So I was browsing around the internet, making sure that if I ever did leave my house I would have ample information on the production status of movies coming out in 2014, and I saw something. Something that made my heart stop, my penis go flaccid, and blood start to drip from my eye sockets.

And for once, it wasn’t a picture of Rosie O’Donnell.

It was the movie poster for “Alvin and the Chipmunks.”

To be honest, it really wasn’t the actual poster that gave me the old “sweet syrupy sugar seizure shakes.” I mean the beauty of Jason Lee’s forehead under 3000x magnification, how could that be considered anything but magnificent. I love finding moon craters on a man’s brow.

What really hit me was the fact that THIS MOVIE IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING. I mean holy fucking shit. This is an unbelievably horrible idea. I mean Hollywood would be better off videotaping an actual pile of crap. I mean I know they already did that for “Son of the Mask,” but sequels ALWAYS do great. (See previous movie reference.) This is just ridiculous. This movie has about as much of a chance of working as Britney Spears does in about 2 years. I mean did we not learn anything from “Garfield?” That debacle set humanity back at least 2 million years. Those children who were unfortunate enough to have seen it, are dead. Anyone who came in contact with them, mutant ape babies.

Don’t believe me?

Look at picture of Suri Cruise. That orangutan baby, that will be our nation’s poster child.

I mean Fuck. If this is the crap that gets the go in Hollywood, then I have some great ideas to put my name on the map.

1) More movies where Jean Claude Van Dam stars as an American Hero - Oh Hell Yeah. If there is one man who captures the essence of being an American champion its this guy. He’s got Asian fighting skills, European speech patterns, and Australian social skills. Wait, did I say Australian? I meant autistic. The man reeks of baguettes and bistros, and somehow hes the mascot for freedom fries. He’s THE kickboxer, THE universal soldier, THE time cop, and THE ONE AND ONLY GUILE. The most American of video game heroes; a dog tag wearing, jet plane flying, Top Gun volleyball playing lump of hetero-questionable sexuality (take a look at that haircut and fighting stance), and FUCK, this French Fairy gets to play him? Bravo Hollywood. You know they should make a National Treasure 3, it should be all flashback, and all of the presidents should be played by the Van-Daminator. Need I say Blockbuster? Yes. I just did.

2) More straight to DVD sequels of “Bring It On” - Cheerleading doesn’t really get enough attention in the mainstream media, and its not right. How could a brutally demanding sport - one with so many thrills and chills - still remain hidden from the American populous? Well it could suck ass, be boring as fuck, involve millions of girls screaming like it was a Bon Jovi Concert, and perpetually give millions of other girls feelings of insecurity, ugliness, and worthlessness. Hmm…. I do have a solution though. Charge children $19.95 to see about 32 seconds of it in a movie starring the cast of Everwood. Set it and forget it!

3) More old people in young roles - If there is one thing I believe in beyond a shadow of a doubt, its that Bruce Willis, Sylvester Stallone, and Arnold Schwarzenegger should continue to act. Rambo 4? Yes. Terminator 10? Yes. Look Who’s Talking 3? I shouldn’t have even put a question mark there. If that movie doesn’t happen, Hollywood might as well have put its money in a sewer. And not a “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Sewer,” a poop sewer. With poop in it. These gentleman are the creme of the acting crop. If they were in a movie together it would be called the bible. And it would be watched in 1-d. Through “read-o-vision.”

4) More movies about animals - PBS was sitting on a gold mine. Every third movie put out should be about a funny cute animal and be narrated by a soft spoken celebrity. I know its obvious, but the sea-cucumber. With narrator Fran Drescher.

I would make a final joke here, but instead I want to say:

Dear Hollywood,

When you actually TAKE all of these ideas, I expect compensation.

Thats right. All the Bring It On DVDs. All of them.

- Sincerely, Me.

Dear Will “you probably like Man-zers,” Manzer,

For the longest time I debated how to start this letter. See the artist in me was going to try and start in a subtle “bait and hook.” I was going to let the readers believe that this letter was one of praise and adolation, and then boom: rant, rant, profanity, rant.

I even had a really applaudable transition.

” You are a master of the multi-task. You can run a company into the ground AND fuck it in the ass at the same time. You’re like some sort of homosexual comet. Destructive, and yet, homosexual.”

But something didn’t feel right. I mean it sure as hell wasn’t that joke, because a gay comet? Hilarious! I’m like a young Tina Fey. Except with a smaller penis.

I digress.

So I was all ready to write my clever satire, sip on a nice Frappucino, listen to John Coltrane, and use my Mac to unleash my liberal fury on the internet (Actually, just the straight part of that, but you get the point.) and then I went to work. And all that flew out of the window. I realized that there was only one way to start things off.

GO FUCK YOURSELF.

And not in like the “fun, I’m alone and these phalanges aren’t going to blister themselves” way. Like the “Oh my god, I’m in prison with a man named ‘Fire Hose’” way. Or like “this is Lifetime and I can’t find the remote. And I’m crippled. And its commercial free week.”

See, from everything I’ve read - and sadly I have read some literature on these matters - you have tried to pursue a commerical path which brings Eastern Mountain Sports back towards being a comapny which prides itself on covering the needs of hardcore campers, climbers, athletes, and outdoor enthusiasts.

This is good.

And you have made some progress. When I first got here, we had fleece doggie booties. If there was a ever a product that said “Actually, I would like this company to implode” that would be it. Thankfully, you got rid of them - even if you didn’t, take the credit because this is the nicest I’m going to be for some time - and have continued to push out some other crappy products. (Need I mention “Christmas outdoor truffles?”)

This is also good.

The problem is that, just when you seem to be doing good, you go and blow everything like a Thai prostitute.

This is bad. And sometimes can lead to transmittable diseases.

See I was at work, doing work - I would go on, but I feel such descriptions of “work” would boggle and confuse you - and I was asked to do something that “corporate” had just mandated. Apparently the stickers on some of the folded garments weren’t doing the job correctly. I guess that they had been stabbing customers, dealing drugs, whatever it is that stickers do when they’re not helplessly attached to something. So for a whopping 8 hours, I got to bide my time between customers by taking these stickers off and replacing them with new smaller stickers. You know what that really helped with? Nothing. It didn’t help me put customers into our products, it didn’t help us try and broaden the range of gear we sell, and it sure as hell didn’t help us be a better company moving in a better direction. You want to know how tedious and pointless it really was? Imagine killing a fly. Now imagine using a gun to do the job. Now imagine that by gun, I meant medieval cannon.

Yeah, it was that good.

The best part was that at one point the music in the store stopped. Imagine the anger of this rant in physical form, and then imagine that a larger teddy bear made of bubbles is eating that thing. That would be about how happy I was.

Then imagine that Hitler came, and popped each one of those bubbles with some sort of bee cannon. That was what it felt like when the new cd came on. Holy shit. It was ridiculous. The first song was “Wishing Well, Kiss and Tell.” That was as good as it got. I mean Anna Nalick, random girl bands of the 90’s. It was like listening to girls crying. But more sissy.

How the flying fuck are we supposed to be outfitting hardcore outdoor enthusiasts when Mariah Carey is singing about babies and loving my man? (No Homo). How can we be moving forward when nine tenths of my day was spent switching size stickers? I mean wow, what a great move. I mean I’m bothered all day by customers who stop and say “excuse me, what does the sticker that says ‘medium’ mean? Does that mean that this shirt is some sort of spiritual vessel?”

Come on Will. We have ten different types of sandals, WE HAVE LAVENDAR, PINK, AND LEMONADE COLOR SHIRTS, and somehow you think the best way to get back to our outdoor roots is to play Paula Abdul? Wow. Next, we should hire the grandma from those Old Navy commercials and have her do our ads. She could be like riding a kayak and say “this spaceship is great!”

I’m glad you’re thinking with your head. To bad its INSIDE OF YOUR ASS.

Sincerely,

Your loyal employee Andrew Slafta.

If I owned a day planner, and in a testament to my youthful lust for irony used it to plan my nights, that is what today’s entry would have said.

“A Really Nice Night.”

The schedule of events would have gone something like this:

8:15 - Eat dinner
8:23 - Prepare Icecream for dessert
8:30 - Eat Icecream
10:15 - After finishing Icecream, promptly wash up for bed
10:17 - Eat more icecream instead
11:00 - Go to bed

But no. Satan himself took a break from keeping Kathy Griffin on TV, and decided to shit on me.

I was so close to being happy too. I had eaten icecream, brushed my teeth, eaten more icecream, and then closed my eyes. And then B-A-M.

MY SHEETS FUCKING BURST INTO FLAMES.

Why? Because for some unfathomable reason, my family doesn’t believe in air conditioning. That would be okay in say, November, but it turns out its FUCKING JUNE. It is 345 degrees, my eyeballs are sweating, and my room resembles a Salvador Dali painting.

How did my mom think that I would survive this?

A Fan.

Honestly, she might as well have just asked me to blow the hot air out of my room myself. It would have been more effective. The temperature would have remained the same, but at some point I would have burst a hole in my brain, and been cooled down and refreshed by a nice bout of brain fever.

I mean FUCK. Circulating Air? What the fuck. I’m not going sailing, I’m just trying not to wake up “medium well.” All this fan does is blow shit in my room around. It like being caught in Dante’s Peak and Twister at the same time, except I don’t even get to stare at Helen Hunt’s boobs. Or Pierce Brosnan’s. Now not only is my room having solar flares, but it also randomly sounds like a helicopter decided to fly through a flock of geese.

I just can’t wait to see what my mom thinks up next. I hear she’s going to get me live electrical wires too.

Fingers Crossed!!!!!!11!11!!!!!!!!! LOL.

So I’m sitting on my bed, half nude - yeah I’ll get to something “unusual,” I promise - and I can’t help from being all reflective. It’s scary as hell. I mean for starters, I’m half nude and I’m not trying to think of ways to “accidentally” type “hot sex” into google and begin masterbating.

I’m actually thinking about stuff. And stuff that isn’t boobs, icecream, or my letter to Ben and Jerry’s for “boobberry sexplosion” icecream. I’m thinking about the past, and the thing that keeps bugging me is that lately I have written nothing down. I mean I’ve written papers, and essays, and hate mail to the Jews for stealing Pluto, but thats all work. I don’t write for fun anymore.

That sucks.

My stories are going untold.

People on the internet are reading “information” and “news,” and its all my fault. I haven’t given the people stories about drinking, young people, young people doing stupid things, or young people doing stupid things while drinking.

And where else online are they supposed to get things like that? A “Search Engine.” No Jackass. Fuck you. There’s nowhere online for such things. Sears.com? As much as you would think that’s a site for hardcore animal porn and chick fights, its actually a website for Sears. CNN.com? Although you’d think it a website for crazy nymphos and narcotics, its actually a place for “facts” and “knowledge.” Still don’t believe me? Go to google, and type in this simple search:

“Pornography where hardcore sex is performed, and at sometime during the act a skateboarder falls off a grind and breaks his neck while watching a cat fight a dog and a news anchorman says fuck on camera while discussing the latest Will Ferrell movie.”

Nothing. Not a god damn thing. Google can’t even find pornography, skating accidents, funny animals, profanity, or Will Ferrell online.

I rest my case.

And I plead my case. Whis is actually another case from the one I just rested. Which isn’t actually a case at all, its a figurative reference to a bunch of points. Actually both cases are, but this one is a different summation, and hence, I will present it now.

I promise, to continue to write on this “blog” (a personal abbreviation for “bite me logarithms, and in no way related to online journals), and to continue telling my stories. I promise never to realize when a point is too unimportant, non-consequential, or meaningless. I promise to write. I promise to write even when I have no idea what I am writing about (See Above). I promise to write without editing, proofreading, or considering my audience’s ability to link abstract thoughts into coherent rants (See Above). I promise to keep on doing what I have been doing. I promise to keep on writing about nothing (See Above).

I Promise (See “lying, misleading, fallacy, or drunk promise”).

Get a pet goldfish.

Get a pet goldfish and have to eat him.

Get a pet goldfish and have to eat him with the bowl he came in.

Play.

Play Marco Polo with my friends.

Play Marco Polo with my friends in Traffic.

Get a phone call.

Get a phone call from my doctor.

Get a phone call from my doctor regarding a purple rash around my penis.

Read a book.

Thats all I can do for that one.

Watch a movie.

Watch a movie about gang rape.

Watch a movie about gang rape with my Grandma.

Watch a movie about gang rape with my Grandma, which she happens to be in.

Take a nap outside.

Take a nap outside, while being doused with kerosene.

Take a nap outside while being doused with kerosene near a poorly consturcted campfire.

Anything.

Anything Ever.

ANYTHING MOTHERFUCKING EVER INVENTED, THOUGHT OF, OR WET DREAMED BY ANYONE.

Fin.

Because I’m an un-original asshole.

I’ve been looking back on a lot of my past posts lately, and with the exception of my quasi-linear drunken stories, every one of my posts follows this amazingly crappy formula.

And not just like a “pattern,” I’m following a cookie-cutter formula as strictly as the Wayan’s Brothers. Except my formula isn’t two black brothers + impossible scenario = pile of dog shit.

My Formula is a little more developed. I call it, “The Guido Date.”

First, I start with “the Cheesy Pick Up line.”

Nine out of ten times, this consists of me explaining my title, which “conveniently” is vague and incomplete.

For Example:

“Hey, You want to know whats Huge?”

“Well my Lips are saying my penis, but my heart is saying my overly inflated ego. And my propensity for bold lies.”

Now that I’ve got your attention, I move onto step 2. “The Catch.”

Now that I think I’ve lured you in with my comedic genius, I expand upon my brilliance. You thought me talking about my huge penis was interesting? Well you were completely right. And to reward you, I plan on talking about everything else that is big. These include my muscles, my hair, my wholesale vat of hair gel, and the scarface poster in my room. Although I won’t tell you this, this excludes my brains, my morals, or my ability to form sentences without “Forget-a-bout-it.”

Just when I know your hooked, I give you the old bait and swap, and I fly off the handle.

“Come on Baby, You know you want this.”

“Oh you wish you could have me, I’m to good for you. I own a button-down shirt!”

Thus I bring you to the close: what I affectionately call “The Rant.”

Now that you’ve seen what I have to offer, and have probably realized I’m not worth your time. I hit you with all I’ve got. I pull out the A-Material. I mean the best dick and fart jokes I’ve got. I put curse words together that you didn’t even think could be in the same dialect. And then, I lose all control of diction, and grammar. I speak in sentence fragments, verbs, and euphemisms.
I end up passing out on the best phrase I’ve got, which is probably what I should of said right as I started. One final realization.

“I’m the best Staten Island has to Offer! I’m the best Staten Island has to offer….”

God I wish I was more creative.

My entire life, I have been a pretty big pessimist. Normally, if you ask me if a glass is half full or half empty, I reply by saying,

“I don’t know what a glass is. My mother doesn’t believe in me having liquids.”

For the most part, besides the necessity of my weekly therapy sessions, being a pessimist has served me well. I expect little of people, and when they fall through, it doesn’t matter very much. I know my favorite sports teams will always lose, my hair will fall out when im 20 years old, and somehow Nickleback will continue to put out the same song over and over.

It’s bleak, but it works.

Or it Worked.

Now I’m freaking out. I think I’ve taken a completely wrong approach to life. I settled, when I should’ve dreamed. I passed when I should’ve taken the shot.

I Elizabeth Berkley-ed when I could have Tiffani Amber Thiessen-ed.

Why the sudden change in heart?

When I was five years old, I wanted to be an astronaut more than anything. I would’ve killed someone to be an astronaut. Jesus, I would have even read Little Women. But I gave up on my dreams, because I thought that astronauts were the cream of the crop, and I would never be able to get to that echelon of society.

Boy was I FUCKING WRONG.

Apparently no one told me that you could be fucking insane, and still be an astronaut. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I shun you for not reading the news. Long story short, a female astronaut fell in love with a crew member who already had a love interest, and so instead of giving up her space romance, she drove thousands of miles, to murder her man’s bitch.

Oh, i forgot, she drove thousands of miles IN A DIAPER.

A god damn diaper.

If a bitch like that can even fly in a commercial plane, let alone be an astronaut, then I should be the fucking captain of a space cruiser.

I mean don’t we check for psychosis and a complete lack of reasoning? Apparently not. Aparrently we just send whoever shows up into space. Here’s a potential interview:

Mission director: Hey, whats up?
Potential candidate: Space.
Mission director: Correct. You’re hired.
New Astronaut: I peed myself.

I mean holy shit. I can’t believe I abandoned my dream. I would have been a great astronaut. For starters, I have a great resume. I have diaper wearing experience, I haven’t attempted murder, oh, and I’M FUCKING SANE.

I’m just blown away.

Diaper Lady gets to be an astronaut, and I push tables for a living.

This is why I drink.

Now I don’t really consider myself a meathead. I can spell “llama,” I don’t own a container of supplement powder, and my back isn’t a pimply mess oddly comprable to an aerial picture of the Phillipines. Oh, and I dont suck ass.

But, to be fair, I do go the gym a lot.

I don’t honestly know what I do there, but I have learned a few things over the years. For example:

-ALWAYS flex your muscles for others to see, but NEVER let them know your doing it. Act like your scratching yourself, repairing a muscular tear without the aid of any medical equipment, or simply pointing out Ursa Minor in the sky. Some might construe it as an act of pure “douche-baggery,” but how could you not show off your man boobs and skin folds? Thats KRAZY!

Also,

-No matter how out of breath you are, breathe normally when people are approaching. Sweat Stains? Lying on your back? Dialing 911? People won’t catch these signs of weakness and exhaustion as long as you breathe normally when they’re near. Of course if that fails, flex, and say something about “man, I’m so ready for the big game.”

Most importantly though, if your a girl, and you have legs, there is one rule you must follow.

You must wear a pair of shorts with writing right on the ass cheeks.

When you’re really pushing it, when you are short of breath, and are striving to burn those extra 15 calories, Don’t let your thoughts go unsaid. Tell them all what you’re thinking practically and efficiently. Say it all with Ass Writing.

It’s a must. Unless you wanna be “Mrs. I don’t care about fashion, I’m sweating like a Thai Prostitute” you gotta have ass writing. Just make sure that when your cheeks do the talking, you know what they’re saying. Heres a helpful guideline.

- “Pink” - I am honest and sincere. I don’t want you to think otherwise, my vagina IS pink. I would like you also to know that 20 years from now, I will have a pair of shorts that I can sincerely punch myself for wearing.

- “Dance” - In 1997, when these shorts fit me, I was enrolled in a dance program. Now, years later, I cram into these shorts to remeber the good times, and accentuate my bodies high points. These include the overhang of my stomach, my spider veins, and my dancer chique “cankles.”

- “Star” - My ass is an unquantifiably large mass with its own gravitational field. Also, my athletic wardrobe is shoddy at best, and/or, i couldnt find my “SUPER STAR” shorts.

- “Army/Navy” - I am unique and patriotic, because me and my ass have some relationship to one of the hundreds of millions of individuals who serve in the American Armed Forces. To stress my support of Our Troops, I’m going to fly their banner on my sweaty ass crack as I gyrate on a treadmill.

- “Any Sport You Played in Highschool” - See this rump, it was once on a sports team. And not just any sports team, the sports team belonging to the subcategory mentioned on my cheeks. As you can see, I not only played “LAX,” I lived it. These 14 square inches of fabric are proof of that commitment.

Plus, there are thousands of more options. Don’t let the existing market, or the actual size of your ass deter you from wearing whatever statement you want to wear.

Just remeber:

Speak your mind by talking with your ass!

Sure I may not have a “degree,” or “experience,” but I have everything else a weatherman needs to succeed. Legs, hands, 4 - 5 brain cells, and the ability to create sentences which consist completely of probabilities and percentages which add up to ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOTHING (technically speaking of course).

Plus, As we speak, I’m revolutionizing the systems we use to classify different weather conditions.

For example, take my latest effort. For hundreds of winter-laden years, humans have struggled to fully describe the multitudes of snowy conditions that often besiege our cities. There are blizzards, flurries, and snow showers; but are these terms ever completely accurate?

No. The answer is no.

Because during this last couple of weeks, the weather at Marist has been beyond description. There have been temperatures lower then stock in the New York Knicks, sunny summer days, and then winds that are more fiercesome than Rosie O Donnell’s reproductive system. On top of that, we have been in a constant state of snow flurries, snow breezes, snow mists, and snow flakes, with absolutely no snow ever really accumulating on the ground. What do you call that?

I call “Fisting.”

The most unbearable combination of weather conditions, “Fisting” stems from the unholy matrimony of having snow “flurries” and “rainy misting.” Its like perpetually being pelted with ice shavings by a disabled by five year old. Believe it or not, it sucks ass. It incorporates all of the shitty aspects of winter, without the fun of snow, school cancellations, or dangerous conditions for old people to venture outside in. Meteorlogically speaking of course, “Fisting” is actually like being fisted.

But with a flag pole.

Everytime you walk outside.

It is unbearable. Just like shitty weathermen. Which is why I should be a weatherman. Because……

Fuck it. I just wanted to say that flurries + misting = fisting.

The rest of this, completely meaningless.

But speaking of completely meaningless, now I really do feel like a weatherman. Damn I’m cohesive.

I would punch Ralph Waldo Emerson in the kidneys.

And then I’d steal his pen.

Now I’m not saying that Emerson is a bad writer, because I honestly believe that he is one of the most poignant and profound individuals that I have ever read in my life.

Or more so thats what I would believe if I could get through more than two sentences of his shit. Its unbearable. Nothing is simple. Every idea is supported by 14 examples, which all somehow find themselves compiled into one sentence. Then to make matters worse, that entire sentence is constructed of words that would confuse a fucking thesaurus.

For example, look at Emerson bumblefuck himself through a thought.

“In this pleasing contrite wood-life which God allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without prospect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found to be symmetrical, though I mean it not and see it not.”

It’s freaking unbelievable. Everything the man says is agonizing. Here’s a couple lines later, when it appears as though Emerson gets bored, and decides to write a monologue for a mental patient.

“We are like children who repeat by rote the sentences of grandames and tutors, and as they grow older, of the men of talents and character they chance to see, — painfully recollecting the exact words they spoke; afterwards, when they come into the point of view which those who uttered these sayings, they understand them and are willing to let the words go; for at any time they can use words as good when occasion comes.”

I mean he’s brilliant, but I would rather read the suffocation labels on a plastic bag.

From the inside.

While on fire.

Halfway through the piece, I didnt even see words anymore. All I saw were these incoherent masses of text. It was like Emerson wiped his ass on a piece of looseleaf and then drew outlines of the shapes. I can’t believe that I need to read this crap, and for some reason, I’m supposed to appreciate it.

Just because someone is smart, and has good ideas, they are not automatically a great writer. That’s like saying that since George Bush is our president, and we elected him, hes a man of some value. Or that because Jaws was good, we shouldn’t burn Steven Spielberg alive for creating “AI.”

Intelligence + Truth = Wise Words,

But,

Wise Words + Emerson = The literary equivalent of a dead cat.

Take that dead guy!