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.:[Saturday, May 20, 2006]:.
100 Things My Father Didn't Tell Me About Women
Part 99: Breaking Up is Hard to Do
Ha ha... that's a laugh. Of course it isn't. As a matter of fact, breaking up is so easy that I've never even had to break up with a woman. They always break up with me first.
When I first moved to Austin and was living with Adam, I started dating the parking garage attendant at the building where he and I worked. She was a cute little Mexican girl who my brother always called "Esmerelda" even though her name was Jennifer. We were going out for about two weeks, when suddenly she stopped calling. "Well, fuck her then," I told myself as I prepared for a life of celibacy. "I don't need her bitch ass, anyway."
About a week later, while I was outside in the yard smoking a cigarette, Adam leaned out the door with the phone and said, "It's Esmerelda." Well, I certainly wasn't going to just let her decide we were going to start seeing each other again. I mean, I'm a hard ass, after all.
She said she'd been in a car wreck. The week before. And was in the hospital. And... fuck a duck... wanted me to come see her.
Obviously, I was in quite a quandry. Anyone in that situation would, as was I, be horrorstruck at the situation. It's something we aren't trained to deal with. I didn't know what to do.
"Of course you have to go see her, what the fuck's the matter with you," was my brother's response, despite the fact that I had carefully explained that we had only been dating for a couple of weeks. I probably wouldn't have taken her out if I'd known that there was an implied hospital visitation obligation in the event of serious injury. Unfortunately, casual inquiries with other parties resulted in similar sentiments, often labeling my intended course of action "assholish" no matter how carefully I couched the question. I really felt I had no choice. I acknowledge certain "assholish" elements to my personality, but I like to think that they are mostly limited to "completely undependable" and "pee on the side of your house" spheres of "assholery," rather than the "unforgivabley insensitive to life threatening injury" variety. So I went to go visit her.
I'd like to report that I behaved admirably for all the right reasons. I brought my VCR up to the hospital room, and visited with rented movies several times a week. I commiserated with her family about her recovery throughout her 6 week stay in the hospital. And I brought little gifts like flowers and teddy bears with some regularity. And I did it all because of my noble instincts for right and wrong, as well as a genuine affection for Esmerelda.
Alas, I did all those things... but I did them so that I would not descend into the realm of irredeemable jackassery with which I would be branded if I had broken up with a girl with a chest tube. And I stuck it out. Our first date after she got out of the hospital, I dropped her off at the movie box office so I could go park the car and watched her work her way across the sidewalk in her white capri pants with the panty line showing, long, sexy dark hair... and using a walker, for fuck's sake. I was horrified.
Like I said, I stuck it out all the way through her recovery. Until she could walk unassisted, and except for some scars on her chest and abdomen, she looked just like she did before the accident.
And then she dumped me. I was calling her cousin "Prison Tats" (addendum: if you're 5'3", and it would be funny to call someone "Prison Tats..." don't do it. Nothing good can come of it. Best case scenario: he breaks his foot off in your ass) at her birthday party, and she said that it wasn't very funny and didn't call me again after that.
Breaking up is hard to do? Please... give her enough time, she'll get sick of your shit.
| a BEN production by me at 6:34 AM
You know how in Academy Award winning movies, a father will share some sort of hard-won wisdom with his son while sharing a beer over a dismantled carbuerator in the garage? I didn't have one of those fathers. One of the main pieces of advice I remember my father giving me was that masturbating makes you go bald, which makes a grim kind of sense considering the inevitability of both the act and the consequence but has none of the shmaltzy soft-focus sentamentalism one might expect from a father.
So one of my favorite techniques is to ascribe wise, time-worn sayings that he never said to my father, especially if it would make me sound creepy or like an asshole if I said it myself. Thus, the proper response to "Ben, why are you always single?" is "Well, my father always said, 'Son, no woman can love you better than you love yourself.'"
Thus, none of the following "100 Things" is something that my father told me.
But he probably should have.
Part 100: The Drunken Floozy
The Drunken Floozy is the car wreck of female companionship. You know you shouldn't look but you can't help yourself. That's one way to put it. Another would be that during your relationship with her, the airbag will deploy, glass will shatter, you'll get at least a few minor injuries, the police will show up, and it will cost you a fortune.
Someone once told me that I shouldn't be the "sane" one in the relationship. Likewise, no man should ever be the "sober" one, either. Drinking, like baseball and bungee jumping and race car driving, is a male pursuit. The crucial difference, however, is that girls who like baseball and bungee jumping and race car driving are just likely to go lez on you. Girls that drink won't go lez. At least not intentionally. They'll be emphatically heterosexual, but sleeping with them is like playing a game of Clue (Answer: Everybody. In the alleyway. With the candlestick.).
Be prepared for hungover phone conversations like: "Who did you go home with last night?" "Oh, God... I was wondering why you weren't here this morning." There's also the ever popular: "We've already talked about this..." "We did? Was it after I took my Valium?" One of the big disadvantages is that her blackouts don't make you forget any of the fucked up shit that happens. Or clean the puke out of your pubic hair.
I'm reminded of a time that ... let's call her Crazy Train... invited a couple from the apartment pool up to her apartment before I arrived there. The couple wanted us all to have sex together. While this wouldn't be a bad deal in some circumstances, I'm not generally an orgy guy and the other woman looked like 225 pounds of raw biscuit batter. Worse, really. So I had to throw them out. And I'm not a big guy. Certainly not as big as the biscuit batter bitch, anyway.
Anyway, long story short, the couple left their wallet in her house and we went and bought vibrators with their money. $180 worth. And there were really crazy things going on in my passenger seat on the way back to her apartment. But I didn't get pulled over and I didn't go to jail. However, the next day we had to spend bar-hopping, trying to hide from the biscuit batter couple. But, it all turned out okay... unless you were the people who we stole vibrator money from. Then it turned out shitty.
And therein lies the seduction of The Drunken Floozy. There might be some kind of crazy, Penthouse Forum story in it for you. But you'll probably also be picking pieces of scrambled egg out of your pubes. It's a tradeoff.
Remember something: The Drunken Floozy is violating the natural order of things. Women don't drink. By toying with an abomination of nature, you're risking crying jags, breaking up drunken brawls, being a participant in drunken brawls, and tearful late night confessions that she gave the clap.
You've been warned.
| a BEN production by me at 2:47 AM
.:[Tuesday, February 14, 2006]:.
The Prison Art Show
Crazy Ryan gave me a collection of drawings that he bought from some people in prison. Looking through them, I was, honestly, a little intrigued. When I asked Ryan how he'd got them, he told me that he'd asked different people to draw pictures for him, and he gave them things (packages of Ramen, for instance). He told me that the guy that drew most of the ones I've scanned and posted below complained and said that if he drew them in the real world, people would pay $200 for them as tattoos. Ryan reportedly responded, "This isn't the real world. Do you want the Ramen or not?" I asked him what he wanted them for, and he told me "Shit, fool, now I own original artwork."
Anyway, I've made up the titles myself, but here are a few of the drawings with my commentary.
Title: What Have I Got In My Pocket?
Price: Apparently, some Ramen from the Prison commissary.
Influences: Looks like Indian and gay porn, I guess
What does it mean?: Well, the primary focuses of this piece are an arrow with a feather tied to it and a snake. One doesn't have to be Freud to see the obvious phallic imagery. Of particular interest is the fact that the arrow and the snake's rattle are pointing upwards like erect penises. The snake is also biting itself, a reference, obviously, to homosexual conduct. I think we can safely assume that the artist is conveying the message: "Thank you for buying my art for a package of Ramen noodles... now I'm going to have bloody anal sex with you." At the present time, it is unknown to me whether or not the sexual transaction implied by this piece was actually consummated, but I've seen enough episodes of "Oz" to guess that the answer is probably "yes." I also think that the $.37 stamp in the corner (which varifies the piece as genuine, prison art) makes it particularly valuable.
Title: Cobra Commander Will Fuck Your World Up
Price: Smuggled tobacco that was then smoked in toilet paper.
Influences: Star Wars and G.I. Joe
What does it mean?: Hmmm... what appears to be either Cobra Commander or Darth Vader (with rhinestones appliqued to his helmet) is shooting lazer beams or death rays or something out of his eyes while a man on fire screams in the background. I'm beginning to think that the prison atmosphere doesn't lend itself to very positive representations in the realm of art. The guy on fire in the background appears to be black, which I don't think shows a very upbeat attitude about "our colored friends" in prison. Maybe multiculturalism seminars for our incarcerated brethren would open their minds about how great black people are! Note again, the $.37 stamp in the corner (which varifies the piece as genuine, prison art) makes it particularly valuable.
Title: Can I Meet Your Sister?
Price: No Fucking Clue.
Influences: Mescaline? Jail Kool-Aid with no sugar? I'm drawing a blank, here...
What does it mean?: Have you ever wondered why it is that when someone is on death row, a woman always ends up marrying them? Doesn't killing someone make them, automatically, a bad potential husband? Well, for all of you single ladies out there, this picture gives you another reason not to marry your "prison beau." There's a serpentine dragon, which is yet another phallic symbol. There's a drooling death's head. And then there's a woman, wearing a hoodie, with a pierced tongue and some sort of skin disease under her ear. Oh, yeah... she's also got blood leaking out from underneath her eyelids. I'm not sufficiently schooled in psychology to make some sort of definitive judgement about what this picture says about the artist's attitudes towards women, but it can't be good. It's entirely possible that the picture is a statement about how today's phallo-centric world leads to the death and oppression of women, but I think it's more likely to have something to do with gouging out their eyes and skull-fucking them.
Title: Want Some Candy, Little Girl?
Price: I think this one was free.
Influences: Michael Jackson
What does it mean?: Man, after thinking about the previous three drawings, I kind of was looking forward to something that didn't feature snakes, or skulls, or flaming skulls that shoot corpses and snakes out of their mouths. But to be quite honest, I think I find this the creepiest of all. I mean, there's the tree and teddy bear (who has "Hope" written across his foot), and there's the colored balloons. I'd like to think that they represent the innocence the artist lost when he went to prison, but I'm thinking the tree is probably where he left his last victim and the balloons and teddy bear were how he lured them into the car. Just a guess...
Anyway, if anybody wants to offer me some Ramen noodles for some original art, drop me a line...
| a BEN production by me at 6:01 PM
No, I'm not gay... I'm just single...
So the other day I was cleaning my new apartment and putting away things that I should have put away when I first moved in, but of course I'm completely unmotivated and there's only so many hours in the day for watching internet porn and "Malcolm in the Middle" reruns. And I find this letter in the bathroom, presumably written to my apartment's former occupant. The addressee's name is curiously absent, so I don't know who this heartfeld missive was penned to, but I do know that it was written by a passionate young lady named Monica.
Monica, if you're reading this, sweetie, I've got some advice for you.
Don't ever pour your heart out over three pages telling your former other how heartbroken you are that they broke up with you. All you're doing is leaving a permanent record. If you have some things that you need to get off your chest, remember this: that's what late-night drunk dialing is for. Not only do you get to say those things that you didn't get to say when he said "get the fuck out of my apartment," but there's the added bonus of waking up both him and the person he's now sharing his bed with. And the best part is, there's no permanent record! Unless, of course, you break the first rule of drunk dialing... so never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, leave a voicemail or answering machine message when you're drunk dialing. That defeats the whole purpose. If you get an answering machine, immediately hang up and press redial. Do that repeatedly. Hell, he'll have to answer eventually. Or... he'll take the phone off the hook and change his number. But either way, you've communicated.
Now, let's focus on your word choice:
Wow, I can't believe it really happened. I can't believe we broke up. I didn't think this day would ever come or maybe I just didn't want it to or want to think about it. It's hard and it hurts and I'm sorry but I can't get over and you. But I'm sure that's what you want me to do but you know I'll be ok.
If you are going to commit yourself to words, make them count. I know that they aren't teaching you kids how to fucking express yourself properly these days, but you can do better than that. Instead of the above, how about this?
Wow, I can't believe it really happened. I can't believe we broke up. You're going to laugh at this, but it reminds of Medea and Jason in Euripides' "Medea." You know, because Medea had sacrificed and done everything that she could to make Jason happy, and it wasn't enough. He left her, brokenhearted, so that he could be with someone else. Oh... you know how else this is like "Medea?" Because I'm going to fucking kill you.
Isn't that better?
Another little point is that, if you're going to ask questions in your final communication, make them good questions. Don't ask something like, "what's your shoe size?" Ask, "did you not like going down on me because my cooch smells like rotten tuna?" Thus, the following is a completely inappropriate question:
What happened between us that made you so scared and want to back away? Sorry if my hopes and dreams of marriage scared you but I mean every girl dreams of it and since I was with you for two years of course it ran through my mind.
You already know the answer to that question, Monica. Of course, your talking about marriage is what caused him to dump your goofy ass. You might as well ask him if he likes blowjobs or if he wakes up with a hardon in the morning. Instead, ask him a question that maybe he doesn't know the answer to either... I'd suggest, "did you know I have herpes?"
Another place you seem to have problems, Monica, is in appropriately placing blame.
You told me that you were an ass to me and I deserve better. That's not true, you were awesome. We argued but that's normal. You still are awesome, don't be so hard on yourself because even though this hurts it's not all your fault.
Now, technically, you're correct here because it's mostly your fault for talking about marriage. But, in post-breakup communications, IT'S ALWAYS THEIR FAULT. Always. For instance, if he broke up with you for cheating on him, some people might say that was your fault. But, of course, it isn't. It's his fault because he couldn't bring you to orgasm consistently. Or maybe you "probably" gave him a sexually transmitted disease... you didn't give it to him, his sorry, cheating ass gave it to you! Tell him what a worthless fucker he is, Monica!
Finally, go out with a bang. Telling him how much you still care about won't make him feel appropriately guilty. This is bad:
But, please, if you need to talk about anything even if it's me or if you had a bad day, then call me because I still care. Well, I hope this works out because I love you and miss you. -Monica-
What are you saying here? That if he's having problems with his job or whatever that he can call you and talk without putting out? Grow a fucking brain, Monica! Here's what you should have written:
But, please, if you need to talk about anything even if it's me or if you had a bad day, don't bother calling me. I'll make sure that when my parents are trying to clean my brains off the bedroom wall, they know that they have you to thank. Much love... Monica
Isn't that better? Now, if you die he'll feel guilty about it for a few weeks.
| a BEN production by me at 4:43 PM
.:[Thursday, January 12, 2006]:.
Hostel: Tarantino, have you no shame?
So I went and saw the movie Hostel the other day, with a group of about 25 18-21 year olds. Those two facts should serve as confirmation, if any were needed, for my masochistic tendencies. Now going into the movie, I knew absolutely nothing about it except that Quentin Tarantino was somehow involved and the director had previously directed Cabin Fever. Silly me, I thought Cabin Fever was some sort of silly, stuck-in-the-wilderness buddy comedy or family-style romp, probably involving someone comically fat stuck out in the woods 100 miles from the nearest Krispy Kreme, or maybe someone comically urban trying to bait a hook with a double decaf mocha latte and then almost getting mauled by a grizzly because they'd forgotten to put their duck l'orange in a bear bag.
Cabin Fever is actually a monster movie about a bunch of people stranded in the woods getting killed by a demon from the netherworld. Ha ha, not really, because that would actually make sense. It's really a monster movie where everybody gets killed by a flesh-eating virus. What is the world coming to? Why not make a horror movie about innocent teens at an all-night party being stalked by an awful case of irritable bowel syndrome? Or premature ejaculation?
Oh, by the way, the previous paragraph may contain spoilers.
So what the fuck is Hostel about, anyway? Well, the answer to that is pretty simple: it's not really about anything. These three dudes (2 are Americans and 1 is from Iceland... and how realistic is that anyway? Isn't Iceland where Santa Claus lives or the Lilliputians or something?) are wandering around Europe getting high and trying to get laid. As a matter of fact, the first lines of the movie: "Did we come all the way to Europe just to get high?" - American dude; "Nah, I came from Iceland." - dude from Iceland... now if that's not brilliant writing, tell me what is! So the three dudes meet this guy with an open herpes sore on his lip who shows them some photographs of himself having relations with hot chicks and tells them how this one particular hostel in Slovakia is a hedonistic paradise, and that the girls there love Americans. The problems I had with this are:
1. The pictures he shows them aren't particularly wild and crazy. They are the same pictures that any guy could convince girls to take if they'd had a couple of drinks in them (yeah, Sara, now act like you're going to lick Chrissie's ass... no, you don't really have to do it... I'll delete it right after, don't worry...).
2. While the herpes guy is showing them the pictures, there is a couple fucking not two feet away. The three of them had just fucked at least one (and, we're led to believe, probably more than one) hooker not 15 minutes earlier. And the Icelandic guy had photomessaged the other two a picture of himself screwing a chick in a bathroom. So, truth be told, even in the first ten minutes of the movie we're not led to believe that the main characters are not going through such a gynecological drought as to justify traveling over a thousand miles to fucking Slovakia.
3. I don't know about you, but if a guy with an open herpes sore on his lip gives me a "poon tip," I don't think visiting his last recreational area would be on the very top of my "to do" list. Granted, I would very much listen and take note, but only so I'd know what to avoid.
4. I've met lots of Europeans online. They are a varied group, with many, many different opinions about the world. But, the thing is, if Europeans have a single unifying characteristic it's that they fucking hate Americans. Which is another problem with realism in this movie... if two Americans were traveling in Europe trying to get laid, they'd tell everyone that they were Canadian.
So that covers the first 15 minutes or so. I don't want you to think that there weren't any redeeming features to the movie so far. There were some decent titty shots. But it didn't help any.
So they go to Slovakia, and on the way there they have the obligatory "ominous interaction with pivotal character that foreshadows the horror to come in an understated way." Ho hum. Once at the hostel, they are roomed with some hot chicks, who are naked. The hot chicks are appropriately seductive (in the context of the movie, I mean... or, say, in the context of Penthouse Letters; the "hostel" part of the movie would have made a lot more sense if it had been prefaced with "You'll never believe this, but.."), they go out partying, end up fucking, and the Icelandic guy disappears mysteriously. He does send a photomessage to his buddies with the caption "I go home," but the photo is of his obviously decapitated head. Does that alarm the two Americans? Fuck no, chumpy! If there's one thing Americans are used to it's decaptitated heads. The Americans are so unfazed, they decide the Icelandic guy is still alive and hiding from them somewhere in the city. Shit, yeah, that makes sense! Don't look at me like that!
Oh, uh, the previous paragraph may contain spoilers.
Okay, so the dorky American then goes missing. Oh, no! And he gets dismembered by the sinister man from the train who foreshadowed all of this evil! Talk about having a shitty day, huh, dorky American? We see the chicks from the hostel again, and they're obviously locals, and they look like shit. Strangely, the cool American (his name is "Paxton," by the way... why didn't they name him "Hunter" or "Asher?") is unfazed by the hot chicks from the hostel suddenly becoming skanky. He doesn't even say, "let's not mention the fact that I went down on you to anyone, okay?" Blah, blah, blah... one of the formerly hot chicks takes him to an abandoned factory, he's tied up in a chair, and has his fingers cut off by a German with a chainsaw. He effects a miraculous escape, killing the German and finds out...! Well, I added that exclamation point in the futile hope that it would add some excitement to the revelation. But it doesn't. Anyway... he finds out that the abandoned factory is "Ultimate Hunting," where people pay to kill human beings (Ultimate Hunting being a bit of a misnomer, since the "hunted" are handcuffed into chairs and can't even try to get away). Cool American executes a brilliant escape, freeing a Japanese girl while he's at it, kills the two formerly hot hostel chicks, along with the herpes sore guy, who all happen to be standing together in the street, and finally flees the town after the Japanese girl kills herself so he can get away.
Whoops... those are spoilers up there. Be warned.
Anyway, suckage. There were titty shots, but thanks to the internet you don't have to go to the movie theater for that. There was lots of violence, but that in and of itself does not make a movie. And it wasn't scary.
Here are some comments I've found on IMDB about the movie:
Kujo1 (http://www.imdb.com/user/ur2137420/comments) says:
"When things begin to turn towards horror, you truly feel the sense of terror the characters are going through. The build up to the climax is just done so well. I loved the fact the story is very believable."Benjamin says:
"Whatever blotter Kujo's got, I'd like to get ahold of some, because it's got to be a kickass trip. The only terror I felt was when I temporarily thought that I'd spent my night's beer money on my ticket. And believable? I guess Kujo's right about that... every hot chick that's hit on me since I saw the movie I've punched in the mouth."
markjesus (http://www.imdb.com/user/ur4074936/comments) says:
"The gore effects were great (and should be improved once everything is colour corrected). I found some scenes to be way too darkly shot and you couldn't some of the neat stuff that was on display... PS. I'd definitely not recommend this as a date movie"Benjamin says:
"Yeah, if the lighting had been better we could have seen some actual tendon and muscle tissue. And I was kind of disappointed when, during the scene where the dorky American was disemboweled, I couldn't identify whether or not it was his spleen or his pancreas laying across his abdomen. He's right about it not being a date movie... when you see how easy the girls in this movie give it up, you'll be pretty pissed about having to pay for dinner and a movie (especially this one)."
pguardiola (http://www.imdb.com/user/ur7229299/comments) says:
"I went to the midnight showing and when the movie was finished I've got to say, I was a little anxious going home."Benjamin says:
"... because my friend Herbert was at my apartment and I was afraid he'd taken my Star Wars action figures out of their original packaging."
So there you have it. My thoughts about this execrable heap of steaming Clooney.
Oh, there's spoilers in this review. Heads up, people!
| a BEN production by me at 10:52 PM
.:[Wednesday, January 11, 2006]:.
Holidays in Hell
Where the fuck have I been for the past two months? What have I been doing? Why haven't I updated and what's this burning situation when I urinate?
Well, the above listed can mean only one thing: Merry Fucking Christmas (belated) to your sorry asses. Seeing how yesterday was also my birthday, it's been like, I don't know, 6 straight months of merry-making and holidaying and hanging out with relatives until it feels like somebody's speedbagging on your nutsack.
And, as if that's not enough, ever since I quit smoking my lungs have quit functioning and my sinuses are full of cement. Now I have no idea how people can claim that quitting smoking is supposed to make you healthier when apparently all it does is make your pulmonary system go all union on your ass. And by "go union," I mean give insulting, desultory performance, when it functions at all, which is only in 6 1/2 hour shifts with mandatory breaktimes. I've been having to keep a defibrilator by my bedside, and let me tell you, teaching the dog to use that thing is a bitch, probably because she's secretly hoping that quitting smoking will kill me and she can feast on my corpse and download doggy porn. Or, at least, more doggy porn than I already download.
I started the holiday off with my ex-girlfriend telling me that she's finally started seeing someone else, and I never cope with that well. I am the kind of person who is only truly satisfied if my ex-girlfriend: a) dies, b) turns gay, or c) has their vagina sewn shut. Let me tell you, as soon as I figure out a way around that fucking restraining order, I'm taking the biggest crap ever... in her purse. Preferably on her cell phone and lipstick. And, by the way, if you ever read this D*****. I'm better in bed than you are. The only reason she's with you is because I'm terribly irresponsible, hopelessly unmotivated, smell like Budweiser and Marlboros (even after quitting) all the time, poor, and unsettlingly prone to having manic fits where I write long, rambling blog posts blaming all of my problems on someone that hasn't been a part of my life in 6 months. In summation: you may be employable, but I have the better cock. It's just every other aspect of my life, appearance, and personality that comes up short.
God, where's my fucking booze...?
Something I decided over the holiday: I am no longer going to feel any remnants of shame from using any racial epithets that refer to black people. My great-grandfather, according to photos, was part black. My grandmother claims that he was actually part Indian because his hair wasn't "kinky," but we all know that's bullshit. Black people who are really light-skinned also claim that they are not part white, but part Indian. It seems to me that there were a whole lot more people fucking Indians than there were Indians to be fucked (seeing as how we, you know, killed them all). In addition, every year there's this black dude at my family Christmas. I have no clue who he is, what his name is, what's the story, or why he would want to hang out with some of the trashiest and weirdest white people on earth, but I've decided that my family either has a pet black dude or some black blood pumping through our veins. And either way, that means every time I say the word "nigger" I'm striking a blow for black pride. Umgawa!
Other notable events over the holidays included the possible revelation that Jack Abramoff may be under investigation because his ex-fiancee turned him into the feds. Advice to Jack Abramoff: never, ever break up with somebody who has dirt on you unless you have worse dirt on them. So, for instance, I have a felonious past, but was never arrested and the statute of limitations has passed. If I break up with someone who knows about it, I can simply make sure and have multiple photos of any run of the mill sexual act (NOTE TO JACK: she must be identifiable in the pics!!) that may "accidentally" get emailed to, say, her parents. See? She'll keep her mouth shut.
However, your situation is a bit more problematic. You, apparently, were essentially bribing public officials, in clear violation of present law, and ran a network of influence and corruption that reached its greasy tentacles throughout the halls of power, all the while fleecing some innocent redskins who Americans have a misty-eyed sentimentality for because, well, we killed them all. So, of course, you would need to have a lot more dirt on your girlfriend before breaking up with her. For example, you'd need for your girlfriend to be Osama bin Laden and for you to know her undisclosed location (preferably in JDAM compatible GPS). So next time you're running a corruption and bribery scheme, Jack, don't break up with your girlfriend until you meet at least one of the following requirements:
1. You're dead.
2. She's dead.
3. The statute of limitations has passed (consult your attorney, Jack, that's what they're for!), and you've signed a multi-million dollar book deal detailing your treacherous past (consult your agent, Jack, that's what they're for!).
4. You've retired. To an island without extradition. With a hot chick.
5. Your girlfriend passes nuclear secrets to the Iranians or North Koreans. The Israelis don't count, Jack!
I should have a review of the movie Hostel up tomorrow, but I'm going to a birthday dinner and may not have time, depending on the quality of the hookers.
| a BEN production by me at 1:02 AM
.:[Thursday, November 17, 2005]:.
Silvia Johnson - Cool Mom Revisited
You know, I wasn't going to say anything else about Silvia Johnson. I mean, the very thought of 14 year olds pounding away at her skaggy ass, while she bought them booze and crank was just a little to pathetic and obvious, and she got 30 years in prison, of which she'll have to serve at least 10 before she's eligible for parole.
And while that may seem a bit excessive, it's worth noting that her sentencing had to be delayed because "she was hospitalized in a car crash Sept. 25 that occurred while a 14-year-old girl was driving her car. Two of Johnson's children were in the car, along with the 14-year-old driver and a 12-year-old boy."
What a winner.
But, I found a bigger winner. Her name is Tracy, and I'd like to suck on her (I'm sure) young, melon-like breasts, and read her passages from Gertrude Stein, while we feed each other grapes and discuss defeating the glass ceiling. But she's probably on the way to an interpretive drum circle and then it's off to feminist dance theory class. Probably. You see, I'm not sure. I'm going off this post in my comments, here.
Allow me to respond to Tracy by asking her if, were I allow her to suck my penis, she would thank me later?
Tracy: "Your comments were just as pathetic as the crime commited. I bet you are not much more attractive that the nasty words used to describe this woman."
Benjamin: You're right. My comments are just as pathetic as giving your own child methamphetamine, and giving other people's children methamphetamine and alcohol and then having sex with them.
My ability to stand up to your rhetorical onslaught has been withered by the surgical precision of your logic. Bravo. As for how attractive I am... well, I am 5'3" inches of sexy, baby, and I'm lookin' in your direction. I'll lay you down in my bed, and I'll whisper all those things you want to hear -- that Victoria's Secret gives women poor body images, that your lack of success is due to insititutional hostility to women, that women can do everything that men can do... and then I'll ejaculate in your mouth, ask you to make me a sandwich, and then go to sleep.
Tracy: "Yes, the crimes deserve punishment. HOWEVER 30 years in prison is freakin ridiculous. The average prison term for some misoginyst for rape is only 9.6 years!!! usually only serveing 4."
Benjamin: Hmm... maybe the crime doesn't deserve punishment. If I were the father of any of these boys, I'd just bring it up every chance I got. "Hey, son, how grey were her pubes?" "Son, quit looking at your grandmother like that." "Good God, son, I hope you at least put a bag over her head."
Tracy: "However the language you use...ie the boys "bagging" her etc. makes me wonder if this is exactly the type of mentality that enables the sex slave trade, and a billion underage girl exploitation situations and drug giving that occurs every bloody day in the USA! and all over the world,(and of course goes unnoticed, as the very judges involved in this case probably go to "bag" a little girl.)"
Benjamin: Is this really any different from male exploitation at the hands of women? Dinner and a movie, and you still won't put out? Jesus, I super-sized your value meal, you stupid whore, now give me a handjob before you end up with the rest of the dead hookers under my bed. And deflowering teen virgins is a standard part of the judicial compensation package in Texas. I don't see how it could be any other way.
Tracy: "This is a usual case of hipocracy...with the usual CNN crap publicity. Do the prisons really need more filling with such "dangerous" criminals? ARe our streets more safe now? Or has the public been taught another lesson that men with girls (bad) woment with boys (UNFORGIVABLE)."
Benjamin: Well, a few teenage boys are a little safer in that they may not have, as their formative sexual experience, straining away on top of this gargoyle and kneading away at her saggy flanks. Her daughter is a little safer in that her dumbfuck mom isn't humping her friends.
And we're all a little safer because we don't have to get the eye-gouging that is her picture on the news anymore. But that's not the point, is it, Tracy? The point is that no man has been able to treat you like you should be treated, have they? Well, come over to my house tomorrow. I'll give you all the patriarchy you could ever need. Do you like dirty facial porn?
Give me more of that hot chick in Florida. Now, that's what every teenager needs. Not only will she put out, but she's hot and she'll put out while your friend drives you around in her car.
| a BEN production by me at 8:40 PM
.:[Saturday, October 22, 2005]:.
Hey, buddy... You Picked the Wrong Guy to Injure Yourself in Front Of...
So I was fishing last weekend with Charlie, the three legged wonder dog. Charlie is not my dog, he's a dog from Animal Hope pet adoptions, but I can't take my own dog fishing because she misbehaves and spending too much time with her will make you stupid. People who know both me and my dog can confirm this.
Anyway, I was fishing in the Trinity River near a hill on the bike trail. I'd been fishing for maybe five minutes when I heard a bike chain break and a crashing sound. I turn around, and this 65 year old man had crashed his bike. My line was still in the water so I didn't, you know, run right up to him or anything. I just stood there for about thirty seconds looking at him. I kept thinking that even though he was obviously hurt pretty bad, maybe he'd hop back up and ask me if I was having any luck. But, you know, he didn't do that.
"Are you okay?" I asked him, even though it was pretty obvious he wasn't.
"NooooooooooOOOOOOOOOO..." was his answer. That put me in a pretty bad spot, because "are you okay?" was about the extent of the help I wanted to and was qualified to administer.
"What do you want me to do, buddy?" It took me about a minute and a half to come up with that one, but I still think it was some pretty quick thinking on my part. After all, if he couldn't think of something for me to do for him while he was lying there with a broken bike helmet and cracked ribs, I don't see how he could expect me to know, either.
"I don't knooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOwwww..." was his answer, unfortunately. Well, at least we had something in common, because I had no fucking clue what to do, either.
Always quick to decisive action in an emergency, I stood there and kept repeating "Hmmm..." and "Well..." and "Um..." until someone else finally came riding up and told us that he used to be an EMT. I'd probably still be standing there nodding my head seriously if that guy hadn't come along. Either that, or I would have hid the 65 year old hurt guy in some bushes and gone home.
So the former EMT called an ambulance (why didn't I think of that?) and the 65 year old guy's wife, and then me, the three-legged dog, the former EMT, and the hurt guy stood around staring uncomfortably at each other waiting for the ambulance. Well, the hurt guy didn't stand, of course, he kept laying in the middle of the bike path saying he thought his ribs were broken.
"Sir, would this be a bad time to talk to you about Amway?" See, I thought that was pretty good, because saying something stupid and inappropriate is really the only thing I can be relied upon to contribute in a crisis situation.
"Son, please don't make me laugh, I think my ribs are broken," he told me. Probably both he and the former EMT were wishing I would take my three-legged dog and go back to fishing, which is what I wanted to do, too, but even though my bit is being an asshole I didn't think that would be appropriate. If I did that, when I told anyone about the accident I witnessed and they asked what I did I would have to admit that "you know, I kept fishing."
When the paramedics finally showed up, I actually got to contribute something. They asked me if I had witnessed the accident, and I told them I had, even though it happened behind me, but I figured, hell, I could tell them what I figured had happened and what are they going to do, call me a liar?
I guess this is my way of saying to the people of the world, "hey, don't injure yourself when I'm the only person that can help you. Because I won't."
| a BEN production by me at 2:11 PM
.:[Monday, October 17, 2005]:.
Some of you may recall my posting some of my travails with Plucker, the roommate from hell. Thanks to my brother, who apparently doesn't ever delete any emails, no matter how ridiculous or inane, here is a petition that I drafted shortly after me and Plucker parted ways:
CAUSE NO. ______________
BENJAMIN E. MORRIS § IN THE DISTRICT COURT
v. § _____ JUDICIAL DISTRICT
ERIC "PLUCKER" WELCH § TRAVIS COUNTY, TEXAS
BENJAMIN E. MORRIS' PETITION FOR RETURN OF PROPERTY
AND OTHER RELIEF
1. Discovery Level
Discovery in this case is intended to be conducted under level 2 of rule 190 of the Texas Rules of Civil Procedure.
This suit is brought by Benjamin E. Morris, Petitioner, who resides in Austin, Texas. Eric "Plucker" Welch, Respondent, resides at "who the fuck knows?", which is probably some random crackhouse somewhere.
Benjamin E. Morris, Petitioner, files this Petition complaining of Eric "Plucker" Welch and in support of same would respectfully show the following:
Respondent is Crazier Than a Shithouse RatPetitioner would show that Respondent is crazier than Michael Jackson, but far more likely than Michael Jackson to pummel Petitioner's kidneys with a baseball bat or with Respondent's creepy bald skull. Respondent is approximately as likely as Michael Jackson to attempt to sodomize Petitioner and/or take a shit in Petitioner's mouth while Petitioner is sleeping .
Respondent has Stolen Petitioner's PornPetitioner would show that Petitioner is the owner of an undivided interest in certain items of porn. Petitioner would show that Respondent has removed certain items of porn belonging to Petitioner from the residence located at 1907-B Westridge, or has otherwise removed items of porn outside the control of Petitioner.
Such action constitutes intentional infliction of emotional distress, a tortious claim under Texas law, as Petitioner is unable to sleep at night without his copies of "Cum Guzzling Gutter Sluts" and "Viva la Donkey Show!", both of which are believed to be in the possession of Respondent and/or subject to Respondent’s sole custody or control, along with the other titles listed in "Exhibit A," pages 1 through 73.
Respondent Has Robbed Petitioner of His Will to LiveRespondent, through courses of action both mind-bogglingly stupid and outright insane, has tainted Petitioner with the stenches of failure and bong water. Petitioner acknowledges that though bong water may wash away with good detergent, the mark of failure burned into Petitioner’s soul is not so easily cleansed.
Requested ReliefPetitioner requests the Court enter an order requiring that Respondent be repeatedly ass-raped by a gay porn star made of molten lava, or, in the alternative, a gay porn star made of broken glass.
Petitioner requests the immediate return of his porn library in its entirety.
PrayerPetitioner prays that citation and notice issue as required by law and that the Court grant all relief requested in this petition.
Petitioner prays for the repeated ass-raping of Respondent, as requested above.
Petitioner prays for the return of his porn.
Petitioner prays for all other relief to which he may show himself entitled.
Benjamin E. Morris
| a BEN production by me at 6:40 PM