Adolf

Before you criticize me for "always complaining about my petty problems on the Internet," and/or "not having anything important to say," I think that you should take some time to get to know my psychotic friend Adolf. That is a picture of him at Thanksgiving dinner last year. He will not be invited again. Why don't we just say that there was stuffing all over the carpet, shallow puncture wounds all over the guests, and lots of tears. But I digress.

Adolf showed up around sixty years ago, (I can't really remember actually, the days have been a lot longer since he has been here.) and has proceeded to make my life a living hell, and before you say "Wait, isn't your life already a living hell?" maybe you should just shut up and don't bother. He showed up, and just started screaming at everyone, and he hasn't stopped to this day.

Yeah, maybe I am exaggerating a little bit, but I don't understand what he is saying, ever. Nobody else around here understands what he is talking about either. I'm just a guy who likes to toss the old pigskin around and hang out like everyone else, not some linguist or translator or something, just a cool guy you know?

Apparently, Adolf is the only German person in Hell, according to St. Peter, and when St. Peter says he is the only German person in Hell, he really means that he is the only person in Hell who can't speak English to a passable degree. And it's not really like he has tried to learn either, like, he expects all of us to learn German or whatever form of communication he has concocted for himself. Most of our conversations look a lot like the following:

GARY

Good afternoon Adolf.

ADOLF

(Pointing to his mouth vigorously)

Sladkljwper adjfiowoy alksdfjlw!

GARY

What are you trying to say Adolf?

ADOLF

(Pointing even more vigorously.)

LDAJFLKJWI WALIWETP KAL, ALJDGOWQ!!

GARY

(After a long time, trying to figure it out.)

Are you trying to say you need to go to the dentist?

ADOLF

(mournfully)

AAAAAHHWOWOWO!!!!!

Yeah, imagine trying to be friends with someone who just howls like a depraved lunatic every third sentence. But in all actuality he really isn't that loud most of the time. Usually he just lies on his bed staring at the ceiling for hours, trying to suffocate himself by holding his breath. Like that's ever going to work. And I've tried to teach him English, but he has no zest for learning. I even went into his room one day while he was lying on his bed and tried to teach him with flashcards that had little pictures on them, "APPLE, Adolf...APPLE," and he just rolled over on his belly and lay with his face in his pillow.

I try to make him happy by dressing up in that little Oktoberfest outfit that I have and bringing him bratwursts and sauerkraut one to eleven times a day, but usually he just looks at them and sighs. I just don't understand why he is so negative. The only time he is even remotely fun is when he is drunk, which is almost always, and by remotely fun I mean he cries a lot.

So yeah. If you think that I am not fun, well I should introduce you to ADOLF. Today we are going to Six Flags. You can expect Adolf to get super drunk beforehand and belligerently knock some little kid's ice cream cone on the ground. And we will be asked to leave before he even has a chance to throw up in the line waiting for the roller coaster.

Hello? Are any of you listening? Is anyone a fireman?

You'd think that in a place where arbitrary jets of fire spray from the walls without warning and where rivers of lava pour across the kitchen floor while you are making a sandwich, that the local fire department would at least have the common decency to take some responsibility and recharge some of the fire extinguishers around this place, since they don't bother to show up at my house most of the time. Which is constantly on fire.

Why does nobody answer my phone calls?

Do you people all have some sort of a problem with me? My whole house is burning down like every other day because it keeps sinking into various pockets of magma (yes, they appear underneath you at the most inopportune moments) and I called the fire department like five hundred times and they couldn't even be bothered to show up with their hoses and Dalmatians to save me!

"Well Gary, maybe if you didn't like your house constantly being on fire, you would've have had the foresight to NOT build your little housing development in the center of the earth," Chief Barry always tells me, as if I like living in the center of the earth or something.

Well Chief Barry, who do you think I am? An engineer or a city planner or whatever? Where do you get off? It's like the economy is so bad I don't know where people expect me to live anyways. Up with Jees and the gang? No way am I cool enough to hang out with them, much less live with them.

If you have a job, DO IT!

Cramping My Style

Yeah, I am not going dance around the subject here, St. Peter is always seriously cramping my style. He is like what happens when your style eats too many PB&J's right before it gets in a swimming pool.

For those who don't know who St. Pete is, he is this old guy who sits in a dingy little toll booth at the intersection between Heaven and Hell and sends people one direction or another. Now understand that though it seems like everyone has a fifty-fifty shot at going one way or another, that this is a lie. A ruse, if you will, carried through by St. Pete, but concocted by none other than the big man in a big robe and big sandals himself, Jesus, (don't even get me started on him) who thinks he is some sort of big shot and acts like he is your friend but then makes some lame excuse every time you want to hang out (when are we gonna hang out Jees? I called and left a bunch of messages on your machine but you must be busy again. Sorry.)

In short, St. Peter caught some sort of shady deal or bribe from Jesus sometime whenever and now he sends all of the awesome people to heaven, which is most people, and then he sends the people who are complete bummers down to hell, which is like twenty "other" people, all of whom have psychotic issues. And I have to hang out with them. I try to be nice. I guess I sort of understand that it is much more "fun" to live in cloud palace or whatever than in a stuffy cave with no lights, but whatever, it's still not fair. I heard Heaven installed a bowling alley, so I installed a cosmic bowling alley. That's just the kind of guy that I am.

And it's like I can't even catch five minutes of Gossip Girl without Adolf bursting in screaming about whatever and then vomiting the nice lunch I made him into some flowerpot, or having Saddam try and give me Indian burns while I am quietly knitting him a scarf. Think about trying to organize an intramural basketball team with these people. They are the worst, all of the time.

And I blame Jesus. Indirectly, through St. Peter, because I want to be invited to the Christmas Party. Sorry.

HELLO, MY NAME IS GARY

Hello, my name is Gary...Gary Satan. Today, I decided to make a weblog, mostly because I am bored and mostly because I am not boring and I have a lot to say. And hopefully I can get some digits and make some friends because all of my friends suck. Now, before you ask me a whole bunch of asinine questions that will make us both really uncomfortable, let me make some things clear. First of all, yes, I am "that Satan guy who lives in that cave in the center of the earth." It's hot and boring. Second of all, no, I don't torture people for fun, because that is also boring, trust me, been there, done that. And don't make that joke about "Gary, you're torturing us with another blog," because no, that joke isn't funny anymore, nor was it ever funny. And lastly, yes, I have friends. Clear? Crystal.

I am seriously a really cool, not boring guy, who likes to party.

Here is a picture of me on spring break in Cancun in 2006. Adolf accidentally turned on the camera's "mosaic" function, and that's why I look like such a dumbass. He had like fifty margaritas (not really), like usual, and he doesn't speak English, he just pushes buttons wherever they can be pushed and expects people to understand his feelings as he vomits them out in German or whatever he speaks, figuratively, and literally in this case (in most cases, actually). I couldn't explain it to him. I was drunk too, and I have no idea how to work the camera, and that's why I am so not photogenic. See, but I'm fun. Adolf is not fun, but you can't choose your friends I guess. At least that's what St. Pete keeps telling me.

Apparently St. Pete gets to choose who my friends are. That's why all of my friends are balls.

So yeah. Welcome to the party. The Gary party.