Beak Grillz

I gnaw on grit in the dark. I cannot see very well. The taste of sand and dirt is bitter in my mouth. My heart races for the tunnel could collapse at any moment, but I continue onward. I hear nothing, not even myself. It is cold five feet below the desert sand. I clench my teeth against a piece of gravel and tug it out of the dirt in front of me.

Sharp rocks burrow into my skin, but I cannot feel pain. The tiny yellow hairs on my back bristle as I strike my teeth into another rock. I am a naked mole rat.

I've always wanted to write from the perspective of a naked mole rat, and with the help of Wikipedia, I have finally done so. I tried somewhat hard to keep the innuendo out of those two paragraphs, but I think I failed with all that talk about tunnels and gnawing.

I have come to the conclusion, however, that the life of a naked mole rat is better than that of a Uni student. At least breeding male rats are required by the queen rat to procreate. If I were a naked mole rat, I would be a breeding one. Or the queen.

Much ish,
MG$

According to Wikipedia, the first sausage was created in 3000 B.C. by the Sumerians in the fertile crescent. After chopping up cows and sheep, they discovered that the ugly parts (including but not limited to genitalia) could be eaten if they were mashed into a fine consistency and molded into a phallus. Mmm, tasty.

The sausage underwent few improvements except for the euphemization of its name to "wiener" and the eventual placement of said wiener in a bread-like containment device. From here on out, there would be no stopping all of the preteen jokes about putting hot dogs in buns. There would also be no stopping to my saying "wiener" constantly.

You see, I believe I either have a mild case of Tourettes Syndrome or I am fulfilling a subconscious goal to annoy the wiener out of people. In any case, most of you weenies just smile sheepishly whenever I bring up the wienery word, as if I'm making a scene. Well I'm not, wienerfaces! You can kiss a wiener. And when I say wiener, I mean wiener, dammit! Get over it you prudish wieners! I've had enough of all your pretentious anti-wiener attitudes. When I get really passionate I spell wiener "weiner" instead of "wiener." And boy is this upsetting me. At the risk of sounding emo, here goes:

Weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner weiner.

And that was all hand-typed. I did not use ctrl+c ctrl+v, fools.

Wiener,
mGmoney

As always on the night before a dance, I am literally flipping out (shitty pun) to learn some new breakdancing moves. I have landed on my ass 207.63 times trying to learn how to do windmills and I can sort of do a retarded jabberwocky's version of a windmill so far. Which is probably good enough for those of you uninitiated in the art of bboying.

But anyway, as I work through my painful hip joints and buttocks to bring breakin' entertainment to the masses, I have a proposal to make for this dance. We need to increase the number of slow songs played at Spring Fling at least threefold the normal slow song yield of other dances. There are two main reasons that implementation of aforementioned torpid songs will increase good and funky sex machine dance vibes:

1. People who like to sit on the side are impelled to get on the floor if they are hit with slow song after slow song. Face it; it's just not fun to watch everyone else having a good time.

2. Slow dancing is just plain better than (censored for content by University High School Un-American Activities Committee). Maybe it's just me, but I'd rather be facing the girl I'm dancing with. They say in ballroom dancing that if you don't know your partner's eye color you're an asshole, and I'm inclined to agree.

Plus, regular dance songs are made by rappers such as



who happens to be the ugliest dude on Earth.
Enough said.

Feel the funk,
MG$

Yes, Amirah, my LJ does look like a turd. A dehydrated one, but a turd nonetheless. I couldn't figure out how to use this newfangled livejournal thing to post a comment on my own page, so I'm just going to respond with another post.

It's been another couple months since my first post, but don't worry. I've been hiding in a corner of my basement during all that time with pencil and paper carefully deciding what to write down. This is all that work, come spectacularly into fruition:

I used to put my cell phone in my right back jean pocket. In this position it would irritate my ass whether I was hearing about the Korean War or about how our senior class song choice should be "Real N**** Roll Call." My phone did not like this arrangement either. It would develop new cracks or scratches every time I sat my elephantine body down on top of it. Eventually it was barely useable. Where once a quartz readout of date and time had been now stood the words Gdrlpp//. Where once the antenna had stood tall and proud to the sky now it limped away, useless and flaccid.

One last thing. The raccoon has the same expression whether it is quixotic or complacent. Intriguing.

Peace and Blessings,
MG

Check it. I just found this stupid thing after about 4-6 months of absolute neglect. If it was a small child, it would be found by child services and they would make a documentary about how it can't read or write because I didn't do anything for it except pass in a can of uncooked Campbell's Tomato Soup from time to time.

Anyway, this is particularly for Amirah's benefit because she doesn't want to do her calc homework. She wants people to update their LJ's more often and I agree. LJ is a great way for all of us to take out our stalker tendencies on clueless teenage girls who like to pretend that their shit isn't being read.

I don't really feel like talking about myself right now because I'm pretty much a sack of lunch meat being thrown off the Empire State Building. About the most interesting thing I will do this week is raise my hand and say "sexane" when Mr. Bergandine asks me to name an organic compound. In other words I'm damn boring. So I'm done talking about myself.

Actually I'm done talking in general.
Maybe I'll finish off by pressing the enter key a lot and writing an artsy haiku.

The grasshopper sits
On the lotus blossom
Kissing my buttocks

That was beatiful.
Peace.