Editing 101 for the TPT
It has come to my attention that our beloved Zenestex.com has been infiltrated by the ignorant. Recently, one of our writers, Ligia, was verbally assaulted by a reader known only as "Glen." Not only was her article trashed, but her family, boyfriend, and career were also scrutinized. Although Ligia chose to not say anything in regards to this matter (due to a pending investigation), I, Sho Nuff, protector of all things Zenestex.com, will gladly take care of this situation.
After careful review of Ligia's article, Stankonya, and the imbecilic comment left for display, I have determined that this intrusive statement of opinion is absolute Trailer Park Trash (TPT). This article is devoted to you, TPT. Please click on the following song below and have it playing in the background while reading the rest of this article.
The Appeasement of an Angry God
The party preparations began innocently enough for the two heroes. They arrived at the community center a couple of hours before the start of the party to help out with the decorations. Bobby and Security Gawd were relegated to balloon inflation duty in a corner far away from everyone else. They were both well aware of the conspiracy afoot to keep them at a safe distance from any vital activities such as setting up electronics or food preparation. However, even something as innocuous as inflating balloons would be fraught with peril for the pair of bumbling ne'er-do-wells.
After threatening to scare the piss out of kids at Disney World while performing the mandatory helium voice trick, the two settled into a tedious routine of inflating balloons. Bobby inflated the balloons and tied them with ribbon. Meanwhile, Security Gawd put them together in arrangements of one shiny balloon, two red balloons, and two white balloons. Things were moving along at a nice clip.
“We should be done in no time at all,” said Bobby as he surveyed their progress. “Just a few more bundles and we can finally do something useful.”
Bored with being an automaton on the balloon inflation assembly line, Bobby blew up a balloon in his mouth and held it there. He intended to let it slip from his mouth to see where it would fly and what mischief it would cause. Security Gawd noticed Bobby's scheming and promptly foiled these plans by popping the balloon while it was still in Bobby's mouth. The balloon murder for Security Gawd's mere amusement was the event that angered Him.
Hello Kitty Hell!
Hello Kitty, two little words that always bring a smile to my face. Oh, it isn’t for the reason you are thinking. I am not a Sanrio© Hello Kitty fan by any stretch of the imagination. I have, what I recently described to my friends over beers and bar food, “embraced the gayness” of Hello Kitty. Well, it turns out I should have thought that through just a little bit before I blurted that out. Sounds a little like I am now an HK fanatic (I have shortened Hello Kitty to HK, deal with it).
Meat Harangue
My debut article was supposed to be inspired by the most Gawdly of muses. One rainy evening a few weeks ago, a certain someone announced that he would write a monologue admitting that he loves Hello Kitty. I was inspired. I promptly proclaimed that my first article would be a rebuttal to his. My thoughts then devolved into an internal dialogue of yokes about his feline love. Oh, the material.
If you don't know what a yoke is, boy have you been deprived. And before you hypothesize, it's not part of an egg. Don't go look up the definition; it's a concocted word. The term's origins are lost in the annals of time, but somehow yokes were unleashed. Yokes are a particular subcategory of stupid jokes. Typically spawned from way too much sugar, yokes are grammar-school jokes with some lightly-twisted meaning and they tickle me immensely.
Whup: An Update. And Other Nonsense
I've gone one full week without committing a "Whup" slip. It has taken a ridiculous amount of effort on my part. I'm actually surprised that I have the attention span to pull off my solution: Constantly repeating the mantra in my head, "don't say 'whup,' don't say 'whup'…" Up to this point, this method has been a resounding success. I have gone from saying "Whup" nearly every time I leave my desk, to not saying it at all. I've felt a “whup” surge up my esophagus a few times, but the mantra has kept it from escaping.
I'm fairly certain that prolonged use of the mantra will hasten my ultimate fate of being locked away in a padded cell. I truly fear the day that I let the mantra slip and say it aloud as I'm walking around. I have a tendency to talk to myself when I think nobody is around; I've been caught before and I'll get caught again—it's only a matter of time. Imagine if I'm repeating that mantra when I get caught. Now that I think about it, that's probably the event that'll have me committed.
Here's what's happening with the site:
- Li just posted her first article Stankonya
- Zia is putting the finishing touches on her first article. I've seen it, it's funny!
- Security Gawd will have his eagerly anticipated article on Hello Kitty up soon
- I'll post a movie review within the next week. It's one from my Top 10 of all time. Here's a hint: Sum Dum Goy.
- Babe of The Week will be up Friday morning. Check the teaser pics to see if you can guess! No prizes--I'm broke.
- I have some updates to the site I still need to get to including fixing up the GOTD archives, fixing a few issues with Comments, adding the Authors page, and the Graffiti Wall.
The Babe of the Week teaser in case you missed it
On the Eighth Day, Man Destroyed Tuesday
Another Monday is in the books, which leaves Tuesday to just suck furry rhinoceros balls. Tuesday is the worst. Tuesday is the puke splotches left on a Port-a-potty seat on a hot summer day by a drunk, herpes-infested whore that couldn't stomach fulfilling some bizarre, whips and chains, Dungeons & Dragons fantasy of a fat, 49 year-old man with a pimply ass who still lives with his parents. Everthing sucks on Tuesday. There's no hope; no point in even thinking about the next weekend. Traffic is terrible since everyone is back from their weekend or three day break—if they took one. Hell, even TV sucks on Tuesday, so there's nothing to look forward to when it's finally over. Fuck you, Tuesday.
At least Monday you can reflect on the past weekend; it's still fresh in your brain and you have something to talk about. Wednesday is “hump” day. As much as I abhor goobers who say “Happy Hump Day,” they're at least onto something. It's true. Once lunchtime has passed on Wednesday, it feels like a million pounds have been lifted off your chest. If you've ever run a race, it's similar to reaching the halfway point. You're dog tired, running out of gas, beat down, brain dead. You wanna quit, but you've already made it this far. Besides stopping and walking would be stupid. You still gotta finish the course—stopping will take even longer. Thursday is the day you see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's busy as hell, but you feel like you're blood, sweat, and tears are finally about to pay off. Friday might as well be the third day of the weekend. You still have to go into work, but nothing gets done because everybody fears making the mistake—the one that'll bring you in on Saturday to fix it.
The only true working days are Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I propose we abolish Tuesday. It's a complete drag on society—its destruction will make the world a happier place. It's the least productive working day since everyone is so depressed. It's the day of “it'll never end.” So, I'm taking it out. That leaves six days in the week, which doesn't divide into 365 very cleanly. Neither does seven for that matter. While we're at it let's fix that retarded mess. We could add another day to each year to make it 366 days for a clean 61 weeks. Or, even better, let's keep it at 365 days a year. We'll take out Friday along with it.
Sure Friday is fun, but it's entirely useless. It's a weekday in weekend day's clothing. It's there to fool you. It's like a transvestite day. It certainly looks like weekend day—it acts the part. Then you take it home and BLAM! some nasty old dick falls out. You can either be gay and play along or you can kick its ass out. I vote for the latter. Let's stop with this Friday charade and just ditch the stupid day. At least until the leap year. I think we can give the trannies one day every four years to celebrate peckers and fake boobs. Or not.
So now we have five-day weeks: three days of work, two days of play. Thursday, the most productive and hopeful day of the week, becomes the final weekday. Now you have 146 weekend days instead of 105 and 219 working days instead of 260. We've eliminated 104 worthless or soul-sucking days and replaced them with a healthy mix of productive days and days off. It only cost us a total of 41 working days. However, you actually gain 11 days of pure production since Fridays are a waste and we just trashed 52 of them. You see—more time for family, friends, drinking, eating, hobbies and more production for the Man. Everybody wins!
Stimulus Packages of the Gawd
I have been in the process of writing a few articles for this fantastic website. However, I hit a wall: Writer’s block. I didn’t know that writer’s block could affect someone who isn’t a writer by any stretch of the imagination, but yet it is there, looking me dead in the face, licking its lips. I explained my predicament to Mr. Zenestex who told me to just write through it. Start babbling away till something makes sense, then go with it and delete the babbles later. Ok, easy enough. So I did. What I ended up with surprised the hell out of me. Inside this fantastically oversized noggin of mine was a plan. (I am not saying that I have a big brain, it is quite the opposite. My head is freaking huge. It has its own gravitational field.) A great plan if I do say so myself; a plan so epic and awe inspiring that I have already booked my flight to Sweden to accept my Nobel Prize. Ladies and gentlemen, I, Security Gawd, have figured out how to save the economy.
The Renaissance Festival
To celebrate this year's St. Patrick's Day, we went to the Renaissance Festival to enjoy the atrocious acting, weird jokes, dust, green beer, and smell of horseshit hanging in the air. Sure, it sounds bad, but it's all part of the magic. For those who don't know, the Renaissance Festival is a medieval carnival that is held in the Tampa area each year for a month or two. It is complete with carny food, games, shows, shops, and human powered wooden rides. This festival has been an annual attraction as long as I can remember. Going to the festival was one of the highlights of my childhood years. I would laugh my ass off at the comedy shows, be amazed by the magic tricks, try in desperation to climb Jacob's Ladder, be engrossed by the fake swordfights, and gorge myself on apple dumplings and gyros. It was a day in heaven for this kid! It has been nearly ten years since I have made my way back to the festival; ten years entirely too long.
Security Gawd’s Immaculate Constipation
A few friends and I went to Melbourne, FL for the 4th of July weekend to stay at Cole’s Mother’s house. We had an absolutely incredible time setting off ridiculously large fireworks to “scare away birds,” tubing from a boat, airboating, eating great food, and drinking beer. Security Gawd was with us for the weekend getaway; the following article is his account of the weekend and the most glorious shit he has ever taken. Enjoy!
No matter how you celebrate a holiday, it is always a pleasure and joy to celebrate it with your close friends and family. With my family being about a thousand miles north of me, I don’t really have the option of heading up there just on a whim. I am always thankful when great friends invite me to celebrate the holidays with their families. Just such an occasion happened this past weekend for Independence Day. Several of us from the office joined up with the infamous “Cole” to spend the holiday in her hometown across the state with Cole’s Mother. It was an absolute blast that all of us will be recuperating from for several more days.
The UGOOMH (Unidentified Glimmering Object On My Head)
I was looking in the mirror and styling my buzz cut yesterday morning when I noticed a strange glint of light emanate from my dome. Curious, I turned my head in all directions in an attempt to reproduce the phenomenon. With my head turned to the right and tilted slightly up, I saw the brilliant sparkle of light once again and pinpointed its origin to my left upper sideburn. I asked myself, "What in the hell would cause that?"
I flicked my fingers through my sideburn thinking that maybe a piece of tinsel had gotten lodged in my hair even though Christmas had long since past and we don't use tinsel. I flicked my sideburns for a few more moments until I saw the light sparkle once more and realized it was a hair that was causing the flashing display. I quickly dismissed the hair as a stray blond hair since I was blond until I was about 2 or 3 years old. Maybe I was going back to blond. Sweet!
But the hair still held me transfixed with curiosity. Why is it there? Has it always been there? Should I pull it? What if I am driving along the Lee Roy Selmon Expressway one day and my hair reflects off the morning sun into some poor soul's eyes blinding him and causing him to careen into the never-ending wall of construction and delay everyone's morning commute for over an hour? No, this hair must be pulled. If only for the safety of my fellow man.