I hate blogs. Seriously. The last thing the internet needs is a bunch of people foisting their emotional baggage on any internet stranger curious enough to burden themselves with the lame anecdotes of a generally bland community. Or, in those rare instances, they're damn funny but they go unread anyway. Still, most people have a web log, or "blog" as pronounced by people who hate pronouncing stuff with more than two syllables. There's nothing wrong with that. Blogs are just like masturbation sessions. Behind closed doors, fine, have them all you want, but the second you start involving me in them I will find the nearest sharp object and direct it toward your neck. And so, ladies, gentlemen, and freaks of indistinguishable gender, I make this vow to you now. I will not open up to you people. Any stories about my life will merely be a segue into a much larger topic. And damn it, I will do what I can to entertain. If for some reason my musings aren't worth the webspace they're saved on, feel free to sex a burning cactus.


In case any of you are wondering what the fake blog entry behind the main logo says,
click here.

6/4/03 - This computer is filled with duck corpses
When you're a little kid, summer is a time for freedom. Back in elementary school I remember getting up at a decent hour every summer morning and then spending the entire day either watching TV or playing outside. Now that I'm no longer young and adorable, every day of summer is like my own bris. With the burden of employment looming over me at all times I can't help but think that I'm losing a very important part of myself, even if it's generally dirty. The only difference between the two parts of this horrible allegory is that I want my freedom to be eventually returned to me, but you can keep my foreskin. I honestly don't know what I'd do with it. I'm sure it'd be great for keeping me comfortable in those situations where the conditions in my pants are less than tropical, but I'm sure if I really needed warmth I could bust out the ol' knitting needles and whip up a small scarf or something.

Speaking of needing to avoid frost-induced shrinkage, I spend most of my day in a cooler now that I'm a working man. In fact, having this grocery store job has brought me to a point where I spend more time contemplating the arrangement of various brands of beer than I do pondering the whimsical, lighthearted ideas that once made me such a youthful individual. Working has caused me to age twice as fast as before, so if my math is correct then by the time summer is over I will be in my mid 30's.

And while we're on the topic of things being old, let me once again gripe about the computer I'm forced to use while at home for the summer. This thing is old, people. Let us pretend for a moment that this computer used to be on the Flintstones. That would mean that it's run entirely by small birds. If I were to open up my computer and look at all the hardware, I'd see a bunch of parrots and seagulls and whatnot opening files and internetting for me. But because this computer is so friggin' old, all the birds are dead. So instead of having a fully functional Gateway computer, complete with Pentium Whatever chip and Somethingorother Megs of RAM, I have a box filled with bird corpses. Which leads me to a little story which should illustrate how crappy this crapbox really is.

So the other day I was online and I'm talking to a lady friend I haven't seen in about a year and she says, "Hey Henry, take this scanned senior picture" and I say "Okay, I will, because you're really friggin' hot." Within a few hours my totally awesome 56K modem downloads the picture from her and my first reflex is to look at the picture and take my pants off. By default, my computer is set to open all pictures in Microsoft Paint because opening them in Internet Explorer tends to ruin any web surfing that is currently going on. So I open the lady friend's picture in Paint and start unzipping my pants or whatever when the crappy home computer gives me an error something along the lines of "Computer Full of Too Much Suck, Please Reboot or Close Some Stuff." So I figure "Fine, I can just look at this picture later. I'll close Paint and start putting my pants back on." But just then, my box of dead birds decides to give me yet another error.


Note that I got this error while trying to close Paint. Yes, my computer manages to throw paradoxes at me even when it's got a pile of dead parakeets inside it.

And yet despite its inability to use logic like a good robot, this family computer has enabled me to have some friggin' fantastic AIM convos. Seriously, communicating with the truly stupid seems to know no boundaries. This computer may not be able to run Winamp and Paint at the same time but it certainly hasn't stopped me from saying terrible things to total strangers. And, in the tradition of all previous AIM convos, I have allowed all of the idiots to come to me. And it looks like this summer I'll be impersonating people, seeing as I've been mistaken for about six different people in the past two weeks. So folks, I may not be updating much, but I assure you that I may post some decent convos in a few weeks. Either that or I'll just read them to myself and have a hearty chuckle.

Oh, and just like last time, I'm going to tell you more about what it's like to be home.
Good thing about being home: At least I'm not dead
Bad thing about being home: I'm still not dead

4/30/03 - Home is where the chart is.
Now I am offically home for the summer. No longer will I be able to wake up every morning and know that all the food, entertainment, and hot ladies I need are within a five minute walk. Oh no, my friends, I'm home. I don't have a T3 connection to my own computer anymore so I can't download TV episodes and movies like I have some sort of poor man's TiVo. I can't casually glance at hot chicks in tank tops while dining in the cafeteria. I'm back to eating cold cereal by myself and using a computer made of rocks and twine.

To show you all how painful it was to leave the Land of 2% Milk and Co-ed Honeys, I've included a diagram that shows exactly what new steps must be taken to update the site now that all updating has to be done from a fossil.


Be sure to notice that the picture was done in Microsoft Paint. If it were done in Photoshop it would have been much, much funnier, I assure you.

Now that I'm not in the dreamlike paradise that is college, I've decided to mention one good thing and one bad thing about being home per blog update.

Bad thing about being home: I will never be able to download another porno movie
Good thing about being home: Pudding

4/17/03 - Pictures. And this time I'm not humping anything.
Well, classes have officially stopped so that means I should be preparing for finals. However, that didn't stop me from stopping my studying to stop and make a little photo page about how sometimes I eat bagels. What a horrible idea. Still, there it is. Enjoy.

4/13/03 - Either way, the pile of Kleenex means I’m lonely
If any of you have ever been to Michigan then you know that the weather here is a loopy bitch. We’ll have snow and 70 degree weather in the same week and this often leads to a multitude of bitching and horrible jokes, most of which involve waiting 5 minutes. And while jokes about how much I hate snow are great and all, I’d like to be a little different for a second and tell everyone much more important news in my life.

I have a sweating problem. Seriously. It’s only 59 degrees outside and I have a fan on full blast and yet my armpits are leaking like dual vaginas. I’m in hell, people. And it’s not like I didn’t put on anti-perspirant. Oh no, I put on a reasonable amount this morning and the only thing it’s doing is making the crap oozing out of me smell like “Sport”, whatever that is.

In cases like this, my pants get wet. Do any of you have an idea as to how this happens? First, the armpit part of my shirt gets good and saturated with sweat so it’s a darker shade of whatever color it was originally. Then, since my shirt can’t take any more, the football-scented liquid shoots out of my arm, drips down my shirt, and voila! Wet pants. This usually leads to me leaning back in class so I look casual and relaxed when in reality I usually just want to cut my arms off so I won’t have armpits.

Thankfully, right now I’m in my dorm room and I can sweat in peace. Any unsightly stains go unseen by my peers. Unfortunately, just because nobody else sees my wet shirts doesn’t mean they aren’t there. So, in order to combat my overzealous sweat glands, I’ve been putting individual bits of tissue under my arms long enough for them to absorb the mess spurting out from under my arms. To make matters worse, they’re only helping in the respect that the nonstop flow of scented armwater is only distributed to a growing pile of Kleenex in my garbage can, which can be seen here:


I must look like a chronic masturbator now.

To make matters worse, there is no defending this. Someone could walk in my room and say “Hey Henry, your room certainly is a piece of sh- Wait, what the hell is that?” when they see my garbage can. Then I can respond with, “That’s Kleenex. I have overactive armpits.” And then they can say “Oh no, buddy. You’ve been whackin’ it.” and I can say “No, man. My sweat glands are just assholes. Seriously, I haven’t been doing that lately.” Then this person could point at me and say “Oh yeah? Then explain why your pants are wet, too. Jesus, man, contain your glue when you spew,” or some other clever rhyming masturbation tip. Then, in my defense, I could say “Yeah, but look at this shirt. It’s horribly stained in the armpit region. I’ve only been sweating, man.” And then this person, who I probably won’t like anymore, could say “That just means you were getting into it too much. And by the look of that pile of wet tissues, you really have.” And then I could probably kick that person out for being a dick.

And this problem still isn’t stopping. Even if it suddenly got really cold I’d still be stressed out enough to keep the sweet-smelling waterfall going. I’m not even wearing a shirt anymore so the sweat can’t reach my damn clothes. No matter what I do to cool off, there is no stopping this runaway train of embarrassment. And to make matters worse, I just told this story on the internet. So those of you who see me in person will undoubtedly check for my newfound problem. On top of that, some of you people are ladies. Ladies who could potentially fuck me. So basically by telling a cute little story about pitstains and Kleenex I screwed myself out of screwing. Thanks a lot, life.

Current Mood: Tired of swapping tissues
Current Music: Me repeating the words “God damn it!” every time the tissue pile gets bigger. To a techno beat.

4/12/03 - Minor revelations while home for the weekend
I know that since I'm interested in comedy as an art and whatnot I should willingly watch old movies regarded as funny, but if any of you ever decide to see the 1967 "classic" The Producers, staple office supplies to your face instead. Pulling pencils from your forehead would be much more worthwhile than renting or, God forbid, buying this ancient hunk of crap. Granted, the Broadway musical has won somewhere around five million Tony Awards, but that doesn't make the outdated shitfest of a movie any good.

Why did the movie suck? Because it didn't not suck, that's why. It starred Gene "Willy Wonka" Wilder and Fat "Who am I?" Guy and anybody else in the movie isn't worth mentioning. Such funny moments include a scene for the fat guy falls through a table. Later, someone falls down. The other upside to this movie is that it features a lot of attempted Hitler humor. And, believe it or not, Third Reich comedy is an untapped resource. I suggest everyone go out and find a way to integrate swastikas into daily conversation. Go out and do it, suckas! I dare you.

And for my next trick I'd like to point out that none of you have an excuse to still be using software with ads in it. This goes out to anyone still using a version of Kazaa or AIM with a banner at the top. Seriously, when you're chatting with your "internet friends" and searching for videos of a "panda vagina", you don't need to be offered the oppurtunity "Find Love" by a small banner at the top of a program that lets you swap pornography and death threats with strangers. Chances are if you're on an uncracked version of AIM and you aren't hip enough to know about Kazaa Lite then you're not going to find love on the internet. Or at all. You're less tech savvy than me and that's grounds for me to hate you. This cliché, poorly-thought-out rant was inspired by the old computer at home.

Also, I've noticed that a great way to get old friends to talk to you online is to change the way your screen name is formatted. I went from "jackasskid" to "J aCkAs Skid" and suddenly everyone wants to know what's happening with the newer, more interesting Henry who decided to use the more edgy way to show off his stupid screen name. And, in case I haven't said this before, I had this screen name years before that fucking show came in and ruined everything. However, it leads to great comedy when middle schoolers IM me and then call me a jackass. I wish it never happened, but it seriously happens every time I talk to some horribly misled 8th grader. I figure some day I'll get a new screen name and never ever share it with you internet people. Sure, being insulted with my own screen name is great and all, but I figure the new one will use words that won't be associated with pop culture and, most importantly, I won't put it on the site. Because seriously, I hate you people.

As a side note, I'd like to point out that this blog still sucks because it's in the blog job description to suck. Still, at least I didn't share my boring life with all of you by sharing the fact that I got a haircut today. Er...uh...at least I didn't go into great detail. Holy shit, I hate this thing. Stop reading this so I can stop writing it.

Current Mood: Frustrated that I haven't deleted this thing yet
Current Music: I'm beatboxing.

3/14/03 - For the record, I hate this thing.
I won't lie. I dislike web logs of any kind. The Xangas, the FreeOpenDiaries, the Livejournals, the hilariously-titled Deadjournals. All of them can fuck a volcano with a sandpaper condom. I don't hate the people who use them. A diary is a great way to record all the details of your life, but unless you're a little girl hiding from nazis, you probably won't write anything that'll win you a Pulitzer. In fact, I'm pretty sure my entire blog won't be funny. Take, for example, that recent Anne Frank joke. That was horrible. And The Diary of Anne Frank didn't even win a Pulitzer. The play based on it did, but come on, who wants to stretch a joke that far to get a laugh? Certainly not me.

I don't read blogs and neither should you. So here, let me magically whisk you away from this boring hunk of crap. To see the now semi-famous picture of a man sharing his rectum with the world, click here. There. Now you don't have to read this anymore. However, I must warn you: It really is a picture of a man opening his butt. Don't look at it unless you like that sort of thing, in which case I will grimace and say "Ewww."

Well, I see that you faithful readers didn't ditch me for something as juvenile as a guy bending over and showing the world his large intestine and for that I thank you. And to show my gratitude, I'll do you all a great big favor and end this entry riiiiiiight now.

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