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| You know.
If I can still have my silly goddamn profession, get paid for one of my hobbies, still keep a roof over my head and not be hungry at least the majority, never run short on incredibly attractive women who want to have nymphomaniacal levels of sex with me, go out and get buckwild and not get arrested, meet up with old friends like Shunarun (aka Fat Ass) in my city and spend days wandering around being completely batshit insane and giving the most disconnected deranged tour of SF ever (probably an exaggeration, knowing this city), do stand-up for kicks, have a healthy and active social life with a lunatic cast of friends, co-workers and associates, talk to my ex-girlfriend like an adult, and get completely wasted on all manner of drink and drug on occasion...then goddammit, life really ain't so bad.
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| I'm kind of obligated to, honestly.
Here we go, kids; why DearRicky should write an entry about me;
- I routinely make rape jokes, rape puns, and imply rape is an acceptable form of personal expression and that rape comedy is in fact an art form. And I use random neologisms that incorporate rape, include "rapegasm", "rapetacular", "rapeiverse", "rapeloads", and say such things as "rape rally", "rape sauce", and "big old rape chunks of rape". Rape rape rapeitty rape rape.
- I say racist things about Asians a lot. I mean, I say racist things about everything in the spectrum, from kikes and niggers to wops and slants and those filthy krauts, but there's always a lot more rancor in my hatred for Asians. Like how I want to travel back in time to the Vietnam war, not because I love John Stone or Full Metal Jacket and I can view it first person, but because I just want to watch Asian people die. Don't even get me started on the Mao-Machine.
- I hate babies. I fucking hate babies. I'm a fan of abortions, even if you have to use a pistol and a wood chipper because you're a couple years late on the ball. And I'm routinely very vocal about the patheticness of posting baby pictures. Because babies are ugly little things.
- As an ex-cripple myself, I have no fear of mocking the handicapped. I've been there. I saw the inside. I don't care if you're in a wheelchair, you've got no lungs, or you have the super-AIDS brewed up in Satan's monkey, I'll mock you. How I will mock you. The scornful defeat of your society-imposed barrier between "the reality of a shallow and judgmental world" and "personal reassurances that your crippled ass is fine just the way it is" will be beautiful to behold. Paintings may be made.
- I didn't add him as a friend. Not because of the Asian-ness. Not because of the blatant "hey girls look at how adorable I was so you like my opinion more" baby profile picture. But because his pulses always seemed to include "lol", and that's just...tacky.
Oh, and!
- I'm a blogger on the same webservice as him and therefore must follow the arbitrary moral lines he has set down (that often exist in this tunnel-vision wherein all those with credible arguments against self-righteous, lazy-logic ranting are dismissed as "parasites" -- and while he can make fun of his detractors by using whatever base humor he wants, the second someone dares point out inconsistencies in his behavior, they are instantly disregarded or deleted), but I don't. And I refuse to.
And I don't need to, because my readership actually have a goddamned sense of humor and enjoy an over-the-top dose of freedom of expression, no matter how ridiculous and abrasive and offensive it routinely is.
To take a page out of his book;
WHERE'S MY ENTRY,
RICK-CHAIR RAPE-CAPTAIN?
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| When, as a young wandering samurai oft to be found knuckles and knives deep in trouble fighting Nazis and Romans off between drinking great quantities of ale in pubs most foul and fearless, I one day found myself bored of such slayings and searchings and tossed myself into fate's most dangerous tides and found myself delivered unto confusions most perplexing with a lovely lady of cheekbones most high and breasts to match, and after a whirlwind of romances and wrongings, ended that day with the soul of the poet and the spirit of a miserable child, sobbing into my liquor that this uncaring universe did nothing but take, before the door splintered before me and did emerge seven Nazi officers with lightsabers, ready for bruisings and battles to distract me from affairs most unfortunate.
O, sweet life!
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| Jen: "So let me get this straight in my head."
Me: "Yes?"
Jen: "You wear suits all the time, you drink enough liquor to destroy an ordinary man, you're an ex-cripple who misses his cane like some men miss a woman, you've spent your entire life bouncing around places living an entirely reckless life, you used to be an internet warlord, you chainsmoke, you speak entirely in a mixture of various outdated slang terms and movie references, you're entirely abrasive yet manage to keep a whole bunch of unflinchingly loyal friends, you don't shave, and you drink coffee like you want to stay awake for a month and you never have any money."
Me: "...that's about the size of it, yes."
Jen: "I'd say that's an impressively interesting life. But. I'm from New Zealand. And I have very nice breasts."
Me: "I don't know why they call you the fairer sex. You always cheat."
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| See, that's the thing. You never realize it's an addiction until too late. At first you think it's just a preference. Just a fav. Then for awhile you think, you gotta cut back. The empty containers lying around the house. The cabinets overtaken, but it's still hidden. You don't want your friends to know you're into it...that much. But you cut down, and suddenly, you're jonesing. You're fuckin' jonesing. Soon everything you got in the house is GONE. You break down and you go out and you buy twice as much. You're in the hole. It's hard. Everything hurts. You go out and get more. Now people are worried, tell you, that you've got a problem. You don't listen. They don't matter. You just want...some more, and you'll be fine. It's all good. There's no problem. No problem at all.
Until you wake up one morning in a pair of stained boxers, clutching a sticky spoon, the dead rats and empty boxes and toilet paper rolls all constructed into a glorious sculpture that...defies logic, defies humanity. You realize there is a problem. You're in-fucking-sane, and you have an addiction. You need help. A lot of help. You just made a sculpture out of dead rats and cardboard. There's really nothing good that can be said about that. But you're jonesing, again. And next thing you know, you're gluing your neighbor's puppy, Mr. Barky, to the sculpture while you staple some outdated band posters over everything. Your problem isn't going away. Can it? Will it? You wonder in the dark hours of the night, indulging yourself. Who am I? What is this? Where am I going? Can I live like this? How long?
Anyway, long story short, I had to kick it on my own, since Betty Ford doesn't accept "butterscotch" as a controlled substance issue, so fuck them. Fuck them.
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