"If It Wasn't For Obesity In The White Female Community, Black Guys Would Have No One To Fuck..."

The Good Side of Bad News - Obesity

Sometimes Virginia, genius needs to step aside and let the wizards work their wonders.


and p.s., I'm well aware that this is the first post in over a month; I have an ass-and-titties calendar in the doorway, yeah. so go fuck yourself G. Gordon Liddy.

Cut Off Your Hands. Feed Them To Me. Let Me See Your Heart's Vagina.

Some real blog shit. As told to Patrick Thomas Thompson. Born March 22, 1984. Native of Califon, New Jersey, Hunterdon County. Son of Don and Terry(sp?) Thompson. Brother of Don Jr. and Mike. Graduate of Vorhees High School and the University of Maryland, College Park. Member of the esteemed Delta Tau Delta Fraternity, Delta Sigma Chapter. Devourer of beauty, connoisseur of disturbing art. Late bloomer in the metaphysical struggle amongst the machines, "God", time, the Seven Seas, mankind, the elite and the desire to be as entropic as possible.

Remember the TimeMachine as he is, not as you wish him to be. That goes for all of us, p.s.
enjoi.

i'm drinking alone in my bed, listening to aphex twin in my boxers, occasionally watching the video for sebastien tellier's "la ritournelle" and crying my eyes out.

i woke up this morning with pretty sizable chunks of cartilage on my pillow and i stepped on a piece of glass in the gallery and now it poss may be infected.

my body all but rejects anything that's not a cigarette, alcohol, a schedule 1 intoxicant or an MAO Inhibitor.

my checking account is overdrawn by an obscene amount (378.23 to be exact; don't ask).

my mother is like legitimately afraid that i'm going to kill myself (haha).

i make enemies a lot easier than friends and have basically been living the last scene of cloverfield for the last three weeks.

yet as i sit here, in the UVA shirt i stole from their bookstore during my campus visit junior year at Gilman, watching this (possibly underaged) girl get brutally facefucked by an impossibly massive cock, i can't help but think that i am a bigger beast than 96% of NYC.

I Wanna Make A Fat Girl Cry Tonight!

Welcome To The No Spin Zone.

You Don't Remember Me Do You? Burbank? '83? Yeahhh! Good To See You! How's The Wife? Ohhh, Sorry To Hear That. Remarried? No. Yeah, Such A Trap Right?

"... And after one-thousand-and-one years of anguish, the Harrier Of TRUTH finally sinks its obsidian talons into the flesh and marrow of the sexually sated Fuck-Titan, and things begin to begin again Mr. Finnegan, the slender ovipositor having posited something rather sinister."

"What Did You Expect From A Crakhead?"

- Revelations 11:16

I Heard He Smoked Joints Dipped In Embalming Fluid.

Follow the Bleeder. 

He has a wonderful sense of direction I'm told.

Shit's gotten all post-meridian and all is quiet on the Western Front. Yet, the aforementioned empty pouch of Medellin Magic won't go down without a fight. (See the previous post if you don't know what the fuck I'm on about).

Reaching into my pocket, mulling over plans to hitchhike to L.A., my fingers fondle what I, until recently, believed to be a guitar pick.  

But the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of. Just be glad that for once in your colorless (RGB) life, a contiguous and captivating narrative is thrown at your feet.

You're Welcome.

Next Episode: How best to dispose of the (appreciably vacant) bag and avoid further exacerbation of drug-related interpersonal and familial crises. 

Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.

i fucken pwomiss. or they can throw me in gaol.

Better Living Through Chemistry... We Just Need More BLOOD... BLOOD... BLOOD... BLOOD... BLOOD...

A change has come over me. I don't know how to explain it. But it's like this:

If you're a really garish looking (read: cancerous tan, fake nails/tits/hair, too much make-up, etc.), high-maintenance, preferably JAPpy chick, maybe toting some gaudy, overlarge piece of mobile technology (e.g. iPhone, SideKick) and constantly driving around drunk in a car with a retractable hardtop and a leather interior, I wanna fuck you. I wanna fuck you into next year actually. I wanna knock the dust off that pussy.

This is a strange thing, if only because I've spent so many of my post-pubescent years fucking hating your god damn guts. But now I have seen the light, the guard has been lowered, and previously-held standards have been all but vanquished.

And if you're Lindsay Lohan, even better. Flat out fucken fantastic actually. Call me Linds. My door is always open babydoll.

Consider the script Oh-fficially flipped...

the devil and paris hilton: hands down the most poignant thing you'll read about the miscarriage of justice that is the paris hilton saga.

this was the first picture of Paris i ever laid eyes on. i remember thinking, "what a piece of ass? who is this chick?" what a difference a sex tape/slew of reckless driving incidents/utterance of racial slurs/reality series/probation violation/premature release/courtroom sobbing episode makes.

i guess that head wasn't right. a little too much tooth and not enough tongue, perhaps? because fuck knows that back during the middle stages of all this, at least the judge caught a domeshot from young Ms. Hilton. or else we wouldn't be where we are today.

but, as i'm sure you've heard, our lengthy national nightmare has seen its temporary resolution. and already, the denouement is proving to be hilariously tragic. apparently, prisoner 90210 (you like that don't you motherfucker? of course i stole it!) is not eating or sleeping. she's also been doing a lot of praying apparently.

hunger strike? daily prayers to Mecca? such a beacon. such a ray of light that lass is. a display of determination and self-discipline not seen since Martin Luther King penned his Letters From Inside a Birmingham Jail.

or maybe it's just a healthy serving of simultaneous withdrawal, with a heavy helping of desperation gravy, ladled on nice and thick. did you ever think of that? yeah, that's it. withdrawal. she's freaking out man! jonesing! chronic withdrawal symptoms, on account of the plethora of drugs Ms. Hilton is clearly addicted to. dope sickness is no laughing matter people! though according to Reuters, her shrink has been giving her "psychoactive drugs." you call them psychoactive, i call them Naltrexone and Antabuse.

every step of this seems to have been a slap in the face to the "ordinary American majority."

"'Mom, Mom. It's not right,' she wailed as she was led out of the courtroom. Her mother, Kathy Hilton, also sobbed."

what the fuck? it's amazing how distraught she and her mother have been (mother sobbing; daughter is allegedly on suicide watch; what the fuck?), given the fact that millions of mothers have seen and will see their sons and daughters dragged off in cuffs and jumpers knowing that they won't see them ever again, much less in three weeks.

it doesn't anger as much as it saddens. but along with this being a manifestation of the importance class plays in our judicial system, this is an embodiment of the American Individualist ethos. surely not exhibited solely by the hyperwealthy.

fuck walking a mile in your shoes! i wouldn't be caught dead in that Payless trash!

yet it goes without saying that the "pull yourself up by your bootstraps," "i got mine, you get yours" state of mind has done more harm than good, and quite frankly, is outmoded. has been for generations. with diminshing exception, empathy has all but vanished from the American sociopolitical landscape. and we're seeing that in, among other cases, Paris's bitchass reaction to a class-blind, functioning justice system.

as far as the development, i wasn't indoors to see the Paparazzi earning their keep in front of the Hilton home the other day. but i have to wonder why formerly respectable mainstream media outlets felt that news of a spoiled slut socialite being rightfully remanded to the L.A. County Sheriff's custody was on par with say, 9/11 or the Invasion of Iraq or the VT shootings. or for that matter, the Battle of Los Angeles 15 years before. interrupting my stories for this shit? oh fuck naw.

have we fucking gone mad! someone certainly has.

before entry, paris said that she was going to "serve her time the right way" and serve as an "example to young people out there." good talk Paris. because if anyone's going to serve as an example around here, it's going to be you. teach these girls how to go out there and be somebody. or do somebody. a lot of somebodies. rich somebodies.

an example.

that worked out. surely money alone didn't lead to this delusion, though it most certainly helped. no. the prime suspect in this murder mystery is you. and me. and those we know and love. and those we don't. keep paying attention, keep giving yourself to this, and this is what's going to happen.

i can't really say that i'm glad she's back in jail. not because i sympathize, but because "back in jail" should not even have been a topic of discussion here.

in a state where the "3 Strikes" mandate is constantly fucking up the lives of (Brown and Black) people throughout California, crowding its jails and straining its budget, and given LAPD's repugnant, yet rightfully earned, reputation, you'd think this would be the last thing the judicial system there would allow for.

our need to feed on this foolishness begs a question. one of cultural norms. one that many of us won't be alive to see the answer to.

considering that half a century ago, Elvis gyrating his hips was regarded as obscene by the troublesome and damning American concensus, and given the no holds barred media clime of "today," (i.e. "One Night In Paris" being Ms. Hilton's "big break") where are we headed next?

in the next 50 to 100 years, given that planet Earth isn't more like planet Mercury, how drastically will we, and our sensibilities, (d)evolve culturally? anything goes, maybe? a full hour of "Monkeys Fucking Kids with a Wide-Angle Lens" anchoring NBC's highly prized "Must See TV" Thursday night lineup?

regardless of what "tomorrow" brings, i guess the most comforting message for both Paris and a sickly American mass would be that Hope Springs Eternal. we're gonna get through this babydoll. just gotta know we can.

i guess i'll hold that message dear to my heart should i ever be sentenced, YHWH forbid. maybe i'll pull a Wayans Brothers and hire some Hollywood makeup artist to transform me into a white broad. that seems to be my best hope for this situation, eh? wish me luck.

happy happy joy joy!

i was thinking...
if i were to commit suicide by hanging myself (which i would never do because i don't think that shit's foolproof, and i would feel pretty stupid if i was just hanging there and my landlord found me, flailing like a fish on the hook), i would totally set up shop right by the front door. so when the cops or whatever respond to the stench of my rotting corpse and they find the door is locked and junk, they'll do what cops are known to do pretty well.

they'll bust the door down.

but little would they know that my body would be but inches from the newly-broken door jamb. hahahaha!

hopefully some burly, barrel-chested, meathead Irish cop would shoulder the door down out of frustration. just enough force to loosen me from my moorings so i do a nice flop onto the hardwood floor. hahahaha! that would be fucken highlarious!

haha! jesus. i intend to alarm. it's all i'm here for really.

hopefully the paper would include all the details of the high-ground hijinks. and i'd like some fish imagery thank you please. censorship's a bitch.

so it's upskirt action you want, huh? then it's upskirt action you shall receive my friends!

they come from mongolia, from bahrain and the uk. from china and brazil and jakarta. from tulsa, oklahoma and from normandy. from tokyo and from manila.

all in search of the same thing...

upskirt action!

seems that placing the "upskirt" tag in a few of my recent posts has led to an international hunt for the covert panty shot. farbeit for me to disappoint my readers i guess. i'm sure these vids are a bit more tasteful than what those guys are looking for, but whatev. enjoi you sketchballs.

oh yeah?

well...
you-think-you-can-help-me-probably-not!
you-think-you-can-help-me-probably-not!
you-think-you-can-help-me-probably-not!

p.s. can't stop, won't stop with the unicorns nacas!

fuck bin laden!

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these are our heroes?

like mr. costello said, "When I was your age they would say we can become cops, or criminals. Today, what I'm saying to you is this: when you're facing a loaded gun, what's the difference?"

what is the fucking difference? we are all, at our cores, the same. funda-fucking-mentally identical, with slight variations that give us personality.

it is for this reason that i strongly reject the notion of society's so-called elite. certainly, this isn't a case of hateration. more like the acknowledgement of a simple fact: even the greatest among us is reduced to a sniveling, pants-wetting coward when placed into a dire situation, such as being sodomized with the barrel of a .50 caliber revolver by a madman in a mask.

these are but men.

these are but tiny, insignificant men in a grand, fucked up scheme that they could not hope to comprehend. not with all the time on the clock. not with a billion supercomputers and all the world's nerds.

that's why i hate the term expert. fortunately, the last few years have proven that experts don't know shit, other than that people refer to them as experts and thus they must puff out their chests and wear their glasses low on their noses and look down those noses at non-experts and go to the experts association convention every year in chicago. you get a nifty t-shirt at the end of the weekend.

bullshit.

only a pompous fool would feel comfortable with the label of expert.

but all this pales in comparison to my disdain for the celebrity. oh yes. particularly, the conspicuous, windbag-activist, douchebag celebrity, of which there is no shortage. pretty much everyone except johnny depp and jack nicholson.

but what does it say about the collective, the g.p., when we're all kissing these fucker's shitstained loafers? why should i be privy to what some actor is wearing/thinking/saying/doing/driving/eating/drinking/playing/fucking? they're just living, breathing props. i wholly agree with capote's view that even someone as "talented" as marlon brando was "as dumb as a post." any pathological liar or manic depressive can do this job. i've been told so by aspiring actors.

these people aren't offering us all that much. pretty much like paying for two hours of sex, then going home to our significant others. but we're sure as hell giving them our hides in return. fuck the bunny ranch, i'm talking 200k/hr in some cases.

we fucking love hollywood. we would fuck it in the mouth if we could.

and therein lies the comedy of our fame machine. a nation of dimwitted sycophants nebbishly fawning over the "stars" (and every bit of minutiae regarding their daily lives), then literally busting a nut when they "shockingly" fall from grace (see: Britney Spears). it's literally high school, only more perverse, which i didn't think was possible.

celebrities? experts?

these are our heroes? why not 95% of doctors, teachers, first responders, single parents, or community activists? i say 95% because as with any field, there are definitely hack doctors, teachers, first responders, single parents, and community activists.

i guess the reason lies in the fact that we do fucked-up priorities better than any country this side of the third world.

now fuck off. i'm gonna go watch E