John Denver Was a Fucking Pussy

I'm sorry, it had to be said. The man drove a plane into a lake. It was his own fault that he died. However, in life that man was a goddamned pussy. Here's why:

The song "Sunshine On My Shoulders" begins with the title line followed by the additional assy lyric "makes me happy." Now, I have been outside a lot in my life. I was once an avid camper and more than a couple of times have been to the beach or another sunny destination (Phoenix.) This 'sunshine' crap is crap. The sun isn't comfortable, it's hot. It is a burning, scalding, flesh-baking heliosphere just close enough to germinate the protozoa that mutated into our sorry excuse for a race. It isn't magical like the Aztecs believed. It isn't a God as the Greeks believed and it most certainly isn't as comfortable as a backward hug from a supermodel as John Denver's dead ass believed. I can't believe a man can achieve any level of fame with such trite and indecipherably vague (let alone lame) lyrics. But that isn't really the point. The point is that John Denver is a pussy. I know that I have not yet sold you on the idea that this plane-diving folk hero was indeed -and his corpse remains to this day- a pussy. So here's the meat in the sandwich... Bad analogy. Let's not defile the memory of a dead man with such a miserable analogy. Okay, here's the blackbox in the water: The Den' (as I call him) played sappy folksongs in the nineteen seventies. He and Donovan both suck. Damn. I keep missing the logic behind my outrageous attack. John Denver was a pussy because he wrote a song about sunshine and it's affects on his emotions. What a pussy. He also had bad hair, but that's another rant.

Refusal

At this point in time I would like to write a blog entry that has nothing to do with my girlfriend. Thank You.

The Daring Escape of Kibus Maximus

At several points in my career in lame and noticeably dead-end jobs I have noticed a trend: People, no matter where they are from, are a pain in the ass without manners or remorse. This is best exemplified by the state of Texas' lovely personages. These 'people' assume that they can be rude to you solely because you sit behind the counter reading a David Sedaris novel and that you are no more a human being than the immigrants who mow their lawn. Now, I am not saying that immigrants aren't human, they certainly are. I am merely pointing out that these well-heeled rednecks -from a state that wants to be a country- are just as rude as an unwanted rimjob. I cannot stomach any more of these miserable patrons and from here on out proclaim myself Kibus Maximus (Latin for "Dude Who Doesn't Take Shit From Anybody") and am currently planning my escape from retail.

That is all.

The Last Days of The First Days of Summer

Hello!!! It's summer and I can't possibly deal with this sort of thing. Knowing that there are only several days put next to eachother left in the entirety of my summer is slightly depressing. However, I am quite excited about the little time I do have. Chaos, I am sure, will ensue. I request massive amounts of narcotics and alcohol. I also request love, but that is dependent soley on one woman who I will not name (Allison). So, if God and my girlfriend are listening (or reading) please find it in your heart(s) to give me the aforemntioned items requested of you.

Love, Jim.

Who is this man?

While attempting to straighten things out with a certain unnamed college of music I came to a startling conclusion: I am the master and commander of my thoughts and actions. I am the be all and end all of my basic daily actions and thoughts. Why the fuck shouldn't I get my money back if I can't have my grade? Armed with words and a cute haircut I stumbled words over feet into the man's office and very nearly begged for my class back. He said he couldn't do a thing. So I asked about the money. I won! I won! I beat the fucking system! Woohoo! Woohoo! Fuck Berklee, thank you Dean Dude. You're a nice man. Amen.