I'm Seriously

Listen everyone, it's all right.

I spent the last two days in Lafayette, staying with Qualis Frater, and I'm ecstatic to say that I'm recovering... won't take long until They discharge me from the rehab center (not drugs you guys, girls).

There are usually three levels, yeah? Low, medium, high. Well, if Hefty Fine brought me back up to medium, I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell has put me back on top where I belong.

I implore one male and all males, especially those who feel, as I do, that there is something wrong with this summer, to read Tucker Max's book, I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell. I love the shit out of it.

It's just a bunch of stories about this guy who drinks and gets laid.

Period.


In these times of Confusion, where am I headed?

In Tucker I Trust.

Once Again

I love you Devon Awesome.

Too Much Fucking Energy

Odi et amo. Fuck you all.

Yeah, with enough soap we could blow up just about anything.

Five Basic Parts

...maybe I can put this energy to use.

haha, oh shit, that's a pun.

I've been feeling violent recently.

Last night was a good night. Things were forged, others were heated and dropped in cool water to trap the carbon molecules. Derek is a good guy. It's funny how..... well, it's funny he kept telling me to stop looking at this picture on myspace and to stop being a little pussy.

I bought something with a credit card today, and signed it N I c k. Hahahaha.

The other night, I told this chick I know something funny. I asked her if she knew what this guy's (let's call him goof troop) problem is. Since we don't like goof troop, she had all kinds of ideas as to what his problem is. However, I had an answer in mind, and when it was my turn to tell her, I said "his problem is that he tried to kill himself when his friends were around."

There are plenty ways of taking this.
DreamWeaver said something about he shouldn't have done it with his friends around for their sake, but fuck, I thought he should've waited for his own sake. I mean, fuck, you try to kill yourself when your friends are around and chances are good that they're going to stop you.

Anyway, hope all is well with the new wife.
-Willy Van Atta

god what a shit post... kill me now

My New Best Awesome.

My dad was telling me about how awesome Mark Cuban is. I read this article in the Shelbyville News today at Nick's house. I'm very happy.

A billionaire who knows that most of the time he is right

Tim Dahlberg

Mark Cuban knows a lot about a lot of things. If you don’t believe that, just ask him.

He’s also always right. If you don’t believe that, just ask him.

Better yet, read his blog. It’s there that he pontificates on the world as he sees it, smug in the realization that the money he has in the bank gives him an insight into things that no one else possesses.

“Right is its own defense,” he opined recently.

That’s one of the advantages of being a billionaire. You can pretty much say what you want, do what you want, and people generally accept it with little more than a nod that acknowledges you are a much deeper thinker than most everyone else.

Sometimes it’s even entertaining.

Watch Cuban bash Steve Nash on the David Letterman show. Watch him wear a Jerry Stackhouse jersey courtside during Game 5 of the NBA finals.

You will watch him because ABC seems to think that constant shots of the Dallas Mavericks’ owner are must-see TV. There is something endearing, after all, about watching a spoiled billionaire complain that everyone is out to get him and that it just isn’t fair.

What’s next? A screaming fit before Game 6, at which time Cuban will simply take the ball and go home?

So, the Dallas Mavericks can’t get a call. So what.

Shouldn’t billionaires have deeper things to worry about?

Bill Gates is the richest man in the world, with the kind of money that can buy or sell Mark Cuban 100 times over. Gates probably doesn’t even know who is playing in the NBA finals, but he can sure tell you about the $29 billion foundation he runs that tackles problems of HIV, malaria and tuberculosis in the developing world.

Cuban has weighty issues on his mind, too. He worries about whether Dwyane Wade was really fouled, and whether Shaquille O’Neal gets away with too many things because he’s Shaq.

Oh, yeah, and that conspiracy thing, too.

You see, the NBA is out to get the Mavericks, as anyone who is paying any attention at all to these playoffs probably already knows. That’s why Stackhouse was suspended for a game and, when that almost didn’t work, officials did their best to make it easy for the Heat to come back Sunday night in Miami.

About the only thing the league hasn’t done is shorten the basket to nine feet on the Heat’s end of the court.

Good thing Cuban is thinking of hiring Dan Rather to host the news on his high-definition TV network. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’s Rather.

Actually, I always thought that there were conspiracies in the NBA. How else to explain Shaq and Kobe together in Los Angeles just at a time the league was losing Michael Jordan and badly needed a boost? And how about the Cavaliers somehow winning the lottery to get a hometown hero in LeBron James?

But I digress. This is about Cuban, just as everything in this finals seems to be about Cuban.

Does anyone even know who owns the Heat? Someone must sign the paychecks in Miami.

You had to figure Cuban would cause trouble in the finals, though the NBA has only itself to blame for most of it. The league allows Cuban to continue to sit courtside even though he tries to intimidate officials at almost every opportunity.

Cuban should have been told after he berated officials following a playoff game against Phoenix that he would be allowed at games, but only if he sat in a suite and stayed there. Come anywhere near courtside again, and you can watch the games on the big HD televisions that must line every wall in your Dallas mansion.

Actually, Cuban’s attempts at intimidation are so childish that they border on ridiculous. If anything, they work against him, if the 49 free throws the Heat took to 25 for the Mavericks in Game 5 is any indication.

And do you think Stern was cowering when Cuban stared him down and screamed at him from both the court and the stands after the game?

Hardly.

What’s surprising isn’t that Stern hasn’t done more than just hand Cuban a few paltry fines, but that Cuban’s fellow NBA owners allow his act to continue. These guys are multimillionaires and more in their own right, and they know a billionaire bully when they see one.

Thankfully, the NBA season that never seems to end is almost over. Someone will win the title, and we’ll have a couple of weeks before training camps open again.

Cuban, meanwhile, can go back to pontificating on his Web site, where he can preach to the converted all summer long.

Just remember this:

He’s got more money than he can count. And that means he’s always right.



P.S. Everyone, I had forgotten how much I love to blog.

I Found Him!

It's alright you guys. I found Ray.


Goddamn, I used to hate those fucking Shelbyville Paint and Wallpaper commercials, you know Wetnight's. That old fuckin man walkin around asking everyone "Where's Ray," and "Have you seen Ray?" Well guess what, Septuagenarian, I fuckin' found him! You're fuckin' fired Bob! I say Geneva, you hear Helsinki huh huh? FORTY FUCKIN MILLION DEUCHE MARKS BOB!

Reply To This Post

Do you believe that scars exist to remind us of our mistakes and misfortunes? Do you think that they remain so we can see and feel them, giving us strength to overcome an obstacle, a testimonial to past trials?

Maybe not, maybe all this higher meaning stuff is bullshit after all. We have scars because the two inch wide gash in your arm got infected and took six months to heal.

The only meaning life will ever have is what we ourselves give it, and there enlies the beauty.

I'm supposed to be watching the World Cup, but I got an e-mail that got me thinking, but this is borrowed time, so suck my balls.

I Am the Cosecant Curve.

You're driving your car. Behind you a monstrosity of a hurricane is preparing to wipe your town off the map. As you approach a bus stop, you see three people. One is an old lady, another is the girl of your dreams, and the last is your best friend, who saved your life when you were teenagers. You have room in your car for one more person. Who do you take?

Small minded people say take your best friend.

Smaller minded people say take the granny because she can help you, she's old she knows everything.

Tiny minded people will tell you to take the girl, because shit, she's the girl of your dreams.

Bruce Willis says to give the keys to your best friend, and have him take grandma to the next state. You stay with the girl because shit, she's the girl of your dreams.

I say give the keys to the girl, and have her take grandma far far from here. If it were my best friend, a friend who saved my life, I would think that he'd be damned if he'd leave me there to die with some bitch. He'd stay, and together we'd stand a better chance of survival. If this really is the girl of your dreams, chances are you'll become the man of her dreams with such an act. As far as granny, God will smile upon the deed.

Ballad of the Doomed

It's been a while since I've posted... even longer since I've written anything, mainly because I've been the happiest I've ever been. My story has never been written before, now I know that every person on the planet can say that, but I'm talking about something different. The break-up thing. There've been a lot of stories told about break-ups, but I've never seen or read mine. And that's good, because my story is the worst of them all... by far the fucking worst.

Anyway, it's cool now though... almost, but that's not "post on the internet for the entire population of the planet (minus Africa) to view, discuss, and laugh about" material. If you know me, you know what's up.

I watched Cannibal! The Musical tonight, and that's pretty cool, because I did feel leaps and bounds better. Which is ironic, because I had a truly horrible night last night, and then I watched the first twenty minutes of Team America, and put up an away message that I will paraphrase "I would be dead right now if not for tree Parker." But it's cool, life goes on, everything happens for a reason, fee fi fo fum, all that bollocks.

So that's about a half a percent of shit-storm number one. Now, on to precious number two: I have to get the fuck out of Shelbyville. I'm trying to get to South Carolina next weekend, and I need money, so if you want to buy anything I have, you know how to get hold of me. I go to school in about two months, and I hope I make it before something happens.

But that's just the warm air pushing up on the cold that is shit-storm number one (tornado for the uneducated). And as if this weren't enough to keep me busy this summer, my parents divorce is a real divorce now, and he's moving.

So, my dad's moving more that 5000 nautical miles away, my mom is driving me fucking nuts(ack) and the best girl I've ever had split because I'm a slimy retard.

But I'm cool, Jess and I have mohawks (there's a myspace picture) and my cousin fixed mine today.

I forgot all about Trey Parker's "When I Was On Top of You." It's a good song, relevant as well.

Say hi to the kids.

Oh hey, i almost forgot.

Fuck This
Fuck That
Fuck No
Free Hat!

Current Standings

Denial is the most predictable of all human emotions.

Those that are not me,

I hate and I love... you.

Goodbye

P.S.

P.P.S. I want the Czechs to take the cup.

Just a Few

Michelangelo'sDavid
Nice
Paris
Notre Dame

Here are a few pictures, i'm not posting them all.

Uncle Mark

I got back from Europe today. I felt at home, and I do not like being back here. The one thing I had to look forward to has been taken from me, problem is I am my own enemy in this case. I went through with it, I guess it was Saturday the 27th. My defense is I didn't fuck her, but what does that really matter?

While in Florence, I did my gift shopping, and I bought her a beautiful calf-skin wallet, and had her initials guilded on in twenty-four karat gold. It doesn't matter though; a demon is a demon, a saint a saint. But I am neither, I'm just Stefan. Martyrs get nothing accomplished, but I never thought of myself as one to jew out of paying my commuppence. None of this mattered this evening, when I was pretty beat up as a result of my own impius, my inability to control myself, and one less "demonic" than myself. I needed something, and for something, I ran to Uncle Mark.

As we watched the History Channel, Uncle Mark made me realize that the dusk can be at its worst, at its darkest, but the dawn will always rise again, bright and new and full of promise.

So that's where I am now, in the gray before the dawn, wondering whether Aurora will shine on my face, or leave me out in the cold rain where I have taken up residence.

All I know for sure is that I did the perfect opposite of what I always intended to do, and even did for a while there. But

One will never win the fight against his biology, but I did think that I'd be able to last more than three rounds.