Dear Facebook Diary, 1/13/14

I was rather busy during what I hope to be my last Christmas break from college. As usual, I went to Denver for New Year’s and ate a fancy-schmancy meal at Parisi’s and got unclassy drunk off of classy Peanut Newer wine. Peanut wine is my favorite wine and the only white wines that I like are Peanut Gregario and Reading wine. Peanut wine tastes like dark roses and Reading wine tastes like Champion without bubbles, but it gives me the same horrible hangover.

I also babysat my almost 3-year-old nephew for a few days, and despite the time that he screamed in agony because I wouldn’t let him go outside in the snow wearing only his diaper, we mesh rather well. We played with his Aquanauts while watching scuba diving videos on the TV, we danced to the Techno Chicken on YouTube 4,050 times, I read Shel Silverstein poems to him, we took naps together, and I taught him the magical powers of making any food taste better just by putting peanut butter on it. I find it strange that Peanut Newer wine tastes nothing like peanut butter but I still appreciate both of them for their own unique qualities.

What made this New Year’s different was that it was the second year in a row in which I did not kiss a girl or a stuffed raccoon at midnight and it is the first time that I know of in which I do not have a New Year’s resolution. The no kissing thing is because all of the girls at Parisi’s were either married or thirteen and their parents were present, and the raccoon thing didn’t happen because I wasn’t in Nebraska. But I think I’m done with making official New Year’s resolutions. I am already in the process of losing weight and looking like Joseph Gordon-Levitt and because of that I am sleeping more and drinking less. So right fucking there I’m doing two good things at once without having to make some lame fucking cockamamie public resolution to do so. Also, fucking also, I am writing a hell of a lot more. I am not posting what I write on my Coxturbo thing because that isn’t the reason that I’m writing that shit.

            The shit that I am fucking writing right now is fucking children stories. Today I was awakened with a sore lower back and then a couple of spasms as I made my way to Heinz Catsup. Heinz Catsup is the name of my exercise bike and I ride her everyday now; the bike is a girl even though her parents gave her the name ‘Heinz’, I dunno. While riding Miss Catsup I decided that I would spend the day on my cheap Wal-Mart wannabe Lazy-Boy writing some children stories that I’ve had in my head for a few years and a couple that my brother and I talked about. I am almost done with one about a turtle born without a shell (and OMG the whole story rhymes!!) and then I will start on another one about a baby squirrel that hibernates with a family of beavers after his mother dies and when he wakes up he thinks he’s a beaver too. I watched the movie “My Girl” again and even though it fucked with my head and caused me to crucify toads on toothpicks in my backyard as a child due to my inability to cope with Macaulay’s death in the movie, I think that it’s appropriate to discuss death in a children’s story. I also have a story about two groups of Kindergartners waging a battle against each other because of their different beliefs of where the sand shovels came from, only to find out that all of the sand shovels on the playground were placed their by the same janitor (it’s religious. Get it?), and I have like five other kid’s stories in my mind too. I am reading “Finding Alaska” by John Green right now because I think either Cacey Anderson or Jody Milford left it in the Owl Cove of the Fine Arts Building and I snatched it, and the book as well as my natural gift with nephews is inspiring me to write some motherfucking children stories.

To get my creative juices flowing, I am also writing a guide and my opus about diet, exercise, the fun drugs and alcohol, weight lifting, supplements, steroids, vitamins, and anything else bodybuilding and fitness related now that I have given up on all that heavy ass weight and am living a life of cardio and abs and my currently invisible jawline.  I do plan on posting that on my Toxshurbo blog once, or if, I ever get around to finishing it. I think some people would find it very useful and pretty interesting to see how much science I have put into looking good. Did you know that there is an actual scientific study proving that women can lose a significant amount of body fat with nicotine and vodka but it has little to no effect on men? Did you know that vitamin E with tocotrienols is cheap and sold over the counter and I’ve been taking it for years because in pharmaceutical studies it is shown to have a greater effect on preventing hairloss than prescription Propecia does? Yeah, didn’t think so. Well I’m half-assedly writing a whole guide on that stuff whenever I feel like writing about that stuff, and you know, I really do think that a lot of people would benefit from it.

As far as my own getting super lean thing goes I weighed 187.2 pounds on December 11th and this morning I only weighed 177.6 pounds, and both of those measurements were recorded in the nude and without boners. That means that I have lost 36 pounds in only 2 weeks and that number is only going to climb, oh, I mean fall. According to the same scale my body fat is 9.4% but measuring your body fat with an electro-pulse thingy on a weight scale is usually way off, but I will still tell you that it is correct if you are in my apartment and actually looking at the screen stating that I have very low body fat for my age. Did I forget to iron the front of my shirt? Oh no, that’s just my abs.

I am just rambling on now, but today I noticed that I have an ever so slightly thinner face and it is a preview of the gorgeous jawline that is to come. And I am writing stories now with the intention of trying to publish and sell them now. Oh, oh, oh, I am writing a script too! A guy that I know in Denver made an okay movie with the dumbest fucking dialogue that I’ve ever read and he is now in LA with a manager and looking forward to getting paid to write and direct more shitty movies, and it has inspired me to also write a shitty movie with even more retarded dialogue and to make a living off of it. And I do hope to make it here in Nebraska because that is what Nebraska needs, and it will be way fucking cheaper to make it in Nebraska.

Okay. I’m tired now. I am going to bed.  And I just realized that the date 12/13/14 will happen this year. I plan on meeting the girl of my dreams and marrying her on that date. I have a big year ahead of me.

Operation Take Things Down a Snootch 12/11/13

Anyone that knows me personally knows that I am a barbarian of the gym that has attained the utmost of all hardcore physiques. Yesterday I blew a gasket in my left knee while pushing iron with the gumption of a God damn freight train and though the pain has died down from a roar to a rumble overnight, I’m still going to heed caution and stop pushing all that heavy ass weight.

So operation “Take Things Down a Snootch” has begun. Right now I weigh between 185 and 190, and I will not lift weights again until I am down between 160 and 165. I will continue to do a shitload of cardio and little exercise type stuff, but Bruce Lee mode is engaged.

I am naturally a little tiny guy with next to nil body fat. When I moved back here to Kearney in 2009 I only weighed around 150-ish or so because I got into running and cross fit, and my face was all skinny and my jawline was fucking immaculate and the bitches flocked and nibbled at my dingus like the salmon of Capistrano, but then the iron started calling me again and I beefed my muscle structure back up to its prime and all the bitches swam away. So now, now is the time that I reattain that sexy boy body with the abs, and the tight little buttocks, and that beautiful fucking jawline. That jawline, my God, that jawline.

(This is an unusually short post but this might become an ongoing updated thingy with pictures of my abs and maybe that fucking jawline, but I don’t know)

Dear Facebook Diary 8/2/13

Dear Facebook Diary,

Today was my birthday and I have no funny stories to tell. So instead I will spew out a few random beliefs that I personally hold and might be unpopular. I was going to crap out several of these opinions, but I am now realizing how agonizingly tired I am. Yeah, I just stopped typing for a minute and went into my kitchen and took two Benadryl. I might be sawing logs before I finish typing this nonsense.  

The first is a small one. I began the daylong celebration of my birth by doing something that I used to do on a regular basis but my life has gotten so wild and crazy that I have been unable to find the time to do it in over four years, and I haven’t missed it at all. I went to the dentist. For starters, I think that it is absolute bullshit that nearly everyone in America believes the lie that they must see the dentist every six months. And why do we have to see the dentist every six months? Because fucking dentists tell us that we do. That’s like buying a new car every two years because the car dealers tell us that we have to. Also, unless I am experiencing pain or I see something wrong in my mouth, I am supposed to believe the dentist when he says that I need to spend a few thousand dollars on fillings or some other weird procedure that he probably made up on the spot with little to no proof. Who knows, maybe dentists are really good at improvisation and they’re just winging it the whole time. They tell you something’s wrong, they pry your mouth open, then drill some holes, fill the holes with something, pull out some teeth, replace the teeth, and then charge you or your insurance dumb shit amounts of money for it. I’m just lying there with my mouth splayed open and full of mini mirrors and tubes and fluoride, and I am supposed to take the dentist’s word for it that there is something wrong in my mouth even though I’ve never noticed it before.  

Now one reason that I do need to get my teeth checked now and then is because my jaw was badly broken in 1999, and they used a now newly discovered steel and hybrid scientific fibers to reconstruct the lower half of my face. Although my jaw was broken in 1999, the metal that the scientists used to rebuild my mandible wasn’t even invented until 2006, and time travel won’t be invented until 2082. So either a specialized time traveling agent sent the metal back in time or maybe in the alternate universe where my jaw was improperly fixed for decades I dedicated my life to and eventually succeeded at inventing time travel for the soul purpose of sending this advanced metal back in time to save the dashing facial aesthetics of my younger self. So anyway, the dental assistant cleaned the stalagmites and barnacles from my teeth, the dentist looked at them, he told me that my teeth and gums were fine, and then he scolded me about how I need to come in every six months. Flippin’ shits, I think the health of your teeth has more to do with what you eat rather than how often you clean them. I’ve seen pictures in National Geographic of human skulls from people that lived thousands of years ago and although toothpaste and floss wasn’t invented or even considered as being needed back then, those ancient skulls still had their damn teeth. So there’s some bullshit and Tom Foolery going on in the dental industry because according to fossils, it may not even be needed. The only real evidence that dentists have to prove their worth is when Tom Hanks was reduced to knocking out his rotten tooth with a rock in the movie “Cast Away”. But even then, Tom Hanks managed to flourish on a tropical island for several years without the biannual checkups with a dentist.

Another one of my strange beliefs is that I do not believe that everyone has a one true love. I acquired this belief after having fallen into and out of love a few times, and seeing other people find their soul mate only to eventually ditch the bitch for a new supposed soul mate. Believing that there is that one special person in the world that is only meant for you, your counterpart, your soul mate, is bullshit. It is an almost religious like belief held amongst everyone that I know; even diehard atheists will hold this magical idea that there is this one special person that was born with the only purpose of hooking up with them forever. Lovey-dovey dating or married dick farts will tell me that I have this belief because I haven’t found my soul mate yet and I tell them that they are partially correct. Although I do not believe that there is a special one, I believe that there are special ones. There are certain people that mesh well with you and they are prime relationship material due to them having similar interests and beliefs, but it’s nothing mystical or heavenly. You are lucky to find one of these primary matches, and if you fall in love then it is something special, but if your soul mate should cheat on your or take a dirt nap before you do, you can still meet another soul mate. And if you are under the age of twenty-two and you genuinely believe that your are currently with your soul mate, then congratulations, but keep your eyes open while you kiss so you can spot that new love of your life because there’s a pretty good chance that your current fling isn’t going to last. Love is good for you and you shouldn’t save it while you go through the lifelong search for your imaginary soul mate. There are lots of people that share your same interests and these are the people that you should share your peen or vajeen with as well; marriage is also good for you but it is still optional. 

The hell with this shit, I’m going to bed now. I am combatting the rising heat crisis in my underground sweat lodge by leaving a few of the ground level windows completely open all day and night and I have fans strewed about in an organized fashion to create an inhaling and exhaling effect with my apartment playing the part of the lungs. The windows are large enough for any wild animal or moderately sized human being to crawl through, and although I am fearful of a cat or an opossum crawling in while I am asleep, I am also hoping for it. I would enjoy having the opportunity to break up this monotony of paying bills and buying material shit that I don’t even need and instead battling a beast that comes from a world of survival, a world where money and friendship have no value, a world of kill or be killed. My apartment now feels very outdoorsy and I enjoy the fresh airflow and the natural stink, but I fall asleep attentively listening for the pitter-patter of little feet scurrying through my dwelling, so I can jump out and terminate the vital processes of the four-footed foe that stepped into my fucking turf. I would smash the shit out of the little bastard with a dumbbell and then before he died I would skin him and slowly remove his entrails with a kitchen knife. Then I would place the mangled carrion upon the doorstep of the car seat sniffing mud flaps that live upstairs, using the blood and fluids of the carcass to draw a pentagram and the word ‘REDRUM’ on their door. And then I would return to my bedroom to fall asleep to the sounds of my own laughter.  

Dear Facebook Diary 6/26/13

I have reason to believe that the facial expressions an individual makes while undergoing strenuous exercise are the same facial expressions that they would make during intense sexual intercourse. This is just one of the reasons that I try to avoid working out with family members and male friends, but I will gladly pump iron with another if I feel that a fit little lady is interested in being my spotter while I flex my nuts or if money is involved. On the rare occasions that I leave my miniaturized home gym for the bro infested UNK gym that’s filled with rimjobbers curling in the squat rack and questions of how much do I bench, I spend more time staring at the lady lifters’ faces rather than their asses. I find it more arousing and creepier to study their facial contortions while they exercise to get an idea of how a gasm-spasm would affect them instead of ogling their asses with simple thoughts of “I gonna put my baby in dat”. Yesterday I watched of Asians squint and squawk as they did their reg presses and then warking runges across the gym, managing to get in everyone’s way. The gym is not the only place where I am able to see people flaunting their O-faces in public; I also get to see unintentional sexual shivers at my favorite place on Earth, Wal-Mart.

So the other night I went to Wal-Mart at around 10:30PM to buy some eggs, tonic water, and frozen vegetables, but I came home with sweet potatoes and a lawn chair instead. There is a surprising array of characters that can be seen shopping at a Nebraska Wal-Mart during the store’s late restocking hours. Between the heavyweights that are pushing loaded dollies and zombies pushing floor sweepers about the store, the college students that put off grocery shopping until they’re about to go to bed and realize that they have nothing to eat the next day, and the unmoving mouth breathers that I see in the bread isle leaning on their cart and gasping for air due to their physical exhaustion from blinking, Wal-Mart is like an all night sexual orgy where nobody takes their clothes off.  Labored grunts and panting echo throughout the mother-store due to the emptiness of the great fortress at night. These people are interesting, but there is another group of late night shoppers that I find mysterious. These are the shoppers that bring their young children to the store. I have no fucking understanding of this whatsoever because more often than not it is a couple with their adolescent or pre-adolescent children hobbling through Wal-Mart with a cart full of Mountain Dew and Pop-Tarts way past the time that a child of that age should be in bed. Christ alive, I especially see no reason why both of the parents have to be at the store with the kids at that time of night. Couldn’t one of the parents run to the store to buy their diabetes ammunition while the other one acts responsible by staying home to put the kids to bed?

So I’m looking at the frozen vegetables and decide that sweet potatoes sound more appealing. While spending 5 hours trying to get one of those little clear plastic baggies to open so I could fill it with nutrient dense sweet potatoes I think about how the shit kicking redneck fag-enablers that live upstairs are gone for the summer, so I should buy a lawn chair to sit on their stoop and sip some la-la when the weather’s nice. I spent another 5 hours searching every goddamn isle of Wal-Mart’s vast womb for lawn chairs before realizing that they are located in the effing Garden Center. So I went into the Carrot Cottage and grabbed a glorious metal and green plastic lawn chair that I believe had been hanging on the wall since 1986. I chose green because that is my favorite color and it was the only color that was left.

As I left the Flower Tower and walked past the diet pills and protein powders situated in front of the pharmacy, which is placed there as an island of hope for the gravity challenged customers and as a way for lord Wal-Mart to suck more money out of their candy bar funds after they purchase their insulin and adult diapers for their Olestra leaking anuses at the pharmacy. Drooling and gazing at the bottles of dietary miracles was a female ambulocetus and a calicothere bull with their two young offspring, a Caucasian male Pac-Man and a cross-eyed little girl that made Somalians look like fat asses. Normally I wouldn’t have said anything but the mom was looking at the Hydroxycut bullshit so I said, “Don’t waste your money, all of that stuff is a hoax.” The family circus act rotated their heads towards me to see me wearing my sleeveless workout shirt and my fucking creatine breathing bicep veins pumping with anticipation of curling anyone that questions my nutrition factoids and the look on their round ET shaped heads was one of belief, and trust.

“What should we buy then?” Garbled the motherload.

“None of that stuff. You’re better off buying coffee or green tea and replacing a meal with one of them. That way you get an energy boost while taking in less calories.” I replied while making my pecs dance and my eyebrows bounce.

“But I ain’t a be a done a drinkin’ no a coffay or a grain tay.” Said the 7-year-old boy that weighed more than a high schooler. Perhaps these children slept during school hours to receive the higher learning of Wal-Mart at night.

I looked at the family’s cart to see it overflowing with generic two liter bottles of Wal-Mart pop, TV dinners, and fucking chocolate chip Pop-Tarts. You have either hit the lowest point in your life or you need to get out of bed before noon if you fucking eat chocolate for breakfast. Besides, if you don’t like strawberry Pop-Tarts then you are what is wrong with this country.

Anyway, I looked at the little sugar filled moron and said, “Well if you switch out the regular pop for diet pop then you cut around 100 calories from each glass, and if you eat an apple or peanut butter on toast you’ll get a lot more out of breakfast and it’s just as easy to make.” I had reached a new lowly level of fitness nerd by touting this simple knowledge at a Wal-Mart late at night, but this information appeased the herd. They immediately turned away from the miracle bottles and began to walk with me towards the checkout lanes and the produce isle that is beyond them.

The female earthquake had a smile on her face and the lurching male stared off into space. Actually when I come to think of it, I believe the father had his eyes closed the entire time. And both the small moon and the gaunt little girl grabbed my lawn chair to help me carry it to the checkout lane. That is when I was forced to lay witness to the O-faces of two underage children.

This majestic green lawn chair weighed all of ten pounds, maybe less, and these two underage genetic mutations were struggling with all of their might to carry it. The fat kid’s stomach was jiggling beneath his Spiderman shirt and the cross-eyed girl’s eyes went straight as they both gritted their teeth and broke a sweat carrying this chair that weighed less than my paycheck, and then the momma manatee joined in to help. Her along with the two child sized boogers that fell out of her vagina were squinting and grimacing while fighting the gravitational field of this tiny fucking lawn chair. Due to my knowledge of the gasm-spasm face’s direct correlation to the excruciating labor face, I was forced to view an incestuous ménage a trois of orgasms as I walked to the checkout lane. Sexually speaking, neither the Mr. Cox that lives upstairs nor the Mr. Cox that lives downstairs was happy to see this, and all three of their eyes burned with displeasure. I grabbed the chair from them with one hand and said, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

I am still uneasy about the orgy that I witnessed at Wal-Mart. I am trying to avoid thinking about it too much because it was disgusting and if my mind finds some sort of a resolve to it then I might end up with some sort of weird sexual fetish that would make my mating ambitions even more bizarre and upsetting to others. So I am trying to forget this incident entirely.

Well, I am now sitting in my comfy green lawn chair sipping on some healthy Propel vitamin powder mixed with water and a hearty splash of Platinum Vodka.  And as far as that girl from Okcupid that was pulling on my heart strings goes, I spent an entire 2 minutes typing out this whole, “Hey how ya doin’? Welp, OK. Ya like my dick pic? Alright then, see ya later!” type of message and the heartless whore hasn’t even given me a response yet. Trifling cunt, I hope she dies of ass cancer.

Dear Facebook Diary 6/19/13

Dear Facebook Diary,

Talk about a shitty day. The stock market dropped 206 points, Tony Soprano died, obesity was officially labeled as being a disease, my back is hurting again and I’ve spent most of the day trapped in my crappy Wal-Mart wannabe Lazy Boy chair due to back spasms, I have been unable to exercise for over a week, and I am bored as all hell. I have spent the day raping random online contestants in Scrabble and playing other free online games, watching Internet movies on lobstertube, drinking three pots of coffee, consuming protein shakes and eating air-popped popcorn, reading the book “Think and Grow Rich”, and filling out a detailed profile of myself on Okcupid. Because nothing makes me think about love more than painful and sudden electric-like spasms coursing through my lower back which cause me to suddenly throw my laptop or cup of coffee across the room. I also told my landlord to do whatever he wanted with the air conditioning this summer as the conditioning command box is upstairs and I have no access to it and I figured that I would not be home for most of the summer; apparently his decision was to turn the air conditioner off.

I have joined and been banned from numerous dating websites. I was Tyrell Bogginz on, Omega_Jew_9000 on, Havin Bin Shavin on, Willow Ufgood on, I was Kellen Heller as well as Herp Derperson on a website for the mentally disabled called, and the list goes on. Apparently making fake profiles and leading people on is called “catfishing”, and I was unaware of this until fairly recent. I never used these phony profiles for financial gain or to do more than send stupid online messages. I just considered it a way to have fun while sitting on my ass and playing off of other peoples’ naïveté. However, I made a real profile on Okcupid as well as illustrating it with an actual picture of myself as opposed to finding a picture of a nerd or neckbeard on some random forum or That was a very important decision as I rarely post actual pictures of myself online and I have very few pictures of myself to begin with. I suppose it was because I browsed through some local ladies that had profiles on the website and I… I… I fell in love. I dare not say her name, as I do not wish to jinx the imaginary love connection between us, but when the cosmos aligned my index finger to clicking on her profile I viewed a beautiful photo of an athletic young woman within my age range that had given funny and nonsensical answers to all of the personality questions. Out of boredom, I answered 152 personality questions while polishing off another pot of coffee and after I had finished I found that my new online damsel and I had an 87% match! I quote the great John Beckwith when he stated that, “True love is the soul’s recognition of its counterpoint in another”, and it is exhilarating to know that I have found my counterpoint. Now I must muster up the seemingly insurmountable amount of courage that it will take to send her an online message or give her a ‘wink’ or ‘like’ or whatever the hell Okcupid uses to let someone know you’re digging what they’re laying down. What do I do? Do I write her a poem? Should I send her a picture of my penis? Should I ask her if she wants to meet for coffee or food?

Due to my poor standing with the universe, it’s most likely a fake profile or she is using a picture taken before her body lost its battle with the debilitating disease known as obesity. Besides, I rarely date and there’s little reason to break my dateless streak while living in Nebraska. Some have wondered if I have shunned the love of women but my love life is more akin to that of a hermit rather than a homo. Whatever, I’m going to sip on a toddy while showering my stinky body and then I’m gonna sweep this bitch off her feet with some sexy typing techniques. By the way, it is 84.6 degrees in my apartment right now and this red-hot online love is only going to make those numbers climb.

Dear Facebook Diary 6/14/13

I have a goal of one day working in the entertainment industry and technically my summer job has opened the door into the technical side of entertainment. As previously stated I am working for Suitable Sounds and Light Signals in Magnifico Isla this summer and it is wreaking havoc on my body. I actually enjoy physical labor as I am an enthusiastic meathead gym-jock, and I know that nothing can soften the hands and heart of a man faster than an easy paycheck, but I am getting pretty goddamn tired of spending 24 hours a day feeling as if my lower spine will snap by picking up my TV remote or pushing hard against a dry shit. The job pays okay and it has led me to being able to rub elbows with some moderately famous people, but the means to achieving a victory are as important as the victory itself. In other words, I am not sure if the juice is worth the squeeze.

It’s only a summer job and I have no real commitment to these people but I have this issue with loyalty whenever I take on a job. I was originally told that I would only work a concert every weekend or every other weekend, as well as loading and unloading the semi trailers before and after shows if I wanted some more money. However, it is quickly devolving into my working 8-16 hour shifts everyday for over a week at a time. I prevented this from happening to me this week by vomiting from either heat or exhaustion while at work the other day and now I am spending some time in Denver at my brother’s house until I feel like going back. Speaking of back, that is the real issue here. I royally deadlifted my lower back into oblivion three years ago, causing the dislocation of my L2 vertebrae and further fucked-up-ed-ness to the surrounding spine stuff. My doctor recommends my looking into having two of my vertebrae fused together and my chiropractor enjoys laying me on a table and escorting me through snap city every few weeks. Since my accident while trying to deadlift the Earth, I have managed to bring my body back to an outstanding example of how weight lifting and a consistent diet of protein and alcohol can raise the human body into the zenith of human physical capability and fitness. My boss at this job told me that I should stop working out in my free time so I would have more energy at work. He also said that he could run further than me despite the fact that he’s ten years older and smokes a pack of cigarettes or more everyday. I smiled but he wasn’t joking. Pffft, nigger please. I am by no means a speedy runner but I have the endurance of a nuclear submarine and this guys looks like he couldn’t outrun a dead animal.

That is the other thing about this fucking “part time” summer job. Other than about three people and the guys that run the place, I am working with people that have accepted their places at the absolute bottom of America’s social class system and they have no plans of ever leaving it. To me, a $500 check is not a pant-shitting amount of money. It’s enough to make me interested but in terms of spending it’s more like a weekend that got a little out of hand rather than a life changing amount of greenbacks. These other guys think that it’s enough to permanently sacrifice one’s body for and the only advice they have about me and my aching back is that I should “be a man and work through the pain”. There is a world of difference between living in the moment and living like there is no future, and these people tend to live the latter, which ultimately ends with them never creating any kind of a future for themselves. I have much more grit when it comes to getting what I want.

Okay, I’m done bitching for now. I am currently sitting in my brother’s guesthouse-turned-office in his backyard. My sister in law is working at the hospital and my nephew is inside with his nanny. My nephew, Liam, is two and a half years old and although I have not seen him since Easter he still remembers my name and worships the ground that I walk on. As soon as I arrived and exited the car yesterday he shouted “Luke!” and ran to me with his favorite book of cars and trucks. He then knelt before me with his head down, holding the book above his head in front of me as an offering of peace and his recognition of my powers. Then he grabbed my hand and showed me the lawnmower and I couldn’t really understand what he was saying. We’ve been playing cars and putting stickers on his little work desk as well as playing in the dirt and shit in the backyard. I tend to connect with kids because I made a conscious choice to never grow up while I was still immature enough to make those kinds of decisions. Everyone in my family is encouraging me to use my writing skills to make a living and I’m beginning to take it to heart. Writing and being a muscle bound fucking badass covered with cock veins and chock full of creatine are the only things that have ever stood out as natural talents to me. Oh, and being good with kids I suppose. Well anyway, my goal is to now exploit those talents to get me into the entertainment business or to just be my own boss. I will still graduate with a theatre degree from UNK, but not with the intentions of permanently working for someone else’s dream. My goal is to not be someone else’s bitch for a meager paycheck, but to become the man that my nephew thinks I am.

Dear Facebook Diary 6/6/13

This will be a very short entry as I am about to leave for Counsel Bluffs in 20 minutes to set up a Trace Adkins concert for tomorrow. I have permanently shoved off from my duty as Almirante of the Lucia y’ Javier Barbeque Armada and am currently spending my summer being employed at Confident Audibility and Illumination in Grand Island as a low-born minion, also known as a stagehand. This job pays fairly well but requires a ridiculous amount of physical labor and travelling. Although I am free from working the traditional Monday through Friday, nine to five schedule; I do work quite a bit and the work that I do is straight up prison level manual labor. I am also at the very bottom of the food chain in terms of status but the job has its perks.



            I spent this past weekend doing backstage grunt work for the Kings of the Mic tour in Council Bluffs and then the Black Crowes the next night. The first concert was a quartet of quadragenarians from the 90’s comprised of the African American rappers De La Soul, Ice Cube, Public Enemy, and LL Cool J while the crowd was comprised of every black stereotype known to America. A turbo-ghetto hoochie wearing a skintight full body $100 bill suit was pulled backstage and danced for me during the entire first show. I have never been to a rap concert before as I always believed that they would be a somewhat boring orgy of speaking ebonics and pick pocketing. However, I was wrong. Ice Cube and Public Enemy rocked the stage harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. I even fist bumped Ice Cube backstage and shook hands and said “hello” to Flavor Flav and Chuck D. Despite their Caucasian hating lyrics, Public Enemy were the nicest guys in the world.



            The Black Crowes rocked even harder. The crowd was larger despite the freezing ass rain and 30 mile per hour winds. I labeled most of their drum cases and shit for them because they were leaving for Europe the next day and wouldn’t have time to do it themselves, but the guys were still douche bags. I could care less how dickish any of the bands are because I still get to stay at the Marriot and eat catered meals all day. It’s nice.



What really sucks is that I lift weights often and it shows. So whenever it comes to lifting something heavy, everyone looks at me. I fucking hate that because I became a muscle wizard to get all the maidens and hat tips, not to break my back for chain smokers and a paycheck. My lower back is hurting again and if I blow it out then I’ll have to find a new job for the rest of the summer and I won’t be able to workout for another month or however long. So please pray for my lower back this weekend.

And don’t pay attention to the picture above this. It’s racist as all hell but I thought it was hilarious.


Dear Facebook Diary, 5/1/13

Now, I will say that it is much more satisfying to be the man that faces the storm of life and lives rather than being the man that stays on shore and merely exists. And in my most recent bout with the storm of life I found myself in the position of having to make a Matrix style trench coat out of a mix of neon pink and neon blue “urban zebra” patterned fabric for my final project in my costume tech class. Mind you that I am fucking awful at sewing and designing any sort of clothing that should ever be worn by anyone that isn’t homeless. I discovered my inability to sew during the early stages of this costume course but I was forced to repeatedly exploit my mental black hole of clothing knowledge to the point of feeling very discouraged. So for my final project, I decided to have fun with it but it ultimately blew up in my face just like everything else that I have touched with a thread and needle.


I purchased an entire bolt of neon blue fabric and my classmate Nathaniel bought the neon pink, as we planned to swap fabrics for different pieces of our matching Matrix coats. I was to be Morpheus and he would be Neo. I cut out the pattern pieces for my project a couple days earlier after I had completed the most gorgeous pink choo-choo train vest that looked as if it came from Pinocchio’s closet.


I entered the costume shop around 2:30PM on Monday and was in a fairly chipper mood. Nathaniel, Jackie, Gary, and Cristina were already in the shop working on different projects. I planned on being there until the wee hours of the night so I brought forty cups of Jell-O pudding snacks to maintain a cheerful and satiated atmosphere as well as score some brownie points with my more knowledgeable classmates that could help or perhaps be bribed into doing my project for me. I also went to Walmart and bought a can of $2.00 coffee and other supplies for the late night. The first hiccup in my chipper mood struck when I realized that I had cut out the wrong pieces in my neon blue urban zebra fabric and had cut so many pieces that I would have to go buy more fabric. I immediately drove back to Walmart and made the fashion decision to give my coat a more rural and rustic look by making it out of a John Deere pattern that was covered with pictures of tractors and combines. The action packed tractor fabric renewed my enthusiasm for making the Matrix coat.


I returned to the costume shop with my arms full of roaring tractor fabric and a face full of giggles. I proceeded to cut out my fabric pieces and this time everything went as planned and then it was time to face the sewing machine. Sewing machines fucking hate me and they are the most unreasonable machines that I have ever had to negotiate with. As I began my Matrix coat, Nathaniel was finishing his own vest; so in the act of constructing my half of the matching Matrix coats I had an early start. My sewing progress was slowed greatly by my constant need to repeatedly read through the directions that in my eyes appeared to be written in a kindergartner’s cursive. I sewed seams and removed seams until Nathaniel was completely caught up with me in his progress. It was at this point that I decided to say, “fuck the directions, I can make this shit on my own.” I placed pieces together where I saw fit and then I sewed them together and then surged them, and occasionally ironed them. Nathaniel, Jackie, Gary, Cristina, and I made funny jokes and laughed the night away until about 3:00AM, and then the room became filled with silence. All of us were miserably astonished by the fact that our projects were less than 50% completed at this point. Jackie was the first to break. She was toiling over her dress when she sewed the zipper to a boob cup and she suddenly fell to the floor in tears. Everyone tried to comfort her and tell her that she should get back into her chair and finish it, everyone except me. I was beginning to break and I wanted to witness someone else going through the same pain that I was suffering. While the others were comforting her I was throwing out comments like, “submit to your doubts”, “you are a failure at life and the sewing machine is the only one that sees it”, and “let the butthurt flow through you.” She regained her posture and the room once again took on an air of silent frustration.


It was around 4:30AM when I broke. I had made several mistakes but there was no specific mistake that caused me to breakdown; it was the simple fact that I was sewing a trench coat made from John Deere tractor material at 4:30AM on a Tuesday morning. I threw my 35% completed coat across the room and began to call tractors “niggers” and combines “spics”. At one point I called John Deere himself a “bottom-feeding faggot”. I heaved these accusations about the room with ear shattering volume as I kicked chairs and then I faded into mumblings of nonsense while trembling against a table. I drank another cup of coffee and returned to my sewing. The others kept their heads down and we pretended that nothing had happened; they knew that they themselves were teetering on the fence between sanity and psychosis brought about by the sewing machines’ refusal to work like an intelligent device by mind fucking them with broken needles and puking threads.


The project was due at 10:30AM and it was now 7 in the morning. Everyone had finished his or her projects except Gary and I. Although I was in the latter stages of sewing on the buttons, I was still nervous. Gary broke at 8:00AM and began to ramble on about not giving a shit about anything and that he was going to go home. Unlike Jackie, I encouraged Gary to stay. I told him that he was not allowed to go home at this point; otherwise the entire night would have been spent in vain. He stayed to finish his project but I am not sure if it was due to my reasoning or if it was to prevent himself from going home and perhaps committing suicide as a way of ending the pain and frustration that had been brought about by his spending an entire night producing a flower patterned western button up shirt that ended up looking like a Minnesota Viking’s Snuggie for dwarfs. I sewed on my final button at 8:50AM and took my John Deere tractor trench coat upstairs to flaunt it for the miring bros and bitches. At around 10:45AM, I returned to the costume shop to display the fruits of my garment stitching all-night labor to the teacher. She prodded the coat and shook her head at the insurmountable mistakes that were strewed about my Matrix coat due to my hate for reading sewing directions. However, I was quite proud of my coat. It was made with sweat, insanity, hard work, and fucking tractor fabric. I went back to my shithole apartment, enjoyed a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a champagne glass, and went to sleep.


These past few weeks have been very busy. I have written several papers, did backstage and lighting stuff for a play, acted in a small play, made an overly complicated theatre banquet video, and to top it all off my dog died this past Thursday. I haven’t even had the time to let that sink in yet. So here’s to my recently deceased dog of 14 years, Spud. And below is the overly complicated video that I had to make too. I also take my hat off to Cristina who spent the night in the costume shop to help us with our projects, as she had already completed the class. The pain of sewing is over now and my jimmies are once again unrustled.

Dear Facebook Diary (2/13/13)

Today is Ash Wednesday, which signals the beginning of the Season of Lent. According to the gospels of Matt, Mark, and me; Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of the 40 days that Jayheebus Skywalker spent in the desert fasting as a means of refusing the temptations from the Sith Lord Satan. The Season of Lent is 40 days in which followers of Jeezybuzz Skywalker are supposed to fast and abstain from sex, but nowadays they just pick something stupid to give up for awhile. In the end, Darth Satan always wins because after Easter everyone goes right back to doing the shit that they gave up, and apparently they’re allowed to indulge or “feast” on Sunday’s without being reprimanded by Jaybizzle’s saber. Starving for 40 days without dying, hating The Temptations, thanking Jeebus by not sexing other peoples… sounds like a crock of shit to me.


So to celebrate this time of Lent I will be giving up all forms of pornography. I am not giving up sex or masturbation for 40 days because that’s insane and I’m not even Catholic in the first place. The sex part will be easy because I have unintentionally given up on sex for quite some time now, but if I give up bating for 40 days then it is likely that I will be in prison for rape and/or murder within the first 48 hours. Metaphorically speaking I am a gambler and I enjoy shuffling the deck multiple times per day, it keeps me mentally stable and gives me a daily schedule to follow. I’m not even going to indulge on Sundays by diving into lobstertube or nudevista; I am going cold turkey. I told my fellow scholars in the lounging hall that I would bathe myself in filmed and photographed images of vulgar intercourse with every known and unknown human opening and exit until 4:00 PM today, but no. I am beginning my journey of internet, video, and pictorial abstinence immediately. [command] + [shift] + [P], that is how you activate “private browsing” mode on Firefox. I am also efficient in the use of proxies for anonymous internet viewing. It’s sad to know that my knowledge of scraping the scum off of the very bottom of the internet’s sexual bucket without leaving a trace of my travels will be useless until Easter.


I imagine that I will be a changed man at the end of this journey. I am already fasting because I am shying away from bear-mode and am easing myself into otter-mode by lifting lighter weights with higher reps, frequent cardio, and of course eating less. So the fasting part of Lent won’t be a problem for me. Starving myself of porn will give me much more time for exploration in other facets of fun and self-discovery. I am writing a script and now I will have more time and focus to do so. I will exercise more, thus speeding my progress into being thin and oh so sexy ripped. I’m talking about having abs and cum gutters and all that shit. I will discover strange fetishes that lie deep within my subconscious as I try to come up with new interrogation tactics while “beating the suspect”. Maybe I will win my first Oscar or be nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Maybe I will meet the woman of my dreams. Maybe I will become a billionaire by inventing something amazing, or maybe I will become a sadistic serial killer due to my lack of a sexual output. But more than likely, I will end up being grumpy and owning an Xbox.

Dear Facebook Diary (1/24/13)

Dear Bastard That Egged My Car Two Nights in a Row,


You know what man; you are a real cowardly piece of shit. As I left my apartment yesterday to attend my 10AM class, I noticed a partially shattered egg across the rear window of my twin diesel flare side Chevy that you must have lackadaisically tossed as you either walked or drove by. I merely gave it a glance and continued my walk to class without giving it a second thought. Then when I returned from class I had no choice but to give this halfway broken egg my full attention. I was more disappointed with your actions than I was angry. The egg wasn’t even completely broken, so you either threw the egg like a bitch or you had very little enthusiasm for your malevolent doings. I gave you the benefit of the doubt by imagining that you only had one egg left after a night of intense vandalism and gently tossed the last egg out your window and it coincidentally hit my car. Or I was hoping that you threw it with a hook shot over your head. I was hoping that it was just a simple mistake.


But then, last night, you made up for your limp wristed faggoty throwing skills. I walked out to my car to retrieve some important educational documents when I saw another single egg fully splattered against the $5,735 spoiler that I installed onto my streamlined A to B machine when I upgraded its engine to turbo mode nearly twenty years ago. Although I was able to remove the eggy results of your seemingly random passive aggressive bullshit attacks with some warm water and a few paper towels, my anger far exceeded the effort needed to clean up after your stupid ass. I yelled profanity that could make Satan blush. I had to apologize to my Malibu several times and reassure her that I was not directing my potty mouth at her. My Malibu is a very sensitive automobile and it will be weeks before she’s comfortable with me sitting behind her wheel. My ‘Bu had finally forgiven me for that cat accident this past summer and now you have stirred shit up all over again! You fucking milksop egg throwing fudgestar chasing rat fucking bastard!!!


However I must admit, I like your style. You could have easily egged the living shit out my car but for some reason you showed restraint. Tossing a single egg at my car will not cause any serious damage but it is enough to cause a small mess and play head games with me. I might assume from your weak throw that you are a woman that I have angered. But I have ruled that out because I have not sexed a lady in ages and I am entirely unable to think of a vagina-holder that would currently be angry with me for any reason. You could be a teenager, as all teenagers do this type of stupid shit but my car is nestled into a hidden nook that is branched off from a rarely travelled alley. Why in the hell are you egging my car? I know that it wasn’t an accident because of my car’s placement. I hope that you were aiming for one of the cars that belong to the man-ass eating cowboy chaps wearing fuck-stains that live upstairs. In that case I hope you read this and realize that you need to change your target and that you continue with your mission.


I can assume that we somewhat share the same mindset due to you only throwing one egg at a time. And if we think alike then you will probably follow the rule of three and throw a third egg. And if you are entirely like me then you will wait weeks or even months before pelting my car with that third egg, causing me to live in suspense and anticipation for that third egg. You magnificent animal, I bet that’s exactly what you’re doing.


You know what I was innocently doing last night while you vandalized my car? I was watching “Teen Wolf”. Or if you vandalized my car really late then I was watching an internet movie called “Destination: Tonsils”. Now there are two things that I learned from watching “Teen Wolf”, and those two things are that you will find more success in life by being yourself and that high school girls will fuck anything, including dogs. Seriously, only a woman could be aroused by a man’s popularity despite the fact that he is half dog. I would sexually assault every orifice on Emma Watson’s body but if she turned into a dog, even momentarily, it would be an absolute deal breaker. I could never insert my e-peen into a stinky dog vagoo based upon the popularity of the dog woman. Have you ever smelled a wet dog? Can you even imagine what a horny wet dog vagina would smell like? That’s fucking disgusting, man.


Back to the subject, I only learned one lesson from watching “Destination: Tonsils”. I learned that you should never bite off more than you can chew, or swallow. This is a rule that applies to everyone and it transcends activities that go beyond bobbing knobs and chugging cock snot. Nobody fucks with my Malibu and gets away with it, nobody. I am telling you, you egg throwing Malibu hating fucktard, you have definitely bitten off more than you can chew!