I'm only tapping my foot to help myself pee. No, really.

'The police had misconstrued his actions, he said, but he had pleaded guilty in order to handle the matter "quickly and expeditiously".'

This might be funnier if it weren't happening ALL THE TIME. "I am not gay, nor have I ever been gay." Well, if that's the case, then maybe you should stop having all that gay sex, as it's clearly causing you some confusion.

That's all I got right now. Morning = bad = eyes won't open = everything hurts = no coffee yet = grumpy old man. I might push someone into traffic today, just because.

Gordie don' shiv.

A phrase I never thought I'd utter: "God help me, I think I'm going to punch a retard."

It was that kind of day; to say nothing of the chickenhead who pointedly asked Andy, "...what type of bear is this exactly?", while fingering a two-dollar coin he'd just pulled from his pocket and deposited onto our counter as though it were some magical talisman that could banish leprosy and tax collectors; or the woman who grabbed on of our pens from beside the till and informed Bruce that she was keeping it, "...just because I like the way it looks...", to which Bruce replied "...um...okay?"; or the fact that Bruce and I made fun of a man who wouldn't climb two stairs in order to reach the cream and sugar for his coffee, only to find out that he was actually somewhat wheelchair-bound, and had exerted a tremendous amount of effort and will just to come through our front door of his own volition (we kinda felt bad about that one...); and let's not speak about the two young ladies who squatted to urinate in direct view of me and Bruce while we were in the midst of a conversation concerning David Lynch.

Yeah: that kind of day. The kind of day where Gordie scams a free coffee by using a bank card that doesn't have any account set up for it, and, well, being Gordie, he doesn't seem to understand that he has no way of paying for his fifth cup of dark roast, and so, not wanting an episode of 'Gordie Pulls A Rain-Man And Bloodies His Forehead On My Counter-Top', it seemed easier to just give it to him for free.

Maybe I should explain: Gordie ain't bright. Who the hell gave him a bank card in the first place, anyway?

Maybe this is all just because I only had about three hours of sleep last night. I dunno; I do know that Bruce is good shit (he fed me Guinness while his cat tried to ineffectually to sever my Achilles tendon), and also so are Meg (who puts the Meg in Megatunes HAHAHAHAHAHAokay that was dumb...) and Sara (sorry I have no joke for your name but you know you're cool right? Right? Good.), and that despite the absence of the Crazy Lady (who just up and disappeared, in her usual contrary way, what the hell, lady?), it's time for bed.

(Oh, and Atreyu cover Faith No More's "Epic" on their new CD, which is a crime, as Atreyu suck, and any further negative description would only garner them more attention than they deserve. Stop listening to them. Stop it. Right now. Thankyew.)

Goodnight. Keep it down, or I'll introduce you to Gordie. He knows...

Some things before I haul myself into the shower and not stink.

1. I kid you not: this is the first thing I saw today. I never thought I'd read the phrase 'reincarnation management'.

2. Yeah, like none of you saw something like this happening eventually.

Now I have to go put on a smile and refrain from saying to people, "So, when you ask me for an extra-hot half-caff 3% latte with ginger and two ice cubes and a splash of sugar-free vanilla syrup, you're really asking me to punch you in the side of the neck until you stop breathing, right?"

Bah.

Honestly, how can you not see it?

(This picture is called "This Is A Beautiful Vagina." You can find more of my creations that will get me fired here.)

I feel as though I should apologize to the Crazy Lady, because she made me this fancy Arabian-by-way-of-Brazil espresso this morning with her fancy new one-shot stove-top espresso machine, and it had spices in it and everything, and I was more impressed with the coffee-bean mascot on the box than I was with the espresso.

(His name was Chicco, and he was a tiny little coffee-bean! How could I not love him?)

So, sorry. Also: I'm very sorry that my bike tires exploded in your living room at 4:00 in the morning. That was kinda bad, too.

Things:

1. Recoil, subHuman: see, Depeche Mode USED to be made up of four guys: the guy with talent, the other guy with talent that no one knew about, the singer who was otherwise useless, and then the just plain useless guy. They were all dismissed as gay by people who thought that Bon Jovi and MC Hammer were cool, and that Rob Halford was straight as a fucking arrow. These people controlled the airwaves back in the day, which is why people today think that an 80's retro party is a good idea.

But I digress. This is the story of the guy with talent that no one knew about (Alan Wilder) who left Mode to do his own thing, aka Recoil, which, at the time, was this strange atmospheric electro-sound, not that dissimilar from his former group but without all the pseudo-religious S&M overtones, which meant that it was pretty fucking cool. That was about twelve years ago. Fast forward to this CD, which is pretty much the same thing, so it's not bad, but really, it's a sub-par Massive Attack, so I'm left wondering why I bothered.

Oh, yeah: because I got it for free.

2. Galactic, From The Corner To The Block: remember back in the early-to-mid-nineties when every new band seemed to be some horrible rock-rap hybrid that incorporated all the stupid, wanky elements of both genres while ignoring all the good parts? Even though this features talent such as Lateef, Lyrics Born, Chali 2na, and Gift of friggin Gab, I'm kinda reminded of all that annoying bullshit, which is too bad. But, again: free CD, so what the hell.

3. The good: the only words you need to know are "wet artificial life". The bad: because apparently, obesity is caused by a virus, not sitting on your ass watching reruns of Everybody Loves John Ritter's Stunt Double Singing With Stars We Never Cared About In The First Place.

That's a real show. Honest. I wouldn't lie about the sacred institution we call TEEVEE.

4. Wikipedia for Christians. Because, y'know, kangaroos had to get to Australia somehow, right, Bruce?

This is me going to kill zombies in multiple ways.

A man who is always punctual with his mouth.

I've only been up for a couple of hours, and I've already encountered three people who need a good beating, or at the very least a solid punch in the mouth. It's not the waking-up part of mornings that bothers me any more; it's putting up with the collective douchery that we call humanity.

My bathroom ceiling is currently pissing on me from three separate orifices; if I wanted this type of abuse, I'd be paying good money to an Aryan dominatrix in PVC and spiked heels pretending to be a Japanese sexbot to administer it. Instead, I've got a landlord who claims it's the property's owner's problem, who in turn claims that it has to do with the roof, despite the fact that a) I'm in the basement of a three story building, b) it hasn't rained in over a week and I'm still getting leaks, especially when c) the upstairs neighbour's kid sends his gerbil on Magical Sewer Adventures through the toilet. I'm getting tired of dealing with people who can't seem to understand that an apartment isn't just property that generates revenue, it's where human beings sometimes dwell and that sometimes things need to be fixed. So that I don't get sick and DIE.

I've been re-reading Transmet (again) and it's causing me to think Deep Thoughts again; having a girlfriend who is smarter than All Of You Combined also makes me think I should be paying attention to World Events and Big Things, but eventually it becomes too tiring. Here is the thing: politics is a game played by people who have the power to change the rules when they see fit to do so, and I learned a long time ago to not even bother playing with people like that. I'm starting to suspect that the trick is to find a new game. Of course, that's easier said than done.

Talib Kweli, Eardrum: "I call these rappers baby seals because they club you to death"; when will people stop listening to Paul Wall and the Game and start listening to this man? He can hold his own against Mos Def and Black Thought put together, and ain't afraid to be funky about it, neither.

Blockhead, Uncle Tony's Coloring Book: The only problem with mining the seventies for your samples and beats is that most of the sounds that came out of the seventies weren't that good to begin with; also: DJ Shadow did this already with The Private Press, the album that everyone bitched about constantly in regards to it not being Endtroducing Part 2. Fuck y'all. That is not to say that UTCB is not a fine album, equal parts disco, prog-rock and beackbeats. This is where RJD2 shoulda gone instead of miring himself in lite-FM radio rock.

The new M.I.A. is an adventure in tribal bhangra and Sri Lankan grime, and features the weirdest cover of The Pixies "Where Is My Mind?" that I've ever heard. You should've all been onto this woman long ago, but no one listens to me.

As to the Wilco show: no, I didn't punch anyone. Y'all knew that wasn't gonna happen anyway. Y'think a guy like me is allowed anywhere near talent like that? Nuh-uh. Suffice to say that this show rivalled the famous Republic show oh-so-many years ago that the rest of you are sick of hearing about. Nels Cline is inhuman; his guitar playing is, quite frankly, mesmerizing, and his weird marionette-like movements frighten me immensely (did you SEE the way his legs moved? That's not RIGHT!). Still, Jeff Tweedy's better-looking.

But they didn't play 'Misunderstood', so the show sucked.

Now I must go research tires and the various methods and implements by which to fill them with air. Because my life is always exciting. Aren't you jealous? Thought so.

Various Updates:

Mr. Brown: currently in South America, fighting off poisonous pygmies and scorpions with blowguns while the earth falls apart around him. Don't worry about him, though; he's a superhero.

Mormon & Jew: one is in Italy on a top-secret mission regarding better grooming tips (hint: clip your fingernails), while the other has been seduced - SEDUCED, I TELL YOU - by a lady of fine, upstanding quality here at home.

Me & The Crazy Lady: going to Wilco in a few minutes, where I shall proceed to punch the bass player for hitting on Mar in front of P.J. the last time they were in town; the Crazy Lady says I'm not allowed to do that, but I'm gonna. Favourite band or not, you don't dis the Peej that way.

At least, I think it was the bass player...maybe I'll fight the whole band at once. We'll see.

Fisticuffs to follow. Hopefully. Be good, or I'll swat you one.

Gr.

I DON'T LIKE STUFF.

BUT YOU WOULDN'T EITHER IF THAT STUFF WAS YOUR COCK BREAKING OFF AND FLYING AWAY.

(Edit: Please ignore all entries of this nature, as we are currently tracking down the Internet Monkeys responsible and cracking them over the head for good measure; also: I do not ever condone or advise having your sexual appendage separated from your body, as I'm quite sure it is the most painful thing ever ever ever even worse than getting a paper cut right at that sensitive part between your fingers. Who would even want to imagine such a thing? Not me, that's for sure...)

Yesterday's For Mice & Gods.

So, y'know that burly, wild-eyed brute with shattered teeth and a crazy serpentine beard who wears a priest collar and a coke-spoon around his neck, the one who's come down from his mountain hideaway where he sits and monitors stray radio transmissions for secret codes concerning The Philosopher's Stone and is now beating you with a broken leg-bone because you keep stealing his thoughts about Zeus and Jesus knife-fighting on a Boeing 747 as it flies into a cathedral the size of the Empire State Building (before it was taken over by the Ant-People from Trinity, New Mexico in 1961 and turned into a stained glass monstrosity depicting the conception of The Old Ones in the twisted mind of the Mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred, a manoeuvre orchestrated by JFK's evil feotal twin in conjunction with the planetary alignment of Mars and the secret black satellite known only as Dagon which occupies an orbit further out than the Planet Formerly Known As Pluto where the Aryan Reptilian Aliens are recovering from their inter-dimensional war with the Future Aztecs), causing napalm and goats-blood to rain down on the zealot army below that's gathered in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the One True Avatar of Mammon, The Hidden Love-Child of Princess Diana and Michael Jackson, S/He Who Cannot Be Named Unless There's A Disco Ball Spinning A Thousand Tiny Stained Glass Reflections Of The Tortuous Scene Of Their Conception Across The Walls Of The Roller-Rink (known to his/her friends simply as 'Butch'), as s/he lifts the burnt-corpse offering of The Olsen Twins to jello-red skies and winged horrors that accompany the Inevitable Coming of Tiamat, She Who Devours All?

That's Clutch.

Imagine that live.

Yeah.

Mr. Brown goes to Peru tomorrow; I know that sounds like a title in a series of children's books, but it's true (and if he had anything to do with Young Adult Literature, it'd be more along the lines of A Boy's Introduction To Sodomy...). He's had his shots, and he's house-broken, so alla you folks down in Peru better be nice to him and not kidnap him and hold him for ransom and send little pieces of his anatomy to us to prove that YOU MEAN BUSINESS, because we have no money, so honestly, it wouldn't be worth your time. Just buy him drinks and he'll keep to himself. Mostly. I apologize in advance for any pregnancies that he might inflict upon your wimmins.

Did you hear that Florida is the Worst Place In The World now? Why? Because apparently it's illegal to masturbate there. No, really. That's crazier than anything I wrote in the previous paragraphs, plus it's just wrong. Colour me aghast.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go put my innards in cryogenic storage so that when future scientists with half-robot heads and strange, lustful thoughts about dolphins discover a cure for the damage I've done to myself tonight, I'll be ready to do it all again, only this time with more alcohol. Amen.

Sarah Ford is afraid of me.

"CHRIS JANZEN
This guy's not a dog but he forced me to eat a meatloaf sandwich a few weeks ago. I mean it. He made me one and gave me an apple juice and made me sit down and eat it. I didn't really want it, but it was good and it was nice of him to give me a sandwich. It's just really confusing when someone is doing something nice for you in a mean way. I also told him I'd mention that, so I held up my end of the bargain."

In my defense: she was asking me if I knew the best places to go dumpster-diving for food. Because she was hungry. So I sat her down and made her eat a goddamned sandwich. Because the rest of you would've encouraged her crust-punk behaviour. Which is why you all need to be sterilized like the halfwits you are. So that you cannot breed and raise more stupid children who will think it's cool to swallow each other's urine.

The Church of Clutch opens its doors to the faithful in a few hours. Damn Tomorrow, Future Now.

I promise not to eat yer guts.

I'll tell ya what it is.

It ain't the fact that, after watching the newfangled version of Dawn Of The Dead (which rocks, despite what any of you purists might think, Romero TOTALLY blew it on his last attempt anyway, despite the awesome presence of Alan Van Sprang as a zombie, but anyway...), the Crazy Lady started talking about having a zombie baby with me.

It's the fact that she wanted to have a zombie baby, because then it'd be okay to keep it in a cage.

Man, I don't know whether to be frightened or turned on.

(We're just kidding neither of us wanna have a baby because we can barely take care of ourselves if we had a baby it'd probly end up like that wild kid from The Road Warrior.


And nobody deserves to have to look like that.)

I have no idea who this man is but I delight in making fun of him, only because I am a twat.

The only unfortunate part of having someone around who likes touching your naughty bits just as much as you like touching theirs is this: I no longer have much time to nerd out, i.e., read comics, play video games, argue with other nerds over who wrote the best Green Lantern stories (Answer: No one, because the Green Lantern is ghey...), or debase myself before animated naked chicks in various states of undress.

Wait. Ignore that last part.


That being said: this looks like the game to beat in the next little while. Honestly, that steampunk aesthetic married to a Randian utopia gone wrong? Underwater cities filled with mutated savages? How am I NOT excited?

Also: Clive Barker making video games can only be good.

So, yes, seeing as GTA IV and Manhunt 2 won't see release for another year, these will have to tide me over.

In other news: only The Melvins could make a song called 'Up The Dumper' romantic.

I am not a number (I'm more like an ampersand)

Why is my milk green? Milk isn't s'posed to be green, is it?

Kidding! I know better than to drink that stuff; that's the stuff you save for guests.

Kimmy and I went to see The Simpsons Movie! It was fun. What this means, of course, is that I actually spent time outside work with one of my co-workers, which never happens, except for, well, the girl who sleeps with me. And The Boys. And Andy. And Bruce. And maybe the rest of Beano. Anyway: The theatre did not explode, no one died, giant purple-headed monkeys did not spawn from the projector and chase down innocent bystanders in order to inflict their monstrous blue genitalia upon them. Homer said 'D'oh!' a lot. I'm sorry, but it's true. Also, Kimmy threw up, but she's okay now.

Also: I was responsible and bought condoms for the first time in, like, a while. The world did not end, no one publicly shamed me for having non-Christian sex, i.e., in the dark with a sheet between us that's got a tiny hole cut in the middle of it and then denying that it ever happened in the first place. I was followed around by two gay men, a frat boy, and a creepy old man who looked suspiciously enough like one of the old pedophiles that we're trying to shoo away from Beano, but they scattered when I picked up the wart remover. Also: when did condoms become One Size Fits All? I'm not complaining, as this means that no one ever has to suffer the humiliation of buying a package of "Little Buddy's" when they go through the checkout aisle; it's just, well...man, it's been a while. Also also: FLAVOURED LUBE? REALLY? I have no words, as this futuristic space-age world we live in sometimes frightens me...

Rachel almost kicked me in the head a few moments ago. Then she babbled something about "FACETOOCLOSETOOMANYWORDS!!!" before rushing to the bathroom to put on her sane personality. I think it was because I accidentally tickled her foot when she was asleep so she was a bit shocked to be awake. She just left to go buy pies from anarchists with Jared, a phrase that is still ricocheting inside my skull because of its absurdity. My life is a strange and complicated adventure, not unlike The Prisoner, but without any cool subtext underlying the gorillas on motorbikes and giant beach balls.

The new Common? Friggin' amazing. Even if he does look vaguely hippyish on the cover. Ignore the coloured-in dreads - the album is better than your mom on crack.

Everyone's reading The Invisibles lately, which is nothing short of miraculous. All I can say is: IT'S ABOUT FUCKING TIME. This thing was written close to a decade ago, people; what's taking you so long? We only have five more years until the world ends, and I can't possibly prepare for it myself.

Oh hey Jared's back in town! We all spent a few hours celebrating his return last night (although most of us fled to the rickety staircase the moment people started discussing What Christianity's All About; Rachel and Jay: we're all very sorry that your formative years were irreparably damaged by the evils of Jesus-osity, but please stop punishing the rest of us for it, as we've all suffered our own Bible-related traumas in our lifetimes. How about the next time you feel like arguing over the differences between (Insert two different belief systems here), you just drink a lot instead?). By the end of the night, Rachel was obsessing over the fact that The Boys' cable connection was hooked up to NOTHING even though it still worked well not really but kinda and anyway Jared forgot to pay the bill and Josh is in Italy and no one knows where Sean is anyway...I had to drag her away before she rebuilt Jared's computer out of guitar parts, beer cans and a stuffed rooster. She's a soopa-genius that way, but sometimes she just needs to be put to bed, y'know?

I'm gonna go have Honeycombs, as according to the Crazy Lady, I am honeycomb zombie. But I had to remind the Crazy Lady that if SHE were a zombie, I would have no choice but to shoot her.