What a silly question Plinky. I has no angel on mein shoulder. I flicked that twat off years ago. It's just me and Satan. You see Satan lets me do naughty things like stay up late and eat junk food. The angel on my shoulder wanted me to go to bed at 8 o'clock and eat salads.

Satan also lets me do things like punch the handicapped, molest Barbara Walters, say the word "cunt," set fire to the homeless, kidnap drunk people at bars and drop them off at other people's homes and convince them its their house and they lost the key, and call in death threats to the U.N. and mean them.

But most importantly Satan hugs me. Which is more than I can say for any of you wankers.

I just want to be loved.

I'm quite unsure about the people who owned the house before I did. Ever since moving in, my family and I have stumbled across many small bones in the back and front yard.

We have a literall shit ton of animals, so its entirely possible that the bones belong to them, but a few years ago my sister stumbled upon something more.

With very little digging, she found what can only be described as a booted foot and leg shaped rock. The texture, the look, and the shape of this rock was incredibly unnatural. To this day I refuse to dig in my own yard.

I saw the Buffalo Bills (!) beat the dog shit out of the Miami Dolphins (FUCKIN BOOOOOO!) But I almost didn't. Three times,

The story goes like this. I was part of a large group that all bought tickets and would be taking charter busses to the game. Right on time at 10 A.M. the busses arrived. Every single one of em. Except mine. No big deal. Couldn't be that long right?

2 hours later...

SONOFABITCH!

Throughout that two hour span of homicidal rage and attempted voodoo, many calls were made to the driver. No matter how many times we called, or how long a space rested between those calls, he always claimed to be on the same street two blocks away.

Then the words were spoken that sent chills down our spine and confirmed our worst fears. "He doesn't speak very good English."

SONOFABITCH!

Finally he arrives smelling of sweat and failure. He indeed spoke no form of English I ever heard and his accent could be only that of a small tribe of as of yet undiscovered retards living atop a nuclear power plant.

So with very little hope of ever making it to the game we all boarded our foreign smelling charter bus and took our seats. One of our number asked the driver if he knew where he was going and received a positive sounding chittering in response.

SONOFABITCH!

For a while everything went smoothly. We sat around enjoying beverages and snacks, laughing and abusing our failure of a bus driver. It was good times. Then someone looked out the wind shield. "Um, we're going to Disney Land!"

Silence. The kind of silence that makes you confess to shit no one asked about. I stifled my urge to confess to staring up one of the girl's skirts earlier and looked up at the sign we were heading for. An arrow pointing down our path said "Orlando."

Someone rushed forward to tell the driver of this mistake. I wish he hadn't. Suddenly the driver jerked the wheel to the right. The bus lunged forward and sideways at the same time and threatened to kill God knows how many other drivers as it made its way to the proper exit. Which just so happened to wind around a large lake. That the bus driver just so happened to get inches from. Inches we just so happened not to be able to see, because the turn was on an incline, and the bus was now tipping over water.

SON OF A BITCH!!!!!!!!

We made it to the game without any more adventures that I can recall. I can't be sure because alot of that day has been manually removed from my brain with a spoon I fashioned out of a big stick.

We do NOT use rule 1 and 2 to make Fight Club jokes.

All who wish to enter must touch me. You know where.
Why is this a rule? Really?

All bunnies must be subjected to inspection and questioning to prove their non ninja status.
This ensures Jess doesn't try to overthrow me with her team of fucking teenage mutant ninja rabbits.

No Xboxs or other Micro$oft bullshit shall enter the hallowed grounds of my fort.
Saying the word xbox or microsoft without immediately following with a joke about how shitty it/they is/are is punishable by lethal kick to the genitals with my fist.

Anyone not dressed in sexy fantasy attire is to be escorted off the premesis. All sexy like.
the TITS or G.T.F.O. clause.

Anyone caught planning or attempting to bring sexy back will be shot on site.
You've been warned.

Health care is fucking nationalized. Go nuts.
Because I'm better than America.

He was an amazing lay.
Because I am

Fred Durst is a fag.
Because he is.

Special K all the way. I have no idea why its so good. It has no real flavor. its just flakey... things. But I'm obsessed with it. I eat it all the time.

Bother by Stone Sour

You might not be able to tell from looking at me, but I LOVE food. More specifically, I love unhealthy food. The more likely it is the kill me, the more delicious it is. So naturally, every fourth of July, I spit in death's face and taunt him with a mouth full of meat. ...no homo.

Luckily I have a friend, who while a complete dick, has a father who is a wonderful and generous man. Who can cook like a muh fucker. Every year he makes Hot dogs and cheese burgers and even sometimes orders party subs from Publix. But the best part is he does this in a quantity that can only be described as "Fuck you starving countries!"

So every year I throw caution to the wind and eat, and eat, and eat, and light some fireworks with a butane torch, and eat and eat and eat. I eat so much that I have chest pain for the next two weeks and live in constant fear of a heart attack. I eat so much that breathing makes me tired.

It's like a patriotic race to the death. What will kill me first? Copious amounts of beef... no homo... or a rogue mortar to the face.

Either way, I'm going out in a glorious explosion of meat.

...

No homo.

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It gets me excited. My first thought is always the same. "Please be Jess! Please be Jess telling me its coffee time cuz I'd really like some GOD DAMN COFFEE YOU FUCKING RABBIT TRAINER WITH YOUR FANCY TRICK PERFORMING BUNNY AND YOUR ACCESS TO EXPENSIVE COFFEES...AND A CAR! I HAVE A FUCKING TRICK FOR YOUR RABBIT...HOW ABOUT IT FETCHES ME SOME GOD DAMNED COFFEE!... And maybe run the obstacle course I made for my guinea pig a few years back...

(I'm only kidding. I love that amazing little rabbit)

White Chocolate...mocha...latte...whipped cream... chocolate drizzly...thing
This is where I start pointing more vigorously and desperately at the menu, to the amusement of the unfairly attractive woman at starbucks who just smiles at me pityingly as if to say "Aww.. you don't know what any of that shit means do you?"

I don't.

Also, for anyone who didn't know, unfairly attractive women make me forget what words are used for.

Fingering, tonguing, push out, pull in.
They're not dirty. I'm just a band geek.

Greatest band moment ever: Freshman year of highschool band, and I was unaccustomed to the fast bass parts that were required of me and my trusty tuba. I signed up for tutoring and a week later I was on my way to meet my tutor.

Again, I play tuba. I was expecting a big, hairy dude who would screw around all day, condemning me to a lifetime of subpar playing. What I got instead was the sexiest thing to ever pick up a tuba. (Besides me)

It was already a disaster of a practice section because she liked to stand right up close to hear the notes which meant her, lets be honest, too good to be true breasts were in my friggin face. (Side story: one time, a breast was just out of reach of my fingers on the buttons. Holy crap that was a great practice)

Anyway, I finally mastered the high notes required for a certain peace of music, so now it was on to the rhythm and speed portion. they were 16th notes, which I've always had problems with.

I couldn't play fast enough. I'll never forget the way she said "Tongue faster" I choked, lost grip on the tuba, and it came down, the bell cracking me over the head.

I didn't learn jack shit with her.