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Sunday, December 28, 2014                        

Coming Soon: The Entry!

Hello jerks.  It's me.  The guy who writes entries!  I don't think I know even one other person who writes entries on a regular basis.  I'm the best!  Let's throw a party in my honor.  My remote is broken.  What The Hell.  It showed me how much I rely on T.V. in my daily life to distract myself from the horror of the truth.  The horror, the horror.  All I'm good at is titling entries.  Other than that, my life is pretty empty.  At least the channel it's stuck on is Comedy Central.  I was in and out of sleep last night while Shallow Hal was on.  Could be worse.  I think that's the situation they made Shallow Hal for.  When your remote is broken, and they want you to figure, Well, it could be worse.  Now it's stuck on Coming To America.  That's how that goes.  Anyway.  The Christmas season is over.  Now it's the New Years season.  I don't like it one bit.  The next year is nothing but Horror, The Horror.  I'm bound to take a few steps back, considering how relatively good 2014 was.  I mean, I don't have much to look forward to.  Keep doing what I've been doing, and do that for several more years.  Yawn.  At least I don't have a job like you suckers.  My mental illness is paying the bills.  I got a pack of gum.  Gum is one of those things where, I don't specifically ever want or need it, but once I have it, I'm like, "I should never not be chewing gum.  It's great."  Four out of five dentists recommend dentists.  The fifth has very low self esteem.  I wanna spit out this gum to smoke a cigarette.  There goes that line of joke.  I'm a false based liar.
    Anyway, whatever.  My finger hurts.  I blame you.  Whoever you are.  Doesn't really matter.  Whoever you are, it's your fault.  Eddie Murphy around the world, he's coming to America.  That's what I got for you.  Enjoy.  What else is going on.  I need T.V. back.  Either that, or some sort of social life.  So, probably T.V.  I had never seen C2A before, but my Dad used to quote the part where he gets his ass wiped by servants a lot.  "Wipers!"
 That's my Dad for ya.  That's my Dad for me.  Get your own.  Now Tommy Boy is on.  That's a nice father/son movie.  It's not time, to make a change/Specially cause my remote is broken.  Waka waka waka.  I'm happy with that joke.  It validates the entire entry, as far as I'm concerned.  Assuming I can work in one or two more jokes of similar quality and characteristics over the rest of the entry.  I probably can.  We'll see.  I got my fingers crossed.  Not literally.  I don't have the time to cross my fingers, I'm busy typing.  Anyway, gotta finish this entry.  Because that's the kind of guy I am.  Guy who finishes stuff.  It's a lot better than not finishing stuff.  I can't wait till January, because with the new month comes a new color scheme.  What colors will it be?  Stay tuned! 


New Years Happened.

    Hi!  It's 2015.  That's right, 20.  Didn't jump in space any centuries, either forward or backward.  At least, not to my knowledge.  I guess it's possible we all jumped to 1815, but since we all did, our points of reference all remain the same.  Only you and me know about it.  Anyway.  I'm gonna finish this entry of December in December, as God intended it.  Anyway.  For my New Years resolution, I realized that Free Willy is a pun.  What else have I been missing out on.  And Big Miracle is just blatant sarcasm.   What's next, A Whale of a Movie?  Probably.  Whale Whit-ler.  That's the quality of non sequitur you've come to expect from me.  Also, I've made progress in how I drink my alcohol consumption.  Now I get six packs of beer.  And keep em in my fridge.  I like to imagine that I'm a 26 year old shacking up with these old geezers that I used to call my parents.  Like, do you remember Roy, from the Poochie episode of The Simpsons?  That's me in my house, now.  But, on the real, it's a lot more convenient this way.  I can control portion sizes, and so on and whatnot.  Six packs of beer?  That's 36 beers!  You idiot.  Also, when I say now, I mean starting fifteen minutes ago.  Hey, when it's time to set a precedence, it's time to set a precedence.  I like in Disney World, the Hall of Precedence.  It's just a old drawing of Mickey Mouse, and it says Tom & Jerry owe me big time.  Cartoon mouse?  Disney has precedence.  That was a long way to go for little pay off.  Is Mickey a Mouse a racial slur against the Irish?  Probably.  Is Modest Mouse a racial slur against the modest?  I don't know, you figure it out.
    On the real, though, hello.  Next, on The Real... they they show some reel of footage from the upcoming episode.  Reels and reels and reals.  Is The Real a real show?   Yep, it is.  I knew it.  Pay up.  Or, do you wanna go double or nothing on Is Maury a real show?  I'll give you ten to one odds that it's not.  You'd be a sucker not to make that bet.  It's not double or nothing, anymore, though.  It's an entirely new mathematical equation.  That's how I feel about things.  Anyway, floss.  I got some floss.  You want any floss?  I got plenty.  Anyway.  I decided not to take my Winter class.  For various reasons.  The main one being that I felt I could use a break.  So, I went to McDonalds, as per their commercial guidelines, and there I decided to drop the class.  Not before ordering a double hamburger, just the bread.  Loadin' up on carbs.  Why did you need to get a double hamburger?  Because it was On Sale.  Mario Cuomo died.  I can only assume to join his brother Luigi in Heaven.  Are we really sure he died, though?  Maybe he just went down a tunnel, never to be seen or heard from again.  I remember I once had a dream, maybe when I was around eight, that I was playing the original Mario, and at the end of level one, where you are supposed to jump as high as you can at the finish line, and the higher you're at, the more points you get, well, at that point, I jumped over the finish line, and then there was a whole new hidden level after that point.  And I hung around there until I woke up.  It was awesome.
    It all turned out to be just a dream.
  Yeah, the greatest dream of my life!  The only thing I know about Mario Cuomo I learned from The Critic.  They made a joke about his indecisiveness of running for president.  Also, that I went to Marie Curie middle school.  Mario Cuomo, Marie Curie... same thing.  Anyway.  I'm twenty six years old.  When I bought my beer, I took it to the cashier, I swiped my credit card, signed the receipt, and went on my way.  No asking for identification.  Why?  Because I'm 26.  I'm the manliest little boy ever!  Or the loneliest mole man ever.  One of those, same thing.  Anyway.  Entry just flew by, didn't it.  What a joy.  I'd write an extra paragraph or two, but, you know.  Got things to do.  Places to be.  What other titles are puns, gotta ponder that one for a while.  Let's see, looking at my DVD collection...  I used to think Adaptation was a pun, before I realized that Adaptation and Adaption were different words.  I guess Adaption isn't a word.  I used to think it was, briefly.  Adoption is a word.  That's how I feel about things, and that's how I'll always feel about things.  I guess I can write an extra paragraph.  Night of the Living Dead.  It's like they're knighting the living dead.  So now we have to call them Sir Zombie.  That's right, I'm an idiot.  Anyway.  Year is 2015?  Something doesn't feel right.  It'll be November, and I'll still be like, Nah, this can't be true!  It's the year after 2014, and the year before 2016.  Why put a label on it?  That's all it needs to be.  Anyway, late.

1:47 P.M.                         


Friday, December 26, 2014                        

Whatta Title!

Wasn't I gonna quit using the word, "Title?"  Well, in pun form, at least.  That's clearly an appropriate noun in that phrase.  So, it's okay, I guess.  It was Christmas yesterday!  Fun 2 Tha Max!  This year, there was only zero relatives I accidently hitted on without realizing I was related to them.  How much was it last year?  One!  Well, hitting on is a little extreme.  I was just like, I'm Mike, what's your name?  And they were like, I'm ******, your second cousin.  And I was like, "Oh yeah, right, right."  and rubbed soap into my eyes so I would forget forever that embarrassment.  I mean, thankfully, I really didn't get to the point where I was hitting on her.  But in my mind, I was there.  Oh boy, was I.  Anyway.  Family is good.  But now, we must rebuild.  There's an entire year before us with no Christmases. 2014 was a relatively productive year, if you take into account how unproductive I usually am.  I did four albums of music, about an entry of crazysheet every other day, three Queens College classes, lost a few pounds.  Will 2015 equal or even surpass that level of production?  I can hardly imagine.  In my imagination, I just lay in a vegetative state for the rest of my life, pretty much.  So anything above that is pretty much progress.  I'm starting to seriously consider a music teacher.  I mean, comedy, yeah, I love it.  If I could choose, "Career in comedy," or, "Career in music," I'd definitely choose comedy.  But I'm not as quick witted as I once was, and there's not really classes you can take in comedy.  I mean, there's UCB classes, but that's more to show off what you've already got.  They don't teach you how to be quick in scenes, and stuff, really, it's more about showcasing what you've already got.  But I can quantitatively take lessons which improve my guitar and/or vocal ability.  Either way, I'll probably get a job as a librarian.
    I wanna be a librarian.  Just have a poster behind me that says, "Shh!" and any time someone calls for my services, just point to the poster.  Except in Ghostbusters, there was a ghost in a library.  I don't need to deal with no ghosts.  Unless I get paid extra.  You can put a price on anything.  My main memory of libraries is in sixth grade, I rented a movie called, "Smoke Signals," from a library for a class.  It was about American Indians, and the only thing I remember is that one of the mothers in the movie made good, "Soda Bread."  And they were always like, "I love that soda bread!" in their crazy accents.  I remember in elementary school, we would take class trips to the library.  The library, which was two blocks away.  Which we could easily just go to after school.  But, no, we had to go there during school.  Whatta joke.  I guess they figured, If we could hook these kids in early, they'll be going to the library for life!  Who goes the the library.  Other than homeless people who need a quiet place to defecate in, and school children.  Someone should rob a library.  Everyone on the ground, you know what this is!  And then take a bunch of books without signing them out with the librarian.  Luckily, no one would have to get on the ground, because there's nobody in libraries.  Libraries always have nice buildings, though.  Because the city/state wants to make it an attractive place, so they spend millions of dollars to make the structure look attractive.  Why don't homeless people change their name to Raisinin T. Sun. and move to the library.  I'd live in a library.  Why not.
    There's no good reason why not, that's why.  Library.  Pshh.  I bet in Texas, Libraries are places where you could rent guns for 10-14 days.  Cause they don't like reading, but they like guns.  That's the basis for that joke.  Get it?  Good.  Because, that makes it 15% funny.  If you don't get it, then it's 85% confusing.  Remember the Alamo.  The Mexicans should have told themselves to remember the Alamo.  Hey we won this battle, I bet we could win the war!  Makes sense to me.  Maybe it's just me, but I'm against the Louisiana Purchase.  Has anything good ever come from east of the Mississippi?  They made The Shawshank Redemption in Los Angeles, I assume.  That's one thing.  I can't think of anything else.  I wish I could move into the place Brooks and Red lived.  Brooks was here.  So was Red.  Mike, Too!  I was Totes Magotes Here!  If only.  I wish I could get a job at the supermarket Red worked at.  Double bag, that's all you need to remember.  Pretty straightforward stuff.  Anyway, half way through the entry.  That means I need to write 100% of what I already have written.  That's math for ya.  My remote broke.  I can't watch T.V. without a remote!  This ain't the 1950's.  If it was, I'd probably be like, I can't wait to see Richard Nixon V. John Kennedy!  I bet one of them looks a lot better than the other one on T.V.  And then, ten years later, when T.V. is out of style, Nixon is right back in the thick of it!  How's that for poetic justice for ya.  Especially if Nixon wrote a poem about it.  I won, by Richard Nixon.  I ran for president a second time, I knew the presidency would be mine.  It was easier this time around, because the public was used to my fashionable frown.  I hated hippies, I was for Vietnam, I made a tripsy to the farm.  Way before there was Deep Throat, for me the public turned out to vote.  Kennedy's dead, I'm back in fashion, thank God I won this election.  Anyway.  He's  pretty good poet.  I can't believe McGovern lost.  His name is exactly what he was supposed to do!  Obviously he would have been good at it.  That's like if I lost an election of who would be good at farming corn.
    Alrightio.  What else is going on.  Yoga in the Spring!  Everyone loves yoga.  And, if not, everyone loves Spring!  Hey, look, it's warm again!  I never thought that would happen!  Whatta deal! I dont' get why everyone considers Winter the end of the year.  It's only a week and a half in the end.  It should be Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall.  But most people think, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter.  What are you, stupid?  You morons.  What idiots.  Winter is first, you dolts.  Holy shit @ your stupidity.  I find it pretty convenient that a second lasts as long as it lasts.  Sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, 24 hours in a day.  That reeks of corruption.  Things shouldn't work out that nicely.  Three hundred sixty five days in a year, most of the time.  I'm not buying it.  No Siree Bob.  Anyway.  Christmas.  What fun.  It's like, here's a group of people that have to tolerate your prescience for a few hours.  Have to!  You ain't going anywhere, I have to tell you about what I have coming up in the next year.  Suckers.  Of course, I have to listen to them too.  That's fine.  I love listening to people!  Holy shit, these guys have lives outside of how they relate to me!  Interesting as fuck!  And kids.  Kids running around!  How charming.  I need something new to look forward to.  Yoga class?  Okay.  Hopefully, my winter screen writing class which starts next Friday, hopefully?  If there's enough people?  That should be fun.  New Monkees?  Probably not.  The Undergrounders?  Probably not.  Homeless Girlfriend?  Probably not.  I'll think of something.
    Last paragraph time.  That's fun.  Hopefully I get my new remote soon.  How long can I go without T.v.?  It's not right.  Depriving oneself of T.V. is like torture, in this day and age.  Unless if you're a person who watches everything online.  Then it's pretty straightforward stuff.  But I'm not one of those persons!  Yeah!  That's how that goes!  Probably, I forgot what I said.  But, either way, let's continue.  I wrote an entry.  Almost.  Still a little bit to go.  That's how that goes.  Hey, I gotta half a paragraph to write!  I wonder how awesome it will be.  Mostly awesome, or extremely awesome.  If extremely, I might write an extentra paragraph.  And coin the word, "Extentra."  is like extra, but extra!  I remember, I used to have a friend that I would play, "Make Me Laugh," with.  Make Me Laugh was a T.V. show where a comedian had to make a contestant laugh within 30 or so seconds.  And I would play it with my friend.  The last time I played it, I made him laugh immediately by saying, "So, you wear glasses?" but then never again after that.  It's a fun game.  I was pretty good on both sides, making people laugh, and keeping myself from laughing.  That's exactly the kind of crap that fills up a paragraph.  But also makes me think, "Should I include an extra paragraph, to make up with the crap I included in these first five?"  Probably.  But, still, six mediocre paragraphs is worth more than five adequate ones.  That's how I value things, and stuff.  Quantity over quality.  So, see ya later.

-4:08 P.M.                          


Tuesday, December 23, 2014                        

You Got Here Just In Time For The Entry!

Knocked it out of the park yet again!  Whatta title.  Anyway, see ya later.

-9:08 A.M


I'm just joshing around.  What's really going on.  I've never had a friend named Josh.  Seems like I'm really missing out.  And, I've never known what's really going on.  Whatta coincidence.  Let's get into some entry, though.  Today's entry is brought to you by-- brief sobriety.  When you don't want to drink at 9 A.M., consider brief sobriety.  I did, and look at me now!  I'm living the dream.  I've always wanted to be included in high sobriety.  Which, it turns out, is an oxy-moron.  When I grow up, I want to be an Oxycontin moron.  If I can find it on the black market, I'd want to take whatever drug it is that they give you that makes you fall asleep in five seconds.  I think that might have been what Michael Jackson was up to.  But, why not, it's great.  Or, at the very least, get my own oxygen tank.  You know, for fun.  You suckers are breathing regular air.  Also stick myself with needles.  I don't need to be doing heroin or anything, I just like the sensation of needles.  That's called acupuncture.  You're called acupuncture!  You can't spell acupuncture without pun.  That qualifier would have been more powerful if I had made a pun with the word acupuncture.  But, what am I, made of puns?  Hardly.  I'm made of blood and ornaments.  I mean, organs.  Whatever.  Did you know the human body is 80% water?  Did you know you're 100% Bullshit?  Yikes.  Humans only use 10% of their brain.  I use 10% of my foot in your ass.  Anyway.
    One paragraph down.  At this rate, I'll have five paragraphs eventually.  That should be nice.  How come liquor stores don't sell soda and juice and stuff, for mixers.  They could be doubling their profits.  Maybe even tripling them.   Anyway.  I'm full of great business ideas.  Now I gotta think of another one to live up to that declaration.  What have I gotten myself into.  Well, anyway.  I hate it when people write words or images into concrete when it's wet.  Now, every time I take a walk, I have to re-read the same stuff every day.  Yeah, I read that yesterday.  Where's Dufrane's rock axe when you need it.  I could carve it so I distort the words.  Or, at the very least, lay down a poster of Raquel Welch and staple it to the sidewalk.  Yeah, fish.  I read that yesterday.  Come up with some new material, sidewalks!  That's how I feel about things.  Probably.  I don't really remember.  I do know I have three paragraphs and change to go.  My new neighbors moved in.  One girl whose college aged, but I haven't seen her yet.  That's exciting.  Looks like we're neighbors, now.  Can I come over some time?  Come over in your mouth?  Smooth like lemonade.  Smooth like J.B. Smoove.   When life gives you lemons, you have a lemon party.  I kind of need to google that, to make sure that's a thing, but I really, really don't want to.  So, I'm not gonna.  Oh, what the Hell!  Yup, pretty much was what I thought.
    Anyway.  I need new stuff to listen to during my exercising.  For months, I've just been cycling through my own songs.  Someone's gotta listen to them.  Not really.  Either way, though, let's move on.  I have to write more paragraph.  Why, God, why?  Don't start something you can't finish.  That doesn't sound like God.  Ass, gas, or grass.  God's really different than I thought he would be.  I melt in your mouth, not your hands.  God's kind of a pervert.  Anyway.  That's why he didn't want us to eat the knowledge fruit.  He wanted us naked 24/7.  So he can watch us with his peepers from up above.  We kid God, he's a friend of the website.  Also, I wanna go to Heaven.  That's the practical reason for not getting on his bad side.  I'm no dummy.  When Santa checks his list twice, does one of those times include when he made the list?  Like, is checking it twice, making the list and then checking it once?  Or making the list, checking it, then checking it again?  I need to know, for a friend.  A very naughty friend.  Hoping to get some presents on a technicality.  Why does Santa live on the north pole.  Who came up with that.  Why can't Santa live in Iowa, or something.  Is it just because people think Christmas=Winter=Cold=North Pole?  Because, my friends, that's some faulty logic.
    Yup.  Yip.  Yep.  I mean, I guess it's just because he'd need to be in a secluded place, to carry out his work in peace.  But then, why can't he be in Siberia, or something.  Qatar.  Galapagos Islands.  Also, The Santa Clause.  How much of that movie is based in fact.  50%?  70%?  Is it 70%?  Anyway.  I gotta finish this entry.  I just took a break.  Now I'm back.  And I still have to finish this entry.  That much has stayed the same.  How much of this entry is done.  70%?  Is it 70%?  Let's see.  3.5/5.  5 x 20 = 100. 3.5 x 20 = SEVENTY.  Have a party, everyone!  Well, that's good news.  Everything worked out as it should've.  Now, gotta write 30% of an entry?  That doesn't sound fair.  I already got excited by a number.  What more do you want from me.  I haven't been this excited by a number since M.O.P. said, "Representin' 1718, dangerously."  Anyway.  Seventy deadly sins.  After the first dozen or so, it was stuff like Not double knotting your shoe laces, you know, really scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to faults.  Also, only using one example when the rules of comedy clearly specify you need three in a joke.  Guilty as charged.  We could write jokes proficiently, or we could move on.  I vote for moving on.  Also, liquor stores don't sell beer.  There's gotta be some law, or something, that makes it so they can't sell these other fluids.  Otherwise, they would.  Right?  Probably.  I remember, over the last couple of years, whenever I would go into the city, I would always get a beer in Penn Station to drink on the train on the way home.  Because, my parents funded this excursion, and when else am I gonna have free money to use on alcohol, might as well always fit in as much alcohol as I can in the trip.  That's just logic, common sense type stuff, ya know. 
    Anyway.  We made it to the last paragraph.  You and me, we're in this together.  One would imagine.  We've been entrying it up, haven't we?  No doubt.  It's been fun.  Relatively speaking.  Better than nothing.  A few houses down from my house, 80% of my walks, there's an empty bottle of liquor laying on the grass.  Now, we have people who do maintenance work for the neighborhood, which would include cleaning that stuff up.  So that means, every day, I have a neighbor who decides to litter an empty bottle of vodka in front of his house.  Every day.  Could it be a homeless person?  Probably not.  It's always in the same place, and besides, you don't see a lot of homeless around here.  Maybe it's someone in a similar position I'm in, and wants to keep his drinking a secret from his housemates.  But, then, why litter right in front of your house?  There's got to be a better way.  Maybe the guy lives a couple blocks away, and just always goes to this spot to discard the evidence.  I don't know.  I don't want to know. I mean, I do want to know.  I just thought it would make sense if I said, "I don't want to know," in terms of being poetic and English-ing about it.  Maybe it's a subliminal advertising campaign by Smirnoff.  Hey, look at that trash.  Hmm, I could go for a drink, actually.  They've got my number.  Seventy.  See ya later.

-11:47 A.M.                                        


Monday, December 22, 2014                        

You Asked For It!  New Entry At Crazysheet!  Well, You Didn't Specifically Not Ask For It!

Way to go guys, using yesterday's tape.  It's a reference to a movie.  You wouldn't understand.  I don't get ticker-tape parades.  Let's litter in celebration!  And then, have a parade to celebrate how great this parade was!  Oh, Hell, let's just never not have a parade.  Did you know, the only thing on Earth that you can make out from space is a well executed parade?  It's the truth.  I used to listen to a podcast called Shit Parade.  I forget why, or what, or any of the logistics.  Anyway.  I had an idea for a podcast where I just interview any acquaintance who happens to pop into my life.  Except, in this scenario, I'm affable and have a social life.  And, ideally, it's people trying to make it in the funny business, or the music business, or something creative like that.  But it really could be anybody.  And the podcast's de facto role is to sorta form a community for these artist types.  And it's called Let's Make a Scene.  With Michael Kornblum.  I also have an idea to become a fortune cookie philosopher.  Here's a bit of wisdom I came up with recently-- "We're Free To Do What We Want, But What We Want To Do Is Be Free."  Put that in a fortune cookie, bam, pay me 20 dollars for the thought, we all walk away happy.  Also, I'm good at the lucky numbers.  "6 32 1 34 43 16"  Another 20 dollars for that, thank you very much.  Hire someone to make the English-Chinese translations, split that money 50/50.  Anyway.  Let's Make a Scene.  Pun'd it.  I have zero friends, what makes me think I can form a scene.  Self delusion, for one.  Also, for two, three, and four.  Five, your garden variety idiocy.
    Anyway.  Here's another fortune cookie fortune-- "I'm Inside The House!"  Because the fortune cookie is like a house for the fortune.  That's why.  Maybe a fortune cookie fortune from a Nigerian prince.  Look, we could mine this topic for humor for another paragraph, or we can move on.  I vote for moving on.  It's the easier thing for me to do.  What else is going on.  Also, I should be clear, even though podcaster and philosopher would be great things to be, I pretty obviously don't have the skill set required to succeed at them.  I can barely live up to the title of, "Blogger."  And that's one of the worst titles there is.  Identifying someone as a, "Blogger," lumps them together with pretty much the worst human beings on the planet.  That's how I feel.  One day, maybe, blogging will be an accepted artistic process.  Like, if blogs were around in the 19th century, there'd be no Narrative of Fredrick Douglass.  It'd be FredrickDouglass.com/blog.html.  I read that for my last class, that's why it's fresh in my mind.  Or maybe @TheRealFredrickDouglass on twitter.  Also, I don't think it's yesterday's tape.  Yesterday's something.  A word they use in the radio business.  Oh, I know.  Tape.  Got it.  What else is going on.  Maybe I should pull a Captain Phillips in my screenplay class.  I am the teacher now.  Is that your final answer?  I guess not.
    So, hey there.  It was snowing a little bit yesterday, and in my mind, I thought, "Hmm, it's Wintering outside."  Because I no longer speak English proficiently.  That's how that goes.  So, friend, you say you're trying to make it in comedy. ... ... ... Favorite number, from one to ten?  Oop, that's all the time we have for this show.  Stay tuned for next week's show where we interview my brother about his favorite colors.  That's how that might go.  On occasion, I've tried to get my Dad to tell me his favorite number, because he's a math teacher, so if anyone's got a favorite number, his would probably be the most accurate.  He doesn't have one, though.  I find that hard to believe.  I once bullied him into telling me his favorite variable, and he said X.  I think he was just caving into the pressure I was putting on him, though, I don't think I really meant it.  Stay tuned next week when we talk to my Dad about math puns.  It turns out my family is all the scene I need.  Thank God, too.  I can't stand these comedians and artistic types.  But, that's actually a pretty good idea for a podcast, I think.  What's the idea, there's no idea!  Just have a microphone and interview people, that's your idea!!  You got that right.  Anyway, I can't have a podcast.  Ninety percent of my jokes, afterward, I'd have a soundboard guy who inserts a clip of crickets chirping.  But I'd also have a D.J. voice saying, "You Got Blammed!" for the other 10% of the time.  And by a D.J. voice, I mean we'll hire the kid who played D.J. on Roseanne to be our intern.
    So, now that we've had you on the show, will you be friends with me?  Alright, let's take a break, you can answer when we get back.  Also, I can't be the only one whose upset Serial isn't about Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  That's my topical humor.  We'll bring the guest in in a second.  Okay.  I can't be the only one whose upset Topical Humor isn't about tapioca.  Christmas in a few days.  Not only do I like Christmas, I like spending time with my immediate family, I like spending time with my further family, I like eating, getting presents... I get to ride in a car on the highway and bridges!  Magical.  Yeah, anyway.  Paragraph and a half to go.  Probably the one time I felt really, really comfortable performing, was when I was playing Rock Band late all night with the volume down, high and/or drunk, and they have the graphics of people cheering in the background, and I really felt like, Yeah, I'm doin' great!  They love me!  If I could capture that feeling for when I'm on stage, in front of real people, doing an open mic, we might actually see me get somewhere.  Anyway.  I still may get a guitar teacher.  It's within the realm of possibility.  It's pretty expensive, though.  But if I'm ever gonna make sure my parents kiss at the Enchantment Under The Sea dance, I'm gonna need to play some guitar.  It's practical, more than anything.  Unless you play guitar, the show isn't going on.  I do play guitar!  Whew.  Right handed guitar?  That's what we got.  Oh, oh shit.  Shit shit shit.  Eh.  I could play power chords on a right handed guitar, that's about it, though.  That's about it for left handed guitar, too.  Bango! 
    Okay.  Curtis Kobain played left handed guitar.  So did James Hendrix.  Actually, he played right handed guitar backwards.  Sir Paul McCarthy played left guitar.  I find it weird that McCarthy and Lenin were in a band together, you'd think they'd be sworn enemies.  I'm the 13,642 person to make that joke.  At least I'm better than the 13,643rd person.  Way ahead of you, buddy.  Anyway, it's about that time again.  Entry winding down.  What have we learned here today.  I can't do anything.  I'm completely useless.  Everything I attempt to do, I fail at.  I have no friends.  I don't even know the word, "Snow," anymore.  My dad doesn't have a favorite number.  I can't play a regular guitar.  If someone does the work for me, I can earn 50% of what he would make.  That's about it, I guess.  Catch ya on the flip side, partner.

-10:25 A.M.                                   


Sunday, December 21, 2014                        

You Asked For It!  New Entry At Crazysheet!  Well, You Didn't Specifically Not Ask For It!

Yes, indeed.  Let's Sunday it up.  What's in the news this morning.  I recently found out all my great grandfathers names.  Anyway, moving on.  I forgot most of the names.  Anyway, moving on.  Most of them were from the old country.  Which old country?  You know, one of the old ones.  That cluster in the mid-right part of the map.  You know what I'm talking about.  But they all came here in search for a better life.  And a place where their great grandchild can make funnybones with strangers on the internet.  Anyway, today is the first day of winter, I've been led to believe.  If you change the first letters of his first and last name, Ted Leo becomes Led Teo.  Led in a band name?  That's like royalty!  That's what I've been led to believe, at least.  Also, that song Royals isn't like royalty.  It's about as far away from royalty as you can get, when you really think about it.  I can't wait till Yoga class, where I can learn to relax my body and focus my mind on what really matters-- What's the deal with that song Royals?  Is it like royalty, or not?  Think about that for an hour every day before I go to bed.  The good news is, you already read this paragraph, jokes on you.  Checkmate, one might say.  Chess is a good game if you like bullshit.  I remember, when I was kinda first getting sick in NYU, I decided to play one of those chess masters in Washington Square Park for twenty dollars.  I don't think I thought I could win, I think I was just high/drunk/bored.  I kinda thought of it as charity.  Go figure.
    Alright.  What's the band that plays Royals?  Is it Kansas?  I know they do (There's No Place Like) Home.  And if there was a song called, What's The Matter, they'd do that.  Those are the only three things I know about Kansas.  Baseball, Wizard of Oz, and that something's the matter with Kansas.  Also, it's in the middle somewhere, and is probably one of those square states.  Probably near above Texas.  If a manager asked me what to do with an incompetent worker, I'd say, "Shit Kansas Ass."  Puns, puns, puns.  I like puns.  Also not a bad name for my middle-America pornography website.  It's not scat, it's just like, Shit!! Kansas Ass.  I got my attention.  Is Kansas one of the places the President is from?  Probably.  Once you go Kansas, you never go Bang SisUnless you're in Kentucky, or Florida, or one of those states.  I'm gonna be honest, I'm not 100% satisfied with that joke.  But, in the face of adversity, I succeeded in achieving my overarching goal of filling space.  Where's my Parade.  I think the only parade I ever went to was the Holiday parade.  You know, that one.  I had fun until the bulls trampled me to death.  Because, after all, what is the running of the bulls if not just a really fast parade.  I'm goin' to Wichita/Our band's name is Kansas forevermore.  That's a song that happened once.  I remember being in an Applebee's once and they were playing a jazz version of Fell In Love With a Girl.  I once heard a song somewhere.  You didn't specifically not ask for it!
    From now on, though, you probably will.  Nobody needs this nonsense.  Except for me.  You know why?  Because my life is supremely empty.  I wanna do a Rorschach test, and for each slide, I'll just say, Rorschach picture, Rorschach picture...  I'd get 100%.  Because I'm a genius.  This patient obviously wants to project a snarky intelligence, but is even more obviously severely closed off and empty inside.  Nailed it!  Like I said, 100%.  Christmas is in a few days.  I love me some Christmas.  Probably from growing up Jewish.  Christmas is the new Jewish.  That's how I feel.  I think Carry On My Wayward Son was about Jesus.  Either that, or me.  Me, me, me.  Probably telling me to finish up this entry.  Sure thing, fellas.  I guess.  Why don't you carry on, jerk.  Every new years, I watch the The Twilight Zone parade.  There's my parade.  I don't like the 2000's.  Can't we start going backward?  I wanna do the 90's again.  See what the 80's and 70's were all about.  Chill out in the sixties.  Die...  I don't wanna be fucking around in 2030.  That's too high a number.  What about The High Numbers?  This isn't the sixties, moron!  They're the superb owls, now, The Who!  It's only a matter of time that there'll be a band called The Superbowls.  There's Bowling For Soup.  There's Superman, the song, by Goldfinger.  Hoo, hoo.  You took a white orchid and made it blue, didn't you. Didn't you.  Until you say something, you're grounded, mister.  When he's old enough, I wonder if Jack White's son'll be like, So, because of our name, does that mean I'm in the White Stripes?  And Jack'll go, No, of course not, son.  You've been completely useless up to this point.  Now, let's try to enjoy our Christmas dinner.  Here, I got you a book about guitars.
    There'll be peace when you are done.  I don't think, even if I raised them Christian, I would ever perpetuate Santa to my kids.  That's just weird.  Hey, a weirdo stranger breaks into our house and leaves the little children presents.  Let's worship him.  Something's really wrong in that scenario.  And, yeah, I know it's hacky to complain about Santa, but, let's face facts, it's extremely weird and egregious.  I probably feel that way from not having grown up with it, but still.  It's stupid.  Maybe it's because I'm so ignorant of him, I don't feel I'd be able to properly incorporate him into my children's lives.  That's probably what's goin on, deep down inside.  Most of the information I have about Santa Claus comes from The Nightmare Before Christmas.  Hey, kids, there's a war on Christmas.  Are you ready to fight back?  Are you ready to fight back?  Good, go to sleep.  That's how that might go.  One would imagine.  Anyway, I'll see ya later.

-10:18 A.M.             


Saturday, December 20, 2014                        

You Just Got Blammed!

Finally.  It's been months since I Blammed someone, I started to question whether I still had it in me.  Anyway, gotta go to the good ol' QC to hand in my final paper in a couple of hours, but besides that, nothin' to do again.  I mean, sure, there's drinking.  I could do that forever.  But I probably shouldn't.  There's rumors of bad health effects from doing such a thing.  What if, for my screenplay for next class, I title it, I'm Going To Kill You, Professor?  That'd probably get a reaction from the teacher.  Oh, I just had the greatest idea.  I'm going to write a movie where Dat Phan works in a hair salon and knows everybody's secrets!  I ought to do that for real.  People love jokesters. Dat Phan is about to get Blammed.  I hope he's ready for it.  No one can fully prepare themselves for getting Blammed.  It's an experience like no other.  So, Matt, do you have any secrets for me?  Matt looks to his left, then to his right.  My family's ashamed of me.  Cue hitting a gong sound, then that Chinese chop-sticks-type melody on the piano.   What's his conflict, though.  Maybe he has it in for Julian Assange, because he makes people's secrets accessible to everyone.  Dat Phan wants to be the only one with people's secrets.  And he needs to decide whether to take the red pill or the blue pill, whether to stay in the Matrix, or not.  And the bus can't go under 55 miles per hour.  And he has an excellent adventure.  Maybe I should just write a screenplay with Keanu Reeves as the imagined star, that seems to be where my line of thought is going.  What if they're trying to recruit Keanu Reeves to play Superman, because of his last name, but he doesn't really want to.  And he's studying for a role by working in a hair salon, where, inevitably, everybody tells him their secrets.  Makes sense to me.
    Anyway.  If I have to write a screenplay for the class, I'm gonna make it count.  No bullshitting around like I'm doing here.  If I'm writing 90-120 pages of something, it ought to be something worth reading.  Anyway.  I'll think about it.  What else is going on.  Maybe a fictionalized account of the Puppy Bowl, that they show on the Animal Planet as counter programming the Superbowl.  The Superb Owl.  What's so great about that owl.  He's not great, he's superb, you idiot.  Every 4:20 P.M., I like to say, "Sup, 'erb?"  Because puns are all I have going for me at this stage in my life.  Anyway, no one can relate to this.  Nobody knows who the Hell Dat Phan is.  And, if they did, they still wouldn't know why I devote so much time to talking about him.  It's because I find other's mediocrity funny!  And relatable.  But mostly, hilarious!  If I was on Last Comic Standing, performing after him, I'd just use all his jokes against him, but because they're obviously terrible jokes, the audience would vote in my favor.  Hey, that guy's name was Dat Phan, remember?  I bet his mom used to say to him, "Dat Phan, turn off that fan!"  Oh, she did, because he already said it?  I knew it!  If I was at that imaginary show, I'd be rolling in the aisles.  Hmm, maybe I should be a comedian.  That comment, in this context, makes little to no sense.  Because that wasn't a real joke, or anything.  But, just imagining myself saying it on stage, part of my brain was like, Hey, maybe I could do that.  II can't be a comedian.  I've done two comedy open mics, and I was awkward and uncomfortable as Hell.  Maybe if I had tried one when I was sixteen, I coulda done good, and been way ahead of the curve.  Now, not so much.  Also, my last open mic, was at the UCB at an open mic called, "Sledgehammer."  And, for hours, I kept thinking, "I'm gonna make the joke, sledge hammer?  They're basically calling us sledge.  Garbage."  Because I was confusing 'sledge,' with, 'sludge.'  Luckily, one or two people ahead of my slot, I realized my mistake.  Nuts!  If only they had called the show Sludgehammer, I woulda been in like Gunga Din.
I was uncomfortable as Heck up on stage, though.  Stop looking at me!  Nothing gives you that right!  I remember this time I climbed a tree, at Robert Sledge's party.  I wasn't the same after that.  Anyway.  I gotta leave for QC in half an hour.  Sledgehammer.  What an idiot.  And I thought people would worship how clever I was with that.  They would elect me their king.  Because I summed up the entire evening in one joke.  Instead, I summed up the entire evening, to myself, in one failure.  Still, at least something happened in summation, right?  Good point, Italics Man.  You're one of the good ones.  Dat Phan would never confuse, "sludge," with, "sledge."  Also, Dat Phan would know that you don't elect kings.  Anyway.  I don't like comedians with gimmicks.  There was one guy at the open mic, at this point, half a year ago, or whatever, and his gimmick was, "Cat Facts-- something or other pun about cats" and he was killing.  And, I mean, some of them were pretty good, but I just don't like gimmicks.  Now, let me replace words with "title," make obvious puns, and talk about Dat Phan over and over again.  If I don't do it, someone else will.  It's simple supply and demand.  If this was a romantic comedy, this would be the point where I realize I love Dat Phan.  Unfortunately, this is a Weekend at Bernie's.  Anyway.  I haven't seen Short Circuit II in a while.  It's all about robots gaining the right to vote.  They present it as a positive thing, but in real life, no thank you.  They're new to Democracy, they can't be trusted with the right to vote.  Look in my eyes!  I'm a jokester 2.0!  Whatever happened to the kid who played Cop & a Half.  He was genuinely great in that movie.  My guess?  Grew up to be president Barack Obama.  Just look at his dog's name.  What comes after, "L?"  You got it.
    Only time for one more paragraph.  Oh well.  "Bo," is his initials.  That's like if I named my dog, "MAK."  Which, now that I think about it, isn't a terrible name for a dog.  Probably use a, "C" instead of a, "K," but yeah, that's a solid name for a dog, now that I think about it.  I will never have a dog, though, because I don't want to look after it.  And have to pick up it's garbage in the street.  I call shit garbage.  It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.  If I ever have another cat, I'll seriously consider naming it, "Aslan II," sort of as a nod to the Simpsons.  I know my Mom used to have a cat named Beethoven, because he was deaf.  That's pretty clever.  I could probably fit in another paragraph and half with the time I have left.  Coolio.  Maybe I'll name my cat, "KitKatKittyKitKatKatKittyKatKitKitKitKitKitKatKit."  There's no reason not to.  Re-reading that name gave me a headache.  Oh well.  Anyway, this year flew by.  At least I actually accomplished some minor accomplishments.  Nine credits.  Four mediocre albums of music.  Bunch of crazysheet.  Improving socially to the place where it's possible I might potentially almost make some friends in the near future.  Cutting down on my drinking, I don't know, 10-20%.  Anyway, I'm gonna take before the last pargraph, to go to QC to hand in my paper.  But, for now, I'll finish this paragraph.  Hey, the paragraph is done.  How about that.
    I'm back.  On the bus, I had the realization, If Dat Phan is in anything... on anything... I would watch that in a heartbeat.  It would be just like seeing an old friend.  Who doesn't know I exist.  He's that likable a guy, he made that impression on me in the little time we got to get to know him.  Still,  though, watching his act on youtube?  This isn't Clockwork Orange.  Beethoven couldn't have been deaf, he's a music man.  He was, though.  Good for him.  Anyone whose listened to my songs knows that the composer doesn't necessarily have to have working ear-parts.  I named my cat Gutenberg because he invented the printing press.  Anyway.  See ya later.

-2:40 P.M.   


Friday, December 19, 2014                        

I'm Afraid You Have To Leave

First of all, how come eggs come in standard sizes.  If someone gives birth to a baby, sometimes he's three pounds, sometimes he's five pounds, it's not uniform.  What the Hell are they doing to chickens to make eggs standard sizes.  I don't get it.  Also, which came first, the chicken or the egg?  It was the egg!  I've cracked open some eggs, no chickens inside there.  That settles that debate.  Obviously the Rooster came first.  Wham Bam Thank You Ma'am.  I got forty minutes on poultry.  Well, forty seconds, anyway.  What else is going on.  I got a couple weeks off from class.  Good, I can finally devote some time to my true passion, Not Doing Anything.  It's a tough job, but somebody's got to not do it.  That creates a double negative, fool.  You're the double negative!  Fool.  It's my birthday one week anniversary.  Anniversaries have to be yearly.  You're the yearly!  Fool.  Can't understand what I mean?  You soon will.  That sounds like a threat.  Also, that's the last time I'm inviting you to a funeral.  Your laughter was totally inappropriate.  Anyway, let's get entryin' it up.  I told you a couple of entries ago I had a few punters back in AOL time.  And I remember one of their theme songs was the Bloodhound Gang's "Fire Water Burn."  I don't know why a program had a theme song, but it did.  I wonder what Mike Rimsert's theme song was.  I kinda remember having one, but no clue on what it was.  My guess?  Closing Time by Semisonic, or, at the time, Matchbox 20, because that's what my illegally downloaded copy said the artist was.  I know in my screenplay adaptation of the video game Myst, the soundtrack included Closing Time in the opening sequence, because it involved the main character closing up a bar.  And I figured, why not drive the point home.
That's usually the way to go.  Hit the audience over the head with a hammer.  Hammer of the Gods.  Maxwell's Silver Hammer.  The Golden Hammer.  Ooo-ooo-ooo.  John Hammer.  John Hammist.  Because I'm an idiot.  I remember I once read somewhere that our eyes don't grow from the time we're born up to when we're adults.  That's fascinating.  I once read somewhere that I haven't grown since I was a baby, neither.  I like how Rick Moranis is known for being really selective with his roles, that's why we rarely see him in anything, but he did three, "Honey, I Shrunk The Kids" movies.  Explain that, I can't.  Hey, look, grass is like forest.  It was an okay movie.  I like the porn version, though.  Honey, I Shrunk My Penis.  We have fun.  Anyway.  Nine credits down this year.  That's almost a barely significant amount.  Better than nothin', though.  I hadn't finished a class since Fall 2010, before this.  Not counting my USB 201 improv class.  My UCB 101 teacher was Mike Still.  I hope I run into him on the street one day, so I can say, "Are You Mike, still?"  And he'd be like, "Yup."  It's that kind of joke that made them not accept me for UCB 301.  That, and I'm terrible at improv.  Starting a scene, the other guy or girl doing some character.  That's not really you.  This is a facade.  You're lying to everybody.  I, for one, won't stand for it.  I'll out you as the trickster you are.
Anyway.  What else is going on currently.  Sometimes I like to pee in the toilet sideways.  There's no law that says we have to do it at 180
.  Have some fun with it, why not.  The last episode of Colbert Report was last night.  What a run.  Why they're not calling it's replacement "The Wilmore 'Repore" is beyond me.  Oh, because they want it to be it's own show?  Shut up!  Maybe I should get a job there.  If you're reading this, Mr. Wilmore, I'm available!  I can write all the top ten lists you want.  Only, nothing else.  Only top ten lists.  Call me.  I remember in college, playing a karaoke video game, and doing, Take On Me.  It's relevant because I don't know why.  It's Christmas next week.  Surely, everyone's gonna be talking about, What writers will be on the new Larry Wilmore show?  Will Michael be one of them?  Stay tuned, that's all I've got to say!  I would follow Colbert to CBS, but I have a long standing feud with them ever since I said, "CBS" is what I do when I watch their channel.  Larry Wilmore?  Better than being less.  That's how I feel about things.  Probably.  I had a friend in high school, who turned out to be my best friend, but when we were just acquaintances, he put gum on my book bag for no reason.  And wouldn't own up to it.  I guess, in retrospect, it was just a call for help.  I coulda been making 74 million dollars, instead, I was wiping gum off my book bag.  I only ended up making about 1,000 dollars during my lunch hour and free periods, like a sucker.
I don't know.  I don't know about anything.  Except that this is the fourth paragraph.  Of this, I am fairly certain.  The funny part about high school was, by the end, sure, I had a few friends, but I really blew my social life out of proportion.  Because, the first year so, I literally had no friends, so, by the end, when I had people to hang out with during my free periods and stuff, I felt like Mr. Cool.  Like, yeah, everyone walking by will see how popular I am, because I clearly have a friend or two.  And that's what mattered.  What other people thought of me.  Well, what I thought other people thought of me, at least.  Also, the I'll Push You Down The Stairs song.  That, and the Fresh Doctor song.  Another song I sang in the shower.  Fresh like a doctor who's on T.V./I don't even know what it means to me/I don't expect you to understand/Fresh doctor gonna lead us to the promised land.  Another mega-hit, according to my sixteen year old self.  You're just jealous you didn't think of it.  Probably my crowning achievement in high school was during a history class, and our teacher said something about, how after slavery, the former slaves were allowed to vote, and if we, as a class, thought this was a good idea.  And, since it seemed like such a stupid question, I raised my hand to offer the counterpoint, "No, they shouldn't, because they're new to democracy, they're not ready for the right to vote." or something like that.  And the teacher and everyone looked at me like I was serious, but the girl I had a huge crush on, who I never even spoke to personally, was like, "He's joking, just look in his eyes."  That's like something she would say in a romantic comedy about me!  How great.  Perfection.
    I probably already shared that here.  Oh well.  It was pretty great.  And did I talk to her after that?  You know it!  You know that I didn't.  That's what you know.  Also, luckily, I remember the one black guy in our class was out to the bathroom at that point.  Whew.  I also remember, for a class freshman year, our teacher asked us to bring in an mp3 of a song we liked, or something.  And that's how I was exposed to Get Down by Nas, and Lithium by Nirvana.  Those are the only two songs I remember.  I forget what song I brought in.  United States of Whatever by Liam Lynch?  That's probably the song I would use now, if I was 14 years old and in Stuyvesant high school.  I forget.  Anyway.  What else is up.  Another paragraph and a half to go.  1,200 dollars, counting the time I'd spend reading ESPN Magazine and Baseball America for advice for my fantasy baseball league.  Take on me.  Take me on.  I'm right behind you now, Charlene.  That's probably Colbert's true legacy, that song.  I wonder what my legacy will be to the world.  Self-referential titles, no doubt.  Although, for my summer class, we read a poem by Emily Dickinson with the word, "Title" in the title.  So I guess I'm not even original there.  My extravagant use of exclamation marks?  Maybe.  I don't do that for style, I just do it because we're in the 21st century, the information age.  Gotta attract people in somehow.  Also, if everyone's taking the road less traveled, doesn't that make the main road less traveled?  Something for all you poets to ponder.
Anyway, time to last paragraph it up.  This entry was fun to the max.  Assuming the max is about a 5, from 1-10.  Hey, it's the max for me, so back off.  When I was 12, I had a friend who had a subscription to Maxim Magazine.  Don't think I didn't use that to my advantage.  My cumming advantage.  Ewwww.  Sorry.  Just speakin' my truth here.
  Note to self, name for next album=
My Cumming Advantage.  Yeesh
.  MCA.  RIP.  WTF.  GFD.  Now I'm just saying letters.  I've been drinking a lot lately.  Cause I have nothing else to do, so might as well incorporate a drug to become the main part of my life!  Hey, if you don't like it... be my friend!  Yeah?  That's what I thought.  I'll stick to alcohol over nothing, thank you very much.  Man, imagine if I had friends.  Especially lady friends.  How... fucking... awesome... would that... b... e... ?...  Pretty awesome.  Especially if I could do things... to... them... with my... penis...!   Wow, that would be insane.  I think I haven't had a sex act since 2008.  Put your penis in my ear.  Whatever you say!!!!  I started listening to The Best Show on youtube, and I don't ever want to stop.  Until the end of this clip.  Then, I'll probably stop.  Until I re-listen to the bit about the XFL.  Once I find that, I'll listen to that every day for a couple of years, then give it a break.  There was a cute girl while I was waiting for my doctor's appointment.  If I can't talk to a girl in my element there, where can I?  Turns out, nowhere.  Oh well.  See ya later.

-2:58 P.M.    


Thursday, December 18, 2014                        

That's What They Want You To Think

Precious greetings all around!  It's your friend, me.  The guy who is writing as we very speak.  Well, typing.  And we're not speaking, I'm typing into a computer.  So, I'm the guy whose typing while he's typing.  That's right, I'm a multi-tasking monster!  Big shout outs to my brother!  His picture was on the front page of the Night Imes for protesting against Fracking.  It reminds me of the time I was once on T.V.  And, since this is my blog, that's what's important.  I was around eight or so, and my mother took me to the museum of modern science, or something.  And, while we were there, NY1 was shooting some footage to use in a segment where they tell people places they can go for their winter vacation.  And they ran a three second clip of me smelling something on T.V.  Like my Mom was picking up something or another, and I had to smell it.  Sounds like a Spinal Tap album, or a Nirvana hit song, or something, right?  Wrong!  It's what I did when I was on T.V. when I was eight.  Me, me, me.  Such an interesting life.  But, yeah, good job with your public service.  I'm busy smelling things!  That's pretty cool, though.  Being on the front page of the Nightie Mes.  That kind of publicity would really go to my head.  I'd be ordering all my friends around, acting like a real big shot.  Who was it that was documented on the front page of the Nye Tim Easy?  As a  hero?  Anyway.  That reminds me, when I was three or so, we have footage from home movies where my brother is wearing superman pajamas, being egged on my Dad, pretending to be Superman.  And, me, the after thought, was encouraged to embrace the role of Jimmy Olsen.  Thanks a lot, Dad.  I see how it is.
And that's why I hate my father and brother.  Jerkholes.  I kid.  My brother and my father are pretty much the best guys in town.  Not counting the Ghostbusters.  They bust ghosts for a living.  I want to be a Ghostbuster when I grow up.  Or at least a Rick Moranis.  Or at least some guy who smells things for a living.  Also, I have it on good authority that when I was born, my brother suggested to my parents that we throw me out in the garbage.  I can hold a grudge a very long time.  A very.  Long.  Time.  Watch yourself.  Avery Fisher Hall.  That's some place.  That's some fishy hall.  A very.  Fishie.  Rhall.  Is Rhall like Our Town?  Sorry I never saw it.  The good news is, what's up.  I finished my paper for my class.  That means I'm all done, except for having to go there and hand it in.  I'm a little worried my winter screenwriting class'll be cancelled.  There's only six people registered out of 25 seats.  But, if that happens, at least I get to take no classes.  That's pretty fun, too.  My brother majored in dramatic writing, he could probably teach me a thing or two.  Damnit, is there any area in life my brother hasn't far surpassed me?!  That jerkball!  Makin' me look bad.  Mike, you do realize, just because they showed his picture, that doesn't mean he made Cuomo's decision to happen?  You idiot!  A picture's worth a thousand words.  And my final essay was only 994 words!  He's got six words on me in this past week alone!  Oh, I know.  I live with my parents far more than my brother does.  I'm here in the shit 24/7/365.  He comes once a month?  Better son, that's me.  Suck it!  Hopefully he doesn't score a front page article in the New York Sun.  He'd have to go back in time to 1950.  I don't think even he is capable of that.  This is like Almost Famous, This T-shirt says everything you wanted to say for years.  I like my brother, I've liked him for years.  I'm just joshing around.  You dolts.  Jason Lee, on the other hand?  Belongs in the background.  That's how I feel about things.
    My brother!  He did it.  He's a hero.  And, who knows, maybe one day I'll get a job as a newspaper sidekick.  And we can each fulfill our destinies.  Anyway.  I just think that's really cool, bein' in a picture on the newspaper, that's all.  Some guy I knew from Stuy was also in the news a couple of weeks ago, because he got married on the subway.  I guess I would consider him a friend.  I remember who he was, and I remember talking to him sometimes, but I can't really place what class or whatever I knew him from.  And, of course, I remember Eric Holder from Stuy.  I didn't know why there was a 48 year old in my freshman class, but there he was.  (He went to Stuy in real life, before me).  Just like Tim "Crawls In Shit" Robbins, Lucy "Ecks vs. Sever" Liu, and Guy Who Lied About Making 74 Million Dollars Man.  Guy Man might have actually been his real name, I don't know.  Anyway.  Look, brother, this is what happens when you become a public figure.  You get your face in the paper, someone's bound to come around and knock you down a peg or two.  Also, J. Jonah. Jameson keeps asking me to take incriminating pictures of you.  Man, does that guy hold a grudge.  Alright.  If four people read my blog, my brother would probably be one of those four people.  Too bad only 1.4 people read my blog.  That makes him, what, .35 of a reader?  I'm a good guy at math.  Man, seeing that picture in the N Why Tie Mess, what a thrill.  I know that guy!  He's like me, but three years older, and better in every way!  Anyway.
Bernie Brillstein also went to Stuy.  As a teenager, that's probably the alumni which excited me the most.  He was a producer of some really great comedy, most notably to me when I was 14, Mr. Show.  I can't believe he cursed.  No he didn't.  Fracking, what's the difference.  The letters, "R and A."  How old are we really.  I told you last week, I'm 26!  Get off my back.  If four people read this, and my brother is one, then probably two and a half people listen to my music, counting my brother as one.  That makes him 40% of my listener, too.  Where does he find the time?  I wonder what issue he's gonna devote to next.  I had an idea for a public interest organization sorta like the one he works for, called Immediate Action Network.  And, basically, each year, they pick a new issue to focus on for that year, something that needs immediate action.  But because it's always something that's urgently important, people donating money will know they're getting their money's worth.  And the acronym is IAN.  I knew a guy named Ian in Stuyvesant.  He's the guy who asked me if I drew anything other than boxes.  Anyway.  It's Christmas in a week.  That'll happen from time to time.  The good news is, I finally have time to see how Bad News Bears ended.  My guess?  The kid in the wheelchair high tails it to Guatemala.  And the guy his daughter has a crush on turns out to be her brother.  But they don't care, they get married anyway.  And Billy Bob Thornton takes a giant shit that lasts for forty five minutes.  I remember when I played handball-baseball with my brother and his friends in the park, I was the designated catcher.  Cause we would have an odd number of people, and no one else wanted to do it, so I would just catch for both teams.  Because I'm a team player.  A multi-team player.  That's a tough role to live up to.
    Anyway.  In the major league baseballs, why doesn't the umpire just catch for each team.  Make yourself useful, that's what I say.  My favorite memory from the park, though, is I was in sixth grade, listening to Mystikal and Ludacris while on the swings, because I guess I thought that was a cool, vaguely-emo thing to do, and some lady came by with a child, and somehow we got to talking, and she offered me a baby sitting job.  So I was like, "Great!  Let me go to my house so I can write my phone number on a piece of paper!" cause this was before cell phones.  And when I got back five minutes later, she was gone.  It's just one of those things in life where you're like, "Why?  Why did this happen?"  Doesn't make sense.  Anyway.  I just googled, "Was Mavis Beacon a real person?"  Turns out, no.  That's relevant, I suppose.  Anyway, I'm not gonna have to write a paper for a while.  Maybe weeks, maybe months.  Either way, wonderful.  I should write a crazysheet entry.  Oh, that's what I'm doing now?  Wonderful.  Anyway.  Big ups to my brother for his moment of triumph.  We couldn't be more proud of him.  We, meaning either my parents and me, or me and me.  Either way.  The great news is, there's a program on T.V. about a 650 pound man which I haven't seen yet.  Oh, boy, I bet he loves oreos.  Maybe ring dings.  Or cheese doodles.  Either way, look at him go!  There was once a time where, if I mentioned someone I knew in crazysheet, they would get all excited.  Now, he's probably not even reading this.  Oh well.  This isn't about me, this is about fracking sucking the big one.  One would imagine.  This isn't about fracking, it's about me getting to watch a 650 pound man on T.V.  Let's frack him.  We could probably get significant amounts of sugar and fat.  Is fracking like Fuddruckers.  Anyway.  See ya. 

-2:16 P.M.


Tuesday, December 16, 2014                        

On The First Day of Chanukah My True Love Gave To Me

Nine Golden Rings!  I mean, Five Golden Rings!  It's funny, because he's wrong about things.  On purpose, too!  It's wiggity-wiggity wack.  When I was a kid, we actually did the Menorah lighting, and presents, and stuff.  It was fun.  I haven't opened a wrapped box present in I don't know how long.  As a goof, someone should give someone a gift of a China-doll gift box.  You keep opening gift-paper wrapped boxes, and they keep getting smaller and smaller.  And then, when you finally get to the end, there's a small piece of paper with, "Fuck You!" written on it.  It will capture his imagination forever.  Anyway.  What if you get to the end, and there's a miniature you opening boxes.  That would be pretty scary.  This ain't the Nightmare before Chanukah here.  The Pa-nic before Ha-nick-ah.  As close as you can get for a literal translation that still vaguely rhymes.  Anyway, have I started the entry yet?  I don't think I have.  Hello, good sirs.  Wait, actually, I think I've opened presents the last few Christmasses.  Just because they're books doesn't make them any less presents.  Yes, it does.  Still get to open them, sure.  Menorahs have nine candles, eight for each day, and one candle which is the utility candle, they use to light the other candles.  Ever since I started using, "Utility Rock" to define my music, I've had a soft spot for all things utility.  Off road vehicles?  Great.  Joe Mcewing? Double great.  Anyway... TThis isn't about me and my genre of music.  It's about blog.  In the saying, "No Ifs, Ands, Or Buts," is, "Or" included as one of the things that there's to be none of?  It seems like it would fit the description, but it's also serving a literal purpose in the phrase.  Please get back to me on this.  My email is Kornblum@Theinternet.internet.  I guess if they were including it, it'd be, "Ors."  I don't know.  E-mail me at internet@internet.internet
    Anyway.  What else is happening.  I remember, whenever I did a draft in baseball video games, I would always end up with Tom Goodwin.  He's really fast, so he's a good guy to have off the bench to use as a pinch runner.  But the computer teams never picked him.  Fine, more speed for me.  Me and my brother would do drafts over and over, as if that were the main part of the game.  It was fun just picking teams, and then comparing our teams to each other.  We would probably play one game against each other with our teams, I guess.  I don't really remember.  On The First Day of Christmas, My True Love Gave To Me.  Chlamydia.  That shuts down the carol pretty quick.  One would imagine.  Two and a half years of this incarnation of crazysheet.  That's about as long as the original crazysheet lasted.  Only, then, I had readers.  People encouraging me.  I liked the new entry!  I put a quote in my away message!  Will you have my e-baby?  I did it all for the compliments.  I first bought the domain name, crazysheet.com, in 2002.  And for two years, I had a graphic that said, "Crazysheet -- Coming Soon!"  and at the time, I don't think I had any idea what it was supposed to be.  I just knew I had that website, and I'd probably do something with it eventually.  I think, at first, for a couple of months, I had two movie reviews on it, of Lilo & Stitch, and another movie.  And I said my name was Mike Rimsert.  Because I didn't want to use my real name, I was twelve.  Rimsert.  Hahaha.  Wait, no!  My name was Mike Burrell!  Inspired, no doubt, by Phillies outfielder Pat Burrell.  Where'd I get Rimsert from.  Oh, I know, I think.  I was in some weird chat-based fantasy wrestling league, when I was ten or so, and I think my wrestler's name was Mike Rimsert.  And I remember, two other 'wrestlers,' one of who was my ally, teamed up to turn on me.  And I took it really personally, and I punted them with some punter I had.  A punter is a device that basically hacked into AOL and allowed me to do illegal things with impersonating screen names and sending mass-emails, stuff like that.  Then they cancelled my AOL account, predictably, until my Dad called them and was like, "It was our son, he's very sorry for what he did," etc.  And we got our AOL account back.
    Like, looking back, I realize, "Oh, they were just playing the game, that kind of stuff is what makes wrestling fun."  But, at the time, I felt genuinely betrayed.  I had a thought, recently, if I could buy stock in one company, it'd be America Online.  People love them some nostalgia, it's primed to come back in a big way, sooner or later.  Assuming it still exists.  It probably still exists in some form or another. I'm also gonna buy stock in, "Whazzzzzup!"  and "You Are The Weakest Link."  That's how that goes.  That's how that goes.  What else is going on.  Life used to be fun.  I will not rest until crazysheet is it's own domain variant.  Crazysheet.crazysheet.  Until that comes, my life's work is not complete.  Anyway.  Life did used to be fun.  Now it's all bullshit and crapdom.  I guess I can always go back to the hospital.  Cool off for a while, make some new friends.  That kinda reads as a cry for help.  And if that didn't, that qualifier definitely reads as a cry for help.  Now it's time to add underlining.  Don't worry about me, I'm doing okay.  Sure, life is a D+/C-, but, hey, I'm taking classes, making progress with my degree.  Soon enough, I'll have a job, save enough money to live on my own, then be able to drink or smoke every day, and my life will be grand!  It's good to have something to look forward to, and alcohol and marijuana is that thing.  And, if there's time, a social life.  And, if there's time, growing up. 
    I can't have a social life.  I'm traumatized.  What if my two friends team up and pile drive me.  This is the fourth paragraph, right?  Right.  Good stuff.  What other names did I used to go by.  I remember, as preteen, I used to involve myself in different games on the internet, and I would always say I was older than I actually was.  I just figured people would accept me more if they thought I was their age-equal.  Now I say I'm younger than I am.  Crazysheet.net?  Yeah, written by a six year old.  That's how that goes.  That's why I bought stock in the Budweiser frogs and Y2KMan, people would get upset over anything in 1999.  Some computers might get the date wrong!  It's the apocalypse!  I'm still here for the people.  They just don't say out loud they like it.  Sometimes saying nothing is louder than nothing at all.  As long as you're signing it.  Gotta let people know, one way or another.  And, every time you post a comment on your friend's Facebook, every time you create an event, every time you have a birthday, I know, deep down, you're saying, I still like crazysheet.  Yeesh.  When did this entry take a turn for the worse?  My guess?  AOL stock.  Nobody's buying it.  Anyway.  I still need to watch the end of Bad News Bears.  Do they win?  Or not.  Either way, nothing happens.  I'm Billy Bob Thornton, I'm a likable jerkoff, here's some kids that say three or four lines each.
So, this has been a good entry, ignoring the cry for help bit.  Believe me, if I needed help, there's only one people I'd cry to.  Ghostbusters.  And possibly the Pope.  Maybe Flo Rida.  My rapper name'll be N Ew Y Or K.  Because I steal other people's ideas and use them for my benefit.  That's how I roll, my brother.  I remember, when I was in fourth grade, I took one or two after-school lessons on the clarinet.  Literally one or two, cause I dropped out.  I learned, "My Heart Will Go On," and then I quit.  Cause, once you learn the pinnacle of songdom, what else is there for you to do.  Just play that song at each and every occasion.  I've already won.  Too bad they didn't have me playing Miss Misery.  Hey, the Oscar voters have spoken, and My Heart Will Go On is the Pinnacle of Songdom.  I wonder if you could strangle a man with dental floss.  My Mom was actually the P.T.A. president for a year or two, while I was in elementary school.  My main memory of it was having to stay after school for a few hours and playing, "Mother, May I?"  It's just a coincidence that it was my mother that was why I had to stay there, and that was what we were playing.  I'm assuming.  Maybe that guidance counselor, or who ever was in charge, had a hidden agenda.  Psshhh, cry for help.  I don't need to cry when I need help!  It's implied.  Seriously, though, I'm doing okay.  Why, my DVR records every time there's a Simpsons episode on.  How bad could I be?!  Anyway, I'll see ya later.

-3:56 P.M.                   


Monday, December 15, 2014                        

Lets Go Crazy!

Hi fools.  What's going on in the world.  It's the Ides of December.  You know what that means!  It's the fifteenth.  That's what it means.  Alright!  I watched the 2005 version of Bad News Bears yesterday.  Nothing happens in that movie.  Literally nothing happens.  But any A list actor that goes by the name, "Billy Bob," obviously has a lot going for him.  He might be a B/B+ list actor.  He's an A in my book.  Have you seen Bad Santa?  Me too!  It was a solid B movie.  I like that movie, "Bee Movie."  "Hey, what if we have an animated movies about bees, and call it Bee Movie?"  "HAHAHAHAHAHA.  HAHAHAHAHA.  HAHAHAHA.  HAHAHAHA.  HAHAHA.  Ahhh.  I wasn't even thinking of green-lighting a movie today, but you sold me."  How'd that happen.  I thought of a knock-knock joke Keith Moon can say.  Knock Knock.  Who's there?  The.  The Who?  That's right.  What fun.  Anyway, I'm 26.  I like the song Who Are you.  Who are you, hoo hoo, hoo hoo.  No, Who is you.  You oughta know your own name.  Darnnnnnit.  How do I dig myself out of that hole.  Worst joke in the history of jokes.  I had a dream that people referred to me as, "Sheets."  I don't like it.  If we're gonna use a pronoun from this website, call me crazy.  That's how I feel.  Keith Moon has been dead for thirty six years.  If he's knocking at your door, run the Hell away.  Submitted For The Approval of the Midnight Society... Keith Moon Knocking At My Door.  Throw some sand in the fire.  I want to advertise myself as a daredevil, and get a big crowd, and then my trick is smoking a cigarette.  These'll kill me after about 100,000.  Keeep watching.  Did they outlaw smoking completely in New York?  In places?  When I was a kid, restaurants had smoking sections, which we would sit in, because my Mom smoked.  Now, I don't think they even have that.  What a shame.  Except, it gives me a good business idea.  Open up a speak-easy diner, off the books, which allows smoking.  You gotta give a secret code at the door, walk up a few flights of stairs, and, look, people are eating French toast and waffles, and smoking!  I'm full of great business ideas.
   Drink soda of whatever size you want!  As long as I get a cut.  That's right, you don't need to pay me, just let me sip a bit of your soda, and we'll call it even.  Alright.  I remember a few months ago, like around May or June, I went to some group that my hospital has, to help people with mental illness socialize.  The main thing I remember from it, was they had a bottle of generic brand soda, and it was three liters big.  That's a big bottle of soda.  But, then again, if you're gonna have a three liter bottle of soda, you know it's gonna be some off-brand shit.  And they had all this snacks, chocolates, cupcakes, chips.  Which further proves my theory that hospitals try to placate mentally ill people with unhealthy food.  They don't care if you get diabetes, they just want you to shut up and quit yer complaining.  Here's another joke I thought of.  Well, 60% thought of.  Magic Johnson is HIV positive, right?  I guess his Johnson wasn't so magic, then.  Something like that, but phrased better.  I know, it's hacky, but I never heard i before.  I remember my Dad was once at a diner, in around 1994, and, making a pun on orange juice, someone said, "Don't have the O.J., it'll kill you."  I wasn't there, but he tells me about it every few months.  He would hate me sharing that story.  He doesn't want to be mentioned in anything, ever.  Who can blame him.  That's right.  If the glove doesn't fit, you must acquit.  You're the boss!
Yep.  I'm re-thinking about taking music lessons.  I don't know why.  I can't sing, can't write lyrics, can't play the guitar.  I'm 0-3!  Taking lessons, I'd still probably be 0-3, but worth one walk.  That's an on base percentage of .250.  Not good at all.  Now, if I could manage two walks while being 0-3, that's an on base percentage of .400, which, is pretty good, not great, if you consider the low slugging percentage.  Maybe I should be playing hockey. It's been a productive year, though, music-wise.  I wrote and recorded three albums,  The Uppers during my spring semester class, Invented Seas during my summer class, and Lunatic during my fall class.  Sure, they're all D+'s, but they each got somethin' unique going for them.  At this rate, assuming I die at around 75, I'll have about 150 albums.  Not too shabby.  Almost as much as Guided By Voices.  Anyway.  Also wrote a shit ton of crazysheet.  Again, all D+'s, but hey, erm, hmm.  Darnnnnnit.  I still gotta write my final paper for Fall class by Saturday,  Should take all of about forty minutes.  Maybe I should just write Attica!  Attica!  Attica!  I mean, Ferguson!  Ferguson!  Ferguson!  He'll understand.  That's how that goes, one would imagine.  One of the nurses I saw today has a poster of John Lennon, from around 1980, wearing a, "New York City," t-shirt, and another poster that says, "Imagine," and another poster with a quote from Bob Marley.  So, naturally, I said, "Where's the Nickelback tribute?"  I want my nickel back.  My brother used to have a friend named Danny McNickel.  That's super-relevant here.  Because he's my brother.
Okay.  You can call me Sheets.  If you really want to.  I recently had the thought that it would be weird to marry someone, and have them take your name, because then, when you have sex, it's like you're committing incest.  Blahblahblah Kornblum?  I'm having sex with myself!  I get confused easily, though.  Not my fault.  I also had this hacky line of joke, where, I would never have a kid, knowing what I was like as a kid.  I was a real asshole to my parents.  Think about it, when you have a kid, you're basically just creating someone who will be your mortal enemy.  You're consciously forming the bane of your existence.  I'm sure twenty comics have said the exact same thing.  But I still thought of it independently.  I'm the greatest!  I'll have a kid or two one day, sure.  Why not.  When I have kids, and they find out there's no Santa Claus, that I've been the one giving them presents, I'm just gonna go, That's because I Am Santa Claus.  Kids are stupid, they'll believe anything.  And, every Christmas, I'll make it a family tradition to watch Poltergeist.  When they're twenty, they'll go, What was up with the Poltergeist at Christmas?  And I'll be like, Why don't you tell me?  That's how I raise my kids.  And no sex with the wife.  We're brother and sister now!
Time to close it up.  This has been a fun entry.  It's had words...  Anyway.  It would be weird if your kid turned out to be Bane from Batman.  I thought I raised you better than that.  Boo.  Quiet, you.  I like how in that movie, Batman fell down a well.  That's his main conflict.  He fell down a well and needs to get out.  Love it.  Anyway.  See ya later.

-1:01 P.M.                       


Sunday, December 14, 2014                        

He Died With His Pants On

Hello friends.  It's me, the guy, who is running out of introductions.  I wrote a, "t" in my notebook yesterday, and it looked like a cross, and in the back of my mind, my instinctual mind, I immediately sort of hissed and looked away.  I think that's a fairly good sign that I'm possessed.  Don't know what to do about it, though.  You can't really call an exorcist on yourself.  No one would take you seriously, if you were really possessed, you wouldn't be calling.  But, yeah, if any of you are trained in the exorcism arts, your services may be needed.  Also, don't be scared about my demon transferring into you.  I'm pretty sure that won't happen.  I'm not possessed.  Probably not, at least.  Why, just today, I saw a church in the distance, which had an actual cross on top of it, and I was like, "Yeah, that's whatever."  No hissing or immediately looking away.  If I was on a dating website, the main part of my profile would be, "Is Not Possessed."  It's the one thing I have going for me.  I might be possessed, I don't know.  That would be interesting, at least.  Maybe it's the Devil what makes me bite my nails.  That asshole.  Maybe it's an angel that makes me bite my nails.  She wants the nails to go to Heaven.  That's probably what's going on.  If I had to guess, that would be my guess.  It's the option most likely.  The good news is, Hello.  My schedule is about to do a mixemup.  No more Saturday classes, then, starting in January, a month of 5 day a week class.  With the potential for creating a screenplay!  How exciting.  Let's see.  One of the first movies I ever thought of, along with Mental Hospital (which I think I mentioned here... basically, a comedy starring Leslie Nielson), was Yokozuna Attacks.  Where a monster-sized Yokozuna wreaks havoc on a city.  Yokozuna is a sumo wrestler, I think.  Either that, or some Yoko Ono off-breed.  I stated a joke... that started Yokozuna attacking...
Wait, that's Bob Dylan's son.  Oh well.  Sean Lennon did some shit, too, right?  Oh, but I didn't see.  That Yokozuna was on me...  I've also given some thought to write a screenplay based on my life.  But, it's also about New York.  Like, it shows me doing something in all the five boroughs.  And stuff like that.  Although, I'd have to make something up for Staten Island.  That borough is a zero.  I've spent some time in Battery Park.  That's close enough, I guess.  Cannot stop the battery.  They're biased, they're Metallica.  They're biased towards anything metal.  Anyway.  If Yokozuna was attacking, there'd probably be a Japanese lady saying, "O, No!"  Darnnnnnit.  I guess.  I don't know.  That's how I feel about things.  What else is going on.  I'm writing an entry.  I already knew that.  What else is going on.  I'm still writing an entry.  Yeah, I knew that too.  What else is going on.  The year is winding down.  My best memory was going to Bay Terrace to get a new pair of glasses.  It had all the great things of a great time.  Driving, being with my Dad, going to places which inspired memoria, getting new glasses when I needed them, being in the summer.  And, perhaps most importantly, thinking of Moleman from The Simpsons during the ride over.  I just had the thought, I really like Moleman from the Simpsons, and for some reason, that stayed with me.  Good Moleman To You.  That's what he said on his radio show!!!  That's the most genius thing of genius I've ever geniused.
    Alright.  I wonder what 2015 will bring.  That's the future.  The movie told me so.  I remember going on the Back To The Future ride when I was in Universal Studios, in 1997.  Which is basically a car that stays stationary, but moves up and down and stuff to simulate the feeling that it's moving.  And when it started, I freaked out, it was like I we were leaving the building and flying.  And while, logically, I knew what was going on, another part of me was like, Oh Shit!  My main memory from that trip to Florida, though, was staying in a Disney World hotel, and there was a pool for our hotel complex.  And I was gettin' ready to to do the slide in the pool, and there was some kids from Texas behind me, and they made fun of me and pushed me aside to do the slide before I could.  So that's when I learned to never mess with Texas.  They mean business down there.  I like Epcot center.  It's like the parents are like, I don't want the kids to have fun, and, since we can't have fun neither, let's none of us have fun.  Also, one of the buildings is a giant golf ball.  I like that.  Anyway, what else is going down.  I remember my Dad video taped me in the pool there, and then, four years later, I taped over it recording myself singing, "The Real Slim Shady."  Either way, memories that will last a life time.  The Texan kid said something like, "What are you, retarded?"  When he was the one speaking at 50% speed and still slurring his words.  Oh well.  What else is going on seventeen years ago.  I hear Bill Clinton is gonna get a blow job out of wedlock, soon.  Probably.
I had a horror dream last night about Chucky.  It involved me being Superman, and I had to fly as high as I can, to drop him on the ocean, so all his bones would break.  That'll end him for good, I thought.  It also involved me putting testosterone gel straight into my penis.  I used to take testosterone gel, in real life, because of my underactive thyroid, for about a year, and you sort of rub it in where you abdominal muscles are.  But in the dream I was funneling it straight into my penis, and thinking, "This isn't going to end well."  But I did it because I needed all the help I could get to defeat Child's Play.  This is relevant to you, the reader, because dreams are fun.  I have fun dreaming.  I used to have sleep paralysis a lot.  That's when you wake up, and you're conscious of what's going on outside your body, but you can't move.  And it was always accompanied by the thought that there is some evil presence, right outside my line of vision, so I was scared, and tried desperately to move, but to no avail.  Glad I don't get that anymore.  My waking life is scary enough.  In a way or two, I have waking-life paralysis.  Some shit's going down every day, but I just can't do anything about it.  What a shame.  And I remember, at the end of the dream, I was carrying Chucky, and I was flying, but I was only at about 20-30% power, so I couldn't fly that fast or that high, so dropping him wouldn't really kill him.  Oh well.  Being able to fly at all, in any speed, is a pretty good feat.  I should be happy with what I can do.
    That's how I feel, one would imagine.  Imagine there's no Yokozuna.  It's easy if you try.  I like calling nightmares, "Horror Dreams."  It implies a severe lack of adequacy at the English language.  That's something I can get behind.  I found a pair of glasses on my walk last week.  So, of course, I picked them up and put them in my pocket.  Now I wear them when I feel down.  It makes everything blurry.  Like I can't see clearly what's going on.  That's how it makes it appear.  Am I wearing them right now?  I don't know.  Why don't you tell me.  I can't tell.  Wakawakawaka.  Stupid angel making me bite my nails.  Doesn't she know she's leaving me ripe for infection?  Well, this has been a solid D- entry.  Passing!  I did it!  Anything is better than nothing.  I learned that somewhere.  From a song, I think.  That's how that goes.  Next month is a whole new color scheme.  If that isn't exciting, I don't know what is.  Next entry is gonna be better, I promise.  I'm just in a rut.  I'll get back at it again, sure I will.  But for now, we gotta make do with what we got.  And what we got is a D- entry.  Oh well.  See ya later.

-4:26 P.M. 



Saturday, December 13, 2014                        

Break Yourself, Mister!

Hello jerksballs and baguettes.  Friend till the end here.  Finished my fall class.  I did it old school!  Not really.  I did it current school, if anything.  Oh, and, perhaps most importantly, I've made a very important decision about, not just this website, but, my life.  I'm calling a moratorium on all references to the word, "Title."  So, please load up Green Day's, "Good Riddance," while we say goodbye to what will never be again.


Your Title, I Object!


All For One, And One For Title


Titles Speak Louder Than Titles


Title Out of Wedlock


Chicken or Title?


No Title For You!


Keep Your Titles Close, And Keep Your Titles Closer


The Title Strikes Back


Return of the Title


Crime and Titlement


A Tale of Two Titles


100 Years Of Titletude

    Farewell, friend.  I'll miss you.  Anyway, what else is good.  I finished my class.  Did I mention that?  Sorry, I'm still a little emotional.  I mean, no more replacing words with, "Title?"  What does my life even mean.  Oh well, onwards and upwards, as they say, in spaceman lingo.  For what it's worth, it was worth all the title.  The End.  Coffin nails shut.  What else is going on.  I had a pretty good day today.  Except for waiting 40 minutes on the bus, am I right?   Ya'll were there...  Why do I think people can relate to this nonsense.  Because I'm a moron.  That's a pretty good title for myself.  Darnnnnnit.  That's a catchphrase to replace using, "Title."  Not in the same situation, of course.  It's just my new thing.  Darnnnnnit.  People can't get enough of it!  Darnnnnnit.  I got enough of it.  No more.  Anyway.  Whatami gonna do with all this time off.  I can't say darnit.  That's taking the Lord's name in vein.  In an abstract sense.  Blasphemous.  I think she said, "Feck."  No one asked you, young Cameron Crowe.  Young Patrick Fugitaboutit.  How old are we really.  I don't know about you, I'm 26.  I just had a birthday, so it's fresh in my mind, no mistakes there.  If each year was a week, I'm through half a year.  That means nothing.  That doesn't help conceptualize a thing.  But, if you're gonna talk about the number 26, you're gonna come into the territory of, "26 is half 52, which is how many weeks there are in a year."  It's inevitable that we will end up discussing it.  And, now that we've discussed it, it's relatively inevitable we will end up discussing it again.  I run out of things to talk about a lot, so year-week-half-26-52 talk will come up again.  It's just a matter of when.
The Mets did their winter meetings.  They signed someone named John Mayberry, Jr.  Anyone with a a Jr. in their name is alright by me.  Tony Soprano's uncle?  Alright.  The problem child from Problem Child?  Alright.  Juno from Juno?  Alright.  I was supposed to read a book called, "Drown," by a guy named Junot Diaz.  I never read it!  Man, is this professor a sucker.  He's all like, "This is a very important time we're going through right now, what with the Eric Garner and Ferguson and all that nonsense."  What am I supposed to do about it?  I watched T.V. about it!  What more do you expect from me?  Believe me, if I could think of a clever joke about it, I'd say it.  Let's just start calling private security guards when we need the police.  They'll get the message.  Ship up, or ship out.  That's the free market at work!  I can tell you one thing, Paul Blart, Mall Cop wouldn't stand for that kind of racial profiling nonsense.  He's a man of integrity!  Haha, Blart.  There's a major motion picture, which they spent tens of millions of dollars on, and the name in the title is Blart.  That's pretty funny, if you just give it a chance.
Yeesh.  Now that I made a joke about it, it doesn't exist anymore.  I am of course talking about the movie Paul Blart, Mall Cop.  What a tragedy that was.  I like malls.  I remember talking to a parrot outside a rain-forest themed restaurant at a mall once.  He thought he was so hot, but he was so not.  He thought he was so Blart, but he was so Nart.    Anyway.  The professor also kept saying the year was 2015.  Wrong!  It's 2014.  I know, because I write the date all the time.  Apparently he also has a radio show on Thursdays, or something.  He never gave the station, though, so how am I to believe him.  I'm not to believe him, that's how.  Get off my back!  Darnnnnnit.  Anyway, what.  There was a cute girl sitting next to me at the bus stop.  But she was talking to some other guy she just met at the bus stop, not me.  If she turned to talk to me, though, I was ready with some apropos conversation.  "Bus."  I was ready with that.  She turns to me, I just say, "Bus."  Bus.  That's what I had prepared.  Because that's what was going on.  "Bus."  "Yeah, I heard that."  You shouldn't talk to strangers.  But she already was, though, like I said.  Therefore, she should talk to all strangers, shouldn't she?  Spread the love around.  Using the word, "Love," made that sound dirty.  Oh well.  This is taking forever.  Bus!  That'll teach her to talk to strangers.  What about The Stranger, by some author.  Kafka?  Albert Camus.  I almost read that once.  Almost, in that I did read it, but don't remember it or understand it.  I'm 0-2 on the important aspects of having read it.  If it was written my Kafka, the story would be, some guy wakes up one day, and realizes that suddenly, he's a stranger to people.  Before that, everyone knew him.  Quite the metamorphosis that is.
Anyway.  Why doesn't the stranger just introduce himself to people.  Now we're not strangers anymore.  That happened at a bus stop!  Now, if I was offering chocolates to people at a bus stop, I'd be a pervert.  There's no justice in this world. Pervert is a pretty good title for me.  Darnnnnnit.  It's because I was thinking all the busride long about what pronoun to use as the third word of this title.  What title do I give this person, more or less.  Oh, I went through them all.  Fool, mother fucker, buster, friend, moron, jerk, asshole, buddy.  Settled on this one.  Which one is it?  I forget.  I could scroll up, or devote one and a half seconds of brain time to trying to remember it.  Friend.  It was friend, right?  Mister.  Oh yeah.  Good times.  I even considered no pronoun.  But that makes you stress the exclamation mark too much, which is another thing I gotta cut out.  So, that's basically a sign of how progressed my mind is since becoming ill.  I can plan one thing ahead, but no more.  Forty minutes on the one thing.  If I try to think of a second thing to write, after the title, I'd just get confused.  And if I tried to think of how to better my life beyond writing a crazysheet entry, why, then, well, hmm.  Darnnnnnit.  The professor is a real dick to me.  I saw him before class and said hello and he just brushed me off.  What an asshole.  And, when I participate in class, I say the best things.  I'm on point.  And he just sort of rolls his eyes after everything I say and moves on.  Maybe he can tell from my papers that I'm consciously not fulfilling my potential, and just half assing it.  And because of that, dislikes me.  Or maybe he just thinks I have a stupid face, and because of that, dislikes me.  Both are valid reasons to dislike me, I gotta admit.  Especially the stupid face bit.  My face is pretty stupid.
Alright.  I made friends this class.  It was awesome.  Like, not keeper-league friends, where I can keep them on my team into next year, they're that good.  But, like, "Hey, what's up with you this week?" friends.  Not bad.  And it got to the point, class after class, that by this class, I was pretty much just 95% comfortable around them.  That's more comfortable than I am with anyone.  My doctors, my parents, my brother.  I hope you had the title of your life.  Oh, I did.  Intro to Narrative.  I learned all about introductions to narrative.  I had a dream a couple days ago that I was in the future, and ranking my top 50 favorite songs.  And #47 was Jesus of Suburbia.  That was the only song actually included in the rankings in the dream, but it was definitely Jesus of Suburbia by Green Day, and it was definitely #47.  Well, one other song, was #50, which was also a Green Day song, but I forget what it was.  It might not have been a real song.  So, in the dream, I was thinking, Hmm, So, I guess Green Day is my favorite band.  In the dream, at least.  That's how that goes, one would imagine.  Alright.  So, this was an entry.  Can I say, "Entry," if I can't say, "Title?"  Well, I've been saying title.  But I am going to definitely phase it out over the next few years.  Anyway.  See ya later.

-5:36 P.M.             


Friday, December 12, 2014                        

Yeah, I Guess

Hi!  Or, hi.  I gotta stop using exclamation marks so often.  That's my birthday resolution #1.  #2-- eat some pudding.  Anyway, hi.  I've never been a fan of pudding.  I can't say I've ever had pudding, to tell the truth.  It's consistency does not appeal to me, to tell the truth.  Apples and oranges appeal to me.  You don't peel apples.  Maybe you don't.  Anyway, hello.  Lots of ways to greet people.  There's hi, hello... the others.  We live in the Big Apple.  Well, I do at least.  We, this blog and it's readers, as a center of momentum, at least, are located in New York, either way.  Are or Is.  Griff en Dor.  Griff is Biff's grandson's name.  How come we never meet the man in the middle, Biff's son/Griff's father.  He musta hated manure.  Maybe it's a woman.  Biff had a daughter, and for some reason, she and her husband decided to name their son after the maternal line.  Families, am I right?  Probably not, for some reason.  Anyway, so I did end up seeing a doctor about my toe, I had an infection, but it's all good now.  And, it's appropriate it was this time of year, because that's exactly which one I would have used for my mistletoe.  Get it, missile toe?  Someone's getting toe banged.  Maybe that's how I got the infection.  Got herpes from when I missile toed someone.  What's a missile toad.  Probably something, one would imagine.  These days, what isn't something?  Clocktopus.  What?  A combination clock and octopus.  That isn't something.  Well, you got me there.  I got me there.  That's my catchphrase I say after completing masturbate.  Then I take the belt off from my neck and put it back around my pants.
    Anyway, what's good.  Not this entry.  You cocksucker.  Just speakin' my truth.  I'm not really sure what that's a reference to.  "My truth."  Is that an alcoholic anonymous thing?  Something like that.  I want to set up a liquor shop where we remove all the labels from the liquor, and call it, Alcohol Anonymous.  I'd need a liquor license, though.  And probably explicit permission from all the brands to take their labels off.  They'd probably have a problem with the whole idea, though.  What assholes.  You know that song, It's my party, I can cry if I want to?  I do.  I don't know why, but I do.  Also, why does this party-haver have to cry?  And why does she think it's something people will be able to relate to?  You know, there should be a song for all those times where you're having a party, and want to cry, but other people don't want you to cry...  That person should have self destructed as soon as their line of reasoning was over.  That's how the human body works, right?  Say something stupid... explode.  Then they gotta put you back together again with almost 99% new parts, but your soul was in the original mix, and then you get a new body.  Then you track down your good friend Andy to military school, and start wreaking havoc.  My main memory of watching Child's Play III was in my dorm room, fall semester sophomore year, and thinking about a girl I liked, and thinking, "I am sad."  I don't remember exactly how I used to follow a line of thought before I got ill, it's been so long.  But, for that memory,  I remember I more or less was just watching T.V., laying in bed for, I don't know, a few hours, slowly making out the thought, "I... Am... Sad."  Too bad I wasn't having a party, I could have cried.  The song gave me permission to.  Not explicitly me, but it insinuates that it's okay for everybody to do it, if the song-singer can do it.
Just speaking my truth.  What.  Don't act like you're never sad.  You're probably sad right now.  It's okay to be sad.  Just not at my party.  Get sad at your own damn party.  I cry just a little when I think of letting go.  That's how I feel.  Tomorrow is the last official class of the fall semester.  I did it!  Took a class.  Put it on it's ass.  And had some class about it, you feel me?  That's right, I'm master-rhymer.  I'm being facetious, to speak my truth.  Facebook tie us all.  That sentence makes sense if you're able to follow an idiot.  I am.  I've been following one for just about 26 years now.  I had this memory, recently, of being in fifth grade, and listening to the teacher talk, and people raise their hands and participate, and the only thing going in my mind was, "What can I say to make this funny?"  And, not in a negative way.  It's not like I wasn't really paying attention, and trying to interrupt things.  It's the exact opposite.  I was just so in the moment, I was absorbing everything, but the ultimate goal was say some snarky thing as quick as possible to make people laugh.  And thinking about that makes me realize how far away from that I am now.  I still  want to be funny.  I still try to be funny.  But my aptitude at funniness has been severely reduced.  Thanks a lot, Congress.  Man, if I was in Congress when I was in fifth grade, I'd be having a ball.  Everyone would love me.  John Boehner?  More like John B... Boring... Boing... Bertrum Davis... I don't know.  This ain't fifth grade anymore.  I don't even know what Bertrum Davis means.  It's probably a couple of letters off from being something.  Bertrum backwards is Murterb.  That's when you murder someone who perturbs you.
Just speaking my truth, baby.  Alright.  Thanks, Scotty Nguyen.  Let's make some comedy.  Paragraph Two was Birthday Song.  Paragraph Three was Used To Be Funny.  Let's make paragraph four something worth reading.  Also, what the Hell happened to party-crier?  "You would cry too, if it happened to you.I can't tell you, darlin', unless you tell me what happened.  What happened?  Did he hit you?  You and your damn blackjack addiction...  Maybe she was just choppin' onions.  And then her husband came in and starting hitting her.  Who knows.  This guy sounds like a real butthole, though.  I think she could do better.  Anyway.  Birthday!  I did it!  Double Bar Mitzvah.  That makes me twice the man those youngins are.  Well, twice the size, if you divide by three, at least.  I'm glad I know math.  Exponents, multipliers... the whole thing.  What's going on.  I seem to have hit a wall.  You can't tell, but I just spent five or ten minutes staring off into space.  After "the whole thing."  But now, I'm back.  With a vengeance.  With an avenger.  Here's the Hulk!  Waka-waka-waka.  You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.  Easy, guy, I don't like you when you're not angry.  What.  What, you gonna cry now?  This ain't your party.  Wuh-oh, you're turning green.  Time to run away!  This skit was brought to you by Pizza Hut.  Pizza Hut-- When A Hovel Just Isn't Good Enough.  That's how I feel about things.  Pizza Hut-- When You Want To Eat Shit.  I believe that's their official tagline.  I think that's one of their new crust flavors.
    Truth!  Mine!
  That's a fine get-out-of-jail-free card.  Pizza Hut-- The Perfect Meal For When You Get Out Of Jail Free.  You know how, all those times in real life, when you're in jail, and you hit double fives, and land on free parking?  Wonderful.  Do not pass Go.  Do not collect two hundred dollars.  Can I collect three hundred dollars?  They don't say explicitly, I don't know.  Anyway.  I haven't done the treadmill in a few days.  It's great.  I might start not exercising at all, it feels wonderful.  Don't even need to get dressed.  But still, I do.  What am I, a slob?  Hardly.  The bols on that guy.  Bertrum Davis!  I think he or she might be akin to Clay Davis, from The Wire.  Or Ike Davis, from The Baseballs.  Or Frank Davis.  There's probably a Frank Davis out there.  Anything's possible.  What else is going on.  I used to know a guy named Frankie Davi.  That's pretty close.  Pretty, pretty close.  He's the guy who didn't appreciate my bench-shitting antics in the class trip to the park.  Loyal readers may understand that reference.  Bench-sitting.  Oh, what wonderful webs we weave.  Not sure if that applies here.  Probably doesn't!  That's how I feel.  Does beer come in orange soda flavor?  Probably not.  When I was new to alcohol, besides beer, the main drink we drank was screwdrivers, that is, vodka and orange juice.  And the one kid who was their roommate always got mad that we drank his orange juice.  Oh, how he would complain!  And we would laugh, and laugh.  Beer before liquor, never sicker.  Liquor after beer, in the clear.  That's how that probably goes.
When I first drank beer for the first time, I was like, so this means I can never drink liquor?  They're not specific on the rules.  I was a dick when I first started drinking.  I was still insecure enough to get it goin' on, conversationwise, with girls, but when I would see a friend chatting with a girl, then I was like, oh, so it's on, so I would hit on the girls my friend was trying to hit on!  What a freaking asshole jerkbag dickweed nogoodnik didisaysasshole moron stupidface jerkball.  Moron asshole dickface.  Jerkassic Park, if you will.  Also, that probably happened like once or twice, but it sticks in my mind as a severe blight against my character.  Blight is a word that I know.  Don't mean to brag.  Anyway.  I think that's where Bud Light got it's name.  Thud.  Thud is sort of the sound you hear when a joke dies.  One would imagine.  Let the bodies hit the floor, it's like I'm sayin'.  Anyway, another complete conquest of Facebook, through my birthday wishes.  I got three!  And only all of them were people related to me.  Tons.  Of.  Friends.  What kind of self deluded idiot gets that kind of message on Facebook, and goes around and writes an entry as if a significant number of people are reading?  Hey, didn't you get the message?  What happens on the internet stays on the internet.  People could be reading this five, ten years down the line.  Gotta put out the product now, so when the demands there, I can keep up with it.  That's how that goes.  So that's what he was like before I met him.  I love Michael!  Mike, Mike, Mike!  C'mon, let's get a chant going!  Thanks, future admirer.  Yeesh.  I don't get secret admirers.  Who admires secrets that much?  Haven't they heard it's just, positive thinking, or some shit?  Call back to a self-help book from eight years ago!  See, if I had written that then, I wouldn't have to write it now.
    Last paragraph time.  Let's last paragraph it up in here!  There's only seven people enrolled in my screenwriting class.  Hopefully it doesn't get dissolved.  Someone needs to write World's Greatest Grandpa, and that someone is Me.  Bad Grandpa sort of stole some of it's thunder, though.  Maybe I can come up with a new title.  Let The Bodies Hit the Floor.  It's all about Bodie, from The Wire.  He's a good character.  Everyone loves them some Bodie.  Hmm.  What's a good title.  New Monkees is played out.  World's Greatest Grandpa has been cancelled out by Bad Grandpa.  The Cartoonist is shit, and I also once saw a trailer for a movie called The Cartoonist before a film, and they never released it, but it still happened.  Homeless Wife?  More like Homeless Who Cares.  Movie Time.  The theater I go to is called Movie World.  Maybe I can write a movie called Movie World, and it's loosely based on the shenanigans that go on in that theater.  The main shenanigan is they see this guy come, maybe twenty times a year, sometimes with a haircut, sometimes wearing glasses, sometimes fat, and he sees all these movies, right.  And what's he up to?  That's a zero.  There's a good idea out there for a movie, and I'm gonna think of it.  I'll think on it, for now.  Also, I was hoping I'd get a chance to use the phrase, "Think on it."  And I did.  Mission completed.
    Real last paragraph time.  For real this time.  Hmm.  I'm trying to think on it, but to no avail.  What else can be said to close it up.  I'm 26 now, this ain't no joke.  Gotta start taking things seriously.  Like, writing a movie.  What do people want from their movies?  Happiness.  Sure, but in what context?  They want something they can relate to.  Okay, go on.  They want to see their life up on that screen.  How so?  They want something they can relate to, that's all.  Well, you got your World's Greatest Grandpa.  You got your Homeless Wife.  Yeah, but thems be played out.  What's wrong with Homeless Wife?  I don't know that much about women.  Fair, fair.  What if we made it Homeless Girlfriend?  That'll work, you think you can do that?  I've never had a girlfriend.  Good, man, that's good!  Use your cluelessness to your advantage.  That was a movie, yo.  O... ... Oh no, he's turning green!  Brought to you by Pizza Hut-- The Official Pizza Of Double Bar Mitzvahs.  Alright, anyway.  Homeless Girlfriend.  There's no reason I can't do it.  Except if I can't.  Then the reason I can't do it is if I can't do it.  It's also reminiscent of Arrested Development's Homeless Dad.  I just want my kids back!  Love it.  Except for how it screws my movie.  Hate itMy brother once conceived of a movie called, "The Undergrounders," when we were kids.  I could write a movie called The Undergrounders, no problem.  Maybe I'll give him a call, we can compare notes.  Either way, see ya later.

-4:02 P.M.                                                              


Tuesday, December 9, 2014                        

My Own Worst Title

Jello.  I mean, hello.  It's your friend whose me.  Unfortunately, this entry will be written without the aid of the drink.  Unfortunately for me.  And, maybe for you, assuming this entry is gonna be a two instead of a three.  Maybe it'll be a four.  Maybe it'll be whipped cream.  Sounds like somebody's got a case of the, "Maybes."  Yeesh.  This is what I sound like sober?  Now I need to write a good entry just to prove to myself I can still follow a narrative in my mind without drugging myself to ease my pain.  My deep dark psychic pain.  Not like the pain a psychic has, just your regular brain pain.  Psychics never have brain pain, they know to just take two Advil when they get up in the morning, ahead of time, and skip all the pain.  How are psychics not just supremely bored all the time.  I knew this episode of Spongebob would be on.  Gotta watch it anyway, what else is there to do.  It's raining hard today.  Some might even call it a storm.  I'm no meteorologist.  I'm a weatherman.  Good for you, I'm a regular man.  More or less.  I wonder, if it's clear outside, and the weatherman is up in the news show, he thinks to himself, "It's my time to shine!"  Then talks about the sun shining.  That's almost a joke.  Not even almost.  That's got some parts which could potentially be misconstrued as leading to a joke.  I'm twenty six, get off my back.  Maybe that's what I should take away from turning 26, how I should learn to define what that age is going to mean to me.  I'm 26, Leave Me Alone.  Happy birthday, Mike.  Yeah, whatever.  How have you been, Michael?  Who cares.  Did you do your reading assignment?  Probably not.  I'm 26, get off my back.
I'm a man with a plan.  Panama.  I like how when they were hyping the Panama canal, they thought using a palindrome would really excite the public.  Yeah, we've connected the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, who cares.  A Man, a Plan, a Canal, Panama.  WHAT?  THE PHRASE IS THE SAME BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS?!  HOLY SHIT.  Four more years!  Four more years!  When I run for office, I'm gonna campaign on a platform of, "So Many Dynamos!"  That'll pique the public's enthusiasm and imagination.  That's how I feel.  I thought about saying, "Too many dynamos," but you probably would have thought I made the mistake in earnest.  Rather than as an Ernest.  Anyway, what else is going on.  I don't like using an umbrella.  I feel like the guy in The Exorcist.  I forget his name.  Oh, yeah.  The exorcist.  The Exorcist is like Frankenstein, in that, when you say The Exorcist, you think of the girl.  She's the exorcistee.  How Frankenstein is really Frankenstein's monster.  I don't know, maybe Frankenstein considers the monster his son, and gave him the family name.  It's possible, I wouldn't rule it out.  And how Armageddon isn't Bruce Willis, it's the asteroid.  Dunno what I was trying to accomplish with that sentence.  Anyway.  I can't do my two daily walks in the rain.  What am I, impervious to the rain?  Hardly.  I gotta write a paper by Saturday.  Then, another one, by the Saturday after.  I don't need this, I'm 26.
    Yeah.  Yeah!  Yeah.
  Yeah.  I'll deal with it when I'm 27.  Twenty Six is an off year.  What else is going on.  Maybe I should go to meteorology school.  And learn about Armageddon and Deep Impact.  That's a child's joke.  I'm 26, nothing matters anymore.  In a good way!  Not like, nothing matters, time to end life.  Like, nothing matters, hey, what else is... not mattering.  I would ace the final exams at meteorology school.  Meteor is when it's still in space, when it enters the Earth's orbit, it's a meteorite.  100%.  Time to plan the graduation party.  What happens at a meteorology school graduation party stays at a meteorology school graduation party.  That's how I feel about things.  I'd like to teach a class at meteorology school.  Show a slide of the sun.  Thumbs up.  C'mon, everyone put your thumbs up.  Show a slide of a cloud raining.  Thumbs down. C'mon guys, thumbs down.  Gotta teach people what weather is good and what weather is bad, I assume that's the gist of what goes on.  Cloudy with no rain.  Alright, this is a tough one guys.  Raise of hands, who thinks this is good?  It's a real brainbuster.  I like that Twilight Zone episode where the whole time, they're worried about the Sun getting closer to the Earth, and it's too hot.  Then it turns out it was all just a dream, and the Sun is actually moving away from the Earth, and it's too cold.  Really makes you think, huh.  Almost a little too much.  I don't wanna think about things, I'm 26.  In my whole life, one constant has always been that I don't want to think about things.  Thinking is hard.  I wouldn't wish thinking on my worst enemies.
    A Child's Joke.  Ugh.  My favorite part of any of the Chucky movies is in Child's Play III, because Chucky is starting to respect Andy a little more, cause he's older.  They have more in common now and they can relate to each other a little better.  I like to see that kind of growth in long term relationships.  Really warms the heart.  Anyway, what else.  One of my favorite jokes from old crazysheet was, "Wouldn't it be funny if you were buried alive?  Well, not to you, but to your enemies."  That's a solid B joke, on any scale.  I like how, according to Poe and other horror writers, being buried alive is like the scariest thing imaginable.  It's not really.  I'd rather be buried alive than buried dead.  At least you got a slim chance of gettin' out of there.  That seems pretty common sense to me, at least.  Oh, and, The Raven?  It's a bird!  Birds aren't scary.  Just like The Birds.  You serious about this shit?  Oh, wow, you're outside and there's a bunch of birds around.  Unless they're pigeons, who cares.  Pigeons, now, they're the rats of the sky.  Carrying God knows what diseases.  Stay away from pigeons.  Any animal that piggy backs on the name of another, unrelated animal, can't be trusted.  And the animal they're piggy backin' on are pigs themselves!  Have they no shame.  Probably not.  Their inferior minds can't process human concepts such as shame.
    Anyway, last paragraph time.  We did it!  Almost.  Maybe, from now on, instead of wasting my drunkenness on the entry, I can save it for when the entry is done.  And waste it on watching Spongebob afterwards.  I don't watch Spongebob.  C'mon now, I'm 26.  Gotta watch iCarly.  Finally, something for my generation.  Maybe watch some Big Time Rush, and other shows like that, for inspiration.  The New Monkees isn't gonna write itself.  A couple of weeks ago, when I told you I wrote a couple of song titles for The New Monkees, I actually also wrote pretty much a sequence of plot points which provide a pretty good outline of what could happen in the movie.  Then I left my notebook in class.  At least, it's not in my book bag or anywhere in the room.  So, someone must have found it, and seen my notes.  No one's come forward, unfortunately.  Or, fortunately.  Hopefully the janitor threw that shit out without looking at it.  When I first noticed it was missing, I panicked, thinking someone was gonna read that crap, and have it lead back to me.  Now, I realize, Who the fuck cares, I'm 26.  See ya later.

-1:25 P.M.                


Monday, December 8, 2014                        

Row, Row, Row Your Title

Gently down the title.  Life is but a title, its like I'm sayin'.  Good Monday to you.  I got the week off.  I have every week off. Until winter session.  Then, I'm classing it up five days a week!  For three weeks.  Then, I'm classing it up twice a week!  This is interesting because I might suffer brain damage in the next two weeks, and will need to refer to this entry for important life facts about me.  Class five days a week, but he doesn't say whereI'm no use to myself.  I like how they derogatorily say humans use only ten percent of their brain.  So what, I don't even use 2% of my bones.  My toes?  Zero.  Totally useless.  I think I might have a staph infection in one toe, like I had in my thumb about a year ago.  And it's the thumb toe, on the same side as the thumb I had the staph infection in.  What are the odds.  One in ten, if I was a betting man.  I'll give you twenty to one odds, though, just because I'm a compulsive gambler and really want to throw some money around.  What good are toes.  I mean, it keeps the feet symmetrical with the hands, in an abstract sense.  But, really, who needs 'em.  Also, finger and toe nails.  We evolved nails so we can scratch things, obviously.  Don't obviously me, jerk.  You're the obvious.  If nails aren't evidence of God's creation, I don't know what is.  God's like, I just thought they'd look nice.  No other explanation.  Why else would so many people compulsively bite their nails.  People don't consciously destroy any other part of their body.  Nails are just there to give people somethin' to bite.
    I guess.  What else is going on.  I'm writing an entry.  That's fun.  I'm pretty sure I've ranted about the uselessness of ears in the past.  They're so delicately designed, and for what?  Amplifying sound?  Maybe.  I don't know, I'm not on trial here.  I like how Picasso cut off his ear to prove his love for some lady.  That lady was probably like, Yeah, umm, that's kind of weird.  You don't wanna deal with that kind of behavior, who would.  Then Picasso can stitch it back on, and go, well, I tried.  Get back to painting some nonsense.  I bet Picasso's mates made fun of him all the time for that ear situation.  Then he'd cut off his other ear to symbolize asking for mercy from the relentless mocking from his friends.  Then the medical community, who he's turned to now twice to amputate extremities, gets a wind of it, and pretty soon he's gotta chop off something else.  It never ends, once you've started.  He opened Pandora's box on that one.  Why didn't he just paint the girl a picture.  I mean, that's what he's good at.  Just print, "You+Me=<3", sign your name, send it to her through the post office, she'll get the message.  Little does she know that you mean to say that, "You+Me" actually equals "Less Than an Ear."  A 3 kinda looks like an ear.  Or a sideways butt.
    Anyway.  I like how there are ear, nose, and throat doctors.  What's next, a nipple, bellybutton, and taint doctor?  I don't know.  Probably.  What else is going on.  This entry is going great.  What else is going on, though, to talk about for two and a hizzalf paragraphs.  I don't know yet, I haven't written it yet.  Once I've written it, though, I'll know for sure what there is to talk about.  Because it will exist already.  How do we get to that point, though, is the question.  Turning 26 on Friday.  Shit, that's my upper twenties.  FUCK.  In my mind, up until now, I was like, eh, I'm in my mid-twenties, no big deal.  It's just a little bit above low twenties.  But 26 is in the second half of the twenties!  That's upper!  I'm living at home, with no friends, going to college part time.  And I'm in the upper of the twenties.  That ain't right.  Some of my old friends are married.  Next they'll be having kids.  And I'm here, dicking around, what's the deal with toes.  That ain't right one bit.  Anyway, who cares.  At least I'm not 27.  I got a whole year before I reach my prime.  27 is the prime year for baseball players, so I got a whole year to fuck around, then, then, I really need to kick it into overdrive.  Also, 27 is only the prime year over all.  29-31 is the prime year for power.  So, I don't need to be hittin no homeruns for another few years.  It's all gonna work itself out.  In one notebook I have from 2008, where I would write weird crap while I was high, I wrote something like, "The impending oil shortage/environmental crisis is like the steroid era in baseball.  When the oil's gone, there will be less homeruns, but the hits will keep on coming."  And every time I go through that notebook, I just gotta smirk, like, "What the Hell was I smoking?"  Marijuana.  I was smoking marijuana.  And sometimes salvia.  I imagine Salvia saying to it's prospective users, "I'll solve ya' problems!"  Because I like puns and personification.  They make me happy.
    Salvia is a totally useless drug.  It lasts like twenty seconds and isn't particularly pleasurable or anything.  It's just like, woah, this is weird, for literally fifteen seconds, and then you forget about it.  I remember, when I bought salvia from a Chinese shop on St. Marks, he went out of his way to say, "Don't smoke this in the streets, because you'll get disoriented and get run over," or something.  So I was like, okay, sounds reasonable.  And then what did I do?  Smoked it on the street.  Because I'm an idiot.  You know who smokes salvia?  People who have no connections.  Now I remember.  Can't score any weed, gotta smoke something, go to the salvia store.  Anyway.  How long have I been talking about salvia.  Maybe spike some weed with a little salvia, fine.  Smoking straight salvia?  No point.  No point!  Anyway, we're now into the fourth paragraph.  I love it when that happens!  There'll be less homeruns, because you can't drive around, gotta use bikes.  More singles.  It'll slow down everything, but not necessarily in a devastating way.  Makes sense.  Anyway.  I also wrote down dialogue for, "Homeless Wife."  "I don't know how you do it, man."  "Do what?"  Have a homeless wife.  It's all coming together.  Anyway.  That's a surefire way to write something.  Write about something you've already written.  No fuss.  Anyway.  It's Monday, still, right?  Good.  I don't want it to be Tuesday.  How do you like them apples.  I was thinking about bringing an apple to my teacher on the first day of class.  That's... funny?  Nope.  Nope.  Not at all.  Not even a joke.  It's nothing.  It.  Is.  Nothing. 
    The good news is, it's the last paragraph.  Picasso should have just given his love an apple.  I cut off this apple for you.  This apple wasn't attached to you, was it?  ...No.  Oh well.  That's how that goes.  Twenty six.  Rounds up to thirty!  Twenty five rounds up to thirty, too, I guess.  In the abstract.  What else be happening.  It's Monday.  We've covered that.  It's the afternoon.  That much was implied.  It's the fifth paragraph.  Yes, indeed.  Now that you've got the logistics, what else is there?  I've shared all the pertinent information.  Even if we did nails, just do it on the thumbs, or something.  We don't need twenty of these suckers.  Don't need crazysheet entries, neither, but we got those, don't we?  Oh, boy, do we.  Yes, indeed.  I'm the only one, out of seven billion people, who writes crazysheet.  That's kind of nonsense.  You'd think at least a hundred or two others would be up to this kinda nonsense.  I bet there's scores of other people, with blogs just like this, in style and substance, ranting and raving to nobody.  There's gotta be.  We should form a group.  A union.  If only we could find each other.  Anyway, see ya later.

-2:57 P.M.


Saturday, December 6, 2014                        

What Words You Be Sayin?

Hi friends.  It's your friend, me.  Mr. Friendly McFriender the second.  I don't wanna go by Junior, that's why.  Man, that guy gets testy right off the bat, for no good reason.  That guy is me.  Under a fake moniker.  It's symbolic.  Symbolizes I don't know my name.  Anyway, hello.  I had the second to last class of the semester.  You know what that means!  Break out the ticker tape, it's time to use the word, "Penultimate."  Celebrate good times, oh yeah!  Whoever came up with the word penultimate really knocked it out of the park.  Right after he thought of it, he must have known, "Yup, people are gonna like this."  That's how I feel, about things, and stuff.  What else is going on.  I had been eating like an asshole all week, after Thanksgiving.  Well, sort of.  I started eating pretty much non-stop, all day, but I ate pretty much no actual meals.  So, in the end, about the same amount of calories.  Hopefully I can go back to normal now.  Two regular sized meals, one mini-meal, and a snack or two.  I run a tight ship, those be the rules.  There's only so many small dinner rolls and Fiber One cookies the human body can tolerate.  The good news is I had I dream I was skinny, and eating French Toast.  It was a double whammy.  I'm confident in my body image, and I'm eatin' some sweetness!  I also died in the dream.  That wasn't so great.  And, it was implied, in the rules of the dreamverse, that after death, there's nothing.  So, as I was dying, I was like, "Oh, shit, a couple more seconds to go, gotta make em c---... ugh..."  That's how that goes.
    I don't like using the word, "Count," it's too much like a certain C word that's insensitive.  And I don't like to read insenstivity, so why would I want to propensitate it?  Stupidity, on the other hand, is aces.  You're reading stupiditity, all you think is, "I'm smarter than that guy!"  And I like making people feel good about themselves.  It's pretty much what I'm all about, in the end.  Although, sometimes when you read stupidity, you try to make sense of it, and, in failing, you think you're the one who's stupid.  I can't apologize enough for that.  Anyway, what else is going on.  It's raining today.  That means water is falling out of the sky, in droplet form.  I don't understand why rain isn't just one big drop every fifteen seconds.  Like, a drop that envelopes the entire neighborhood, then nothing, then another one.  Sort of like a drip from a leaky faucet.  I was busy drawing boxes in my notebook the day we covered that in middle school science.  I do remember rainbows, though.  Roy G. Biv.  That's really not that great an anagram, when you think about it.  Roy, great.  Rookie of the year, we get it.  G. Biv?  Totally meaningless.  I mean, there are some good anagrams out there, if we just took the time to look for them.  Roy G Biv is just a clunker.
    Hey, my name is Roy G. Biv.  So sorry to offend you, Mr. Biv!  Oh, and Indigo?  Violet?  Those ain't main colors.  You can't fool me.  I'm not buying it!  VROY GBI would be better.  It's like the viceroy of GBI.  Makes sense to me.  And GBI is like IBM.  Anyway, yeah.  Haha, IBM.  It's funny because it's fecal humor.  Who doesn't, am I right?  That's an alternate tag to that joke.  I started watching The Human Centipede, and twenty minutes through, when they start to get to the horror scenes, I was just like, "Nope!"  Turned that shit off.  I mean, I can tolerate a lot of crap, but there's no reason to watch that.  Ever.  It is an astute commentary on the bureaucracy of corporate America, sure.  And Two girls, One Cup is about the welfare system.  Bangbus is about public transportation.  I took a bus today!  Yeah!  I was sitting down on the bus, just the other moment, and there was a leak, and water was leaking onto me.  So, I had to go sit in the aisle seat, instead of the window seat, like a fool.  What kind of asshole sits in the aisle instead of the window when both are available?  I mean, when there's not a leak.  Who are these people?  When you're on a bus, basically, the goal is to sit in as isolated seat as possible.  Stay away from the middle.  That's just common sense.  Sittin' in the aisle seat?  Made me look like an amateur.  And that's respect from bus-riders that I'll never get back.  I don't think I ever took a bus until I was in college.  I started taking the subway in high school, but no bus.  In college, I started taking the bus to and from the 7 Train.  I remember I once was coming home from NYU, in the days of my sickness, and was paranoid I was being followed, so I walked all the way home from Flushing, rather than take the bus.  Looking back, I'm kinda surprised I figured out my way home.  I'm really not that good at directions.  Maybe the adrenaline from having my life in danger fueled my adaptively.  My main memory is walking by Utopia Parkway, and thinking, "There's a Fountains of Wayne song called this."  Sorta a bright spot in a gloomy day.
    I don't know why, if people were following me, why they couldn't follow me on foot.  They probably hate walking as much as the next guy.  The good memories of taking the 7 Train, though, were going to work, still half-high, and listening to the Modest Mouse live album and Arcade Fire's Neon Bible.  I was doing the math recently, and while it seemed like I was at my job for like two years, I think it was actually like half a year.  Maybe a year.  But, oh, the memories that were made.  Doing the mail.  Flirting with the female student interns.  That's probably what did me in.  I mean, they said it was just general conversation and tomfoolery, but my hunch is that I was making people uncomfortable.  Which is so unlike me, before that time, and after.  But that was right in the sweet spot of me open to flirting with girls without proper standing.  And, I don't know.  Flirting?  Just talking to them.  Friendidly.  And maybe some pointing to my dick and mouthing, "Suck It!"  But certainly no further than that.  Look, I did the mail, what more do you want?  Good luck finding another guy who can figure out how to take pages from one box and put them into another box.  And putting flyers into a Fed Ex box.  That was my true calling!  And I pissed it away.  Doin' some data entry on Excel.  I was truly competent.  Now my job is just going to all my doctors appointments.  It pays the bills.  Pretty much.  I get a nice check from Social Security every month, for being mentally ill, don't mean to brag.  Yes I do.  I'm a money making machine!  And all I got to do is be mentally disabled from being able to have a real job.  Money In The Bank!  Thanks, Obama.  Really, thanks!  You're a big help.  That's how I feel about things.  I'm pretty sure my new neighbors smoke pot.  I smell it all the time.  Thanks, Obama.  It's not his fault, why would I say that.  I'm just holding out for the time they ring the bell, and ask, Does anyone here get high?  Then I'm in like Gunga Din. 
    Last paragraph time.
  I sure wrote four paragraphs already.  I'm the man!  One would imagine.  Back in my day, the main gross-out porn was The Giver and The Receiver.  That's right, I'm talking Goatse.  Now, it seems they turned The Giver into a movie.  I never saw it.  And I believe they based The Receiver on an Air Bud sequel.  I never saw it.  One would imagine.  What else is going on.  I wrote an entry today.  That'll happen from time to time.  I hope stuff happens after you die.  It's like, you remember the penultimate moment of your life, and then, you're like, oh shit, so this is going on now.  It could happen.  That's what you gotta be hoping for, at least.  No one lives forever, unless you're Oasis.  That's how I feel.  See ya.

-4:58 P.M.                               


Monday, December 1, 2014                        

Oh Yeah, I Remember That Title

Helllo and welcome!  To another grand, wonderous, beautiful, outstanding, amazing, gorgeous, wonderful, astounding, wonderful month of crazysheet.  First decree of the month-- change the spelling of, "Wondrous!"  Except for in that instance.  We need the original spelling there-- for clarity!  Second degree-- check out these new colors!  Ain't that grand.  Anyway, what else is going on.  It was just Thanksgiving.  Why didn't I wait to see Birdman for Thanksgiving.  Because my life does not always synchronize with the outside world 100% befittingly, that's why.  Pretty sure birdman was about Sesame Street.  They got a six foot bird guy on there, don't they?  Larry bird.  Anyway, what else is going on.  It was just Thanksgiving.  Remember, from before?  I hope you all enjoyed yourself.  I know I enjoyed myself.  There was food, family, and fun.  The three F's.  I aspire to fortune, fame, and Fuddruckers.  The other three F's.  Ferguson, Ferguson, Ferguson.  Those are the three F's of quality late night talk show.  That's how that goes.  Anyway, what's the good word.  I was thinking about doing a music open mic tonight-- but didn't!  On account of having to stay up way past my bedtime.  Eight O' Clock?  What am I, Nevergoestosleep Man?  No.  I'm Alwaysgoestosleep Man.  It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.  Dreams are precious.  And I'm made of nothin' but dreams!   That makes me the most valuable man in the world.  Suck It, Chaucer!  He's not really in the world, anymore.  I mean, his mostly-decomposed corpse is, probably, unless they shot it into space.  Which they may have.  NASA is mostly known for doing egregious things like that, that's their rap.  National Institution of Samoan Actors.  Anyway.
    Sushi Aficionados.  Sumerian Artifacts.  Salmon Accidents.  What else is going on.  I did see the Hunger Games the day or two after Thanksgiving.  That's sort of related. Eating, hunger.  Games.  Giving.  I saw a commercial for The Giver on T.V.  That's a common word.  Now my life has direction and purpose.  Because I know now last week was all about Giving.  This week?  All about... what?  I don't know yet.  My guess?  Mondayitude.  So far, this workweek has been nothin' but Monday!  No reason to expect that to let up any time soon.  Anyway, I suppose it's time to move on.  Two more classes of my Fall semester.  Then, that's a fuckin' nine credits knocked out of the park for the year.  And you know what happens when I achieve all the credits, right?  I graduate.  And you know what that means, right?  If you do, please tell me.  I'm havin' a Hell of a time trying to figure it out.  My guess?  Get reincarnated into Kindergarten, and go through it all again.  Nah, I gotta continue moving forward.  Forward, Forward, Forward.  It's like location, location, location.  The location of the forward is the beginning of the book.  Beginning, beginning, beginning.  Mondayitude.  It's all coming together.  I'm an idiot.  Seriously, though, what am I gonna do when I graduate.  So many choices.  There's get whatever crap job I can...  Something else, one would imagine.  I wonder what crap job I'm gonna be relegated do.  Magician's assistant, that's my bet.  Celebrity taste taster.  If I'm a, "Celebrity," anything, I'd want to be their astrologer.  That way, I can say I'm an, "Astrologer To The Stars!" And that would look spic and span on a business card.
    Oh man, that would be epic.  Why?  Because I misread, "Spic," as, "Epic."  That's good, at least it's no longer offensive to any people.  I heard Juan Leguizamo's new one man show is called, "Spictacular!"  I apologize in advance.  Well, not really in advance.  Kind of the opposite.  I apologize in retrospect.  John Leguizamo was Luigi.  Luigi is the best character in Mario Kart.  John Leguizamo is the best character in Mario Kart.  Think of the epicness of that.  Luigi really makes a name for himself in the Marioverse.  Hey, I'm like Mario, but I wear a green hat!  Totally different character.  I remember I had a friend who called mushrooms, "Marios."  Cause they're into mushrooms, and stuff.  They eat a mushroom, and grow 100%.  I ate a mushroom, and all it did was destroy my sense of space, time, and mind.  Didn't do any growing, as far as I can remember.  I had another friend, who did mushrooms with us, whose last name was Kong.  Donkey Kong!  You'd think taking, "Marios," would be his mortal enemy.  And you'd think... anyway, what else is going on.  Let's get off that crippity crap.  I never really thought about his name, before, my friend.  But now that I think about it, that would explain why he was always throwing barrels at people.  Anyway, what else is happening.  Mondays, am I right?  It's like, c'mon.  Am I right.  Anyway.  I love stuffing.  I can't get enough of this stuff!  It's like bread times bread equals bread squared.  How do I move on to a new topic.  Do I just say, Hey, New Topic Time!?  Hey, new topic time.  It was warm outside today.  In the middle of the day, I went out, didn't wear a jacket.  Not a winter jacket, not a leather jacket, not even a sweatshirt jacket.  De nada.  That's Spanish for I was wearing of nothing.  I speak Spanish now.  That's convenient.  They should really call convenience stores convenient stores.  They're not selling convenience, they are convenient.  They're selling knick-knacks and paddy-wacks.  Give a dog a bone, Jack.  I was listening to the top 1,043 classic rock songs count down over the Thanksgiving weekend.  But I slept Sunday night, as they were at the very top.  However, I had a dream I was singing Stairway To Heaven in a bath, right around when they woulda been playing it at number one, so I guess the jokes on them.  Number One Dreama around.  Then I dreamt the sun was a green pepper.  So, I guess the jokes on the solar system.
    I shouldn't be sharing my valuable dream-piphanies with strangers.  I need to keep Stairway and Green Peppers to myself.  Once I start puttin' them together, I'm gonna have quite the... anyway.  Monday.  When I woke up from that dream, I was like, Oh, now I get it.  Sun is green pepper.  Makes sense.  Next!  I gotta stop using the exercise room at the same time as my Dad.  I like using the elliptical only half the time now, and half treadmill.  And he be usin' up that treadmill, boy!  I could always push him off the machine and say, move over, sucka, but, I don't know, I kinda like the guy.  My movie theater has a T.V. in the lobby, and it's always showing day time talk shows.  This infuriates me.  When I go to see a movie, I want to imagine I'm in a totally different world.  Being reminded there's regular T.V. takes me out of the experience of seeing the movie.  You just lost yourself a customer.  Theoretically.  If I had any scruples, that is.  Also, what's Scruples.  Is that like Monday.  Anyway.  I remember, one band name that a girl once recommended to me, was, "Reverberation."  How did I get to that thought?  I'll walk you through it.  FIRST: I thought of saying, "One Would Imagine."  SECOND: I thought of John Lennon's, "Imagine."  THIRD: I thought of the shirt I made for myself that says, "All You Need Is Love."  FOURTH: I thought of a time I was wearing that shirt.  FIFTH: I thought of the time I was wearing that shirt and talking to this girl.  SIXTH: I thought of the quotation in question.  So, I guess that's how that goes.  If I was making that shirt now, I'd probably make it say, "All You Need Is Shirt."  Or something irreverent like that.  I'm a wild and quirky guy!  That's my modern take on, "Wild 'n Crazy" guy.  My mom is always telling me, "Oh, Saturday Night Live was so great in my day!" but I'm 70% sure she's a lying bastard.  Like, I'm not saying I wouldn't have liked it at the time, or whether it holds up now or not, I'm just saying, she probably just latches onto it because she feels culturally she's expected to.  You know, Steve Martin, and the guy who died.  Steve Martin was never a cast member.  And if you can't name the other guy, you probably didn't like him that much.  I don't know if my Mom is always telling me that.  She says it once every few months.  That's still pretty common.
    Anyway, it's time for a new paragraph.  My main association with Saturday Night Live is that I was once watching it while high, and when it was over, I was checking the guide, and there was some infomercial about Red Bull or something.  So now, I always think of Red Bull when I think about Saturday Night Live.  It's weird the things that get imprinted onto our minds.  I don't think Red Bull had infomercials.  In my confused state, I interpreted that there was an infomercial about Red Bull,, that's all I know.  Oh, also around the same time, in fact, possibly at exactly the same time, after watching Saturday Night Live, I watched twenty minutes of The Flintstones Movie on an On Demand Channel.  So, those two things.  I'm gonna be tellin' that to my kids in forty years.  Oh man, I used to love Saturday Night Live.  You know, you watch some Saturday Night Live on Red Bull, after the Flintstones, oooh boy.  Because I'm an idiot.  A brain dead idiot.  Moron, some might say.  Oasis.  Anyway, Monday, what's up.  I wonder if Weezer's, "Say It Ain't So," ever got into a fight with Oasis's, "Some Might Say."  With Elliott Smith's, "Say Yes," getting in on the action.  And The Beatles, "She Said, She Said," watching from the sidelines.  Probably.  I was just watching Oz on HBO On Demand.  There's a character nameded Said.  That's how that goes.  Anyway.
    Last paragraph time.  This was a hoot.  Hey, it's a different background and font color!  Wanna hear some inside knowledge?  I was even thinking about changing the font.  I know, I know.  Keep it under your hat.  I've never worn a sombrero.  Seems like something worth giving a shot, one day.  My main association with sombrero is a Simpsons episode where Homer is wearing a sombrero made out of nacho, and eating it.  I believe the main story of the episode was him being friends with Flanders, but there's a good 30-40% chance I'm wrong.  Definitely something to do with Flanders, though.  Oh, when I was a kid, the Simpsons were all about hats made out of food, not like the shit they do now...
  When I listen to Tenacious D, I always think about walking home from getting a beer on December 1st, 2014...  Cause that's what I just did.  Anyway.  Time to close it up.  One more paragraph, though.  One would imagine.  Ahh, the white hurts my eyes.  My precious, precious eyes!  Anyway.  This sure was an entry.  I'm fairly certain of that.   How will it end, though?  Probably with words.  Yep.  One would imagine I would close it up with some comedy.  Ayyyyy.  Wait, I'm not Fonzie.  There was a good half a second where I thought I was The Fonz.  Not really.  But you could imagine what it'd be like if I did, right?  Yeah.  Anyway, I've tortured you long enough.  See ya later.

-4:52 P.M.