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  • $1.95 for a Coke and no refills? The fuck?

    Yeah, I know. Petty and shit. Don't care and shit. Since I've quit drinking (one of the better byproducts of dating someone who's so very much better at drinking than I), I kinda expect soft drinks to be free. And black coffee, but that's an entirely different kettle of sushi.

    Which is wherefore the LJBF (best of luck on the driving test today, by the way) and I went yesterday. A place called the Sakana Grill. Unfortunately, we missed the lunch specials (nope, I don't call it cheap or even frugal; I prefer to call it I order the left side of the menu, and I'd prefer not to have to outlay a great deal of cash moneys in order to do so) by 15 minutes. This meant that I had to drop $12.50 for a cute little lump of rice and some teriyaki chicken. And I'm still pissed about the title of this little rant.

    The sushi was good, however. And our allegedly Japanese waitress had a cute little shitcutter on her. Even if she was kind of a butterface. Sound it out. I'll wait.

     

    Finally saw The Dark Knight. Still not a Christian Bale fan, although he was awesome in American Psycho. Read the book. Learn. Grow.

    Heath Ledger, on the other paw...was the movie. I almost liked him more than Nicholson.

    I know. Sacrilege. And after the christian dating site folks were goodly enough to leave a comment earlier, too.

    Jesus wept.

     

    And then I was able to watch the U.S.A. Basketball squad's return to the winner's circle. D was a pretty good sport about letting me set up residence on her faux suede sofa until 2:30 this a.m. to watch the only Olympic event that didn't involve Misty May or Kerri Walsh that actually mattered. All the while rocking me a D.Wade jersey, too. When did Flash learn to shoot the 3? Now I'm kinda glad I have him in my NBA.com Keeper League. And when did Rudy Fernandez learn how to dunk? Man, did he smoke Howard off the corner. Bet that's the last time THAT happens.

    So it was a good night. And, to cap it off, I made it home Alive. Yay, me! I hate driving and I can't recall what alert feels like.

    And there was an ''I can't take a hint''-type message from someone I talked to a couple of times and then quickly dismissed when she revealed her belief that five feet tall and 300 pounds constitutes the AVERAGE female body type. Uh, no. Sorry, pal. Thanks for playing. Let's just say I haven't spoken to her since. And have NO intention of doing so.

    Speaking of which, the GF is coming back from Mexico tonight. I've somehow managed to convince her and her galpal to mule Marlboro Menthols back for me, too. It's all about the Yes Ladder, kiddies. Alas, they drew the line at procuring me some brown tar Heroin. Sigh.

    Chicks. The more I know, the less I understand.

     

    Good news. My LJBF passed her driving test. And another Honda Civic owner rolls off the assembly line. Why, yes, she IS Oriental. Singaporiental, in fact.

    Sadly, I don't know very many white folks any more.

     

    The GF has a theory. Said theorem postulates that all Beckys are sluts.

     

    But that'll keep until after my nap. After all, I'm not used to working banker's hours, as I am tomorrow. Even If Only for one day. And then Applebee's with the boys. Wherefore I may also look rather natty.

    As opposed to the usual ratty. Although I'm fairly certain I do actually own an iron. It's the having, not the using.

    Namaste.

  • Keep Out, This Means YOU

    Yes, you, Nancy Drew. Nothing to see here, go on about your own beeswax. As for the rest of y'all...browse, partake, enjoy. Leave comments. Send hatemail. Avail yourselves of the various resources herein. Tip your waitress.

    Or not. Whatever. As for Ms. Veronica Mars, I know you'll do the right thing and add to my AdSense cash moneys. Otherwise, you'll be supporting my goofy ass. And yes, I'll miss you when you're in Mexico. Even if you and your galpal won't mule me back some brown tar Heroin. Sigh. And here I thought you loved me. And yet, you don't even send me hatemail.

    Yes, in retrospect, it likely wasn't the smartest decision to include a link to this nonsense on my Facebook page (simply search for Christian Manson, all friend requests accepted, as I need to up my totals to the numbers I have on MySpace; wherefore I'm, surprisingly enough, listed as Suavely Deranged). However, since she'd already cleverly deduced the link herein, Why Not?

    And, why pray the fuck tell, do I keep ending up with Arabic ads? Fucking Google (shakes fist)!

     

    So, it seems that the GF failed to learn her lesson previously and still occasionally finds her merry way to this little abomination that I call home. Which, would explain the previous rant somewhat. Despite warnings to the contrary, my boo continues to want to sleuth her way into my subconcious. Silly, silly woman.

    Yeah, like there's any other flavors, chief. This ain't Baskin Robbins.

    The upshot is that I will continue to ramble on about this, that and the other hereabouts and continue my look with impure thoughts but never touch approach to life. She, in turn, will snoop. We will be at odds 'til we even, to drop some Biggie Smalls on y'all. I'll grovel. Ish.

    The makeup sex, however, will be spectacular. Almost as good as when someone fucks you like they hate you.

     

    Speaking of which (this is what I like to laughingly refer to as stream of consciousness), I had to explain to my LJBF exactly what a hate (or spite, if you prefer) fuck actually is. It seems she was under the mistaken impression that giving up her recently divorced and sexually frustrated ass to an attractive and well built firefighter would qualify as the aforementioned grudge fuck.

    Needless to say, I, as the final arbiter on all things unseemly (hey, I kinda like that, expect to see more of it) had to set her straight. So, for her and any of the rest of y'all: a hate fuck is when you hate yourself or somebody else so very very much that you pretty much nail anything that gets in your path. Sometimes everyfucking thing. A spite fuck is when your significant other cheats on you and you fuck their best friend and/or a close family member and/or an entire sports team. What? I can't have a life outside of this mess? This is simply my diary screaming out loud, to quote Ms. Nalick. Which reminds me, I still need to acquire her 2nd disc.

    But I digress. Anyhoo, being the gentleman y'all know I can be, I'm serving as my LJBF's Designated Dialler and/or Sponsor whenever she gets liquored up and/or morose and wants to call up her latest unavailable Crush. That's simply how I roll.

    Especially since I'm trying to turn her to the darkside. I think she'd make a good lesbian. Especially since she has a singleton galpal what looks like Briana Banks, but with smaller tits. And, it'd give me a chance to practice my powers of persuasion in order to procure pictures, which I would then share with y'all on My Humble Little Photoblog.

    And I'm somewhat dismayed that when she replied Holy Shit! (to drop some religious content on y'all fucking heathens) to my comment that said Briana Banks-looking chick was cute, but needed to work on her anal (what? we can't always discuss literature, politics and why Britney Spears can't just settle down and be a good girl); and I responded with the ever-popular Well Played, Old Bean...she didn't get it. I know y'all will, though. Sound it out, I'll wait.

     

    I woke up at 0130 today after crashing just before 2200, and I'm somewhat less than thrilled about it. Especially since I didn't have to get up until roughly now, and I was awoken by the sound and feeling of my own deep and somewhat painful coughing. Ah, Good Times. Still feeling kinda blah, and mulling calling in sick to work tonight. However, with the boss on Vacation for 2 weeks and me the number 2 (yeah, I know, do with that as thou wilt), I likely won't. Sigh, it kinda sucks having a work ethic. And a conscience.

    And, apparently, standards. Sigh. it's been a troubling weekend all around. Although I did discover me a painless route to the local Applebees (love me some Applebees, almost as much as IHOP-try the Ultimate Steak Omelette therein, excellent, and the portion size is such that I, who always orders 2 entrees, am content with the one; to drop a brief Zagat's Guide moment on y'all), so the glass wasn't totally Broken. Empty, yes, but that's damn near a foregone conclusion.

     

    It was good to see Tampa Bay Rays Outfielder (and longtime fave) Rocco Baldelli return to The Show yesterday. It's been too long. And yes, when I finally get that porn star gig I've been pining for all these years, my handle will TOTALLY be Rocco Baldelli.

    And let the lawsuits fall wherefore they may.

     

    Speaking of pornstars, as I occasionally do (why, yes, that would be sarcasm; pornstars are my raison d'etre)...does anybody else miss the days when ECW was really Extreme? When the lovely and oh-so-talented Jasmine St. Claire (yeah, I've likely misspelled it, but a rose by any other name and all that jive) was on the roster? When Billy Corgan and Fred Durst amongst others would stop by and take a guitar shot? When Taz really was the Human Suplex Machine? When Hardcore (sorry, need the traffic) really was? When the crimson mask was not only a common occurrence, but a part of damn near everybody's ring attire? The Sandman's ring entrance? The Gore? The REAL Van Daminator? The majority of the matches taking place in the crowd? The ECF'nW T-shirts (must check Ebay)?

    I know I do. Curse you Vince McMahon (shakes fist)! May your stock drop 20 points today.

     

    So I was watching Rush Hour 3 yesterday (love me some Jackie Chan, but who don't really?), one of those flicks that you watch when it's on the movie channels, but don't waste your cash moneys clocking in the local megaplex; and I've decided that when I finally land me an amiable, comic relief-type sidekick, I want him (or her) to be just like Chris Tucker.

    What? You're entitled to YOUR goals and aspirations, let me have mine, you selfish bastards.

     

    And, whilst watching Hannah Montana at 0200 (love love LOVE me some Family/Disney Channel, as it totally enables my look but don't touch mindset), I re-examined my beliefs and yes, Emily Osment is still going to turn out hotter than Miley Cyrus. And I still miss Billy Ray's mullet. Maybe I'll trim my back hair into a mullet today, as I have about 6 hours before Sleepytime.

     

     

  • R.I.P. Bernie Mac

    Yeah, it's been a bad day all around. He was only 50, too. And yet, we're still saddled with Ashton Kutcher. The world's a fucked up place sometimes, ain't it?

    Well, at least we still have Dave Chappelle and Martin Lawrence. Now, If Only they could stay semi-sane.

    And I still haven't seen Mr. 3000, yet. Fucking Movie Central refuses to show it for some reason. Nor The Alamo and Miracle, either. Can't explain it. Can't accept it. Can't be bothered to, you know, rent them either. After all, the video store is, like 2 blocks away. Too far to go to return shit. Rent, okay, but not return.

     

    Today I discovered and was enthralled by X-Tube. Soon, you will be, too. Just trust me on this one.

     

    It seems the GF and I are fighting again. Nope, NO idea with regards to what, but I believed Bret Easton Ellis' Patrick Bateman summed it up best: she seems unthrilled, and I suspect it has something to do with me.

    I, of course, paraphrase. I do that a lot. Almost as much as I digress.

    Now I'm all about offending folks intentionally. ALL about it, but when I do so accidentally, I fret. That's just another in the myriad of ways in which I roll.

    Or is it drift?

     

    I woke up from my afternoon nap realizing that my subconscious was trying to tell me something. I had 3 dreams about 3 different complete fucking strangers in an hour and a half. Each dream involved random gratuitous casual (the best kind) sex and Hai Karate. Obviously, I don't spend nearly enough time thinking about or doing either. Sometimes dream interpretation is quite simple. Just like I.

    And I think Carl Jung would kick Sigmund Freud's punk ass in a steel cage match.

     

    Anyway, I'm off to fire up my audition tape for Weiland's gig in Velvet Revolver and likely do a marathon of Ocean's Eleven and its surprisingly watchable sequels. Be good and be safe, y'all.