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2/27/2006 Some phrases to describe FrankSir Psycho Sexy
Sarcastic Mr. Know-it-all
Skinny Sweaty Man
Funky Monk
Teenager In Love
Stretch
A True Man (I don't kill coyotes...)
Freaky
Styley
No Chump Love Sucker
A Brave (your aim is to fight like me)
Righteous
Wicked
Warped
Right On Time
Saviour
Likes Dirt
Anybody have any more along these lines? Leave a comment.
Edit: - It's my birthday, motherfuckers.
2/24/2006 Buy my ideas, bitch!"Bitch" can be used to sell your ideas quicker. Such ideas include fucking people up. I have concluded that 13-year-old automatically act as black as possible. They say such things as "I'm from the hood, yo. The streets, bitch! You can't see me! G-G-G-G-G UNIT!". I don't know what the fuck 'G Unit' means. I don't think they do either. So, when some kid says something like this to you, make sure no one is looking and punch that little sucker in the head. I mean right in the crown. Not the face, not the ear, not the forehead... But right in the fucking crown. BAM! This may seem a little harsh, but the little guy will grow up as a better person because of it... Or turn into a vegetable. Either way, he won't be bothering me. Another idea is to give all hot chicks AIDS. I figure that chicks (and guys, too) who get AIDS should be laughed at, just like the dead guy who threw things at the lions on Safari. The reason it should be hot chicks is that, since I don't have a chance with them anyway, it'll be like karma when they get all those sore spots and then catch a cold and die? Also, their partners get fucked up. 'Oorah! I went to orientation yesterday. It wasn't so much crap as boring. Sat around, found two people from my old school and just hung with them. The girls in my course are few and unattractive. The lady who took a group of us for orientation gave us a post-it note and told us to write any questions we had. "There's no such thing as a stupid question," she said. My questions were:
I forgot to submit it :(
Edit: The so-called 'pagoda' also had a carving of some lesbians on it... Yep. 2/22/2006 Wogs are lazy.Fucking hell...
I go to get a haircut today, and I walk from my place, all the way to across the train tracks, and it turns out that the motherfucker closes up on Wednesday at 1pm. I was about 2 hours late. Fuck that, again. Last time I went there, the cunt was also shut (this was the day of the formal - GREAT INCONVENIENCE!), so I had to go to the bitches near the post office. Fuck this cunt, though. That's like, strike two. Two strikes in my game and you're out. This cunt is out. I don't play baseball. I play fucking hardball. Now I gotta find some other place to get my hair cut, and not at the bitches' place near the post office, because I'd like to preserve what little masculinity I have after 18 years of girlfriendless "fun"! Or, fuck it, I'll hack it off myself.
I think Tien may have seen me at a bus stop. I don't know. I just saw two asians at the bus stop, one said 'Hello' to me for some reason, and the other one started cracking up, then harassing me by name. Sounded like Tien, so I assume it was. I couldn't tell... Dark glasses, see?
Anyway, moral is that wogs are lazy and asians are indistinguishable with dark glasses?
Fuck you all.
Not you, Brady.
Not you, Kelly. 2/21/2006 And all the while, it was useless?!My nightmares are becoming more frequent and more violent. I had like three nightmares last night, and two every night for two nights before that. I can't really remember them, but I know they involve running, stabbings, decaptitation and shooting fuckers in the face. RIGHT IN THE FACE! I can somehow feel the bones and sinew crunching under the knife when I take someone's head off. Oh well, at least they're actually dying. Nothing more frustrating than trying to kill some motherfucker either by stabbing the shit out of them, chopping at them or shooting them and they just don't die. But seriously, I'm worried at the outlandish plots, simple settings and the general realism of these dreams. I can't decapitate really well. I started at the neck, and somehow got to the shoulders?
Crunch crunch crunch!
In related news, I think I'm insane. I think I'm clinically insane. The line between fiction and reality, past and present, has, for me, become too blurred. I can't even tell what's real and what's not. I theorise that I need alcohol and drugs to cure this. I know this seems like a bad idea, but I'd rather have retrospect later, than foresight now. (I'm so lazy).
In UNrelated news, I was advising an associate on how to be more successful with the ladies (treating them like dirt, etc). In this, we found that rather than being yourself, you just need to be a jerk. Next time you like a girl, give her a poem. However, rather than what the real you would write:
(Id est)
Roses are #FF000
Violets are #EE000 All my base Are belong to you (Which is a cute li'l nerd poem), a girl would be more turned on by: Roses are red Violets are blue I fucked your sister You are a Jew? WHAT?
AFFIRMATIVE!
HUH?
ROGER!
YEAH!
WHAT?
MELT 'EM DOWN!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
BYE NIGGER!
2/19/2006 Oh, Frank. Such a moron.WHAT?
AFFIRMATIVE!
HUH?
ROGER!
YEAH!
WHAT?
MELT 'EM DOWN!
AHHHHHHHHHH!
 BYE NIGGER! 2/14/2006 Valentines Day cont...So, I was sitting at my computer, looking at the MSN names and tags of various people.
Then it hit me.
There are 2 kinds of people around.
1. People who are all like "Hey every1! isn't valentines day cool?! lol! nah, happy valentines day, all!"
2. People who are all like "Man, fuck Valentines Day.".
So then I got this sweet idea...
We round up all the first kind of people, stick them in camps and KILL THE FUCK OUTTA THOSE CHUMPS!
MWAHAHAHAHA!
I couldn't believe that noone had thought of this! But then Ken was all like "Sounds like I've heard this idea somewhere.".
And I was like "Yeah. I think it was called the Hologram or something.".
Oh well. Like some guy said, "Everything that can be thought of, has been thought of."
HO HUM.
Happy Hologram, everyone!
(I had a photo of some Holocaust Jew in here, but I withdrew it, because it would likely disturb some people (like the ones I love), so without the human face, you can laugh at this and be just as inhuman as I.) 2/13/2006 Valentines Day.ALL BE WARNED! DO NOT READ THE FOLLOWING BLOG ENTRY! IF YOU READ THE FOLLOWING BLOG ENTRY YOU WILL BE OFFENDED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! Since you've already been warned, I'll be casual about this. This is an article on the hints and tips you need to snuff yourself correctly. Whether it be that your family has disowned you for poor grades, or if you're just depressed that you're all alone and no one loves you (VALENTINES DAY IS HERE!), now you can leave this plain with relative ease and cleanliness. This article has been broken up into several chapters, for ease of reference. 1. Severing Of Arteries And Veins. (SHE DOESN'T LOVE YOU!) However. To do this effectively, you need balls of steel and to be prepared. The steel balls are so that you don't puss out and seek medical attention. To be properly prepared depends on your situation. Let's just say you gash'n'slash at home (which most people do), the preparations are simple. Firstly, you'll need to lock yourself in the bathroom. Then, run your arms under cold water for a time, until you are used to the shock of the cold water. Then you will need to lie in the bathtub or the shower. If you do this thing on the floor, blood may seep under the door and alert your housemates. Alternately, you should not just drape your arms over the tub. This will cause the blood flow to slow or even stop. This is prone to happen especially when you lose consciousness and collapse on the lip of the tub. However, the blood does not flow good enough like that. What you need to do, rather than hitting veins, is hitting arteries. In the human body, there are 5 accessible veins you can hit without being staked in the heart, Dracula style. These arteries are easiest to hit under the arms (near the armpits, make sure you don't cut the tendons, for fucks sake!), on the inside of your thighs (your femural artery), and the internal jugular on the right side of your neck (more of a vein, really). Apart from the jugular, if you puss out, then you won't have to live with the easily visible stigma of a huge-assed fucking scar on your forearms. Even if you do puss out at the jugular, the effect of having a really cool scar on your neck will make you the envy of the carbon globs you call your friends, and it will also have the effect of pulling the cheap whores who hang around the drug-fucked knuckle-draggers. These cheap whores also give blowjobs heaps willingly. The downsides of this method of suicide is that not only does it hurt, but if you survive, you will have to live in a world in which you are looked upon as a loopy motherlover who tried to off himself once. We'll move down the list, then. 2. Hanging And Asphyxiation. (YOU'RE THE ONLY VIRGIN YOU KNOW!) This method of self-destruction has been seen for millenia as the most Christian way to die. The process of hanging a man is derived from the way Judas, the traitor of Jesus, committed suicide once ridden with guilt - "Look thou to it. And casting down the pieces of silver in the temple, he departed: and went and hanged himself with an halter.". However, as people woke up with realisations of "God is dead" (18th or 19th century), techniques of hanging were refined. Eventually, some guy figured, of the four methods of hanging (long drop, short drop, suspension hanging and standard drop) what was to be achieved by the very act. In short they were all designed to cause asphyxiation and induce carotid reflexes (giving you a motherloving heart attack!). The long drop also had the benefits of being able to sever the spinal column, causing instant unconscienceness and brain hypoxia (lack of blood, and therefore oxygen, to the brain). We can eliminate 3 of these methods now. Short drop was only used so that the person being hanged struggled and kicked for the sadistic crowd (and witnessing this used to be considered a nice family day out). This would mean a slow and agonising death. The suspension hanging can also be ruled out, as it requires some fucker to hoist you up from the ground. This is mostly how cunts are lynched, and is also an unpleasant experience. The standard drop, while better than the short drop or suspension hanging, does not ensure a quick death, and you may very well strangle to death as in the short drop, but with the added bonus of an eye popping out of your skull or something. The best method is the long drop. For this, you need to know your weight. Divide 1260 (foot pounds (1710 Joules)) by your weight (in pounds), to get optimum hanging height. For example, to kill me, you take 1260, and divide it by my weight (60 kilos, which is 147 pounds), and you would see that I need a drop of 8.57 feet (roughly 8' 6.5") to snap my neck heaps quick. This will ensure that your neck is snapped appropriately and the death will be painless. Often, the biggest challenge is to find a secluded spot with this kind of droppage. The safest bet is perhaps a construction site that has been left overnight. You don't want to used a light post or something, where some guy could see you and call the fuzz. The type of rope used is also a large factor in this deed. You want a thin rope (to ensure your neck breaks) that is made of nylon (so that it doesn't stretch or break). For added gore, you could always use piano wire for the effect of decapitation. When tying the knot, make sure it is positioned just beind the left ear, so that when you hit the end of the rope, the internal jugular gets fucked up. The problems with this method are that, if you fuck up, you're in for a lot of pain. Also, if you are strangling and you want out, you'd better pray for a miracle, because you're stuck. This might be countered with a knife in your pocket that can be whipped out in such an event. Also, as testified by numerous Nazis, hanging is a dishonourable death. So, let's go onto something a little more honourable, hey? 3. Disembowelment. (LIFE IS ONLY GOING TO GET A WHOLE LOT WORSE!) The act of disembowelment requires a lot of testicular matter. Nobody likes meeting their liver in anything but an x-ray which tells them that years of boozing like their deadbeat fathers and snorting coke of hookers' breasts has made it into swiss cheese. Most people would go into shock and have a half-arsed death because they passed out at the sight of organs. The most ideal way to disembowel yourself (with honour) is called Seppuku. The art of Seppuku is complicated and rife with tradition. Usually, one needs ceremonial robes and present officials. Fuck that, though. She doesn't love me, so I just wanna do this now because another second without her would be unbearable, right? So, here's what goes on. One takes a short-sword called a Wakizashi. This is not to be confused with a tanto (dagger) or a katana (sword). One takes the Wakizashi and plunges it into one's abdomen on the left side. The blade is then dragged across to the right side of the abdomen. When it arrives, the balde is turned 90 degrees and pulled upwards. This should allow the intestines to spill out. This is an excrutiating death, and usaully one has a swordsman on standby to decapitate you at this point. However, you're alone now. Luckily, you're a pussy and pass out from the pain. Be warned, though. One must not have too much balls for this. There have been reports of a young man who was good enough to make 3 horizontal cuts and 2 vertical cuts into his abdomen, then stabbed himself in the throat for a few times, before practically cutting his own head off. But hey, that's only if you want honour. Otherwise, such methods could include lying on a train track, parallel with the rails, allowing the train to cut you in half, from crotch to crown. Alternately, you could attach explosives to yourself and disembowel yourself this way. This could be achieved with a simple ammonium-nitrate bomb, but since I hate terrorist scum, I'm not gonna say here how to make such a bomb. Those who have read my story on terrorism, however, would be proficient in making assorted home-made explosives anyway. The problem with this method of suicide is how much it hurts before you die. You want a more instant way to splatter yourself all over the place? Read on, motherlover. 4. Decapitation. (AND EVEN AFTER 18 YEARS, YOU'VE STILL MANAGED NO GIRLFRIEND!) Also, as mentioned before, one could just hang oneself with piano wire. The longer the drop (in this case), the better. The problems with this method are that it is going to be hard to identify yo' ass in the morgue. Dental records may help, but then again, maybe not. As long as we are around the head area, let's move onto gunshot wounds. 5. Gunshot Wounds. (SHE STILL DOESN'T LOVE YOU!) What people don't realise is how many people survive bullet wounds to the head. Shooting ones self in the temple isn't a great idea, since the survivability would be high (generally. It depends on the calibre). Also a big no-no is shooting oneself through the bottom of the jaw. If one survives, then one has huge holes in one's jaw, tongue and the roof of one's mouth. The most effective way to shoot yourself is by putting the gun in your mouth and pointing the pistol toward the back on the throat. The bullet should hit the base of the brain, causing instant death. The problem with this method is that these pistols are not so readily available in this pansy-ass excuse of a country. If you have a pistol, even, the fuzz is gonna wanna keep tabs on yo' ass in case you go all Charles Whitman on someone's ass (with pistols?). So, what can a poor man do about wasting himself? 6. Blunt Force Trauma. (YOU CAN'T EVEN GET A DEAD-END JOB!) Another way to use blunt-force trauma effectively is to let gravity do it for you. Jumping off a tall building onto the pavement below will render you splattered, but also allow for your body to be found quicker than any other method of wasting yourself. Alternately, you could do a parachute jump and conveniently forget to deploy your parachute. This is not really a good method, though. Unless the parachute strings are cut beforehand, and you puss out and decide to deploy, you're gonna slow down enough to fuck yourself up without actually dying. Then you have to live with the dishonour of failing suicide. The problems with these two methods are that falls are often survived, and you are most often paralyzed after one. Now, some of you, I know, are thinking "I have neither the balls nor the inclination to hurtle to the ground at 9.81 ms^2. Besides, I wanna leave a beautiful corpse, motherfucker. Whatchagot? How you gonna act?". Firstly, fuck you. I don't speak 'asshole'. Secondly, stay tuned. The next chapter is for you. 7. Poisons. (YOUR FRIENDS THINK YOU'RE A LOSER, AND ONLY KEEP YOU AROUND TO FEEL BETTER ABOUT THEMSELVES!) The best poisons are free. By far the most effective is Cyanide. Is only found in extremely small ammounts in nature, such as in apple seeds or in unprocessed Cassava roots. It is, however used to treat certain types of plastic, so starting a small fire and feeding it with hard plastics and inhaling the smoke will poison you up good. Also, another way to go is to fill a coke bottle with brake fluid, stick a small section of hose (10cm?) in the top of it (making a seal where the hose meets the bottle) and pour chlorine salts in the top. Alternately, you could just crush chlorine tablets and put them in. Make sure your room is sealed and all that. Keep a surplus of all materials on hand; you never know how strong your immune system is. The problem with this method is that your eyes and nasal cavities will burn like a motherfucker when you inhale the following gas, and your lungs will be stripped and bloody, and you'll drown on your own fluids. Painful. (This 'chlorine gas' section was added after I started chapter 9). This is also a pretty unreliable method, so you may want something you can more easily do. 8. Overdose. (THERE'LL BE A GOLDEN LADDER, REACHING DOWN!) 10 Grams of this will fuck you up in a few days, 5 grams will fuck you up in the same amount of time if you consume alcohol, and 4 grams will fuck you up if you consume alcohol and are as thin as I. Now, each 'Panadol' caplet has 500mg of paracetamol in it, so to reach the toxic dose, you'll need at least 20 capsules. I say go out and buy two or three boxes of these. This '10 grams' is the toxic limit, not the fatal toxic limit. Since each box contains 24 capsules, you'll have 72 capsules if you buy 3. Therefore, you can get 36 grams of paracetamol out of them, more than 3 times the toxicicity limit to humans. This SHOULD fuck you up good and proper. But getting it into you can be a bitch. So you fool your tastebuds and disguise it. Ingredients for your 'Last Smoothie': Firstly, chop the banana into several small peices. Stick it into a blender. Add about 500ml of milk (full cream is best) and about 500ml of vodka. Next, add about 2 tablespoons of sugar. Then, using a spoon, crush up the paracetamol tablets (use three packs, if you can) and the tranquilisers. Sprinkle the powder through the milk and vodka. Add more milk and vodka if desired. Blend well, so that mixture has the same texture throughout. Enjoy with cherry garnish? You may need to add more sugar, since the taste of paracetamol is bad, and the taste of vodka is also bad. The tranquiliser (which you may need a prescription for) is used to put you to sleep in preparation for death. MAKE SURE YOU SKULL THIS THING FAST-ISH! You don't wanna pass out halfway through! When you sleep, the drugs should start to take effect. The vodka will accelerate the process while you drift into oblivion. And when you see your long-dead relatives in the doorway coming to collect you, you'll know that you are starting to leave. The roof will open up, and there'll be a golden ladder reaching down... 9. Carbon Monoxide Poisoning (THEY'LL BE GLAD TO BE RID OF YOU!) I've saved this for last, because it would be my way to go. Some would argue that this could go into poisons, but since it is quite painless, I feel that it deserves its own category. Since the onset of World War 1, poisonous gases have been experimented with as ways to waste thine opponent. The early gases, including mustard gas and chlorine gas, were used on the battlefield and fucked up such people as Hitler. Fucked him up good. These gases, however, leave you gasping for breath as you scratch your throat to pieces, and your last thoughts are "Why isn't this gas mask working?!". Carbon monoxide, on the other hand, is just like going to fucking sleep. When everyone in your house is gone and you have a car nearby, steal the keys and drive that fucker into the garage. From there, you can do two things. The simplest thing to do, would be to shove a hose section into the exhaust pipe and trail it into your window. Use gaffer tape (or duct tape) to seal the area around the hose pipe and the exhaust. Wind the the window (preferably front) up and turn on the engine. Sit back, have a daquarii and slide away. The second thing to do is to completely seal the exhaust with gaffer tape. Then, take a hammer or something and punch a hole in the car floor and the exhuast. Then, using a SMALL section of hose pipe, put the pipe into the hole in the exhaust and seal the surrounds with gaffer tape. Make sure the floor is also sealed. Then wind the windows up and start the engine. Sit back, have a vodka martini and slide away. This method may be obvious, so you'll want to hide in a garage. The upsides are almost limitless. Most often, by the time they find you, rigormortis has taken effect, you won't feel guilty about wasting all the fuel and it's painless. Plus, you get to die to the sweet smell of petrol. However, you MUST make sure you have a full tank of petrol. Or else things could get pretty embarassing.
2/12/2006 My FridayOn Friday, Brady and I went into the city to meet one o' my Park Ridge chums, Kelly. I was forced to wake up early for this. I left home at 1055, and got to the train station by about quarter-past 11. When I jumped on the train, I found Brady, out of breath. Apparently, his time-management skills are poor. After he finished breakfast, he realised that he only had 11 minutes to get dressed and get his ass to the station. He only just got there as the train arrived (at the station before me) and was still puffing and panting when he got to my station. On the way into the city, I met his new guitar and we talked about my impending take-down of Moscow (pertaining to Hearts Of Iron 2, of course). When we got into the city, Brady needed to get a ticket. Unfortunately, his student ID had expired and he didn't have enough money on him. I stood there for two minutes while Brady whinged (I would've just walked away) and the guy behind the desk was being a little bitch, I gave Brady the 80 or so cents spare he needed, citing "Come on, man. We can't do anything; he's behind bulletproof glass.". Brady got me a coke after that (he had money on his card, see) and we found a train to catch to South Brisbane. We got to South Brisbane, and tried to find the Suncorp Piazza. We eventually did and found a place to sit. There was a young couple opposite us who were making out. Brady was playing his guitar for a while before Kelly showed up. She said she left her phone behind, so she didn't call when she got to the bus stop. From there, whilst not knowing what to do, I suggested that we just start walking. So we started to walk down some place near the river, passing some lolly-shop and markets along the way. We walked to above where the maritime museum was, and I suggested we cross the bridge near us for some reason. We walked along the pedestrian bridge, noticing the large amount of people (girls, mostly) in school uniforms, presumably waging. There was an annex in the middle that we stopped at for a minute, and then we resumed our march. We went through QUT and stopped at some table in the botanical gardens for a while. I don't remember too much about what was said. I know we said something about what breakfast we'd had, and then I went onto boasting about how I was gonna fuck Moscow right up. I was gonna be to Moscow all like "Yeah, get that V-2 rocket into you, bitch!" and she's all like "Oh, da, I like that," and then she goes "Ow. Nyet, too hard!" and then she just lies back and goes "I'm calling the cops after this."... I thought it was funny, at least. Then I went on to explain about how divisions were named historically. Kelly says "What about when you run out of historical names?", and I say "It just names them by number, but that's a long way to go.". At this point, I thought I'd flash off my impressive German skills. "But I'm a long way from that. I'm buildling Luftwaffen Feld Divisionen now.". Kelly gave me a weird grin, so I explained "They're Airforce Field Divisions. Like, airfield defence guards and such.". I muttered to myself a little "Pff, airfield defence guards. Ich haben erblicht Franzosich schulerinnen schiessen besser." (The spelling might not be right). I turned to see Kelly and Brady had their jaws on the floor. "What was that?" Kelly asked. I replied "Oh. 'I've seen French schoolgirls shoot better'.". Brady identified with what I said. Then I went on to explain my plans for an airborne drop, and how they had to be cancelled. Kelly started laughing at me, by this point. You know, like you laugh at the guys in those Games Workshop places. As we were about to get up, we saw some fags doing some faggy pushups, like from the navy, and we laughed at them, too. So, we strolled along down some bamboo-laden paths and found ourselves near the river, somehow. When I was telling Brady that he couldn't play a certain song on his guitar, he proposed we walk to Allans Music. He walked along the path at the top of the hill, and Kelly and I walked along the path near the river. She started pissing up laughing to see a clothes line on some boat. I did not get the joke. So when the paths intersected, we hopped and jumped across roads before cars could get to us. After much walking, we got to the Queen Street Mall, and into Allans Music we went. Kelly wandered off toward the piano tabulature, while Brady and I checked out the guitars. Soon, we found the amp room, so Brady plugged his guitar in and started to fuck me off with some fucked up delay effect (delay is to guitars as singing over one another is to opera singers) and after a few minutes, we cheesed it. I saw that, in the tabs and DVD's and all that, that there was no RHCP stuff. Kelly had a look at a James Blunt music book and one of Disney songs. After this, we went up to the counter and Brady bought some plectrums, while Kelly looked at the trumpets and violins at the front of the store. When we left, we decided to get some lunch. (It was also about here that we decided that touching rails would give us AIDS. "What's the matter, Frank? Are you afraid of a little semen?". "YES!") We went into the foodcourt under some place (because, Kelly didn't want any HJ's, even though they're very rare around where I live) and we did a circle or two of the place, before Kelly decided she wanted a sandwich. Brady and I waited for a bit as she bobbed excitedly up and down in front of the counter with a huge grin on her face, waiting for it. She got it and came over to us. I don't know what kind of sandwich it was, but it had prawns on it. Ew. So we went downstairs ("Don't touch the railings!") and Kelly waited with me as I got a Big Mac, and then we joined Brady in the KFC line. After this, we went back upstairs and strolled to King George square. We sat near city hall and ate and talked. Apparently, Kelly didn't like the seafood stuff at the bottom of the sandwich, and the bitch at the counter refused to give her half of one. I couldn't finish my burger, so I binned it eventually. Brady finished his shitload of KFC in time, and we left for the art museum. As we did, Kelly wanted to chase the pigeons about. There was some hobo in the square, feeding them all. Imagine some ragetty-looking bearded mother fucker, sitting on the ground, with pigeons all around him and a whole bunch of Jap tourists sitting in front of him. It looked like the makings of a cult. Kelly went and started chasing these pigeons, but only a few at a time would fly away. Brady and I just watched. As she turned around to rejoin us, all the pigeons flew away. Imagine some raggetty-looking bearded mother fucker, sitting on the ground, with no more pigeons around and Jap tourists sitting in front of him, giving you an evil look. I'm afraid Kelly may now be cursed. So we left toward the art gallery (getting slurpees along the way) and crossed over the bridge toward it. Before entering, Brady and I needed to skull the rest of our slurpees (Ow, motherfucker!). Kelly also needed to call her work for some reason. So, as we were about to hit the public phone, some fag jumped in before us, so Brady and I made use of time by playing 'Love Rollercoaster' (with accompaning excessively high vocals). Kelly eventually got to the phone, and Brady and I performed 'By The Way' in the meantime. Kelly missed out on this live concert, made up of a few PBPBF people. So we walked into the gallery, where Brady's guitar and bag were taxed by the guards. The gallery was surprisingly good. There was not too much modern art (modern art is TOTALLY gay), and we saw 5 Picassos (which I found). As I found them, I showed Brady. I went to show Kelly, but she was not in sight. I could hear, though, the bells on her ankle in another room. We saw some painting of Jesus, and Kelly insisted on knowing the name of this anonymous Italian soldier (NOT Roman. It was middle ages. Two different styles of armour, see.) Near the Picassos was a large velvet blue bowl fixed to the wall. Kelly stood staring at it for a while, before I remarked "It's infinity.". She sat in front of it, with Brady to her left, staring at it, before she got sick of it after a while. We then saw a small cardboard town. Kelly was jealous that she wasn't in on making it. Remarked she "This would have taken ages to build!" I pointed to a large piece of wood at the other end of the room, which had a buttload of signatures from the people who built it. Remarked I "It would have taken about half an hour?". He searched the board for our names. I didn't find a 'Frank', but I found a 'Frankie', so, close enough. Kelly found her name. Brady didn't find his. Then we found some... Thing... It was a whole bunch of sticks and sticky tape. We were supposed to make bridges or something, but Brady was like "Fuck it." and made a gwee-tar. I made some totally fucked up bridge, that Kelly helped with. "Yeah! How do you like that German ingenuity?", I remarked. We got up and looked at these lego buildings at the opposite end of the gallery, then we left. We saw a bus station nearby, and so Brady and I waited with Kelly until her bus came. When she left, Brady and I recaught the train home. On the way home, Brady stood, playing his guitar. By the time we got home, he was getting applause from people around the carriage. From the shops nearby, Brady and I parted ways and I walked home. My calfs were screaming. And that was my Friday.
"... You came and stood with me and smiled down at me... You're so damn beautiful." 2/8/2006 EvilIf you have, in your posession, a tool that could be used for great evil, do you unleash it? This is my dilemma. Popular vote says 'Yes'. So, are you all single and alone? Are you pissed of that Valentines Day is approaching? If so, then stay tuned for this piece of evil (which will be released in time for Valentines Day).
I had a dream last night. I dreamt that my grandfather came to my house. Then, Erwin Rommel showed up and he and my opa started playing Hearts Of Iron 2. VERY ironic. I remember thinking "Man, I gotta call Kelly and tell her about this.". I never got around to it.
Probably because I've been playing HoI2 too much. I remember, back in the day (May, 1942), when I just started on the Soviet Union, they had 94 more divisions than me. Now (October, 1942), I have taken Stalingrad, am at the gates of Moscow and I now not only outnumber the Russians by about 60 divisions, but I also have the world's larget army (one more division than Japan). Now, I have to wait out the winter, before I can attack Russia again.
Well, until next time... 2/6/2006 People on the street just kickin' to the licks...I still say 'swoon' is just a Scottish guy trying to say 'swan'.
Much like 'troll', the words 'enjoy' and 'hungry' are fucked up words.
I no longer have the effect on you I used to... 2/4/2006 Yet another vision...The air-conditioning inside the art gallery was a welcome relief to the hot day outside. The walls and floors and ceilings were all painted white and illuminated by flourescent lights. This created an illusion of sterility, and help calm the mind of any visitor, making them feel yet cooler in this oasis from the heat. The only windows in the place were positioned at the top of the walls, touching the 50-foot ceiling. They were only small windows and let in a small amount of natural light. Today, my friend Kelly and I had decided to visit this place. We had observed the statues and paintings scattered about, and took a peek at the upcoming exhibit of Asian art that was being set up in a seperate part of the gallery. We saw the traditional paintings, where people had eyes and ears and noses, and we saw the avante garde, where works of art were merely disposed of fast food wrappings and unmade beds.
There was one painting, however, that had us stumped. There I stood, with Kelly to my left, observing the painting. It was about 5 feet x 5 feet, with an elaborate and worn brass frame. The painting itself was made from oil paints, the kind used in 'The Scream'. It was a red and blue swirl, using every kind of red and blue in the painter's arsenal. We stood, and saw. The title of the painting, we observed, was 'Comet'. It was painted by an artist simply known as 'Y'. We soaked the blues and reds into our minds, trying to figure out what it was we were seeing. Finally, Kelly spoke up. "What is it?" she inquired, having not been able to effictively eliminate all of the possible things the artist was trying to say. I looked, not answering for a second. And then it was quite plain. A voice came from my right. It was as though someone was trying to chime crystals with glass that had been broken with cigarettes. Said this voice "Actually, it's my dog." I turned and saw this man in black. He wore a black beret, which sat upon wild and wiry hair, that had the life bleached out of it. The man himself was middle aged. His skin was extremely pale, and I could see veins in his cheeks. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and black trousers. On his feet, he wore black sandals. He was standing on his left foot, keeping his right on the ground only for balance. He had his left hand on his hip, while he held a cigarette in his right. Back where I grew up, a man would be in serious physical danger if he stood like this in public. His eyes had red blood vessels creeping inward from his sockets, as though these red fingers were intent on snatching away the pupils themselves. I gathered from the way that this man wore his clothes and the way he stood and the way his eyes looked in terror as his arm involountarily placed the cigarette in his mouth, that this man was 'Y'. I felt embarrassed. My heart shot blood into my face as I blushed, and my lungs and heart put oxygen into my arms, so that I was ready to break his pale face as though it was made of dust. But lo, there was nothing but silence from Kelly. I turned to look at her. Her big brown eyes were narrowed, and she pursed her lips ever so slightly. Her head tilted a little to the right as she tried to find a dog in those red and blue swirls. She paid no attention to heckling me for being wrong; for having been accused of being a philistine in this one correction. Knowing this, my heart slowed down, my breathing shallowed itself out. I turned to face 'Y'. I knew there was no dog here. Perhaps if he put the dog through a woodchipper that fed directly into his toilet, but I doubted he would have had the chutspa to do so. I looked at him and sheepishly said "Oh...". My voice got progressively louder and the other desperately bohemian humans looked at me as I said, "Well... You can't draw for SHIT!". 2/3/2006 Good news, everyone....I might not be able to update this thing for a while, since the hard drive in my computer fucked up this morning. This means that all my novels, pictures, poems and songs have just disappeared into a whole lot of useless ones and zeros. If you have any material I might have, then please, send it my way.
I don't know when I'll be able to talk to you lot again. Pray for Frankie. 2/2/2006 OH DAMN!And now, for all yous fans, the album-cover for the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album.
Ladies and gentlemen....
 I give you, Stadium Arcadium.
Don't thank me, it's my job as their biggest fan (bigger than YOU, anyway). |
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