The experiences of a horror writer who enjoys the creak of floor boards by unseen feet, the rattling of window panes in a storm, and the groan of rusty hinges on a cellar door.
Some of you have asked me in private messaging at TheDailyColumn.com why I write stories for the Mighty Fucking TDC that describe the lowest, ugliest points of a young punk's experiences in the western world of Cali.
Indeed, that is an excellent consideration, and here is the answer.
The best stories are told with redemption at the end of an ugly path.
Hard times happen to everyone, and folks do some awful things along their path.
But we humans always hope for the best outcome. When you read a horrific story, you hope that things work out for the better for the protagonist, the one who is the focus of the story.
This is how we folks are made. We hope the best for each other, no matter what we each may have done.
When someone is just being an asshole all along, then they have broken the rules, and if they don't learn their lesson, then we hope that they get pounded by misfortune until they hopefully do Learn Their Lesson.
We hope the best for them. We engage in the story, and identify, even if we have never lived through the awful shit we engage in during such a tale, vicariously.
We read in order to experience true life through another's eyes.
Vicarious is voyeur.
Looking through the keyhole.
So, these stories are to engage you, TDC Reader, and reveal how low one can get, and then witness how the protagonist finally learns his lesson.
The best stories are the ones that reveal to you the worst conditions of a person, where you almost hate the hero because of their awful behavior, but you will still care for them, and hope that they persevere; that they will overcome their awful behavior, and win.
If they win, perhaps you will as well.
There is hope for us all, if one can construct the story correctly.
In Other Words,
No matter what happens to you, this guy has been through worse shit.
Caused by his own poor decisions.
Indeed, there is Hope for us all.
Press on the little box below, my Easter Egg for you, as always.
In these stories, there is redemption.
But you will simply have to follow me along these ruins of the boneyard of awful memories, and trust that your faithful guide will show you the way not only out of the dank caverns below, but back up into the top soil, upward into the sunshine.
Have you the guts to follow me?
I think that you do.
You Rocka.
Of course, no one will ever see the words above.
I will erase them and write another chapter for this weekend on the Mighty TDC.
It needed to be said, even if it will be lost in the ethernet.
Except, Google, which owns Blooger, will have saved it for their own, future use.
Evidently, many of you who are newbies to this story are asking if there is a way to read these chapters that I write for the Mighty TDC from the start to the latest.
Yes, there is. It involves creating a new blog, and one could start from the beginning, and then read the latest chapters as they appear on TDC, when they occur.
They would be posted on such a new "chapter blog," and at the very bottom of it, so that one would be able to find the latest chapter quite easily.
You could start from the beginning of each tale, and then follow along at your leisure, ya noob.
I will do this for you, if you like.
Each chapter gets published on thedailycolumn.com and, Richie would benefit as well, if anything happens that involves profit.
Look at me, thinking I could generate interest and profit from writing mere words...
You simply have to let me know what you think. Got a Gmail account?
Sometimes, for whatever reason, our excellent TDC Enjoyers simply do not want to read the true story episodes that I have written solely for the Mighty Fucking TDC.
Our people just want some good discussions from time to time, in our forums.
Just like Richie provides for us, after he gets off of one of his many jobs, sometimes posting at fucking four AM for we hungey bastards to endure our daily work.
And that is fine with me. I harbor no ill will towards anyone who doesn't like a long-ass post about shit that happened 25 years ago. I simply intend to fully take advantage of and enjoy this fantastic opportunity that our Mastaw Richie has afforded me in contributing to this fine site, The Daily Column.
Nothing else like it in the whole inter-web-net-Series-Of-Tubes thing.
Perhaps my true story episodes are too gory for you, or too revealing, or else, too damn long to have to scroll down through in order to get to the links.
For whatever reason, here is where you will find the link to the series chapters from here on in.
Simply that.
Enjoy the TDC Front Page every day.
That is what we three men are here for: to make you Think about stuff, Discover new links, and, perhaps, Confront each other in the forums with your own thoughts, links, and personality.
TDC.
Think. Discover. COnfront.
We are Richie everyday, The Throbbing Hottie on Thursdays, and little ole freaky me on the weekends.
Sean could not start the fucking Jeep. The other two of we four brothers were laughing their asses off in this new "realty," and they were quite distracting.
Apu walked over to the front, and peered out of the double glass doors of the 7-11.
He had the wireless phone in his hand, about to do some dialing. He looked concerned.
Ya think?
Now, mind you, "wireless phone" means the old style, really a landline, not a cell phone. No one had those things back then, except rich guys.
Good thing. We might have buzz-called folks.
And we were off in another Land.
Another Realty.
Sean found the right key, jammed it in, and turned it.
The Jeep rumbled awake, which was quite comforting to hear and feel...
...Until the radio came on. It blasted the music we had been jamming to when we arrived at this portal, this 7-11, just before the ZID kicked in.
Sean looked up at Apu, then he looked at me with wide eyes, with wide pupils.
Apu pulled the phone up to his dark face, and he began to press buttons. Then his hand hovered over the phone for a moment. It appeared that he was waiting to press the "call" button.
I shut the radio off and looked back at the other two, in the rear seats of the open-air Jeep.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU ASHOLES!"
They did. I reached over and grabbed Sean by the Fuckno, Californication Bullard High School Football Jersey with both hands and I looked him right in the eye.
This here moment would be replayed again, in other situations, and under the influence of other chemicals, but it would always connect us.
Every time. I became the "Navigator" of this new land, this new realty.
"Sean. You can do this. Look at me. LOOK at me."
His face stopped looking all panicky for a moment.
"It's me. No matter what you think is going on, I believe in you. This is all just bullshit. We can see though it, underneath it. Don't you agree?"
Sean straightened the hell up. He remembered who he was.
He was a huge young man who broke faces. He always crossed the line, and came back without serious injury, without penalty, but with victory, of a sort.
And, unintentionally, I was the cause of his further de-evolution.
You will witness this de-evloution of Sean in future chapters, do not doubt.
De-evolution has a shorter nickname.
It is DEVO. It was the 80's. Don't look at me that way.
SO,
Sean got his shit together, which was quite amazing to see.
He put that bitch in reverse, looked over his shoulder, and glared at those two assholes behind us.
"Keep Your Fucking Dick Sucking Holes Clamped Shut You Mother Fuckers."
Sean got us the hell out of there.
Yee fucking Haw.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Join me tomorrow for an explanation of how we crashed into a drainage ditch full of water. It will be quite elucidating, I promise you.
I am offorded the luxury of contributing to the Mighty TDC on the weekends. Thank you Richie, for your belief and trust.
Badass.
You may have noticed that the true stories series I have been writing for TDC always involve Cars, Car Crashes, and Punk Rock music.
It's simply this:
I have always been infatuated with the ideology of the Freedom of the U.S.A.
We have a love of the automobile. There is no where else in the whole world where you can take a spin, go where ever you like, for as long as you like, in any direction at all.
Also, I have been in many car crashes, but always somehow survive.
Car crashes: sometimes, cars were not actually involved.
But there always seemed to be a crash of some sort.
That is why these true tales seem to always involve cars, as well as crashes.
That is why the music I choose to illustrate my tales involve them.
Thank you, Richie. You've unleashed this beast. God Help You, Sir.
God Help Us All.
Hey there, you TDC enjoyer.
Press play, do what you have to do in order to get your head into the improper frame of mind, and follow me into the depths of insanity.
I'll lead you back up and out afterwards.
That's my job.
It seems to have always been...
SONG
This is for an 80's shit and giggles.
DO NOT USE. ALthough I like it. Benjamin Orr was a better singer than Ric Ocasek.
Here's another 80's song, one to use in later chapters, when I had to get the fuck out of Fuckno,CA, and my brothers, and one girl, wanted me to stay. I almost married that chick. She didn't want me to leave, but she told me to go ahead, do what I had to.
And, I had to.
I can never go back to Fuckno, ever again.
You will see why.
On another note,
Thank goodness that I married the one I have. Even if she hates this sort of 80's music, and calls it the "Gayties."
LOL!
God love her.
Here's the sort of song I will probably use. It's pretty cool. I quite like JET. Always have.
Sean could not start the fucking Jeep. The other two of we four brothers were laughing their asses off in this new "realty," and they were quite distracting.
Apu walked over to the front, and peered out of the double glass doors of the 7-11.
He had the wireless phone in his hand, about to do some dialing. He looked concerned.
Ya think?
Now, mind you, "wireless phone" means the old style, really a landline, not a cell phone. No one had those things back then, except rich guys.
Good thing. We might have buzz-called folks.
And we were off in another Land.
Another Realty.
Sean found the right key, jammed it in, and turned it.
The Jeep rumbled awake, which was quite comforting to hear and feel...
...Until the radio came on. It blasted the music we had been jamming to when we arrived at this portal, this 7-11, just before the ZID kicked in.
Sean looked up at Apu, then he looked at me with wide eyes, with wide pupils.
Apu pulled the phone up to his dark face, and he began to press buttons. Then his hand hovered over the phone for a moment. It appeared that he was waiting to press the "call" button.
I shut the radio off and looked back at the other two, in the rear seats of the open-air Jeep.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU ASHOLES!"
They did. I reached over and grabbed Sean by the Fuckno, Californication Bullard High School Football Jersey with both hands and I looked him right in the eye.
This here moment would be replayed again, in other situations, and under the influence of other chemicals, but it would always connect us.
Every time. I became the "Navigator" of this new land, this new realty.
"Sean. You can do this. Look at me. LOOK at me."
His face stopped looking all panicky for a moment.
"It's me. No matter what you think is going on, I believe in you. This is all just bullshit. We can see though it, underneath it. Don't you agree?"
Sean straightened the hell up. He remembered who he was.
He was a huge young man who broke faces. He always crossed the line, and came back without serious injury, without penalty, but with victory, of a sort.
And, unintentionally, I was the cause of his further de-evolution.
You will witness this de-evloution of Sean in future chapters, do not doubt.
De-evolution has a shorter nickname.
It is DEVO. It was the 80's. Don't look at me that way.
SO,
Sean got his shit together, which was quite amazing to see.
He put that bitch in reverse, looked over his shoulder, and glared at those two assholes behind us.
"Keep Your Fucking Dick Sucking Holes Clamped Shut You Mother Fuckers."
Sean got us the hell out of there.
Yee fucking Haw.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Join me tomorrow for an explanation of how we crashed into a drainage ditch full of water. It will be quite elucidating, I promise you.
The Mighty TDC is my mental vacation, and I advocate such a thing for you.
This is a new chapter for TDC's ZID Series in the works, for you.
I quite like the creativity and beat of Trent Reznor, his NIN, and this tune.
I'll borrow it for this next chapter of ZID, which is not nearly polished.
But I have an idea.
Anyways, check out NIN.
I could feel myself slipping away. Do Not Click on the small music box after the words "4WD Jeep" below this NIN music box.
You have been warned.
NIN is legit.
The blond Andrew Sister will fuck with your mind.
Here's NIN. Press play, babe.
Us six young bastards simply needed to sample the new "Material" before we agreed to deal with it. And we did it in Tellesco's latest 4WD Jeep.
Do you know what this means?
We didn't quite understand the full implication, realty, nor mental impact of this new Thing, which is why we chose to take a drive, before this new thing kicked in, twenty minutes before our interesting drive in Tellseco's Jeep.
ZID takes forty minutes to kick in.
DAMN.
It got quite interesting, indeed, and please allow me to elucidate you on this thing that you must never, ever
do.
And, yes, I fucking punked you.
That Andrews Sisters "6 assholes in a Jeep" song was probably cool, way back when, but I can't get my head into that shit.
Sorry. Please go up and stop it.
Trent and his NIN will rock you best.
I promise to treat you well, if you will follow along, here on in.
The intent was to show to you, Dear TDC Member, exactly that you do not ever know what ZID has in store for you.
Simply That.
This is going to get quite strange, but you knew this.
Here is the real way to start off your day, in this story, in this this latest chapter.
(You shoulda seen your face, bud. You looked all "WTF?"
LMFAO
I apologize to you. It won't happen again.
But you shoulda seen your f---)
Ahem.
OK, already.
Old School.
Press play, TDC Enjoyer.
Yes, there were actually four of us punk bastards who got our ZID game on in the vehicle that Sean used to go "figging" around in.
It was the lastest incranation of the rich kid Tellesco's Jeep.
Fat Jerry was eating somewhere, and Brian was off visiting his Grammy, God Love Those Bastards.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
SO,
Fig trees are very slow growing, therefore; their trunks are like iron. I've told you about this before, a few years ago.
It was all quite weird.
But after all had been said and done, I held one true promise to myself.
This weekend, I decided to combine the Sunday post with the Saturday one.
Why? Well for two reasons, which are these.
1. The story line gets confusing when you scroll down from Richie's Monday post to see what in thee hell that your willies has brewed up, and you land on Sunday. You might not even go check out Saturday, which is supposed to be read before Sunday's post.
But that's simply semantically irrelevant. It's my job to provide you with enjoyment.
2. I'd like to use Sunday for goofing-off madness and curious links, and robots. That's just a grab-bag of mindless fun shit.
Next Sunday will be fun.
Next Saturday will have a continuation of the Zid series.
Here are the links that I found for today, this Sunday, which won't be used on TDC. But in case you needed to see them, here they are.
This is my kind of road trip. U.S.26 traffic stop yields guns, knives, pot, machete, rum, clown mask. And one dude who wasn't wearing a seat belt. Now That's irresponsible.
"CIA experiment" sends French village mad. My kinda town.
Wonder how Google likes it? Brits retaliate with their own pics of the Google street view car. Of course Google doesn't mind. "Never Do Evil," is their motto, and I hold them to it.
Netherland site, half translated. Maybe NSFW, depending on currency, which, in this case, has nothing to do with money.
Film found in a camera bought from a pawn shop. Developed: shows a grave with fresh flowers, but no one has been buried there for years. Two mens names on the grave... the mystery unfolds... True story...
Food myths and true shit, like exploding a jawbreaker in the microwave. In glorious video.
SO those are the links I never used on the Mighty TDC, thedailycolumn.com
There are many certain things that you must never, ever, do.
If you decide to do them anyways,
...well,
either you are stupid, or crazy, or a bit of both.
There are only a couple of safe ways in which you may go about doing these bad things.
If you don't? Probably because you are quite stupid or crazy or both.
God Help You.
In that case,
there are certain things
for which
You
Simply
Must
Be
Prepared.
In this here true tale, I will show you how to stand on broken glass.
+++++++++++++++++++++
I woke up, upside down.
CHHHHK.
There is only one other sound in the world that sounds like a breaking bone.
No, not the splintery "CRRRSSHHNNAAACHSSS" of a frayed, bent ulnar.
The sound of a clean snap sounds exactly like the chop of fresh Cocai--- ...ummm, pearls from a small brick of really pure shit.
Razor blade to the mirror.
Chhhhk. Chhhk. Chhk. Chk. Chk. Chk.... Etc.
Finally, fluffy.
Swipe it into lines.
Grab a straw or a dollar bill, tightly twisted in to a straw, and inhale. You must press against the other nostril to close your nose from errant and wasteful inhalation.
If you were expert, the lower end of your straw would be cut at an angle to maximize inhalation flowage.
There is geometry involved, and there will be a test after.
But, you suck.
You suck deeply, and never, ever sneeze on the mirror.
Faux Pas. And wasted Coke.
Repeat as needed.
Dollar bills are nasty. People do some ass-wipingly bad things with them. Always get a fresh straw, and do not share.
This was what was going on in Little Joey's bedroom, where he had his decks, his vinyl, and his massive speakers.
Joey still spins, but not during this here night.
He was out here, on the kitchen table, and I was on the couch, legs up against the wall, when I regained consciousness and composure, realizing that all of these hot skanks had come through the front door, past me and Joey.
Who the fuck let them in? And, what the hell? They must have walked by quietly so as not to disturb us, nor rummage through our pockets?
Kindly skanks, from good ole Fuckno, CA. They knew what they wanted. They knew what they didn't want.
Those other fuckers had invited these Fuckno Skanks to the After Punk Fight Partay, and the door was unlocked when they arrived.
I only awoke when the loud booming from Little Joey's room woke me the hell up.
FAIL.
But,
Chhhk Chhhk Chhhk.
It was a sound that was quite alluring.
I went down the hall to see what was going on, and found them nasty skanks and my brothers, all of them chopping, snorting, gurgling on the bong, taking shots of white lightning, and fucking up Joey's vinyl on his decks.
But these fuckers were also dusting each bong hit with some powder.
This was known as "Caesar's Salad," or, "Cocoa Puffs."
It was a lurvely sight.
Indeed.
What would you have done?
Of course, you would have gone and participated, I mean, saved Joey's vinyl from becoming totally ruined, dude.
When I opened the door, this is what I saw.
These Fuckno Skanks were all situated in various places around Little Joey's room. A couple of them, dressed to fit a sexy witch Halloween Party were all over Sean.
One young skank, with torn, red fishnets and purple spray-painted combat boots (and a very short black mini, which rode up to show commando skillz), tugged at Tellesco, who was looking a bit dejected and rejected. Tellesco had his coked-out-moony eyes only on Sean.
Bryan held court with a lurvely lass, which means; he was sucking face on this tramp whose nice legs were shanked by yellow leg warmers all curdled around her ankles, and Bryan, that dog...
...well, you knew that he wanted other things around her ankles, like, her panties.
Fat Jery was fucking up Little Joey's records because of a tiny young thing who was a Madonna-Wannabe and she simply wanted to stick her sweet pink tongue into his mouth.
Fat Jerry. Huh. Must have been the copious amounts of coke. That tiny skank would have done anything he may have cared to dream up, simply because he was a bit of a legend. He had girth and weight on more places than his waist, you see.
Two other skanks had control of the mirror. It was toward these fine young damsels I waded, through Joey's mess of clothing.
Joey used the floor like you would use a hamper / drawer / walk-in-closet.
I used to go in his room and scour for change for another forty-oz from the corner store.
Each pay day, I'd artistically pummel several dollars worth of various coins back into his room to settle my bill.
Dude never even knew. But once he asked me how some quarters had become lodged in the wall opposite the door.
Go figure, Joey.
I waded through his silk smoking jackets, leather pants, dress shoes, boots, and muscle shirts to get to these skanks who held the almighty mirror.
It ended up with broken glass.
But first,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
BEFORE THERE WERE SKANKS
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
FEVER.
We had done Triage. Or, at least, me and Fat Jerry. Simulcast to the events of this choppy night...
Joey had caught a fever, from tetanus, which can at least damage your heart valves, and at the most, kill you slowly, and in pain. The obvious answer would have been to get a precursory tetanus shot. Precursory means that you intend to get into trouble, and since you will be asking medical professionals for a tetanus shot, they will ask you why.
You must already have a wound if you require a tetanus shot, and they would like to treat this wound. If you don't show such a thing to them, or even have anything resembling such a thing,(before you go off to a Machismo Meet) they will raise their eyebrows.
"Raising Of The Eyebrows" will involve the "authorities," which here means "Popo."
If you ask for this sort of hypodermic medicine after you have been to a fight and have been sliced with a less-than-sterile razor-sharp blade, then the Popo will ask you when, where, why, how, and who.
So, you simply have to decide beforehand between possible jail, or possible grave.
Who makes this kind of insane decision before going into a gang fight?
I'm surprised that you would have to ask that question my friend, and quite frankly, I'm a bit disappointed in you now.
I kid.
Of course you know who would make this decision before the fight, don't you, TDC Member?
These sort of folks:
Six heavily-snorted-up-young-bastards, (one was a nose guard and one was an offensive giant, and four others were devious punks of varying sizes and skills) had made this decision for themselves as they lay plastic down on the kitchen table and placed all the triage supplies and liquids and powder stashes nearby.
They were, for no reason at all, confident that they would persevere and become victorious in a possible fracas, (which is French for Some Messed Up Shit).
But this Band of Punks had become victorious.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Little Lion Man Joey kept waking up in pain, for which we had some remedies. It's often been said that the best way to kill a bodily invader (germs) is through Chemo Therapy. We had on hand cocai-- I mean, some sort of magical powder, plus copious amounts of moonshine. One may be taken nasally, the other; orally. I'll leave it up to you to decide where either goes. Yes, there were chemicals aplenty, for everyone, and anyone else who might come in through the front door.
It must suck to have to lay in a single position and not move, as your body fights an eight-hour whole-body infection that, if you survive, narrows down to a single body area for a few days or week thereafter.
At least Little Joey was on the couch cushions on the kitchen table instead of directly on the hard surface of the table.
It must suck when you evacuate your bowels and your bladder, and no one can move you for a few hours after you do this because doing so would cause searing pain all over your body and your head to feel like it is about to exploooooode.
But it truly sucks to have to throw away a perfectly good kitchen table because no one wants to eat on it anymore, plastic sheeting or not, neither as well the couch cushions. Bodily fluids seem to get everywhere, no matter how well you place the poly.
That should be the name of a punk song, "Placing Polly On The Table With Duct Tape."
Joey kept pleading to be taken to the Hosstibal whenever we came out and checked on him. He was delirious.
He had known the rules of the agreement, because it was he who'd made them up beforehand.
His groans and crying were really getting to us when we came out to check on him. By which I mean, "Harshing Our High."
So we got him fucking high. Smoke, Powder, White Lightening... why, we loved him like only a scar-faced, torturous, powder-snorting, giggling Ginger drunken-step-father could.
Sean shook coke in Little Joey's little nose between the screams of agony and Fat Jerry drizzled alcohol into Joey's gullet to wash down the drain, after he would cough from the powder.
Tellesco giggled nervously, the giant sycophant who sniveled by Sean's shoulder. You knew who wore the pants in that relationship.
I was the one who blew smoke in his face. Cocoa Puffs, which are delicious with milk.
In a bowl.
On Saturday morning, in time for the cartoons.
Again, I am not and have never professed to be a medical professional.
Eventually Little Joey passed out.
From what, we could not concur. But it seemed pretty obvious.
At least he would shut the hell up for a couple of hours.
When we came back out from his bedroom, the newly christened "Skank Room," we followed the prescription again for his health.
And again.
And again.
Don't look at me that way. He survived.
Turn this one down. It gets loud after a bit. Don't want to hurt your ears.
After the party wore down, (which means we had done the last of the coke), the birds started chirping, dogs stared barking, and the world outside began to awaken. These sounds are the worst things to hear when you have been up all night, partying.
They are even worse, when you have survived a gang fight, but are wondering if one of your own might not.
Daylight sucks, in either case. I guess we had finally grew a collective conscience.
While Joey slept and fought off a serious bodily infection that could have killed him and put us in the awkward position of burying him in the orchards that following night, we bastards discussed this new consideration I'd come up with earlier.
Or later. It's all perspective.
You see, "Early" means that you are waking up. "Later" means that you are still up.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
NEW CONSIDERATION
This New Consideration involved an interesting concept, which is this:
Drugs travel in Circles. If you want Smoke, you know from whom to get it. Someone you know. Stupid to buy it from a stranger. Everyone had it, some had the good stuff.
If you want Powder, well, those higher up on the ladder don't seem to be able to deal it for all that long, and you will constantly be meeting "new friends."
Zid? Well, that's a whole 'nother realty, so to speak.
But the idea of Circles is that folks who deal in an addiction supply are only tight with those who also enjoy the same addictive material.
The higher up you go, the more in danger you are, and this risk escalates exponentially when you combine other addiction supplies into your cache, your stash.
The point here is this: If we decided to give powder a break, sad as that was at the time, we might avoid some angry Messicans for a bit, until they became incarcerated, which was inevitable.
Hell, we'd made it this far without incarceration, why risk it more?
Maybe there was something else we could partake of, and it would introduce us to a safer crowd?
This actually sounded like a good idea to us, all whacked up on smoke, powder, and white lightening.
Some of the best ideas come this way.
Or Not.
Joey had rented this apartment which he liked to call the "Pussy Palace." This apartment was now being used for post-triage healing, but it was a hell of a bachelor pad, if you were a poor Punk Rocker in the old days.
Once-orange-now-brown matted-shag carpeting with bare pathways worn in lined the whole place, which consisted of the living room, the tiny kitchen, and the hallway down to the two bedrooms off from each other, and the bathroom at the rear, where we first learned how to rock up powder.
Join us next time, same channel. This story is about to get crazy.
+++++++++++++++++++++++=
LINKS
Speaking of crazy, let's see what has been happening in the outside world, shall we?
willies' style.
After taking her eye off the toddler for two minutes, Kyra turned to discover Cohen had become one of the prizes to be won among the sweets and soft teddy bears.
Move over, Las Vegas. After two years of national doldrums, crazy cities are on the rise again. Sadly, Hartford, Conn., came out only #53. Bangor, ME. didn't even place.
Talk about crazy: thieves have been stealing 200-pound highway drainage grates that cost the Georgia DOT 300-dollars apiece to replace. For money for drugs. These are in the friggin road. How does hitting a five-foot-deep hole at 75 mph sound to you?
Charles Woodson was seen by neighbors wearing the skin of a guinea pig on his head.
Caught in the act at his local Walmart on Wednesday night, Conone admitted that for months he'd been punching children on the backs of their heads with his keys in his fist.
When 89-year-old Nancy Underwood of Chideock in Dorset, England needs to cross the street, she is forced to take a 14-mile bus ride to accomplish the task. (This is not from an Onion article.)
Obama accepted his peace prize just days after announcing he was ramping up U.S. involvement in the war in Afghanistan.
This might help with the craziness: a telepathic computer can read your mind.
Smile, you're at a strip club, Some pics are NSFW. These are by a creepy old man. Thought you'd like it, even if it is one of those annoying slideshows where you have to manually click, no auto-run. This interrupts stroking.
This one, from the same site, has the auto-run, so no interruption. But these are innocent pics taken by a serial killer of his soon-to-be victims. No stroking here.
