Incredible!

The Dark Knight

The Spirt. An Adaptation by Frank Miller

bLOG Hypocrite Alert!

I found a blog, I loved it and left a comment saying how crazy/cool/good that blog is. Comment was unfortunately moderated by Adolf Hitler. It was simply deleted. Friggin' hypocrite. Consider this, trying to be cool and being really cool is a thin line.

So much for modesty in today's world. It's Monday and time's a flying at work. I gots to roll back. Next time you find a blog, don't bother to leave a comment. Ah, but everybody does that anyways. Life's good n' peachy.

Facebook Update

I've just been told through an email that I have five new matches on 'Hot or Not' that I must check out. Am I famous awwwwready?

I'm going to cry...

OK, We're back. Now what?

I guess the rambling, bitching and articulation rages on with the jocular enthusiasm of a food processor beating an egg in it's pilot operation. Little does the motor know that someday the owner (fictional character, loosely based on the author of this blog) of aforementioned processor will stuff so much spinach, egg & broccoli (he's into eating healthy and just saw Rambo, peeps) into the receptacle that it'll self lock, splutter, swear, engage and set off like a mini bomb (small kaboom and all) trapped in the belly of Mr.Creosote as a wisp of smoke emanates from his belly button to announce the sad resistance laden demise.

In the large scheme of things I'm digressing. I've been known to do that. For instance when I was five years old, my family visited our native soil and we had some guests over. My dad spent some earnest time and effort introducing me to everyone as a decent, charming five year old. The adorable little tumbleweed that I was, instead of engaging in a passionate conversation about the benefits of building a Death Star-Annex in South Canara I proceeded to investigate the potential of a successful flirt with the man's four year old daughter by plugging at her skirt and offering her some candy. Now, it was a truly gentlemanly effort at luring this woman into some hearty talk about rap music & gourmet sushi. Fifty Cent to be accurate. Instead, she took off bawling like a four year old and all I remember is experiencing a sharp sting on my left cheek.

Seriously though, writing to me has become sort of therapeutic. I had to google the spelling. Grammatically speaking, I feel compelled to write every time I feel good or bad. I don't know if this will spawn into a book someday or toilet-bowl literature, but I've got my hopes high enough to spread butter on some toast. As for now, I intend to be a little more religious about maintaining this blog with the dedication of a fourteenth century Japanese carpenter who's just discovered democracy & Playboy. Don't even talk to me about being focused. I use so many similes in my graphic descriptions that even when I die, the final moments will be described as articulately as the recital of annual profits at a conglomerate of evil corporate, insect eating scantily-clad, board members.

So stay tuned. Or at least keep a tuning fork handing. It sounds really funny when struck with the flick of a middle finger and thumb.

images: http://www.bobvila.com
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An Attempt at Recyled Humor after Six Months

Well, I know. It's been a while since I heard the familiar clacking of the keycaps dancing to my finger tips as I poured my contempt filled heart out in rebellious hatred of everything sacred, divine and Subway. Eat fresh homes. But I had my reasons. Pretty much like the recycling signs that have been springing up all over the freeways & streets of Los Angeles with pouting blonds and six-foot brunette hunks with enough chisel in their chins to put Gillette to shame, blatantly rubbing it my face; "I recycle; my reasons are my own!" Well, me to dude / dudette they are not exclamations on my grocery list. Neither do I intend to have them embossed on my beach towel.

I don't need a reason or the need to pout every time I open a packet of peanuts or take a moment to ruffle through my garbage looking for quarters before my monthly visit to the laundry. I'm kidding, I wash my clothes whenever penguins in shorts buy tickets online from movietickets.com. I also recycle. Whether it's yesterday's soup from the deli or my vest that I used at the gym for cardiovascular respiratory gain last Tuesday which was hung out to dry following the herculean workout. My reasons are my own and not yours to worry about. Yes, don't. Ah well, I didn't have time on my side and I was trying to lose some of the excess body fat I had gained after visiting home and wolfing down everything that remotely resembled edible, digestible and accountable. It was nice and now its over. Bah. And stop grousing over my exceptionally long sentences; I'm trying to save punctuation.

I also believe in saving our environment. I also think it's about time we stopped using up so much electricity and then claiming to be environmentalists at a rally after arriving there on time in a Cadillac Escalade. You know who I think are real environmentalists? Movie actors and gamma rappers. Here's my theory... 1.Fifty Cent, because instead of a dance club wasting gazillion joules of electricity, he takes his 'hoochies' to the candy shop for some lollipop. And 2.Justin Timberlake, because he saved one tree by calling his album 'Timbaland'. And when the album went platinum, can you imagine how many trees heaved a sigh of relief? How about 3.Flava Flav because instead of using wooden cutlery he uses brightly colored wall clocks to accessorize.

I can give you an entire list of celebrities who are raking it in and not doing much consciously to help the environment. They believe in being proactive subconsciously. Telepathy, alcohol and cocaine induced awareness are some of the effective new techniques Hollywood is inspiring at this point of time. So the next time you decide to go to your pharmacy to invest in some medications that'll make its way to your home in a polythene bag, think of the better things you can do by scoring some oxycontin and hallucinating about how real the Energizer bunny is. I can keep going and going on and on and on.

As for those silly campaigns, I got two words for you. Make it three. Recycle THIS bitch! And while you're at it, ride the metro to work and get two eyeballs full of Miss Traffic.

Oh, I usually take the 10 and my 300's gas mileage is a little over 17 mpg. Yeah, f**k you too Prius.

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