Post 11/28 @ 10:39 PM: There may be one more... |
Post @ 10/30: Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraireMattias' Weekly Post Let me begin with a brief dialogue. One to be had between myself, and my loyal readers: I've gone through several ideas for as what to write and say over the last...nearly a month I'd say it's been if not more. More than a month ago a rather severe personal drama unfolded in my life, which to be just I shall explain. My, now fiancé was living with me at 1008 Ridge Street, apartment number 5 in what could only be described as supreme bliss. In fact things went so well I often felt my feet lifting off the ground, and I sort of floated about; this condition I also noted in my partner -Griselda. It came to be one day that a large group of unruly invaders -aliens if you will, or extra-terrestrials- set upon our humble abode and stole her away from me. She was pregnant at the time, and these aliens being knowledgeable of myne and her extreme gifts of intellect decided to capture this wee baby while gestation lasted. I asked them if there wasn't anyway they could just point one of their large lasers at me and end my suffering now? They of course relished this thought, but more its implications as they knew how I would suffer under the manifold stupidity my brethren display on that medium. Thus they laughed...and the echoes followed me into the atmosphere. When I began, I knew that I needed an idea as to how these webpage’s are created...so I surfed other peoples accounts. First I needed to learn the language of the MySpacers, like this one left on a comment wall: She ended the post with "Can you believe this bitch?" and no I cannot. So with a little more reading I think I understand the language, one you should always refer to esoteric situations and if possible use bad grammar and use abbreviations for words instead of typing the whole thing. Example: "Would u plez stop flippin my and justins pic. upside down and pick on someone else!!!" |
Post @ 9/25: Moribus antiquis res stat Americana virisqueGregoreth's Weekly Post I came upon this personal ad last week as I browsed the paper for various collectibles, such as condom wrappers and used shampoo bottles. I love knick-knacks, but I digress. This strange, and very coarsely titled ad reminded me of an upcomming event: The Annual Mid-Michigan Gay and Lesbian Swap for a Straight Fling-a-thon in which gay and lesbian couples actually experiment with members of the opposite sex in an attempt to entertain massive crowds of potential serial murderers and college students who gather on the banks of the Red Cedar in East Lansing. No, that is all wrong. I got carried away and I apologize to the three people who will read this article. This personal ad really reminded me of the Michigan Gubernatorial race starring the incumbent Jennifer Granholm and Dick DeVos. Now re-read the title and notice how funny it is now that the context is clear! WOW! Dick DeVos, as stated in the title, speaks like an Irish boy who has just sat down after his father whipped him thoroughly with a willow switch. He wants desperately to get up and end the searing pain, but if he does, old man O'Brien will give it to him again. So, he remains seated and conducts his campaign commercials and speeches on the verge of tears. Jennifer Granholm has taken to the genocide of all weasels in the state in a childish attempt to anger DeVos, however, she forgot about the mighty wolverine, cousin to the weasel and half-cousin to weasel-men. For the last few years she has been intermittently engaged in battle with this might creature. This is why she has been unable to be a competent governor and has taken to last ditch efforts to butter up the constituency, such as a minimum wage increase that will bankrupt the state. But she must be given some credit, as the wolverine is a ferocious and noble beast, and she has slain many. She has been terribly scarred in these battles, which is the reason that he face is always caked in cosmetics. Recently, she had a powerful laser implanted under one of her moles that has helped her to vaporized these beasts with greater ease. Granholm, on the other hand, is a woman and thinks that she is cool because she holds political office. This is a dangerous state of mind. She is also a heavy drinker and beats men whenever she can. It's only a matter of time before she ruins our state. Michigan needs a good business mind to save us from the collapsing auto industry. Send 'em to China, Dick (I say this as a joke. If he did this, I would "go to the bathroom" in his mouth). Only the future will tell the outcome of this race, but I ask my three readers: Do we want a blood-thirsty bull dyke or a whiny Irish boy? The answer is clear enough. Or is it? AHHHHHHHHHH! |
Post @ 9/23: Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraireMattias' Weekly Post In the exhaustion of post-battle, he sat; his habiliments dripping with the blood of the slain and the errant steam swimming off his body. His immense sword Verace resting loosely in his hands. A dull thump came soon after the last of Troilus' breaths. An immensely forboding noise, alike the great push of wind that precedes a thunder head. Constant, systematic, like a heart-beat of wind that pushes down and pushes down; forcing all petulant motes of air to obey its demands. Just da-dum...da-dum...da-dum, and da-dum. No beast returned. The thunderous pounding of air grew louder, the great wings that drove it down were now unmistakably closer. His pose stiffened, and he slowly eyed the burning village for use, but nothing was discernable except the carrion of battle. Heaps of broken elements of war stippled the town with men of various ages scattered about them, they the victims of a hollow promise in its surety. He nearly grinned at their arrogance, a wonderful pride it was that once marched but now lay broken and useless to the sweat of its creation. |
Post @ 9/13: Moribus antiquis res stat Americana virisqueGregoreth's Weekly Post I am practically unemployed. However, I found myself in a position that allows me to live comfortably while in school, without the daily toil of official servitude. Allow me to wax poetic: However, I become lonely and bored at times and long for a good ol' slab of gumption with a brimming glass of brow sweat. Such an opportunity presented itself last week. My pal, who owns a landscaping business, asked me to help him mow some grass. Now understand this, I shreik at the sight of a push mower. Fortunately, he owns three of John Deere's coveted mowers with zero degree turning ability, enabling the mower to corner with precision and even pop wheelies on steep hills. I agreed, after I wet my pants, and we set out early in the morning, the dew still breakfasting on the tips of the fragrant grass. By afternoon we had reached our final job, the large lawn of a local church. We gave a cursory look, made eye contact, spat in unison and set out. I sped about, spewing freshly chopped blades as I whistled a tune. I had barely finished a row when I noticed that my pal was squatting close to a nearby window, completely disengaged. I thought, "Dear lord he's defecating on Holy soil, and moreover, he's exibiting his fecal sin to some poor, blue haired church lady!" I shouted, "Repent!" as I sped towards him, but the mower was too loud and he remained in his sinful hunker. I stopped short of him and saw what was consuming his attention. It was a rather large Argiope aurantia, commonly known as the Black and Yellow Argiope or Black and Yellow Garden Spider, a beautiful orb weaver (I'm gay for insects). He was plucking crickets from nearby and throwing them to the spider, who promptly ran to her prey, attached her web, and then spun her food as a lathe spins a Louisville. After the prey was immobilized, she sunk her fangs deep into her dinner and returned to the center of her web, waiting for her meal to liquefy. We did this for about 30 minutes and got paid for it. As we were about to return to the mowers, we noticed a Stagomantis carolina, also known as the Praying Mantis. We immediately regressed to the age of seven and set about trying to decide who would pluck the mantis and throw him to the spider in what would surely be an epic battle. My pal removed his shirt, his nipples glistened with sweat and I could almost taste...never mind. He used his shirt to secure the mantis and we quivered with anticipation. However, as he flung the mantis toward the spider, he inadvertently destroyed half of the spider's beautiful web. We were too absorbed in the ensuing battle to notice. The spider tangled with the mantis and the entire web, or what was left of it, shook in the throes of battle. The spider retreated to the center of her web to regroup, for she knew this was no cricket. Then, she dashed for the rear of the mantis and began to spin him in what would be his burial robe. However, the mantis arched backward and chopped at the spider furiously. But, he was no match and the spider bit him in the head. His insides turned to yogurt. We then realized that we had wasted almost an hour. We got back to mowing, but I began to feel extremely guilty. We had just initiated the killing of an innocent being, and wounded both the body and home of another. I remember my biology teacher saying this in defense of our required bug collection: "Don't feel bad about killing these bugs. There are literally hundreds of millions more. Plus, it's in the name
of Mother Science." But we didn't have science in mind when we put a hit on that praying mantis. We did it for our own sick pleasure. I wondered what it would be like if I were plucked from my home and thrown into a locked room with a giant mongoloid rapist cannibal. I tried to forget it, but I couldn't... Since then, I have been searching desperately for another giant spider and more mantis gladiators. I may have played God, which is pretty atrocious, but even more atrocious is the fact that I turned this event into an article and had the cajones to conclude it in this manner. I shall surely slammeth my penis in the car door as penance for this one, oh mighty God of Not Writing Crappy Stories for Your Website and Trying to Conclude with Some Crappy Quasi-moral. |
Post @ 9/14: Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraireMattias' Weekly Post After a rather harsh verbal beating administered by Griselda, supposedly for my own good, we hazarded the aisle(s) of our family video. It was here, I was fully enlightened with my fellow Americans absolutely depravity and need to be entertained. Silent Hill was terrible because it sucked. That is all. No I am kidding. The movie lacked everything one would require to be interested, like for instance plausibility. The movie starts with some dumb little girl-child, who sleep walks and demon-esque things call to her, all the while pissing me off because I need more background and I didn't play that stupid fps game (for those morons that don’t know fps it is first person shooter –lick my nuts). The movie though, to summarize, is about a girl, a girl that a couple adopts from an orphanage. The orphanage was a town next to a town that had an accident. The town was Silent Hill, and the accident was a big coal fire. The main story goes like this though, a woman has a bastard child, but the town is home to many religious fanatics who think the child needs to be purified, so they burn her at some ceremony. When they burn her it unleashes a demon that possesses the child, the child then curses the town and all those that wronged her are forced to live again-and-again a terrible nightmare of her own craft. It’s one of those films where you’re saying “They can’t be that stupid?” or “Just leave the stupid girl!” And then after the first hour, which is a soft, relatively blood-less horror flick, it becomes a sickening bloody-mess, where you’re thinking “That’s just not necessary” or “Think of the kids you Hollywood liberal bastards!” And so on… |
© Frikin' Sweet.com is the legal holding of one anonymous person with the assistants of unnamed entities, all context is usable per his discretion.