Hail to the Chief of Jerks!

This week saw an inauguration. That is the good news, as such happenings give me the chance to stand in crowds and rub my boner against elderly women. How ever, there was also bad news, which was the news that it was a new president who stinks. His name is Barack Hussein Obama, and I have proof that he does socialism. Here is that proof. He told a man who was a nice plumber that he wanted to spread his wealth around. Now Joe will have to fix his bank account instead of fixing pipes. He will have to install sadness in his soul instead of installing water heaters in basements. He will have to unclog his impoverished heart instead of unclogging the toilets at my office which broke because my stool is full of hair. Any how, you get a picture.

Well I am sad to say that I consider Mr. Obama a fucker. And what do fuckers have to eventually come to the realization of happening, in time? Yes you know. It is in the name of this writing. They have to find out. But as I have pointed out times and times again, I don't endorse terrorism. (The only thing I endorse is not eating rats, as their fur will indirectly cause plumbing problems, as I earlier have alluded to insinuating before.) I am very hampered by my great morals, which include a love for my country, a hate of muzzlim terrorism, a strong odor, and, a hate of terrorists. So this man Obama is the president and having him find out in a way like I have had others find out is not an option. So as it goes, I must find a peaceful way to make our Fucker In Chief find out.

I have a feeling that this could take a while, or several whiles. Stay tooned and check this "weblog" often for updates in my quest to make him find out. God speeds.

As Cold As "Ice"

You devoted readers of my "weblog" may know that if I am nothing else, which I am not, is that I am very humble. To whit, sometimes when great forces of great power decide to fuck with me, I must accept with grace the fact that I lack the power, dexterity and likability index to in order to make these forces find out. Although, it must be typed, however, I did once make a mighty man and his son find out. But still I must have to accept things sometimes, like a Zen Boodist or a squirrel who can no longer climb trees because I have trapped it in a makeshift cage fashioned from a laundry basket, razor wire and a nice stick. However as that may be, there is one great force that is a temperature, and it is fucking with me so bad that I fear I must try to make it find out. Go to the next paragraph.

This is all a long way of saying something that is short. Here is that thing. It is very cold in Queens. So cold that I am made glad with the fact that one of my balls was removed as a child, otherwise I would likely be freezing them off. My apartment has been frigid and stiff for the last week, and the frost bites and hypothermias that I have received from the cold have caused me to be in pain and delirious, which affected my behavior at work, where I am not currently permitted to be, due to behaviors related to the delirium located earlier in this sentence. I considered consulting my landlord to ask him to fix the heat in my apartment, until I realized that he is not aware of my residence, and also, furthermore I do not live in his building, but rather beside it in a crude lean-to. I decided in the end that the cold had fucked with me so bad, that despite its omni presents and my great humbleness, I had no choice but to make the fucker find out.

Here is what my plan was. I realized that the enemy of cold is hotness. And the hottest thing that I could think of (that is, besides a National Geographic photo shoot, that is! Gimme five! Yeah!) was fire. Hot, fiery fire. I sat my sights on the tallest building in all of Queens. The City Bank Building. Monday morning, I went into the building dressed as a City Banker in a suit and tie, carrying a handsome briefcase in one hand, hoping to distract and law enforcers from the gasoline cans and C-4 I rolled in a dolly with the other hand. I was wrong, as it turns out, to assume that this plan would be efficacious. Instead, it was unefficacious. I was escorted out of the building by many securitys and was greeted outside in the cold by a large clustering of New York's Finist. They put me in their cop car with handcuffs on my hands, but fortunately I was able to break away through my unique ability to shatter my own bones, and I escaped their clutchings. 

The next day was even worse, with my hypothermic shock being compounded by regular shock that I usually get when i sustain massive bone damage. Also there was gangrene. But I didn't let that get me down because I am a forceful person who never says quit, at least in the first person. I got new inspiration when I saw on the outside of a local newspaper that Al Gore was going to be on Manhattan island doing a speaking job.

This fellow Al Gore dislikes something called "Global Warm." Well, I like to be warm, and who doesn't apart from Arnold Shwarsandegger in the awesome movie Batman and Robin? I figured Al Gore must be getting payed off by Cold. I figured that if I made him find out, he would transmit his dis pleasure to Cold, thus counting as Cold finding out. I hatched an elaborate and sexy plan to confront this man who had helped a fucker. It was so brilliant, so dastardly and outside of a box that I drank paint thinner to celebrate and forgot what the plan was. So I went with an old standby, but unfortunately due to numbness and my shattered wrists, my aim was compromised, and my feces missed Mister Gore. Even worse, it splattered all over someone who I like, his wife, who helped children like me in the 1980's not have to listen to rock music (I preferred, and continue to prefer, endless loops of calliope carousel music played at ear-shattering volume). Seeing her covered in my poo made me sad, as I could not help but feel partly responsible.

I began to walk back to Queens, and then something happened. The happening was an elderly man who was very poor saw me and observed that I was in distress. He said "we poor folks have to look out for each other." He took me back to his apartment where it was also very cold like my lean-to. He said they had turned off his heat beacuse he was so poor, but that he had some blankets I could bundle up in, and he could make me some tea and he had some bread I could snack on. I sat there under a blanket, while this man saw right through the blood and feces and into my soul, cleaning me and giving me food. And I thought "I think that there's a special kind of warmth, a the warmth of companion ship, that we are showing to the cold right now. And the cold can never defeat that. And maybe the warmth of companion ship is enough."

Then I decided that no, it was not, and I sliced open the man's body and enjoyed a good night's sleep resting in his steaming entrails. 

As they say in the end of chess: "Check point."

A Couple of Thinking About The New Year

Well, folks, it, is that time again of the year. The time to be a different year than it was the year before. This "New Year" is called 2009 this year. I hope that this year it's a good year.

Truth be honest, it can't be much worse than 2008. 2008 was a year that really fucked with your humble narration. There were more than a lot of bad things, and the fucking was complete. I thought I would list three specific articles of griefance so that it will be legally binding when I make 2008 find out.

1. The "Economy." This fucker was awful in 2008. I have a modest portfolio, I do not mind it to be known. It is a classy manilla envelope that is mostly full of artistically exceptional sketches of bus drivers and of scotch-taped pubic hairs which I have locate on public toilet seats. At any way, I lost this portfolio this passed fall, and I am told that the economy is to blame. You are on my notice, economy!

2. Death. I know what you thinking: -- This is one fucker who is in full business in all years. But this year was a specially bad. The man who made the very laudable salad dressing that I shoplift was a victim of death this year. Also, you may know that I enjoy a good joke, but here is something that's not a joke: The death of the Joker happened. If that wasn't bad enough, Charlton Heston shuffled off a mortal coiling. He had a great career in the screen actor but he acheived his greatest importance as a lover of shooting things. As someone who has utilized his expert tease to deal with subway hoboes, please allow me to say "I would like to say that I'd like to shake your cold dead hands, sir." I am also mourning for several subway hoboes.

3. Barrack Obama. Boy, this guy was such a fucker! I am in total disagreement with all of his policies about how he likes socialism and wants to make America into . I know what you are thinking, "Greg you are just prejudiced bigott." But the truth of our matter is that I once watched a whole Chris Rock special. Any how, I was rooting for George Bush II to win president again, but that was not to be in the cards. In stead, we have this jerk who can talk well. I don't understand -- would you rather have someone who can give a good speech or someone who cannot give a good speech? The choice is a simple truth: Yes we can't! Well, this guy fucked up 2008, "big time," and hopefully after his silly victory we will not be dealing with him in 2009.

Enjoy your new year, and let me know what fucked with you this past year! Maybe I'll have it find out! Thanks, loyal blog-readers!

Airplanes? Fuck.

I had the occasion as of late to take an airplane to and from our national western coast. I could say and talk a lot about the city of Los Angeles but that is for another blogging at another time and place. Right now what I want to blogging about is the airplane ride.

First, to parachute a great American comedy: What is the deal with airplane peanuts? I say this because they lack a hard shell and I am reduced to spitting the plastic wrapper on the floor, which then attracted the attention of a stewardess. She said to me "Sir I am going to have to ask you to not spit those wrappers on the floor." I thought maybe she liked me so I asked her if she wanted to go to the bathroom and join a certain special club. But it turns out she did not like Mickey Mouse and wasn't even sure if they still had a functioning club, so my advances were scurned!

I will make a long story less long now. These airlines really fucked with me. After bringing me off the plane after an amergency landing after some unkind words and gropings with the stewardesseses, they told me of the harsh penalty the were going to grant me. I said "Put me on what ever list you like, fuckers! I'm putting you on my "do not FUCK WITH GREG list! Oh wait, you just violated that, ex post facto!"

Now comes the dilemma to end all quandaries. How do I make the airlines find out? If you recall from previous blogging postings, I am very patriotic and I will not do a terrorism on the airplanes. But I have to make them find out somehow, as they most certainly did a fuck with me.

How about you, gentle reader? How would you make them find out without killing and terrur? Please bear in mind as you answer that I am now not allowed on an airplane or within 1500 feet of an airport or female airline employee.

Fuck With My Co-Workers, You Also Fuck With Me, Too

The other day at my work I had a very sad day at my office. It was not of my own design, but instead designed by some fuckers with who I work for. Usually I have a pleasant working relations with these "bosses," who after all when all is said and done, give me money for my time, effort and blackmail. And I do not resent those who earn more money than I do because I believe in a free range market and I am not a socialism, un like the new president. (By the way, Barrack Obama is not eligible to be president because unbeknowned to most, he was not born in America! His birth was on the island nation of H'awaii!)!

Still, it made me mad and caused me to be fucked with when these bosses made the announcement that they would be "laying of" many people due to our current economy downturning (thanks again, president Obama). Hey, these are good hard workers with pleasant smelling chairs who now will make less money than they did before because they will be making no money at all!

I saw one woman, Jeanette, whose name for privacy I will change to Julia. She was crying and packing up a card board box with her belongs. She said to another man that it was good working with him and that they should stay in touch. I said "do you want to stay in touch too?" I also said "Julia, you look good even though you are sad and weak." She did not say anything but I could see that her eyes for me were full of tears and sex.

Then there was another woman, let's just call her by her social security number, 324-74-7364. I told 324-74-7364 as she was walking to the front door to look on a bright side, that it was a good thing she had that abortion last month because babies cost money and she will be poor from now on. The tears that she had been crying did not subside from this good news, but I am hopeful that they had turned to tears of joy.

But my sadness for my work friends did not delete the angry sense that I had for the bosses. Let me tell you how I made them found out. I got up on a table in the middle of the office and decided to make a speech using the words of my favorite actor Mel Gibson. "You've come to fight as free men!" I yelled. "And free men you are. What will you do with that freedom? I love you, always have. They'll never take our freedom!"

There was a long silence that seemed to last for milleniums. Then a man said that they had given him his freedom and that was sort of the problem. He then walked out of the building with his head pointed downwards at a 45 degree angle, which denoted sadness and great miserable.

One of the bosses came to the table where I was standing on top of the table and told me to come into his or her office. When I was in the office they explained that such outburstings would not be tolerable to the management. And that they had a good mind to fire me also, but they decided against it due to my long tenure at the company and also the aforementioned blackmail. This made me very jolly and rotund like Santa and I forgived their fucking. I said ho ho ho and left as nicely as you please! It was a good holiday, then, and no one had to find out. Except for the fucker who hadn't liked my Mel Gibson speech. I strangled him in the parking lot with his jumper cables. He had a bowel movement during the stranglage, which made me smile. And smiling? I guess that's the reason Christmas is all about.

Malamud? More Like Malpractice of With Writing

There are so many different ways of fucking with me. So many different ways, my friends, that I cannot count them on my hands. There are at least eight ways, and the most rare is actually the very worst. This when I am fucked with by an author.

Allow me to explain at you: Have you ever read a book, novel or tome, or perhaps a stapled pamphlet, which made you unhappy? Made you feel cheated? Made you feel unhappy? 

Is there any doubt that the author has fucked with you? If you are like me, I have no doubt. Which brings me to today's tale of being fucked with. 

One of my favorite movies is called "The Natural," which was directed by Barry Levinson and starred Robert Redford, the man from the American movie classic of the silver screen, "Sneakers." In this movie, a young baseball genius is killed by a crazied fan, but then survives to come back 15 years later and be genius again. Then in the end, he hits a home run that goes over the wall and knocks out the lights so that it rains sparks as he runs to the home plate. This made me feel good about myself when I was a child because I was obsessed with breaking light bulbs.

Well you will only imagine my joyousness when I found the discovery that this movie had been adapted to a book by an author named Bernard Malamud. I was so excited that I ran out and bought a brand-new unsoiled paperback version! I had never heard of this author but I knew won thing: He had great taste in movies!

Let me tell you this. Mr. Malamud has no idea what he is doing. First of all, Robert Redford wasn't even in his book. Second of all, the book is in smaller print than I would prefer. Thirdly of all, and this is the worst part -- worst of all, in the ending there is no home run or satisfying demolishing of light bulbs with a gleeful crack that made me get a boner every time I smashed one with my foster dad's hammer. Instead of this, in the ending of the novel, the man strikes out, is thrown out of the baseball club and ends up crying while talking to a newspaper boy.

Careful readers of this "blog" will not be surprised at my response to this tragedy of justice. Mr. Bernard Malamud went straight to the top of my "Must find out" list, which is written in my head. First, I looked up the telephone number of his book publisher, Harcourt Brace. They answered the telephone and I changed my voice to become very high pitched. "This is Mrs. Malamud, Bernard's mommy," I said, wanting to act like a realistic mother, "Can Bernard come to the telephone? I want him to come home and let me dress him up like a beautiful girl." The phone seemed to see through my clever plan and hung it up. So I looked Mr. Malamud up on an internet, and that's when I came to a shocking discovered that he had already found out!

According to the internet, he had found out over two decades ago, because that was when he was dead. It would seem, then, that I have an ally; an "ally" if you will, in the field of making fuckers find out. I can't help but wonder: who is this hero who is so good that he can make a bad man who just recently published a new book become dead a long time ago? My mind plays boggle at the possibilities. Whoever you are, sir, I salute you with my hand on my forehead, touching horizontally.

Mike is a dick.

I meant to tell you all about this guy Mike. He is a man who fucks with me on many occasions in the past and present. The sad thing to say is that he has never, yet, found out.

My friends who are ladies and gentlemen, listen to me write this: He will find out. Mike will find out like crazy. He is a dick and to tell you this with proof, I will tell you a story of his cunning.

One time, before I knew that he was a dick who fucked with people like me, Mike and I were friends. I was taken in by his dapper looks and the elegant British accent of his parents when I planted a hidden microphone in their house. Little did I know he would be a fucker with me. I decided one nice autumn day to give him a gift, and he refused the gift, even though I had worked very hard to get the gift, because he said it was unclean. I became enraged and got a reddened face, and spit the dead mouse at his mean visage.

That was the end of the friendship of Mike, and that was the beginning of Mike being a fuck with me man. As I said before earlier, he has refused my attempts to have him find out through his wiles. But now I have a compadre -- an ally, if you will, in my hunt of this jackyl. So be sure to check out Mike Is A Dick and maybe together with the black haired German who is the blog runner, we can take down Mike.

By the way, up top is a picture of Mike, probably when people were just trying to be nice people to him and give him fresh gifts. We will have this dick find out.