So I got home last night, and opened my paycheck to find that I had been paid $6.43 for my last two weeks of work.

To be fair, my gross pay was $10.75, before ol’ Uncle Sam got his grubby fingers on my money. Damn Democrats. I worked hard to receive my hourly wage of 13 cents an hour, and now Congress is pulling the precious cash out of my fingers to pay for a lunar mission or an elementary school or some damn thing.

As I slowly became blind with rage, I did my best to pay my bills. I was able to pay 1/58th of my rent before I ran out of money for the next two weeks. I’ve spoken with the cable and phone companies and explained to them that my employer has arbitrarily chosen to dock hundreds and hundreds of dollars from my pay. They were very understanding and friendly and wished me good luck in continuing to exist for far less money than mentally retarded homeless beggars make in an hour.

Fortunately, as I write this, I have now taken care of the situation. My supervisors were quite helpful once I employed the help of my only true friend - an aluminum baseball bat that I’ve named Bonepopper. They ensure me that the remainder of my paycheck will be arriving shortly. Maybe I was wrong to complain about receiving only $6.43 for my services. My reaction was probably greedy and selfish, as I was unable to see beyond the financial benefits that such a sacrifice would reap for my company. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken ol’ Bonepopper to their ankles the way that I did.

Oh well, it’s too late for regrets now. I shouldn’t cry over spilt milk. I’m going to head out to Wendy’s and spend my $6.43 like a king!

Somebody needs to explain to me what has happened with Steven Tyler’s face

Did he just Botox the hell out of it? Is that a lift? Did he go into the plastic surgeon’s office and ask to be given the face of a demon? I need answers, and I need them quickly because the hideousness of his new face has kept me awake for the past few nights. His unnatural eyes stare back at me in my nightmares, beckoning me to join them in Hades. Clearly Joe Perry and Roger Daltrey aren’t too pleased about having to stand so close to him, either. You can see the dread and discomfort behind their stiff smiles. My guess is that moments after the photo was taken, Daltrey vomited in utter disgust at Tyler’s appearance.

And then there’s this picture:

Is it just me, or did the plastic surgeon also seem to provide Tyler with a pair of small breasts? He probably put them in after realizing how badly he botched Tyler’s face, and figured that he’d just go all the way in attempting to create a body so revolting that a series of natural disasters might come about because of it. I’m serious, I wouldn’t doubt it if somebody told me that his new disgusting face and figure caused a tsunami wave to obliterate a small Pacific island. Pete Townshend looks like Brad Pitt compared with him.

I’m warning all of you right now, if Steven Tyler and Joan Rivers were to make out with each other the universe would collapse in upon itself and all life would cease to exist. This is known as the Omega Scenario. We must all work together to ensure that this will never occur.

This afternoon, Jon Gilmore and I will get into the car and head down to a Welmore Mile show. This is no ordinary show, however. We will not be playing in a coffee shop to an audience of lonely boys and shoegazers. No, we will be performing for a summer camp filled with 7th graders.

What the hell are we thinking?

We’ve been hired to play two 30-minute sets for these hyperactive kids, and I have no idea how we’re going to fill it. Our original plan was to exclusively perform Rush covers in an attempt to create the most horrific, brutally awkward situation ever devised. As it is, we’ll probably head down there, play some joke songs, talk about junk and plow through. Afterwards, we will consume alcohol and never speak of it again. This is really what Welmore Mile is all about - escaping awkwardness through beer. Sometimes it’s about escaping reality through massive quantities of beer. Some songs - only a few - are about feeling unable to connect with women without the help of some primo opium. All performed with sweet harmonies.

So my mind is elsewhere today, swimming about in a dark sea of remorse and dread. I’d like to finish up by sharing with you a list, devised by an old friend of mine named Phil Meyer. This is his definitive list of why he is a bad person, it somehow seemed applicable after this post:

1. I don’t have any actual food in my apartment right now, apart from some raisin bran which I am eating dry out of the box. No milk. Clearly I have sunk to depths of depravity previously unfathomable by mortal men.

2. My bedroom walls are bare, but for a single Radiohead poster for Amnesiac. Surely this indicates that human emotion is my enemy.

3. I got a dart board for Christmas. I still haven’t put it up. Each of those darts may as well be a nail in the cross of my loathsomeness.

4. When showering, I wash with pure lye and a brillo pad. Evil? Damn skippy it is.

5. If I see someone who needs a jump start for their car, or they have a flat tire, I’ll stop and help them out. But inside, I’m thinking, “I hope this is one of those tests where God sends an angel to pose as a human in need to see how I’ll react. I hope he’s impressed and showers me with pennies and a large jug of Mad Dog 20/20 that overfloweth forever and ever, amen.” If you were looking for a subhuman wretch, you’ve found him.

6. I frequent online music chatrooms and forums, where I defend Scott Stapp as a musician and person. “You’re just jealous,” I say. “He is the Bob Dylan of adult-friendly poseur-rock.” You might not think this is so bad, but I wait for a few seconds and add, “J/K!!! LOL!!! Scott Stapp R00LZ and so don’t you!” I log out while people are trying to figure out what the hell that even means. Truly, I lay waste to the concept of morality.

7. Although I do not require sleep and instead spend every moment plotting wicked schemes, I am about to use fatigue as an excuse to end this half-assed journal entry.

Well, I hope you enjoyed that. Gee, look at the time. I’m bushed. Time to hit the hay. Pile on the saddle blankets and ride south into dreamland, as they say.

8. I make up sayings.

If you’re anything like me, you’re concerned that your food doesn’t resemble your cleaning supplies closely enough. Fortunately, now we can purchase crustless bread from Iron Kids!

Oftentimes, when I’m cleaning the bathroom, I will look fondly at the sponge I am using to clean the outside of my toilet and wonder, “Why can’t I eat this? Why is God so cruel as to forbid me from eating such a tantalizingly appetizing item?” In a few dark, undisciplined moments, the sponge has drifted from the toilet to my tongue, with results too horrifying to speak of.

Nowdays, when my lips yearn for the sweet texture of the sponge, I can satiate their lusts with crustless bread. It’s really the best of both worlds - it looks and feels like sponge, but it’s non-toxic and fortified with calcium! No longer do we have to experience hours of dry heaving after ingesting toilet bowl cleaner and fecal residue, our bodies wracked with agony brought on by the cruel beckoning whispers of our bathroom sponges. Now we can apply the fecal residue directly to the crustless bread and consume to our heart’s delight! Conversely, if you don’t have a washcloth handy, you can simply grab a slice of crustless bread and wipe off your counter while strengthening it with calcium!

Sometimes life is so good that you just have to sit back and bask in the sun, knowing that you’ve got it made. Me, I’m living a charmed life with my crustless bread. Iron Kids’ crustless bread is the physical manifestation of all my hopes and dreams. It is perfect - the alpha and omega. And it has my vote on November 2nd.

Thanks to Adam for the pictures!

Last night, I gathered with some close friends to view the awesome splendor of Cannonball Run II.

It’s not often in life when you experience an evening that forever changes the way you feel about your place in the universe, but Cannonball Run II was the catalyst for just such an experience. I left the evening a changed man, and all thanks to that movie, which allowed me to behold the wonderousness of cars driving fast (and sometimes cars driving at a normal speed with the film footage sped up - the experience of watching this particular phenomenon is akin to the mind-bending journey through time and space at the conclusion of 2001: A Space Odyssey).

The man I have to thank for this life-changing event is a man named Hal Needham - a schlocky, third-rate stuntman-turned-director. He is close friends with a Mr. Burt Reynolds, having directed six movies with Burt as the star. All six movies were movies in which Burt drove a fast car, outfoxed the police, and had a mustache. The high point was probably Smokey & The Bandit (note: in no way should this be considered a high point in any person’s career) and the low was Cannonball Run II. Along the way Needham produced such gems as Stroker Ace, and Smokey & The Bandit II. I have viewed many of these movies, and it would be impossible to discern one film from another if it weren’t for the cars.

My own personal favorite element of Cannonball Run II was the degree to which Burt Reynolds mailed it in. Now, bear in mind the Burn Reynolds never had much of an intense screen persona to begin with, but here it giggles and chews gum throughout the entire film. He barely even drives the car - he just sits in back in a goofy outfit making out with a girl and lets Dom DeLouise do all the work. This was likely because Burt didn’t care to actually act, instead spending his time sucking down peppermint schnapps and groping Shirley McLaine.

Burt really didn’t look too good by this point either - his skin was a disconcerting shade of orange, and his hair (plugs?) looked like the hair from a defective Cabbage Patch Kid. He was looked like he was a few years past his expiration date as a movie star, to say the least.

So this morning, life feels different for me. I’ve now seen Cannonball Run II, and I’m emerged a changed man. Shortly, I will boast a fast car and a mustache. I will outrun the police until their cars comically overturn in the ditch. I will laugh at jokes that don’t exist. I will drive across the United States of America while never leaving the deserts of northern Arizona.

In short, I will live the American dream of the early 1980’s.

There are many strange ways that I amuse myself throughout the day. Some days, I scavenge for interesting blogs, some days I do homework, and on days like yesterday, I stay busy by seeing how high I can count.

One of my favorite ways to keep my mind occupied is to start with a verb or adjective of choice, and then try to think of humorously inappropriate adverbs. Though this sounds lame, I can confidently assure you that it is the most exhilarating, enthralling activity in the history of mankind.

Some examples:

Gently murdered -The original, and maybe still the best example of this
Haggardly demure
Pleasantly ablaze
Frantically napped -I enjoy picturing what this would look like
Violently fertile -I have absolutely no idea what this means, but it amuses me
Refreshingly satanic -This applies to many of my activities after church on Friday night

And my personal favorite, from my old friend Chris Brenna:
Gallantly raped - I love trying to envision a scenario where this occurs

Any other suggestions?