A house means no longer having to hide excess animals that aren’t on the lease from maintenance-type officials, all like some cat-based Disney adaptation of The Diary of Anne Frank.
If a neighbor decides to have some sort of social gathering that’s based entirely around loud gossiping and chain-smoking directly outside my open window, I can have them arrested.
The view of a well-maintained school campus across the street beats the hell out of the current views of an electrical substation and shittier apartments than the one I live in.
Walking the dogs first thing in the morning when I really, really have to pee will no longer be extended by five to ten minutes so I can let the next-door neighbor pet the dogs, while he enjoys a relaxing smoke and a frosty brew. At five in the morning. In his underwear.
If I really have to pee while walking the dogs, I can just go on the side of the house, bitches.
If someone in their underwear is smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer directly in front of my front door at five in the morning, I’m pretty sure Oklahoma law allows me to shoot them at least twice.
Not sharing a wall with someone else means I no longer have to listen to their loud rap music, domestic disturbances, disturbing sex noises, or pet opossums trying to dig their way into my apartment. (I am serious, that is a thing that has happened.)
Not sharing a wall with someone else will allow me to listen to loud, pseudo-Satanic heavy metal without feeling guilty about it.
Living next door to a Pentecostal church will allow me to listen to loud, pseudo-Satanic heavy metal with a strong sense of pride.
If something breaks, I no longer have to wait two weeks for someone to come fix it, then another two weeks for them to come back and fix the actual thing that was broken, instead of the purely cosmetic thing they noticed while they were here to fix the real problem. Then another two weeks while they get in the parts they needed, which they probably could have just run to Home Depot or somewhere like that to pick up in ten minutes. Then, another two weeks after you have to remind them that the thing broke.Then another two weeks for them to come back and re-fix the broken thing that ended up even more broken by their half-assed repair job. Then, when it’s still broken, just giving up and taking cold showers or sleeping in the living room or brushing my teeth in the toilet or whatever.
By all means, not a complete list, but you get the picture.
"We're all gonna have so much fucking fun we'll need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles!"
Hi. Welcome. Hello. How’s it going? Good? Oh. Sorry to hear that. Anyway, this is TERRIBLE VIOLENCE, the future of the past of websites. It’s weird to be typing things to you, the internet, on an empty website with basically nothing on it yet, but it wasn’t always this way. Before there was TERRIBLE VIOLENCE, (and I don’t know why I keep typing it in all caps, but it just seems right to me, for some reason.) there was Web Surf Nicaragua, a huge waste of time where I dumped the things that were in my brain from 1998 to a month or so ago, until my old web host got all stupid on me. The whole story on what went down there is still up at the old Blogspot site, so I won’t bother going over it again, except to say that I no longer owe ChamberGates any money, so I no longer feel like not being a dick to them, and I’d just like to reiterate that their whole way of handling credit/debit cards is dangerously ghetto as hell, and you shouldn’t use them. And hell, now that I think about it, their rigged-ass system cost me something like $30 in late fees that wouldn’t have existed if their system had accepted my card (that worked everywhere else I used it) or if they had waited less than a month to tell me that it didn’t go through. But this is becoming an exercise in telling you things that you don’t care about, so I’ll shut up about it.
Anyway, since I really haven’t yet made the existence of the new site known to most of the eight or nine people who were into WSN, and since I haven’t yet started trickling the old material over here, if you’re reading this, you’re probably new people, at least to me. So just for the record, if there actually was anything here yet, it would probably be all over the place and not really follow any coherent theme. Past topics covered have ranged from dinosaurs to Robocop to how much I hate jazz and love Judas Priest to the terrible fate of the Chicago Bears. Light on the football lately, though, because that all goes on someone else’s site when I do that. But yeah. It’s a website of things I enjoy, and a website of things I could do without. Either way, it’s a website of things, and they rarely have anything to do with each other. Makes sense to me, at least.
So anyway, really quick, what’s happened since I last left you people?
Macho Man Randy Savage died. If it didn’t suck enough that another wrestler/chunk of my childhood was gone, it sucked that much more that the dude got struck down at a point where he was turning into one of the very, very few giant huge megastars of the steroids ‘n cocaine era of big time wrasslin’ to actually make it out okay, without being a sad, broken old man who just couldn’t give it up, like the Ric Flairs, Ultimate Warriors, and Hulk Hogans of the world. Bummer. Snappin’ mad Slim Jims for my dead homies.
Oprah Winfrey retired from her TV show, which was somehow considered a really big deal. Like I guess no one knows how to go on with their life now that they have to settle for an entire magazine and entire cable network dedicated to her. Like for real, I’m sure Oprah is a wonderful person who’s probably done some wonderful things for some wonderful people, but if I’m expected to shed the big tears because my Oprah access has been cut to only about 160 hours a week, seriously, fuck her. Fuck her to hell. Anyway, I think the only Oprah memory I have is from the 1990s at some point, when the dude who owned a bar back in one of my old hometowns got dragged out there so that the mom of a girl who got drunk-driven to death after a legal-aged dude bought her a bunch of drinks there could confront him, and that whole kind of deal. It was kind of amazing, because if you watched the show and didn’t know better, the guy who ran the place was a monster who sold alcohol to kids and the mom was a grieving mother who wanted justice. But with my mom close enough to the situation to actually know the people involved, the “mom” on the show was really only a mother in the biological sense, who didn’t raise and barely knew the girl involved, and was just there to look good for the lawsuit, which was apparently already in motion before the body was even cold. Never would have known any of that by watching the Oprah-ized version of the story, though. Magic of television, I suppose.
On a related note, my new thrash metal album, Fuck You to Hell, is set to be released on Megaforce Records like any day now.
One of the guys from Jackass who wasn’t Johnny Knoxville or Steve-O croaked himself (and a passenger) with a fast car and a bunch of liquor. The real tragedy of the story, though, was the way that the internet in general absolutely freaked out in some sort of insane grief-storm over this happening, as though he had been some sort of super-important voice of a generation and a leader of Real Change We Can Believe In, and not just some guy who shoved things up his ass to make junior high kids giggle. I know, it’s a tragedy and all, but god damn, we are so doomed as a species.
OHHHHHHHHH GODDDD I WANT MY FOOOTBALLLL STUPID COLLECTIVE BARGAINING AGREEMENTS NOOOOOOOOOOOOO
English royalty types got married, and for a couple of weeks, it was the absolute biggest news story to end all news stories on Earth, despite the fact that no one actually cared. When I think about how much time, money, and real estate gets dedicated to something as pointless as a powerless, ceremonial monarchy that pretty much doesn’t actually do anything, it makes me wonder if that stereotypical PBS image of British people as being really sophisticated, proper, stiff people is all a sham and that if they’re not all just batshit insane underneath it all. I mean, you’d think that if they had any sense, they would have all grabbed some ass-whoopin’ sticks, jumped in some cars, and beaten all of those people half to death and tossed them out in the projects by now. (They do have projects over there, right? Also, at some point, someone needs to yell “ACE OF SPADES” while all of this is happening. I know that’s what I would yell.) Just to put this in perspective, it would be a lot like Americans putting a few tens of millions aside each year in the federal budget to keep the Kardashians in a literal castle and put Bruce Jenner’s rigor mortis face on all the currency. So at least the U.S. isn’t the only Land of the Doomed out there, I suppose.
That’s all that comes to mind as far as the world in general, or at least the parts that I remembered and/or had a semi-coherent thought about. As for my own local world, me and Sarah (For the uninitiated, my special lady sweetheart who must struggle against my increasingly apparent brain damage) are in the middle of a big move, I start a new job in a few weeks, and all of a sudden I’ve found myself with hella dogs surrounding me. I could go further into all that, but this is already too long and I don’t want to waste it all on super-condensed versions, when the more fully fleshed-out tales can be told later. But for a teaser, I electrocuted myself with a fish tank tonight, and have been having to bind my dog’s penis up in an Ace bandage lately. I’ll leave you with whatever twisted version of that image that your mind’s eye can come up with and say bye for now. So, bye for now.