Wednesday, January 14, 2004

So, Bush wants to put more crap, including people, on the moon. It's supposed to bring us together as a country

Ok then, if that's what he wants, sure.

Send a big fucking moon mission. Load up the transport with all kinds of people who would be an asset to us in space. Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Fred Durst, Brad Pitt, how about an entire fleet of trendy innocent pop stars gone trashy, SUV drivers who cover up the fact that they drive like shit by driving a FORD LANDMASS, Art "Fucking" Model, a large team of record executives and telemarketers, Mariah Carey, Gwyneth Paltrow, Ben Affleck, Jennifer Lopez, the lovely humans repsonsible for developing breast implants, lip injections, lyposuction and needless plastic surgery, the creators of MUZAK, advertising executives, yuppies, soccer moms, the Mc Donalds CEO, the DISNEY CEO, any other suit wearing corporate monkeys scratching themselves behind their mahogany veneer desks, and trash talk show hosts. Oh yeah. and Michael Jackson, just so it'll be easier to launch him back to whatever planet he came from.

Strap them all into skin tight silver suits with plastic bubble head thingies, feed them a diet of dehydrated ice cream that tastes like pizza and make them shower by using a vacuum. Send all of them, all the brightest minds of our generation up onto a dead, dusty inhospitable satelite. And let Bush be the one driving the damn thing. Oh, yeah, and Carl Rove can be the copilot. And let Dan Quayle hold the map.

There's a moon mission for you.

Bring on 2015.
fuck waiting for things to load. and fuck impatience.
i am SO cranky...and tired, and cold and hungry and I want a puppy. Are we there yet? I've eaten at least six choco-mint hershey kisses and the body count is rising.

finals done. classes not. fuck classes. fuck ice, fuck sidewalks covered with ice. fuck trains. fuck trains that you have to cross icey sidewalks to get to and then stand in the icy wind to wait for. fuck sitting next to people i don't know. fuck smelly transfer tunnels between trains. fuck boxes. fuck things in boxes. fuck parking spaces. fuck pizza. fuck more pizza. fuck tuna. fuck drafting for hours and hours. fuck teachers who wouldn't know how to teach if they were spanked upside the head with an ostrich. fuck ostriches. fuck dry flaky skin. fuck beds that don't get delivered the way nature intended. fuck animals who attack you. fuck the science experiement disguised as dishes. fuck my moldy cactus. fuck that other suicidal plant for dying and convincing my cactus to get moldy. fuck shoes. fuck shirts. fuck canadian quarters. fuck pieces of paper. fuck sleeping. fuck going to the bathroom. fuck being so fucking cranky that alll you put in your stupid blog is a huge rant about fuck this and fuck that. yeah, fuck it.

in fact, smurf it. smurf you. smurf your dog. take your smurfy attitude and stick it in your little mushroom house you french pants wearing midget. smurf advertisements. smurf britney spears - know one's done THAT yet, smurf yuppies, smurf old ladies in fur coats. smurf vegans. smurf vegetables. smurf camel drivers from oregon with three heads and a skateboard. smurf toilet plungers. smurf spell checking.

take your smurfity smurf and smurf yourself until your smurf smurfs all over and smurfy smurfs smurf your smurfy ass....uh, smurf.

my bag of chocolates is gone. thus ends my waste of bandwidth.

I love you all.