby asshole's head drew the biggest applause of the evening. At the end of the races, the Megaplayboy was pissed that we missed him "Destroying that lame dingle-berry wannabe ass fuckin' turtle-pluckin' minivan" on his last drag. We would have laughed at him but he was our ride home.

This past weekend the Wolfman, Carl and I took my 4 month old nephew out on the town to teach the little guy how to do all the things that will one day make a man out of him. First we drove him to the red light district and showed him how to pick out the hooker with the least amount of venereal diseases just by looking in her mouth (that was the Wolfman's specialty). Then we went to the Sea-Wench Pub and taught him the proper way to pour a pint of Guinness and how to chug a bottle of the disgusting Tsing Tao while pretending that its foul stench doesn't make you want to vomit your tequila and Jell-O shots back up (that was my specialty). Then we let Carl educate the little guy on how to correctly beat the living shit out of a drunk frat boy by only using your fists and steel toed boots. It seemed that Carl wasn't too happy with his training and results the first 14 times, but the 15th wanker with a baseball cap turned backwards apparently got his face smashed in the most ideal of ways known to man. We dropped wee Jack off back at his parents at around 3AM, and then we had to head back to the bar to help the owner re-plaster the walls and glue a bunch of chairs and stools back together after Carl's lesson had pretty much demolished the place. If we didn't, we would probably never be allowed back in ever again. And while I do realize that there are 42 bars in a one mile radius of the Sea-Wench Pub, none of them have a jukebox with AC-DC's Stiff Upper Lip in it dammit! So in the end it turned out that we all got edumacated that night.... I guess.

Hong Kong kicks ass!! My friend Mara lives there and she's my supplier when it comes to bootleg movies, music and video games. Apparently there are tons of companies in HK and Taiwan who can make DVDs and CDs at around -$.02 per disc and then pass the savings on to consumers who don't like to pay a lot for stuff. Most of the anime DVDs (with English subtitles... however horribly mangled) she gets me only cost around $4 US! In Japan they cost around $50 - $80! And since the Chinese and Taiwanese don't give a shit about copyrights and other annoying "international laws" they don't pay the greedy makers of the products that they borrow from. Only problem is US Customs apparently doesn't like foreign products cause they keep trying to seize my packages. Now they usually just look for my name and address since they know that most of my shipments from Hong Kong are items that break their "laws" supposedly just by existing. I get a lot of Hollywood movies from Mara too, seeing as the underground market on the otherside of the world knows how to get things out on quality DVD fast! For instance, I already have the Lord of the Rings trilogy in director's cut form with commentary by Peter Jackson himself on disc. The Balrog looks damn fine if I do say so myself. Most people have to wait until next summer to see Spiderman the movie, but not me. I got the two disc Special Edition Taiwanese set last week. As for Die Hard IV: Die Hardest, well, Bruce Willis hasn't even signed on for it yet but some HK guys have already gotten it pressed and it just arrived in my mailbox today. Can't wait to check that one out. Macaulay Culkin plays Samuel L. Jackson's part.

I fucking HATE pigs!!! Yesterday, on the way back from the Sea-Wench Pub with my buddy Bob From the Future (who was still hanging around town after he came back from the future to warn me about my Firestone tires that were about to blow up and kill a baby seal... which they did), I was pulled over by a rookie cop who had to make his monthly quota for speeding tickets and moving violations. First of all, I was pissed that I was stopped by this ass. I had come to a complete pause before making a right turn on D.W. Brooks Drive. I know that I did because the old guy that I stopped the Rossmobile on top of gave me an audio count of how many seconds I was there. Three full seconds. The second thing that I didn't like about the police man flagging me down was that Bob From the Future had a buttload of high tech weaponry and explosives with him in the car that he didn't have licenses for in the year 2001. Hell, he probably didn't have any legal permits for them in his own time either. Sooooo, long story short, Bob From the Future found that he had to vaporize the inquisitive piggy when he saw the nuclear bazooka in the back seat sticking out from under some empty beer cans. Then we had to set the cruiser on fire and dump it in Shawnee's Swamp a few miles out of town. We did keep the videotape that recorded the whole incident from the cop's dashboard though. It makes for good memories and it's great for impressing the ladies.

I had just gotten back from vacation in Hawaii (where my departure time was 11 o'clock at night next Thursday) and was suffering from the bends and horrible jet lag when my sister asked me to help her and her fiancee move into their new apartment. I asked if they would have a keg there and they assured me that they already had one filled with Asahi chilled in the bath tub. So I went over and I brought Chi-Chi, Carl and Bob From the Future with me (I brought Bob because I thought he might have some kind of futuristic ray gun that could make couches and dressers levitate or something... alas the bastard didn't... but he did manage to figure out that throwing things from the window was a lot easier than taking the stairs). Bob From the Future was made to sit in "time out" for a few hours after a table he hurled from the third floor apartment landed on an old lady and her dog. When we heard that it landed on an old woman we were initially very pissed thinking that the cops would come and all, but when we lifted the coffee table up and noticed that she was still breathing, but her pooch wasn't we gave him a high five and just made him face a corner and think about how he almost ruined a perfectly good piece of furniture with "old people slime". Dog slime can easily be washed off though, and plus dogs kinda suck.

Anyway, after banging my shins and having heavy shit dropped on my newly tanned feet all day long I was really tired and ready to relax. It was at that point though that my sister Jaime and her boy toy, Dan, tried to push us out of their new place without any kind of beer payment. But Carl stuck his foot in the door and then bashed it in with Chi-Chi's head to let us back inside and hopefully allow us to reach the keg we were promised as compensation for our help and all the suffering we endured (and caused). That is when they laughed nervously and explained how they were "joking" about the keg and stuff and that they thought that we would just help them move out of the goodness of our collective hearts. They thought wrong. After hearing the news Chi-Chi got pissed and started chanting like a cannibal chief about to kill some international explorers in rage. Then he relieved himself in the corner as he repeated "Death by Chi-Chi!" over and over. Carl just began smashing things and punching holes in the walls with his fists and his head. Bob From the Future and I looted the place and made off with a bunch of jazz CDs and old My Little Pony and Jem and the Holigrams toys that he said would be priceless in the near future after the stock market dies and humanity is forced to use plastic girls' toys from the 1980s as currency until George W. Bush IV becomes president of the world and brings universal tranquility in the first 2 months of his reign.
Afterwards I went to Doctor Dave's shady clinic and had him operate on my bruised legs and toes. Now I have chimpanzee feet. They're pretty sweet!