Hey gang. Notice the lack of an exclamation point at the end of that sentence? Well sorry, but there's not much to exclame about right now. I've come with a heavy heart today to give you some news about our friend Boshnickels. We're not sure how it happened, but it seems that Boshnickels has become temporarily paralyzed from the waist up. That's right, from the waist up. He can still walk, but currently his arms are immobile, which means no typing, at least until the paralyzation, which I assure you, as do his doctors, is temporary, lets up. He won't give us any clue as to what happened, but I surmise it has something to do with one of the rival gangs he often finds himself in conflict with.
Anyways, gang-a-lang, he is stil able to speak, and he wanted me to give you this message: "no worriez homiez, fo' long I be back in da mix, stirrin up troubullz like da ushawool. much luv to y'alls and keep on hustlin. also, deez medical billz is gettin expensiv, so if anyone, ya know, could send sum dead prezidentz my directshun..."
I'll be keeping you up to speed, gang. Toodles.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Sunday, July 06, 2008
The Smart Retard Wears His Shoes Wherever He Wants
Smart.
I am smart.
Riddle me this: What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening, and is not smart?
If you want the answer to that, look in the mirror. Take a long look. Look at how not smart you are. It hurts doesn't it.
I'm tired of talking about you and how not smart you are.
I'm talking about shoes. Shoes in the house and shoes out of the house. No difference to me. I where shoes where I want to. On the carpet. In the bathtub. On your face. I walk through rain puddles, splashing and the like, making my shoes wet and muddy. Then I walk on my mom's carpet. She has a Bissel. She can take care of it.
When I was born I was wearing shoes. That's true. I wear shoes while getting a pedicure. Not true. I never get pedicures. I do my own clipping and filing. My toes are amazing. Yours aren't. You have horrible foot fungus and Athlete's Foot. You need to start wearing flip flops in the shower, especially since you started playing intramural racquetball at the Rec Center, which you are terrible at, btw. Btw means by the way. I know you didn't know that. Not smart.
Most Asian countries take their shoes off when entering the house. I don't. I wear shoes in the house because I don't want people to see my hairy feet. And I like the grip and performance of the Vibram sole. All of my shoes have the Vibram sole. Yours don't. You wear Voits. Shannon Spomer used to wear Voits. He never achieved his full potential in athletics because he lacked the grip and performance of the Vibram sole. In his defense the Vibram sole didn't exist then. What's your excuse?
Not smart.
I'm not allowed in most Asian homes anymore. Some take no shoes in the house very seriously. Most do. Some yell loudly. I'm not sure what they are saying. Not good, though.
Maybe not the most smart thing to wear shoes in Asian homes. Still not as not smart as you. Naturally.
What did we learn? You're not smart. Shannon Spomer prefers Voits. I like precision traction and agility that only comes from the Vibram sole. Smart.
Smart.
I am smart.
I am the smart retard.
I am smart.
Riddle me this: What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening, and is not smart?
If you want the answer to that, look in the mirror. Take a long look. Look at how not smart you are. It hurts doesn't it.
I'm tired of talking about you and how not smart you are.
I'm talking about shoes. Shoes in the house and shoes out of the house. No difference to me. I where shoes where I want to. On the carpet. In the bathtub. On your face. I walk through rain puddles, splashing and the like, making my shoes wet and muddy. Then I walk on my mom's carpet. She has a Bissel. She can take care of it.
When I was born I was wearing shoes. That's true. I wear shoes while getting a pedicure. Not true. I never get pedicures. I do my own clipping and filing. My toes are amazing. Yours aren't. You have horrible foot fungus and Athlete's Foot. You need to start wearing flip flops in the shower, especially since you started playing intramural racquetball at the Rec Center, which you are terrible at, btw. Btw means by the way. I know you didn't know that. Not smart.
Most Asian countries take their shoes off when entering the house. I don't. I wear shoes in the house because I don't want people to see my hairy feet. And I like the grip and performance of the Vibram sole. All of my shoes have the Vibram sole. Yours don't. You wear Voits. Shannon Spomer used to wear Voits. He never achieved his full potential in athletics because he lacked the grip and performance of the Vibram sole. In his defense the Vibram sole didn't exist then. What's your excuse?
Not smart.
I'm not allowed in most Asian homes anymore. Some take no shoes in the house very seriously. Most do. Some yell loudly. I'm not sure what they are saying. Not good, though.
Maybe not the most smart thing to wear shoes in Asian homes. Still not as not smart as you. Naturally.
What did we learn? You're not smart. Shannon Spomer prefers Voits. I like precision traction and agility that only comes from the Vibram sole. Smart.
Smart.
I am smart.
I am the smart retard.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Smart Talkin in the Philippines
Smart.
I am smart.
You are not smart.
Pop quiz, hot shot: you use your keys so your car can start, and YOU use your brain so that you can be not (fill in the blank).
I'm in the Philippines. Sound this out: Feel-a-peeness. Again: feel-a-peeness. Again: feel-a-peeness.
Your mind is in the gutter. Don't even think I meant something dirty by that. You will though, not smarty pants.
I have probably eaten feces every day here. That's shocking, isn't it. Whatever. I'm not asking your opinion. I will have to clean my hands with fire when I get back. Whatevs.
Hold on a second- I can feel your not-smartness through the computer. Stiff arm. You can't get through my defense.
Um, how many not smart people does it take to ruin my day?
Let me think- you.
This is the least creative blog I've ever done in my life.
Smart.
I am the Smart Retard.
I am smart.
You are not smart.
Pop quiz, hot shot: you use your keys so your car can start, and YOU use your brain so that you can be not (fill in the blank).
I'm in the Philippines. Sound this out: Feel-a-peeness. Again: feel-a-peeness. Again: feel-a-peeness.
Your mind is in the gutter. Don't even think I meant something dirty by that. You will though, not smarty pants.
I have probably eaten feces every day here. That's shocking, isn't it. Whatever. I'm not asking your opinion. I will have to clean my hands with fire when I get back. Whatevs.
Hold on a second- I can feel your not-smartness through the computer. Stiff arm. You can't get through my defense.
Um, how many not smart people does it take to ruin my day?
Let me think- you.
This is the least creative blog I've ever done in my life.
Smart.
I am the Smart Retard.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Blogger Friend Profiles: Shelly Mortenson
Howdy ho gang! Can you believe this? two posts in a row? Looks like Ol Phil has been working over time to get all of this blogposure. That's "blog exposure," btw. Oh, and btw means "by the way."
Head explosion! TMI, right? (Sorry for this, but I gotta explain it: TMI means "too much information." I'm so, so sorry) I'll try to keep the knowledge I present down to a minimum. That's my promise to you guys. And you know why? Cuz I love you. Honest injun.
So Ol Phil's got something to talk about today. Or should I say, someone. Who is she? Well, if you're mentally retarded, you might already know. Or you might know, but have no idea how to compute that information in your weird, very weird, brain.
Shelly Mortenson.
Quite the name, eh? In Gaellic, it means: "the one who buys pennies." What does that even mean? Not sure, but pretty cool, nonetheless.
Shelly. Rhymes with a lot of other words, wouldn't you say? Here's a couple: jelly, Kelly, tele, heli, and I didn't want to say this one, cuz I know you all are gonna jump all over this, but...smelly. I said it. No connection to Shelly WHATSOEVER, so don't even go there, you rascals.
So who is this Shelly Mortenson? Let me describe her: friend, woman, white, hair, clothes, feet with shoes on them, green water bottle in or near hand, teeth that are sometimes brushed or possibly have plaque on them if she just ate and hasn't had some Trident gum, eyes which tend to not move independently of each other. Starting to sound like someone you might know? Now, hold on a second.
What do you think Shelly does for work? Don't even worry about guessing, cuz I'll tell you. Shelly works with "different" people. And that's just her coworkers I'm talking about. Zing! Actually, Shelly has an employment that is very similar to one of Phil's very close friends. For that matter, TWO of Phil's very close friends. She works with mentally re-started people. Why do I call them mentally re-STARTED people? Well, first of all, no matter what the Smart Retard tells you, saying retarded is a little offensive, wouldn't you say? I sure think so. And secondly, I guess because it's like their brains re-start every so often, and by often, I mean every two seconds. Everything that goes in that brain of theirs sits there for a bit, and then, ZOINK, RESTART,back to a blank screen. That's probably exaggerating a little, but you get my nifty-drifty.
So, after that 'splaining, I'll tell you that Shelly makes sure that Re-starts have personal rights and what not, which, you know, whatever, but the important thing about Shelly's job is that she makes sure to keep her schedule wide open so that she can attend to the needs of her dear friends. She isn't one of those types who gets a high profile job and forgets about all of the little people. Nopey dopey, she texts her friends, and sends emails to her friends, and writes to her friends on facebook, and frequents chat rooms where her friends may or may not be, not really important, and makes phone calls to her friends, telegrams her friends, sends letters to her friends by horse-messenger, etc.
And Shelly also blogs, just like Ol Phil. To check her out (not like that, sillies, although there are some pics of her that might catch your attention- whoops, said too much), go to http://www.mishellitasforall.blogspot.com/
If you meet Shelly some day and talk to her, what do you think you're gonna get? I'll tell you: conversation. All different kinds of conversation. You got some hot political issue you've been dying to rap about? Shelly will spit witchya. Problems from work pressing on you? Shelly will lend an open ear and give you advice as needed, and if she doesn't have the answer for you, which is unlikely, she will tell you that, cuz Shelly never misleads.
"But Phil," you're probably thinking, "is everything so serious with Shelly?"
On the contrary. Shelly loves not taking things seriously. She's got jokes, and I beg you to test her fiery wit. It'll bite you, bite your face right off. Let me give you an idea of a joke that I can see Shelly telling:
(told in a Katherine Hepburn-style voice): "So three Mexicans walk into a bar and have a drink. Now, you're probably thinking, 'just one drink?' Well, okay, you got me...(and then Shelly proceeds to put on a sombrero and pretend to shoot pistols and yells 'arriba!')"
So Shelly Shelly Bo Belly, Banana Fanna Fo Felly, Me My Mo Melly,
Shelly Mortenson:Blogger friend, co-member of Fans of the Kennedy Assassination Group.
Head explosion! TMI, right? (Sorry for this, but I gotta explain it: TMI means "too much information." I'm so, so sorry) I'll try to keep the knowledge I present down to a minimum. That's my promise to you guys. And you know why? Cuz I love you. Honest injun.
So Ol Phil's got something to talk about today. Or should I say, someone. Who is she? Well, if you're mentally retarded, you might already know. Or you might know, but have no idea how to compute that information in your weird, very weird, brain.
Shelly Mortenson.
Quite the name, eh? In Gaellic, it means: "the one who buys pennies." What does that even mean? Not sure, but pretty cool, nonetheless.
Shelly. Rhymes with a lot of other words, wouldn't you say? Here's a couple: jelly, Kelly, tele, heli, and I didn't want to say this one, cuz I know you all are gonna jump all over this, but...smelly. I said it. No connection to Shelly WHATSOEVER, so don't even go there, you rascals.
So who is this Shelly Mortenson? Let me describe her: friend, woman, white, hair, clothes, feet with shoes on them, green water bottle in or near hand, teeth that are sometimes brushed or possibly have plaque on them if she just ate and hasn't had some Trident gum, eyes which tend to not move independently of each other. Starting to sound like someone you might know? Now, hold on a second.
What do you think Shelly does for work? Don't even worry about guessing, cuz I'll tell you. Shelly works with "different" people. And that's just her coworkers I'm talking about. Zing! Actually, Shelly has an employment that is very similar to one of Phil's very close friends. For that matter, TWO of Phil's very close friends. She works with mentally re-started people. Why do I call them mentally re-STARTED people? Well, first of all, no matter what the Smart Retard tells you, saying retarded is a little offensive, wouldn't you say? I sure think so. And secondly, I guess because it's like their brains re-start every so often, and by often, I mean every two seconds. Everything that goes in that brain of theirs sits there for a bit, and then, ZOINK, RESTART,back to a blank screen. That's probably exaggerating a little, but you get my nifty-drifty.
So, after that 'splaining, I'll tell you that Shelly makes sure that Re-starts have personal rights and what not, which, you know, whatever, but the important thing about Shelly's job is that she makes sure to keep her schedule wide open so that she can attend to the needs of her dear friends. She isn't one of those types who gets a high profile job and forgets about all of the little people. Nopey dopey, she texts her friends, and sends emails to her friends, and writes to her friends on facebook, and frequents chat rooms where her friends may or may not be, not really important, and makes phone calls to her friends, telegrams her friends, sends letters to her friends by horse-messenger, etc.
And Shelly also blogs, just like Ol Phil. To check her out (not like that, sillies, although there are some pics of her that might catch your attention- whoops, said too much), go to http://www.mishellitasforall.blogspot.com/
If you meet Shelly some day and talk to her, what do you think you're gonna get? I'll tell you: conversation. All different kinds of conversation. You got some hot political issue you've been dying to rap about? Shelly will spit witchya. Problems from work pressing on you? Shelly will lend an open ear and give you advice as needed, and if she doesn't have the answer for you, which is unlikely, she will tell you that, cuz Shelly never misleads.
"But Phil," you're probably thinking, "is everything so serious with Shelly?"
On the contrary. Shelly loves not taking things seriously. She's got jokes, and I beg you to test her fiery wit. It'll bite you, bite your face right off. Let me give you an idea of a joke that I can see Shelly telling:
(told in a Katherine Hepburn-style voice): "So three Mexicans walk into a bar and have a drink. Now, you're probably thinking, 'just one drink?' Well, okay, you got me...(and then Shelly proceeds to put on a sombrero and pretend to shoot pistols and yells 'arriba!')"
So Shelly Shelly Bo Belly, Banana Fanna Fo Felly, Me My Mo Melly,
Shelly Mortenson:Blogger friend, co-member of Fans of the Kennedy Assassination Group.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Everything You Wanted To Know About Jail But Were Too Afraid To Ask
Howdy gang! Toodley-woodles!! Did you have a happy Easter? Oh boy did I have a crazy time. That's what you can expect, I suppose, when one half of your family is celebrating the resurrection of Jesus and the other half is celebrating the mouth watering combination of malted milk enveloped in chocolate and bound by a thin layer of sweet candy shell. Woozers did we have a lot of arguments! My mom was like, "this day is not about the Easter bunny. It's about Jesus resurrecting from the dead." And all that my dad would say to that was, "Well you know what I wish would resurrect? The tradition of you buying marshmallow peeps. You know I love those." My parents can be so zany sometimes. I just wish they hadn't forced us to watch them yell at each other when we were children.
But enough of that. That's not what we're here to talk about. Today we're here to talk about jail. Now, you all know how I spent a little time in the clinky-dink for being bad. If you don't, well, I'm not going to get into the details, but it was a difficult time in my life. But now I'm a changed man. Yep, it's the straight and narrow for Ol' Phil. Nowadays, I keep the bad thoughts pushed way down deep, where they don't bother anyone, and can have all the time they need to well up inside me into some powerful ball of hate that will, on many occasions, threaten to overpower my decision making and lead to an uncontrolled outburst of rage, but which I'm sure I'll be able to keep suppressed.
But the real reason I'm talking about jail is to answer all of the questions that I should have been asked over the years, the questions that all of you have wanted to be answered, but were too afraid to ask. These are the things that everyone wonders when they think about jail. So without any more dilly dally, let's get right into it.
1. Is jail a dangerous place?
Answer: All I can say is that it sure can be. I think I got pretty lucky, since I made it a point to establish my power the minute I got there by stabbing whom I believed to be the toughest inmate, but believe me, not everyone has that same experience. You know who wasn't so lucky? The guy that I stabbed.
2. Are people raped in jail?
Answer: Oh shmoleys, I get this question so many times. Well let me see if I can explain my answer with a little analogy. To understand if people are raped in jail, and if so, why this happens, imagine you've been working the same job for ten years, with the same guys, and in the same office. And now imagine someone new showing up, someone young and cocky, someone pale skinned, clean shaven, someone innocent and emotionally stable, who doesn't know to constantly watch over his shoulder in the shower room. And this guy thinks that he's just one of the boys, that he deserves exactly what you got. So you do exactly what anyone else would do in that situation- you get five of your coworkers together to corner the new guy in the janitor's closet and stick pointy things that are attached to you in his butt.
3. Were you raped in jail?
Answer: Why do you people always ask that? Does it really matter? Is it important to know if a man was forced against his will by another man to lie face down on the bunk and wait patiently while his anus is intruded for an undetermined length of time? To know that that man was beaten each time he started crying? Hmm? Do we really care that much to know this? Well if not, then stop asking me, assholes.
4. What was the food like in jail?
Answer: That all depends. If you enjoy eating food that is dry and soggy at the same time, food that uses salt when it should be sugar, food that should have been thrown away a week before, that is made out of horse penis and elf scrotum, and that has already been eaten once, then you would probably really enjoy jail food.
5. What did you do in jail?
Answer: I think I've already given a few examples of what we did, such as eating, raping, group beatings, but how about the lazy afternoons or those Christmas' after gifts have been exchanged and everyone's just laying around? Animal noises.
6. Is it true that cigarettes are the primary currency in jail?
Answer: Yes.
7. Did you have conjugal visits when you were there?
Answer: Well Ol' Phil never got married, so no conjugal visits. But my grandma came to visit me once, and I showed her the scar I got from the knife fight I won defending my right to stockpile cup o' noodles.
8. Was the warden nice?
Answer: It was Ronald McDonald, actually. And no, he was not nice. Very manipulative.
9. Is most of your knowledge about jail taken from The Shawshank Redemption?
Answer:
That's about all I can say of Jail, gang. Hope this was informative. And if you've had any of your own experiences you'd like to share about jail, just let Ol' Phil know.
But enough of that. That's not what we're here to talk about. Today we're here to talk about jail. Now, you all know how I spent a little time in the clinky-dink for being bad. If you don't, well, I'm not going to get into the details, but it was a difficult time in my life. But now I'm a changed man. Yep, it's the straight and narrow for Ol' Phil. Nowadays, I keep the bad thoughts pushed way down deep, where they don't bother anyone, and can have all the time they need to well up inside me into some powerful ball of hate that will, on many occasions, threaten to overpower my decision making and lead to an uncontrolled outburst of rage, but which I'm sure I'll be able to keep suppressed.
But the real reason I'm talking about jail is to answer all of the questions that I should have been asked over the years, the questions that all of you have wanted to be answered, but were too afraid to ask. These are the things that everyone wonders when they think about jail. So without any more dilly dally, let's get right into it.
1. Is jail a dangerous place?
Answer: All I can say is that it sure can be. I think I got pretty lucky, since I made it a point to establish my power the minute I got there by stabbing whom I believed to be the toughest inmate, but believe me, not everyone has that same experience. You know who wasn't so lucky? The guy that I stabbed.
2. Are people raped in jail?
Answer: Oh shmoleys, I get this question so many times. Well let me see if I can explain my answer with a little analogy. To understand if people are raped in jail, and if so, why this happens, imagine you've been working the same job for ten years, with the same guys, and in the same office. And now imagine someone new showing up, someone young and cocky, someone pale skinned, clean shaven, someone innocent and emotionally stable, who doesn't know to constantly watch over his shoulder in the shower room. And this guy thinks that he's just one of the boys, that he deserves exactly what you got. So you do exactly what anyone else would do in that situation- you get five of your coworkers together to corner the new guy in the janitor's closet and stick pointy things that are attached to you in his butt.
3. Were you raped in jail?
Answer: Why do you people always ask that? Does it really matter? Is it important to know if a man was forced against his will by another man to lie face down on the bunk and wait patiently while his anus is intruded for an undetermined length of time? To know that that man was beaten each time he started crying? Hmm? Do we really care that much to know this? Well if not, then stop asking me, assholes.
4. What was the food like in jail?
Answer: That all depends. If you enjoy eating food that is dry and soggy at the same time, food that uses salt when it should be sugar, food that should have been thrown away a week before, that is made out of horse penis and elf scrotum, and that has already been eaten once, then you would probably really enjoy jail food.
5. What did you do in jail?
Answer: I think I've already given a few examples of what we did, such as eating, raping, group beatings, but how about the lazy afternoons or those Christmas' after gifts have been exchanged and everyone's just laying around? Animal noises.
6. Is it true that cigarettes are the primary currency in jail?
Answer: Yes.
7. Did you have conjugal visits when you were there?
Answer: Well Ol' Phil never got married, so no conjugal visits. But my grandma came to visit me once, and I showed her the scar I got from the knife fight I won defending my right to stockpile cup o' noodles.
8. Was the warden nice?
Answer: It was Ronald McDonald, actually. And no, he was not nice. Very manipulative.
9. Is most of your knowledge about jail taken from The Shawshank Redemption?
Answer:
That's about all I can say of Jail, gang. Hope this was informative. And if you've had any of your own experiences you'd like to share about jail, just let Ol' Phil know.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I Gotsta Be Strait Witcha
Was up in da heezy, snizzles? Dis is Boshnickey-ickey comin correct. Been a long time since I busted up y'alls minds wit my spittin. Yo I been maxin and relaxin and spoutin sum at da honeyz and- I can't do this anymore. I've been living a lie. Although you may believe that I am a black man living in the ghetto, hustling drugs by day, and sporting nine millimeter pistols with a crew of gangsters by night, this is actually not true. I am a white man. I live in a duplex. I own zero firearms. I do not know anyone who says things like "was up in da heezy," or "spoutin sum at da honeyz." If my friends knew that I was talking like that they would probably hate me. In fact, they may already hate me, so maybe I'm worrying for no reason.
I actually believe that pronouncing the "ing" sound after words is a good thing. I also am a believer in using the definite article, "the," and not spelling it "da." And I'm not sure why I call women "honeyz."
Is there a reason that I pretend to be someone I'm not? I suppose so. I suppose that I'm heavily influenced by the gangster rap music that I listen to. And I suppose that I find it really easy to pretend to be someone different as long as I have the internet to hide behind. You see, I am not a brave or courageous person. I am unable to offer my opinions while in the presence of other people. I find that I am much tougher when typing.
I guess from here on out I'll just have to be the normal "me." No more speaking like stereotypes. Yes, I think this is a good step for me. I'll probably grow a lot as a person. Maybe I'll start meeting girls. I wonder what that will be like.
So, hello world! I'm ready to step out and fulfill my destiny.
But before I go, let me just say this- booyakasha snizzle dizzles! Boshnickels is reprusentin FO EVA!! Fo shizzle in my hizzle.
I actually believe that pronouncing the "ing" sound after words is a good thing. I also am a believer in using the definite article, "the," and not spelling it "da." And I'm not sure why I call women "honeyz."
Is there a reason that I pretend to be someone I'm not? I suppose so. I suppose that I'm heavily influenced by the gangster rap music that I listen to. And I suppose that I find it really easy to pretend to be someone different as long as I have the internet to hide behind. You see, I am not a brave or courageous person. I am unable to offer my opinions while in the presence of other people. I find that I am much tougher when typing.
I guess from here on out I'll just have to be the normal "me." No more speaking like stereotypes. Yes, I think this is a good step for me. I'll probably grow a lot as a person. Maybe I'll start meeting girls. I wonder what that will be like.
So, hello world! I'm ready to step out and fulfill my destiny.
But before I go, let me just say this- booyakasha snizzle dizzles! Boshnickels is reprusentin FO EVA!! Fo shizzle in my hizzle.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
The Smart Retard Speaks Out About His Peculiar Name
Smart.
I am smart.
You are not smart. If we were both bodily functions I would be a bloody nose and you would be a not smart. This is your life. Learn to love it.
Let's not delay: I'm talking about my name. Smart Retard. You might wonder what it means. Don't even try. You can't figure it out. You are not smart. But I am. And I know that the first part means "Smart," which is saying that I am smart. Obviously. The second part is Retard. Don't even pretend you are offended. You probably think you are. You probably think when I say retard it is derogatory. Shut up. I can't believe you feel that way. You are definitely really not smart.
Quick test: you go the store with fifteen pennies. you buy something that costs eleven pennies. if you need two pennies for parking, how much smarts will you have left?
The answer is none. Of course it is.
My name is Smart Retard because I am a smart retard. Here's the deal: I am smart, but I also have to wear a helmet so I don't hurt my brain when I fall into things. Whatever. I can't differentiate rubber cement from edible food sometimes. So what. You think I am limited mentally? Try this on for size: Galilleo, laws of motion, rubix cube. That's not even a tenth of what I know.
Listen to me: I can say retard whenever I feel like. You know why? Don't worry, I already know you don't. And because why? Because you are something that rhymes with hot fart.
Here's the deal: I have ownership of the word. I am a retard. If you want to call yourself "not smart" you can do it all day. You can also call yourself stupid face. I won't be offended by it. Guess what? I'm lying. You offend me always.
Retard. It's our word. Retards have suffered for centuries to claim the word retarded. There was a time when retards were treated like the house dog. Or gorilla. They were put in cages. Some people still think this would be good. F them. They know nothing. Here's what they can't handle: technology, umbrellas in stormy weather, not eating two hours before going to bed. Smart.
Read my lips: I will say retard whenever I feel like it. If you say it, you are anti-retard. You have to call me developmentally delayed. Or special.
You know something? You owe me money for what your ancestors did to my retarded ancestors. Thanks, by the way. It was great for my grandparents to be persecuted.
Fill in the blank (hint: use the same word): I am ____. You are not ____.
It's cool for me to wear a helmet. There's nothing wrong with only
being allowed to use spoons. I don't know why I talk to you sometimes.
Smart.
I am smart.
I am the Smart Retard.
I am smart.
You are not smart. If we were both bodily functions I would be a bloody nose and you would be a not smart. This is your life. Learn to love it.
Let's not delay: I'm talking about my name. Smart Retard. You might wonder what it means. Don't even try. You can't figure it out. You are not smart. But I am. And I know that the first part means "Smart," which is saying that I am smart. Obviously. The second part is Retard. Don't even pretend you are offended. You probably think you are. You probably think when I say retard it is derogatory. Shut up. I can't believe you feel that way. You are definitely really not smart.
Quick test: you go the store with fifteen pennies. you buy something that costs eleven pennies. if you need two pennies for parking, how much smarts will you have left?
The answer is none. Of course it is.
My name is Smart Retard because I am a smart retard. Here's the deal: I am smart, but I also have to wear a helmet so I don't hurt my brain when I fall into things. Whatever. I can't differentiate rubber cement from edible food sometimes. So what. You think I am limited mentally? Try this on for size: Galilleo, laws of motion, rubix cube. That's not even a tenth of what I know.
Listen to me: I can say retard whenever I feel like. You know why? Don't worry, I already know you don't. And because why? Because you are something that rhymes with hot fart.
Here's the deal: I have ownership of the word. I am a retard. If you want to call yourself "not smart" you can do it all day. You can also call yourself stupid face. I won't be offended by it. Guess what? I'm lying. You offend me always.
Retard. It's our word. Retards have suffered for centuries to claim the word retarded. There was a time when retards were treated like the house dog. Or gorilla. They were put in cages. Some people still think this would be good. F them. They know nothing. Here's what they can't handle: technology, umbrellas in stormy weather, not eating two hours before going to bed. Smart.
Read my lips: I will say retard whenever I feel like it. If you say it, you are anti-retard. You have to call me developmentally delayed. Or special.
You know something? You owe me money for what your ancestors did to my retarded ancestors. Thanks, by the way. It was great for my grandparents to be persecuted.
Fill in the blank (hint: use the same word): I am ____. You are not ____.
It's cool for me to wear a helmet. There's nothing wrong with only
being allowed to use spoons. I don't know why I talk to you sometimes.Smart.
I am smart.
I am the Smart Retard.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
See You Next Year Jesus
Howdy gang. Phil Honus here. I haven't seen you since last year! Get it? We're in the new year. :) !!!!!
It feels great to be in 2008 (Notice the rhyme? I am killing it right now). Hope you all had an awesome holidays. I know I did. It was egg-nog-tastic! :) Hahaha. But for reallys. I had so much fun getting presents and giving presents. And you know, I had a lot of time to reflect on why we celebrate Christmas. Guess what? I think I came to some conclusions.
It wasn't something I just arrived at either. I talked to a lot of people about this. And I found out some PRETTY interesting stuff.
First of all I asked my friend who owns a grocery store about the meaning of Christmas. "Why Phil," he said, "Christmas is about giving. Giving gifts."
Well that sounded pretty good to me. I think giving is a fine idea. Then he clarified a little.
"Christmas is about giving gifts that you bought from some place. In fact, the more money you spend on someone, the more that you love them."
WOAHH! That kind of caught me off guard. You can just see my head spinning in circles after that comment, and NO, I don't mean like in the Exorcist. I'm not possessed, sillies.
But then I thought about it a little more. I thought of my impoverished cousins who always sent us the crappiest gifts when we were little. And I thought of how we always knew we would be dissapointed when we opened up something from them. Sometimes it might be a used book. Sometimes it might be a family picture with some cookies, which weren't that good I will tell you.
Well you know what? I now understand that my poor destitute cousins don't love us very much. Thanks, Brent, for the insight.
After that I went and talked to my mom. "What do I think about Christmas," she asked me. "I think Christmas is all about family, spending time with the ones you love."
Now that sounds pretty reasonable, don't you think? You can always trust Mother.
I asked her, then, why my younger brother didn't come to Christmas this year.
"Because he's a self-centered lay-about who's too cheap to buy his own mother the blender she's wanted for five years, just like his father who spends all of his time reading hunting magazines. Why are you so concerned with him anyways? Start minding your own damn business and get me another drink."
Holy shamoley! Mom is crazy sometimes.
I was a little confused by that point. I though about Christmas a little more. Why is it called Christmas anyways? I asked one of my professors, and she said that the Catholic church began celebrating the birth of Christ at the same time that pagans were celebrating the winter solstice, or something like that.
"Christ? as in Jesus Christ?" I asked.
"Yep," she said.
Okay, I thought. Now we're getting someplace. I tried to talk to my professor some more about Jesus, but she said that I should talk to a religious leader instead, since she was an atheist and didn't believe in God and didn't want babies to be saved from eternal hell-fire.
But which religious leader was I going to talk to? I mean, there are so many of those guys. And girls, too. Whoops-a-daisy! Don't want to start a battle of the sexes.
I started driving around, not sure who to talk to, when I saw a Catholic church on the corner. Well, it does make sense to talk to the church that started Christmas in the first place, I thought.
I went inside and found the father, which, for all of you who don't know, is the name of the preacher at the Catholic church. "What is the meaning of Christmas?" I asked him.
He thought about it for a second. "Christmas time is one of the two times when people come to church. They come, act religious and holy for an hour, and then you don't see them again until Easter. So to answer your question, Christmas is about people pretending they believe in Jesus all so they can justify being really greedy and expecting presents from everyone."
After that the father went outside to smoke a cigarette. I followed him out and thanked him for the insights.
"Whatever. I'm just pissed I didn't get the new robe I asked for."
So all of these different, yet similar perspectives- what do they all mean, then?
I'll tell you. Christmas is about using any method possible to get things. If it means you have to appeal to the religious crowd by putting up nativity scenes, then that's one method. If it means putting up trees and pretending there is a Santa Claus to appeal to the children, then that's another. If you have to put the emphasis on family to justify having your sister spend her rent money to get you a present, well that's just perfect. You have to have them all, too. If you focus on the Christian approach, then people will only give and no one will receive. But throw in the Santa Claus/Commercialism approach, too, and you've got a bunch of happy giving/receiving people. That is what Christmas is about to me. Giving and receiving. Throw in a little Karl Marx approach and you can justify receiving more than you give.
So Happy Birthday Jesus. And thanks a bunch Santa Claus. And good seeing you Dad.
We'll see you all next year.
It feels great to be in 2008 (Notice the rhyme? I am killing it right now). Hope you all had an awesome holidays. I know I did. It was egg-nog-tastic! :) Hahaha. But for reallys. I had so much fun getting presents and giving presents. And you know, I had a lot of time to reflect on why we celebrate Christmas. Guess what? I think I came to some conclusions.
It wasn't something I just arrived at either. I talked to a lot of people about this. And I found out some PRETTY interesting stuff.
First of all I asked my friend who owns a grocery store about the meaning of Christmas. "Why Phil," he said, "Christmas is about giving. Giving gifts."
Well that sounded pretty good to me. I think giving is a fine idea. Then he clarified a little.
"Christmas is about giving gifts that you bought from some place. In fact, the more money you spend on someone, the more that you love them."
WOAHH! That kind of caught me off guard. You can just see my head spinning in circles after that comment, and NO, I don't mean like in the Exorcist. I'm not possessed, sillies.
But then I thought about it a little more. I thought of my impoverished cousins who always sent us the crappiest gifts when we were little. And I thought of how we always knew we would be dissapointed when we opened up something from them. Sometimes it might be a used book. Sometimes it might be a family picture with some cookies, which weren't that good I will tell you.
Well you know what? I now understand that my poor destitute cousins don't love us very much. Thanks, Brent, for the insight.
After that I went and talked to my mom. "What do I think about Christmas," she asked me. "I think Christmas is all about family, spending time with the ones you love."
Now that sounds pretty reasonable, don't you think? You can always trust Mother.
I asked her, then, why my younger brother didn't come to Christmas this year.
"Because he's a self-centered lay-about who's too cheap to buy his own mother the blender she's wanted for five years, just like his father who spends all of his time reading hunting magazines. Why are you so concerned with him anyways? Start minding your own damn business and get me another drink."
Holy shamoley! Mom is crazy sometimes.
I was a little confused by that point. I though about Christmas a little more. Why is it called Christmas anyways? I asked one of my professors, and she said that the Catholic church began celebrating the birth of Christ at the same time that pagans were celebrating the winter solstice, or something like that.
"Christ? as in Jesus Christ?" I asked.
"Yep," she said.
Okay, I thought. Now we're getting someplace. I tried to talk to my professor some more about Jesus, but she said that I should talk to a religious leader instead, since she was an atheist and didn't believe in God and didn't want babies to be saved from eternal hell-fire.
But which religious leader was I going to talk to? I mean, there are so many of those guys. And girls, too. Whoops-a-daisy! Don't want to start a battle of the sexes.
I started driving around, not sure who to talk to, when I saw a Catholic church on the corner. Well, it does make sense to talk to the church that started Christmas in the first place, I thought.
I went inside and found the father, which, for all of you who don't know, is the name of the preacher at the Catholic church. "What is the meaning of Christmas?" I asked him.
He thought about it for a second. "Christmas time is one of the two times when people come to church. They come, act religious and holy for an hour, and then you don't see them again until Easter. So to answer your question, Christmas is about people pretending they believe in Jesus all so they can justify being really greedy and expecting presents from everyone."
After that the father went outside to smoke a cigarette. I followed him out and thanked him for the insights.
"Whatever. I'm just pissed I didn't get the new robe I asked for."
So all of these different, yet similar perspectives- what do they all mean, then?
I'll tell you. Christmas is about using any method possible to get things. If it means you have to appeal to the religious crowd by putting up nativity scenes, then that's one method. If it means putting up trees and pretending there is a Santa Claus to appeal to the children, then that's another. If you have to put the emphasis on family to justify having your sister spend her rent money to get you a present, well that's just perfect. You have to have them all, too. If you focus on the Christian approach, then people will only give and no one will receive. But throw in the Santa Claus/Commercialism approach, too, and you've got a bunch of happy giving/receiving people. That is what Christmas is about to me. Giving and receiving. Throw in a little Karl Marx approach and you can justify receiving more than you give.
So Happy Birthday Jesus. And thanks a bunch Santa Claus. And good seeing you Dad.
We'll see you all next year.
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