Gregoreth's Weekly Post,
        I am Better Than You

I consider myself to be very fortunate, but not too very fortunate. I have a new car that gets good gas mileage, a girlfriend who is beautiful*, and an easy life. I avoided being killed in the Iraq war when I seizured [sic] on the floor while enlisted in the Air Force (thanks, Jove), and was honorably discharged as a disabled veteran ( I tried to avoid discharge, claiming to my officers that I was simply demonstrating a new break-dance move, but the foaming mouth and rolled-back eyes dashed any reasonable doubt). But it all turned out well, considering that my education is free and I get money free, every month from other loyal taxpayers. One could say that I fell into a steaming pile of poo and arose triumphantly, exuding the fragrance of roses. How could I complain about my life as an American? I will elaborate further.

I must now explain the asterisk in the above paragraph. My girlfriend is certainly outwardly beautiful, but there are times when she, like any woman, becomes furious -beyond reason- with her boyfriend. Here is where she claims a certain distinction from most other women. I believe that the Gypsy blood flowing through her veins may cause the terrible beatings that she inflicts upon me after a night of drinking (slight exaggeration, very slight). Some people are happy drunks; not her.

However, there surely is a reason that I tolerate these violent outbursts. You see, this lovely creature loves me so that she is willing to work with me to eradicate these outbursts. For example, last week, I awoke in the middle of the night as I vomited (quesadillas and chop-suey vegetables) on our new brand-new linens (note: this was the FIRST time, and last, that I have ever failed to vomit in a proper receptacle...don't drink tequila). Surely she assailed me with a torrent of language fitting to the fine guests of Pelican Bay Correctional Institute, but she spared me any beatings and, after shedding the soiled linens, went back to sleep. In the morning, I apologized and everything was fine. Usually, this would take 2-3 days.

Also, it must be taken into consideration that I am not the perfect man. I get terrible gas very easily and I have been known to scratch myself and smell my fingers in an attempt to approximate the time of my last shower. This is not true, but I am a slob who needs a woman to care for me, as though I were a baby (no penis joke, please). I am unable to function without my girlfriend, and I get more dependant with each passing day. AWWWWW!!!

This is the real reason that I claim to have such a good life. I have a partner, (have had for 2+ years) who is willing to change and grow with me, provided that she still, at times, alienates my friends and has fits of manic aggression followed by sobbing. I realize that any number of things could happen to take her out of the equation, which would render this entire claim to supremacy completely false and worthless, but it is essential to live in the moment and not think about the future unless absolutely necessary. This state of mind is what makes me better than you.

Pressing Business

John Heder, a.k.a Napoleon Dynamite, should cut his losses and find a different career. He was great as Napoleon. But, unfortunately it also branded him a goofy, semi-retard and I fear that he will never escape the clutches, which have claimed the careers of so many semi-retards in Hollywood. Case in point: After Napoleon, John co-starred, in some dumb movie, with Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo...FLOP! HUGE FLOPPITY ASSBAG OF TERRIBLE MOVIENESS! Perhaps it wasn't his fault, but his attempt at a serious flick was no Oscar winner, and he was still plagued with terrible lines scripted for a goofy, semi-retard.

Now, he has completely regressed in his new movie. He has been whipped into submission and forced to wear a bicycle helmet. And even the previews indicate his most terrible dialogue EVER. Perhaps this poor lad (who participates in a heretofore unnamed religion that has a high concentration in Utah and believe in golden tablets that gives them the right to plural marriage, etc, etc) is intentionally being destroyed by Hollywood producers (many of whom are of an unnamed religion that killed Jesus). Perhaps this idea is too paranoid and far-fetched, for many actors have gone down this path, and some have even gained from their roles as retards (think Dustin Hoffman, Cuba Gooding Jr., Tom Hanks, and Leo DiCaprio). But how else can one account for the disastrous decline of the career of John Heder?

Less Offensive News

More mad cows have been found in America; this time in the tasty beef of the South. How will the steak-addicted Southerners last the impending barbecue season with the looming threat of this terrible disease? I have decided to give beef a break in order to save myself from this plague. I will eat only veal, as mad-calf disease has yet to breach our borders. However, I will not preach the abstinence from beef as would the many elitist hippy/socialist tea-drinking vegetarians. Their cause is fueled by this tragedy and I will not be a part of their war.

I encourage all barbecuers to be sure to take a small taste to ensure that their beef is mad-cow free. Remember, if it tastes like death, DON'T eat it. Prions suck!!!

Mattias's Weekly Post
     A Harrowing Debacle

In the murky depths of the library, I sat. Salient in untenable territory! Ninja's from left and right assaulted my assailable position. Their drab attire as dark as sackcloth stung the air in geometric arcs, their trajectory's landing them equidistant behind me in one semi-circle.

You boy, they say.

I do not reply. My fingers trace to the edges of my book and furtively grab a pencil lying, innocently, at its side. They attack the tables and chairs savagely, splintered oak rapes the air, sticking its effeminate claws into cement walls. The wall, itself, released a damp cry of anguish. I pity, yet wait.

A small boy is hurried from a small corner by his mother to the glorious exit, but the ninja's do not attempt to follow her; tumbleweed blows by. Nerves...

You there boy, respond to our cries at once!

A vicious silence settles...the hands become a balmy resort, a thumb moves over the eraser of a pencil and a fist is slowly formed. A cry shreds the air in murderous rage! Eight ninja's attack the last hero. The last literary hero to exist before the apocalypse. A flurry of hands move into range, deftly landing and blocking blows, feet unhindered by the restraints of gravity pursue the enemy's face in a zest! The room fills with sprays of bodily fluids and guttural groans, paper clips and flimsy metal map cabinets melt under the intense heat of battle.

A dull, hollow sound waxes into a deafening shriek like a maddened vortex twisting cookie-cutter stick buildings to shreds. The whole scene becomes an amalgamation of cloth and paper, grey and black. A slight tug is felt on all surrounding this vortex, this spinning hero, the walls bow, perceptible, inward, as though a belly was forming from feverish consumption. Remaining desks and varying shelves and podiums flew into the vortex, it sucked in pens, staples, books, maps, chalk and construction paper. The noise became painful; ears began to bleed under pressure...

A great sigh past from the vortex. It crashed through the wall, breaking the bloated structure and pulling the second floor down upon the eight weary heads, who had long since realized the futility of their powers. A storm formed in the sky outside and a brilliant line of light shot through the hole and connected with the vortex. A great explosion occurred. The pencil was dropped. Silence returned...

Eight empty suits lay in a neat circle at his feet. The hero hardly challenged yet trembling stared at the dropped pencil. His thoughts, most likely, too dense for mortal interpretation. The ninja's, possibly, wisps in his imagination. But the damage was real. The faint echo of sirens was heard as they raced down narrow, broken streets.

He kneeled in reverence to this glorious victory. The Gods of War struck their harps into moist hymns of praise. Paeans fell from Heaven unto mortal Earth. Our hero, still kneeled, felt the blade of Justice touch his shoulders, as he was Knighted. But unlike the pathetically worthless knighting of those bowl-cut thespians, his knighting was worthwhile. Justice had been paid out handsomely. He rose and looked upon the shuffling crowd that formed a perimeter about the destruction.

A voice from somewhere said, Take note! For you our witnesses to a harrowing debacle.

And so the tale ends with promise. Our literary hero returned to his chair, and continued his search for the loss of the literary Hero complex in twentieth century poetry, for a dreadfully boring paper on Sassoon and Graves. Have pity.