…I’m addicted to it.
This is a video of a kid playing XBox online and yelling at his mom for chocolate milk.
This is why corporal punishment is necessary.
On a side note, what game is that?
Another online test I stole from someone’s blog and, dammit, I can’t remember whose it was. I usually give credit when ripping off too.
If I got it from yours, let me know. I’ll own up to it.
Anyway, pretty damn accurate except for the “Romantic” part.
I’m a romantic fuck, I just don’t brag about it.
Advanced Global Personality Test Results
What the fuck?
70% paranoid?? 63% Interdependence??
That test sucks.
I was tagged by freakmagnet to describe my perfect partner in eight requirements.
Since I already did this awhile back, this is just a slightly edited of what I posted before. I took out “Above average height” to meet the requirement. Nothing much else has changed.
Red hair – There is nothing finer than a gorgeous redhead. And, when I say red hair, I mean red hair. Not dyed. I want the whole red head package. Grrr baby.
No friends – Let’s face it, guys don’t like your single friends. None of them. None of those nosy women telling you how I should treat you. 9 times out of 10, your single friends are bitter and want you to go out and meet guys with them. So, they take every chance they get to tell you how wrong I am for you. Jealous, petty and childish, there is a reason why these friends are single. The ONLY exceptions to this rule is if the friend is my best friend’s girlfriend. Then, if they break up, you stop talking to her. The other exception is if my best friend is single, you must find a friend for him. Then, if they break up, you stop speaking to your friend because she’s such a bitch for leaving my buddy.
A smoker – I’m a smoker. I don’t plan on stopping. I don’t want to be nagged about stopping. My next girlfriend will either be a smoker or someone who doesn’t care if she dates a smoker. Who am I kidding? She’ll be a smoker.
Parents are either dead or live in another country – I have a hard enough time dealing with my mother. I don’t need to deal with yours.
Deaf – Okay, maybe not deaf. But none of this selective hearing bullshit, either. You either hear me or you don’t. Nothing in between.
Short-term memory – I don’t need to hear about shit I said to you in 1986.
A sense of humor – I want you to laugh at my farts and call me a dumbass for being so crude.
A high self-esteem – I’ve had female friends long before I met you and I’ll probably have them long after you leave. Deal with it. Also, I do not want to hear how fat or how skinny or how unattractive you think you are. Nothing is a bigger turn-off than a woman begging for attention. Hey, I’m a fat-ass, but I never once said “Golly, I need to lose weight.” Why? Because I don’t give a shit what other people think because I am better than them.
A need to be alone, sometimes – We don’t need to be together 24/7.
Freak already tagged the people I would have. So no tags from me.
Back in the day, I was an inquisitive little boy. Pain in the ass is probably more like it, if you were to believe my parents.
I used to question everything (still do on occasion), and my mother would pretty much answer everything within reason. Within reason because some of the stuff was not age appropriate. Those times she would just make something up.
Which brings me to today’s entry.
My mother was watching a soap opera one day and I was waiting for the soap opera to be over so I could watch more important shows. Like Godzilla. No time for love, Dr. Jones.
Anyway, one of the characters on the show was proclaiming that another character had raped her. Not knowing what rape was, I asked my mother.
“Uh,” she said, no doubt trying to figure out how you explain rape to a five year old. “It’s, uh, when you hit someone over the head with a telephone.”
That answer was good enough for me. I filed it away and continued to wait for Godzilla.
Later on that night, there was a knock on the door. My father opened it and found Skeeter, a neighbor from up the street, standing on the porch with a blood soaked handkerchief to his head.
“Oh my God, Skeeter! What happened?” My mom asked, rushing to help him inside.
Skeeter stumbled in the house. “Diane got drunk again and she hit me over the head with a telephone.”
Being the knowledgeable young lad that I was, I blurted “YOU WERE RAPED!?!?”
My father looked at my mother. My mother looked at me. “Go. Upstairs. Now.” She said. She seemed pissed.
I can’t remember how old I was when I found out what rape really was, but I wasn’t too surprised to find out it wasn’t when you hit someone over the head with a telephone.