2001-11-19 - 10:42 p.m.
Why is it that every time I do a load of laundry, someone takes the boxers I use as pajamas? Twice now this has happened, and all my best knit boxers are disappearing. You know how it is with sleepwear. You can't just sleep in anything, you have to get used to it. And breaking new boxers to sleep in as opposed to daily wear is a big pain in the ass. I wish it would just stop.
In other whining, my fortune cookie bit me yet again today. See, I open fortune cookies by smashing them against my forehead. But they keep cutting my head. So many times lately, I've wiped the crumbs off only to discover a little trickle of blood. Whassupwitdat? They should have some kind of warning label.
"WARNING...Do Not Attempt To Be a Jackass With This Product, As Head-Type Bleeding and Humiliation May Occur..."
At least I got a cool fortune out of it. "Someone Wants To Be With You" It's like the fortune writers are writing exclusively for those people who put "in bed" at the end of them now.
So someone, somewhere...probably one of those chicks at a research base in Antartica, going, "Anything with a pulse, please!!!"
It's official- after my audition tonight, I am in fact the funniest SOB around. I had 'em rollin' in the aisles with my improv stylings and portrayals of animals. I even got a few nice pratfalls in there, which is good because they need motherfuckers who can MOVE in this one. Even my singing was funny, but in an entirely different manner (the kind where I have no self-esteem when I realize that they are, in fact, laughing AT me.)
It's amazing. I played trumpet for 11 years, at some points I was even pretty good.
So what, you say.
Well, for a tone deaf guy, I think that's pretty damn good.
Half my hair is red/And the other half is purple/One of my eyebrows is red/and the other half is purple...
Wow, this song practically writes itself.
Dyed it myself last night. I did a pretty good job, too. Only missed a couple spots in the back (due to, you know, the fact that A) I didn't have any help and B) I don't have eyes in the back of my head, which is just as well, as I would then not be able to dye my hair at all for fear of getting dye in the eyes in the back of my head.
What about the dye in your eyebrows, Ken? Weren't you afraid of getting dye in your eyes while you were going that?
Not really, Ken. Only a moron would get dye in his eyes while dyeing his eyebrows.
Only a moron would dye his eyebrows, Ken.
So I'm a moron, Ken. Big deal. Getting dye in my eyes didn't hurt.
Not at all, Ken?
Actually, no. At least, not compared to the pain I experienced when I washed the dye off with rubbing alcohol.
You haven't felt a burning sensation like that since...
The last time I was pepper sprayed, yeah.
Does that happen to you often, Ken?
Every time I try to hug my mom, Ken.
You're being really silly tonight, Ken. What will people say when they read this?
No one reads this, Ken. YOur master plan to drive off all your readership by singing them to death paid off wonderfully. Only a total loser would still be reading this now, and people that sad are beneath your concern. Now that the idiots are gone, you are free to express how you really feel about them freely and expressively.
Cool. One day, I'm going to *CENSOREDCENSOREDCENSOREDCENSORED* such fucking bastard-faces.
Ooookay. Good. That was eloquent and articulate, Ken. Next week, we'll try expressing ourselves in a polysyllabic manner. Now have some milk and cookies and it's off to bed with you.
I also don't read other people's diaries anymore (except non's, when she updates) cause they're all either whiny or self-important or elaborate e-mails to other people and anyway they all suck dogs. And so do you. And so does your mother. Not to say that mine is any better, because it's actually worse, but, you know, there's a big difference between writing crap yourself and reading other people's. I'm sure that just because Drowning Pool sucks, that doesn't mean that they listen to Tim McGraw, even though he sucks, too.
Ken, take a pill, dude.
Ooohhh...blue ones...gimme....
In other news, the talk of the net lately (at least among geeky people) has been the Transformers personality test. Which Autobot are you?
I'm Bluestreak. Which is funny, cause Bluestreak was always my favorite, except those times he was tied with Wheeljack (I loved Wheeljack because A) he was a cool car, B) he was really smart, C) he was a crazy inventor, always coming up with something new, kinda like the McGuyver of Autobots and D) he was always INJURING himself testing his new weaponry. Just like me)
Bluestreak was awesome because he was a cool car (okay, a lot of them were, but come on, Blue was a freakin' Camaro...), and he was fast, which is something I've never been but have always wanted to be.
Actually, Ken, you're really quick for a guy your size. LIke, really quick.
But I'm not just plain quick, Ken. Just once, I want someone to say I'm fast, without adding, "For a big fat guy." at the end of it. And until that fucking worthless idiot Blurr came along, Bluestreak was actually the fastest Autobot. IN fact, all Blurr is is a retarded version of Bluestreak.
Kind of like how Carrot Top is like a retarded version of Corky from "Life Goes On?"
Yeah, only Carrot Top isn't as funny.
I actually have the comic Transformers Universe, which is a listing of all the Transformers, with a personality profile and strengths and weaknesses and stuff. I may be the only person in the universe with a copy of that book.
Ken, you may be the only person in the universe who even knows the damn thing exists, and you're certainly the only one who cares.
I'll have to read it again and see if I really am anything like Bluestreak....I know he's impulsive to the point of recklessness...hmmm....Any other requests? I got 'em all! (Damn am I a loser...)
Go to bed, Ken. Drink some Kool-Aid.
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