IDIOT

There are few things I enjoy more than seeing someone misspell a name that is literally eighty pixels away.

Not only are they careless, stupid mistakes. These mistakes are also obligatory to holding a friendship. How the fuck can you remain friends with someone who can't spell your name properly? I suppose I can pardon a last name under the right circumstances. I try not to hold myself to a higher standard or anything, but I can still spell Krzhizhanovskiy just fine.

Unbelievably tired right now.

Forgot it was Fat Tuesday, got drunk.

Five hours of sleep, up at eight.

Wasting time until it's acceptable to goto bed without being called a pussy.

So we had a party last night.

Somewhat against my will I laid down and let a party happen last night.

Jungle juice--looked like dirty ocean water, horribly delicious, dirty ocean water.

Jungle juice is incredibly sticky, especially the second batch with Hawaiian Punch in it, green like Ecto Cooler. A cooler of Jell-o shots are also relatively sticky.

And apparently some hands were sticky, my beard trimmer was stolen last night.

Not that I have an emotional attachment to my beard trimmer or anything, or that I even use it very much. I feel like a little description is necessary here.

If you know me, you probably know how much of a chore it is for me to grow facial hair, it simply doesn't happen. I DO shave, just not very much. Why do you think it would be necessary for me to have a beard trimmer? Let's just say I don't use it on my face...

Oh, and Dana's iPod was stolen, sort of my fault, I just set it in Vince's room.

Sticky fingers are sticky fingers, so I'm assuming whomever it may have been stole both.

So now some happy thief out there is going to be sitting in his bathroom, hip-hoppin' to Dana's iPod, and shaving his beard with the instrument that I regularly touch my genitalia with. Have fun with that one, man.

There's something I need to get off my chest.

Been on it for awhile.

If downloading mp3s is hurting the music industry so much, why are my favorite bands still releasing albums? And why are said albums kicking so much ass?

That said....

I recently discovered the power of Google, as well as the power of used books on Amazon. The days that I find wonder in the internet again are rare. 

iGoogle is maybe the coolest thing ever. Time, Google search, e-mail, weather, sports scores, word of the day, spanish word of the day, twitter, reader, news...everything I could ever want in one page.

Amazon sells used books for like five bucks, I've bought four in the last week or so to replace the money spent on cigarettes. Go me. 

An apology is due to you, apparently.

I felt like apologizing.
Apparently being proud of something you accomplished is pompous and shouldn't be a feeling to experience after ACCOMPLISHING SOMETHING.

I'm sorry I quit smoking, world, and I'm damn sorry I keep bragging about it. I'm not about to punch anyone in the face about this, although I'm sure you are; world. Now, the thing that really gets me, world, is that you have literally no room to bring up accomplishments and how much they should mean to you. I mean, breaking a hole in your o-zone layer isn't as much of an accomplishment as...winning a nobel prize or something.... Actually...
It's quite the accomplishment, since you hurt yourself doing it.

I'm sorry if I'm cathartic, or reading to far. But, it felt like a necessary time to call someone out, since an argument just ensued. But, I'll be God-damned if I'm not happy those dudes didn't demolish this pizza.

The real point is that I wish people would just know their fucking role. If you were, say, a prostitute and you gave up fucking I'd probably give you a high five. But, if you were a friend of mine, and you gave up something tough...I'd probably just say fuck off. You see, no one can accomplish anything, sans thyself. Alas, thyself shall only make consequence on one's own actions. So fuckin' twiddle your twat on that one.

I fucking quit smoking. You don't fucking work. Your credit hours don't mean a FUCK to me, and apparently anything I've ever done is worth horse shit to you, so right back at you. I sincerely apologize for the fact that we all give you shit day in, and day out, for not working. You officially live the dream we all wish we could live: some class; no work. Until you aren't living that dream anymore we'll keep shoving the iron skewer of truth up your nostril until we hit the sweet spot.

So, for the time being, fuck right off, finish your shit, and goto bed.

Winters titties are cuttin glass right now.

IT IS ZERO FUCKING DEGREES OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW

Plaxico digs wide receivers EVEN FUCKING DEEPER!!!11

NFL wide receivers have already established themselves as the biggest assholes in pro sports ever, and the list of them is never ending with new recruits coming in once a year to fill the holes of the old ones. Haha, holes. It recently came to my attention that Plaxico Burress has officially done himself in as a pro player. While I should pity tha foo, I really don't mind laughing my ass off at him.

Scenario time.
My name is Plaxico Burress. I'm a 6ft 5in, 232lb pile of man meat that catches balls like nobodys business. I love to party, obviously because I make nearly eight million fucking dollars a year. Like any self-respecting pro player I hit the clubs to party, that's where I can hear the awesome hits from Soulja Boy and Lil' Wayne. Being 6'5" 232lbs you'd think I don't need much protection, I'm big enough to get beat up on all day while I play for the Giants. But, like most people, I like to feel REALLY fuckin' protected dawg, that's why I carry my handgun. And SHOOT MYSELF IN THE FUCKING LEG. End scenario.

This is what the worst thing ever (TMZ) tells me:

He's shot himself in the foot all season, and now it appears NY Giants wide receiver Plaxico Burress shot himself in the leg last night -- with an actual firearm!

It all went down in a Manhattan nightclub called The Latin Quarter -- details of the incident are sketchy and so far a police report has not been filed.

Burress' leg injury is being reported as "non-life threatening" and he reportedly left the hospital some time this morning.

I will now take a moment to reflect...and I am glad the guy didn't die from a gunshot wound to the leg (what the fuck?!).
First of all, he was at a club called The Latin Quarter. After a little research, I have come to the conclusion that it's actually called LQ Nightclub on the streets. Considering the place has a $225.00 VIP cover for the NYE celebrations, I can only assume it's a pretty well-protected, and possibly well-armed, bar. Why the FUCK you would feel the need to bring a gun in there in the first place is absolutely ludicrous, especially considering the fact that YOU ARE BIG ENOUGH TO PLAY IN THE NFL and most of the other people there are probably pretty stacked and classy. At this point, they don't really have any details on the freak self-shooting accident, but I can only assume what happened to this fucking idiot. There's a thing on a gun called a safety, and for some reason I feel like he forgot to use it...
After an ultra fast Google search (literally, first result while searching for "where is the safety button on a pistol") I found a plethora of information on guns. As in, HERE IS THE SAFETY IN THE ON POSITION...HERE IS THE SAFETY IN THE OFF POSITION! It's that hard, Plax, to figure out that death machine. And isn't the main focus of gun safety to never point a gun at someone, or yourself? That's right, just wedge it behind that belt buckle and get your dance on because, as you may know, guns don't go off unless a FINGER pulls the trigger. Fucking idiot. I mean, really, let me point a live pistol in the direction of my Johnson. No thank you.

Plaxico Burress, you're a lucky man. It's going to take you awhile to recover from a leg injury (hopefully) and you might get kicked off the team for being a moron (hopefully), but at least you didn't shoot off your only chance of creating horrible, gun-toting offspring who could follow in your dumb, absolutely idiotic footsteps. Wait, at least, damn it, why didn't you shoot off your dick?