So long I went without an electronic outlet of my own,
Dabbling on other people’s sites with no home,
And then Will came along (with sweet nocturnal nothings),
To come and take me out of the internet cold.

I remember well this black-and-tan of my early days
FUBAR of my memory is Angelina then Drew came in,
And though those weren’t the greatest I would do ’em,
Justin you took away the porn, at least let us keep Women

So yes I met my host through this site’s dvd, gamer guru,
(Who only tried to beard-paste and buttfuck me one time)
But I guess the honors of introduction go to Indian Name
Loves Dunst But Would Go To Jail For a Piece of Bynes

Soon I had a site and posted as often as I was sane,
What a wonder, I can keep my tits undercover
And the camboys, oh, the few the fun the really young,
Became my own topless e-harem of photolovers.

It doesn’t take too long to figure webmastering out,
IM pastes and smiley face and jealousy abound
Cybercliques and cyberpricks, do anything, but do avoid
Bringing too many older Internet Gossip folks around.

Months later I am well schooled in the old hallowed ways
Of stencilling a name (they’re all the same) on my skin.
And they say man, that means that I’m a true fan,
But it just means I know that a pretty face is the easiest in.

The most shocking thing a girl could learn while surfing
Is the age of the breasts that load 2000 times a day
Now I come back to ol’ FUBAR to see another naked kid,
So when did an Amanda become different from a Nay?

Dns error, constellate is down like a camgirl’s chin,
So let me appeal against the horror of youth and the Ring,
Remember that double-ended dildo scene in Dream?
Yeah, let’s toss up some Jennifer Connelly on that thing.

Who’s with me?

What is it about anonymity that pours into people in code and comes running out like a ball of snot? Someone who I consider close online wondered if my alternate name meant an alternate personality, and you can only blame so much on pots calling kettles black, and even less of that can be assigned to personality quirks. In actuality everyone who uses the internet is a goddamn schizophrenic.

Personality A – The Reinvented: The nice quiet kid, the one who could get the creme of the crop dates if they could escape the horror of the friend zone – Camp X-Ray has nothing on a group of angsty teens and twenty-somethings looking for love in all the wrong places. This type wouldn’t call your female dog a bitch at the Westminster show, let alone attack even the skankiest of mothers (yo momma is sooo…nevermind). Breaking out from the ‘nice guy’ mode takes something extreme in this fast-paced world of pastable gossip and hits today gone tomorrow. Porn usually does the trick, nothing says Typical Guy louder than daily posts that consist of BangBus plugs and open-mouthed women with chests like misshapen missiles. This type is my personal favorite, there’s still a Nice Guy underneath, and if you’re lucky, you’ll get them on the phone.

Personality B – The Critic: Your hometown loser. You remember them, two steps and a crashland behind fashion trend, complexion reminiscent of pink marshmallow peeps after they have been unwrapped and tucked under a couch cushion for two weeks. An outcast perhaps, falling into two categories of catch-phrase: “I would give anything to be popular for just one day!” or “I hate those fucking jocks, they can stare down the barrel of my daddy’s gun tomorrow morning.” Female Bs are most often found bashing camgirls, fem musicians, actresses, Mother friggin’ Theresa if a boy they like online happens to think she’s ‘nice.’ But in the net dogfight the male Bs are god – they rain down criticism and judgment with a fat-dimpled or bone-stencilled fist, leering upon mere mortals from thrones of gore sites or comments sections. ph33r the l33t.

Personality C – The Unsure: Vaguely insecure teen meets world, satisfied with their social life but never quite at home with the bits beneath their skin. You want to like this type in the real world, if not for the constant “Do I look fat in this dress?” brand of questions (note: the correct answer is almost always “The dress doesn’t make you look fat, your fat makes you look fat”). Cs are the root of the camgirl/boy breed, the hardcore campeople who believe wishlists mean acceptance, and “<3" translates to anything other than "So when can I see your tits?" Cs are perhaps the biggest victims of this horrible personality trait - they're building self-respect houses out of shit bricks and amazon boxes, camouflaging with photoshop brushes and a couple flashes of skin. Ignore them, hate them, but never tell them you love them. C is the stray dog that comes back to your house for table scraps even after you buy a bigger dog. And a gun. Personality D – The Older Sibling: Most of those who don’t fall into any of the above categories (or other misc areas including Stalker, Hitwhore, and Canadian) become the older sibling. They listen to your frantic IMs, they wipe your cybertears, and if you want to respond to them with topless pictures of yourself, well worry not, your net big brother will always assure you that it’s natural to take artistic nudes, especially when artistic includes their name scrawled around your nipple. Ds are the ones accused of pedophilia, the boybands of the web surrounded by underage attached fans and the men who hate them for it. They collect gossip straight from the source and dump it like so much child-molesting semen into the collective ear that is internet. Like all older siblings you will feel close to this type, and also like real siblings, learn to be careful – Ds know all your stupid stories and it doesn’t take much more than skipping a turn at chores to have them running to tattle.

This post wasn’t aimed at any personalities in particular. If one of the type descriptions pisses you off it’s probably because the truth hurts more than your free porn being taken away. There are lesser evils and mixes of these breeds but not many. Live it, love it, then get a faster connection.

For all of those (numerous I’m sure) people who have stayed home and watched Nickelodeon at 9pm on Friday nights this past year, you were handsomely rewarded. Jhonen Vasquez, mastermind behind such comics as Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, Squee, and Happy Noodle Boy had been under contract for 20 episodes of a new cartoon called Invader Zim. The show has been called a “cult hit” despite the channel it’s aired on, and was nominated under several categories in the International Animated Film Society Awards (“Annie Awards”) – in the end director Steve Ressel walked away with one of those awards for outstanding achievement in story boarding.

“I am Testiclês, God of rash covered scrotums!!” -JV

Then: disaster. On Thursday 1-17-02, at around 5:20 PM, only a few hours after the staff finished recording the Christmas episode, all of the Zim crew was called into the lounge area for an emergency announcement. There, Jhonen and Mary Harrington broke the news that Nickelodeon was reducing its order for 20 second season Zim episodes down to 6, bringing the series at an end at episode 26, and making them, as a crew, finished as well. The next day all of the story board artists and writers were asked to clean out their offices and be gone by 5 PM.

I’m sure most of you don’t give a fuck, but for anyone who had watched the show or was familiar with Jhonen’s comic work and would like to continue to see it translated into animation, you can sign this petition. Also, if you’re going to be watching the Zim episodes, get those babies on tape. Once they’re gone they’re gone, and even I would buy some recordings off of eBay.

And now for some IM fun with Nick.

Typical Lewser: I need someone to spoon.
Typical Lewser: Don’t need anyone to love, just want someone to spoon.
Getting Gravity: you should get a dog.
Typical Lewser: I have two
Getting Gravity: they don’t complain as much, and they give comparable blowjobs.
Typical Lewser: The last time I spooned my dog, he shit on my dress pants, and threw up on my rug.

“Other people only LOOK dead, but are quite alive, as I find out after sticking pens into their eyes.” -JV

Night fell and the beasts appeared, stomping the sound of bells and dragging fearful things of blades and velvet cushion behind them, snorting through the acrid air and leaving a trail of steaming excrement beneath their sharp feet. Men begged for favor with sacrifices, tossing delectable boxes of things that melt in one’s mouth or glitter about their neck between the mawing teeth of a red dragon (whose scales were like fire and whose claws made instant potpourri of the rosebeds that had once lay beneath).

Those who had not been chosen for the journey remained at home, tucked carefully into a box of calories or self-pity, their eyelids peeled back to stare unblinking at the horror that hunched in their corners of their living rooms. The televisions smiled back at them, their jaws full of static and tales of love written by men who had never known its taste, and then vomited again the war cry of “Buy!”

The streets were dangerous enough to keep partners behind glass windows, protected by a small circle of candlelight until they could be spoon-fed a veritable last supper and robbed in public view. A fearsome creature lurked, blessed with wings but no sense of morality, its head a mass of curls that had not yet matured into Medusa’s snakes, plucking music out of snapping strings and hurtling arrows, its giggle a hollow sound absorbed by the layers of plush fur and satin bow laid out by the villagepeople.

It was over soon, this glimpse toward the Apocalypse, as the warriors trekked home and screamed out the unthinkable horrors that they had beheld, knocking their furniture violently against walls that are too thin to afford any shame, writhing against their partner sweat-slicked and wild-eyed. A rising sun will bring relief, the garbageman will remove the debris of ripped clothing and paper, and the monsters will again begin to plan. Valentine’s Day is the devil.

Summary:

What I want for Valentine’s Day





A roll in the hay with Kristen Kreuk

What I got for Valentine’s Day:





A bear in a box

Firstly: for all you disgruntled readers who sent email to Justin back before Britney had boobs and still haven’t received a reply, it WAS NOT my fault! If anything, your dear webmaster distracted me with his celebrity lookalike pic and talk of working on a new project (and this time it wasn’t my bra clasp). I say, keep emailing him! Email 10 times a day if necessary, deep down he loves a jam-packed mailbox, despite what he may say!

Current Events: I stumbled out of bed this morning, bursting bladder and blurry eyes, and proceeded to stumble toward the bathroom. And what to my wondering eyes did appear? A freshly killed mouse laying selfishly across the center of the hallway. My brother was already at school, my roommate was sleeping off a night of bumping her headboard frantically into the wall between our two rooms – I was elected by default. I can handle stuff like assembling furniture and cleaning out a disgusting college fridge, but I’d rather plunge the toilet than deal with spiders or mice. My cat was the only witness to what followed; she sat smugly by and pretended to be dozing while actually carefully noting my reaction to her present. Then she watched through a window after I tossed her murdering ass outside. This is what she saw: one squeamish brunette plucking a fistful of kleenex from the bathroom, tiptoeing around the roadkill, and then dropping a tissue shroud over the entire mess. My roommate’s boyfriend cleaned it up once he awoke, which is no consolation for the noise he made last night, but makes him a real sucker nonetheless.

In nonrelated news, production on my website has grinded to a halt as a DNS error was brought to the attention of my host (mainly giving me another excuse to procrastinate). But, to combat ugly rumors that Will has been spreading about me being big and black, and mostly because I’m Justin’s bitch, I made a heyasl profile. No hatemail please.

My usual entertainment is locked up on an army post tighter than a virgin ass, so feel free to e-mail me.(unless you’re in the tristate area and would like to play Majora’s Mask all weekend with my brother and I, in which case, call me. My number’s posted in most of the good gloryholes around Manhattan.). Lastly, I pose this timeless question: Who’s your daddy? Yeeeah, that’s right.

So you come to this site for the tits or the blog right? This testosterone haven of videogame commentary sprinkled with your favorite actress caught flashing nipple in the backyard mysteriously vulnerable to paparazzi (God bless the zoom lens). But was it all getting a little dull? Did you come one day and realize that Drew Barrymore is in fact far inferior to Kristen Kreuk and furthermore that there are no naked Kreuk pictures whatsoever?

Fear not loyal readers, for Justin’s continuing commitment to frame your free porn with humor and minutes of internet fame through the posting of your comments and email has inspired him to the next level: blog + breasts = more fun than Two For One day at the whorehouse.

Introducing Cleo v.1.0, engineered for female commentary on such hot topics as sex, movies, and the lost art of falling Up the stairs. I’m not afraid to get down to the core of an issue – I proudly proclaim that I plan to boycot Zelda for Gamecube after years of near Link-monogamy, based on nothing other than the fact that it looks like something a japanimation baby with Down’s syndrome chewed up and shat out. I will report first-hand from a hotbed of anthrax scares and smoking rubble about how two planes and a whole bunch of miniature american flags ensured that this entire generation of students and soldiers will never again hire a cab driver in the city without having to add ‘terrorist’ to a list of descriptions that already include snippets like ‘the stench of roadkill and hairlice’ and ‘possible rapist.’ Above all I will attempt to recreate famous IM conversations with Justin about my quandry of choice when faced with attraction to females – is the soft lovely attractiveness of tits and face drowned in the fear that comes hand-in-hand with diving into a veritable cavern of doom (sometimes a journey through dreadlocks of hair and tunnels of wicked stench with no weapons other than an underdeveloped gag reflex and a tube of KY)?

This and more coming soon.

Whoever posts the first response gets a .wav of me making a speech of their choosing. Unless that .wav includes both myself moaning and a sheep bleating because c’mon, I have to keep some things private.