BAMF

I don’t rightly care about your musical opinions, because I had fucking kickass seats for an Aerosmith concert down in San Diego tonight. They put on a grand show, and the opening act, Kid Rock, was actually fairly good. The guy does pretty well when half his material is covers of classic rock tunes. And apparently while I was gone, SOTD got farked. Odd, but uh… neat? Yeah, I think that’s the word for this Tuesday. Neat. Now we’re on to Wednesday, where the word for the day will be “ass”. Try using it in a sentence today, such as “That Nikki Cox is one piece of ass”.

Today is Election Day. I know this only because Purvue’s father is in local politics. Actually, I also know this because as I’m typing this, he’s having a political discussion with another of our roommates about some of the things being voted on today.

Why do I care? I don’t, really. Why should you care? That is up to you. Why don’t I care? I don’t care because I don’t feel I should be allowed to vote. I think this for two reasons. The first is that I’m for the topic of not allowing crazy people to vote. If you can get away with murder because you’re not in control of your decisions, then you shouldn’t be in control enough to vote. I’m legally insane, so I don’t think I should be allowed to vote.

The other reason is a personal one. I don’t think that uninformed (or misinformed) people should be allowed to vote. I honestly don’t care about a lot of things being voted on, so I don’t take the time to learn about what they are. If I don’t know about the things being voted on, why should I be allowed to walk into a voting booth and flip coins to determine how I vote?

I think that the big thing that turned me off to voting was learning about voting. When I learned about the Electoral College and the voting process to elect presidents, I didn’t ever want to waste my time on something meaningless ever again. If you don’t know the difference between the Popular Vote and the Electoral Vote, then you are either too young or you’re an idiot. The bottom line is that when you (or me or anyone but those in the Electoral College) cast a vote for a Presidential Candidate, it means NOTHING. You’re welcome for the lesson in politics.

Well, maybe 10 out of a few thousand of you can use anyway. There’s a very interesting article on gamegirladvance about the new Japanese game Rez. Apparently the game itself isn’t much to talk about, but the special edition comes with a hardware addition that gives an extra bit of value to your PS2. Dig:

But god damn, the trance vibrator started thumping like crazy in time with the music.

Well, what would you have done? I moved the vibrator into my lap.

…That’s why I was so excited by Rez’s trance vibrator, since it seems to have no other purpose than to act as a masturbatory aid. Its shape is pretty nice, it can slip easily under your skirt or in your panties, it comes with a protective “glove” which you can wash, and it emits a regular pulsating rhythm that gets ever more intense and thrilling the deeper you go into the game. Damn, by the end I was writhing on the floor! Synesthesia indeed.

Hrmm…

None on eBay. Shame. But I can’t think of a better way to indoctrinate a woman into gaming than something along these lines. And I thought that Dance Dance Revolution shit was the gateway to gaming goodness, but this takes the cake. Or the pie, whichever floats your boat.

I’m incredibly sluggish after my return from Humilityville, aka Vegas. Apparently aside from a large wad of cash, I’ve also been robbed of my standard cognative and analytical faculties. Example: while walking back to my car after lunch with some friends, I dropped into this magazine shop. As I was browsing around, a delighfully charming (by charming I mean damned dirty hippie) fellow turns a magazine around in front of my face and exclaims “DUH HUH! CHECK OUT THESE BEAUTIES!” I was greeting by the ocular pleasure of about 20 little mounds of weed. Now, I stood for just a second staring, because I knew in the back of my mind that my brain was performing it’s normal search of my database of nearly 30,000 random insults that will both baffle and humiliate any burnout (assuming he has the brain cells necessary to comprehend my well-timed verbal assault). However, today my poor grey matter balked at the task. I suppose I killed off one too many brain cells this weekend in Sin City, reducing me to low level chuckling just like my Birkenstock sporting neighbor. As this stupifying exchange of hyucks now made us idiot-buddies, I decided to vacate the premises before he decided to hit me up for money.

By the by, I’m not mocking dirty hippies or stoners as a culture, I’m merely mocking this particular dirty hippie stoner. Lord knows if I were in his position, I’d try to refrain from publicly advertising my illegal activities in one of the most cop-riddled towns in the US. To each his own, I guess.

What happens when you crossbreed French and Japanese creativity? Even after seeing it, I have no idea. But the music is fairly soothing.

Up a C-note, down a C-note, and back to even again. Such is the emotionally PMS-ing bitch goddess that is Vegas. No worries though, I factor food and lodging into the up/down equation, but not the copious amounts of free booze-ahol. If I did, I’d have the house by a good couple hundred dollars, and that coaster that I thought was a cookie.

Undoubtedly my tune will have changed by tomorrow morning, after I gamble away my last dollar and the souls of any unborn (or illigitimate) children I may have in a pitiful attempt to satiate my thirst for nickels and dimes.

Lord almighty is it hard to post on this thing when you’re trying to double down.

God dammit. I just reached peak gambling capacity (ie: clear urine) and I’m no longer in a casino. Oh well, there are worse places to be at 5am than Fatburger my friends. Besides, the lil woman and I are each up ten bucks, which covers dinner (or midmorning snack?) and a breakfast buffet apiece. Hooray for free drinks, ya jealous bastards!

He is a hideous beast. I call him Gamblor!

Sidenote: I never noticed that the Vegas Fatburger is right next to McDonalds. While midwest/eastern tourists may head straight for the golden arches, its completely unfair in regards to us So Californians. That’s like asking a guy whether he’d like to bang Christy Turlington or that Rocky Dennis kid from Mask. Not only is it a gross insult to one’s personal taste, but it makes you think of Cher, which if you haven’t vomited already, is enough to force your lunch through the esophagus at lightning speed.

Last minute road trip to Vegas. Mind your manners with the sitter.

Well, MoFos, I can’t stay long, but I wanted to make sure that when you immature little shits go out scaring helpless little kids tonight, you remember one thing: The more they cry, the less they have to pee.

ROLL OUT!

Upon exiting the bookstore tonight, the guy parked next to us made me ponder a question to which I have found no answer. So I pose it to you, my loyal friends…

Why, in one of the statistically safest towns on the planet, where the average car is a $50,000 hunk of German luxury, would you possibly feel the need to put The Club on your paint-stripped 1992 Toyota Tercel?