Flushee's Revenge - Part I of Bathroom Bonanza

Ed note: I thought I was really clever when I wrote this back in 2001. Now, not so much. -KV

Another Ed. note: I just took out a bunch of jokes. Boy did we hate frat guys back then. -KV

Bathroom Bonanza
Klaus Varley

Part I: Flushee's Revenge

There is a universal truth in this world that few people know. Historically documented and scientifically scientificated, this fact will revolutionize not a damn thing, but hopefully make the world a little bit cleaner.

What is this ontological cleanser of cleansers? Raising air quality emission standards for all full-size vehicles? No way. Limiting the amount of off shore drilling and oil transport in the
Pacific? Not even close, and what's with all the questions? The answer is something that affects our daily lives, not some fuzzy abstract environmental mumbo jumbo.

The revelation? All urinals are not the same. They collect the same thing, but oh, how their methods vary.

What am I talking about? Five letters: urine. Plain and simple. Look folks, I'm not writing to gross you out (poop) or disgust you (George W. Bush). This is an information piece. You will become informed individuals at the conclusion of, well, not this paragraph, but definitely by the end of the article.

It was a warm day, and I had five minutes before my first summer-school class. Wandering into Royce Hall in my new Gap cargo shorts I entered what is commonly known as "the place where people go to the bathroom." No one around, (see Part II) I comfortably unvelcroed my shorts and began the process. And then it hit me. Yes, IT.

The pee, the urine, the IT! A maelstrom of warm liquid violently tickled my knees like a warm sprinkler. I was hit. Turn your body Klaus! Stop the flow. Concentrate. Putting off those bladder control exercises until now was a mistake. Channel the peeing muscle. Flex! Nope. I turned, frantically aiming in a myriad of angles, but the backfire barrage was relentless. A warm stream now condensed and dripped slowly down my left calf. And I couldn't stop peeing. It was like that Sarte play, or the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. There was no escape. No escape!

The clever engineers at Flushee Inc. have created a device that can aeronautically redirect a steady stream of liquid back at the source, showering everything within a five-foot radius. They christened this clever devise "the urinal" and went on their day engineering other wonders of the world.

What they failed to realize was that the name "urinal" has already been taken by legitimate waste management companies, such as PNS and Uranimo, and refers to a practical, useful apparatus occupying men's rooms in universities throughout the land.

This confusion, however, has gone unnoticed in most of the country, due to the large number of states in which long pants are the norm. Here in the West, however, we will not tolerate Flushee's carelessness. The confusion must end. Today. Now. We demand our sanitation. Give it to us yesterday, and that's not soon enough… You get the picture. Buy PNS. Buy Uranimo. The Flush stops here.

I went to class that day wet as hell. Not from pee though. I splashed water on my legs and scrubbed them with a paper towel. Sure, I got funny looks from people in class, and I heard a few references to my losing battle with the Urinator, but at least my legs weren't sticky like a dried Popsicle. Perhaps that's a bad analogy. At least they weren't sticky like dried urine stuck to my legs.

Disgusting, I know, but think about this: What if I had worn pants? How many times have I worn pants and not known about Flushee's evil scheme? How many others are pawns in this sick game of contamination? Is it a game to you Flushee? Is it? Because it's real to us. So real.

I pee in toilets now, and will continue to do so until the situation has been resolved. I recommend you do the same. If you are female, you are already way ahead. (what else is new?).

And if you are ever in UCLA's Royce Hall, and you see a guy exit the men's room wearing long pants and a smile, note: Keep your distance. This man is tainted, courtesy of Flushee Inc

-KV

The Petco Logo Controversy - Anonymous Weighs In

We got some great responses to the first part of this series, but the best came from "anonymous." If anonymous wishes to be credited, anonymous just needs to let Klaus know. Seriously. -KV

THE PETCO CONTROVERSY (Part two of nine...hundred)
"The Response From Anonymous"

At first glance, it appears the dog is in front. The dog is larger, a spatial cue often used to identify foreground Vs. Background, and it is also a brighter and more-dominant color.

Close inspection, however, reveals clues to the contrary. It appears that the dog's right ear (to your left) is impinged upon by the cat's ears. Either the dog's left ear is larger, or the cat's head is in front of the dog's right ear.

At this point, reality steps in front of the bus, forcing a hard left turn. The dog is not in front of the cat, nor is the cat in front of the dog. The cat is to the left of the dog (to the dog's right.) The dog's ear is above the cat's head. In their two-dimensional world, there is no fore or aft. Shall I ask you whether you are earlier or later than your friend? The question simply makes no sense.

-Unknown

Walking backwards into the future

I didn't make up the phrase "walking backwards into the future." If you did, let me know. -KV

Most people look at the past as something behind them. They'll say, "well, that's all behind us now," as if we're walking wide-eyed into the future.

But there are some cultures that look at the past differently. They imagine us walking into the future, but we're walking backwards, keeping our eyes on the past.

To me, that just makes more sense. You can't look into the future; you can never turn around and see what's coming. All you can ever do is look back and hope you learned something as you take anther step backwards into the unknown - into the future.

-KV

Bukowski Quote of the Day-Week-Whenever

"An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way."

Yes, another quote from Charles Bukowski...because a lot people search for quotes by him, and we want those people to arrive here, at The Literary Brothel, and not on thinkexist or some dumb quote site.

So, thank you, people, for the searchers.

And welcome to The Literary Brothel...

Dogs vs. Cats and the Petco Logo

Let me ask you a serious question: is the dog in front of the cat, or is the cat in front of the dog? Cat first? Dog first? This is serious. I want answers.

Though you may not consider this news-worthy, you would be wrong. It certainly is, and is part of a series of yet-to-be-written pieces entitled "The Petco Controversy." This is part one of nine....hundred.

Seriously.

-KV

I'm looking for my girlfriend's email is rainbow butterfly something?

Someone searched the phrase above and landed right here on The Literary Brothel.

In case they search it again, I thought I'd help them out.

Dear: "I'm looking for my girlfriend's email is rainbow butterfly something?"

You're in luck! We've found your girlfriend's email!

And here it is: "ifyoudonthaveheremailaddress-sheisnotyourgirlfriend
at hotmail dot com"

We're here to help.

-KV

Obama draws record crowd in Oregon, and bloggers spread the word

So, here's an acquaintance's blog that covers the Obama rally this weekend pretty darn well.

http://braintransplantjournal.blogspot.com/2008/05/yes-we-can.html

That's primary source material, with some pictures and news footage. I guess that's what most blogs are: a mix of of your own photos, own thoughts and ideas combined with the "official" story. Kinda cool age were living in...

Alright, enough thinkin', just click the link above.

Obituary of a Neapolitan Mastiff

Laura used to be a reporter for the Los Angeles Times and Baltimore Sun. Through much cajoling, she gave us this piece off her blog. Hope you like it as much as we do. -KV

OBITUARY - XIAO HEI
by Laura

Xiao Hei, a 150-pound Neapolitan Mastiff who loved to eat noodles and roll in the grass after a bath, died yesterday of natural causes. He was 10 years old.

Adopted by the Loh family as a puppy, Xiao Hei spent his early years going to work every morning at Mr. Loh's warehouse in downtown Los Angeles, where he honed his skills as a ferocious-sounding guard dog. On weekends, Xiao Hei accompanied the family on outdoor excursions. He enjoyed running away from ocean waves, plodding around shallow riverbeds, and eating snow during winter trips to the mountains.

Family members described Xiao Hei as a gentle giant who, despite his intimidating appearance, was always careful not to hurt any person, even by accident. In fact, the most effective way of getting Xiao Hei to release something in his jaws was always to jam one's hand into his mouth, which caused him to immediately let go.

The only creature on whom Xiao Hei ever took out his wrath was Cheeto, a fuzzy orange cat who was his tormentor until the day the dog struck back with a paw under a fence that clipped Cheeto's leg, sending the feline to the hospital.

Because of his heavy build, Xiao Hei understood he could never be a lap dog. When he wanted to feel close to one of his family members, he would content himself with plopping his bottom down on one of their feet. He had tender feelings, and was known, after a scolding, to hang his head or occasionally take himself to a far corner of the backyard to brood.

In later years, Xiao Hei was bothered by a hind leg injury that caused him to limp. But there were still good days, when he would charge around the backyard for no apparent reason, or roll around in the grass under a hot afternoon sun, snorting and growling to himself. One of Xiao Hei's favorite treats in his old age was the bowl of noodles or rice in warm broth that he would be fed every evening after the family's dinner.

Several family members were present in the backyard yesterday afternoon when Xiao Hei laid himself down one final time, on a pile of freshly-cut peach tree trimmings. He will be missed.



-LL

Read more from Laura on her blog: well, it was interesting to me

Foot in the Mouth - A Short Film

They finally did something right... Check out this short from our friends over at the Short-a-Week Project. -KV

Searching for Keyword Brothel + The Assassination of Jesse James

This is a pretty straight-foward blog, written as I procrastinate doing any type of productive (read: history) work on a Friday evening. -KV

Looking for a piece I have about keywords hitting the site. Was something about the top keywords, making fun of the adult nature of each one. They were all things like naked, boobies, brothel, and what not. I thought it was called Keyword Brothel.

It seems I have thought wrong.

So it turns out that I'm writing a blog entry. Or am I simply writing a blog?

Since I'm writing a blog, lets jump topics. I just watched The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, (which is listed on IMDB as Jesse James, 2007) and though it is not bad at parts, the voice-over reminds me of The Royal Tenenbaums, but pretentious.

You might think, wait, Tenenbaums was pretentious. Well, this was pretentious not in the"we know we can't really make a serious movie, so hopefully you'll find this quirky" sort of way, but in the "we are artists, we shoot on film, this is serious."

How can you tell the difference? Here's a line from James.

"Rooms seemed hotter when he was in them. Rains fell straighter. Clocks slowed."

And here's a line from the Alec Baldwin voice-over in Tenenbaums:

"No-one spoke at the funeral, and Father Petersen's leg had not yet mended, but it was agreed among them that Royal would have found the event to be most satisfactory."

Maybe Jesse James was just too long. Or maybe I just love me some Tenenbaums.

Or maybe Jesse James is freakin' long.

The High Life / Teddy Does Dallas

This is one of the best pieces on the Brothel. Did I say that about "Acceleration?" "Flip a Towel?" Yeah, I say that about all the stuff on the site. Sue me; I'm a fan. (And you wouldn't sue a fan, right? Seriously, please don't sue me.) -KV

THE HIGH LIFE
by Teddy Nutmeg

I'm pseudo-irate, which is about as irate as an exceedingly sheltered middle class white boy can get, and I'll tell you why. I'm spending another lonesome night in another nondescript hotel room, another bottle of "the champagne of beers." I usually drink bourbon, but the damn liquor store next to the damn Holiday Inn Express closed promptly at nine p.m. and I had to settle for the damn gas station mini mart in a state whose damn gas station mini marts can't sell anything with an alcohol content higher than that of damn pedialyte, for chrissakes. They even teased me, with a sign on the window for "Olde English Fine Malt Liquor - 40 oz $1.99" but then I get inside and the cooler doesn't have any OE, or any other fine malted beverage, for that matter. So here I am drinking frikkin (I may be pseudo-irate, but I'm still a pansy) Miller High Life--"the champagne of beers" for those of you who don' know your cheap beer monikers. But I was going to tell you why I'm pseudo-irate.

I'm so phony with myself that I can't even realize or admit that I'm angry, or pissed, or REALLY (not pseudo) irate. Yesterday I flew to Dallas with no driver's license. Arriving at the airport late because I dawdled around the house. Packed and ready to go, staring at the disorganization of my bedroom slack-jawed and dull-eyed, half-thinking that the best metaphor for my life, or rather for what my life has become, is that of a radio station you tune into because it's playing a song you think you like, but then you space out and minutes later slowly realize you're listening (or worse, actually singing along) to a song you hate.

I finally arrive at the airport, sans driver's license, about 45 minutes before my flight is scheduled to leave, and am overjoyed when the baggage checker happily (damn Southwest employees, they're given super-strength anti depressants) accepts my ratty, 23 year old social security card and 5 year old student ID and lets me on the plane. I made it, I think, thankful and about to pass out in seat 11D, when a thought strikes me like a timpanist performing "Also Sprach Zarathustra"; how in Texas am I going to rent a car once I get to Dallas?

Not panicking, delving deep into my inner CEO, I utilize the 2 ½ hour layover in Albequerque and my cell phone to my advantage. After negotiating tirelessly with Budget, Avis, Dollar, Hertz, and any other company I can get a number for, I accept the fact that I can't rent a car without a driver's license and decide to call home: "uhh, roommate, could you grab my driver's license off my dresser, haul ass down to the Fed-Ex office, and shell out the gross national product of Ghana to get it to the Radisson next to Love Field in Dallas by 8:30 tomorrow morning so I won't get fired?" Roommate would, and roommate did. Why my license was on my dresser instead of in my wallet is another story, but it involves meeting Ron Jeremy in person at a showing of his new documentary. Really.

Anyway, it's dinnertime at the Radisson next to Love Field in Dallas. Desiring some little local flavor, I walk across the street, neglecting the hotel restaurant for the neighborhood chicken shack. And calling this place a shack is a stretch. In case you don't know, Love Field in Dallas is in a slightly less affluent neighborhood than Compton, and this place was a chicken shack run for and by the people, which means that a white boy on a business trip doesn't exactly blend in. Three deliciously fried pieces of fowl and a side of greens later I'm walking out of the shack and a man whose eyes are yellow where they're supposed to be white nods at me, says "hey man, you smoke weed?" I say yes. He smiles and asks the next question and then we're in the parking lot. Yellow Eyes tells me he's supposed to be at work at the chicken shack in 30 minutes, which is enough time to hook me up a 20 bag. He flags down a homie, introduces us, and then I have a choice: get into the backseat of a crappy car in a crappy neighborhood with two guys I've never met, or say "no thanks fellas," and cross the road back to the Radisson and the other well-dressed white people.

I don't know why I got into that car, in that ghetto with nobody knowing where I was or expecting me back anywhere at any time. Maybe I didn't really care if I got mugged or beat up. Maybe I didn't value my own life very much just then, two days ago, maybe I was looking for the kind of attention paid by those in black. Maybe I was just jonesing for some weed, who knows?

So we're driving through the ghetto on the strangest drug run I've ever taken. I've given this guy 20 bucks and now he's asking me if I'm staying with anybody at the hotel, i.e. if anybody expects me back. Suddenly, I'm starting to worry, and being a causeless martyr doesn't sound so coolly poetic anymore. We park next to an old warehouse, Yellow Eyes gets out, and we wait. The fidgety driver asks me repeatedly for five minutes if I'm the po-lice, stopping only when Yellow Eyes comes back and says to the driver: "here ya go, patna." He promptly places a few small white rocks on the dashboard, busts out a glass pipe, and lights up some crack rock. This done, he passes the pipe to the driver and then asks me through the double clouds of crack smoke if I hit the rock. I just say no.*

Then he instructs the driver to try another house, and another when that one turns up nothing, insisting the whole time that "damn, my homie was just here, man, just here."

Figuring my 20 bucks just bought this dude his nightly rock, I say "hey man, its cool, if you can't hook it, no problem." So we drive back to an alley behind the chicken shack and get out. The driver takes off, and we're alone, me and Yellow Eyes whose real name is Wayne. Wayne then turns to me, reaches in his jacket, and gives me my 20 bucks back, without my asking for it. I feel stupid for being scared, and racist for doubting my dark skinned compatriot. This guy is probably more honest than I am.

So we start talking, Wayne and I, and it turns out Wayne just got out of jail, his woman left him two months before he got out, and he's homeless and could use a couple of bucks. All I have is the 20, so I ask Wayne to go in to the liquor store (one on every corner) and buy me a bottle of bourbon and he can have some of the change. He buys it, we share a drink or two in the alley, and he hits up some more crack.

I ask him some questions, what's crack like, is he still going to work at the chicken shack, and what not. He says crack is a quick rush and that he didn't like that job anyway. So there we are, a homeless crackhead and a lonely white boy on a business trip, sharing a bourbon in the alley.

We finish the bottle, share a cigarette, and part ways, and on the walk across the road to the Radisson, my usual feeling of wretchedness is kicked up a notch; I feel like I've been a bad influence on Wayne. Maybe if I hadn't gone with him, tried to buy weed from him, and generally been such a willing party pal, he'd have gone to work at the chicken shack. Maybe he'd have turned it around, worked an honest job and made the small steps on a long hard road. But I didn't give Wayne that chance. I was his excuse to go out and get high. I was a bad influence on a crackhead.

Sitting here, drinking in the hotel room, I guess I'm not really pseudo-irate, just wretched, a little more wretched than normal, and this fact is heightened by the champagne of beers which is giving me a headache. Or maybe it's the second hand crack smoke.

-Teddy Nutmeg
January 2002


*Thanks to Nancy Reagan and her Just Say No campaign of the 80's, I couldn't have refused that crack rock without you!

Charles Bukowski Quote

"It's not the large tragedies that moil us to pieces - we are fucking well ready for those. It's the little scratchings and drippings, the continuous stubbing of the toes and elbows, the car that won't start, the piece of tooth that breaks off as you are biting into a peach, dirty stockings, a sudden face in the market goring your peace like a bull, a ring in the bathtub, constipation, insomnia, a dirty newspaper, toothpaste too sweet, a fingernail flipping back and ripping from the finger...these things again and again, the similar small biting donnybrook continuous hail...these tear us to the final pieces. ah ha."

-Charles Bukowski, 1967
From Charles Bukowski Selected Letters, Volume 2: 1965-1970

Sexy Single Sizzling - An Interview with DLC

Back in 2001, my old college neighbor was voted on of People Magazine's top eligible bachelors. So we interviewd him. Sure, he had a girlfriend at the time so he wasn't technically single, but hell, how many people do YOU know who have been profiled in people magazine? That's what I thought. -KV

SEXY, SINGLE, SIZZLING
by Charlie Luzon

Blatantly capitalizing on the fame of our friends (Kal, you're next), here's a brief interview with one of People Magazine's Top 50 "Sexy, Single, Sizzling" Bachelors, Mike de la Cruz.

Mike (DLC) has a degree in Anthropology from UCLA. He thought about joining the French Legion, nearly joined the Army Reserves, and eventually settled on teaching high school at Compton High.

----

TLB: How did you get picked as one of America's top 50 eligible bachelors?

DLC: My rare ability to maintain the attributes of both sexy and sizzling simultaneously. At any given time there are about 125 of us in the world, with about 60 being already married - so to fit into People's criteria of Sexy, Sizzling, and Single the competition really wasn't all that fierce.

TLB: What do your students and co-workers say about your spot in "People"?

DLC: They think I had that issue made at Kinkos for $20.

TLB: What did your friends and family say?

DLC: They laugh. There is a general consensus of disbelief.

TLB: What's the best thing for you that has come out of the "People" spot?

DLC: The unbelievable amount of riches.

TLB: What is anthropology?

DLC: The study of man.

TLB: Do you plan to teach your entire life?

DLC: No.

TLB: What do you plan to do if not teach?

DLC: Continue pulling off amazing heists.

TLB: Can you beat up Ben Affleck?

DLC: Probably not.

TLB: Matt Damon?

DLC: Once again...

TLB: Ok, ok, what about Tiger Woods, could you take him (sans golf clubs)?

DLC: I think you have the wrong idea here... These guys are all protected by very powerful friends. They're bigger than you and me.

TLB: What's your favorite movie?

DLC: At all times my favorite movie happens the last movie that I saw. My attention span doesn't allow for much leeway.

TLB: Favorite Book?

DLC: The yellow pages.

TLB: Color? Why?

DLC: Mauve. You know why.

TLB:. Where do you see yourself in 20 years?

DLC: Hopefully kicking it with Frooz (a mutual friend of ours)..

TLB: Thanks Mike.

DLC: Word, homie.

-TLB

Built to Spill - Perfect From Now On

Of all the praise I could heap upon this piece, I'll just say that this review got me to listen to Built To Spill. Mission accomplished, Teddy. If that was your mission. -KV

Built to Spill - "Perfect From Now On"
by Teddy Nutmeg

The first time I heard Built to Spill, I was 16, riding in the backseat of a car belonging to my small town's big-time weed dealer, and we had smoked enough high-quality ganja to paralyze an elephant, out of a bong as big as Delaware, no less. I mean, we were real stoned; like Cheech & Chong stoned, and my buddy puts on this album called "Perfect From Now On" and something paradigmatically shifted. The air inside the car thickened, time seemed to slow down, and my soul was suddenly dripping with warm, sticky-sweet honey (or maybe it was my pants, there WAS a freshman girl sitting next to me in the backseat).

That night, listening to that album on that stereo, in that backseat next to that freshman, I was reborn into a rapturous state of happy thoughtful appreciation. I oozed down and let the intricate melodies and harmonies cascade away into my future, and, completely and wholly comfortable, I was absolutely unwilling to pry my attention away from the aural bliss I was experiencing. I've been a Built to Spill fan from that point on, and they remain a high frequency selection on my play list to this day. I'm still a freshman girl fan too, but, alas, certain legalities prevent them from having quite the same frequency status on my play list.

But seriously, every time I listen, I am pleasantly dumbfounded by this album's sweet melodies, dead on harmonies, and cryptic lyrics. One key to its remaining so enjoyable over time is that I always find something new to listen to when I pop in "Perfect". Whether it's the guitar easing its way into expressive never-never land, or the agonizingly beautiful cello mixed in at just the right levels, or the "fat" sound of the drums, reminding me of Pink Floyd, some different facet of the composition always jumps out. And every time I hear something new, its peculiarly familiar, like the smell of the place where I went to pre-school; I don't remember it exactly, but I connect with it on a profound level and I know in my heart I've been appreciating it since the beginning, consciously realizing it just now.

If you've never listened to BTS before, "Perfect From Now On" may coax you into believing that they're capable of living up to that impossibly high standard; it's that good. Part of the appeal of the album is its subtle emotional intensity, which builds and builds throughout each long, melodic song, leaving the listener gooey in a sort of post-coital bliss. But the content as far from mushy as you could imagine. Its like good sex: at times slow and romantic, at times driving and powerful. In fact, the lyrics (which tend to make no sense to a newbie) almost take a back seat to the overall sound, but once you get into them, it's a whole new world. You listen, rapt, to a song from "Perfect From Now On" with this sort of dazed happy look on your face, and when its over, you say, "yeah" to yourself and the corners of your mouth reach for your ears. It's like a really, really good psychedelic trip that you can rewind and play over and over.

The driving force behind BTS, Doug Martch, is a genius on the guitar, a mellow Neil Young for the stressed out 90's. His licks are clean, rich, and nigh-perfect in their mix of emotional content and professional execution. I listen to his playing and I get that lump in my chest like when I think about my first true love. He sounds truly sincere and 100% connected with his music, a vocalist with crystal in his chords and subtle power in his lungs. Doug Martch is not just another whiny indie-rock singer, either. He's as amazing a songwriter as he is a musician. Eight songs take up the 60 or so minutes of the album, and all eight are absolutely stunning, sequenced in perfect order.

In terms of the band's other offerings, I have most of them, and although I don't enjoy them as much as "Perfect From Now On", they rock. "There's Nothing Wrong With Love", "The Normal Years", "Keep it Like a Secret", "Built to Spill Live", and their newest offering, "Ancient Melodies of the Future" are all worth whatever you're charged for them. They're all different, and very much display the evolution of Martch's unique musical style. But none match the raw beauty of "Perfect From Now On", which was released in between "There's Nothing Wrong With Love" and "Keep it Like a Secret."

If you're going to check out Built to Spill, check out "Perfect From Now On", and have a good trip. Just remember to bring fresh underwear, especially if you're going to be in the backseat. And of course, don't sit next to any freshmen unless you're in high school.

-Teddy Nutmeg

Conversation Between the Brothel Founders Over Spiderman and Other Pressing Issues

Circa 2002, a year or two into the life of the Brothel, Parker (cookieronsta_01) and Klaus (octoon101) had a long-distance conversation via AIM, discussing such grandiloquent fare as Javascript, Les Miserables, and of course, Spiderman. -KV

Original Intro: A conversation between two feuding souls. This one coming after a fierce IM warning battle in a post-Spiderman era...

...
cookieronsta_01: no more!
octoon101: my finger is on the warn button. Stop.
cookieronsta_01: well ease up tiger I have some good news
octoon101: me = intrigued
cookieronsta_01: my job is requiring that I learn how to program java for web pages and how to write scripts for dynamic flashing integrated thingamjiggies
octoon101: for use on the brothel?
octoon101: how did they know about The Literery Brothel - "Where Great Minds are Coming.."?
cookieronsta_01: you stupid beast, for one of my job programs
cookieronsta_01: but this will help the brothel in the long run
octoon101: i get it
cookieronsta_01: stupid beast
cookieronsta_01: you like that one?
octoon101: tu tiene mucho tiempo en la interneta
cookieronsta_01: si, pero cuando tu hables el significo es el pot dime el kettle "tu es negro!"
octoon101: como?
cookieronsta_01: exactamente
cookieronsta_01: mi pones mis zapatos en tu ano
octoon101: ok ok
cookieronsta_01: DONT TRY TO APPEASE ME WITH YOUR BULLSHIT CONDESCENSION!!!!!

octoon101: Ok. One question though: who am I?
cookieronsta_01: huh?
octoon101: I'm Jean Valjean!
cookieronsta_01: and I'm Javert!
cookieronsta_01: you made me laugh out lound in a quiet ass building
cookieronsta_01: I'm a super spy!
octoon101: "Do not forget me......Do not forget my name!!!"
cookieronsta_01: 2460 one!!!!!1
octoon101: JAVA is some funny shit.. tell them that
octoon101: dude, that's going to be my licenceplate
octoon101: with a heart
octoon101: and a handprint
cookieronsta_01: java is some funny shit is too many words unlike my original idea of putting 24601 one a liscense platye
cookieronsta_01: dont copy my idea tho
octoon101: 24601 is mine!
octoon101: i'll give you 24602
octoon101: or 2460ONE
cookieronsta_01: I'll take 2460one!
cookieronsta_01: me think faster
octoon101: me write faster
cookieronsta_01: with less gramma

octoon101: if we had a radio show we'd have to sensor it. and have an intern.
cookieronsta_01: no just you and me do a radio show
octoon101: "you bleep out the bad words"
octoon101: "motherfuckin' intern bitch"
octoon101: how many bad words there?
octoon101: yeah, we can pull some local shit when you move back to the motown
cookieronsta_01: feedback = "um yeah...your show is 60% bleeps..yeah"
cookieronsta_01: in seven years
cookieronsta_01: do radio show?
cookieronsta_01: lose edge!
cookieronsta_01: not poor anger like now
cookieronsta_01: NEED POOR ANGER!!!
cookieronsta_01: I PEE EVERYWHERE!!!!!!
...
cookieronsta_01: bring me the head of spiderman!
octoon101: your warning level has gone down a percentage!
octoon101: but mine remains the same :-(
cookieronsta_01: me nice guy!
cookieronsta_01: you dirty injun
octoon101: "Spiderman will pay for what he did."
cookieronsta_01: help me peter...
octoon101: "Pay with his sticky testicles." -Line cut from the movie. Writer's argument: He's a spider! That's where his web comes from.
cookieronsta_01: How about we just cut the scene one line before, then we wont lost that population who doesn't want to hear about sticky testicles? Sound good?
octoon101: but..but.. gosh darn it, you don't like anything i write.. (pouting)
cookieronsta_01: hey I went to the wall for you in the whole silky nuts debacle but I cant put my neck out there anymore
cookieronsta_01: what about at the end as tobey's walking away we have him yell out.."GOBLIN this is all you fault you CUM DUMPSTER!!!!"
octoon101: "Uh, look. This is a family movie, and we just can't have the word cum in there."
octoon101: "what about 'come to papa!!!"
octoon101: "No."
octoon101: "Come on Eileen?"
octoon101: "how did you become a writer?"
cookieronsta_01: what about instead of "Spiderman I will annally rape and then destroy you!" He just say's “I will destroy you,” how much of the story are we losing if we just go with that?
cookieronsta_01: like 30 minutes!
octoon101: "Do you want to be true to the fans, or not Raimi?"
cookieronsta_01: ok so the rape stays, but then we have to cut out the 2nd fight scene!"

octoon101: get ready...
cookieronsta_01: your warning fell
cookieronsta_01: let me put it back up there for you