Moving out of your parents house is huge step in the path to independence from creepy guy living in his parents' basement. It's a well known fact that most of these creeps surf the internet anywhere from 0 to 24 hours a day. So there's a good chance you, the reader, might be one of these guys. Therefore I'm going to share some of my vast experience of the subject with you poor fools.

After I moved out of parents house I had a hard time adjusting. I probably should of figured out what I was going to do before I moved out, you know like decided where I'd live, where I'd get money, or learn how to cut the crust off my peanut butter and jelly sandwiched myself.

I moved to Greece for a while. I remember learning when I was a child that the Gods lived at the Acropolis. Unfortunately when I got there all I found was a stray cat roaming around. I worshiped the cat for a while until one day a dog killed it. I thought maybe the dog was the real God letting me know that I'd been worshiping a fake God, but I also wondered if the dog was actually the devil. It was all very confusing, so I moved back to America where I can find a Jesus in every church to worship.

Life was hard when I got back, I needed to find a place to live. They say home is where the heart is. That's stupid, I can't live inside my own chest. I've also heard people say "home sweet home." I guessed I'd know when I'd find my home because it'd taste good. This knowledge didn't help me much though. Real Estate brokers tend to give you weird faces if you lick the walls while they're showing you a house. They got pissed and I think I got Tuberculosis, which landed me in the hospital. But that's okay it gave me a place to sleep for a while, well until the nurses kicked me out for tasting the floors.

Eventually I was taken in by some bums who lived behind the 7-Eleven. They actually had a pretty nice set-up. They built a hut out of discarded slurpree syrup. Sometimes the guy who ran the place would feel sorry for us and give us some free big bite hot dogs, which we'd use to lure in rats and pigeons to eat.

Yeah, life was pretty sweet at that point, but it still seemed something was lacking. I'm not sure what is was. Perhaps it was the fact that we had no heating, or roof. We tried to make a roof out of old newspapers once, but people kept coming around reading our house. It was especially annoying when some commuter in a hurry would peel off one of our buttresses off to read on the train. I took my concerns to our lead resident, one leg Willie, but he called me a spoiled brat and kicked me out, well, not literally, Willie doesn't do much kicking anymore. It didn't matter much to me anyway, because although theslurpee was did taste pretty sweet, it just didn't seem right.

So I was on my own again. I spent a couple of nights walking around residential neighbors making a real sad face hoping someone might feel sorry for me and invite me to live with them. When that didn't work I tried sobbing as loudly as possible. That got the cops called anyway, and landed me in jail for the night.

Jail wasn't so bad though, it was free housing as far as I was concerned. I started to commit crimes every night so I could go back to jail. After a couple of nights the cops figured out my game and told me they were not going to arrest me anymore. I tried blowing up a couple of buildings, kidnapping the presidents daughters, not cleaning up after my dog, but the police didn't fall for any of it.

Back to square one, and pretty depressed, I decided to attempt the lowest thing possible. I started an internet blog. Now I'm no longer respected, but with the pennys I make every month off the Google ads I can afford a can of soda. It might not sound like much, but don't worry, I've got it all figured out. I'm going to hold onto that can and eventually the aluminum will go up value, like all precious metals do. It's either that or maybe Google will buy my website for 200 million dollars... hmm I have to remember to put a call in to Larry Page as soon as I save up enough cans to afford a cell phone.

Labels: 7-eleven, bums, god, google, greece, jail, larry page, moving

Dear god... no.



This story makes feel so uncomftable I can hardly type it, so I'll just copy & paste some of the story from Reuters.

Four prisoners in an El Salvador jail hid cellphones, a phone charger and spare chips in their bowels so they could coordinate crimes from their cells, prison officials said on Wednesday.

The four men, all gang members, wrapped their phones and accessories in plastic and inserted them into their rectums "far enough to reach their intestines," Ramon Arevalo, director of the maximum security Zacatecoluca prison, said.

Arevalo said the ruse was discovered during X-ray examinations following six weeks of investigations.

I know cell phones are getting smaller... but jeesh...

Labels: ass, jail, phone, x-rays

The new pope was making his first visit to the United States and had chosen my parents house as the venue for this historic occasion. My wife and I pulled up in a car being driven by my father-in-law. I had foot out the door when he turned and warned us to look out for Michael Moore with a midget on his shoulders in disguise. What a stupid joke. I'm not saying that because I didn't get it either.

I entered the front door of my house and was immediately taken back by how many people were in the house. The living room was wall to wall with guests. I guess when the pope is visiting people will find any excuse to stop by.

As I visually searched the crowd, hoping to find anyone I might recognize I saw none other than Michael Moore with a midget on his shoulders. I think he recognized me at the same time, because as soon as I saw him he dropped to his knees.

"Hello," Moore said in his best Oliver Twist impersonation, "I'm here to see the pope."

I shook his hand in a gesture to show that I had recognized him and his secret was safe with me. I also noticed he had shaved, that was nice of him.

I mingled for a little while before I heard someone call my name from within the crowd. I didn't like the sound of it at all. You know how your mother would call you by your full name and you knew that you were in trouble. It was like that.

The crowd separated and revealed the person calling my name to be a woman with an FBI badge in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

I backed up a step out of nervousness. Had she seen me with Michael Moore earlier and though I was conspiring with him? I had this feeling deep within me that I was about to be arrested. I could just see it coming. But wait, I thought, can they really arrest me for that? All I did was shake his hand. I assured myself that my imagination was just running wild and I was safe.

I looked up at the FBI agent in acknowledgment that I was the person she was looking for.

"Your under arrest."

Oh crap.

"What for," I whimpered out.

It seemed as if everyone just suddenly vanished from the room except us two.

"You owe $18,000 for season tickets to Shea Stadium you purchased, yet never paid for," she told me as she pulled a New York Mets calendar from her briefcase.

I'm safe! I never purchased season tickets to see the Mets. I purchased season tickets for the Islanders, or at least I attempted to. I had called the ticket office a few months earlier to purchase the tickets with a money making scheme in mind. I planned on selling each ticket individually on eBay for a profit. I chickened out though, and hung up when they asked me for my credit card information. I assumed by doing so they had canceled my order, I guess they put the order through anyway and just billed me.

"I never purchased season tickets to Shea. I only went to a Mets game once this year, back in April, and I bought tickets individually for then. Why would I do that if I had season tickets?" I argued acting half confident, half smart-ass.

"Good point," she conceded as she checked her paperwork.

I began to smile, knowing I was going to be alright.

"Oh wait, the tickets were for the Islanders, not Shea," she said, and the smile quickly erased from my face.

Oh crap.

This is where I began to cry like a little girl.

"I can't go to jail," I begged, “I know what they do to the new guys in there.”

"No choice," she answered simply showing no will to budge on the issue.

"I'll pay the $18,000!"

"What? Why?" she seemed startled that I offered, "Why would you pay for something you never used."

This seems odd. If she didn't think it was worth paying for, then why was I being arrested for not paying for it? Oh well.

"I don't care. I'll pay. I just don't want to go to jail," the tears ran down my cheeks.

"And how are you going to pay?" She smirked.

I think she was enjoying this, nonetheless it was a good question. None of my credit cards had a limit that high. And my checking account was more likely to have $18 in it than $18,000.

"I rather die," I screeched as I ran out the front door and into oncoming traffic. I planned on being hit by a car, but jumped out of the way at the last second. I was too much of a coward to commit suicide.

An oncoming white Jeep suddenly came barreling down the road in front of me. I stepped to the side to avoid it, but it also moved over, positioning itself in front of me. Once again I moved to the side, and once again the Jeep moved with me. Looks like I wouldn't have to kill myself. I was going to be murdered.

I covered my head with my arms, preparing for impact, but instead the Jeep stopped short right in front of me. The door flew open revealing my wife was driving. She was helping me escape, what a sweetheart.

I quickly climbed into the passenger seat and we sped off. We only got about a block though before my conscience got the best of me.

"Wait, we have to go back," I said with regret, "I have to do what's right."

Labels: islanders, jail, jeep, mets, pope