BRMC no longer stands for “Black Rebel Motorcycle Club”. After their amazing show at Trees in Dallas, TX, last Sunday night, it now stands for “Badass Rockin’ Mind-Blowing Concert”. In other words, my new drug. Their concert was so good, it felt like what I imagine cult members think they’re gonna feel like after they drink the Kool-Aid.
When I woke up on Monday morning, the whole night felt really surreal, like a meth-head dream. I’ve never smoked meth though, so I have no idea what that feels like. The surrealism of the night before makes me think BRMC concerts are drugs in and of themselves, only better since they’re less likely to kill you. I’ve only been to two of their shows, and now attending more is an absolute necessity. In March earlier this year, they came to the House of Blues in Dallas, and the show was good, but Sunday night’s was way better. This was either because Robert Levon Been was on fire, or because this time around, there weren’t any douchebags asking for a tangerine to the face.
Some Latino redneck in Sherman, TX (where else?) parked this bad boy outside Lowe’s today.
Feast your eyes on this Catholic carcacha:
There was blood everywhere, and tears in her eyes.
God, that sounds like the chorus to a Hawthorne Heights song.
I didn’t mean to punch Shelby Waters in the face. I didn’t mean to break her nose. I didn’t even know I could break noses. I couldn’t even snap a pencil in two, which was pretty embarrassing when I tried in front of my sister, then the next day she told her whole second grade class.
Maybe I should back up.
I’ve been balls-to-the-wall in love with Shelby Waters for two years, ever since she transferred to my high school and lent me a pencil during sophomore year English. She smiled at me, and that was it. It was all over. I’ve never been able to look at another girl. I think I still have it. The pencil, I mean. It’s pink. Don’t tell her, though, ‘cause I don’t want her to think I’m a stalker. I’m not a stalker. I mean, I stare at her a lot, but I don’t wait outside her house in the rain dressed like the Unabomber.
I love cults. Okay, maybe love is a bit of a strong word. Let’s call it morbid fascination. I have a morbid fascination with cults. Since I’m such a nut about cults, I’ve spent way too much time researching them, so I can assure you I know my stuff.
Cults are a fascinating part of history but aren’t covered in the classroom, so today I’m going to educate you about a personal favorite cult leader of mine, Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo.
Adolfo de Jesus Constanzo was a cult leader and serial killer who killed many people around the Texas-Mexico border, including a Texas college student, so as a Texas college student, naturally I feel he is the most (ir)relevant serial killer for you to learn about.
I began a random game of Words With Friends under the guise that all the words must be encompassed in a short story, in the order they were played. My opponent was named “To good 4 u pplz”, which is interesting since I beat her by 80 points (144 to 64, before she resigned) and her name is both obnoxious and grammatically incorrect. Mid-game, she changed her name to “GucciGirlie”, which isn’t much better, but it’s still a clear sign that whoever she is, she’s easy to beat. So start a game with her and feel good about yourself! Yay!
All the words used in the game are in bold.
Caroline the Fatty
Caroline was a fatty. She was so fat that whenever she took a step, she put a hole in the floor, even steel floors. She was also a liar, since she told everyone she only weighed 120 lbs, when she clearly weighed at least 280.
One day, Caroline decided to discover religion. She visited a few wats*, which were oddly located in Oklahoma, and asked Buddha to help her lose weight. She stomped through the floorboards of one particular wat and knelt at the feet of a bronze Buddha statue.
“Let’s make a deal, Buddha,” she said. “You make me thin, and I’ll sell all my fat to charity.”
Oh my! It’s been over 5 days since I last posted something here. Rest assured, a hateful piece about Forever 21 (yeah, again) is coming soon.
In the meantime, enjoy this.
Or maybe this. Or both.
Either way, you’re toasted, mother peepers!
There’s an epidemic sweeping the nation. Hoarders.
Okay, so hoarders have been around for forever, but it’s only in the last couple years that they’ve invaded the public eye, bringing their bags of garbage and dead cats with them. We have all different sorts of hoarding shows that are actually all the same: “Help! I’m a Hoarder”, “Hoarding: Buried Alive”, “I’m Pregnant and a Hoarder”, and of course, “Hoarders”.
Basically, all the shows go like this:
PART 1: Mr. or Mrs. Stinkytrashhouse is a Hoarder. They’re about to go to jail and/or their house is about to be repossessed ’cause they stuffed their house with junk like a Thanksgiving turkey.
PART 2: Angsty Child or Friend of Stinkytrashhouse enters and talks about the anger and distress they feel because Stinkytrashhouse won’t get rid of anything. They say they’ve tried to help Stinkytrashhouse again and again, but Stinkytrashhouse is blind to the dirty chaos consuming their home. Stinkytrashhouse prefers to bathe in garbage juice, especially since their plumbing got cut off years ago.
PART 3: A Professional Organizer and/or Therapist comes and tries to help Stinkytrashhouse sort through their humongous piles of rotting possessions. Stinkytrashhouse wants to keep everything, even that pile of cat poop, because that cat poop was really important to them at one point in their life. That cat poop saved their life or cared for them when they were young or something.
Why do we have to continue to suffer with acne, even when we’re out of high school? I have a monstrous red bump on my chin that will not go away, no matter how hard I try to get rid of it.
At 0300 hours, I launched Toothpaste Warfare on the enemy force occupying my chin. After sleeping on it, I found that the toothpaste mission had failed. There were no survivors. Except the pimple. Which I didn’t want to survive. Okay. I think I’ve made my point.
I then turned to commercialism to solve my blemish woes. I watched a couple of commercials to see which act of false advertising impressed me the most. All I got out of it were these two messages:
Proactiv: “Oh em gee, I’m a celebrity! I have a teeny tiny pimple on my face but it’s sooooo bothersome! So I use Proactiv to get rid of it! Exclamation point!”
Neutrogena: Appears to be only for teen girls. I’m no longer a teen, and I’m a tad too old to be part of the High School Musical generation, so I wasn’t really feeling the airbrushed-Vanessa Hudgens thing. Vanessa Hudgens does nothing more than make me want to move to a secluded cave and forget modern pop culture. She can’t sell me acne face goop.
Both commercials use celebrities to help pitch their products. Neither convinced me to buy their products.
Back to World War Toothpaste, then.
That’s it. This is the last straw.
BEING CHRISTIAN DOES NOT MEAN BEING ANTI-GAY MARRIAGE, OR ANTI-GAY PERIOD. Those Bible-humping agenda-ists who despise gay people or “love the sinner, hate the sin” may call themselves Christians, but they do not speak for all of us.
Some of you may be surprised to learn that I am a Christian. Do I attend church regularly? No. Do I read the Bible regularly? I should, but I don’t. Do I use curse words? Of course, just look at the title of this blog. Do I think abortion should be legal?* Yep. Do I support gay marriage? Yes-sir-ee.
“Christian” is not synonymous with crazed churchgoing lunatic. It’s a shame that these people give all Christians a bad name. Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of respect for some Christians with traditional, conservative beliefs, but those are the Christians who don’t go around rallying outside abortion clinics. I have no respect whatsoever for people who use the Bible as a weapon. I think Book of Eli is a much more accurate depiction of Christian beliefs than televangelist hacks like Joel Osteen.
You know what’s fun? A day without homework. A day without homework is awesome. Especially if it’s a Friday.
That is all.
Except that’s not all. Watch this.