Monday, October 23, 2006


Thanks to everyone who read the very early version of my story. It's been cleaned up now, and also exists in a ten page format, so fuck that, it's not going on here. Eventually I'll think of something funny to write again.

Also, the story is so much better now then it is in the form that's on here, so don't read it. I can send you a good copy if you really want.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

So I'm working on this story...

For my writing fiction class. I have almost half of it done, so I want to put it somewhere so people can tell me what they think. Feedback as always is appreachiated...

He carries himself with an air of indifference, like all guys should do. He marches nonchalantly toward the parking garage taking in what he can through his filtered world. The amber tint of his sunglasses and the blaring rock music from his headphones dull his senses almost to the point of confusion. As he continues his journey to his car he spots an attractive girl coming in the opposite direction. “Eyes forward, act like it's not a big deal,” he rehearses in his mind. His eyes betray him and begin to take in as much of the girl as they can. He tries to remember if his sunglasses are mirrored.
Finally he pulls up in front of his apartment building. He lives no more then 5 minutes from campus yet it always takes at least 20 minutes to get back. Figures. Unlocking the apartment door he finds one of his roommates sitting in the living room watching TV.
“Hey asshole,” his friend throws out. “Sup faggot?” he fires back as he continues to his room. He asks himself again why he's friends with Bill. “Dude, take out the fucking trash or it all ends up in your room tonight!” he hears shouted from the other room. Oh, that's right – it's his compassion and tact. “Whatever dick, what's it like being married to your right hand?” he fires back in retort as he changes to get ready for work. It was all rehearsed since this banter takes place everyday. “Hey... not cool dude. Where you goin'?” “I have work... Jesus Christ mom don't worry about it man.” He hears Bill yell something as he shuts the door and bounds back down the steps.
He speeds in that impatient way that only someone under 30 can. He's young and he's either going to get there fast or kill himself on the way. And in that case, it doesn't really matter then does it? His windows are down to soak in the warm Spring weather that finally decides to show up around 2 in the afternoon. Rap music now blares from his car, since that's what you have to listen to look cool. He checks his mirror to make a pass as it violently shakes from bass coming out of the door. This reminds him of the time the mirror got clipped when he was pulling out of a parking spot. This in turn reminds him of the accidents he's been in and he makes somewhat of an attempt to stay closer to the speed limit.
Sometimes when he drives he pretends he'll skip his exit and keep driving. He'll go wherever the highway will allow him to visit. He would go west, maybe see New Orleans, what's left of it, at Mardis Gras. Maybe he'll drive all the way to California. Or maybe, he'll go to the airport and buy a one-way ticket to Europe and backpack across the countryside and enjoy life. He pulls off at his exit and slows as he continues on his way to work.
He hates his job, it's boring to him now; now that he's worked in the same fast food joint for almost two years running. It's mundane and he feels almost underpaid. He then reminds himself that he's only 20 and shouldn't expect to work a 'decent job'. He ignores the thought that most of his female coworkers are all 16 and 17. Work sucks, as usual. He gets back in his car around 9:30 that night. “Now I just gotta get back to the apartment and write that paper.” Just, he chuckles at his own rational. Just turn out a five pager in an hour. His stomach churns with some anxiety and the thought is pushed away. There was no point worrying about it, he couldn't start writing it in the car. He instead daydreams about the party tomorrow night and makes promises about fun he won't have.
Back in the apartment, some changes have been made. He arrives to a queen sized bed propped up against one of the living room walls. It looks like a pretty nice bed, but still used. “Dude, what the hell is this?” he inquires to no one in particular as both of his roommates are within ear shot of him. “It's a bed,” Bill informs him. “No shit. I mean.. why is it... here? Where'd you get this thing?” “Found it.”
“One of the apartments a building over got evicted,” his other roommate Ted offers matter of factly, “we also have some measuring cups and Tupperware.” “So you're gonna sleep. On a bed. That you found in the street. Right?” The question was aimed at Bill as Bill was the kind of guy who would have no problem sleeping on a bed he found in the street. Still he asks, maybe hoping there is another greater, and less disgusting, purpose for this mystery. Bill gave him his answer, “Yup.”
“Whatever man, enjoy your AIDS or whatever the hell is on that thing. Enjoy all of the terminal illnesses that you contract from that bed. Just don't let your treatment interfere with your rent payments.” He had enough, he had a paper to write.
7:15 Friday morning he's awoken by the most terrible sound ever. Something akin to a trumpet full of bees. He turns off his alarm and rolls onto his back again praying that he'll fall asleep in the next five seconds and never go to school again. “God damn,” he whispers to his self. He shuffles past Bill on his was to the kitchen to get some cereal. He doesn't bother with a bowl since he paid for it so no one else is allowed to eat it. As he's shoving Lucky Charms in his mouth with his hand he looks over at the shut door to Ted's room in envy. Ted doesn't go to school, lucky bastard.
School sucks about as much as work. He doesn't really know what he wants to do with himself and is beginning to believe that college is a waste of money – a waste of his parent's money. He settles in the back of the room at his first class. It's some general requirement that is pointless for whatever he decides to do with his life. Nonetheless he has to take it, and since he commutes, he has to take it early to get a parking spot. 50 minutes later he wakes up with about a half of page of notes. “Damn, hope she puts the slides online,” he thinks to himself. He knows even if she does he won't check it though. Motivation is not his strong suit.
After a couple more hours of classes, one involving turning in his four and a half page paper, an hour or so of sitting around the apartment, and forgetting to take the trash out again, he finds himself back at work. As he pulls into a parking spot he surveys the rest of the lot in search of familiar cars. If he's stuck here tonight he at least hopes someone interesting is stuck with him.
“Oooohhhh!” He hears a loud sound let out across the kitchen in the back. He's suddenly tackled by a very large (fat) black man. “What's up Wallace?” he asks nonchalantly. “Man, you workin' tonight?” Wallace chose to answer with a question of his own. “Yeah man.”
“And, you comin' to the party tonight, right?” the inquiry continues. “Hell yeah, of course.” “That's what's up!” Wallace walks his way back to whatever he was doing at the time. He shakes his head as he watches the wide light blue shirt float off to another part of the store. Wallace is one of the goofiest kids he's met.

Saturday, April 22, 2006


Nevermind, I decided I was funny. Now I just gotta move on.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

How to Fail at Girls

Yes, girls. But first, let me establish something about my form of journalism. Now, I'm not the kind of person who speaks out of their ass, heavens no!, I like to maintain a certain degree of journalist credibility. This way, when I write something, you know that I know what I'm fucking talking about.

Example: I didn't just start making shit up about Mexicans and using various stereotypes just to make a humorous story about a shirt. There were minutes of effort put into that fine piece of literary work. Three of which were spent looking a boobies on collegehumor when the ADD kicked in.

So, that being said: I'm a fucking expert at this. I've had one girlfriend in my life. I've been to parties where multiple girls have been 'all up ons' and still managed to drive home safe to wack off that night. With that being said, let me teach you how to keep your spank bank full and some money in you're pocket.

Think of the right thing to say when it's too late.
If a girl is flirting with you, don't say anything, otherwise she might think you're interested. So shut up and look around nervously. Or better yet say 'ok'. Nothing kills a conversation better then those two simple words. Let's look at an example from my life:
Me: Yeah, so I'm going to this party Friday.
Jessica Alba: Cool, I don't have any plans yet for Friday *looks at you suggestingly*
Me: Ok.
Jessica Alba
: I think you're cute.
Me: Oh... So I gotta get back to work. Cya.

Take backs are even worse.
Girl: Nick when are you getting you're new place?
Me: Don't worry, you aren't invited.

Funny, yes. Times I cried/masturbated myself to sleep that night, 47... no wait, 0.

Be friends with cockblocks.
It's easy not to 'be gettin' wit'' girls when no one around you will let you! Instead of going through all the bullshit of screwing up yourself, just have someone else tell you you can't have her, I'm glad those fucking assholes made my life that easy!

Have 'standards' and 'morals'.
Go to parties sober and turn down drunk chicks because it's wrong. But so is having to steal your friend's porn.

Don't meet them.
If you don't know girls you can automatically fail. Suddenly this is the easiest class I ever took. It's like trying to take a women's studies course as a guy, you're just gonna fail anyway.

So follow my advice and you'll be laughing to the bank. Unless you work at Panera Bread. Then you'll still have no money. So you'll be laughing all the way.. to the... place.. with that... thing..

*first draft alert* I'm super fucking tired and my train of thought just ran out of coal! Save me bed!

Monday, January 16, 2006

World Economy Summit

Stick with me on this one, I even have notes. This shit is gonna be so good that'll make your eyes bleed. Then you'll be all like "damn I wish my eyes wern't bleeding so I could read that again, but it was so worth it." So after you wake from passing out do to the blood loss you rejoin me as you begin to read again...

I have a plan. Not just any plan. No, this plan has steps. And each of those steps is a ... step... that builds onto my plan. "Nick stop teasing me, what's the plan?" Fine fine. I plan to control the world's economy. Not all of it, but I plan to make Bill Gate's fortune look like pocket change. And this is where the steps come in, join me:

Step 0.5: Sell drugs. I need some money to start.

Step 1: Open a chain of restaurants
Ok, now this is the real start. The inspiration for this comes from my manager Kyle, my muse if you will. But less gay. The restaurants will be depression era themed. In the 70s everyone was really into fondue eateries with the cheese and shit on your table. Well get ready to pretend to eat like a homeless person. Each table will have a trash fire where you cook your food right there. You can grill it on the lid or roast it over the flames. Health food freaks will go crazy for it, I mean have you ever seen a fat homeless person? I'll call it 'Hooverville', named after the slums that were named after the president who received the blame for the depression.

Step 2: "Special" Advertising
Not gay special. And no, not retarded special. This is " ruin the 'sport' of competive ice dancing" special. My buddy Pete wants to be a figure skating coach. That's all fine and gay, but I see wonderful advertising potential. Working as the team agent, I'll whore us out to the highest bidder where your logo can be emblazed across the chest of a 19 year old with the bust of a preteen. I expect a big contribution from the oil industry. The sooner Exon is associated with ice, the sooner they can do more drilling in Alaska.

Step 3: Fat Pants
Look at you, you fat fucks. You really let yourself go. Yes, America that is aimed at every last one of you. What happened? You used to go out and do things, now you just sit around and watch TV. What's that, you didn't know the food at Hooverville was bad for you? And you've never seen a fat poor person? That's ok. I'll help you out America, just come on down to The Lardium, we got the clothes you need. And ribs, I know you love ribs America, just as much as you love your pacemaker and Hillary Duff, she's a nice girl.

Step 4: Who said I was gonna put all this shit back in the market?
Hell no, this is my money. Oh shit, that's why. Sorry about the depression world.

Step 5: World War III
I'm forseeing this one. All that money hoarding is probably going to cause a shortage. The inflation will most likely trigger another depression. Someone is going to get pissed off somewhere and God knows world war is right around the corner, gotta get that economy rolling somehow. At this point I'll flee to Spain, beause hey, it worked for the Nazis.

There, now if that doesn't get me in the history books, nothing will.