Wish I had thought of this.

http://www.donville.com/Hitler.php

end transmission.

Only Good for a...

Well, I'm sure you all remember the transvestite at the gym. It turns out I talked to him/her and he/she is really cool. We met for drinks and one thing led to another. Well...

I fucked him/her last night.

Man, that would be a good story if it was true. I have violated the blogger-bloggee pact by lying and I apologize. I just thought if someone believed I'd actually knowingly fuck a super hot chick that used to be a dude, I would, I don't know, seem to have grown as a person, or at least, added some sort of intersting personal flaw that would ingratiate me closer to you, the bloggee.

The truth is, I'd probably fuck a hole in a tree if it bought me a drink, at this point, though it would have to be a female tree, to be sure. You know, a tree without nuts.

end transmission.

I am the world's first fully functional homocidal artist. I make art until someone dies.

It wasn't long ago when I was just a mere mortal man. Like many men, I had a dream. But, unlike many more, mundane individuals, I followed that dream to fruition.

Countless were the people who told me things like, "You'll never be able to get a free internet blog and write about nothing. Give up man! Your ego offends men and gods alike!"

And now, behold what I have wraught! I recieve numerous emails daily with such resplendent praise as, "You're blog is better than 'the Stories I write for my cats'" and "I read your blog more often than I read 'How Much weight did my wife gain today.'" Other lofty praise such as "Nice Blog, Fag!" and "You've gotta be single." have also graced my virtual desktop.

So what now? When one stands at the pinnancle of success, what challanges remain? What topics can possibly be important enough to speak on? How many questions can one ask oneself rhetorically before he must answer one, or risk suicide?

The truth is that I will not let this unbridled succces dampen my commitment to drinking, whoring, and verbose prose about anything I can think of at any time.

Also, F Kelly Epen, the sole reader of this blog.

end transmission.

You'll always be number two in my book.

Whoa...got kinda serious there a while, sorry got stuck on a bukowski kick and a dark mood ensued. Anyway. THis blog is a milestone in my limited blogging adventures.

It is the first blog completely composed, sent and delivered from the toilet. More specifically, my mold encrusted toilet. (This strange black mold that cannot be prevented by any means I know of, other than constant cleaning, a solution I dare not institute) It's just me, the laptop, the toilet and a turd. Well maybe two or three turds, I won't know for sure until I stand up and look. It felt like one big one, but I've been fooled before.

So now that I have a new venue, what new bloggings will I be inspired to espouse? None really. Life continues at a medium pace and now I must wipe my ass.

end transmission.

I have nothing funny left to say.

If a puppy gets runover by a mexican in a minivan with "the Diablo" written in old english letters across the back window while the puppy's owner, a six year old girl, watches, Is it funnier or sadder that the little girl was sexually molested by her father.

end transmission.

Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality.

I have figured out 2 things in the past 48 hours.

end transmission.

I'll fuck everyone in this room to prove I'm not gay.

Today was slow and uninteresting. I did read an awesome poem:

Alone with Everybody
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

End Transmission.

I can now bench pres 280 pounds...

I was at the gym today, working out at my normal time, along with all the other people who share my schedule. We have all kind of become friends that never talk, but share an hour or so of our days together, almost every day. Familiar faces that pretend not to notice the familiarity.

Anyone, one of these people is this guy, Rick. Rick is a body builder, and on his "easy" days he lifts the same weight I do on my...regular days, so we spot each other and bullshit. Another regular to my schedule is a beautiful woman (name unknown) who has the most amazing tits (they prolly look gross unleashed, but in a sports bra these babies are nothing short of magnificent, she also likes to jump rope) and has the rest of her body pretty much perfected. I always see her from across the gym, sometimes our routines cross, but seldomly do I see her up close. Her face is so/so but it's good enough.

Rick saw me looking at her and told me a little about "Michelle." Apparantly, there are a lot of fags in the pro body building circuit (I say it's because they spend so much time looking in the mirror, falling in love with their muscles, they no longer find chicks hot enough, except for chicks that look like dudes, but I digress). Rick has a gay friend, his name escapes me, who was apparantly fucking Michelle, when she was still a dude.

Hmm.

My incredulous face was quickly replaced by the dull admittal that she/he was still hot. Rick found my reaction funny, he was used to guys freaking out, but I was the first to say I'd still fuck her/him. We're not really super best friends, s I don't know if he knew I was kidding.

Then that got me thinking, was I kidding? I spent the rest of my workout contemplating those perfect Double D's and running some comparison's in my head. First of all, I'm sure I'm the only guy in the world to base my attraction to a woman based soley on her looks. I can be shallow, I admit it. So if it looks like a hot chick....

But she used to be a dude, man! But I knew girls that used to be fat, and then got hot....maybe not the same thing, but here's what I came up with. Real girls have fake tits, fake girls have fake tits. Real girls have plastic surgury to alter their appearance, fake girls have plastic surgury to do the same. Both have hair removed, either by shaving, or lasers, or whatever other methods that have been produced during my inattention. Fake/Real tans, skin care, gym time. Check affirmative on both. So I guess it begs the question: How much of a girl has to be fake before I'm gay for wanting to fuck her? 'Cause on paper, they seem pretty much the same Frankenstein's monster. I can't "see" DNA, anyway.

I know, I know, he used to have a dick. That's a hard one to get over, but now he has a broken vagina instead, which with my fear/hatred of pregnancy might be an advantage. NO period, or crazy birth control rage.

Anyway, it wouldn't be the first time my dick talked me into fucking someone my brain abhorred. It is a visual animal. The sad thing is that he is way out of my league now anyway.

End Transmission.

I need Mr. White at Cage 1.

Recently they took all the guns away from the security guards at most casinos, including mine. Most of the guads are so fat and useless, I don't see what good they'd be in any situation. When I mentioned this to my 60 year old german co-worker, Sonja, she had this to say:

"Ya, I mean vat ze Hell vill one of those fat bastards do vhen someone pulls a gun on zem, stand zhere and cry?"

I laughed.

End Transmission.

Ian is a fag.

Ian forgot his camera and we knew something cool was going to happen. Too hungover. Royal flush 15 hundred something, slot machine 18 hundred something. Him not me. Lucky Bastard.

End Transmission.

We're only gonna die anyway.

I think I'm finally old enough that I need to mature. I'm done not caring about life and not taking anything seriously. I'm done drinking and partying, done with casual sex and drug use. I need to get a hold of my life and start a career, maybe even a family. Time to turn the page on this chapter of my life. Start a new chapter and begin to take life seriously and make something of myself in the eyes of society.

Got through that with a straight face.

Well, I'm 28 and my penis still works, it's not all that bad. I worked this morning/last night and everyone at work got me a card and put money in it (something my boss got mad at because no one put any money in anyone else's bday card...almost $50) and the casino bought us pizza and a bunch of my surrogate asian moms made me cupcakes and cookies, and it made me very uncomfortable.

How do I always end up doing this? Making total strangers love me? I mean, I know I'm awesome, but even people in other departments got me shit. People I don't really know/give two shits about gave me money and bought me beers. There have been a lot of birthdays while I've been there and they're never this big a deal...Maybe it was 'cause the two women that hate me more than anything were on vacation ("Lazy Eye" Terry and Carol the "ugliest woman I've ever seen," she really is) Maybe they just wanted some of my pizza.

Well, off to bed, and then out for drinks tonight...

One hour, 5 minutes to go....

How many people take this picture for real every day? 3, 4 thousand? I even put down my two beers, classy, huh? I will soon be a decade older than all theose "barely legal" chicks I see on the internet.

End Transmission.

I still love you Julie.

Well, other than the insidious Myspace virus, all things have been going status quo. Wait! i turn 28 tomarrow(sp)! Awesome. I should have been president by now.....well c'est la vie. Hmmm...maybe as I get drunker something interesting will surface.

Art is Hard.

Two more days.

It reminds me of a story.

A man wakes up, twenty minutes before his alarm clock goes off. He rolls out of bed, his dick only half hard where five years ago he'd be playing bass drum on his belly button. He cracks his back, stretches his arms and shoulders, smacks his chops, feeeling thirsty. What was that taste? Pig asshole? Stripper vagina? Gross whatever it was.

The man walks into the bathroom. He gets in the shower, forgetting to let it warm up. The cold water dissolves what little hard-on he had. He jumps from foot to foot, and then the water is hot, revitalizing and powerful.

Then he pees, he pees for so long that it is hard to tell his piss form the shower's stream. He is in a hurry so he only concentrates on the essential, face, balls, hair. He washes them all at once, a flurry of suds and hands. Fuck, he forgot armpits. Too late now. the water is cold and it is time to get out. He shuts off the water and gets out of the shower.

He wraps the towel around his waist and wipes the fog off the mirror with his fist. What a sexy bitch is revealed! The man then walks out of the bath room into his room. He goes to the dresser, looking for underwear. The drawer is empty, he has no clean underwear. He skeptically looks at the hamper....

Then the alarm clock goes off, so suddenly the man has a heart attack.

He dies.

End Transmission.

More Pictures From the Front.

Ian.












The Real Flag, thought is was green.









What A drunk!

Don't vandalize property! Dude!

End Transmission.

No Kelly's were hurt in the filming of this show.

Well at press time I have not gotten any pictures, so for now you will have only my skill at prose to illustrate what happened last weekend (my weekend, not yours daywalkers). Chopper and I are the same age this week, a very special time for us.


Ian wrecked a shopping cart, stole a humungous flag, tried to climb a palm tree, and severly wounded his leg. He now walks like a Hip Hop Gagsta. Ian won the "most destructive drunk" award. (the only pics I have are from Ian's camera, so no Ian pictures, do the math)




Kelly. Kelly had black feet. The grime of LAs Vegas turned her feet black. She's also the only puker on our party team, Kudos! She's like a little Drunken Angel.











Chopper distinguished himself by winning a 109 to 1 shot on the electronic horse racing, winning him the coveted "lucky bastard" award. He also did not shower the whole time he was here, narrowly defeating Kelly in the "Smelliest Balls" competition.




I met my future wife Vanesssa. She was very impressed by me, as you can see. I played with a shark and scared some very little children. I also touched plaster breasts with a random fat chick tourist. I also punched a shark and pissed off a whole table of Electronic Horse racing gamblers.


End Transmission.

Happy Birthday to Chopper!

Chopper and Kelly have finally left, leaving only the faint stench of alcohol and really, bad farts/BO. We had some interesting adventures, I'm too tired to recount them now, but soon...and with pictures.

I must go find a place to die now.

End Transmission.

Between Rapture and Rupture.

T minus 9 days until erectile dysfunction.

First of all, Thanks to Chris "God is my co-pilot" Nichols for my profile this run. I would have just let everyone assume it was me that thought of it, but the guilt of blaming the Nazis for what I did at Dachau is all the guilt I can stomach for this lifetime.

Well, today a little Asian lady, Philipino, to be specific, said to me, "Daub we have decided you too skeeney." "We" being the group of crazy Asian ladies I work with, who are some of the sweetest old ladies I've ever met. They've taken it upon themselves to not only find me a wife, but to mother the shit out of me. All their kids are grown and now they have decided I can't take care of myself and need help. They catch me checking out girls and say shit like, "She just take your money, she is (insert Philipeno word for whore)," or "To skeeney for you, besrides boobs are fake. Fake boobs no good, give babies cancer."

Anywho, Lou (is the lady's name, she does not resemble any Lou I've ever seen, she's not a plumber and she is from Asia, not Jersey) made me 100 fucking pork egg rolls, because she didn't think I was eating enough. She even got me a bottle of some spicy sauce to go along with them. She made them all by hand, 100 fucking egg rolls! Man are they good, too. I said thank you, and she was so excited I didn't know what to do. Awkward, but delicious.

I swear I've entered the "Tri-right Zone" or something. No if I can only shift my charisma to a slightly younger, less crazy age group.

End Transmission.

Officer I swear she's 19(0).

It's almost my bed time, or well past, either way, brevity is today's secret word. I know, I know, hold the applause, just enjoy the respite from my longwinded recountings of nothing.

An old lady told me that is she was fifty years younger she'd teach me a few things...in bed. I told her I hope it wasn't how to knit a blanket. She was quite drunk/taken with me, I was...disturbed, and not a little flattered. This woman was over twice my age, and almost 3x my age, but still she wanted to fuck me. How adorable.

I imagine her vagina would resemble a dried peach, though a little dryer. She did tip me $50.

End Transmission.

The future's not what it used to be.

I have neglected this for a few days due to my complete imersion in Oblivion. Subsequently nothing noteworthy has occured. T- minus 11 days remaining of my 27th year on this planet. As is my custom during this time, I have begun thinking far too much, drunk on retrospection and vodka (though mostly the latter), and I have decided that with my biological clock ticking, I need a son/daughter more than ever. God, I want children, hundreds of them. Little versions of me and some slut too stupid to take a pill once a day (or to lazy to put one of those rings in her vagina, that seem all the rage with the kids thesedays). Why have I waiting so long to start a family? Will I ever get around to it now that I'm approaching 30? I t seems everyone my age has at least one kid, and one divorce under their belt, and they seem so happy. Soccer games, dance recitals, boogers, tiny sticky germ-ridden hands, touching everything. Will years of drugs and alcohol abuse make my seed unviable?

God I hope so. Sarcasm-o-meter reading- 9.7.

I am also one year closer to my first prostate exam. One step closer to a strange, highly educated man's index finger 2 knuckles deep up my asshole. Hope I don't get an erection. Or is it rude to stay limp during something like that?

End Transmission.

This must be the place, I can tell by your glare...

According to Buddhism there are theree noble truthes...three is a number that is hard to escape. It's a prime number, there can be no tie when three people vote, bad things happen in 3's, threre's the holy trinity, 3 is the shit, metaphysically speaking.

Life is suffering. Suffering is caused by desire. Eliminate desire, you eliminate suffering. Simple, really. Damn Chinamen and their five thousand year old culture.

Penis+2balls=3, Genitals are suffering...What the fuck was my point...oh yeah, There can be only one! LEt it be Duncon McCloede, the highlander! Leave me here to my devices, the call could come at any time.....they're playing love songs on the radio tonight, I can't relate to that right now. Note to self, no one cares, your voice is average, in worried piles, I types for miles, you just stood there, I will begin, I will put right this morning terror, I have been kissed between the ears with human error, leave me here with my devices, I need a word to change my life, I tied my ankles to the table legs with wire, I can't write as much as type. Leave me here to my devices....I can't think with all this noise. They're playing love song on your radio tonight, I don't get those songs on mine.. You keep fucking up my life...You keep Fucking up my life x3.

I wish those were my words, an in some way they are, though someone else put them on paper first...

Did someone put booze in my 7up? Maybe. If your leaving, walk slow.

End Transmission.

There's a point to this, a point I often miss...

Well, strangely enough I just watched a Family Guy where Stewie becomes addicted to breast milk. I suffer no such affectations, though my pro-boob stance remains unscaythed. Anyway, after the Alkaline Trio Show...

Ian and I adventured out into LAs Vegas, enjoying an uncharacteristic Friday night off. Amazing asian girl with fat old dude....FFW......ah yes, we arrive at our new haunt the Emergency Room (a bar) and we get drunker. Four girls arrive (my scienticians are trying to Wilson-Philips-ize a four girl dynamic, though to little success. Two hotties, maybe two fatties, the science is just not advanced enoough to postulate on this new development), they start gambling and drinking, and we talk to them. Ian gets it in his head that he is going to fuck the fat girl (though not morbidly so) and I leave it to him.

After Striking out with two women who thought they were a lot hotter than they were (as per normal tactical deployment, one must leave the hottest girl, designation PRIMARY, until last in order to...refer to manual for further elaboration), I moved in on the 4th and hottest girl, deftly using my lack of success with her friends as an opening things went well. SHe didn't really like them either, she confided. They worked together. What did I do? I work at slots of fun, and am a semi-professional sperm doner.

Well it turns out that the Bartender I work with, his wife works with these girls, and somehow this new knowledge ellicits a more favorable demeanor from all girls involved...they buy us drinks and are instantly more friendly. I was nice to the bitches before they liked me, so I was free to hit on the hot one.

Now, anyone who has any experience or knowledge of my luck would instantly be set aback by this turn of good luck! and with good cause.

Indeed it was her birthday. No man in sight, pretty good chance that she does not want to be alone....we talk, she's a cool girl, things are progressing nicely. But wait! An attractive late 20's chick in LAs Vegas.....no man.....lesbian...transvestite? I continue forward, oblivious, enjoying her company.

That's when she asks me if she looks good for a woman who gave birth a scant month ago.

Indeed she did, though...do I even have to say it. Where is your kid now, I asked. With her Dad, she replies, implying that they are not together in anything but creating a future stripper. I, of course, ask if she lactates when she hears a baby cry. The arduous persuit of knowledge being very important to me.

That's when she pulls out the "breast pads" (some sort of toilet paper held agaist her nipples in her bra) that have been absorbing leakage all night, apparantly there was no need for a baby's wails.

I was horrified. It obviously showed on my drunken visage.

Gross.

End Transmission.

Addendum to Previous Transmission....

Ian wasted all night hitting on the fat girl, only to find out she had a boyfriend. Neither of us got any that night.

Itty Bitty Bread Bowls

Well, Last night I called in sick to work in order to attend the Alkaline Trio show. It was fucking awesome, I've seen them a bunch of times, but I was blown away last night, they have only gotten better with time. They played the enitire Goddammit album in order, including an electric version of that gay "I hope he bought you roses" song, though there is almost no trace of the lisp that always made me laugh. Against ME ws also very impressive live, they never talked once, which is a rarity nowadays. Really fucking awesome, they really put their all into their shit.

Fuck, I'm late for work, stay tuned for the details on the after show drukeness, including, of all things, breast milk.