Creating Failure

While looking around the cesspool of boredom, I have found out that I am now officially un-cool. I am not on My Space, I don’t have my own website and I refuse to come to terms with the most popular thing to hit the net since the lemonade game; the dreaded Blog.

Is there anything more pathetic than posting your daily rants, giving your personal stamp to whatever you write about, or using your Blog for your personal crybaby towel?

What happened to the days of buying a daily diary? At last that way the whole world would not have to see your babbling. I have seen everything from posting how many times you get laid, to the theory of why he or she would cheat on that person.

It seems like every time you get invited to someone’s personal blog, they have to let you in on every detail of their life. There is nothing like hearing about why God put that mole on your taint.

Maybe I can try and become cool again. I just long for the short attention span of the ADD crew, so I will try and go with the cliff notes version of my own Blog.

Dear blog,

7 AM

Woke up this morning after a long weekend of Mickey’s big mouths and Campbell’s firehouse chili. I swear to God, the Browns finally made it to the Super Bowl, or maybe I got so drunk over the past 48 hours I might have eaten a couple of midgets. Nothing like the smell of turds and potpourri in the morning.

At least my fingers didn’t go through the paper today.

7:30 AM

I still can’t get over that fucking turd. That thick bastard had a stamp for its own zip code. 

Shit, shower, shave, and I am off to work.

Hey, I am at work!!! Four steps to the computer and it's time to design the newest, freshest and most badass menu for Finesteins’ House of Ribs.  Since when did ribs become Kosher? Sort of like the last menu I did: Loc Dog’s all you can eat Chinese buffet. To each there own I guess. And I really didn’t shower.

10 AM

I refuse to sit through another episode of Maury. How many times can this bitch be pregnant? And have you been screwed so many times that you don’t really know who that kid's daddy is? This woman has been on Maury with 13 different men, and NONE of them are the daddy. And she has to wonder why she got the nickname “spittoon” in high school?

1 PM

I am on a health kick this year. All I am eating is chicken. Thank God Domino’s delivers those awesome chicken wings. I can feel the weight pouring out of me. Or it could be the five pots of coffee I had, but something is definitely on its way to come pouring out of me.

3 PM

I guess I can quit writing this shit since no one will ever read it anyway. No one ever does, and even if they did, what would they do with it? Everyone already has one; so maybe if they did look at it they can let me join up in their cool crowd.

I love me,

Manimal Lector