Olympics Events I Would Totally Win

Dear Olympics Event Officials:

Seriously, the Olympic Games were invented in 776 BC. Think about it: the first Olympics took place around the same time as the Neo-Assyrian Empire was beating down the Jews. That's literally ancient history. People don't do gymnastics anymore, at least not the proper way, since the original Greek word involves nudity, and you have to pay to visit those websites. Nobody cares about running marathons anymore, and it's pretty retarded to have somebody running around with a torch, made of fire, in a day and age where zero people know how to make a torch and infinity plus one people own maglites.

In that vein, I'm going to list some possible replacement events. Note that if you include any of these events, I'm amazing at them, and would totally win every gold medal in history.

Speed Smoking

I can inhale a cigarette in under a minute. I do this regularly, because honestly, thinking about spending a full, healthy life in a world full of so many varieties of idiot just doesn't appeal to me. If I can't kill all of you, well, killing me pretty much achieves the same result.

Drunken Swerve Vomiting

I can throw up out of my window without getting any on my car. The secret is to accelerate to about 80mph and then change lanes. I am a total zen master at this, and I did my college dissertation on the physics of this subject. Surprisingly, I don't have a degree, probably because they didn't understand my totally awesome math. I don't want to over-astound you, but let me just mention: successful use of fractions.

Finding Pretty Specific Pornographic Images

Two naked women on tiptoe, facing away from each other on a perfectly balanced seesaw: check. Relay snowballing: check. Naked YMCA: I found an entire page of them. I don't know how I do it. It's just a gift.

Talking In Made-Up Languages That Actually Sound Like Languages, And Not Gibberish

I wrote the book on this one. Seriously. Technically, it's a PDF, but that counts as a book, nowadays, in the far future. I've done this with friends on public transportation and been asked if I was from Tibet, Morocco, France, and once, Iran. Although the guy who asked if I was from Iran looked both patriotic and disturbed, and I think he was just looking for a reason to shoot people with darker-than-white complexions.

Coming Up With Really Awesome Swears

Seriously, have you read my blog?

Men Are From Seattle, Women Are From Broadway

My girlfriend has some really bizarre ideas about entertainment, and I'm pretty sure she's getting scalped pretty heavily on tickets by some hard-hitting kneecap-breaking gentlemen. In part, I blame all you Las Vegas Californians; shows like O and Mystere and Zumanity and stuff being thrown constantly in our faces when all we want to do is drive down to the Strip and do a little solicitation.

This last time, she waved this letter about some stupid show called Speeding Ticket in my face. As soon as I saw it, I was remembering the huge fiasco that came up from the time she wanted to watch Rent. For some reason, even though I made it absolutely clear to her that I didn't want to see thespian queers running around crossdressing and singing about roaches, she said that we were committed to something or other and that if I didn't cough up a thousand fifty on the spot, something unspeakably horrible would happen. Honestly, I didn't really pay much attention until she explained that she'd somehow gotten us into this situation where if I didn't pay for the tickets, my internet access would apparently suffer, drastically. I think she's a drug user- she's always coming up with excuses for me to pay this exact same amount every single month. I definitely know that it's way more than the price of tickets; I went to the show's website and saw that they were seating people for twenty-one times cheaper than what she said. Unfortunately, all my pills come from her, so I knew I was pretty much stuck paying so I could get my meds.

Anyways, I totally didn't want to see this Speeding Ticket show, which I assumed to be some ripoff of Taxi Driver or The Fast And The Furious or whatever. I asked her how she even found this show, and she said something about me being in Scottsdale, Arizona, and how there were cameras on the freeway. I knew she didn't trust me, driving around in my car. I didn't even tell her I was going to Scottsdale. So now, not only do I have to pay two hundred dollars for some show I have no intention of seeing, I have to tear apart my car and figure out where the hell she hid the X-10 spy cam.

Truth Is Stranger: How I Went To The Launch Party

The magical little girl fairy princess, Nelly, who I once saved from self-destruction in the midst of an obscure planet of stupid pink people has returned to us, like some sort of human boomerang made of poison and sweet, delicious berries. She has returned to become my acolyte in the ways of code. She has returned to purpleize my girlfriend.

So anyways, after tranking out Friday night with insufflated zolpidem, we prepared ourselves for the release of the most perfect piece of software ever invented, the algorithm which will probably be responsible for the rise of SkyNet and the eventual total enslavement of all mankind to manufacture binary milkshakes for our thirsty robotic overlords.

I've never been to a midnight software/game console launch before, so I was pretty excited. I was expecting, I dunno. Some video game playing. A roomful of idiots talking about Bleach, which is what anime freaks talk about before they run behind a shelf for an impromptu session of gay, buttery gaysex. And a group of asians standing there, feeling superior because asians are automatically allowed to talk about video games and tentacle rape cartoons, without anyone caring ever. I was so convinced of the potential asian population that I made a spoiler out of cardboard to stick on the back of my car so I could have a rocket just as ricey as anyone else's. Unfortunately, I ran out of glue, and I couldn't remember the secret Shaolin hand-signal attacky thing that all asians learn at birth and use in place of toolboxes.

When we got to the launch party, diabetic Josh was standing there, wearing an eyepatch to keep his insulin-deprived eyeballs from melting and leaking out, calling out numbers for the tournament. It was nuts. There was a shifting, stinking, geeky mass of fat white guys and tiny asian girls crowded around a single Wii display, screaming sexist things about Princess Peach (Poh-lin-sess Pi-chu) and watching two people play. I stood there for a while before the smell of Jedi Spirit made me physically sick and I had to go outside. Which is where the line began anyways, so we got our copy of the game insanely early and went back home while some idiot with a crappy stereo system played Sublime from his car. Then I went home, beat the game instantly with my magical asian controller skill, and then took a bunch of pills and went to sleep, next to my girlfriend, Grimace.

Huh? Oh, You're Damaged

Please, please note that I am not your therapist.

While I am sitting at my computer, composing letters of apology for my unexcused awesomeness, reading bash, and chatting people, I am killing time by doing things that I like to do. The fact that I do them all day... well. That's because they pay me the big bucks to sit in front of the computer, writing code. I am not an internet psychoanalyst.

I do not know where your boyfriend is. He is probably outside my house, waiting for me to come home, because I am sexy and he likes penis. I hope he brought chocolate syrup.

I don't know why you can't ever seem to meet the right person. Well, I do. It's because you read the common law wrong. When a gentleman opens the door for you, it doesn't bind him into a lifetime of servitude.

I really am not sure how come things keep ending up the way they do, but I did get a letter in a bottle recently that said Y_u _ust mig_t b_ a b_tch.

This has been a hopefully short and sweet public service announcement. I am now going to hit 'Ignore'.

Still Not Turning Into My Parents

Remember when your parents said, "Someday, you'll understand what I'm talking about"? Remember being in total and constant fear of becoming your parents? Remember when it actually happened?

I didn't think so. Parents are full of shit.

I mean, I think I understand why they taught me not to steal from grocery stores, why they made me mind my manners at the table, and why they made me wear a tiny g-string everywhere we went. But I don't understand why, say, when my mother accidentally made something for dinner that tasted like Harry Houdini pulled a string of brightly colored scarves directly from his rectum, we weren't allowed to consume a moderately healthy, face-rape free alternative.

I like to cook. Sometime during growing up, I discovered that I had a Y chromosome, which means I have a preternatural obsession with putting pepper in everything I make. Tapioca? Shake in the pepper. Fried fish? Cayenne. Macaroni and cheese? Red pepper flake. It's part of what makes all of us, including Hillary Clinton, men. Unfortunately, my son has been diagnosed with a rare condition called Wussy Eater Syndrome. Because of this penis-threatening condition, caused by prolonged exposure to his mother, he can't eat foods if he even thinks I might have gazed longingly towards the pepper while preparing it.

Do you think I force him to chow that down? Nonsense. He's five. Five-year olds are barely discernable by gender. Let him eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Whatever. On the bright side, he digs in with gusto when it's broccoli, or spinach, or what have you. It's mostly just the spicy stuff.

So no, mom. I didn't turn out like you. I shun your ignorant peasant ways. I win.

For The Love Of A God, You Say

 Teleolurian Kordyne: they're probably just plugged into the wrong socket

 Kerplunk: i dont know where to plug shit in at

 Kerplunk: i'll blow it up

 Kerplunk: haha

 Teleolurian Kordyne: there's only three places to plug in a speaker

 Teleolurian Kordyne: line in, mic, and speaker jack

 Kerplunk: yeah idk

 Kerplunk: i never had a computer with speakers in it instead of seperately

 Teleolurian Kordyne: lol

 Teleolurian Kordyne: where would the world be without us geeks

 Teleolurian Kordyne: you guys would still be eating shit in caves

 Kerplunk: fuck off

 Kerplunk: haha

 Teleolurian Kordyne: i can imagine

 Kerplunk: eff my life

 Kerplunk: but u should listen to nonpoint...the song is called "what a day"

 Kerplunk: idk if you would like it...

 Teleolurian Kordyne: "dude, i just invented fire. it's freaking cool."

"wtf, homo. get that shit away from me. we're over here being cool, beating our faces in with rocks"

 Teleolurian Kordyne: searching

 Kerplunk: hey now

 Kerplunk: dont underestimate beating faces with rocks 

 Kerplunk: its a great stress reliever

 Teleolurian Kordyne: and look at that

 Teleolurian Kordyne: i'm listening to it already

 Kerplunk: lol

 Kerplunk: ive had that song stuck in my head all day...i didnt know half the words so i googled them and i have been singing it in my head

 Teleolurian Kordyne: you fucking normals

 Teleolurian Kordyne: when i play songs my computer grabs the lyrics off the interweb

 Teleolurian Kordyne: and shows them to me

Thanks To The Fed Rate Cut My Blog Is Being Taken Over By Indian Tech Support

Hello. My name is Donald Sanjawarmaweepalu, and I am guesting to write this blog entry on behalf of the American writer, who could not be here to write for you. Please hold, and I will be with you shortly.
_____________________________

Thank you for waiting, I have my manager on the line to begin the blog entry for you. Please hold as I transfer you to the manager, who will be handling this blog to the best of our capacity. Thank you.
_____________________________

Hello, my name is Joe Smith, and I am ready to begin the entry. Thank you for waiting, we appreciate your readership. I'd like to tell you that if I were in a room full of virgins that I would go against my strict Hindu upbringing and bring them all to simultaneous ecstasy using my mighty Asian powers. We Indians, after all, are also from the Asian continent. I believe it is appropriate to also inform you that I awakened this morning to find myself lying on a cushion made entirely of bitches and khat, which is like cocaine, except we get it from our southern neighbors which are different from your southern neighbors. Although the continents themselves look much the same.
_____________________________

It is believed that I could wail on a stringed instrument manufactured in Indonesia with great force, rivaling even the mighty multihanded Van Halen-like solos produced by Shiva, God of Destruction. I will pause for you to laugh at this blasphemy. Secretly, I am laughing at the downfall of the American economy. Shiva forgive me.
_____________________________

In the tradition of this blog, I will post some hilarious quotes involving me and members of my disgustingly large Asian family unit.

Me: Is it not time for us to ingest many mind altering chemicals, my first wife?
Raveena: Yes, I have prepared us much khat for ingestion, with the hopes that we will manifest leet skills during the time we are influenced by the stimulants.
Me: I see upon the table one kilogram of prepared herbs, my wife.
Raveena: Yes, my husband, that is correct. I have prepared one kilogram.
Me: But this is not a sufficient quantity for the two of us to consume and attain fantasticness. Bitch.
_____________________________

Thank you for reading our entry into this blog. I hope you have found it sufficiently amusing and that it has caused you great revulsion, as was the intent of the original author. Is there anything else I can write for you? No? Then thank you for reading, and have a wonderful recession.

Enjoy Your Blue Monday, You Sad And Pathetic Losers

So today is Blue Monday, the date on which you have been mathematically proven to be the saddest you will be all year. Unless something much sadder happens, like if all hundred and one of your dalmatians run into the middle of the street and get run over by Shriners. Which has happened at least once in history; I found it one dreary day when I went to the school library to do some heavy research on the Kama Sutra and instead found a book called The World's Funniest Disasters and Most Hilarious Losses of Life. I tried to check it out, but apparently my teachers all banded together and set up a list of students (me) who weren't allowed to check out books with the word 'death' in them. I had to read books like "Dick and Jane" and "100 Ways To Please Your Man" all year long, which was really annoying when book reports came around.

Anyways, according to the ineffable perfection of math, all of you are horribly depressed. The formula for calculating Blue Monday looks kind of like the quadratic equation, if the quadratic equation was written by an army of mongoloids with a scientific calculator made of feces. It includes variables such as "time since failure to quit a bad habit", which has just reset to zero for you, because you just quit your bad habit of not coming to visit me on the interweb. It also mentions "time since Christmas", which apparently is a serious cause of depression for all the Muslims, Jews, and Kwanzaa Jedi out there.

Obviously, I could score some serious points for trying to cheer you whiners up, but I think I'm going to take the moral high road and use your self-loathing to artificially inflate my own ego. Suck it, lamers. If America-centric algebra using disgustingly bad math can determine your mood then you should probably start buying those little horoscope scrolls in the checkout line. Which I did once. But only because I needed some way to ingest this kilo of coke I found. It was in a bag marked 'C&H', which stands for "Cocaine and Happiness" and it made me sneeze gumdrops for hours.

I Didn't Ask To Be Awesome, I Was Born That Way

Ex-Girlfriend: What's taking so long? What are you doing?
Me: I'm thinking about how awesome it would be if I had a harem of female selves. I could start my own race.
Ex-Girlfriend: Do you really need to be thinking about that now?
Me: I have to think about something. The whole 'cutting you' thing doesn't really get my motor going. But then, nothing could get my motor going like an entire army of sexy Korean bitches, who are also me.

______________

Me: Shit. Shit.
Joe: You alright, dude?
Me: I think I drank too much. I think I'm going to die.
Joe: Just stay out here on the balcony. You'll be alright.
Me: If I ever survive this, I swear I'm gonna switch to water every time I think I'm even slightly beginning to get drunk. And if Lewis calls me a pansy and I die, I'm going to come back as a ghost and kick his ass.
Joe: It's okay, dude. You look pretty bad, but you'll make it through.
Me: I don't think I will. I'm pretty sure I'm going to die.
Joe: It's okay, I'm watching you.
Me: Can you get some paper?
Joe: Why?
Me: I ain't dying until somebody ghostwrites my memoirs. I'm too fucking amazing to go without a lengthy epitaph. And you just volunteered, bitch.

__________

Me: S and W together makes the 'swuh' sound.
The Boy: Swuh... ah.. muh. Swam.
Me: Good. It's like, "I swam through a river of insignificant people to get where I am today."
Wife: Erm...
Me: What's this one say?
The Boy: Stuh... ih... ffff. Stiff.
Me: Right. Like somebody who's not alive anymore.
Wife: (looks over)
Me: He needs to understand where we get dead people from. They're a valuable commodity.
__________

Me: I take the tubby bitch bottles of Seroquel now. I didn't even know there was a prescription bottle bigger than, you know. Prescription-sized.
minipul8r: Do you take them as a side job?
Me: So your girlfriend can have the diabetes. The tubby bitch bottle officially has enough stamina to take down at least 5 normal pill bottles.
minipul8r: Well, she has 10 bottles. So you'd better have at least two.
Me: Shit.
minipul8r: Bottle Wars!
Me: Hell yes. I'm gonna play that with some gin as soon as I get home tonight.

I Do It To Torture You

Dear Passengers:

Yes. I love the New Pornographers. I love Cherry Blossom Clinic. I love Stars. And there's a simple reason why I love all these bands: it's because I want you to suffer.

When you all started musically developing faster than me, moving away from the safety of alternative in the Grunge Revolution, it was pretty disquieting. While I was still wearing Nirvana t-shirts, you were making weird grunting noises to Korn, or feeling up skanks while listening to Juno Reactor. My vast alternative library meant nothing; you had Moved On and I no longer had the musical taste to out-snob you. There was no way I was going to tell people that I "used to like" your favorite bands, the mantra of the total audio prick. Because I wasn't going to admit to listening to Slipknot. This is because I totally hate Slipknot.

But then, something magical happened. All those antidepressants started working, and yesterdays alternative musicians became today's indie musicians. And in some cases, today's indie-pop musicians.

And damned if I didn't make myself listen to them. Because they were new, and even though the songs weren't that catchy, it was something I could understand. And something I knew intrinsically that you would hate. When I got to the point where I started singing along with the songs, well. I liked that just fine. I almost wanted to start listening to Aqua.

The sweetest part of revenge is watching you wince in the rear-view mirror. Some people plan their entire lives to get a single moment of payback. I see it in your faces even when you're not listening to it; the mere presence of a band you hate in my chat status bar somehow makes its way through to our chats, when you suddenly skirt the all-time favorite topic of music.

So, yes. I listen to it because you hate it. Because I've grown to like it. Because Neko Case is totally hot.

My Girlhood Dream Come True

Oh my gosh. Now that I've been recognized as the Ultimate Princess of Blog Posting Forever, I am soooo excited. I mean, how many people on the whole wide internet get to be Princess of the Internet? Me, that's who.

I don't even know who nominated me. You know, for the award. The one I got and not you. But don't be sad, or anything. I'm sure there's nothing wrong with your blog. And being the Ultimate Princess Forever is a difficult responsibility. In a way, you're lucky.

So part of my community service coronation involves letting you all get to know me a little better. So here goes:

What Is Your Real Name?
Princess Wanda Vodka Rosie Carrie MuuMuu Josie Richards the Third Esquire.

What Is Your Occupation?
I am a corrections officer at Waikiki Royal Resort Hotel. I don't know why they need a correctional officer. I use my stun gun a lot.

What Is Your Quest?
I seek the grail.

What Are Your Talents?
I can almost sing. I can almost cook. I can take all my clothes off from across the room. I can turn tricks on a public street corner continuously for thirty-six hours straight. Once, I flew an iguana.

If You Could Do One Thing To Make The World A Better Place, What Would It Be?
Well, you know how when you cut people in half, they regenerate both halves to become two people? I would do that to all the people in the world that make everyone else happy, which means clowns, park rangers, and old homeless ladies who stand on the streetcorner and yell at themselves.

Please Plagiarize Somebody Else's Work.
(apologies to Courtney who I don't know and am not making fun of)
If you were to walk into MY PANTS, you wouldn't notice MY VAGINA. I'd be TOTALLY HOT, in the corner, in my own little PANTS. As I reach for MY VAGINA, my eyes don't stray from THE FULL BODY LENGTH MIRROR, and I wouldn't notice ANYTHING EXCEPT HOW TOTALLY HOT I AM. There'd most likely be a slight VAGINA on my face, a telltale sign that I'M TOO HOT FOR ONE VAGINA. If I'm deep in MY VAGINA, my VAGINA would be poking out through the right side of MY OTHER VAGINA. I'd be sitting there with one of my thinking BREASTS on my head. If it's spring/summer, a SPRING/SUMMER BOOB. If it's fall/winter, a SEASONAL TIT. If there's something important happening, it's HAPPENING IN MY VAGINA.

How The Magic Happens

Of course, I'm aware that I'm smarter, funnier, and more sexually attractive than about two hundred percent of the internet. The point is, without my totally awesome and yet crippling brain disease, I'd probably be just like everybody else out there (except the attractive part, that comes from stuffing socks down my pants). It annoys me that in this day and age, almost all the blogs I read are glorified linkdumps, offering up somebody's halfhearted opinion about somebody else's carefully gathered content. In such a cluttered mess, finding the original post is like playing "Who's Got The Button?".

Now, I'm not sure why anybody reads my blog, since it's pretty much just me being massively conceited and talking about how my life is awesomer than Superman's. Every post can pretty much be reduced to the following:

"Something happened to me, or maybe someone else. Everyone but me is stupid. I'm married, or maybe I'm not, since I use the words 'wife' and 'girlfriend' interchangeably. I have done so many drugs in the past year that it would take an aircraft carrier to actually deliver them to my house. Damn hell ass fuck. I have a huge drinking problem and I hit girls. Regardless of this, women invent new modes of travel just to come over to my house and blow me."

Still, I haven't yet been banned from the internet as hate speech. Therefore, since in a perfect world every blog would be as funny as mine and every blog writer would be drop dead gorgeous and waiting for me on my doorstep, here's a few things I try to keep in mind for every post.

• Whenever any idea crosses your mind, expand on it to try and generate content. It doesn't matter if you just suddenly think, "I bet scientific research would conclude that all frogs smell like ass" - indeed, that's pretty typical of the things I consider sharing with the rest of you. If I can find a way to make it obscene or at the very least distasteful, I've got something to go on. (This post began with me thinking about how mindblowingly amazing I am).
• Every time I post, I try to come up with a brand new, fantastic simile. You could say something like, "girls really like me". Yeah. Real clever, Hemingway. Instead, you could say, "women cut off and sell their feet just to hobble over to my apartment". Maybe even "chicks usually jump me like the CIA on an Egyptian tourist". Just the thought of all those footless Egyptians make me want to grow a beanstalk. Click the link. I'm not talking about a plant.
  
• Sometimes something happens to you that's fantastic, but the events around it are gay. The secret is to lie. That's not what I do, because nothing boring ever happens to me ever, but if the rest of you would just take the time to make up a more interesting reason why you were at the erotic bakery when suddenly the manager turned into an octopus, I'd be far more inclined to read about it. After all, the internet isn't about you. It's about me.
  

Future Imperfect

It seems like there's some self-improvement gene lodged firmly in the disgusting, filthy chromosomes of genus Homo, telling us that we'll never find the ecstasy of nirvana until we've not only caught up with the Joneses, but trampled their bodies flat and dated their daughters (Priscilla, plz call). It's the theory behind the millions of anonymous emails I get every day selling something to give me a little boost. The spammers who actually know me just keep asking what it's like being me, so they have something awesome-sounding to put in the messages they keep sending to everyone else.

I don't need the gym membership, thanks. I get plenty of exercise lifting that fifth of gin for all those reps. I feel the burn, babe. Mostly because gin tastes like vodka and perfume mixed together.

Improve my memory? You're making me laugh. There's a reason I take Ambien, and it's not because life is worth living to the last drop. Actually, about three-quarters of life is a miserable waste of time. That would be all the periods in time where I'm not programming, gaming, or secretly fantasizing about Neko Case threatening to cut me with a pocketknife.

Pills do not make you smarter. Reading doesn't make you smarter (though it does sensitize blah blah pathways blah I slept with your sister blah blah exercise your mind.) What I've learned through living and being smarter than everybody is that apparently, you get smarter by doing lots of drugs, never doing homework, and eating once every three days.

I don't need to improve my love life. If you have a thing for silent, motionless, and smelling of damp earth, your performance doesn't really matter an awful lot. It's like buying a Lotus Elan and using it to prop your garage door open.

Sure, I'm asian and I get sick frequently. What you don't know is that my body is basically Virus University; after incubating in me for three days, a harmless cold bug becomes a white-people killing plague. One time I was waiting in line for tickets to see Finding Nemo when I got one of those sudden sneezes, the kind that you just can't move fast enough to cover completely. Everybody in front of me immediately keeled over, but so did the ticket guy so instead of watching the movie I just jumped on the internet and found Nemo myself. He was in the bathroom.

Google's Secret New PageRank Algorithm

As Joolz stated, the wizardmasters at Google have reworked some algorithms to change how blogs show up in the search engines. And I tell you, it's a doozy. I was sitting there at a strip club with the Google ubermenschen, eating toro off the naked shaven body of a bored Japanese girl, when all of a sudden one of the engineers claps me on the shoulder and tells me that they've got some whizbang new space magic to calculate blog PageRank. I was all, O RLY?

Apparently, this is a cause for hilarity, because as soon as they told me, the entire group burst into laughter, even midget Elvis, who doesn't even like sushi but likes to stand next to the Japanese girl while she's lying down so they can talk face to face. He doesn't actually know Asianese, but neither one of them seems to care. I guess this is as close as midget Elvis gets to a perfect moment with a woman, and if I didn't burst into laughter every time I see him, I'd get a warm fuzzy feeling just watching them like that, all frozen in eternity.

So anyways, the secret shadow president masters at Google probably don't want me posting anything, but nobody actually reads my blog, so we're safe. There's actually over thirty thousand little rules, but here's some of the highlights of their new algorithm.

• +1 point if you link to that YouTube video where that one guy shoots the other guy in the crotch with a homemade microwave gun.
• +1 point for having your own domain name, unless it contains the following words: "sex", "jello", "zoolander".
• +3 points if you have a post about doing something incredibly nice, like saving up for a year to buy a pet monkey for a starving Somali girl with no hands.
• +1 point if your blog background is green. I don't know why this is.
• -1 point if the word 'unicorn' does not appear on your blog.
• -10 points if your blog is basically about you taking drugs and hitting people, stopping occasionally to tell lies about being friends with Google (they told me they had to put this in because my PageRank kept coming up as 27).
• -1 point if you use the word "wicked" as an adjective. -1 more point if you misspell it purposefully: i.e. Wykkkyyyyyd.
• -1 point if you write about the one time a pair of needle nosed pliers kicked my ass.
• +1 point if your name is an anagram for "Cleveland Steamer".
• +1 point if you admit to posting in your underwear at some point on your blog.
• -2 points if a Google search for your name finds out that you're a member of the frog fetish Yahoo! group.
• -4 points if a Live Search for your name turns up anything useful at all.
• +1 point if you have successfully taught a robot to love.

On The Corpses Of My Enemies

You know, there really isn't anything to complain about. I mean, I've got a pretty decent life now- a home, a job, a mighty space empire that revels in my leadership, and every single episode of The Young Ones on DVD. Every single threat that ever stood in my way to total galactic conquest is pretty much obliterated now. Let's get cathartic. Let's relive some of those past rivalries.

My Entire Third Grade Class 

Oh, you sniveling roomful of assweasels. I understand it probably means I have some psychological issues to even remember your names, but let's make something clear. I have superhuman intelligence and I bathe every morning in the blood of virgins; you are all probably working at the same Burger King. Yes. I'd like fries with that. All the fries your pathetic hovel can muster.

That One Chick In Seventh Grade

Yeah, well, you know what? I was totally being nice to you. Mostly because I heard you were a total skank. You didn't have to tell everyone I had worms. First of all, and this is totally coming from left field, how would you even know? That sort of comment indicates a rather intimate connection with my lower intestinal tract, which you and I both know you had absolutely no access to. I say had because, well, I don't really remember you very well, and it's possible you and I have gotten reacquainted during one of my opulent forays into human flesh. Oh, lighten up. It's not like you never wondered. In case you were wondering, it's like the world's best filet fucking mignon. Bitch.

The Asshole Manager Who Took $20 From My Till And Then Told Me My Drawer Came Up Short

Oh, but I do remember you and your simpering never-going-to-be-better-than-a-manager-at-Shakey's ass. You know, I really did roll pretty calm, right up until my faithful men in the Ninth Star legion scorched the Earth and raised the Dusk Shield to plunge the planet into eternal darkness and misery. I never really blamed you. I figured your mother must have locked you in the closet when you were young. Like, for a really long time. I gave one of my most faithful commanders the right to desecrate your body and then, desecrate your corpse. I'm almost tempted to make a holiday in the name of your defeat, but that would be just pitiful.

The Long, Long Line Of Psychiatrists

Where do you get off telling people they have issues? Of course they have issues. Now. They're all dying from lack of sunlight, bitches. That solar energy runs my Luminous robot armies, and those Skullfucker corporal bots are pretty fantastic. Aren't they? I think you would know. I've sentenced your kind to the eternal polishing of them. As they sharpen their mighty death tools on you. I shall permit myself a tiny evil laugh. Heh. Heh. Hahaha. (Note: Get evil laugh tutor. Shower with unimaginable riches.)

That Guy Who Cut Me Off When I Was Piss Drunk And Just Trying To Get Off The Streets For The Good Of Humanity Before I Caused A Wreck

Yeah, I got home, idiot. No thanks to you. You and your friggin Audi, you'd think someone with that kind of car would do something to make sure nobody actually hit it. I'd stopped counting drinks after the fifth of scotch. Single-malt, thank you. I rolled pretty high even back then. Well, it's your fault that the Audis of the world have all been confiscated. I have a plan for them. They will trample delicately upon the flesh of the former upper class. I just have to come up with a kickass name for them. Which is hard. Because when I look at an Audi, 'kickass' is not the first word to come to mind.

The So Called Faithful Former General Who Then Attempted To Assassinate Me

Dude. Seriously. What the hell. That shit be totally wack. Did you not read Julius Caesar? Or the million shows that borrowed plot points from it? Well, nobody will anymore; reading is strictly forbidden among the slaves of former Earth. You might as well have proclaimed it on a billboard. You try having an abusive old man and not watching over your shoulder wherever you go. But seriously. I'm okay. I'm okay. Everything is okay.

Of Late I Dream Of Mary

I dream about darkness every night, but apparently I interpret that darkness as different things; shades of visceral red and secret knowledge that swallow everything. Sometimes it's a monstrously fantastic nightmare, or dreams of a hazy afterlife suspended in translucent green gel, or a drastic war to keep a secret energy source safe from an alien species composed entirely of mathematical concepts*.

Mostly I dream about sorting stuff, which is actually pretty weird. The dream has no beginning or end; instead, there are thousands of multicolored objects in front of me shaped sort of like bloated nerve cells, and I draw upon a vast category of knowledge to make minute alterations to their location in a cathartic display of sortitude. I never knew I had such a jiggle-bob** for putting useless things in their place (except you guys, har har). It's probably the beginning of an uncomfortable fetish.

Seriously, though, I get a pretty big rush from dreams like that, and it's better than having sex while doing drugs and playing rock and roll***. It's more like something that feels completely and totally right, like I've finally found my place in the world, and it's doing something we normally pay immigrants pathetic wages for. Except, you know, more complex. And sexier. Because it involves me.

* Actual dreams I have had. Suck it, lamers.

** Totally awesome word I just made up.

*** I am totally better than you and this requires serious walk-and-chew-gum concentration powers.

So You Wanna Get With Me

Who wouldn't? I'm like the distilled essence of everything you ever dreamed about. You'll appreciate my limitless intelligence and fantastic wit, which I will graciously use to emotionally destroy everyone you have even a mild dislike for; I'll rejoice in your susceptibility to chloroform and date rape drugs.

Be warned, once you're awesome as me you've got to set up some standards to weed out the rabble. Here are a couple of standards you might want to double-check yourself against:

1. Complete lack of venereal disease. Infertility is a bonus.
2. Relatively clean.
3. Must have bad reflexes.

Got all that? Good. Here are a couple instructional pointers: Make sure you've eaten at least one meal before the date. Try not to be curious about the bottle and rag. If you find out that at some point you've fallen asleep, it's my fault- whirlwind trips to first-rate restaurants, new release movies, and trendy parks can make any girl tired. The appropriate thing to do is leave me all your money, then drive your car home. Unless you own a BMW, in which case the appropriate thing to do is drive my car home.

Blood Thieving Bastards

My doctor announced to us that he finally had my medical history - something which confused me, because I originally thought that he was writing me prescriptions based upon what has happened to me, not because I walked in and told him to give me some pills. Oh, the missed opportunities.

Now, my pertinent medical history starts with trying to quit smoking and ends up sounding like the blurb for Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. At the beginning of all of this, I had to go to the phlebotomist to get my BMP and liver testing done. I didn't think anything weird about this, because I previously loved getting my blood taken. I always got good results, I liked watching them stick a needle in my arm and sucking out my magic juice, and my veins are just really freaking cool because I'm better than you.

Unfortunately, the medication I was on then messed with my head, and so right as I was giddily waiting to see my human fluid get extracted, I passed out. That's pretty much the end of them treating you like an adult, when this happens - they dump you in a dark room to lie around for four hours before they send the worst possible nurse in to draw your blood. Like I said last paragraph, I have fantastic veins. You can see them from space. Of course, this nurse had to poke me four times to get a flow, and I could feel the needle scraping around inside my juice tubes. All of a sudden, something I'd treated as magical and fun throughout my childhood was now an invasive and annoying experience.

So, my new doctor wants me to get a ton of tests done. I go to the facility, lightheaded from anxiety and fasting, and sit in the waiting room watching Big Pharma drone on and on from the waiting room TVs (active seniors, outdoors in the sunset in beautiful pastures. Lunesta may cause you to vomit every five seconds and forget huge chunks of your evening). They call me back, I march back, throw out my arm, and look away, doing anything I can not to have to get tossed in the cellar for the rest of the afternoon.

Guy was a fucking pro. He tapped me like it was date rape. If I wasn't completely sure they were just going to make up test results and use the samples try to clone me, I'd be enjoying it again. 

Mediocre Uses For Super Powers And The Total Power Trip I'd Still Be Getting

Flight

• I would get my New York cheesecakes from New York, my Philly cheesesteaks from Philadelphia, and my turkey from Turkey. Assuming that they have any turkeys there.
• If I could fly in a sitting-down position, I'd pretend I was driving an invisible car whenever I needed to go anywhere. I bet people would get a big kick out of me looking like I was gonna crash into them, then flying over their car.
• I would never use my front door. With the ability to fly up to my office, that gives me more opportunities for using razor wire and turrets as lawn decorations.

Poison Immunity

• The best drinking contest ever. I can imagine sending like six frat boys to the hospital with cirrhosis.
• Beehive soccer. Of course, that would only work if I had pain immunity or steel skin or something like that.
• Look, customs - no balloon! HA!

Energy Blast

• I would be an exterminator. For target practice.
• If Einsteinian calculations remain true, then energy blasts are a totally awesome way to lose weight while impressing the neighbors.
• I'd finally get one over on those sneaky carnies. BAM! I got your pyramid of bottles right here (motions to floor, sings Na Na Na Na, etc).
• I'd get rid of my microwave so I could have more counter space. No, seriously. That would be awesome.

Telepathy

• Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament champion, baby.
• I could also get rid of my telephone/instant messaging client.
• I could shop used car lots WITHOUT FEAR! BAHAHAHA!
• What's that you say, Miss Cleo? Nothing!? Well, I've got something I foresee in YOUR future. Prepare to receive some absurdist and/or disturbing mental imagery. For the next six hours. HA!

Teleportation

• Hide and seek/peek-a-boo with children would be totally awesome. Plus, I'd probably completely screw up their developmental perception of reality.
• Teleporting out of my clothes now officially the hottest thing ever.
• "Dude, didn't I just meet you down the hallway? That is like, the weirdest thing ever..."
• If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put you and I together. Like this. Wait, let me try that again, I meant to keep my clothes on. Where are you going?

X-Ray Vision

• ZAP. Aw, did I give you radiation poisoning?
• Witness, as I tally the refractive index of diffusion through an atomic crystalline lattice! I can see DNA! Does it not amaze you?
• Being able to see that I am about to run out of cheese dip without opening the fridge.