I know that you probably don't want to hear it but since I'm an honest
man, I like being honest with others. I also like being frank
with others because I like role-playing as different people, especially to
strangers and the police because it helps hide my real identity when I've
done something bad. Anyway, back
to the honesty thing. Things haven't been going very well around
here lately; not for me personally, mind you -- I'm doing
great -- but fairly poorly for the corporation. The PNC Board of
Directors (which include such names as Steven Spielberg and John McTiernan)
haven't been too thrilled with the company's progress as of late. I
guess when your entire made-up corporation's made-up financial plan is
based around you posting stuff that you made up on the internet, not
posting anything isn't exactly healthy for your non-existent bottom line.
It's not like it's entirely my fault, either. I mean, sure, it's easy to point fingers, especially for those people with hands, but it's totally not cool to showboat your normalness in front of the handicapped. They don't particularly like it and before you know it, out of nowhere pops some wheelchair sympathizer who starts on a tirade about how much the crippled contribute to society while continually pelting your person with stale tortilla chips. I'm not sure what any of this has to do with what I was originally talking about -- I just hate bandwagoning. So, what's a player like me supposed to do when his back is up against the wall and all of the odds are against him? Well, I'm going to do what any person who doesn't really give a shit would do in my position and simply stick my fingers in my ears, close my eyes, and yell "La la la, I can't hear anyone but myself" until the whole thing blows over. Oh, I'm also going to shut the site down for the rest of the year. Thankfully, it's already December so that means that it won't be down for long. No, wait, it means that my nipples are hard from the cold, winter wind. Whatever.
Come on, don't take it so hard. It's been at least a month since the last update was posted and with all of the December holidays ahead of us, it's quite likely that I wasn't going to post anything again until 2008 anyway. So, really, you're not missing out on anything. However, if you're jonesing that hard, feel free to fly me out to where ever you live (it had better be warm) and I can berate you in person. I will even throw a frozen turkey through your windshield just for good measure. Who says that money can't buy happiness? Poor people, probably. They complain about everything. Still, just because the site is closing down after this update ends doesn't mean that this update is ending right now. I still have a few things that I need to get off of my chest before we close up shop (a dead hooker).
While I could personally give less than a damn about the passing of Kanye West's mother, it did serve to get me thinking about just how precious life is and how we're all just one sloppy plastic surgery away from dying. It also helped put in perspective the fact that I am not quite ready to die. It's not that I am afraid of dying -- personally, I find breathing constantly to be a hindrance -- but more that I am not prepared to die. Not right now, anyway. I realize now that in order to pass away properly, I need to get a few things in order first. Most of them are trivial things like who I'm going to frame from my crime and which politician I want to benefit from it, but mostly it boils down to getting my will all straightened out. I tried ironing it but that didn't work. Haha, I'm only kidding -- ironing a will is just stupid. In truth, it's not the will itself that is the current cause of concern but rather the things that I'm supposed to put in it. You see, I don't have anything nice to pass along to the people I leave behind and nothing pisses people off more than getting all excited about a will reading only to find out that the idiot had nothing but one leather glove and a collection of plastic coat hangers. If you want the fast track version of how to make someone mad at a corpse, that's the blueprint right there. So, item number one, get nice things.
The second item would have to be to obtain or otherwise create some kind of glamour photo of myself before I die. The reasoning behind this is that since my death will likely be such a public spectacle, I need something suitable to pass along to the news agencies so that they can showcase it for the next two weeks of coverage. Honestly, the photo doesn't even have to be all that good -- I simply need to find one that doesn't make me look like I just escaped from an insane asylum. My in-depth research into the human psyche has shown that above all, people are really superficial and they care a lot more about you if you look good. Plus, since I am looking now while I am still breathing air instead of dirt, I have the added luxury of picking my own photo instead of that one picture where I am in my pajamas and picking my nose. For example, I could use one where I am riding a pony or perhaps in one of those carnival photos where it's my head sticking through the hole and the rest of the picture is of some super muscular dude. All in all, it's a lot easier than paying a bunch of people to say nice things about you after you've croaked, but don't think that I don't have a bunch of people already on the payroll to do just that in case everything falls though. You never know -- accidents happen all of the time and I lead a pretty exciting life. On the edge.
So, speaking of death, I got one last thing to add about all of this. I would think that this would be common sense by now but since it keeps happening, maybe the message isn't getting through. (This portion of the update is directed at a small minority of people so don't feel bad if this doesn't apply to you -- it probably means you'll still be alive next week.) Ok, so, really, what is the deal with people named Peterson constantly turning out to be crazy murderers? And why do their wives always have names that rhyme? First, we had Lacy Peterson, killed by Scott. Not really a big deal until we realize that it's only the tip of the murderous iceberg. Now we have Drew Peterson in the news and guess what he is accused of? Yep, killing his wife. What's her name? Stacy. To summarize this complex case so far, Lacy Peterson and Stacy Peterson are both dead. (Well, probably. Stacy is still missing but unless you're Saddam or Osama, no one alive stays hidden that long.) Ladies, do we see a pattern here? If your name rhymes with Stacy or Lacy and you are married to someone with the last name of Peterson, YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. Seriously, either break off that dead-end marriage or change your name. I know that it might seem like a lot of work but it's a lot easier than dying and trying to come back to life. Yes, I am talking to you, CASEY PETERSON.
With all of that said, it's about that time that I start wrapping up this update which also known as THE LAST UPDATE YOU WILL EVER, EVER, EVER SEE AGAIN (in 2007). But fret not (in case you were fretting right there), for we will be back and probably worse than ever in 2008. We have all kinds of neat stuff planned, assuming that your definition of "neat" happens to coincide with the definition of retarded. Art goes clubbing and forgoes the mailbag updates for a chance at striking it rich in Hollywood. I call up my ace of spades, J.Truth and we talk slang back and forth for a while. Skip Walker might make a triumphant return. Maybe. Also, don't miss when I hit the dating scene again and Oprah turns me into a black woman. Will any of these things actually happen? Who the hell knows? I certainly don't! Stay tuned in the new year when we power this bitch back up. Until then, stay pink and don't talk to any strange ducks. I'm out like a backordered item.
It's not like it's entirely my fault, either. I mean, sure, it's easy to point fingers, especially for those people with hands, but it's totally not cool to showboat your normalness in front of the handicapped. They don't particularly like it and before you know it, out of nowhere pops some wheelchair sympathizer who starts on a tirade about how much the crippled contribute to society while continually pelting your person with stale tortilla chips. I'm not sure what any of this has to do with what I was originally talking about -- I just hate bandwagoning. So, what's a player like me supposed to do when his back is up against the wall and all of the odds are against him? Well, I'm going to do what any person who doesn't really give a shit would do in my position and simply stick my fingers in my ears, close my eyes, and yell "La la la, I can't hear anyone but myself" until the whole thing blows over. Oh, I'm also going to shut the site down for the rest of the year. Thankfully, it's already December so that means that it won't be down for long. No, wait, it means that my nipples are hard from the cold, winter wind. Whatever.
Come on, don't take it so hard. It's been at least a month since the last update was posted and with all of the December holidays ahead of us, it's quite likely that I wasn't going to post anything again until 2008 anyway. So, really, you're not missing out on anything. However, if you're jonesing that hard, feel free to fly me out to where ever you live (it had better be warm) and I can berate you in person. I will even throw a frozen turkey through your windshield just for good measure. Who says that money can't buy happiness? Poor people, probably. They complain about everything. Still, just because the site is closing down after this update ends doesn't mean that this update is ending right now. I still have a few things that I need to get off of my chest before we close up shop (a dead hooker).
While I could personally give less than a damn about the passing of Kanye West's mother, it did serve to get me thinking about just how precious life is and how we're all just one sloppy plastic surgery away from dying. It also helped put in perspective the fact that I am not quite ready to die. It's not that I am afraid of dying -- personally, I find breathing constantly to be a hindrance -- but more that I am not prepared to die. Not right now, anyway. I realize now that in order to pass away properly, I need to get a few things in order first. Most of them are trivial things like who I'm going to frame from my crime and which politician I want to benefit from it, but mostly it boils down to getting my will all straightened out. I tried ironing it but that didn't work. Haha, I'm only kidding -- ironing a will is just stupid. In truth, it's not the will itself that is the current cause of concern but rather the things that I'm supposed to put in it. You see, I don't have anything nice to pass along to the people I leave behind and nothing pisses people off more than getting all excited about a will reading only to find out that the idiot had nothing but one leather glove and a collection of plastic coat hangers. If you want the fast track version of how to make someone mad at a corpse, that's the blueprint right there. So, item number one, get nice things.
The second item would have to be to obtain or otherwise create some kind of glamour photo of myself before I die. The reasoning behind this is that since my death will likely be such a public spectacle, I need something suitable to pass along to the news agencies so that they can showcase it for the next two weeks of coverage. Honestly, the photo doesn't even have to be all that good -- I simply need to find one that doesn't make me look like I just escaped from an insane asylum. My in-depth research into the human psyche has shown that above all, people are really superficial and they care a lot more about you if you look good. Plus, since I am looking now while I am still breathing air instead of dirt, I have the added luxury of picking my own photo instead of that one picture where I am in my pajamas and picking my nose. For example, I could use one where I am riding a pony or perhaps in one of those carnival photos where it's my head sticking through the hole and the rest of the picture is of some super muscular dude. All in all, it's a lot easier than paying a bunch of people to say nice things about you after you've croaked, but don't think that I don't have a bunch of people already on the payroll to do just that in case everything falls though. You never know -- accidents happen all of the time and I lead a pretty exciting life. On the edge.
So, speaking of death, I got one last thing to add about all of this. I would think that this would be common sense by now but since it keeps happening, maybe the message isn't getting through. (This portion of the update is directed at a small minority of people so don't feel bad if this doesn't apply to you -- it probably means you'll still be alive next week.) Ok, so, really, what is the deal with people named Peterson constantly turning out to be crazy murderers? And why do their wives always have names that rhyme? First, we had Lacy Peterson, killed by Scott. Not really a big deal until we realize that it's only the tip of the murderous iceberg. Now we have Drew Peterson in the news and guess what he is accused of? Yep, killing his wife. What's her name? Stacy. To summarize this complex case so far, Lacy Peterson and Stacy Peterson are both dead. (Well, probably. Stacy is still missing but unless you're Saddam or Osama, no one alive stays hidden that long.) Ladies, do we see a pattern here? If your name rhymes with Stacy or Lacy and you are married to someone with the last name of Peterson, YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. Seriously, either break off that dead-end marriage or change your name. I know that it might seem like a lot of work but it's a lot easier than dying and trying to come back to life. Yes, I am talking to you, CASEY PETERSON.
With all of that said, it's about that time that I start wrapping up this update which also known as THE LAST UPDATE YOU WILL EVER, EVER, EVER SEE AGAIN (in 2007). But fret not (in case you were fretting right there), for we will be back and probably worse than ever in 2008. We have all kinds of neat stuff planned, assuming that your definition of "neat" happens to coincide with the definition of retarded. Art goes clubbing and forgoes the mailbag updates for a chance at striking it rich in Hollywood. I call up my ace of spades, J.Truth and we talk slang back and forth for a while. Skip Walker might make a triumphant return. Maybe. Also, don't miss when I hit the dating scene again and Oprah turns me into a black woman. Will any of these things actually happen? Who the hell knows? I certainly don't! Stay tuned in the new year when we power this bitch back up. Until then, stay pink and don't talk to any strange ducks. I'm out like a backordered item.