The 'Convicts'

So, if things could not possibly get any worse, (I am constantly thinking things could not possibly get worse every minute and they always do.) I woke up today to find that someone had graffitied my house. In big, bold letters, it said:

CONVICTZ WUZ HER

Yeah, I was pretty confused, especially since I was still half asleep from the entire bottle of Nyquil I had just drank like three hours before. So I didn't really think much of it and pulled up a little piece of lawn to take a nice, long nap. When I woke up, again half asleep, it was because someone had taken all of my clothes off. This was unusual, as I pass out on my own lawn fairly regularly. They also smashed (and partially ate) my mailbox and left an easily traceable ransom note.

"GARY. IF U WaNT YR. ShIRT N SHIT BACK, GIVE US 500 BUCKS. BITCH. WE ARE A GANG. DON'T MESs WITH US OR WE WILL BEAT YOU UP SO BAD. - CONVICTZ"

Like I said, not hard to trace. First of all, it's a small town we live in and Saddam is the only person perpetually threatening me, (also, he is an idiot.) so I immediately assume he is in the gang. Second of all, the note was covered in dirt and dripping with slobber, so Cerberus must be in the gang. Other than that, TBA.

I can't believe my own dog joined a gang and spraypainted my house. I went out to scribble on his dog house with a magic marker, but he bit me. Three times.

To be continued...

Saddam

There is one person down here who I always actively avoid. His name is Saddam. He is just genuinely a really mean person. He's the kind of guy who gives you indian burns and kicks your dog (not that my dog cares anyways) and refuses to let you be Donkey Kong in MarioKart even though that is your favorite character. Yeah, he's mean, like mean mean.

The other day he showed up at my house, knocked on the door, and when I answered he was like "Hey bro, check out my new phone!" and I looked down and instead of pulling a phone out of his pocket, he just pulled his hand out with his three fingers sticking out and his thumb and pointer in a little circle. Then he said "you looked," punched me in the arm really hard, and left. I still have a bruise. I bruise easily.

He is also really tiny. I think as part of his punishment God made him a lot smaller than he was in his life, maybe to make him just annoying instead of actually threatening, or to indirectly punish me or play some kind of sick joke on me. He can fit into really small spaces like cupboards and drawers. He does this frequently just for a chance to jump out and scare people. Serious. He hid in the clean clothes in my laundry basket for like seven hours one day while I was at the club. Oh, did I mention I go to clubs?

The other day he threw a baseball through my window. No it wasn't an accident, he just did it, and those things are like rocks. And when I asked why he did that he just threw the ball at my face and rode off on his BMX.

What do I do to deserve these kinds of people? Is there just something inherently awful about me? Or are all people like this? I just don't know why I even exist.

I don't know why I even exist.

Well.

Yeah. Still alive. Always still alive.

I know it takes me like six months to build up the emotional constitution to write on this blog, and I'm sorry, but not really, because in a way I am only apologizing to myself for being a wimp because nobody reads this. I am going to try a new strategy. Talk less, and maybe people will give more of a shit.

So what's happened to me recently?

Well, since most of what I look forward to are holidays, let's talk about the most recent.

The Fourth of July.

You may ask, "but Gary? Are you American? Why would you celebrate an American holiday as someone who is from Hell?"

Shut up. I celebrate any holiday that will take my mind off of me being me, so one where a bunch of cheaply made explosives are blowing up everywhere and drowning out the horrible, grating voices of everyone around me and Cerberus' awful barking is particularly appealing.

Here's what happened. The first bottle rocket I lit went off and hit me straight in the eye.

I tried to go to bed, but then the fireworks kept me up. And after the fireworks kept me up, Cerberus barked all night. Finally, I just took like thirty sleeping pills and passed out. I woke up this afternoon.

So good morning. Happy fourth. I woke up with a headache. I am gonna try and sleep this off for like three months.

Christmas is in the (stale) Air (of the cave)

The Christmas season is upon us! Didn't think I'd live to see another one of these. Oh wait, yes I did. I've been alive forever.

For those of you unfamiliar with Christmas (yeah, right, get real, everybody knows about Christmas, and if they don't, then I will personally buy them a plane ticket to Saturn so they can be boring and dumb somewhere else.), it's the time of year when everyone gets together to celebrate Jesus' birthday and give each other presents.

This means it's also the time of year where everyone will get invited to a kickass Christmas party in heaven, excluding me and everyone down here. I don't want to believe that I suck too bad to get invited. But I do.

Seriously, in Heaven they have a ton of strobe lights and fog machines. Fog machines on clouds. That's the kind of excess that will be at this party. Unreal. Paris Hilton will probably be there too, and she will probably be naked.

But anyways, because it's that time of year, I'm sure you are all wondering, "What is Gary getting for all of the people he loves (is forced to tolerate) this year?" And if you're not wondering that, well...

Here is what I am planning on getting for my friends.

Adolf - that Rosetta Stone "learn English," program so he can communicate like a human being for once.

Cerberus - I got Cerberus a new bowl for Christmas, but he already ate it, along with all of the other presents, the wrapping paper, the tree, all of the lights, the ornaments, the tinsel, my Christmas spirit, and the little angel on top. He left the strings of popcorn. The strings of popcorn that happened to be the only edible thing in the Christmas vicinity.

Also, did I mention that he threw all of that shit up on the white rug later? Oh, except for my Christmas spirit. He digested that.

Saddam - Boxing gloves. He has really hard knuckles.

What's-his-name-my-therapist-with-the-tweed-pants - Altoids. Lots of them.

Phil Spector - I can't give him anything that he hasn't already taken.

St. Peter - I made him a nice sweater/robe in hopes that he would let me into Heaven for a while on Christmas. He opened it prematurely and sent a card that said "Thanks for the Snuggie."

Jesus/God/The Holy Spirit - I seriously need to find Jesus and those dudes the most AWESOME present and I can't seem to think of anything. Xbox 360? No, I bet they get a million Xbox 360's.

James Dean - I don't know, but I hope he gives me a lesson on being as cool as he is. Maybe I will get him some hair gel.

Marilyn Monroe - Dignity. Maybe if I give her some, she will give mine back.

Myself - A 360. Cerberus already ate the controllers though, and Madden. There goes my Christmas.

Jesus (sorry, dude), It's been a long time since I wasn't too depressed to write!

Hello everybody!

By everybody, I mean nobody.

Hello everybody, how are you? It's been a long time since I have given two shits enough to write my particularly witty thoughts and feelings down and publish them on the Internet. Why? Two reasons:

1) Nobody cares about me.

2)

I guess that was just one reason. For some reason it seemed like two when it was in my head. Or maybe I just forgot the second one because I was too busy thinking about the first one. Let me remind you all, why nobody cares about me, again, in a numbered list. It is, after all, the season for lists.

1) I live in an oppressively hot cave in the center of the earth, on a dimensional level different from the one that you, the reader, are currently living on. (Fortunately, the Internet has "connected" us. And no, not "or unfortunately" for you. Don't be a dick.)

2) I also live on a different dimensional level of "cool."
- Seriously, it's like the 4th dimension of "cool."
- Apparently, the 4th dimension of "cool" isn't good enough for Jesus, and James Dean and St. Peter and all the guys up there.
- Yes, James Dean and Marilyn Monroe do make out up there like every day, and if I could put it on the Internet, I would, because I would seriously be able to cash in on that.
- I asked Marilyn on a date and she told me to meet her in the sewer. I went to the sewer. She said that since I was so full of hot air, I could help recreate her famous tableaux.
- I hated myself for months after I did that.

3) All my friends and the people I know live on the 1st dimension of "cool," which sucks. For them. But mostly, for me also, because I am trapped with them in this sucky cave. And they suck.
- Adolf has started self-flagellation.
- Saddam is still mean as shit, all the time.
- Cerberus goes through like five bags of IAMS a day. Actually, that would be a gross understatement.
- Phil Spector (I know, what is he even doing here?) has seriously overproduced all of my hip-hop albums.

4) I am apparently a bleak, lecherous social leper. Who lives in a cave. Did I mention a cave?

Happy Thanksgiving. Cerberus ate the fucking turkey down here. Hope your three headed monster dog didn't eat your turkey. Really, I am being sincere.

5) I am an insincere, insecure...

Really though, Happy Thanksgiving.

Sheesh! Dr. Allen...Wait, where am I?

Sheesh! It's been a long time since I wrote on this. My life has been extremely busy lately, busy busy busy, no time to write. That's how I keep myself happy. I keep myself busy. What have I been doing, you ask?

Well actually, I have mostly just been lying on my couch with a towel wrapped around my head and hands, trying to forget my life by sheer sensory deprivation. No big deal. Just what I am up to for the most part.

My therapist recommended it. He is so smart and nice and always gives me the best treatments for when I am feeling sad or post-suicidal (I feel like that most of the time because apparently I can't die. Details). I like to call him "Dr. Allen," although he usually insists that I simply call him Allen because he "doesn't have a degree," and "is not accredited in any way." And then he recommends that I take a swim in the lake of fire or something to cool down. How thoughtful.

He doesn't accept monetary payments for his services ("What the fuck am I gonna do with a handful of your cash down here?" he says. What a clown.), so I usually try to pay him back by taking part in one of his experiments. They usually consist of me seeing how long I can hold my breath under boiling water while wearing a lead helmet without going crazy (a long time, apparently, I can't die, and I am definitely not crazy.), me taking all of the pills in my medicine cabinet to find "cures," or me locking myself in a hotel room with two of the scary hell women and waiting for something "that will carry weight in the psychological community" and/or "filmable" to happen (nothing ever happens, p.s. Dr. Allen, except for those crazy ladies yelling at me all day.).

Dr. Allen is also the pinnacle of class. Pinstripe suit. Slicked back hair. Breath that always smells like an exquisitely brewed cup of coffee. Glasses that make his eyes seem a lot smaller than they actually are.

Wait a second, what was I talking about again? God, I took way to many pills today...though it's none of your business, maybe you should get off your high cloud and come hang out with me for once...and pick up the damn phone!

Oh yeah, I haven't really been doing much you know. What?

Man's Least Best Friend

Here's a nice story for you. Once upon a time, a punk bitch named Gary decided to take a shopping trip in search of a companion to help alleviate his loneliness, and he decided to check out a quaint little pet store nestled away amongst a cluster of local vendors in a quiet and secluded suburban neighborhood in ancient Greece. It would be just another one of the numerous, yet defining bad decisions of his life, and as he walked into the shop, the little bell chimed charmingly to announce his arrival, and fate decided to take a break from kicking Gary in the face, simply with the goal of winding up to kick him in the face twice as hard. The man at the counter in the cheap vinyl vest stared at Gary with judgemental eyes and went back to feeding the reptiles without saying anything. It smelled peculiar, and not just like fish food and hamster cages, some far fouler stench hung in the air. As Gary made his way to the center of the store, he saw a rusty metal enclosure, upon which hung a crudely hand painted sign reading "PUPPY(s)." Gary wanted a puppy particularly. A good dog can be considered man's best friend forever. It was at the moment where Gary leaned over the cage that fate's kick connected solidly with his face.

Three-headed dog.

Contrary to the normal human reaction of "fear" when seeing such a frighteningly misshapen and clearly accursed creature, the broken and gnarled cogs in Gary's idiotic brain twisted and turned to deduce almost immediately that because this particular dog had three heads, that would simply mean that he would be receiving three times the friendship, love, and companionship that a regular, well-trained dog can bring. He brought it to the checkout counter and paid a nominal fee; apparently nobody would take this dog, and in actuality many people left the store upon seeing it. The pet shop clerk even threw in three food and water bowls as a perk for Gary's presumed charity, and a lifetime supply of dog food. Gary was pleased that he was so good for business. He named it Cerberus, though he doesn't really remember or care why anymore.

He did not for a second consider all of the other things that would be multiplied by three. Three times the food and bones for chewing. Three times the drool. Three times the simpering whining and barking. Three times the biting. Three times the amount of nice velvet slippers, chewed to bits. Three times the amount of grass vomited and redevoured on the living room floor. Three times the amount of legs mercilessly humped.

And the strangest thing about Cerberus, was that no matter how many times he naturally lived a normal dog lifespan, no matter how many neighborhood cars accidentally crushed him while being pursued, and no matter how many times Gary tried to feed him cyanide capsules wrapped in little scraps of cheese, he simply would not die. Cerberus became a regular staple around the cave, biting friends, snarling at relatives, chasing the mailman and generally making people paranoid, even around the holidays. Gary tried to warn people. He even hung several of those little "Beware of Dog" signs on his fence, but Cerberus just ate them every time, fence and all, with his insatiable goat-like appetite and bad morals.

Even the local Animal Control people didn't know what to do with Cerberus. They would try to wrangle him up with one of those metal loops attached to a pole that you tighten around the neck of the dangerous animal, but the other two heads would simply eat the loop, and the pole, and nobody ever thought to make a pole with three loops. Tranquilizer darts didn't work either because Cerberus ate those too, and also, he never slept, because that would get in the way of his incessant barking schedule. Luring him into giant cages with big lemon merangue pies didn't work either, because Cerberus was three times as smart as a regular dog, and therefore figured out that each time he should eat the open door of the cage before he ate the pie, a routine in which he showed incredible self-control for a seemingly wild animal.

No, all in all, Cerberus and Gary had a very Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote-esque relationship, with Gary trying to plant expensive and preposterous traps to capture Cerberus on a regular basis, traps that invariably failed. Cerberus could always devour or manipulate his way out of them to go ahead and further terrify the neighborhood. Gary would remedy his failures by locking his doors, ignoring the angry phone calls, and crying, a lot. Man's best friend, indeed.