MAN, is it LATE

So here I sit, late at night (late-ish ... I am sure some people are gonna be up later than me, but those people are not typically the sort of people I would like to associate with ... ahhhhhh who am I kidding ... look, call me, I'm great at parties ... ), staring at my monitor, wondering what the fuck I should do. What I am doing. What is worth doing.

But before I go off on an existential diatribe of Ethan Hawke-ian proportions, lemme just say this.

If you are a mouth-breather, don't go out in public. I shit you not. If you breath out of your mouth, and it sounds like you've got marbles in your lungs, and you put ten packets of sugar into a small cup of coffee, you have got way more important things to do. See your cardiologist (is that a real word) and for fuck's sake, get your deviated septum looked at by Dr Nick. Don't creep the bald guy standing next to you out so bad that you follow him home inside his head.

Girls under the age of nineteen. Whatever the fuck it is you are wearing, it's not decent. You'd make Caligula blush and have a lie down. To the girl who showed me and my buddy (doesn't matter we weren't at your table, you were at the table next to us) her bra and panties (okay, she was showing her friend, but shit!), knock shit like that out. Sooner or later, someone's going to do something you don't like. At least, I hope you don't like it. If you do, well, call me. I hate to say crap like in 'my day' and 'this isn't the way it used to be', but dammit. There are all kinds of problems with the way you all dress, most of them stemming from the fact that, although literate and educated, I still find potty jokes hilarious and will stare until I realize that the year of my birth, to you, makes me older than Moses. Judges probably won't allow my general attitude to be indicitave of my true mental age any more than I'd eat a bowl full of chicken gizzards.

To the pole lampreys on buses and skytrains. When the fucking bus driver tells you to move further into the back of the bus, it sure as shit doesn't mean lock yourself onto the pole like it's your lifeline. It means move on down the fucking line. If you don't move, if you persist on pretending that the driver is talking to everyone else but you, the next time you want to get on the bus, I will personally ensure that every motherfucker on the bus stands up and blocks the way. Also, if you have to run for the bus, I will drop the driver a fifty to stop just long enough for you to think you've got hope, then have him speed away. When this happens, I laugh and laugh, because it never happens to me.

To the people who don't make eye contact, I gotta ask, what the fuck is the problem? Does everyone have something to hide? Sure, eyes and windows and souls and all that fucking whacked out whoohaa, but still. I have got some personally deep and bizarre shit I keep locked behind the walls in my noggin, and yet I still believe in making eye contact. This is not aggressive, or belligerent, or Tim Bundy-like. If I wanted to kill you or beat you over the head and steal your woman I would do it the proper way; I'd buy you a bunch of drinks, wait until you're puking in the toilet, and drown you in your own vomit. Now, maybe because I'm a big guy people find it disconcerting. Maybe.

To ATI. Fuck you. Simply and honestly, fuck you blind, blue and sideways. Find a serrated edge and make yourselves new holes, and fuck those too. Your graphics cards are shit, not the good kind of sheeyit, but the bad kind, the baby poo kind. Dear readers, you might find this language worrisome, but if you'd spent close to a thousand dollars over five years on their merchandise, you'd be kind of pissed to. It's not like I'm using my computer to model reality here. I'm just blowing the shit out of zombies and crap like that. You are ON MY LIST. I had to rebuild my computer because of you, and soon enough I am going to start sending you encrypted snailmail messages. You better watch out.

As to what the hell am I supposed to be doing? Well, fuck that shit right now as well, because Evilmister is ON VACATION. I am only interested in finding some new hobbies because my best friend Chubbymonk pointed out to me that I might perhaps want to work on lowering my stress levels even further. He seems to think that I am on the edge, maybe, and that it's not a good edge. Think Sword of Damacles dangling from that fine thread and you get the picture.

Evilmister is tired now. He sleeps. Until tomorrow, when I am pretty sure that something else will piss me off.