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post #118
bio: chris

first post
that week

Previous Posts
On Sting (and other crap)
Things I Say to My Dad, Because (like myself) He Thinks, Irrationally, He's Going to Die Soon
Why Hipstamatic Was Invented
Happy Mother's Day, Y'all
Black Pear Tree (Guest Post from John Darnielle)

I Am Not Your Blog
Message to certain co-workers everywhere:

I do not want to be cornered and yapped at for 20 minutes when I first return to the workplace after a long weekend. I do not care that your wife accidentally deleted her daughter's 25-page paper on Unicorns. I do not want to hear you give away three endings to three movies I have not seen yet. While I am not a big fan of our President, I do not actually agree that he is personally executing 2500 homeless retarded midgets in Zaire as you would have me believe. I do not want to hear about how you were "working on your girlfriend's rear end" all weekend – even if you were talking about her car. The Passion of the Christ is NOT a snuff film, and the Coen brothers most certainly did NOT make "Remo Williams: The Adventure Begins". I don't want any pictures of that gas-electro hybrid car that you really, really want even though if you were to buy that car you would never, ever get to work on time. And I especially do not care to hear any music from the hottest rap-group in Sri Lanka.

I am not your blog.

There. I said it.

On another note, I would really like to be Black Francis, even if only for a day. I wanna be fat, bald, and rock. I wanna scream things like "oh kiss me cunt and kiss me cock! Oh kiss the world oh kiss the sky oh kiss my ass oh let it rock!" at 200 decibels. I wanna think things like "how much more ass do I have to kick before you people make me a God?".


Okay, so the Boston Marathon was yesterday. It was not the all out drunken rage fest as it has been in years past, but I was down with that. Good times, good times. And for the second year in a row, one of the runners stopped to ask if they could have my friend's Coke. (Of course, the "Coke" is, well, Coke and Something Else – not exactly good for runners who have run 23 miles with 3 more to go… so we just tell ‘em "it's not just coke" and let them be on their way.)

Now, what the hell? This happens every year. First of all, why would you want sugar, water, and caffeine after you just ran 23 miles? And second of all – that's my Coke! The fact that you're running in a marathon does not entitle you to my shit! I mean, what the hell do you think this is? Russia? Seriously. Just ‘cuz you're running and I'm not, I'm supposed to give you my stuff? Where would it end? I mean, would you stop to look at someone's camera and say "Hey, that's a nice camera. Mind if I take it?" or stop and look at someone else's spouse and say to them "Hey. I'm running in a marathon. Can I make out with your spouse?"

My coke. I bought it ‘cuz I wanted one. There's a Store 24 right across the street. Go get yourself one. And go yellow.
On a happy note, the Pixies reunited. They played their first show in 13 years or someshit last week and abso-frickin-lutely rocked. Hells yeah.

Oh kiss my ass. Oh let it rock.

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