The time I lost my way - by Chad Robuckle

I am a bitter, broken man.

I believe in nothing.

Hope. Love. The will to live. Foreign concepts, every one.

I would say that my only friend is myself, but I actually hate me more than you do.

It wasn't always like this, though.

Some people live their whole lives surrounding themselves with the idea that everything is great. Then one day, they wake up and they're 70 and they see it's all been one, big, cruel joke.

Life fucks you over and you don't even realize it. There's no single moment you can point to and say, "That's when it all went to shit."

But I can.

I attended Westbury Elementary School in Tuckertown, Connecticut from the time I was four until I was ten.

In third grade, my elderly teacher, Mrs. Tanzarian, had to leave for six months and we got a substitute we all called "Mrs. Wubble You", for reasons that are lost on me today. She used to give us candy if we got 5 gold stars on our homework and stuff. Nice lady.

Actually, I once got caught stealing homework candy from the bag she kept on her desk. Like all the monsters of the world, I was only following the lead of my friends. They had it all worked out: you went up, asked her a question, dropped your pencil into the bag "by accident" and when you took it out, you grabbed a piece of candy along with it. Brilliant, no?

So they pull this off without a hitch for weeks. At first, I can't get up the nerve to do it, but the sight of them stuffing their fat faces with candy was too much. So I whipped out my tiny, 8 year old testicles and strode up to the teacher's desk. First time, right off the line, I get busted.

"Chad, what are you doing?" she asked.

"Stealing candy. But Meredith and Rick were doing it too."

Let that be a lesson to you: I will sell you out in a heartbeat to save my own skin if you dare to make the mistake of trusting me.

Anyway, before the candy-stealing incident, me and "Mrs. Wubble You" were pretty tight. Until the big spelling test, that is.

I call it that to make it sound more dramatic, but really it was just a quiz. Every week, we were given 20 words in our book. We had to learn them and spell them correctly each Friday. Simple enough, right?

Well, apparently this book felt that the correct way to spell the singular form of the word "cookies" was "cooky".

What the fuck, right?

So even though I know that's how they spelt it in the book, I write the correct way of spelling it on my quiz. "Cookie"; for my developmentally disabled readers.

I get my quiz back and sure enough, it's marked wrong. I got a 95.

I march up to the front of the classroom and inform "Mrs. Wubble You" of her mistake.

Au contraire, punk, she told me, as she produced the book, backing up her original assertion that I had spelled the word incorrectly.

As I retrieved the dictionary, in an attempt to tell this bitch to shove her stupid book up her fat ass, she cut me off.

I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that the quiz was not a test of actual spelling ability, the quiz tested us on our ability to memorize what was in the book and then later recall those facts.

I shit you not.

To top it off, I think she tried to buy my silence with a piece of candy.

Nobody would back me up on this one. Not my classmates, not the principal, not even my own so-called "parents". God forbid anyone get political or the tiniest bit controversial and dare to question the mighty bureaucracy of the Tuckertown Public School System!

Is it any wonder I joined a gang shortly thereafter? When you've got nothing to believe in, what's to stop you from punching an old lady in the face "just for kicks"? Society? Morals? The Bible?

Please.

I do what I want. If I see something I want, I take it. If you bust me stealing candy these days, I won't punch you, I will shoot you in the face with a sawed-off shotgun.

One of my professors in college described me as "the personification of the unbridled id". Guess what happened to that fruitcake? That's right: shot in the face.

When my parents had their "tragic accident" at Legoland a few years ago, the lead detective on the case came to my apartment and brought up the fact that when they dragged the bodies from the bottom of Adventure Lagoon, there was significant evidence of cranial damage from what appeared to be a sawed-off 12 gauge. That was right before I shot him in the face.

So, to sum up: for all the teachers out there, molding these impressionable young minds, remember that seemingly innocent decisions to make your job a little easier may have far-reaching consequences.

And you may even wake up one morning in heaven because someone has snuck into your house and shot you in the face.

How Lucky lost his leg

Alot of people ask me how my roommate's dog, Lucky, lost his leg. I always tell them the same thing: Nobody knows because Lucky was a three-legged dog when Bordo got him from the pound and not a single person there knew anything about it.

But this is a lie.

I know Lucky's whole story because Lucky told me himself.

It's true. Some may say I'm a liar, some may say I was drunk and they would both be right, but what they don't realize is that a lie is nothing more than a truth that has gotten wasted on Jaegermeister and starts bragging about how hot those chicks it had sex with that it met last night at the strip club were.

Do you follow?

Good.

About four years ago, Lucky was on top of the world. His agent was in talks for him to replace Anthony Clark on "Yes, Dear", he was dating a great girl and he had four legs.

Then, everything went to shit.

CBS decided to scrap plans to air a two-part season finale in which Anthony Clark's character develops a nasty staph infection from a hang nail and dies, saying it was unnecessarily morbid and not in the tone of the show. Lucky and Susan Sarandon then decided to pull the plug on their 17 year relationship and go their separate ways.

Lucky made the rounds of the Hollywood party scene. He was on the cover of Us Weekly, dating a new starlet every week. He was hitting all the hot clubs and doing coke. His work suffered. He stopped getting callbacks. Then he stopped getting auditions.

Lucky's luck finally ran out one night when he got caught banging some dude's wife. He had always been a careful dog but now he had gotten sloppy. In the heat of their passion, they left the front door open and forgot to take down the sign on the lawn that says "I am cheating on my husband right now with a brown dog".

So this guy (who's a firefighter, no less), comes bounding up the steps, screaming that he's going to kill both of them. The chick manages to lock the door but now he's chopping it down with his firefighter axe, ala Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

Well Lucky's no dummy, he says a quick "goodbye/don't call me" and jumps out the window. The only problem is, his back, right paw got caught on the window sill.

So as the guy busts through the door, Lucky's dangling from the ledge, swinging around like crazy and practically rips his own leg off.

But then, right before the dude is about to grab him, Lucky breaks loose and falls down the side of the house, landing softly in a bush. As the guy hurls epithets at him from above, Lucky trots to the end of his yard, takes a dump right near the mailbox and is on his way.

As he's high-tailing it back to his place, vaguely aware that the guy is probably gonna get in his car and try and run him down, his super-sensitive sense of smell picks up the smell of smoke and burning children. He heads down a street he's never travelled before and sure enough, there is an orpahanage on fire.

All the poor, little orphans were screaming for help but of course, they didn't have any parents who loved them and would call 911 for them, so society left them to burn to their deaths.

Lucky felt this was unfair and sprang to the rescue, ignoring the flames and fearing not for his own safety, he ran into the orphanage and dragged those unloved little bastards out of there by the scruffs of their parent-less necks.

Only when he had brought the last one to safety and he had collapsed on the ground from exhaustion and smoke-inhalation did those show-boating firemen arrive.

Sure enough, there was the guy that Lucky had just been cuckolding. Well he sees Lucky and he doesn't care that he's a hero. He grabs Lucky's back, right leg and is just about to take a bite out of it, like it was a drumstick he had gotten at Disneyworld, when the other fire fighters pull him off.

"You can't do that, this dog saved all these orphans!" said the sergeant.

"This dog was just banging my wife!" replied the fireman.

"Oh get off your high-horse, Clemons," said one of the veterans of the force, "we've all had our dicks in your wife's vagina, she's a goddam whore!"

All the firefighters shook their heads in agreement and Clemons saw the error of his ways. He put Lucky down and shook his paw, telling him, "Any dog that can drag 15 worthless orphans from a burning building is fit to bang my wife anytime he wants."

All the firemen and onlookers burst into applause. Fortunately for Lucky, the local news crew caught the whole thing on tape and it was re-broadcast all around the world.

Lucky was flying high again. He was the toast of the nation and was soon making the scene at fashion shows in New York, Paris and Milan.

But just as it looked like things were going Lucky's way again, tragedy struck: Lucky was diagnosed with back, right leg cancer, which is cancer of the back, right leg.

As hard as he fought, through all the chemo, it looked like Lucky's luck was out of luck. His leg would have to be removed.

The night before the surgery, Lucky kneeled by the side of his bed and out of desperation, prayed to Satan that his leg would be spared.

When he awoke the next morning, Lucky felt like a brand new dog. The doctors were confounded. His cancer was gone. It was a miracle. It was only then that Lucky started to panic and realize what he had done.

To break his contract with the Dark Lord, Lucky purchased a band saw at Home Depot, keeping the receipt so that he could return it once he was done with it. He sawed off his own leg and since the Prince of Darkness hadn't really saved him from anything, the deal was off.

His options in Hollywood now limited by his handicap, Lucky did what all washed up losers do: he went on the Surreal Life Season 5. There he shared a house with the likes of Janice Dickinson, Omarosa, Balki and Jose Canseco's dog who introduced him to the homosexual lifestyle which he now enjoys.

If you are gay and you enjoy dogs who bark all the time for no reason and smell really bad and have terrible farts, perhaps you would be interested in making your own stories with Lucky. Mine is almost at its end as my roommate is about to leave for 48 days and I have a feeling there are some medical researchers out there who want to meet this dog.

I'm just joshin'!

The Assassination Factory

As I employ literary constructs in an effort to shape the Chad Robuckle mythology and build venture capital for my novel, one thing that comes up, over and over again in the focus groups is Chad's mother.

People want to know about her. What's her deal? Where was she when all this was going on? Is she hot?

I guess this is the same sort of fascination people have with Hitler's mother. They want to know what someone who has birthed pure evil is like. Are they evil themselves, raising their seed to be the same or is it rather a genetic anomaly, a force upon itself? You know, the usual "nature versus nurture" bullshit that is all the rage in the stand-up comedy clubs these days.

The truth is, I haven't really spoken of Chad's mother for two reasons:

First off, while in the greater sense, she played a very big role in shaping who Chad would become, she did so mostly by her absence. She carried him inside her for the standard 13 months, pooped him out and was gone, not to return for 27 years.

Secondly, it's actually a pretty sad story. We can all laugh at Chad's antics because he seems so incapable of feeling human emotion. But there's just something so universal and sorrowful about an unwanted child. I just didn't want people to empathize with him at all.

Not that you should feel sorry for him or refrain from passing judgment on him because it's "not all his fault". I think you will see that his path was indeed chosen by him through his free will.

But enough psycho-analyzing. "Why don't you tell the damn story, already and let us decide for ourselves, Eric?"

You're right, imaginary voices in my head. So without further ado, I give you "The Sheila Robuckle Story".

Sheila was a wealthy socialite who met Chad's father at a cotillion. Or maybe it was her coming out party, I don't really know/care.

Anyway, they met, fell in "love" and were married soon after.

It was the 70's and they were pretty heavy into the swinging thing. I know there was a lot of concern on Mr. Robuckle's part whether or not the child was his, though I am pretty sure all doubt of that has been erased in the time since then.

The Robuckles were also heavily into drinking and drugs. Now, before you get all uppity, remember, it was a different time. People didn't know about the dangers of smoking, drinking, doing drugs and getting triple-penetrated by a team of soccer players from Brazil while you were pregnant back then.

I'm not going to defend them and their actions, but I'm sure if you ask your parents, you probably rode around with your child seat facing forwards before you were 9 months old are something else on par with the mistakes the Robuckles made.

Sheesh, I keep getting off track here! Focus, Eric!

One night, the Robuckles are out partying, I believe this was close to the beginning of their fourth trimester, when Sheila decides it will be a "larf" to go and get a psychic to talk to the fetus.

Back in the 70's, that thing was all the rage and people actually believed in that crap, so Mr. Robuckle agreed. As soon as all the mescaline was gone, they take off in their dune buggy and drive around looking for an all-night psychic. Luckily for them, the party let out right around 11 am, so they didn't have too much trouble finding one.

The psychic is playing her hokey little game, dressed up like Stevie Nicks with the flowing scarves and all that. She takes Mrs. Robuckle's hand and starts her incantation in that "spooky voice" they all seem to use, when suddenly, she goes stiff as a board, her face gets as white as a sheet and she wets herself like some other cliche I'm too lazy to think up.

Mrs. Robuckle freaks out and tries to pull her hand away but this lady has a death grip on her. Mr. Robuckle tries to help out by smashing a chair over her head. Apparently, he thought if she was dead, she would release her hold on his wife, but no such luck. Even though she's bleeding from her ears and mouth, she won't let go.

Finally, she starts speaking, no longer in the sing-song Scooby Doo villain voice we're all used to. This is deep, low and robotic. The voice tells them that they will give birth to a son and the son will bring darkness upon the world. He will signal the coming of the anti-Christ and herald the arrival of the Four Horsemen.

Well, the Robuckles were pretty freaked out. Even for them, that was some pretty fucked up shit.

The lady comes out of her trance, lets go of Mrs. Robuckles hand and collapses onto her chair. She has no idea what has happened and can't understand why her head hurts so much.

Being a man of action, Mr. Robuckle throws a twenty at her, grabs his wife and they get the hell out of there.

Well the whole drive home, Mrs. Robuckle can't stop talking about what she just saw. Mr. Robuckle, on the other hand, just wants to forget the whole thing. He tells his wife that it's all just a big act to spook people and she needs to shut the hell up and give him another beer as he's almost done with this one.

Well, Mrs. Robuckle isn't so easily swayed and behind her husband's back, she seeks out members of the clergy and other spiritual leaders, asking for them to consult her on what she should do about her demon child.

Most of them laugh it off but a few take her seriously and realize that if she's been carrying a baby for 11 months who isn't dead from all the harmful chemicals and strange penises she's put in her body, their might be some validity to her claims.

Now, they're in quite the conundrum because they know what the answer is, but they have to weigh the good of the world against the teachings of their faith.

Finally, a rabbi of all people, tells her flat out that she needs to abort that thing, ASAP.

I'm not going to get too graphic here, let's just leave it at this: she tries and nothing works.

And I mean NOTHING.

So despite the best efforts of 19 different abortion doctors, six dentists and 3 demolition derby drivers, Chad Robuckle is born into the world and his mother splits from his life, soon thereafter.

For 27 years, Chad is raised by his father and his ever-changing roster of girlfriends, nannies, butlers and street-wise prostitutes that he befriends while skipping school. And I think we all know how that went.

Fast forward to a few years ago, Chad is at one of his lucrative speaking engagements, regaling the crowd of underclassmen at Vassar College with his famous "I hate Matlock" speech when a lone figure slips into the back of the auditorium. Nobody really noticed the middle-aged woman in her blood-red robes as she stood against the wall for a few minutes, before discreetly pulling out a high-powered rifle and doing the sign of the cross. Certainly, everyone was unaware as she softly incanted, "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti" and took aim at the stage.

What they definitely did notice was the gunshot blaring in their ears and echoing across the hall as Mrs. Robuckle missed her target by a good 15 feet, splattering the brains of Dean Oxham-Chipperly across the stage.

Panic ensued, but Chad was ready. Before she could get off a second shot, he had sprang forth from behind the podium, producing two Glock 9mm handguns from the inside pockets of his jacket.

As he ran towards her, shooting from both guns John Woo-style, he shouted at her, "You missed me, bitch, just like you did with that coat hanger!"

Unfortunately for those 14 or so audience members who lost their lives that day, while it looks cool in movies, shooting from both hands while running is not the most accurate way to take down a target.

People screamed as the Robuckles exchanged gunfire, Mrs. Robuckle getting off a few more shots, until she was out of ammunition.

At this point, Chad was a mere 3 feet from her, they were shooting at each other from behind the opposite sides of a chair.

Triumphant, Chad held his gun to her temple and locked eyes with the woman who had both given him life and tried to take it away so many, many times.

"You're out," he said.

"So are you," she replied.

He pulled the trigger and heard only a click. She was right. He was out of ammunition.

They stood there for a few seconds before the tears started to well up in her eyes and she began to smile.

In spite of himself, Chad couldn't help smiling too. He threw down his gun and they embraced, laughing heartily.

"How did you know?" he asked her.

"You're my son, you know you can always count on me!" she replied. They laughed some more at her joke which would have made even Michael Bay cringe.

"You mean you can count on me!" was his witty comeback.

More inane laughter.

It went on like this for another twenty minutes before the SWAT team arrived. Chad and his mother, now arm in arm, explained the situation to them.

"You see, officer," said Chad, "it's all been a big mix-up. One big mix-up." He looked fondly at his mother, "Surely you wouldn't take his mother away from a fella, now that he's just getting to know her?"

The officer thought it over. "No, I guess I wouldn't, young man. Gee whiz, I'd have to be some sort of monster to do that. Pack it up, boys, we're going home!"

And with that, it was over.

15 people lost their lives that day. 7 lived but will now be at least partially paralyzed from their wounds. This is what I mean, this asshole does what he wants and never has to face any sort of consequences! It's infuriating!

I'm a good person, I haven't killed a single person! But if I park my car for 63 minutes in a one hour parking zone, you can bet your ass I'm gonna get a ticket. And I will have to pay it, because my car isn't stolen and I have a license and insurance. UNLIKE CHAD.

Wait a minute, a baby! That's the cliche I was looking for. The psychic wet herself like a baby. God, it's so obvious. I'm sure I could have thought of it if I was Chad Robuckle. I'm sure I'd have a Pulitzer Prize by now, if I was him.

You know what? Fuck it, I'm done. Have a nice life.

What the hell are these people?

I'm serious, this isn't a joke. Are they black or white? Mixed?

The guy looks like a white guy with a really dark tan and the woman looks like she's a very light-skinned African-American woman.

I'm really confused.

This picture is of former Atlanta mayor Bill Campbell and his wife, Sharon. This is a story about how he got convicted of corruption or something, I don't care. I am just mystified about this picture.

Is this racist of me to ask? I feel like I maybe shouldn't be doing this, but I can't help myself.

I know we're all the same color on the inside and people aren't black or white, they're people, blah blah blah. But c'mon, look at that picture! I am totally at a loss. The guy looks like the white dad from that show Ice Cube did where the families switched races.

OK, they're black, right? No?

Seriously, this is not a bit, help me out.

A request

Hello everyone, Eric Filipkowski here.

I have been thinking about assembling my blogs into a "book" of some sorts, it's been on my mind for a while but recently I've been a little more pro-active about it.

At first, I was just going to take the short stories I've written and put them into a collection, but I think I would be doing a disservice to myself if I excluded the things about my real life and what I've gone through this past year or so.

It is really weird for me to read through all my old entries and have to re-live some of my recent experiences.

This is why I think the book should be about my journey as a person AND a writer. Because this isn't just a place I post stories I've written, this is a journal. This is a place where I come to share what's going on with me with the rest of the world. Or at least the people who read this.

And to those people, I really want to thank you. I think if you go back, you'll see this blog has definitely helped me through some very difficult things in my life.

I guess that's the appeal of it. You share with others and they relate to what is universal in all of us. Blah blah blah.

But seriously, I look back on where I've come from and it's kind of amazing. I'm sure lots of people go through changes like this all the time, but when it's sitting right there on a computer screen for you to see, documented through words, it's really cool to witness and this is what I'd like to share with people.

When I started writing in my blog, I was healthy and I had just started dating someone I thought I was in love with. I came to see that both of these weren't really true.

Even though I thought I was really happy, looking back now it certainly doesn't look like I was. My outlook on life was pretty negative. I think I had grown complacent.

I had my surgery and the long recovery period which gave me hours of time I had to fill without being able to do anything remotely physical.

This lead to me writing in my blog. What had been a practically abandoned webpage was soon updated on a daily basis. New characters were born and my mind took adventures my body was unable to.

Gumdrop streets with candy cane light posts opened up before me as I took a journey on a magic cupcake filled with dreams and frosting!

As my health improved, I wrote about my progress and my hopes for the future.

I talked about Harry Potter and Disneyworld and my imaginary friend who may or may not be a rapist.

I churned out story after story and got my confidence back as a writer. I moved from Los Angeles to Rhode Island to Florida and back to Los Angeles. A journey of nearly 1000 miles!

I have a very special friend and she believes that everything happens for a reason. I'm not sure if I believe this completely, but when I look back at who I was and who I am now, I am glad for what I've gone through. I'm glad for the friends I've made (or re-made), I'm glad for the change in my attitude. I am thankful for the chance to re-examine my life and the things that I value as important to me.

So as I try and piece together some sort of narrative for this book, I'm going to ask for your help.

First of all, do you think there would be any interest in a book like this?

Do you think I should stick with my fictional stories or try and combine them with my real-life blogs?

Which stories would you like to see?

On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is "Superman" and 10 is "Jesus", what score would you give me as a writer?

Thanks for all your help!

Stop taking down my videos, YouTube!

Let me start out by saying that I love YouTube.

If you've never been to youtube.com, you are missing out. They have taken video web hosting to a whole new level.

In the old days, getting video online was a laborious and expensive process and they have made it easy and free.

Now, kids across the country are posting their homemade videos and expressing themselves creatively. Instead of joining gangs, they are posting videos of themselves beating up people who aren't in the gangs they've joined. Instead of getting pregnant, they are posting videos of themselves getting pregnant. It is literally changing the way the world watches video entertainment.

And this isn't just bored kids. Bands have gotten signed by making videos and posting them on YouTube and just getting millions of people to watch. I'm sure someone's gonna get a film deal the same way (hopefully me).

But along with this wave of innovation, there are always the bottom-feeding degenerates who have to ruin the good time for everyone.

Copyright infringement, inappropriate content, racism and episodes of "Joey" are causing the watchdogs to take notice and try and pass legislation to put an end to all the fun.

We in the internet movie-making community need to police ourselves so someone else doesn't come along and do it for us.

I understand this. But who sets the standards of "good taste"?

Whoever he/she is, he's a fucking moron, because that's the only thing that could explain my videos getting taken down.

Imagine if you had a kid and you made a video of that kid taking his first steps and you put it up on YouTube cuz now your kid is older and it's just a really cute video.

Now imagine if YouTube took this video down and deleted your account because "somebody" had flagged it as inappropriate.

It would make you sick, right?

Your precious memories have been labeled as sick or disgusting by a complete stranger. Someone who doesn't know you and knows absolutely nothing about your life.

Now, if you will, imagine that instead of your child's first steps, it's actually your child's first time having sexual intercourse. You were lucky enough to be there to capture the magic as your 12-year old boy became a man with your 37 year old best friend and tennis partner.

You put the video up because you want to share it with your friends and family, not to mention anyone else in the world who appreciates beauty, but then one day you go to watch it and its gone. Not only that, you can't even log into your account because it's been deleted and you've got some investigator from the FBI knocking on your door.

Does that make any sense? Is it illegal to look at "child pornography" if you're the child in the pornography? Because I am. That's me in those videos having sex with my mom's friend while both my parents videotaped it.

Seriously, I think this brings up an interesting legal issue. Where is the "victim" if you're essentially victimizing yourself?

It was the greatest day of my life. Mrs. Johnston worked me over like no woman has ever done since. She literally ruined me for anyone else, she was that good.

Watching that video brings a tear to my eye. But my tears of happiness turn to tears of rage when I think about someone sitting there and judging me for aspiring to achieve what so many can only dream of.

So, in summation, I am against child pornography in all forms. I also feel global warming is bad too. Let me be clear about that. But I ask you: how can you molest yourself? That's only illegal in Alabama, I think. But unless someone invents a time machine, it's not even a possibility. And if someone does invent a time machine, I've got bigger plans than molesting my 12 year old former self.

I'm gonna go back and bet on sporting events that were huge upsets. That way, I'll get great odds on a sure thing and become rich and have my own casino.

cunt

If you've ever wanted to see me go off on a rant for really no valid reason and have me go totally apeshit, you're in luck.

Everyone else, go to hell.

So I'm trying to print out a fairly important set of files today, totaling about 30 pages. My printer doesn't work, I knew that. What I didn't know is that the 17 other printers in my house that belong to my roommate also don't work. At all.

So now I've gotta figure out some way to get my files somewhere else where I can print them out. Seems easy, right?

Long story short, it's not. They're in Final Draft, so it's not like I can just take them to anyone's computer and print them out like a text file. I have to convert them to a Word document. The problem with that is, they're scripts and scripts that are written in Final Draft don't always look great in Word but I was hoping this is one time that wouldn't be an issue.

It was. Or wasn't. I don't know which one. The one that means "they look like crap." That one.

I had to re-space everything and get it right in Word. Then, just to be sure everything would work right, I copied all the files (both Final Draft and Word) into my USB memory key AND burned them to a CD. I figured I would be set.

There is no one I know within a half-hour drive who works in an office who is either willing or able to print these out for me and plus, I figure, "well it can't be that much, I'll just go to Kinko's".

WRONG

The guy at Kinko's tells me it's $.49 cents a page to print them out from one of the Kinko's computers. If you're keeping track, that's 15 bucks. For 30 black and white pages that are probably costing them .0028 cents.

So I log onto their ancient Dell with the shit for brains asshole burnt out screen that makes you blind and my time is ticking away in the corner. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention it also costs $.25 per minute for the honor of using their 50 dollar computer from 1987 which conveniently takes forever to do anything. Odd that they would have a slow computer, don't they realize that's jacking up the price for people who are using their services?

Not only is this thing slow, but it's got a dirty roller ball mouse. It's 2006. There is no excuse for using a roller ball mouse. Digital mice can be had for 10 dollars. If you have a computer with a roller ball mouse and I catch you with that thing, I am going to take your whole computer, break it over your fucking head and then have sex with your wife. Then I will buy you a real mouse for the new computer you're going to have to buy which probably comes with one anyway, because, like I said, it's 2006.

So I'm trying to print this crap out as quickly as I can and the counter is ticking and I'm fast approaching the 10 dollar mark and I'm not even half done. So then this girl starts talking to me--

I can't stress this enough how much I hate fucking roller ball mice. Even when they're brand new, out of the box, they still suck. Having to use one of them makes my stomach muscles spasm. I feel like I'm going to throw up just thinking about it.

OK, so anyway, I finally get my shit printed out (20 bucks later and not even looking right but at this point I don't even care) and then I've gotta staple everything and stick it in the envelope. Of course, they don't have any pens there for you to use so I have to go and ask the Fed Ex guy for one. I tape everything up and get it ready to be shipped out via Fed Ex - Ha, yeah right! Like I'm going to spend 30 dollars to send something when the Post Office charges me 2 bucks. Keep dreaming, assholes.

So I'm in the car, I'm trying to calm down. The Post Office is probably 500 feet from Kinko's, but the way the intersection is set up, I have to go in the total opposite direction, down a backstreet and around to the other side. There are cars everywhere. It's 4 o'clock and I'm at Laurel Canyon and Ventura. It's basically a nightmare.

I finally get to the Post Office, which goes surprisingly well, but now it's time to leave and the parking lot is basically a parking lot (LOL!). I'm trying to leave but the street is so backed up, nobody can move. I'm sitting there, with 3 cars in front of me when I see her.

OK, GET READY.

She's waving at me frantically, "what could she want," I wonder? I roll down my window.

"You have to move your car! I can't get out of here!" Boy is she pissed. Well I better move my car so she can get out of here, seems reasonable enough--

Wait a minute! I'm trying to leave too (see diagram). I can't move, I'm blocked in. Why is she yelling at me?

OH YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT, CUZ SHE'S A STUPID FUCKING BITCH.

Imagine Elaine Boosler's uglier, fatter mother. Then cover her in feces. Punch her in the face til her bones turn to mush and then flip her over and start punching the other side. Rip off your own arm and then use it to--

OK, I'm calm. This doesn't affect me. I am above it all. You want to yell at people for no reason on a hot day when traffic is murder? That's your deal and if anyone out there believes in karma, it will come back and bite her in the ass sometime in the near future.

"You have to move your car! I can't get out of here!"

Oh, you're trying to get out of here? That's weird, cuz I was just sitting here admiring this parking lot. I had actually planned on staying there for the next six hours cuz I just love it so much. We're going to the same place idiot and neither of us can get there until the people in front of me move.

I mean, come on. I know I said I'm over this, but how fucking dumb can one person be?

OK, now here's the thing about the title. I know people don't like that word. I know it's "not cool" to say it. I thought about saying "c*nt" or "the C word" or something like that, but why?

She's a cunt. Plain and simple.

That's why words like that are invented. Yes, they get over-used, but sometimes they are appropriate.

I don't refer to all women this way, I don't really refer to any women this way because I'm not sure this beast was human.

Maybe I'm not seeing this from her side of things, maybe she was having a bad day (kinda like the one I was having), maybe she was about to shit herself because she's old and she forgot to put on her Depends that morning.

Not my problem.

In the general sense, she is an asshole. But in the specific sense, she is a cunt, because if she was a man, I would have gotten out and beat the shit out of her. Or more likely, she would have beaten the shit out of me, but whatever. It would be over. But because she's a woman, that's not tolerated in society. That's looked down upon. And bravo, says I!

But if you're going to play upon that, it makes you more than an asshole. If you think it's OK for you to go around being an asshole because you know there will be no serious repercussions because you're an old woman, that makes you a cunt.

I stand by my assertion and rest my case.

Jesus fucking Christ, I need a beer or some heroin or something.

I'm just joshin!