...I've been trained to make beats that would make a billy goat puke.


Hobo Crust Punks, Go Home - Your Parents Miss You...

...and the rest of us won't.

So here's the deal with Crust Punk kids.
Some people just can't deal with capitalism. It's a proven fact. They can't adjust to a life where you work, and then you get paid. Instead, they decide to forgo a college education paid for by their parents who live in Northern Virginia, and live on the streets. By live on the streets, I mean stay in apartments either paid for by their parents or by their friends' parents, depending on how deep they are in crust punk culture. They prefer a system of government and economy where everyone works and gets paid, and then gives their money to you. They call this communism, because there is a large amount of communication involved in the process, more precisely; cardboard signs that say things like "Traveling. Hungry."
True Story: Once, my ex and I were taking a stroll in Carytown. As is common in that part of town, we saw several crust punxxxx sitting on the sidewalk and asking people with jobs for money. They asked us, and I said "Nope." My ex gave them a buck or two, and I preceded to tell her how insane it is to enable these kids. I probably said a lot more, too, because she told me how horrible of a person I am, insensitive, sociopathic, all that jive. Whatever, those kids are idiots and I have a job and make my own bank (for the most part, thanks granny). After hours of getting the cold shoulder, we return to my car. Passing the music store, we peer inside and OF COURSE we see one of those poor, homeless kids, buying a stack of CDs, presumably with the money my lady friend gave them (there is an equal chance they were using one of their credit cards that daddy pays off every month, it isn't easy eating vegan when you're homeless you know). I felt so vindicated. Sweet, sweet vindication.



I am a very sickly boy. In the past two weeks I've had AWFUL "stomache issues" (I'll spare you the details), the flu (for the second time this year), a sinus infection (also #2 for the year) and now I've lost my voice. There has to be something causing all of this, and I've narrowed it down to three possible culprits.

When I was younger, I had absolutely no problem with allergies. I could go outside and rub flower wang all over my face and be totally legit. Nowadays my eyes tear up, I start sneezing uncontrollably (instead of controllable sneezing, a project I've been working on), and snot just flies out of my face in extreme amounts. For some reason, the plants in town are WEAPONIZING themselves to protect themselves from me.
So I think that having my entire system flooded with tree skeet has been really contributing to my illnesses. Why wouldn't it? It's totally gross, and my mind tells my face that my body wouldn't like it. So to counteract all these horrible effects, I've decided to NEVER GO OUTSIDE AGAIN. Problem one solved.

So here's my viewpoint on insurance. F-CK Insurance. It's the worst investment ever (proven fact) and if you feel differently, I'd like you to add up all the money you've spent on insurance for your entire life, and then add up all the bills that insurance paid. Now, unless you're a special case and have incurable diseases and totally depend on insurance, you're probably looking at the first number you wrote down and you're crying...HARD. Who could blame you? You've spent so much dough betting on yourself getting hurt. That being said, this year I gave up my health insurance, and this year I've had the flu twice. That just doesn't happen. There's some cosmic force that wants me dead.
So how do I tackle this issue? I don't. I enjoy the savings too much. $$

Dammit. Three weeks ago I called in sick for two or three days. I wasn't sick. I was sitting in the living room, dressed for work, keys in hand, and I just couldn't get up. Ten minutes went by, I figured I'd just be a little late. Then ten more went by, I just thought I'd show up half an hour late. Ten more, I called in and said I had another sinus infection. The next few days were awesome. I did whatever I wanted all day, and it was totally worth it.
I went back to work for a few days, and it was the weekend already. What a blast.
Then late Sunday evening my stomach starts to growl. [insert disgusting details of an entire evening spent in the bathroom]
Clearly karma had it in for me.
Monday I go back to work, even if I am taking bathroom breaks every ten minutes, and tough it out. No sleep monday night either. Tuesday the same old thing. I eventually get better and work through the week. Next Sunday, my sinus' are driving me insane and I get dizzy. Another flu. I work up a fever and can hardly think straight. All weekend I watch "My Name Is Earl" (speaking of karma), I get through three seasons like nothing because all I can do is sit and let snot pour out of my face. Finally this week I'm getting over all the flu symptoms, although my throat still feels scratchy. Karma really f-ed me over.
So what can I do to please it? Screw karma, because I WENT to work when I was sick, TWO WEEKS IN A ROW. Plus I didn't even get to use sick time for that first non-sick week, so it shouldn't have even counted against me in the first place! I hate you karma.


Infernal Dialog

So as my last post may denote, I am totally insane and have an overly active internal dialog going on at all times. After posting the stapler bit, it reminded me of a few bets I've made with myself. Here's a few of them:
  • A bet to see how long I could go with only bread and water (lasted one week)
  • A bet to see how long I could go without a cheeseburger (laster two months)
  • A bet to see how many faces I could see in foliage, that I could then make into faces of dogs (lasted about 8 years)
  • A bet to see how many burgers I could eat in one sitting (eight)
So as you can see, I'm addicted to gambling?


Holy Crap.

So I'm working, stacking papers, and I need to staple about 80 sheets together. What a perfect time to test out our new 100 PAGE STAPLER!
I get everything ready, and I grab hold of the brand spanking new stapler. CRUNCH. Wait, no staple. A new (unfolded) staple comes out of the stapler. Hmmm. Must be a fluke. I'll punch another one through. BAM. Now there's just a new staple sitting on top of the paper, didn't even break through the binding strip.
This is when the bad ideas start to happen. I start pondering:
"This thing is just shooting out staples. It's not punching them through anything."
"I bet if I stuck one sheet of paper in there it wouldn't even puncture it."
"To hell with paper! I bet I could stick my finger in there and be totally safe."
"Shoot. If I don't stick my finger in I'm a pussy."
"...I better staple my finger."
So in a moment of utmost clairvoyance, I place my left index finger into the stapler and start to slowly push down on the handle. Nothing. I go all the way down and feel a slight pinch.
"At least it's trying..."
I pull the handle back up and look at my finger. I see a staple - a 100 page staple - totally penetrating my finger.
HOLY CRAP. I don't believe what I'm seeing. There is a staple, roughly half an inch, embedded in my pink flesh. Hey the stapler works!
I pull out the staple, which hurts a lot more than putting it in, and my finger starts oozing blood. I run to the bathroom and put some neosporin on a band-aid and wash my finger off. Once bandaged, I go back out and test the stapler again.

Apparently this stapler just works on people?