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Since “finishing” my room, we’ve been working on the other bedroom in the same way. In fact, if you have a mirror handy, you can pretend I posted about the second room by reading the previous post. It’s exactly the same, except the drywall mudding is much more thorough. Also, we left a surprise for whoever tears this place down:

I’m not sure what it’s supposed to mean, really, but it’s nice to know that someone way in the future (most likely a sentient wrecking ball from when the robots take over) will be the next person to see it.

There’s some pictures of my mostly-complete bathroom if you put your mouse cursor on “Read the rest of this” link and then click buttons until something happens.

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I hate the process of moving. Boxing up shit I should have thrown away, cleaning, carrying furniture, figuring out who has a truck big enough to move the larger things, loose ends, making a place feel comfortable, and everything else. This time I had the bonus of an ex-roommate who made things even more terrible.

That aside, the place I moved to had some plans in store for it. The place is a nice two bedroom townhouse in Atascadero, California, a few miles from my office. A friend of mine bought it, and the location was perfect so I agreed to move in. The two bedrooms are the same, except mirrored. The main problem with the bedrooms is that the door to the closet was put in the bathroom, and the closet itself juts out two feet into the bedroom. Nobody wants their clothes to be wet and moldy from constant steaming. We had to fix that.

But first we had to remove the popcorn ceiling that covered the entire upstairs area. I didn’t take any pictures of the process, but it was extremely messy and annoying. First, we had to wet down the ceiling with a garden sprayer, and then scrape the texture off the ceiling using various tools. Then we sanded to attempt to cover up the terrible marks we made in the otherwise bare drywall. That took an entire weekend.

I took last week off entirely to complete the main task – which was moving the closet door to the bedroom, widening the closet into the bathroom, and removing the walls that stuck out into the bedroom.

I’m sick of typing so I’m just going to post pictures now. Click the link below to see the actual images.

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Hi. If you’re like millions of Americans, you drive like a fucking jackass. Listen – the right lane is for driving like a quadriplegic, the left lane is for passing assholes in the right lane. If you find yourself rolling along in the leftmost lane, powered by nothing more than the wind of cars passing you on your right, then you have failed. Jesus babyfucking christ, how hard is it to recognize that the road in front of you is completely empty, while your rear view mirror looks like a fucking hurricane evacuation is taking place? You don’t see the problem there? You’re holding up traffic for like 70 miles. Fuck off. Really, fuck off.

Or – and this is even worse – you’re a real piece of shit and think you’re doing a public service by forcing everyone to “drive at a safe speed”. It turns out that 60 miles per hour isn’t that safe when someone braver than I pulls a PIT maneuver they learned from “World’s Nuttiest Car Chases” on Spike on your retarded minivan and sends your ass end over end like a gymnast on coke. Listen to me right now before I stab you in your eardrums – somebody is eventually going to kill you. You’re not making things safer, you’re pissing off people for the pure fucking feeling it gives you and that makes you a tremendous dick. You are doing nothing that is good for anyone in any way and I fucking hate you.

Oh yes, this is important too. If you’re driving along in the right lane like a normal fucking person, and for some reason you decide to move into the left lane for absolutely no reason, you fucked up. Why do people do that? I see it every goddamned day. Every time I am on the freeway, someone decides to get into the left lane just for fun. They are usually driving at about the speed an elephant can fly, with bags of shit in their back seat obscurring the window, and some asshole passenger who I probably also hate. What in the sweet fuck happened in your retarded head that made you do that? Don’t do that.

Shit.

It is a scientific fact that animal species adapt to better suit their environments over a period of time. Ask any biologist, zoologist or talkative infant with any credibility and the answer will be the same. Yet skeptics remain hesitant or unwilling to accept evolution into their version of reality.

In my first section, I will directly address those who do not see the validity of the theory of evolution through a series of undeniable observations.

Section 1 – Cats

Cats are one of the most abundant animals currently living on planet Earth. At one point in time, of course, this honor belonged to the dinosaurs. Before even the great dinosaurs reigned the Earth, the planet was home to very small, baby dinosaurs. Over many trillions of years, life on Earth was shaped and molded by changing environments, global catastrophes, and hellish invasions from what I assume to be Jupiter. With a scale that large, it seems impossible to witness evolution in any measurable sense within our meaninglessly short lifetimes. But all is not what it seems!

On this planet alone, there are over 4 thousand species of cats. Interestingly, all domestic house cats fall into a single species felis catus (no shit!). The remaining species are tigers. There are more cats than squirrels and horses combined. In fact, if you were to look out a window or door right now, the chances of seeing a cat somewhere is well over 100 percent.

As most people have experienced, cats go through a fairly typical mamallian life cycle. Kittens (which are baby cats) live for several months inside the mother’s womb, where they grow from a single cell into something that looks like a hot dog shaped like a rat. These are deposited by the mother into a pile on the floor, often in a corner or a closet. The mother will eat the weakest one, and then the strongest one. This way, all of the kittens are equal.

As the kittens continue to grow, hair will form, making them look like an entirely new animal. This is not evolution! It is simply a protective measure to keep them from looking like your grandmother’s cold, spotted hands. The mother cat can only take so much visual abuse in the name of rearing children.

This process continues for years in some cases. The kittens become larger kittens, and eventually normal sized cats. Again, no evolution has taken place at this point. However, once the cat reaches a certain size and age based on its color and what it eats, it will undergo a common yet impressive transformation.

When a cat reaches his specific weight and age, he will “run away” or be hit by a car. Similar to a caterpillar building a chrysalis, the cat will emerge as an entirely new animal. In the case of a caterpillar, it will become a colorful but gross butterfly, and in the case of the cat, it will become a golden retriever.

While it’s true that many varieties of dog (canis domesticus) exist throughout the world, most of them can only be bred using already-existing dogs. For example, a dalmatian is bred by breeding any black dog with any white dog. All cats will become golden retrievers once they reach adulthood. This is why there are so many golden retrievers if you really look around and keep track.

There is one exception to this rule. Remember when I said that the mother cat eats the weakest kitten? No? Well I did, so go back and read it again. Recent technological advancements have given us the ability to remove the weakest kitten from the mother’s venomous grip before it is eaten alive and crying. Carefully raising these fragile animals to adulthood causes them to evolve in to toy breeds of dogs. Depending on its diet, the weak little kittens can evolve in to chihuahuas, toy poodles, Paris Hilton accessories or even dogs that creepy people dress up at Halloween.

A cat that has evolved into a dog (adult cat) can only breed with other dogs. When this occurs, the mother dog will give birth to fully evolved dogs. No dog can ever give birth to a cat. This is also the reason that it is rare for a person to give birth to a chimpanzee.

Cats bred with cats will always produce cats that eventually evolve into dogs.

The clear relationship between cats and dogs, aside from being scientifically proven, is highly intuitive. In a recent poll of school children in the United States (age 4 to 6), over 80% agreed that cats should theoretically turn in to dogs at some point. Interestingly, only 70% could name all the nations in the European Union. It is the simplicity of the process that is its number 1 selling point, and the reason it is absolute fact.

Are there other common, easily detectable forms of evolution in our day to day life? Of course there are! Unfortunately, all of them take place deep in the ocean or in places like Africa, where nobody is really willing to go.

So next time to see a gang of cats walking down the street, take a good look, because one of them could easily be your future golden retriever.

It was especially dark last night. I remember noticing the streetlight outside my window sputter out just as I closed my eyes.

I live in a small apartment in a mostly commercial area of town. This carries the obvious benefit of never having to deal with neighbors. Up one flight of rickety steps, past an obstacle course of a living room (I lovingly refer to it as the foyer), through a very loud and useless sliding door, and on the other side of the kitchen, you’ll find my room. The kitchen floor is made of cheap linoleum, long since hardened and cracked like dried snake skin. A cockroach might sound like a tapdancer as it skitters across it.

Nobody else was there last night. I had closed the sliding door leading into the kitchen out of habit just before bed. I was surprised to hear it open, deliberately but not quietly, at 3:21am. Had it been my roommate, I would have expected to see the rectangular halo of light leaking in from the kitchen. I could only see my alarm clock’s dim yellow glow. Someone was in my apartment.

Of course my immediate thought, upon reaching the conclusion that I might not want to meet this person, was to get out of my room quickly and quietly. My options were terrible. One door led into, presumably, the same room this stranger was already in. The other door led to the bathroom, in turn my roommate’s bedroom, and then into the living room. Given night vision goggles and cat-like agility, I still wouldn’t feel confident seeing as the kitchen’s sliding door and my roommate’s sliding door were less than 6 feet apart. And every door in the place is squeaky, broken, or prone to sticking.

I could also go out the window. The window, naturally, is in the same state as the doors. It emits the sound that rubbing a fork on a plate does. From there, it’s a 10 foot drop to a rough stone wall and another 3 to the ground. From arm’s length, I could handle the drop. My bare feet would not take the impact well, and I could only hope that the mass of wood scraps and construction materials on the ground would be avoidable as I fell. This would have to happen with no further delay, I thought.

Only a moment had passed since I awoke. What sounded like a stampede began through the kitchen and toward my room. I couldn’t see anything. I got the blinds up halfway before my door opened and I was being tackled by at least 4 or 5 people. Clearly this was overkill, but I put up a bit of a struggle before being summarily defeated in every possible way. I was tied tightly at every joint, gagged, with something over my head, and was being carried out of my apartment. I noted that in all the chaos, somehow they made graceful work of the cluttered living room and made absolutely no noise as they took me down the stairs. I was scared out of my mind and struggling to keep my orientation as best as possible.

Other than the rustling of the cloth over my head, it was dead silent. Someone opened a case and injected me with something. I heard that happen quite clearly, and then I heard them talking about something. They sounded like cats. That’s how I remember it.

I awoke with a shiver in a small room. The drug I was injected with seemed to affect my memory, as I was completely unaware of the previous few minutes. I should be in bed, I thought.

The room was soft in multiple ways. The walls, floor and ceiling met in smooth, rounded junctions. Every surface was covered in a brown fuzz, like a shag carpet. The floor was slightly rubbery. Had I not been slowly coming to the realization that I had been kidnapped in my sleep and dumped into a weird room, I suppose I would have been comfortable curling back up and dozing off until my alarm went off.

Sitting across from me were two older women and a man I guessed to be in his mid 30s. They all had the same look on their face, which mentally I pictured myself carrying as well – it was an interesting combination of horror, confusion, and “this carpet is soft, I hope it’s not made of hair”.

I asked them where we were. The man responded in a thick French accent that they didn’t know either. (The accent explained why they were fully clothed and I was in my sleeping clothes) We didn’t talk anymore.

After a few minutes of silence, a doorway began to open directly next to me. I scrambled away from it without standing up. This is the point where I went from mostly scared and confused to just scared, one hundred percent.

In walked three creatures, about the size of tall humans. Their faces were very wide, dark and wet looking, while their bodies were thin and pale. Their eyes seemed to look in multiple directions at once and they did not blink. As far as distinguishing features or notable structures, there were none. In overall appearance they were human-like, except slightly wrong in every possible way.

They held between them a large piece of meat I eventually realized to be the upper half of a badly mutilated woman. With little fanfare or communicative attempt, they jointly tossed her into the center of the room and walked back out the way they came.
I assumed we were next. It crossed my mind that it may have been an offering or peace, or a very unappreciated meal even. The two women were crying and the man was just staring at the remains that lay in front of him.

They came back shortly thereafter, and immediately took me by the arm and dragged me down a hallway. I attempted to walk but they picked me up off the ground when I tried. Their hands dug into my arms enough to bruise me fairly severely. Soon I was placed in a room by myself and drugged with another injection.

This room looks like the last one in every way, except for the furnishings. There is a typical wooden desk and wooden chair. On the desk is an envelope, which I have already addressed to my father, a pen and a few pieces of paper. There is also a mirror. I look terrible. I’m not sure what this injection did this time, because I’m not feeling sleepy or anything, but it’s definitely kicking in full blast right now. Actually, I have to say I feel somewhat pleasant. It’s sort of funny given my situation actually. I’m not even sure where I am but I’m having a great time! Haha! This stuff is strong!

I feel like I’ve been writing for a while. I hope they send my letter. I bet my dad will like to hear about my little adventure tonight. I don’t think they are going to let me go afterall, because they keep tightening the strap around my waist. Wait, they came back in again, maybe it’s time to go! I really do hope they locked the door at my house. Ugh, I have a huge headache, that medicine is not good.

They said I have to keep writing now but I don’t want to. I wanted to watch what they were doing but they just made me write more. This isn’t fun anymore. I am writing like they told me to but they keep poking me and cutting off my legs and talking all weird. I am not feeling happy anymore at all and I think I’ve been drugged. Where is this. are they goin to mail my letter i hope it’s all ready to go. it has a stamp. i really don’t like the blood smell and i am sad about my legs. probly should put this letter in the letter so the mailmn can send it. ok i;m done

So we got this new guy at work. As far as I can tell, he’s a decently knowledgeable former IT guy, who is perhaps a little nerdy but definitely a potential asset to the company. He seems like a nice guy, but he’s got this hint of paranoia that pops up in casual work chatter. Outside of work chatter, however, he turns it up all the way. At lunch yesterday, I read an article on knitting Christmas sweaters in a local newspaper to avoid a conversation about how the Democrats fund the marijuana trade in California and *that* is why the internal affairs of the state are completely controlled by the secret nuclear proliferation committees that will, someday, force us to move to the eastern seaboard. Which is EXACTLY WHERE THEY WANT US. He’s obviously on to something.

I never really figured out what his angle was. He did admit to having gone through the following political devolution: Republican, to Libertarian, to anarchist. I hope his manifesto is at least outlined or we won’t win the “fuck America” medal back from Muslim extremists until 2050.

During a meeting today, I took the following notes (and only the following notes):

Question 1: What the hell is Matt rambling about, and why?
Follow up A: Is this a conspiracy?
Follow up B: Are the Democrats involved?
Bonus: Can you find a link to marijuana?

Question 2: Am I going to fall asleep during this meeting?
A: Other than the Democrats, who is involved in this conspiracy?
B: Aside from Libertarianism being retarded, name one reason to be an anarchist.
Bonus: Justify your one reason.
Extra Credit: Use facts and do not use the word conspiracy.

Question 3: Is marketspeak potentially lethal?
A: Why is the S.W.A.T. team here?

I am aware of the problems with Comments and Archives. Hopefully things will work again soon.

Update: Things seem to be working again.

1. Be thankful you’re not dressed as a turkey like Captain Cumpuddles there.
2. Eat some turkey and stuffing and all that wonderful crap.
3. Watch three of the worst football games of the year all in one day.
4. Drink a lot.
5. Call your grandma, parents, or one of those people who send you cards for your birthday.

Chapter 16: A Shameful Walk Home

I woke up in the bathroom at Mark’s for the third time in a week. Someone had thoughtfully covered me with a towel while I slept. Urine splatters were drying on the exposed sleeve of my favorite shirt. Denny had given that shirt to me for my birthday, which was the day before he left me. I found the whole situation deliciously funny, but couldn’t laugh because I was sure I was dying.

One of my wings was stuck in the hinges of the cupboard under the sink. I thought about cutting it off, but that was the hangover talking. I was curious about the night before, but didn’t really want to know. I bit my lip to stop the slot machine of iniquity tumbling through my head. Did I kill anyone? Did I sleep with someone? Were drugs involved? Jackpot.

I needed to get over Denny. This can’t keep happening.

The guys made breakfast. I felt the air for signs that something bad had happened, but Mark was worse off than I was, and Fittie was busy smoking himself back to sleep. Fittie was an interesting guy. He was always present, but never there. For example – one day Denny, Mark and I were talking about how great our meal was the night before. We had gone to a nice restaurant down in the warehouse district, got dressed up, and spent a ton of money. I had a chicken Caesar from heaven. Anyway, when we told Fittie he should have been there, he pointed out that it was his birthday dinner and he paid for all of us. We felt bad and then he got us all very high to cheer us up. How about that?

I suddenly remembered I had about 20 places to be that day, folded up some bacon into a pancake, and dipped it in my coffee mug. That last step was not well thought out, but it was edible enough and soothingly warm. Mark stopped moaning and pulled his head out of his eggs just long enough to grab my jacket and mumble “nuh uh”. Shit.

There went the slot machine again. I hate that feeling because it’s not you that gets to pull the lever.

“Ugh,” fell out of Mark’s mouth and he rocked back in his chair. “Remember the taco stand?”

“Nope.”

“Alright…remember kicking over trashcans outside of the bar?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus.”

Mark explained to me that I suddenly, and violently, decided it was time for tacos, and bid them a good evening by kicking the stools out from under them and spitting in their drinks. They wrapped up their tabs and escorted me outside, telling me that they were indeed going to help me find tacos at 1am. Fittie said that every time I heard the word ‘taco’ I purred like a cat. I can see myself doing that.

“Oh yeah, at one point you threatened to ‘break my face’ and ‘fill your pockets with my teeth’,” Mark pointed out.

Somewhat unexpectedly for the guys, we came across a small taco stand almost immediately. This was fortunate for everyone involved – I would, presumably, shut up and purr myself to sleep with an armful of tacos, and they could stop apologizing to the strangers I insisted on talking to. I ordered something like a dozen tacos from the older Mexican lady, and then sat crosslegged directly where I had just been standing.

In one of those weird drunken states of incredible perception, I responded to a conversation happening above me, even though I didn’t realize it was even occurring.

“So we were arguing with the taco lady about why she doesn’t have a credit card machine in 2001, and her son came up to half translate and half protect her. He must have weighed 90 pounds, and looked like a pencil wrapped in a napkin with his huge apron on. His mouth was unusually large.” Mark shivered. “Then, out of nowhere, you yelled ‘Hey lady, I’ll fuck your kid for 10 tacos’.”

“Oh, wow. But everyone knew I was joking, right?” I asked, partially terrified, and not sure if I was joking at all.

Mark walked into the bathroom and returned with a neatly tied plastic bag and said, “you didn’t even eat them.”

I decided to stop drinking for a while. I noticed that someone was sleeping on the couch way off in the corner. It turned out his name was Andre. He was sleeping in the fetal position with a pillow between his knees. “Maybe he’ll give you a ride home when he wakes up from his sex coma,” Fittie suggested. I had a lot to think about on my walk home.

During the summer last year, I worked as a sales rep for a small time narcotics dealer who moved here from Philly back in ’87. It was a pretty cushy job – I’d wake up at about 9am, roll over and start the car to get the A/C going and put on my Def Leppard mix tape to get me amped for the day. I’d then park in front of the elementary school down on 2nd Ave until the fuzz started giving me awkward looks.

My actual job consisted of driving around a few specific neigborhoods and giving people the in-the-know double head nod. If they responded with a similar double head nod, or in some cases an inverted peace sign, I’d run my sales pitch. I accepted cash mainly, but occasionally I’d get an offer too crazy to turn down. Poor people often use the barter system.

Then I’d go back to the elementary school until the parents started arriving to pick up their kids.

This one particularly balmy day, I was doing donuts in the cemetery while waiting for a client, AJ Jazzymitts, to return with his “fly ass trick” whom he planned to use as payment for a good ball of cakey pearl. I’d seen the women J took back to his mamma’s house, so I was pretty excited. So excited, in fact, I almost flipped my Trans Am when I hit a smaller gravestone (Sorry ?????????y McArthur – I shattered half the stone, so I couldn’t get the whole name). I was also railed to the point that my nose was running through my eyes instead of my nostrils.

AJ Jazzymitts rolls up on his questionably aquired blue Vespa, with his payment in tow. He introduced the whore as Bubbles. It’s worth mentioning that Bubbles was a 6’6″ tall black man dressed as a circus clown. He had one eye, which was strangely arousing. I thought about killing him.

Bubbles got in the back of my car, and I did a few more donuts to get him in the mood. He mentioned he plans to be buried in that graveyard. I jokingly said “how about right next to something-the-fuck McArthur!”. Bubbles didn’t laugh. I didn’t either.

The kinkiness begins as I parked my Trans Am behind the recently closed for business Jiffy Lube on Montague Drive, back by the Taco Bell and K-Mart complex. I ask Bubbles if he’s comfortable being used as payment for a small coke deal, and he says he doesn’t really know what the fuck is going on, so do whatever I want. It turns out he was midly retarded and had been eating vicodin all day.

I sensually remove his red foam nose and use the nose like a powder puff, pretending to apply makeup to my face, as if I myself am becoming a clown. He laughs when I tickle his neck with a Milky Way I found in the parking lot. I then undo the frilly muffler around his neck with my teeth, and throw it in the trashcan outside the broken rear window. He wants it bad.

I’d never had sex with a man, a clown, or a retard before, so I was growing quite anxious. This would undoubtedly be different than the hookers I used to pick up after cashing forged checks at the Check and Go.

But as I whispered sweet words in his hear, I noticed a tear fall from his only functional eye. Bubbles was crying. I had been kneeling on his genitals due to the diminutive size of the rear seat. His speech impediment made it impossible for him to juggle the feeling of pain and the act of speaking simultaneously. I’m used to my sexual partners crying after the act, not before. I was confused.

It was at this point my raging hard on had pushed through the fly of my borrowed BVDs. I had lost my jeans in a bar fight the night before, so it was difficult to hide. I realized it would be impossible to maintain this fantastic feat of engorgement for much longer if Bubbles the mildly retarded clown continued to cry, so I opted to take care of myself elsewhere. I pulled the red curly wig from his head, put it on mine, and licked him on the forehead before wriggling out the window. I then opened my zippo, which I kept in my sock, lit it and threw it in the car. My erection pulsed.

I ran directly to the Denny’s on Second, hoping to find the woman I had been in love with for the last fifteen years. I walked in, hid behind the pick-up-a-toy-with-the-little-crane machine, and watched for her. A family walked in and saw me, and threatened to call the police. I kicked the father in the upper thigh, although I was aiming for his crotch, and ran out the emergency exit. Luckily for me, my love Nell was having a cigarette and a tall can out back. I walked right up to her and said “I think you know what to do with this”.

She told me the restraining order was still valid, and she pulled out her mace, as usual. But I looked her in the eyes and said “baby, I killed a clown for you tonight, can you please consider giving this man a hand job?”. Those golden words sealed the deal. I ended up fucking her in a dumpster.

I went back to get my car, but it was gone. I never saw Bubbles again, but I assume he survived, since I threw the lighter into an unupholstered area of the floor, where it was, in retrospect, unlikely to cause a fire.

That was probably the second kinkiest sexual experience of my life.