sHalloween

Happy Halloween and everything everybody. Y'all have your costumes sorted out? Let me guess. You're going as a slutty (fill in the blank), aren't you?

If all my readers were women, I'd be 100% correct.

Do you like Halloween? Really? I'm sort of up the air about it. Halloween has always been a really weird time for me. You'd think that I'd be all into it and everything being as that it's my day and all. It's kinda like...I don't know...flags not really being sure whether or not they like Flag Day. Not really true, though. I just can't get excited about Halloween. It's not just the confusion I feel over everyone dressing up pretty much like me and wandering aimlessly in the streets, although that is pretty weird. I mean, how would you feel if you were African-American and everyone rolled in the mud and hung outside of popeye’s chicken every Martin Luther King Jr. day? you’d get a little creeped out, huh? I mean, people go out of their way, sometimes spending tens of dollars, just to look as much like me as possible on Halloween, and most of the time they get it completely wrong!

For starters, we do not drool blood. We don’t have any. We’re dead, get it? And if we had some blood dribbling down our chins after chowing on heads, honestly, we’d wipe it off with a hanky or a wet nap. I mean, do you, as a liver, walk around with spaghetti sauce or mayonnaise globbies on your chin? No? I didn’t think so.

Another one that gets me is the dangly eyeball. If you had a dangly eyeball pendulously swinging from your face, wouldn’t you do something about it? Maybe go to the doctor or, I don’t know, PUT IT BACK IN YOUR FRIGGIN’ HEAD?!? It just makes no sense. You’d never see me with a dangly eyeball. We have three cats in my house. How would I snuggle with Carnage, Tendons and Ginger Snap if they kept batting at this puttytat punching bag suspended from my skull? Get real!

But I’m getting beside the point. I really don’t mind people dressing up like me. Aside from the blatant errors in consistency, I’m actually kinda honored. What makes Halloween a difficult time for me is, while everyone else is having fun getting gruesome and shit, I’ve really got nowhere to go with it. I’m already there. I mean, I’m by no means hideous. I’ve actually been told that I’m quite handsome. But I am most definitely a zombie. Where do I go from there? I feel kinda left out. Like all those African-American people must feel on Martin Luther King Jr. day. Once a year, everyone gets together in awareness of the fact that it sucks to be black, while the black people are aware of this all year ‘round. It's not so special for them.

I suppose I could go in the opposite direction. You know, get all fancied up and stuff. But that isn’t really in keeping with the whole idea around Halloween, is it? It would just be stupid. Like all the girls who use October 31st as an excuse to dress up as a slutty nurse or slutty devil or slutty girlscout or slutty...bowl of congealed turkey gravy. I tried it one year and no one got it. I dressed up in a three-piece suit, slicked my hair back and even put on some makeup to look more living. They didn’t understand that I was making a statement on everyone dressing like me. I even wore a flowery thong on the outside of my pants as a statement on how they always get zombies wrong, but that went over their heads too. They just said, “Damn, Scotty. You’re looking good! Nice panties. Want a Jello shot?” It was kinda embarrassing.

But I figure, screw it. This day was custom-made for me and my people (in mexico it’s the next day, november 1st. but that goes without saying. they’re lazy. of course they’re going to be a day late.). If I can’t make anyone appreciate me on Halloween, I’ll appreciate me on Halloween. So I just dress up conceptually as things that tickle me. I’m already dead, so I use that as my basis. After all, you gotta play to your strengths, right? The girls do when they dress up as slutty plumbers and slutty...girls. So I play up the dead. And even though no one gets me, at least I do.

Last year I put on a dress and made a fake FBI badge. Everyone was all like, “HAHAHAHAHA! Scotty’s a woman!” And I was like, “No I’m not. I’m J. Edgar Hoover.” And they were all, “J. Edgar Who?” and I was like, “-ver...yes! J. Edgar Hoover. Ex-director of the FBI.” And I’d show them the badge I spent hours making with a photo-chopped picture of J. Edgar Hoover on it. They’d look at it and say, “But this dude is a dude and you’re in a dress.” And I’d say, “Yeah. But he’s dead. And I’m dead. I’m dead J. Edgar Hoover.”

And they’d be like, “Oh. Want a Jello shot?”

Three years ago I put on a big ol’ afro wig, wore a sequined bell bottom leisure suit and walked around with a mirror ball hanging ‘round my neck. People were like, “Are you, like, 70s Flava Flav?” And I would go, “No! I’m disco!” And they’d say, “I see! Like, a disco dancer?” And I’d say, “No! The social phenomenon of disco. I’m dead. Disco is...you know...’dead as disco’?” And they’d go, “Oh...I get it. Want a juice box?” (because we were too young for jello shots three years ago)

Whatever. I thought it was fucking great.

This year I’m cutting them to the quick. I’ma put on some fishnet stockings, really short black shorts with a yellow stripe up the side and a gun belt, a blue shirt buttoned down to my navel and a policeman’s cap. That’s right. I’m going as a slutty policewoman. I’m dead. The dressing up as a slutty policewoman on Halloween movement is dead. It’s genius.

And even if someone asks, “So...are you, like, one of the Village People or something?” I can smile, look them square in the eye and then gouge it out of their head until it’s all dangly and twitching on their cheek.

Because if you’re gonna get your costume wrong, you should at least do it up right.

Until next time...

trick or mnnnnhhhhhgh...

P.S. - I realize that my last couple of posts have been kinda negative. I'm really not that negative a guy. Honesty honest. I promise that my next post will be about fluffy bunnies and marshmallow dreams. Until that time, Happy Halloween. Unless you're Mexican. I'll wish you feliz dia de los muertos when you finally wake up from your nappy naps.

If at first you don't succeed, try to eat some heads!!!

So I figured out how to put pictures up on my blog ("...and then, just when I thought I was blogged out, she pulled out this huge, miss piggy, double-barrel blogo and started bloggening me with it." heh heh heh. i don't think i'll ever get enough of that). Hence the picture in my last post and my profile pic. It should be noted that I realize the photo in my last post was a little obscure. One thing that you need to know about me is that I'm a cartoon freak. I Louvre all cartoons. Cartoons and british comedies. Have since I was un-born. So, if you didn't get my last pic, you and me is gonna have the problems, esse. Comprende?

[scott adjusts his hairnet, refastens the top button on his flannel shirt and brandishes his pistola, sideways, at su asno negro]

Just kidding. I still, like, like you. Not like like you. That's reserved for (did I mention she's hot and alto?) hot alto Emma. But we'll get to that later.

The profile pic was a doodle my besterestest friend in the whole world, Jenny, made of me yesterday in English Lit class. Isn't it great? Isn't she great? I love her. Not love love her. She's not that kind of friend. Seriously...she isn't.

Alright! I'm gonna take a break and just put an end to this right now. This isn't one of those romantic stories where the best friends grow up together and the girl kinda likes the guy and the guy is oblivious and he takes the hot, hot girl named Emma (hopety hope) to the homecoming dance instead of her, and then she shows up with his arch-enemy, looking gorgeous, and he suddenly sees her in a different light and they find themselves out on a terrace somewhere, perhaps the observatory where James Dean saw his tires getting slashed, and they look out at the city and stars and cry and finally realize that they are right for one-another afterall.

No!

Jenny has a moustache. I find that repulsive. I want to kiss...not floss.

We're not happening.

I'd blog her, though. (heh)

But she is my besterestest friend in the whole world. She gets me. If she was a little hotter, she'd be my soul mate. And by a little hotter, I mean...shaved regularly...but we'll get to that later.

I mean, I don't even floss when I'm supposed to. But, yeah...later.

So, yeah...I guess I'm doing better. I didn't have Butttoine today, but he did corner me in the guys' locker room and apologize for stabbing me in the FUCKING NECK. Well...he didn't apologize, as much as say, "Stuff still coming out your neck, Lanpier!?! No!?! Good! JeBEEZooS!" and then he threw some boxer shorts in my face and ran away. So that's alright, yeah?. He's been through a lot of stress lately and he had a cold that day so he was probably high on Robutussen. Anyway...I consider that a sorry.

And WWJD? J would D up some fo'givness fo'im. So I did. I D'd some forgivness...tar tar...on the grill of my Looooooooooooove!

Heh...sorry y'all. I'm a little giddy today. I realize I shoula been giddy the last time I wrote...but I wasn't. So I won't apologize. But I have some HUGE news. HUGEr than HUGhE Jackman when he was...you know...actually relevant and less homosexual. HUGEr than HUGhE Lorrey when he was...you know...actually funny...

...and less homosexual.

Hot alto Emma totally said. "I'll think about it," when I asked her to homecoming!

I am so fucking IN!

I can't wait to see what happens when she caves into me. Fuck that. She's already caved by saying that she'd think about it (when she told two others "no"). I just can't wait to see what the rest of our lives will be like (likety like like).

I see us holding hands through the rest of high school. We'll probably lose our virginity (yes...i'm a virgin...and proud of it!!!) on Prom night and then move on from there. We'll have a rough spot in college, because I want to go to William and Mary (go tribe!) to study literature in the footsteps of our founding fathers, and she'll want to go to Johns Hopkins to study pre-med in the footsteps of, I don't know, Nancy L. Craig? In college she'll be TOTALLY faithful to me. I mean...TOTALLY. And I'll be at her graduation, smiling, maybe crying (but not too fagilly), because I'm so proud of her. Then she'll go on to med school (where she'll continue to be faithful to me) while I hone my literary craft by living in a squat in London and experimenting, sexually (but not too fagilly). When I come back, she'll have set up a practice in Peoria, Illinois, and her vagina will still be as tight as Simon and Garfunkel harmonies.

And we'll live happily ever after.

That is, if she says "yes". Actually, what she should say is, "I've thought about it, and my answer is a resounding YES. In fact, I don't know why I balked in the first place. Maybe I was playing hard to get. Maybe I was intimidated by your masculine charms. Maybe I NEED TO HAVE MY BRAIN EATEN FOR TRAIPSING YOU ALONG LIKE A CHUMP!"

That's the answer she should give me. That's the only answer I deserve. I'll tell you what'll happen if she says "no". I won't eat her brain. That's so 7th grade. Instead, I'll suck the eye jelly out of her left peepin' ball so she has no depth perception. Then I'll take her to a 3-D movie and laugh at her because she's the only one not having fun. Then I'll saw off her tongue, make her eat it and, without respite, ask her how it tastes. Afterward, I'll sit her down and make her watch "Heroes", because...shit...ouch. And for the grand finale, I'll dress her up as "Dora the Explorer", huck her into a Doll-Fuckers Anonymous meeting and scream, "Here's your thirteenth step, bitches!" and run.

And then afterwards, maybe eat her brain.

So, yeah...I'm probably going stag for homecoming. I probably won't even go.

Fuck! I was feeling great before.

I wish I could kill myself.

Until bllrgghhhh.

flrrrm....

We not laugh

Hhhhnnnhhn...

Gllllrrrrrrrrphlllllpbbt jeeernnnKklbtbttttbtbttttt! FFFFfrrrrrjemmn!

Jerrrrrgn, KKklabshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,,,

GOORRRRRRRJJJJJJJn, FFFLOORRRRRRRRJJJJJJn, GEORGE STEPHANOPOULOS!!!

ow!

Don't you hate it when you accidentally hit that little patch of nerves in your elbow that shoots blinding hot pain down the rest of your arm? You know what I'm talking about, right? And all those tiny pins and needles, all that heat, concentrates at the end of your pinky? Yeah. You know it. I call it "fire pinky" because, well, YOUR FUCKING PINKY IS ON FIRE! That's why.

I just hit my fire pinky spot on the edge of my desk. It's still smoldering. It hurt. It hurt like a bitch. A bitch with a knife. A bitch with a knife that's on fire and who is rubbing it up and down my pinky.

Oooowwwwwwww! Nothing hurts worse than that.

Anyway, today went alright, I guess. I mean, a lot of great stuff happened and everything, but I'm still sorta "meh" about the whole day. It's funny how one little thing can totally take the wind out of your sails when everything else is kicking ass. It's like, I don't know, scoring a goal in soccer, taking off your jersey in celebration, getting your collar caught on your chin, tripping, falling, hitting a rock with your elbow and getting fucking FIRE PINKY. And there you are, writhing on the ground with your shirt half way over your head, screaming "owowowowowowowowowOOOWWWWWWW...FIIIIIRE PIIIIIINKYYYYYYYY!!!" in front of everyone.

I mean, that's enough to fuck up almost anyone's day.

So today, in second period, I found out I got an A on my Geometry test. Pretty friggin' great, right? Sure, I'm a good student, but considering that I have absolutely no aptitude for math what-so-EVAR, the day was looking up from the get-go.

Then, in third-period Jazz Choir, I heard from Christina that Emma, this really hot alto in my group, turned two guys down for homecoming because she said she's waiting for someone else to ask her, and I'm pretty sure its me (hopety hope). She's hot, sweet and has a smokin' body. Did I mention she's hot? I've had a crush on her since the 8th grade so going to homecoming with her would be, like, I don't know. Something cliche like a dream come true or some shit. This is really really good news, so I was flying high by the time I got to DBC.

What other schools call PE, my school calls DBC. We don't know why. No one knows what DBC stands for. Dick and Ball Collective? Deflowering Boy Chodes? Dodgeball Builds Character? (I wish I was funnier so I could come up with a good acronym for that.) It's a mystery. Anyway, we were running a 2k race in the gym because it's rainy out today and Jeff was kicking everyone's ass. Jeff is a little, nerdy chinese kid who's really fast. I don't know how he got so fast with those skinny little yellow legs. Maybe he uses his math skills to make himself more aerodynamic or something. Anyway, he had just lapped us all and was about to pass Jordan, who was second by a long shot. As Jeff started passing Jordan, Jordan totally tripped him and Jeff went down hard. We all stopped running when we heard the >SMACK< so it was completely silent when Jeff started crying.

The way Jeff was sobbing uncontrollably, I would have guessed that he got fire pinkied. Instead, he got "let me eat my own scrotum kneed". Yeah. I think you know what that is. It's when you hit that little patch of nerves in your knee that make you want to feel anything else, even the agony of dining on your own sperm purse. We all gathered around Jeff to see if he was OK, when Mr. Antoine, broke through and started yelling at Jeff. He was all, "Come on, Sevilla! Walk it off you pussy! Pain is in your mind! What you got to do is let go of the pain by letting go of your mind! And your problem! Boy! Is that you got too much mind!"

He then looks directly at me and says, "Look at Lanphier, here. (oh look! he's a poet and didn't know it...and an asshole) He's a zombie! He's got no mind! He doesn't feel any pain! Watch! HopTOOKI!" And then he takes out this ninja knife that he keeps in his sweatpants and fucking STABS ME THROUGH THE FUCKING NECK!

I mean...fuck! Through the fucking NECK! It's not as bad as fire pinky but...yeah...it fucking HURTS. Everyone just sort of stood there laughing as I coughed in agony, dust and stuff falling out of the new wound in my FUCKING NECK. I looked up at Jordan and he mouthed the words, "Loo" and "Ser". I could have gone epidemic on their asses, but I just kept my cool.

My fucking NECK!

Then Asstoine finishes with, "See! He's tough! He doesn't even BLEED! Now pick yourself up you smart sissy and be more like mindless, meandering, zombie Lanphier! HaiooROOken!"

And then he exploded a smoke pellet and ran away. And then the bell rang. And we went to lunch.

I don't know. I suppose it's no big deal. It's just...I don't know. Jeff's a nice guy, even though his people dropped the bomb on Pearl Harbor and Jesus forever hates them for it. He still doesn't deserve to be talked to like that. But that's not what's bugging me. It's not even that everyone was laughing at me or that Mr. Fucktoine stabbed me in the FUCKING NECK...and it hurt. It really hurt.

What's bugging me is just that. It did hurt. A lot. And Antoine told everyone that it didn't. I mean, just because I'm different doesn't mean I don't go through all the same shit everyone else goes through. Sure, a stab through the FUCKING NECK would kill most anyone else that isn't a zombie. Yeah, I'm already dead so it's no big deal. But come on! It's not that I don't feel. I do feel. I feel a lot. I was feeling great until you stabbed me through the FUCKING NECK, Antoine, and then told everyone that I don't feel a thing. Now, I just feel...I don't know. A little victimized, I guess.

And you know what? I think that just might hurt worse than fire pinky.

I'm different, but I'm the same. "If you prick us, do we not bleed?" as Shakespeare's Shylock said. (some people say that shylock is talking about the jews in that speech but i disagree. jews aren't that eloquent. and there isn't a single mention of kvelling or gefilte fish in the entire soliloquy) And while I do not bleed, I do feel. So maybe I should instead quoteth, "If you tickle us, do we not laugh?"

And, yes. Yes we do. Especially if it's hot Emma doing the tickling (did i mention she's hot?). I need to go figure out how I'm going to ask her to the dance. It's gotta be good.

Until next time.

grflllllrrrrrrhhhhhnn...

All good things...

…come to a start.

Hey everybody. It seems like everyone out there has one of these blogs and I guess they’re kinda cool so I thought I’d jump on the wagon, so to speak. I don’t really know what I want to do with this blog. It seems like everyone has a theme that makes their blog cool (that’s such a weird word, blog. Blog blog blog bloggety blog blog. It loses its meaning if you keep saying it. Like “feet” or “Jew”. It kinda sounds like something my slutty friend J would brag that one of the girls he keeps claiming he taps would do to him. "Blog", that is. Not "Jew". As in, “I went out with this sho’ty last night and she totally blogged me.” He wouldn’t let a girl Jew him. He’s a good Christian. Anyways… ) I figure I’ll just keep talking about me and what’s going on in my life, or un-life as it were, and hope that I’m interesting enough for all y’all (hopety hope). So, without further ado, this is me and my so called un-life.

I guess I should start out with introductions. My name is Scott. I’m 15 years old, live in New Orleans and am a sophomore at TE Lawrence High School (go Sand Monkeys!). I’m a pretty good student with a 3.8 GPA and I want to be a writer when I grow up (English is my favorite subject). I especially like the works of Tennyson, Poe, Jesus and William Shatner (seriously…Tek War RULES!). I know what you’re thinking. “If he’s from New Orleans, shouldn’t he be all into Anne Rice and shit?” To which I say “Go eat a bag of dicks!” Anne Rice can suck the dangling participles out of my ass hole. I hate her!

Now that I got that out of the way, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m a pretty normal kid. I like the things that most kids like, like music and hanging out with my friends (that's a lot of "likes". I need to work on my redundancy. Likety like like like. That's another word that gets weird, like "onomatapoea" or "women's sufferage"). Oh! I forgot to mention. I LOVE to sing. I’m in jazz choir at school. I know that sounds kinda gay but you wouldn’t believe the amount of hotties I get to throw game at because of my voice. In a couple of years, if it’s still around, I’m going to audition for American Idol. I think I have what it takes to make it, at least into the top 20. I’ll keep you informed if I’m still writing this blog (“Seriously…she totally broke out the vegemite and blogged me in the middle of the auditorium. I was like, ‘this is blogged up.’”)

Heh heh.

I suppose the only other thing I need to tell you is that I’m a zombie. Well, “Undead-American” as my guidance councilor, Mr. Swipse (pronounced “Sweep See” but he asks us to call him Johnson, which is weird because I think his real first name is Charles) prefers to call me. He keeps telling me that the term zombie is “lifeist” (whatever that means), and that I shouldn’t perpetuate a stereotype by “giving credence to a hideous epithet”, which is stupid. That’s what I am. I’m a fucking zombie. Get over it, “Johnson”.

Or maybe I should call you “Dickhead-American” so as not to perpetuate the stereotype that you’re anything but a stupid dickhead.

Dickhead.

Anyway. That’s my first blog contribution (“…and after she was done, she totally swallowed my blog contribution…if you know what I mean” J’s such a slut). Not too bad. I can’t wait to see where this goes.

Until next time.

Merrrrghhhhhhh…