Last night, I moved us. I moved most of us. My brother's girlfriend came and helped which was incredibly awesome of her to do. By no means do I want to sound as if I am not grateful (she may read this so I want her to know) as this post is not even about her, or moving. Well its kind of about moving. She will laugh as I will. Hopefully you will. If you were there when it happened you certainly would have laughed. Being it was her and I and some douche bag, well, just read on.
I am moving 60 yards. Now, that sounds pretty easy. If I could fit all my shit into a hamster ball, I would have simply pushed it upstairs. I can't so I got a cargo van from Uhaul. This isn't even the final move. The house may close soon. If it does we will be moving permanently. We moved to another apartment in the complex. We were in the G building. Now we are in the 'I' building. Yes, alphabetical, so yes, not a long move. It is around the corner, literally, from our old apartment.
Those of you that know me, well, this is my luck. It has been my luck for a long time now. My penance is....this activity of touching everything we own at least 2 times a year. I have to move stuff, our stuff, in a cargo van, taking many trips, all day, exhausting myself, and cussing up a storm in my mind because we still have a tea set in a box marked "please take me" from 4 garage sales ago. We have too much stuff. We probably all do, but you don't realize it until you have to tax your body to move it. I am taxed. I am fully taxed, both physically and emotionally.
So last night, as I was taking a load over, someone had parked their Nissan Maxima in my driveway and left it running. I am about 9 hours into a move, a lot of it done, still a lot to go and my brother's girlfriend riding shotgun. We stop behind this running car in our driveway. We wait. We play rock paper scissors. We counted sheep. LOTS of sheep. We read Moby Dick, alternating every other chapter....twice. Still no driver. Car running....no driver. Sounds like entertainment for me any other night. But not now. I accidentally honk like a murderer accidentally stabs its victim 31 times. Nothing. So I put it in park and started unloading.
A few trips back and forth from the van to the garage, an older gentleman walks from around the corner about the time I am vacating my garage. We made eye contact. He says, and I quote, "oh geez...am I in your way?" W.........T.........FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!!!! No, asshole, you aren't in my way. You made it easier for me to lose weight off my ginormous ass because I have to sidestep your chariot. No, you aren't in my way. In fact, I had to park here so I could shake your damn hand. You are far too special to me at this very moment to be in my way. When I left my old apartment, I was praying to God, not for our loan to close or for a fire to burn all the extra shit we have....I was praying for some old asshole to be parking where he shouldn't be. Sure enough....BAM! There you were. So thank you. Thank you for taking the space I needed to get close enough to unload this 90 pound cardboard box of books. Honestly, my lumbar region thanks you. My sweat glands thank you. But most importantly, I thank you for saving me that 1/100th of a mile I will not have to pay for when I return this bitch tomorrow to Uhaul.
Some people ask the dumbest, most rhetorical questions. I am learning that they are usually asked while moving.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Stop Yelling...I am Right HERE!
Yesterday was a bad day. I have a lot of stress going on in my life. Normally I would say that these types of emotions make it impossible to form a rational thought, therefore ignoring my blog. Yesterday was normal. I ignored. I wasn't sure if blogging was something that would help me sort out my thoughts causing me to write run-on sentences with little to no punctuation which would make people confused having to read random pointless rants and raves about God knows what wondering if it would ever end and looking for the first sharp object so that they could cut their eyes out for having read such mindless crap. Wait...
I love bashing Walmart. Back when Walmart first started, it resembled a Kmart. I wasn't around much to blog about Kmart, and it is rude to kick a dead horse. So, that leaves me with Walmart. I hate you Walmart. I hate you mostly because you hire people that ask rhetorical questions. It's like servers that ask if everything was OK. Even when you reply it wasn't and the food tasted like a pile of horse shit they simply apologize and do nothing. I hear over and over and over and over again, "did you find everything OK today" when I am checking out at Walmart. I always say yes. I say yes because I have a brain, can read English (as everything, EVERYTHING is pretty well marked) and I am male; a hunter/gatherer. I didn't come to shop. I came to conquer a gallon of milk and some maxi pads. I won. Check them, bag them and move on so I can mount them on my wall.
The other day, however, I was in a mood. The checker was....well, hired by Walmart. I won't say special or slow...just not employable by anybody BUT Walmart. He had a hard time fluctuating his voice, or making adjustments to volume based on my own proximity. I was a mere 25 inches away, yet he bellowed "DID YOU FIND EVERYTHING OK" as if I was across the room. I am not sure why I answered the way I did. It could have been that my inner ear was angry and ringing. It could have been that the vibrations of his yell were reminding me that my body fat percentage was too high. I don't know. But I told him no. I told him I didn't find everything OK. I told him I struggled. I was in pain because the leprechaun had stolen my pot of gold. I told him I followed the rainbow and the little bastard had my gold and was headed toward produce. The checker stared back at me as if I was Pamela Anderson and I had just asked him to make a sequel to her sex tape and the yacht was parked out front. "WHAT!?!?!?!" Not knowing what to do, I told him I did not find the pot of gold, trying to simplify my response to something he might understand. "WE DON'T HAVE THAT HERE!" No shit. The gal up front, Kathryn Hepburn, told me that the gold was on aisle 9. Weird.
He scanned the maxi pads and gave me a stupid grin; the look I used to give people when they were buying condoms. He knows what they are for, as do I. I was positive they were not for me. His look indicated the mind was trying to process who they were for. "ARE THESE FOR YOUR WIFE or GIRLFRIEND?" No, they are for my Appaloosa. I am raising lemmings and these are their beds, dumbshit. Just put them in the bag. I am surprised there wasn't another stupid question yelled at me after the milk. "SKIM MILK IS GOOD FOR YOU!" Yes, it is. Unlike your mother's breast milk that was tainted with crack as you sucked away, right? Sir, did you know that skim milk has more calcium than any other milk? "I LIKE WATERMELON JOLLY RAN..." Forget it.
I drive out of my way to go to Walmart. It is more entertaining and I am able to then write a few paragraphs describing how normal people can't get a job, but Walmart hires just about anyone. No, I am not applying.
I love bashing Walmart. Back when Walmart first started, it resembled a Kmart. I wasn't around much to blog about Kmart, and it is rude to kick a dead horse. So, that leaves me with Walmart. I hate you Walmart. I hate you mostly because you hire people that ask rhetorical questions. It's like servers that ask if everything was OK. Even when you reply it wasn't and the food tasted like a pile of horse shit they simply apologize and do nothing. I hear over and over and over and over again, "did you find everything OK today" when I am checking out at Walmart. I always say yes. I say yes because I have a brain, can read English (as everything, EVERYTHING is pretty well marked) and I am male; a hunter/gatherer. I didn't come to shop. I came to conquer a gallon of milk and some maxi pads. I won. Check them, bag them and move on so I can mount them on my wall.
The other day, however, I was in a mood. The checker was....well, hired by Walmart. I won't say special or slow...just not employable by anybody BUT Walmart. He had a hard time fluctuating his voice, or making adjustments to volume based on my own proximity. I was a mere 25 inches away, yet he bellowed "DID YOU FIND EVERYTHING OK" as if I was across the room. I am not sure why I answered the way I did. It could have been that my inner ear was angry and ringing. It could have been that the vibrations of his yell were reminding me that my body fat percentage was too high. I don't know. But I told him no. I told him I didn't find everything OK. I told him I struggled. I was in pain because the leprechaun had stolen my pot of gold. I told him I followed the rainbow and the little bastard had my gold and was headed toward produce. The checker stared back at me as if I was Pamela Anderson and I had just asked him to make a sequel to her sex tape and the yacht was parked out front. "WHAT!?!?!?!" Not knowing what to do, I told him I did not find the pot of gold, trying to simplify my response to something he might understand. "WE DON'T HAVE THAT HERE!" No shit. The gal up front, Kathryn Hepburn, told me that the gold was on aisle 9. Weird.
He scanned the maxi pads and gave me a stupid grin; the look I used to give people when they were buying condoms. He knows what they are for, as do I. I was positive they were not for me. His look indicated the mind was trying to process who they were for. "ARE THESE FOR YOUR WIFE or GIRLFRIEND?" No, they are for my Appaloosa. I am raising lemmings and these are their beds, dumbshit. Just put them in the bag. I am surprised there wasn't another stupid question yelled at me after the milk. "SKIM MILK IS GOOD FOR YOU!" Yes, it is. Unlike your mother's breast milk that was tainted with crack as you sucked away, right? Sir, did you know that skim milk has more calcium than any other milk? "I LIKE WATERMELON JOLLY RAN..." Forget it.
I drive out of my way to go to Walmart. It is more entertaining and I am able to then write a few paragraphs describing how normal people can't get a job, but Walmart hires just about anyone. No, I am not applying.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I See a Pattern....
Dear Guy in the Gym Bathroom,
You're hot. You are, by far, the hottest guy I have seen come through here. You workout shirt is nice. It's dry, but nice. It matches your shoes and shorts, since we all know working out is a fashion show. You have some imperfections on your face. I see you popping them, shooting Lord knows what onto me. But you're young. Complexion issues are normal at your age. Yes sir. You are one big, hot, flaming bag of hormones.
You still here? I mean, don't get me wrong. I like looking at you, but only for so long. Absence makes the hear grow fonder, if you know what I mean. You probably don't being your nuts dropped just last week. Don't worry about your hair. It's perfect. Almost too perfect for the gym. I don't even know why you are here, really. You look like your metabolism runs overtime in your sleep. You don't need cardio or weight training. You just have to show up. I should know. I see just about everyone that comes in here. You BY FAR are the best. God's gift. Go get 'em tiger!
What? Did you need something else from me? Go workout for Christ's sake. I am getting my workout just by telling you to go workout. Stop admiring yourself and get sweaty. I know you are young but you won't be forever. Pretty soon, the ever-so-touchy balance of gravity will tilt in the favor of Sir Newton. Then, our relationship will sour. Again, nothing you would know about since the closest relationship to a vagina is probably your mother's when she spat you out. You look great, blah, blah...now go on!
OK, look, I was nice before. Now I am just aggravated. You're not nearly as pretty as you think. In fact, you reek of insecurity. The shirt and shorts, albeit coordinated, don't belong in the gym. They belong at Macy's, or at the very least, in your closet. Who works out with a button up shirt? Your pecs need work. Maybe not now, but soon, when your man boobs appear. It is easier to build muscle at a young age. Your hairstyle is not hip, its old. Everyone does the messy look. Stop wearing cologne in the gym. No one cares, drama. It is better to smell musty and look the part then go through the motions. Enjoy your abs, fag, because pretty soon your six pack will be replaced by a half-rack, and I don't mean extra muscles. Keystone Light ring any bells? Of course not. You just got off of Similac. Go away already before I bring you 7 years of bad luck and fuck your emotional shit up by breaking.....homo.
Sincerely,
The Mirror
You're hot. You are, by far, the hottest guy I have seen come through here. You workout shirt is nice. It's dry, but nice. It matches your shoes and shorts, since we all know working out is a fashion show. You have some imperfections on your face. I see you popping them, shooting Lord knows what onto me. But you're young. Complexion issues are normal at your age. Yes sir. You are one big, hot, flaming bag of hormones.
You still here? I mean, don't get me wrong. I like looking at you, but only for so long. Absence makes the hear grow fonder, if you know what I mean. You probably don't being your nuts dropped just last week. Don't worry about your hair. It's perfect. Almost too perfect for the gym. I don't even know why you are here, really. You look like your metabolism runs overtime in your sleep. You don't need cardio or weight training. You just have to show up. I should know. I see just about everyone that comes in here. You BY FAR are the best. God's gift. Go get 'em tiger!
What? Did you need something else from me? Go workout for Christ's sake. I am getting my workout just by telling you to go workout. Stop admiring yourself and get sweaty. I know you are young but you won't be forever. Pretty soon, the ever-so-touchy balance of gravity will tilt in the favor of Sir Newton. Then, our relationship will sour. Again, nothing you would know about since the closest relationship to a vagina is probably your mother's when she spat you out. You look great, blah, blah...now go on!
OK, look, I was nice before. Now I am just aggravated. You're not nearly as pretty as you think. In fact, you reek of insecurity. The shirt and shorts, albeit coordinated, don't belong in the gym. They belong at Macy's, or at the very least, in your closet. Who works out with a button up shirt? Your pecs need work. Maybe not now, but soon, when your man boobs appear. It is easier to build muscle at a young age. Your hairstyle is not hip, its old. Everyone does the messy look. Stop wearing cologne in the gym. No one cares, drama. It is better to smell musty and look the part then go through the motions. Enjoy your abs, fag, because pretty soon your six pack will be replaced by a half-rack, and I don't mean extra muscles. Keystone Light ring any bells? Of course not. You just got off of Similac. Go away already before I bring you 7 years of bad luck and fuck your emotional shit up by breaking.....homo.
Sincerely,
The Mirror
Please Just Let Me Shop
I am not interested in saving the Nepalese from leprosy. I don't care to sign your petition in support of little people rights. I don't want any cookies, leather chaps, or my face painted. I certainly don't want to sign a get well card for the Dalai Lama. Can I just get by you so I can get my prescriptions filled at Walmart?
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....if I see one more table filled with unemployed Greenpeace workers trying to recruit for the next Save the Earth movement.....let's just say, I will do the EXACT opposite they are asking support for. If they want to stop seal clubbing, I will go get a seal...somewhere, and club the living shit out of it on the spot. If the want to stop all you can eat buffets, I will binge and purge on their petitions. If they want to Save Tibet, I will donate to the Chinese consulate. I will paint their shit GREEN for spite. I am not interested and you won't sway me.
Oh, and leave me alone on the way out. I can assure you, my mind did not change while I shopped. I still think you are as retarded now as I did when I sprinted past you. It's almost as bad as the airports used to be. Take your fliers and wipe. It was hard enough to come to Walmart. My kids hate Walmart because of you. You scare them. You keep them up at night, which keeps me up at night, which ....es me off because I have to, then, tolerate YOU. I don't have enough patience for you because I spent it all on the commute over here behind a blue hair that had no business being on the road in the first place. I was tailgated. I was cut off. I was yelled at...and this was all in a school zone. So leave me alone. I don't like Girl Scout cookies. Neither do my kids. Stop trying to hand them one. Address me, not them, when offering cookies. For all I know they have crack in them you nut job. Wait until my daughter is a Girl Scout, I know. I can assure you, she will be selling something much better than cookies, but illegal.
The money is better.
Move aside, you quack. I have roll downs to take advantage of.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....if I see one more table filled with unemployed Greenpeace workers trying to recruit for the next Save the Earth movement.....let's just say, I will do the EXACT opposite they are asking support for. If they want to stop seal clubbing, I will go get a seal...somewhere, and club the living shit out of it on the spot. If the want to stop all you can eat buffets, I will binge and purge on their petitions. If they want to Save Tibet, I will donate to the Chinese consulate. I will paint their shit GREEN for spite. I am not interested and you won't sway me.
Oh, and leave me alone on the way out. I can assure you, my mind did not change while I shopped. I still think you are as retarded now as I did when I sprinted past you. It's almost as bad as the airports used to be. Take your fliers and wipe. It was hard enough to come to Walmart. My kids hate Walmart because of you. You scare them. You keep them up at night, which keeps me up at night, which ....es me off because I have to, then, tolerate YOU. I don't have enough patience for you because I spent it all on the commute over here behind a blue hair that had no business being on the road in the first place. I was tailgated. I was cut off. I was yelled at...and this was all in a school zone. So leave me alone. I don't like Girl Scout cookies. Neither do my kids. Stop trying to hand them one. Address me, not them, when offering cookies. For all I know they have crack in them you nut job. Wait until my daughter is a Girl Scout, I know. I can assure you, she will be selling something much better than cookies, but illegal.
The money is better.
Move aside, you quack. I have roll downs to take advantage of.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Dear Fellow Student
Dear Girl Sitting in Front of Me,
Please refrain from standing, turning around and flashing your camel toe at me. Frankly, please refrain not from just flashing it at me, but flashing it at anyone. I cannot imagine what made you think that painted on clothes was cool. Playboy Playmates pull it off. You can't. Please refrain from trying. Your axe wound should be kept to yourself, as well as your feminine itch that you hide oh so well by fidgeting. You either have crabs, A.D.D. or maybe both. I am glad I am not your chair.
Remember that school is for learning, not for expanding your ever-growing vocabulary (IE- LOL, TTYL, ROFL, etc.). So, please refrain from actually verbalizing your sentiments that would normally go into a text. If someone says something funny, laugh. Don't respond "ELL OH ELL" and expect anything other than the look I gave you today. It was dumb and I am sure it is not necessarily a generational thing as so much as it is a you are a phuck tard thing. I thank you for paying your tuition, but your parents will want you out of the house eventually. Trust me.
I am not sure what you carry in your backpack, but I have not seen you pull out a writing utensil in two days and your books still have the packaging wrap on them. At some point you will need the tools that your parents bought for you at Walmart this year. If it is because they got it at Walmart that causes you to twitch like a meth freak, don't. When you get older, and you (please think before you do) have kids of your own, you pray for a "one stop shopping experience." Dragging snot around a store, and then to the car, and then to a different store is not fun for grown ups. Nut up and wear the damn backpack. Watching you struggle hauling around 20 pounds of useless, unused material is painful for me to watch. Not because it looks heavy and you are straining, but mostly because you are more concerned with the proper position of your QWERTY keyboard than you are with the poor ergonomic way in which you are carrying it. Take notes. Drop the class. I don't care which, but your hair is blocking my view of the PowerPoint presentation.
College is not high school. I hate to tell you that. Cliques left after you threw your cap in the air at graduation, or got your GED in the mail. I know, you may know someone on campus and therefore will try to start your own campus clique. It won't work. It's like trying to bring back MC Hammer....or his pants. If you focused a small percentage on your studies, rather than trying to raise the "social Titanic," you may graduate, or at the very least, pass this pre-requisite to get into the next class. It's called a timeline, Van Wilder. Unless you plan on studying law, the goal is 2 years. At this pace, you will be lucky if you finish by the time The Backstreet Boys reunite.
Last but certainly not least, when I honk at you as you text while crossing the road, flipping me the bird is not original. The fact you dropped your LG phone doesn't really phase me, albeit your reaction was priceless. Asking me to watch where I am going is kind of dumb being I was watching, hence the honk. Please do not try texting anywhere near traffic. The next person may just plow into you as they are texting while driving, and they are probably your roommate, which will leave someone paying full share instead of half, or possibly 1/3, depending on your injuries.
Good luck in class dumbass.
Signed,
The guy behind you
Please refrain from standing, turning around and flashing your camel toe at me. Frankly, please refrain not from just flashing it at me, but flashing it at anyone. I cannot imagine what made you think that painted on clothes was cool. Playboy Playmates pull it off. You can't. Please refrain from trying. Your axe wound should be kept to yourself, as well as your feminine itch that you hide oh so well by fidgeting. You either have crabs, A.D.D. or maybe both. I am glad I am not your chair.
Remember that school is for learning, not for expanding your ever-growing vocabulary (IE- LOL, TTYL, ROFL, etc.). So, please refrain from actually verbalizing your sentiments that would normally go into a text. If someone says something funny, laugh. Don't respond "ELL OH ELL" and expect anything other than the look I gave you today. It was dumb and I am sure it is not necessarily a generational thing as so much as it is a you are a phuck tard thing. I thank you for paying your tuition, but your parents will want you out of the house eventually. Trust me.
I am not sure what you carry in your backpack, but I have not seen you pull out a writing utensil in two days and your books still have the packaging wrap on them. At some point you will need the tools that your parents bought for you at Walmart this year. If it is because they got it at Walmart that causes you to twitch like a meth freak, don't. When you get older, and you (please think before you do) have kids of your own, you pray for a "one stop shopping experience." Dragging snot around a store, and then to the car, and then to a different store is not fun for grown ups. Nut up and wear the damn backpack. Watching you struggle hauling around 20 pounds of useless, unused material is painful for me to watch. Not because it looks heavy and you are straining, but mostly because you are more concerned with the proper position of your QWERTY keyboard than you are with the poor ergonomic way in which you are carrying it. Take notes. Drop the class. I don't care which, but your hair is blocking my view of the PowerPoint presentation.
College is not high school. I hate to tell you that. Cliques left after you threw your cap in the air at graduation, or got your GED in the mail. I know, you may know someone on campus and therefore will try to start your own campus clique. It won't work. It's like trying to bring back MC Hammer....or his pants. If you focused a small percentage on your studies, rather than trying to raise the "social Titanic," you may graduate, or at the very least, pass this pre-requisite to get into the next class. It's called a timeline, Van Wilder. Unless you plan on studying law, the goal is 2 years. At this pace, you will be lucky if you finish by the time The Backstreet Boys reunite.
Last but certainly not least, when I honk at you as you text while crossing the road, flipping me the bird is not original. The fact you dropped your LG phone doesn't really phase me, albeit your reaction was priceless. Asking me to watch where I am going is kind of dumb being I was watching, hence the honk. Please do not try texting anywhere near traffic. The next person may just plow into you as they are texting while driving, and they are probably your roommate, which will leave someone paying full share instead of half, or possibly 1/3, depending on your injuries.
Good luck in class dumbass.
Signed,
The guy behind you
Time to Live
I have often wondered why people wait so long to live their lives? I am guilty. I am very guilty. The old saying "get busy living or get busy dying" rings very true with me. Yet, I sit passively by as I watch other people living their lives. I suppose that is why, at 36 years old, I have decided to better my life by becoming a Registered Nurse. I can no longer be idle. I can no longer accept the excuse "everyone else, but me." Why not me? Why can't I have the very best? Have I given every effort to better myself, my family, my future? I can honestly say I haven't. I have coasted. I have let the current take me where I am going rather than paddle the direction I want to go. I have weathered many storms, many waves and I am sure there will be many more of these storms in my life.
"Pain lasts an hour, a day, or maybe a year. Giving up...that lasts forever." - Lance Armstrong
Don't give up on yourself. You are all you've got.
"Pain lasts an hour, a day, or maybe a year. Giving up...that lasts forever." - Lance Armstrong
Don't give up on yourself. You are all you've got.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Kanye West is Infuriating
First of all, I am not a Kanye West fan. Last thing I heard, he rapped a little. Actually, I take that back. He announced he was better than God. I didn't watch the MTV Video Awards. I guess it was a big deal because all throughout The Real World finale last week it was all they could talk about. I am not into award shows. I like music, all kinds of music unless it's Kanye. Then, I would rather get donkey punched by a gay porn star.
I don't know what it is about him, really. I just don't like him. He is too vocal without really saying anything important. I remember on SNL, he said George Bush hated black people after hurricane Katrina. Notwithstanding his comment, SHUT UP! SNL is not a podium for you to spout at the mouth about shit that you feel is newsworthy. This is not a pulpit for you to preach about.....FUCK! Nothing! Tonight, however, he behaved as predictably as Brett Favre NOT retiring. Beyonce lost an award to Taylor Swift. During her speech, he bum rushed the stage, entourageless, grabbed the microphone and said, essentially, Beyonce got screwed.
HEY....USHER-WANNABE....DARIUS RUCKER SINGS COUNTRY. THE SHIT IS IN! GOOOOO AWAY!
Now Beyonce, being the classy gal she is allowed Taylor Swift her due moment later in the show. I just cannot grasp why on EARTH Kanye feels that anyone gives a shit when his lips part. Again, maybe its because I am not a fan of smelling feces, or watching people gloat about being at the right place at the right time. Frankly, Kanye should take a Gulfstream and fly it into the ocean. OMG, you might say, how terrible! Its how I feel about him in general. If there was a headline that read "KANYE WEST GUNNED DOWN AT CHUCK E CHEESE IN THE 9TH WARD IN NEW ORLEANS, I would skip over it to watch porn.
Don't care, Kanye. You suck!
Late night rants rule!
I don't know what it is about him, really. I just don't like him. He is too vocal without really saying anything important. I remember on SNL, he said George Bush hated black people after hurricane Katrina. Notwithstanding his comment, SHUT UP! SNL is not a podium for you to spout at the mouth about shit that you feel is newsworthy. This is not a pulpit for you to preach about.....FUCK! Nothing! Tonight, however, he behaved as predictably as Brett Favre NOT retiring. Beyonce lost an award to Taylor Swift. During her speech, he bum rushed the stage, entourageless, grabbed the microphone and said, essentially, Beyonce got screwed.
HEY....USHER-WANNABE....DARIUS RUCKER SINGS COUNTRY. THE SHIT IS IN! GOOOOO AWAY!
Now Beyonce, being the classy gal she is allowed Taylor Swift her due moment later in the show. I just cannot grasp why on EARTH Kanye feels that anyone gives a shit when his lips part. Again, maybe its because I am not a fan of smelling feces, or watching people gloat about being at the right place at the right time. Frankly, Kanye should take a Gulfstream and fly it into the ocean. OMG, you might say, how terrible! Its how I feel about him in general. If there was a headline that read "KANYE WEST GUNNED DOWN AT CHUCK E CHEESE IN THE 9TH WARD IN NEW ORLEANS, I would skip over it to watch porn.
Don't care, Kanye. You suck!
Late night rants rule!
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