Dear Friends;


Mostly, this note is to that devious cunt BluePickle who I thought was my best friend and who definitely won't be reading this because that nasty twat committed suicide. Good riddance psycho-bitch.

Ever since we became online friends, I was constantly posting to reassure that neurotic snatch about our friendship. How much did I need her? "More than anything". Would I do anything for her? "Absolutely". And then that nutty skank set me up and fucked me over by asking what I'd do if she died.

To which she replied, "Rely?"

To which I replied, "yes really;)"

To which she replied, "I meant to type, 'Really?'"

To which I replied, "I know what you meant, silly<8)"

To which she replied "Really?"

To which I replied "Really what? Did I know you meant 'Really?' when you typed 'Rely?' Or did I really mean I'd kill myself?"

To which she tried to reply, but the thread was too long and we had to start a new post. In the end I convinced BluePickle that I would indeed kill myself if she died.

What the fuck were you thinking Shannon? You spend your whole life trying not to die in a jihad or as a religious sacrifice and then you piss it all away by casually agreeing to an online suicide pact. God damn it.

Sure, sure, I could clear out my temporary internet files, stop accepting cookies, sign up for a new journal and leave my old online world behind. But anyone who has spent even 2 minutes reading my blog knows that's not how I roll. I live up to my responsibilities, even when they technically aren't my doing (see my "Errrr!!!!! Blockbuster Late Fees" entry on September 6).

So, to all of you who have enjoyed my journal, I must say thank you, good-bye and be sure to sign my guestbook.


There Is No Emoticon To Express How Much I Hate That Cunt,

uschi's dead?

Jabba?

Jabba no bodda

No, Jabba has a HUGE bodda!

Ha ha ha! What?

Dear World;


I wish everyone could know the pain I live with every day of my miserable life. Alas no, statistics tells me that only 1 in every 30,000 adult males has a penis less than 4 inches long and 2 inches around. Only they, my wee weinied brethren can even begin to understand the hurt I feel when I step up to a urinal and the stream of urine is only slightly smaller than the 3.28 inch long, 1.67 inch wide wanker that it springs from.

I have tried pumps, creams, exercises, pulling and god forbid; even praying. Nothing works, not even marginally on my miniscule member. So, everyday I try to lie to the world about possessing a petite pecker by peeling out in my Corvette, strutting around in expensive suits, talking about my mansion, dating strippers to show the world my virility and constantly crowing about my colossal crotch.

But my Armani suits are just expensive costumes to hide my teeny-tiny tallywacker. My gigantic house is where I sit alone with my dwarf johnson. And the truth is the only thing I can stretch when it comes to my freakishly feeble frankfurter. Day in and day out I used to ask myself, "Rex what would jesus do with a small penis?"

After hours of reading the bible, searching my soul and peering at my puny prick, I know now that there is no savior, at least not for my snack sized sex stub.

Is this how everything is going to be from now on? Is everything going to be one big joke?

To Whomever Found My Body;


Mom, if that's you reading this: I was actually murdered, my corpse was desecrated by those "damn, dirty, faggot, jew, muslim hippies" you always warned us as kids about, they made me write this note to cover up their horrible, heinous crime and you should stop reading now.

If your reading this and your not my mother, then most likely I am hanging by a noose from the rafters with a smile on my face, a zucchini up my ass and covered in a wad of jiz.

Damn it, I wish I wouldn't have kicked the chair so far or tied the noose so tight. Maybe I should have just sprung for a whore. Jerry, you cheap dead bastard.

Oh well, at least I died doing something I loved: Asphyxiating myself while watching Blue's Clues.


I knew I should have had a spotter,


Jerry


P.S. Just to be sure, could you check my pulse again?

...because it's true!

Dear Fellow Pawns;


Since November 1, 1993 I have lived a lie that I can no longer go on with. I have started each of the last 5086 days by convincing myself that McDonald's would bring back the Double ZestaBurger--if only for a limited time and at only select locations. It was the only way I could get myself out of bed and through the day.

Alas, I can no longer lie to myself about my future. I now accept that it is bleak. I do not control my destiny, nor my happiness. Like all of you, I am just a pawn in McDonald's global marketing plan. The same company that has returned the McRib 505 limited times in the last 13 years has never given my well-being a second thought.

Well, McDonalds, you win. You have killed the will, spirit, and soul of david, now my body will follow. I know though, that I will be going to a better place. A place where my happiness won't be controlled by a multi-national conglomeration of grill cooks in cheap suits. While my body will be buried in the same ground where Ray Kroc's is surely spinning; my soul will be with his in heaven. Not here in purgatory controlled by the whims of MBA's from Hamburger U.

Together Ray and I will forever feast on that delicious ambrosia, the Double Zesta Burger.


Sincerely,


Joesph Mother III


P.S. If you have any questions or need to get in contact with me, see Whoopi Goldberg.

My poor, poor grandson...

He had his grandmother's eyes. That is to say, he was as blind as Shannon was.

PS: ...it's twue...

heh

probably miss the McRib too eh?

who doesnt...?

Hola or holla'?

I'm just impressed that she could see the keyboard long enough to type that out.

Am there seeing eye humans for blind dogs?