The Story of My Life: Part 1.0

... war was beginning ...

The doctors were frantically rushing around, engaged in various medical activities. I assure you, these activities were unbelievably medical. A child was being born, but not just any child; it was a white, middle-class child. There could be no room for error, and complications were out of the question. The Surgeon-Generalissimo was present to observe the operation. He was an imposing and intimidating man, sporting a dictator-like mustache and commanding a gaze that would turn Medusa into stone. "Someone get me a drink... make sure it's hard!" he bellowed, equating medical professionals to errand-peoples, because he was important, and an event was about to happen that would alter the course of this very universe, and several others as well.

I was about to be born.

My mother, now in the painful throes of laborious labor, began going through her pre-planned breathing patterns and so-forth overseen by a team of trained medical doctors and professionals, all trained by Dr. Hugo Dragonov (Yes, the Dr. Dragonov) himself for the specific task of ensuring that my entry into this dimension would be absolutely perfect. Religious figures from many different faiths stood in the room, praying to their various gods for well, godspeed. There was also an atheist among them who didn't pray, but asserted aloud that "There is no God, but I hope this goes okay." Armed guards protected the room, as protesters were everywhere. Trained snipers stood atop the roof to instantly gun down any potential troublemaker who dare to interrupt my birth.

My father and old brother just stood off to the side, saying little. "My little brother is going to be so much cooler and funnier than me." my brother remarked prophetically.

Suddenly, a fist smashed through the stomach wall of my mom and I yelled "Prepare ye selves!" then I finished my escape by doing a flying dragon kick to smash out into the world. I was naked, but I was born with a black belt around my waist. No one knew how it got there, but it was a miracle of medicine and this event was documented, if anyone wants to confirm it. I grabbed my umbilical cord and bit it in half with my teeth. The chunk that I chewed off I spat onto the floor, and it was immediately devoured by a nearby golden retriever. As soon I was born, I uttered my first words, which were "Where is my cake!? Incompetence!" and the doctors begged for forgiveness, which I granted them. The birthday cake was brought into the room, and a stripper burst out of the cake and she sang "Happy Birthday" like Marilyn Monroe.

Then, still naked and covered in birth fluids, I dove into the cake and began playing in it. I didn't eat any of it, because it was white cake, which I despise with a burning vengeance, so I opted to ruin it for everyone else. Just then, a protester burst into the room, pointed at me and yelled "Evil baby! Evil baby!" and I yelled "Who let this clown in here? Someone shoot him!" and a Catholic Priest threw a ninja star at the protester's crotch, and castrated him, which shut him up fairly quickly.

Just then, there was a complication. The doctors noticed that I had a number of extra body parts: a third eye on my forehead, two thumbs on my left hand, two penises, and six testicles. One thing was for sure: I had more balls than any of them would ever have. Fortunately, the doctors were able to remove the thumb and relocate the third eye to the back of my head, but my parents insisted that I get to keep my extra penis and testicles. Against the wisdom of the elders, who spoke against multiple penises in the ancient teachings, the doctors agreed with my parents, and I've had to wear adult-size underwear ever since.

Just then, Haley's Comet flew over in the skies and lightning struck in the distance. Polar bears roared in the distance, the bodies of many holy men were resurrected as brain-hungry zombies, and gymnasts did back handsprings. Finally, before I left the hospital, I received my birth certificate, which read:

I Would Cheat on Sandra Bullock

"You're black and poor."



Imagine you gave me a million dollars. I know, I can't be trusted with a sum of money that large, as I would spend it all on overly-ripened nectarines, and then they would turn before I could make a huge smoothie to fill the Grand Canyon. But let's assume hypothetically, that I could be trusted with that money. You trust me, okay? Then you give me the money, and then I say "How quaint!" then I turn around and burn it. I just get out a lighter and gasoline and then I just burn it.

Does that make sense? Does anything make sense? Does Lost make sense, or did they just throw a bunch of dramatic scenes together into a nonsensical hodge-podge, making the whole thing up as they went along, just to deliberately confuse the audience, which they hoped would be perceived as plot depth?

You're absolutely motherfucking right; you're confused and nothing makes sense. That's why you have wise gurus of knowledge like me to explain things. Like Jesse James cheating on Sandra Bullock.

First of all, if I were Jesse James (and I'm not), I would do a few things: Act like I just took a bottle of Xanax 24/7, build motorcycles, ride motorcycles, dress like a cholo, and listen to hardcore rock. One day, I get famous and make a trillion billion billion dollars and I'm like "Holy shit!". Next, I can get any girl in the world, so I pick a Hollywood actress, and not a trampy trainwreck one like Tara Reid. However, despite my great success, obviously, there is a significant difference between Hollywood Actresses, who send their pets to spas, and Biker Dudes, who buy pets primarily as weapons. It's like a Muslim marrying a Danish Cartoonist. It's a volatile mixure. Next, Actresses work 18-hour days on movie sets and then travel around the country on a promotional tour, so they can't tend to their hardcore biker husbands. Aw.

Now, I don't support Nazism. I learned long ago through playing Wolfenstein 3D that Nazis are bad for the environment. So if given the chance, I would fight a cyborg resurrected Hitler in a roof-top kung-fu battle to the death, because that's just how I was raised, with my midwestern values. That's why I disapprove of Jesse James' choice of Michelle "Dykeshell" McGee as his Cheatee. If I were him, I would change the mistress to Iliza Shlesinger or possibly Sarah Simmons. The next thing I would differently is not get caught. An essential element to any decent obliteration of oaths you swore to the creator of the universe in the presence of your closest human relatives is remaining undetected. This can be done with the new German invisibility cloak, or simply cheating when nobody is looking. Make sure nobody is looking. Because people look, those fuckers.

To make an exceptionally long story short, if you being paid millions of dollars, it'd make you pretty damn important, so you wouldn't sit around waiting for your movie-star wife to come home, because you're a celebrity, damn it. No guy gets famous thinking, "I can't wait to get rich and famous, because then I'm going to be celibate, live with my parents and drive a Saturn!"

The fucking end.

The Shrimp Blogger's Shrimp Blog of Shrimp

When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one person to start blogging about shrimp, and eat them one by one ravenously for the purpose of the dictation of a continuous self-gratifying monologue about the glorious flavors of these shelled little bastards, possibly sponsored by a shrimp farming company because they want some shit to stick on their website, for the purpose of catching the interest of approximately 5 bored housewives who peruse through random webshit to fill their vapidly under-accomplished and sexually vacant existence, but also possibly 1 50-year-old gay fisherman who lives in Maine who quite recently learned of the wonders of the internet, therefore, prompting him to immediately visit google.com and type in "shrimp sex asian hairy naked", which brought up a blog, which chronicled the crustacean-obsessed artist's journey to Thailand in Southeast Asia, to determine the sex of a hairy shrimp, by stripping off it's shell.

That was one sentence.

Day 1: Holy mother of fuck. Today, I saw this shrimp and it was a fine specimen indeed. I showed it to this Asian girl and she thought I was sexy for having caught it and wanted to do it right then and there. I was tempted to take her up on her offer, but unfortunately, I had to blog about this shrimp because it was just so bad-ass. Here's how I caught it: I threw a net into the water, and then it got caught in the net! Voila! Eureka! Detente! I reached in and pulled it out of the net and was all, like, "Holy shit."


Day 2: Sweet Darwin in Hell. Today, I caught more shrimp off the coast of Okinawa. As soon as I saw it, I was like "Yes, this is definitely fucking shrimp." To celebrate, I popped some of the bubbly and poured dranks for the ladies on the boat, because really, what's a fishing boat without fine shorties keeping it fly? The shrimps we caught were grey, and I was all "wtf dawg" but the captain explained to me that shrimp change color to pink/white when... something happens. I don't remember, but you either boil them in hot oil or lava, or you freeze them or something. I wasn't paying attention.


Day 3: Son of a shit pile. Today, I caught even more shrimps off the coast of Spain, which I know is on the other side of the world, but our boat is really really fast. When I saw this catch, this net full of shrimp, I was in awe. I was ready to get on top of that pile of crustaceans and just start fucking it because I loved it so much! All these girls were buying me drinks right after that because they wanted me so bad, because that's how unbelievably sexy this shrimp catch was, and because it was just so boss, the Prime Minister of Japan, along with the Dalai Lama, Dennis Rodman, and that guy who stars in AMC's Madmen landed on my boat in a helicopter and stepped out to congratulate me and give me a trophy. I accepted it, of course.


Day 4: Fuck me sideways and call me Sally. In my search of the perfect prawn, today I got this text message from my foe, and he told me about the new Shrimp Taco at Taco Bell. At the moment, I was helping an elderly Vietnamese woman carry a large basket of rare fresh-pond shrimp up a trail of jagged rocks, but when I got the text message, I just dropped the basket and ran off. I mean, fuck that shit. This is the fucking Shrimp Taco. As soon as I got to Taco Bell, I asked for Denise, because she always gives me these secret inside deals that only Heads of State and Billionaires get, and I ordered the Shrimp Taco. As soon as I tasted it, I was like "Should I blog about this? Or should I keep this shit all to myself?" But I gave in to reason and now am blogging it. When I sank my teeth into it, it was like King Midas punted me in the crotch, which would immediately turn me into gold, according to ancient Greek lore. It was delicious. Too bad Leviticus 11:9-12 damns me to eternal hellfire for Taco Bell's latest product, but at least they didn't introduce a Gay Taco. Putting that meat/sour cream into your mouth would cause a person to just burst directly into flames.

Also, as soon as I ate the Shrimp Taco, I had sex with a Swedish Model, which I'm sure wasn't a coincidence. Thanks, Taco Bell.

WHAT!?

I've decided to change the format of my dramatically, and will probably do away with the prevailing negative and dark ambiance.

I have a few reasons for doing so, the first being that I'm much happier now than when I started writing this, because, let's face it: that was a pretty fucked-up time. It takes a substantial amount of maximum subconscious rage to hash out that much dark humour, and gee golly, I'm about plum out.

Honestly, if the good side of me and the evil side of me had a Battle Royale, an all-out fight to the death in the streets of Tokyo while piloting towering mecha robots armed with lasers, missiles and fear, I would want the good me to prevail, and then plant a flag with my face on it into the burning corpse of the evil me.

And who says violence isn't the answer? Geez.

I was also somewhat inspired by the deposed Generalissimo of Late-Night Talk, Conan O'Brien, to not be a cynical little fucker. To me, it's not really that funny anymore, and I find myself saying "Well, I can't post this... it's too upbeat." so I have to scrap a lot of creativity for the sake of this "image" which isn't even really me anymore. Truthfully, I can do a whole lot more than just bitch on the internet all the time. Really.

So what does a more upbeat version of myself look like?

I'm already considering a new design for my blog, because I sure don't want it to look typical or boring. I'm pretty sure I'm over the black background, too, but the alternative of white might be worse depending on what I decide to do with it. I would definitely have a contest for my readers for ideas, with the prize being a never-ending supply of Cinnamon-flavored gum, but I doubt there are enough readers for that to be effective. If I had Adobe Photoshop, I could make a crackerjack layout that would make all the Scene Girls jealous as fuck, but alas, I'm stuck with an outdated drawing program, so I'll probably just post pictures of stick people humping.

I know a few people (like Blaine) will be disappointed and upset, possibly jumping in front of a street sweeper. Don't do that, though. There are still plenty of other raging assholes writing on the internet about lord-only-knows-what, and being hilarious in the process.

That's all for now. Toodles.

Ban This, China.

A dangerous capitalist lackey radical being demolished by the glorious defenders of the people's republic.


In the words of that little black girl with the microphone, "We gotta fight the China power before they put the hoo-cha-cha on us." and I agree. I've had enough of their lead-filled children's toys, bird-based pathogens, and under-aged gymnasts. Nastia Liuken was robbed by extremely flexible Communists in sparkling leotards and she now lives in disgrace, using her forehead as a landing strip for large airliners, all because of fucking China.

China has now gone to the point of building a Great Wall of Denial to control the information on Google, blocking all the dangerous radical Western influences. After all, it's against the law to say that Hu Jintao is a premature ejaculator who smears komodo dragon feces on his face because of his mental retardation. The police would knock on my door and I would be arrested, carted off to China's courts, which would declare me guilty, and sentence me to be a contestant on Japanese game shows for the rest of my life. Trust me, it's the reason seppuku was invented.

I think, therefore, every website in the world should post Anti-Communist messages that specifically antagonize the Chinese Government, so they will have to block the entire internet except for Google.com itself.

Here's mine:

PEKING DUCK? MORE LIKE PEKING SHIT. Chairman Mao's mother was a prostitute.

Relationship Advice From An Evil Genius

Congratulations, all you socially-retarded rosacea-plastered comic-book-addicted saxicolous geekzoid milquetoasts from Tatooine. You no longer have to curl in a fetal position in a dark corner, sweating and simultaneously shitting your pants, because The Most Reliable News Network Ever Created has reported that robots for sex have been created, and all this time you've asserted steadfastly that John Hughes wasn't the amazing visionary we all now know that he is.

Now that all my thick and creamy (Now with 5% less Saturated Fat than the leading brands, suck it, Campbell's) and mildly inimical sarcasm is out of the way... what the fuck?

I am so offended, and they didn't even mention my negro dialect. If there were an Al Sharpton of Nerds, I would call him with my geek hologram projector and demand that we lobby to invade Qatar immediately. Don't question it, the people there are middle-eastern. Buddha H. Gautama... if I wanted to fuck a robot, it would be with that foxy maid robot from The Jetsons, but Lord knows that as the good old-fashioned human-on-human-only society that we are, that sure isn't going to happen.

And I'm sure the inventor of the girlfriendbot tested it extensively to verify that it could facilitate his needs. Apparently, it did, but Jesus, next time, program the robot to not look like a transsexual heroin-addict.

-sigh-

-takes a sip of gasoline-

Alright, seeing as how we, as a Brave New World, are insulting intellectually-gifted introverts and building sex machines, I think the time for a Relationship Advice Post is nigh, just to obviate the inevitable mass suicides and post office shootings that are certain to occur once the God-fearing people hear one iota of this shit.

First, you probably want to meet someone special, who is funny, warm, loving, intelligent and makes you happy, AKA attractive, attractive, attractive, attractive and is not a chainsaw-wielding psychopath, although, I should point out respectively that a vast majority of chainsaw-wielding individuals are simply gathering wood that we turn into paper, so we can write notes that say "Remember to walk the dog" because if the fucking dog doesn't get walked, then the gates of Hell will burst open and pour baby-eating demonic spirits into the world of the living, and we just can't have that, can we?

Second, you probably have this idea in your head about what a good relationship is. This notion you've developed purely from poorly-written movies and intense emotional trauma as a child, and possibly the intricate legalistic rules for dating handed down from a golden cloud of morality by an overweight Paster in an expensive suit he bought with money he guilted his congregation into dishing over, is wrong. It's wrong 100% of the time. You probably read Dr. Love's book about relationships, and didn't even realize that Dr. Love's medical license is forged. The man is a quack. Just face it, he duped you.

Therefore,

Guys: You have trouble getting dates, and when you do, they go terribly. I'm not surprised. Girls usually like attractive guys, so if you're not attractive, then you should try that next time. Furthermore, when trying to attract a girl, you should be as wishy-washy as possible. Just be caring and polite at all times, and listen to her problems, especially the ones concerning her current boyfriend(s). This will show her how sensitive and nice you are, and when she finally leaves that misogynist she's fucking every night, there's a tiny chance she could see that you're the one for her, especially if you wish on a Shooting Star. When she falls into your arms, impress her with your encyclopedia-like knowledge of Linux.

Girls: Quit your crying. I didn't forget you. You have abandonment issues after your mom left you at the park and didn't realize you were gone until after your birthday cards came in the mail 3 weeks later, and then discovered that you had been looked-after by raccoons, who had adopted you as their own. But that's behind you now. You just want to find a great guy to plug that hole. In your heart. What you should do is be pissy and bitchy, especially to strangers for no reason. When some unsuspecting schmuck meanders into a relationship with you, you should be a stalker from day one. Call him every single night, and if he doesn't pick up his telly, leave 6,000 voice mails crying about how you have no friends and your life sucks. Try to spend every waking second around him, but the whole time you're with him, bitch about things you hate and criticize him a lot. This will guilt him into being a better boyfriend, which will make your love stronger. Make sure he does not talk to other girls under any circumstances, including his own mother. If he does, tell him he's neglecting you "all the time" and then cry.


There, now you're golden!

A Desperate Cry For Help By Wikipedia Founder Jimmy Wales

Let's cut right to the chase. I am asking you donate your money to Wikipedia because you know how many times it's gotten you out of a jam in internet chatrooms when you risked looking like you didn't know what you were talking about. And remember when you copied a paragraph from Wikipedia for a school paper and then changed all the adjectives so your teachers couldn't google your paragraph and find out you cheated?

I need money; lots of it. You have that money. Sure, I'll keep a bit for myself, but I have a non-profit website here, and I refuse advertisements because I don't want eHarmony.com telling me what I can have on my damn site, or those retarded ads telling me that I can get ripped if I just follow one simple rule, then showing before and after pictures of some guy with no shirt on who got ripped following one simple rule. Do you know what I think the one simple rule is? Fucking exercise.

Anyhow, I believe in Wikipedia. I believe us. I believe in the power of love. I believe in friendship. That's what makes Wikipedia so great: the countless admins who met through Wikipedia's behind-the-scenes intellectual battlefield to form sexual relationships that eventually developed into romantic relationships. I want that sort of thing to continue.

Wikipedia just continues to get better and better; one person writes something, only to have it deleted by an angry admin, then writes it again a week later, then someone else edits it to change all the adjectives to "fucking" and then the trivia section gets deleted, then the whole article is deleted after the admins decide that Sirlin doesn't deserve his own page, and to be honest, I have to agree with that to a large degree.

We have to protect this sacred process, because it's become a part of us, all of us. [Additional citation need]. I want to keep this site free of advertisements and I certainly would hate to make all you people start paying for this site when I can just write up a stirring and inspirational speech to make you dish over the ca$h that I need to keep this crazy train rolling. Do you know how much money this site costs? Ten million dollars every year. I don't have that money just sitting around my house. If I did, then I would retire and move to Florida. Well, maybe not Florida. I might go to Asia or Europe for awhile though.

Christ, I'm getting sidetracked again.

Imagine a world where every single person in the world has access to the sum of all human knowledge from perspective of young middle-class white males. This can still happen, but you need send me a massive amount of money. Now, I understand some of you can't give much, but a minimum of $10 dollars will entice our staff to pray for your household, to prevent the Lord from sending the usual slew of locusts and mudslides upon your home as punishment.

I think we understand each other.

- Jimmy "The Anal Annihilator" Wales


Fine print: Jimmy Wales did not write any of this and nothing in this should be taken literally or seriously or figuratively or sexually. Please don't sue me.