Awesome Lesson #3: 3-D

Guns. Are. Awesome.

I. Taught. Myself. 3-D Design. To. Model. Guns.

I. Am. Bad. At. Texturing.

The. Texture. You. See. Is. A. JPEG. UV-MAPPED. Onto. My. Hi-Poly. Model.

Blog spam ended for now! (Clicking on the photo might be necessary for full res.)

Photoshop Lesson #2

I'm cranking out shitty blog updates like it's my job. If my job we're making shitty blog updates... well, let's just say that they are newer than the updates made slightly before them. Get on my level.

Here's another post courtesy of my bullshit Digital Art class! The project was to create the shittiest mythological scene possible. I failed to the largest extent I could manage. Therefore, I'm the business.

Here's another tutorial for badkins:

Step 1: Find a sweet mythological creature.



Step 2: Find another sweet mythological creature to keep him company.



Step 3: Merge them into a scene and add a personal touch. Wait, was that awesome three-dimensional gryphon stone there before? Idk whatever.

How To Be A Boss At Prehistoric Photoshop

Let's be brief: my new embedded video fucks up my layout, covering up my own hotlinks. I need to post some shitty shit, as soon as shit!

Shitty Post #1: How to be a Prehistoric Photoshop Boss. Compliments of me wrecking my sophomore digital art class (probably more to come...I wrecked it pretty fucking hard).

Here's a very vague step-by-step. So fucking vague you'll say: "What the fuck is the point of this?". Vague as shit.

Step 1: Find a picture of the biggest ass-ruining badass of all time.



Step 2: Find a somewhat accurate picture of the bone structure of said badass creature:



Step 3: Illegally download Photoshop. Install it. Be a badass at Photoshop. Use layer masks. Be creative.



One student received an A for this project (project: create an art piece using personal skills) by creating a picture made out of macaroni, much like I might have in second grade.

I received a C for this project in my digital art class. Fuck digital art professors who work at CCRI... I am better.

My Skydiving Event: The Video!

My first attempt at embedding a video. To be precise, my first attempt at embedding my own youtube video. To be more precise, my first attempt at embedding my first youtube video that I uploaded for the first time firstly upon the first day of first first first first first fir...

Also, I have a new post right below this, don't miss it, it's new!

My Newest Occupation

To be honest I'm quite intoxicated at the moment. Spelling errors will be fixed when I am capable.

So, 2+ years after Mobil On The Run got straight up CANNED by myself, I finally got another mother fucking job. Two years of legitimate effort mind you.

I asked many friends for a lead in what is and was one of the worst job markets in my lifetime. Several tried, one succeeded. Many calls and worthless interviews later I landed a job due to the epic work of Brian D.

Several months beforehand I had a personally unprecedented traumatic event which mega-fucked my brain, causing me to feel deep sickness in any situation relevant to that day and event. For example, it was over four months before my stomach could handle visiting even just one friend of mine without becoming very ill.

Onto the job. I scored a job working in an environmental laboratory. We specialize in the testing and analyzation of soils and water samples. For example, if you wanted to build a playground, you'd send us soil samples to ensure that area was more life supporting than something like, I don't know, Chernobyl.

I can definitely understand that logic. However... Every day we get samples that are clearly marked: "URGENT". MOTHER-FUCKING URGENT!!!1!11!

These samples must be analyzed immediately and results must be sent back the same day. I perform these such tests, and I specialize in pH and moisture values of these such samples. Which leads me to one very real question...

WHO THE FUCK NEEDS THIS TYPE OF DATA WITHIN HOURS OF SUBMITTING IT?!?!

Literally, what situation calls for this type of haste? Our largest client is the Environmental Protection Agency(EPA). Are they planting the worlds largest fucking government garden or some shit?

Think of even the largest scale farm-based agency/company (whoever the fuck that might be). This company is expected to provide a shitload of food for an entire community. Try telling your town that no one can eat jack shit because some assholes are figuring out how much moisture is in the fucking dirt.

WHO GIVES A FUCK

SO maybe it turns out that the moisture in the dirt is satisfactory (something we tell them based on age-old data). Thank god right? NO!

Who gives a fuck about soil moisture! We still have to run pH tests! No, this isn't your god damn outdoor pool, IT'S LIFE

Now our samples aren't from tap water or something relevant that you could make sense of. They're from dirty swamps and shit. Seemingly destroying all credibility these pH tests had.

My point in summary: What is it that you need to know so fucking quickly about a random swamp's pH level could really be that urgent!?

Not to mention our company can be fined up to and over 15 thousand dollars for as little as an illegible reading in a logbook.

Maybe one day I'll become an EPA pool technician, and I'll permanently spike the pH levels to burn the eyes of EPA employees in their own government pool.

Just maybe.

The Game of Civil. A Paintball Phenomenon.

As you can see I've changed the title of the blog to something equally as accurate as it was before.

To complement the new change I've decided to share something that I wish to never forget, the game of Civil.

Several years ago, we had the opportunity to transform the woods adjacent to our local Job Lot into a paintball field. We spent many a conspicuous day walking home out of the woods with shovels in hand as if we had just buried someone we had perviously murdered, but a few weeks afterwards, it was finished. Despite our laziness, we actually managed to build a pretty satisfactory field to play in.

We then gathered the troops and had great times shooting eachother during our various games. After so many games, we decided that it wasn't quite enough. Our field was large, but with 4 to 6 participants, there were often stalemates or breaks in the action.

Next to our field was another. A large and grassy field behind a big stupid waste-of-space church. Much like Hitler, my comrades and me decided what we had wasn't good enough, and we invaded the churchlands to wage war.

We came up with an idea for a game that would never be lacking in action or the sight of our friends in pain:

- However many players there were would be divided into two teams (provided it was an even number)

- Each team would stand facing each other many yards apart, much like that of Civil War combat (those fucking retards)

- One team would be decided to fire first

- Each member on the firing squad would have one shot each

- If a member of the opposing team was hit (unbroken paintballs did not count), they would be required to scream in agony and dramatically fall to the ground

- If all members of the opposing team were not hit, they were allowed to fire upon the other team in the same manner

- If both teams had players left (which they often did), they would march forward two large paces

- This cycle would continue until one team was eliminated

Here is a rough diagram of what the setup looked like:



This game created some incredibly tense moments. Knowing you were about to get shot was a pretty exciting experience. Players would often cover their balls with their own guns while being shot at, leaving their faces exposed.

We didn't play with masks you say? Oh, we did. But one such incident proved that masks do not entirely protect your shit face. On one occasion, Malbert packed his gun with extremely hard paintballs and a fresh can of Co2 (the gas that packs the punch in paintball guns). He shot our friend John in the mask. However, the force of the paint exploding from the ball, and through to small slits in Johns mask, cut Johns gums open and caused him to bleed profusely.

Other shots ripped through clothing and even were known to bounce off the ground and eliminate players (me, for example).

Though this game is unique to our creativity and more importantly to our memories, I challenge those to contest that this is not one of the most badass games ever created.

Danatello - The Ninja Turtle Phenomenon

The Ninja Turtles were the heroes of my childhood. It wasn't until recently that I realized that the Ninja Turtles were based off of me and my stupid friends.



Raphael, Leonardo, Donatello, and Michaelangelo.

The Ninja Turtles are the shit. Far be it from me to consider my friends and I contributing members of the Renaissance.

If it took you less than a second to understand why I said that, please cancel your internet. Also, drop out of school.

I love the Ninja Turtles, so much. But the best part is that you know them. No, dick, you know them in real life. I have a core group of friends, and I don't have room for any more. Your 768 Facebook friends that you've never met do not count.

The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles set an example for us all, except we don't need to be mutated to fulfill the formula. The TMNT wrecked shit, saved bitches, and shit on bad guys, and they were teenagers.

Shut the fuck up, it doesn't matter if you have an Ooze Container. Your teenage mutant shit friends are already here. So before you capture a dart frog in the Amazon, smash it up, and put it in all your friends' drinks, listen.

You already have a crime-fighting team. If you've got 3 other friends, awesome. If you have a team leader, even better. If you've got no friends, keep reading this anyway.

You don't believe me do you, you dumb asshole? Here's an example. You have to break it down:

Michaelangelo:

You're a reckless dude. More than your friends' safety you care about pizza. Instead of strategizing, you skateboard. But sometimes, you skateboard over Shredder's nutsack. By not trying, you succeed. You ride down the sewer pipe, fuck up, and fall onto a welcoming vagina. You don't do a good job, but you are rewarded for it. You are Michaelalbert Biastro

Leonardo:

You deal with shit that you really don't need to. You've got important shit to do, but your dumbass turtle friends always want to know where you're at and what you're doing. You're busy because you have to work, and all of your friends don't. Your friends just want to get drunk, eat pizza, or both. Most of the time, you're busy trying to fuck April, but shit always gets in the way, if you let it. You're Deonardo Carrero.

Donatello:

You know shit. You just want to kick someones ass, but your friends don't help. You take out your Bo Staff to smack the shit out of someone, and before you can, someone asks how to reformat their TurtlePuter. You bring up the fact that your friends are annoying you while all you're doing something that they didn't want to do. Your friends all complain that you're complaining, and you silently pledge to kill them. You eventually do it and no one really cares. You say "god damnit" and enjoy the finished product. You are Ed Smitsmattatello.

Raphael:

You have a hard shell, but when it comes down to it, you're slightly emo. You talk big, but ultimately you'll turn against your friends, no matter how wrong you are. You're strong, so nobody plays you, except whoever gets first dibs in Turtles Arcade. In that recent Turtles movie, you fight your own kind for attention. Your misadventures do nothing but reinforce the friendship of those not supporting you. You eventually submit and admit that the things that you've done were not the most admirable. That's more than Shredder can say. You're Kypheael.

Splinter:

Splinter, who do you know who seems smarter than YOU? Hard to believe I know. Who's the smart guy who seems to know little, but knows more than you know?

Right, you've got an allstar team, but no leader. Who could it be, who is this mysterious leader of your actions...

It's your parents! No matter how green, turtled-shelled, or mutant you are, your parents are your leader. Think about the turtles. If they were a bunch of human-sized turtles with no direction, they'd probably be masturbating instead of solving crimes. Splinter gave them resolve.

Next time you ask your parents for money, call them Master Splinter, they'll know what you mean.

Shredder:

Shredder evolves. You'll never have a "one-greatest-enemy". It will all depend on which chemical disease is most popular at the time.

But what if we ruled out diseases?

What if Shredder was someone you know? The Turtles knew about Shredder for a good long time. Have you ever known someone who terrified you who just kept coming back? Someone who infiltrated your personal group or your close social society? I can't think, it's too hard to figure ou......oh my god. It's your ex-girlfriend.

Remember when your girlfriend attacked you by saying "this is the end"?

Sound familiar? Shredder... Remember when you stabbed her out of rage and buried her beneath those boxes?....And then her hand triumphantly raised up through the rubble?

April:

You're the girl who decides to deal with the ridiculousness of what's happening. You're fucking Leonardo but you don't want to make it a big thing. You watch the cartoon with your boyfriend and your house burns down. You decide that's enough and go home.

Your apartment burns down.

You decide to keep buying pizzas for your turtle friends because they are likely to do you favors if you're nice to them. Raphael and Michaelangelo are playing football with pizza in your apartment like douchebags, but you laugh at it.

Another woman comes over, Raphaels foots sticks out under the curtain because he's hiding. Michaelangelo is waxing on and off all over the counter so you can't complain. Michaelangelo then throws up all over the counter and says your drawings are bad and you knock him out.

You are Carpril.


We are not so different than the stories that portray us as what we are.

Skydiving: My Dad and the Drop

When I was a kid, and by that I mean when I was 16+, my dad and I always dreamed of going skydiving together. You see, my dad was a badass. He worked several jobs to earn for my family. He was selfless and cared little about himself, but had great regard for his family instead.

One reason that I loved him so was because he was so goddamn cool. My dad played in bands his entire life. Years ago his band was featured in some old-person magazine. Regardless, my dad ripped on the guitar and was a major influence throughout my life. He was the best father I could have ever hoped for, but to the devastation of my family, he passed away when I was 19 years old. While the mere thought of it chokes my throat in sorrow, I know that he would have told me to shut up and deal with it. And that's where this article begins.

No matter what the occasion, my dad would push me. As a child my dad busted my balls. He screamed at me during little league baseball games. He filled in for Umpires when the Little-League Umps were sick. He encouraged me to do my best and had supreme confidence in me always. He pushed me into doing the unpredictable and the intense. From supporting me musically (teaching me to play the guitar, which I love), to calling me a pussy until I hopped onto the scariest of rollercoasters with him. My dad was all that I admire: a logical, reasonable man. Logic and reason were his strengths, and I could never agree more with his state of mind.

Though the ideals of logic and reason were far from the extent of my dad's best traits. Poissibly what I admired most about him was his balls. My dad grew up and went to school in South Providence. His high school sweetheart was none other than my mom. They shared an amazing sense of humor, comprised of Monty Python jokes and Bugs Bunny's cartoon shenanigans. My mom remains the glue in which our family sticks together. Thankfully my brother and I grew up in the bright light that was my mother and father. Laughter is our real reality.

Skydiving:

So with that long-winded speech over, it's time to get to the goods. Like I mentioned five hours ago in my initial text, one of me and my dad's goals were to go skydiving. This was years ago.

However, several weeks ago, long since I had given up on the idea, my mom presented me with a certificate at lunch. Midway through my chicken dinner, I saw and accepted that I was to skydive. The skydive was for both me and my dad. My dad would have never let me dive without him, but he caught the easy road this time.

Next, my mom and my brother and I went to CT Parachutists Inc. The Newport Parachutists organization was closed for the season. After a two hour trip, we finally made it. To our surpirse, the entrance to the airstrip looked like something out of a horror film. It was nothing but dirt and LARGE rocks. At one point, the terrain was literally at a 45 degree angle.

After the travel ordeal, we pulled up to the location.

The Skydiving Experience, For Real

We walked up to the only structure we could see for miles, in hope that it was where we were supposed to be. Miraculously we were only 4 hours late:


I'll give you the quick tour.

First I was outfitted with a harness:


My balls were spared no expense:


After all that shit, I had a pre-jump interview with my camera guy:


Here I am coming in for a landing with my instructor:


Finally, here's the photo of those involved. From the left: My instructor Larry, Me, and my videographer Nick:

True Coventry Stories - Imaginary Homicide

So my birthday is coming up on the 31st of the month and my Mom, my brother and I went to Texas Roadhouse to "celebrate" preemptively. After we finished eating we filled our pockets with peanuts (they have huge barrels of them) and headed to the car. My brother stole a fork, too.

Once in the car we promptly began throwing peanuts at each other. Once we ruined all the peanuts, we turned to our imaginations for fun. My brother picked up an ice scraper in the back seat and started pretending to shoot me with it (childish gun noises included). We then turned the weapon on the general public.


Laughing hysterically, yelling at people and pretend-shooting them with a 12 gauge pump action ice scraper, we were having a ball. The highlight of our imaginary rampage being a lone fat man to which my brother yelled "HEY", *the man looks over and my brother cocks the ice scraper*, "BAM!".

A minute away from home, you guessed it (or did you?), cops. As it turns out, six people called the police saying that we were shooting a BB gun at people. Six people. The Coventry Police Force had four units looking for a green Grand Am with a highly dangerous armed male suspect. The cop was a real douche about it, but you just can't make someone feel like a criminal for capping people with imaginary bullets.

The cop went on and on about how unfunny it was as my brother and I struggled not to burst out laughing. This has been a True Coventry Story.

True Life: I was Physically Assaulted by Sound Waves

(and I shit my pants)

In addition to earning a Ph. D at Badass University in Beverly Hills in creating awesome titles for blog articles, I'm also a revered and highly decorated music critic; and the results are in, motherfucker. If you don't like at least one of the vast number of Metal genres, you are a faggot and utterly and indefinitely involved in a severe degree of faggotry.

To elaborate further, even so much as disliking Metal is like re-inventing the wheel, except the wheel is called faggotism, and you literally frolic about, faggoting all over the place with a magic wand made of Harry Potter's dirty vaginal pubic hair. Get it yet you tight-green-tunic-wearing fairy? I THOUGHT so... Moving on.

Like honestly... It's the equivalent of engaging in rigorous masturbation, only to then spontaneously decide that you're on the top floor, and that your altitude is simply and indescribably less than satisfactory. You begin to descend down the stairwell towards the bathroom only to stumble in a largely hysterical manner over your own pre-ejaculant, ultimately resulting in your laughable bumpy slanted road to your untimely demise. Minutes later, your biological parents happen upon your small, exposed, shriveled sorry excuse for a premature limp dick. You wake up in a confused and horny daze only to see your Dad. You shamefully walk in silence to your room, putting the experience well behind you, never to be spoken of again.

Oh wait. Next, you venture downstairs to find your Dad examining your family's computer screen intently. After a short time, he removes his credit card from his wallet, and makes an online purchase. You make a peanut butter and faggot sandwich and head back to your gay pink race car bed with the number “intricately detailed picture of a guy sucking a fat dick” on it.

The following brisk Wednesday morning you slowly awaken to faint audits of joy. In the magical light of the beautiful morning sunrise, you saunter down the stairs (like a guy who likes other guys) to your living room.

You turn casually to see your father frantically opening the newly delivered package. In a final brutal act of pure homophobic desperation, he lunges at you with the box cutter, slashing your throat and severing your shitty insignificant balls. As you rapidly lose your blood, you slowly descend toward the floor. With your knees devoid of strength, and your head full of gay scenarios involving blowing dudes, you finally collapse to the floor. With your last bit of conjured strength, you open your eyelids one last time. The soft shadows of a thousand rectangular regrets descend upon you. As your fading vision comes to one last desperate focus, the image lands in front of your face. Mere moments before your grim, dark red blood oozes onto the photograph, you repent your now represented mortal sin to your last hope: the might of the Norse Gods of Metal.

“Not all mortals have the gift”, T. “Big Cock n' Balls” Thor declared loudly. “Indeed”, agreed the impressively hung god Tyr. “But this human has defied the ancient confines of what can even be considered music. He has effectively crossed the line of auditory acceptance, breached the Berlin Wall of talented artists, and trickled his piss along the historical record of enjoyable music to this very day.

“Great Norse Metal Gods of inexplicable rage!” a mysterious voice yelled from the heavens. “Surely this mortal can be forgiven of his awful taste in music, don't you agree?”

But even Jesus would not save this man. The Norse Gods painfully explained to him that the mortal in question preferred the whiny tone of a shitty out of tune guitar combined with the lyrics of a thousand emo dating cliches to the face-melting, boner-inducing concentrated rocking rage of a testosterone fueled asshole rocking power of a Dragonforce guitar solo.

Then suddenly, like something straight out of a version of the Bible that I wrote myself that that definitely would have been more interesting, the Metal Gods and Jesus took action. Raging with the rage of a million rage induced killing spree rages, the mighty Gods burned unto his skin the musical notation of the epic riffs of a thousand John Petruccis; an unreasonable number of platinum albums of a million shitty untalented bands, and the raging melodic melodies of melody of a hundred more Equilibrium keyboard riffs.

“Some may shred and some may jam” Tyr continued. “But if you don't like metal, well...you're just a plain old fag.”

Professor Puppy

You know, like most of you, I had never considered an animal, much less a puppy, to be of any value short of being a fluffy companion. A few weeks ago, my family and I bought a Pembroke Welsh Corgi puppy online. She cost about a grand, and was delivered via American Express!

The first time I boarded an airplane was when I was 14. I've already been belittled by a small dog who eats garbage because she thinks Styrofoam is food. Fucking idiot.

Like my puppy, I've explored many an ass in search for answers(""). In my quest for knowledge I've sifted through countless chronologies of literature and video-based documentaries in search of untapped and unclaimed research-based theories.

It wasn't until late into my research that I realized that I couldn't even read. I then turned to observational research. I began my new research. The basis for my theory was that animals, though seemingly savage in their natural environment, could teach us more about ourselves and our own environment.

I began with the most obvious test subject; my brand new puppy. Within just a few short moments, she taught me more than I could have ever hoped for. She boldly took a huge shit on our brand new carpet. To claim this as anything short of an under-achievement would most appropriately be called an under-statement! Wow, though... That is a whoolle lot of feces there..





brb flushing my puppy down the toilet

13th Grade

After spending just enough time at New England Tech to fuck myself out of having any classes with any of my actual friends, I decided to take up the 2-year-transfer program at CCRI. The deal is I spend 2 years at Community College, and then if I don't kill myself out of boredom, I transfer to URI.

What wasn't part of the deal however was taking 3 years of varsity track and field to condition myself for the walk to class from the parking lot. If I have class from 10am-on I literally have to park closer to Toll Gate than CCRI to get a parking spot. If I use binoculars I can see the outline of the building and if I use the Hubble Telescope I can see shapes that resemble windows and doors. After taking out my compass and heading seven-thousand clicks north I reach the area where the 8am class-goers park. Usually at this point I take out my canteen and take a breather so I don't pass out from exhaustion, taking cover from the sun behind the fleet of poorly personalized Honda Civics and Mustangs that are cooler than mine.

After I catch my breath, I continue up the strenuous walkways of what should be the Community College of Olympic Rock-Climbing. Once finally inside I make a stop at the book store and pick up a power bar, a red bull, some vicodin for my calves, and a pneumatic pump to fill my lungs back up with air. Feeling refreshed, I continue onward. After several long minutes of walking, climbing, scaling, swimming, diving and fishing(?) I arrive at last...nowhere near where I'm supposed to be. From here I search furthermore, getting closer and closer to my desired room number. At last, I am here! I make a dramatic entrance complete with dancing and singing and fireworks. But yet again, I am in the wrong class. God damnit. The students laugh me out and I shamefully walk away. If only I had taken one extra second to review the schedule instead of watching porn online.

I open my backpack and consult my schedule for the second time, realizing now that my room number is NOT XXX SLUTS. I proceed further towards my room. I finally arrive, now 1 hour and 25 minutes late out of my two-hour class. I sit down and listen in. I hear the words " input" and "output". There is no way that they are talking about elementary subjects like input and output in college. Oh god damnit, they are. You know what, if this shit needs to be taught then you might as well be taught how to open your eyes and wipe your own dumb ass. I picked up my desk, smashed the teacher in the face, output my spit onto her forehead, input my fist into her gut, and left.

Mobil on the Run

As my time here at Mobil on the Run comes close to an end, it seems fit to reflect back on this truly weathering experience. I've been working third shifts full time for about six months now, and have decided to give it a rest for a while to help focus on school.

Rather than share my personal experiences here at Mobil, whether it be drinking, eating, playing video games; or drinking, eating, and playing video games, I'll do my part to give back to the community for all their kindness and pleasure that they have given me by buying all of their useful and important items. I'll do my best to give you some insight into the minds of the people who take care of your stupid shit, specifically at gas stations.

Note: I no longer have the internet at work since my bout with the FBI. Therefore I have WAY too much time on my hands. This is a long article. You're probably illiterate so don't count on this taking you any less than 7 weeks to finish reading.

Salutations - "How are you". Just kidding, we don't care. We get paid to say that. This is for everyone who decides to tell you just "how" they actually are. See how there's no question mark? That's not a typo, because it's not a question. We don't want to know, stop telling us.

Stories - I cannot stress this enough. We don't care about your terrible stories. We don't care where you got your car, we don't care where you work, we don't care about your kids, and we don't care what kind of toilet paper you wipe your ass with. Everything about you is uninteresting and no one wants to hear it. Shut up and leave.
*note - While writing my "We're Closed, Seriously" section, a woman came in (I've written this entire article while at work, it truly inspires me...) and started telling me about how she likes to color in coloring books. Case closed.

Pump Numbers - This is the big one: know your fucking pump number. When you pull into the parking lot, there's an oversized (though apparently still not big enough) sign with a big number on it. No, it isn't your IQ (though it might as well be), it's your pump number. Look at it, write it down, call a friend and let them know just in case you forget, anything you need to do. Don't come inside and tell me it's the "cream" colored piece of shit "over there". And another thing, it isn't "cream", it's white dipshit. You'd be surprised how many people come in and start naming off colors that I can't seem to find in the SPECTRUM. It's not cream, it's white. It's not macaroni and cheese, it's orange. Dump the gas on yourself and light yourself on fire. Stop wasting my time.

Lotto - Everyone has their stance on lottery tickets. But whether it be Powerball, scratch tickets, or any other shit, it's all wrong. "But Ed, you could win millions!". You know, you could! But you won't. Everyone might have their particular stance, but a gas station worker has only one: STOP IT. Buying and cashing lottery tickets is easily one of the most frustrating and time consuming things you can burden an employee with. It wouldn't be so bad if you could just ring them up, but we're forced to enter a different 4 digit code for each and every type of lottery ticket each and every time. Secondly, if you win: LEAVE. Don't buy forty-seven one dollar lottery tickets, go sit in your car/stand at the counter just to win five dollars, and spend all five dollars on more lottery tickets until you lose all of your money. That's ANNOYING and it's STUPID. Go take your impoverished (where did all the money go!?) family out to dinner you gambling-addicted fuck.
* Dedicated to Brian Rozzero.

Homeless People - Stop picking up pennies off the ground to buy an energy drink. You don't need energy to do nothing. Some of the best things in life are free; like an application. Get a job and stop being so homeless.

"What? 30 cents!?" - That's right. The price rang up 30 cents more than you had anticipated (and I do mean anticipated you predictable whore). Thirty cents. The two-for-thirty-cents-less deal is GONE. Are you really complaining about 30 cents? You know what, here's the 30 cents you cheap jew fuck. Get out of my store and never come back. You should be hanged in public. You sicken me.

Construction Workers - Plain and simple: wash your fucking hands. They're so dirty you look like a Kenyan (not to denote that they're dirty, just black as fuck). They look like you stuck your hands into the oven until they were fully charred into dirty blackity midnight BLACK. Stop giving me ripped up one dollar bills covered in sut and sweat. We get it, you work in construction, you get dirty. That doesn't mean your ugly ass is immune to hygiene standards. How about you construct yourself a sink and wash those filthy prongs. While you're at it, instead of using toilet paper, just use your hands? Then if you could rub your hands all over the money you're handing me so that I can get sick that would be just great.

We're Closed, Seriously - At the end of the work day, our second shift employees "close the day". This means they lock down the store, and fill out a bunch of bullshit paperwork. If you come up to the door and see eleventeen signs on the door that say "closed", how open do you think we are? Is there some kind of no-man's zone in between open and closed that I don't yet know about? Don't knock on the door, we'll ignore you. Don't knock on the window, we'll ignore you. Don't come up the the window and scream "but I only need !". Oh, excuse me, allow me to take total exception to the obvious fact that the store is closed, and the registers are offline, to help someone I don't even know get their stupid shit (usually a pack of cigarettes to help them die faster) that they don't even need. We hate you. Here, have some cigarettes and choke.

"Have A Good One" - Translation: Don't have a good one. Never have any good ones. Take your shit and go.

"The Bathroom is Disgusting" - Yeah, that's probably because I didn't clean it. Welcome to Mobil, bitch.

Don't Be Personal - If you happen to see me playing Age of Empires or Worms Armageddon instead of helping you, just wait until I'm done. I just reached the Imperial Age and I'm building TWELVE PALADINS. I need to upgrade those Paladins, idiot. They aren't going to upgrade themselves. Don't ask me what I'm doing. For all you know, I'm writing an article about how much I hate people who do that, so don't.

"The Machine's Broken" - No it isn't. Translation: I've been working here for six months and I still don't know how to use it. Alternate translation: I really just don't feel like using it. Another alternate translation: I don't like your face so I'm going to make sure you don't get what you want.
* Dedicated to Stephen Trinkwald

Strippers - If you're a stripper, how about inviting me to your strip club for a free lap dance when I'm NOT working? (this occurred)
*Dedicated to Jarrod Blanchette (Blanton)

Put Your Change In My Fucking Hand - I'm literally making new topics as they happen to me here at work. If I'm reaching over and holding my hand out for your money, it means "please scatter your change all over the counter in the most inconvenient way possible". No wait, it means don't do that, you rude fuck. My hand is even closer than the counter was. This is especially enraging when there's a shitload of change involved. This is common courtesy. I do it, you should be doing it. Learn some manners you cum buckets.

"You Forgot To Give Me My Change" - I did? Sorry, I'm frunk as duck.

Wah Wah Bitch Bitch: Why You Shouldn't Bother - It's okay for me to complain ALL THE TIME because it makes me feel better. Why shouldn't you have the same right? Well, I've mathematically proven that nothing you say matters at all to anybody:

1) Consider this: x = the amount your opinion/concern matters (value assigned on a base 0-10 scale, 10 being the most valuable). This is the overall value that we're here to explore.

2) Therefore, y = the importance of your concern in relevance to the importance of dealing with your concern (as opposed to ignoring it, and on the same numeric scale as x).

3) That being said, ideally x = y (or if you're stupid, I care equally as much as the matter is of importance).

4) Now lets take z, and assign it to the amount that I value doing my job within my last 2 weeks here at Mobil (again on a 0-10 scale). Obviously this is a factor in the equation and as such it must be added.

5) So at this point, to find out how important your complaint is, we can sum it up with x = yz.

6) So let's be generous and say you have an extremely important concern in terms of importance (i.e. a gas pump exploded and several people are dead). This gives y a hefty max value of 10.

7) We can start by plugging this into the equation at hand: x = 10 * z.

8) Our next step is to assess the value of z, or how much I value my job. This comes in at a strong zero.

9) Upon adding this information to the equation, we now have nearly completed the mathematificationarianisms, and we now have x = 10 * 0.

Need some more help? I'm sure you do.

10) x = 0

Several people are dead. However there are still 3 Paladins in queue. Your complaints don't matter. Shut up.

"You Have Nazi Symbolization All Over Your Ceiling" - I honestly don't know what's up with that. We actually do. If you're around, stop by and check out the vents. My guess is that Mobil = Nazi Corporation. No, seriously, I'm not joking at all.

"I Would Like A Honey PAALMA Dutchmaster" - Translation: this is my first time trying weed.

Some miscelleaneous facts or guidelines to follow:

- Don't push the panic button to prove to your friend that you're right in an argument over whether it's the panic button (i.e. silent alarm) or not. ...it was.
*Dedicated to Jarrod Blanchette (Blanton)
- Don't use the coffee machines, don't use the bathroom, don't even touch anything. No one has cleaned any of it, you'll probably get Hepatitis C just from breathing in the air.
- Stop being a clumsy fuck and spilling your coffee all over the place. And if you do, just clean it up, you're an adult.
- If you're gay, DON'T come in and tell me that I'm cute (this HAS happened).
- If you're cute, DO come in and tell me that I'm cute (this HAS happened, but she was probably 40 and not cute).
- If you buy some shit, give me exact change, walk away, and don't hear me pop the drawer open, it's because I canceled the sale and took all of your money.
- If you want some condoms, just say it, you bitch.
- If I'm playing music really loud on my laptop, don't talk over it, just wait until the song is over.
- I will not card you unless you have a rattle in your hand.
- I wear a Boston Red Sox hat. Like another team? No one gives a shit.
- If I'm not at the register, I'm probably taking a shit, sleeping, or I was taking a shit and then fell asleep. Go away.

I could literally go on forever. I think you should be spared. If you think I might respect your opinion even a little bit feel free to give me some feedback or possible suggestions for topics, though I'm sure they'll all be pretty terrible. I've still got another full week of 8 hour drunken shifts.

nwfndh8red@gmail.com - for suggestions
nwfndh8redautodelete@gmail.com - for complaints

Here's to bidding this place farewell, *gulp*

Oh, well, shit.

Like the majority of you I've been to an unhealthy amount of parties so far during the summer of '07. Often memories are created (or destroyed). Recently I attended a party, I didn't know the host or most of the people there, but we brought beer for a night of BP so it was all good (in the hood).

After a few hours of games one of the kids that I didn't know fell asleep on a treadmill (he drank oh say about, 2 beers..). Obviously we turned the treadmill on and it crushed him into a corner and fucked up his face. He decided that it would be better (safer) to pass out upstairs in the living room. We found him a few minutes later, passed out. Where can we find some sharpies to write on him? Quite the predicament indeed. Upon opening of the first draw in sight, we netted a brand new box of assorted sharpies. God intended this. We started drawing a large penis on his face until he woke up in a daze. He ran to the bathroom vomiting wildly everywhere as we laughed at the funny looking dilapidated penis on his face.

When he was done throwing up, I returned to my post at the winning end of the beer pong table (made from coolers, shoe boxes, and innovation). The cleanup crew upstairs used paper towels to clean the mess, and then threw them all in the toilet, clogging it. Since I wasn't helping clean I had no idea. I ran upstairs to drain myself, flushing the toilet afterwards. I began to raid his fridge until alarmed by a familiar sound, running water. The toilet had flooded the bathroom and was pouring down the stairs into the basement where we were playing our games. I ran downstairs to notify everyone only to discover that the pipes in the basement had burst and water was pouring down like a monsoon drenching everything.

We scurried around pulling knobs and levers with no regard to what negative effect they might have. In the end, Jarod plunged the toilet and saved the day. The beer was safe and it was time for Denny's.





Sorry, Andrew.

Insane Anti-Weed Commercials

So a little late in response to my anti-alcohol commercial criticism, but still justified I believe, comes part two. This section deals specifically with the inaccuracies of the anti-weed propaganda commercials seen daily on various channels on TV.

A particular commercial comes to mind:

The scene is set in a public park, a boy and (potentially) his girlfriend are sitting on a bench. Sound like fun? You bet. Well Jimmy Obvious decides it's a good time to whip out his weed and smoke a blunt. His boring ass girlfriend refuses to take part in the smoking of the blunt, which is understandable at this point. However a few seconds later the developers throw a curve ball at you in the form of a hideous alien from another planet who decides his cocky ass is going to land his space ship wherever the fuck he wants. The pizza-headed martian lands his space ship in the middle of this park apparently looking for some boontskeet from a completely different species.
The boy, Jimmy, is completely unmoved by the hideous creature. Naturally(?) his first course of action is to offer the strange being a hit off his blunt. The little patsy throws his head away in a total 180 degree display of faggotism. When the girlfriend lays eyes on the completely irrelevant and far-fetched incident, she magically falls in love.


WHAT A SLUT!


The moral of the story being that smoking weed will instantly and indefinitely make your loved ones hate/leave you is a completely biased and unsupported assumption made by a staff of poorly educated propaganda artists with absolutely no street credibility whatsoever. If any of you are like me, if I was stoned and a little alien landed in a shoddy little spacecraft I would probably beat his ass and steal it or be completely paralyzed in shock by the event itself. The last thing I'd be concerned about is my whore girlfriend getting probed and raped by aliens from some distant planet.

Remember kids, if you smoke weed, you get to see aliens n' shit! WWEeeeeeeEEeEeEEeeee








This is fucking stupid.

Insane Anti-Alcohol Ads

From gravity-altering alcoholic beverages to mind-imploding use of natural herbs, it's been proven that you will instantly die from any amount of use of either of these evil substances.

I'm willing to admit that alcohol is proven to be unhealthy, and everyone who knows their ass from their own head knows it too. But the anti-alcoholism ads, especially in our schools, have stepped so far over the edge of reality that I've grown more trust in vintage cartoon characters (not the modern ones, they're forced by the media to be superficial and politically correct, unlike the old-fashioned racist and honest cartoon characters). To be brief, I'll use the specific ad that was shown to the senior class in 2007. At first it was a pro-war recruiting tool used to try and fool teenagers into believing that the army is what it isn't. It's all guns and helicopters and fighter jets and dominance over foreign countries. After a few good solid minutes of propaganda it suddenly took a turn for the worst in the form of an anti-alcohol (anti-fun) ad.

In this ad, a teenager is seen handing a beer to one of his cohorts. I made the assumption that any second now a message would be made along the lines of "don't drink", or, "don't give in to peer pressure". Well, a message was made alright. The very moment the receiving student made contact with the beer, the students warped into outer space where there is no gravity. The student began spinning in slow motion, wildly out of control! However, the other student who had been handing the student the beer was completely unaffected.

The message is clear: Do not drink alcohol, if you are a pussy.


Coming soon: Insane Anti-Weed Ads

Koeniger, the Racist!

So on Wednesday, March 8th I had some work to make up in Physics (all of 3rd quarter).

After she helped me through some problems she wrote up a new one. Towards the top of the chalk board are some useful equations, numbered (god knows the fuck why). Koeniger then asked me which equation to use to solve the problem at hand. I looked up and decided number four was the way to go. I tell Koeniger, "I choose numba' fo'". My intent being to explain to her, in a stylish manner, that I had picked number four.

After a few seconds of silence, she leans over her desk and whilst speaking softly (because she knew it was wrong) asks: "Why are you talking like a black person?".

Need I say more?

Yes, I do.

Towards the beginning of the year we were doing a lab during her class which involved clamps of different sizes. There was a unique clamp among the bunch, bigger and blacker than the rest in girth and color respectively. When Koeniger referred to the clamp as "Big Blacky", the class chuckled. Get it? Black people. Anyway, in response to the laughter, she exclaims "What? It's not like I called him big NIGGER." We went silent in disbelief and then erupted into laughter all over again. Oohh black folks...

Well at least her racism and cultural ignorance is limited to that of African Americans. That we can all agree on.

Except for this time when Bernardo (no longer in our Physics class, weird) was trying his very best to learn. He asked Koeniger a question about the material we were covering. Koeniger, being old and irritable responds "I can't even understand what you're saying! Speak up! Speak English! No comprendo!" Bernardo, understanding her belligerent abuse of the Spanish language says, "I don't speak Spanish, I speak Portuguese".

Koeniger responds angrily: "WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE!?"

Is Koeniger a racist? Yes.
Is Koeniger a bad teacher? I'll say.
Is Koeniger culturally (and possibly generally) ignorant? Indeed.
Do you have a relevant Koeniger story? If so, email it to nwfndh8red@gmail.com for me to post up.

Dunkin' Dipshits

I think by now the majority of people who know anything about me have come to terms with my insatiable appetite for Dunkin' Donuts. I normally order some form of a breakfast sandwich because it helps dull the intense pain and boredom of going to school. But sometimes the food can cost more than just your hard-earned (or stolen, whichever) money. The following situation really happened and is 100% true to life.

I pulled up to Dunkin' after ordering my sandwich/sammich to pay and obtain it. The woman promptly handed me two coffees. Having compassion for all of gods creatures, even the lesser ones, I politely explained that there had been a terrible mixup, and that I ordered a sandwich. The woman nodded at me, gesturing primitively that she understood the situation. She took the coffees back and proceeded to hand me a bagel (that really fucking awful kind that pigeons and homeless people and homeless pigeons wouldn't even eat, poppyseed...). "You're almost there", I thought, "you dumb bitch". She became embarrassed in lieu of her errors and grew red in the face. She, again, took back the food and fumbled around like a crippled person who comically loses one of their crutches in some serious but amusing accident that we find funny only because it's not happening to us.

Round three. The woman finally comes to the window after what felt like hours of intense sandpaper friction on my balls and poison-tipped darts repeatedly thrown in my eyes. She has the bag, she has the sandwich, she has done it! I put the bag in the passenger seat, my intent being to relax and eat it at home. When I turned back to spit in her face for being so insolent and useless, she tried to give me the fucking coffees. Can you believe it? She fucked up again. If you knew your child was growing up with a severe mental disability why wouldn't you just throw them away? I don't understand it. Why do you think man invented dumpsters? Because in the dark and primal times preceding the dumpster you could only fit maybe 3 dead baby corpses in there, and it was prone to the possibility of tipping over when you threw the living ones in.

Anyway, she was far too large to fit in the cleverly designed garbage opening for fat lazy Americans who if you'll notice ALWAYS throw all their garbage into the first of two garbage bins, resulting in one can overflowing with garbage, and the other near empty. So I pulled a Charlie Murphy and slammed her thick head on the counter until her eyes fell out. She was obviously hopeless, I mean, she couldn't even work the kitchen right. I hope you burn in the fiery evil depths of hell, whore.

She loves me not.

x3loveme2times (12:49:59 PM): I hate you
x3loveme2times (12:50:07 PM): bye

The Ultimate in Getting "Big"

Everyone knows that cool things that guys do are directly proportionate to how big their dicks are. Let me tell you a little story about how I can barely zip my pants.

Okay, it isn't really a story but I've got nothing better to do or say. The other day Fowler and I took an early day from school and were chillin at my place when we saw a video trying to explain a technique for ripping a phonebook in half. The guy used a little bitch ass phonebook that was probably the size of two magazines put together and ripped that shit in half. Feeling like if one were to master this promordial art that their package would suddenly inflate like a fuckin Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon I had to try it. I grabbed a (bigger) phonebook of my own. After trying to get the technique right for a little while, I ripped that shit in half like a fuckin beast. Simultaneously fireworks shot off in every direction and grafitti fell from the heavens as if Zeus himself was giving me a congratulatory pat on the ass. I rip motha fuckin phonebooks in half, bitch.

A second feat of the ages was pulled off yesterday after the super-holiday-blowout-bananza-slammin'-thumpin' dance/party thing yesterday (12/23). After getting home we decided to go for a walk since we were stone drunk. Not 30 seconds later, Pat Bailey (aka P. Blizz.) pulls up in his rig and offers a ride, more beers, and a chance to go get stereotypical by taggin' up some school shit. We meet up with Brian Sypher (aka B Syphes aka The Undertaker aka Shit that kid loves his grandma). For absolutely no reason he and Nick Solitro (aka ..Nick) start tearin up some random sign. We all start yelling and calling them pussys because theres obviously no way they're going to rip it out of the ground. As it turns out B Syphes don't play that shit and ripped it out of the ground by himself.

While I'm at it I might just throw an explanation your way as to why we call Pat, P. Blizz.(ard). Other than his completely irrational and explosive temper (purrree ice) of course. Anyway we had a field trip in Spanish to the Hospital, in which we drove our own cars. Pat drove Ben, me and Holly(?) there. On the way back to school we got in the car and left Holly behind all by herself. She caught up to the car due to traffic in the lot, and asked to get in. Ben replies "NAAAH, WERE BIZZYIN OUTTA HEA!". Much to my surprise, we really did bizzy the fuck out of there. Pat floored it, and we left Holly by herself with no way to get back to school.

Is that funny shit? Why yes, it is.