superangrymonkey

Well it officially happened, I am now a pretentious blogger. Why do you say that you ask? Surely sharing all of these intimate details about the trials and tribulations of my less than moral and far less than decent life would have knocked me directly from pretentiousness the moment I allowed myself to type one word but alas, the word is there. I noticed this disturbing trend when I was trying to think of something to blog about. Typically the process of writing a blog, at least for me, entails of about five seconds to actually think of the idea followed by another ten minutes or so of producing and hammering words into shape to produce a desired effect from my audience. As someone who’d like to think of himself as a good writer I try my best to make these things as palatable as possible in my own tongue-in-cheek way. Here’s the problem.

For a week now I have been trying to think of something, anything to write a blog about. I have had a lot of interesting things happen to me in my life and I have been systematically, one by one saying that I can’t blog about those things because they aren’t interesting enough. Never before in my life have I ever been concerned with what entertainment value people derive from anything that I have written and I am ashamed to admit that when I think about things now I am seeing them in a more serious way. What happens when you begin to take the absence of seriousness serious? Is it time to quit?

Maybe I should go back to the old writing process, the one I used when thinking of video ideas and stuff to put here. (it involved a loooooot of alcohol) I thought if I conceded that I am acting like a pretentious douche that the block or whatever the fuck is going on in here would evaporate but even looking at this now I think that I could have written this little diatribe better? How the fuck could it possibly be better? It isn’t trying to be anything but a rant against myself and I am honestly trying to rework it into some kind of literary masterpiece to entertain a bunch of mouth-breathers? What the fuck is wrong with me?

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I got invited to go to an SCA event once. Now for those of you who have proper functioning social skills the SCA stands for the Society for Creative Anachronism. Now this archaic name not withstanding what this actually amounts to is that there are people who think its the fucking Renaissance festival all year.

They spend a lot of money on medieval style clothes and armor, and weapons and go to events with other like-minded fuck tards where they get shitty drunk nail ugly and easy girls and basically try to pretend that doing this as a hobby is somewhat cool. Did I mention that they also recreate medieval style combat? Yeah these morons think it is awesome to spend a coupe of hundred dollars on medieval style armor and sticks and beat the living hell out of each other.

They claim that it is a legitimate martial art, sword and shield fighting but I fail to see how it applies to the world we are in now seeing as we invented guns and they totally fucking trumped plate mail. The reason that I got invited to this thing was that a woman who was very nice to me wanted me to spy on a guy who had fucked her a couple of times and did a very god job of making me feel like I owed her. I agreed but I did say that if they made me wear pantaloons I was gonna have to go home. I didn’t have a choice and I had to wear pantaloons anyway.

After a six hour drive from Oklahoma to the middle of toothless country Texas, yeah I was still in the Army at the time we got to where they were holding this impromptu event. It wasn’t an official SCA event but they still charged money to get in. Funny how that works out right? The next thing we did was set up the tend and a woman let me borrow a costume.

I had no choice I was forced to pay money to get to go sit in a field, living in a tent in medieval clothing. The guy, we’ll call him Mike, who the woman convinced to go along with me and help me spy on this other guy thought that this place was the absolute coolest thing that ever happened ever and I heartily disagreed. There was one girl who was moderately cute there and not married to I did my absolute best to make the absolute best of a bad situation by trying to get my dick wet with her. I failed miserably because even though she was in a fucking girdle her tits were strictly off limits to someone who wasn’t going to court her like it was 1,099

Sorry, not I. I did win a prize, well two of them actually one for telling a good story which I have always been good at and one for being a guest. I didn’t score with the hot girl but I did get a hand job from a very ugly girl in the woods which I guess is better than nothing. After we got back to Oklahoma the guy I went with, Mike said that we should buy a couple of suits of armor and really get into it, go to the big events at the Kingdoms and shit… yeah they have kingdoms. I politely declined… well maybe not so politely but still. The SCA is bullshit

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I got thrust into a political discussion the other day which has annoyed me now for the last several months. That might come as a shock to some of you but I had an epiphany even before I stopped making videos about the nature of political debate. First of all, everyone knows what i think about every conceivable topic. There is no need for me to keep repeating myself over and over again about everything that I think about politics because all of it eventually turns into repeating myself eventually. Sure there are a lot of people out there who get ff on repeating their opinions over and over again but I’m not one of them.

The second reason is the practicality of having a political discussion at all. Sure you can argue with someone’s politics but the chances of it actually meaning anything and you not just be preaching to the choir of people who already agree with you are slim to none, by my reckoning about equal to the odds of me getting a blow job from Pam Anderson. Meaning that it is technically possible but not likely and even if I could is it worth the Hepatitis? I submit that it is not. Well the facts are the facts and when it all boils down to it I am just burned out on politics there are too many people out there that think too strongly of their own opinions to effectively change anyone’s mind so I leave politics to those fools, they do a better job making fun of politicians than I ever could just by supporting them. Anyway, back to the story.

There was this old redneck at the store I was at and he was looking at the tabloids and cursing Obama. I can get down with a little bit of cursing Obama but if you are using the supermarket tabloids as your source of news then you are frankly wronger than two boys naked in the woods with a bucket of grease. Then he says to his friend, another old redneck who had gotten involved in the discussion that we would have been so much better off with John McCain. To my credit I did an amazing job of holding back my spite and my psychological compulsion to rub people’s noses in their faulty opinions but the challenge proved too much for me. “John McCain was a scumbag just as much as Obama they were virtually indistinguishable.” “At least McCain supported small business.” He did what now? He married a rich bitch after leaving his handicapped wife. Is that support of small business or is that an accurate portrayal of his character? I shut up.

I did, I did great I just shut my mouth and turned around “I bet you were one of those Democrats.” ARGRGGHGH I cried out loud without realizing I did and the people around me stared for a moment. I lunged at the guy and bashed his feeble old skull with a frozen sausage and I choked him to death with a candy bar. I lie, but it would have been orgasmic

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Once upon a time there was a boy named Timmy. Timmy was a special boy from the moment he was born.

The doctors blamed Timmy’s gift on all of the chemicals she’d illegally injested during her pregnancy but it was apparent to anyone really in the know that Timmy was a godsend.

By the time he was 12 Timmy had grown to over eight feet in height and had a full beard and a gigantic Ogre head. He was also about as smart as a turnip and had a face only a mother could love.

She did seem to love it, with hammers, and pans, and Timmy could even hear the love in her voice when she’d lock him in the shed for days on end.

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When he became an adult he tried out to be the new Conan

But even a sock wasn’t enough to make Timmy’s unimpressive manhood appear intimidating or barbaric so he was shown the door

Timmy found no relief for a long time, after years of being treated like a freak he decided to end it all

Just then a blind woman offered him a job watching her children and although she insisted on calling him Rita Timmy was happy he found a good job. And when one of the kids got lippy Timmy got to eat them.

The end.

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