It's like: neanderthals and me, the art of seduction, what are you looking at dicknose?

A VERY CRITICAL UPDATE AND ANNOUNCMENT:

By dusty (August 1, 2008)

I have still not shaved my beard because I am awesome.

And hairy.

Awesomely hairy.

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It's like: neanderthals and me, the art of seduction, this american life

on draft dodging, animal collecting, varicose veins and solving the world’s problems with a small-minded ideology

By dusty (April 21, 2008)

I am growing an amazing beard.

This beard will be the epitome of me when it is finished. This beard will put Jesus’ and Jim Morrison’s to shame. This beard will define me and enshrine me in a world where beards go to live. I will not touch this beard with metal nor will I touch this beard with flame. I will not give up on this beard, as it is a living, breathing thing (and I am not talking about the micro-organisms probably living and breeding in it but rather the metaphysical, metaphorical aspect that effectively renders this beard a sentient being). No, I will grow this beard and then I will grow it more. When people ask me why my beard is so long I will respond simply and coldly with utter disgust.

The idea to grow this beard to such a point of crucial allure has come and gone and come back again and then gone away again several times in years past, but the time just wasn’t right back then.

But it is now.

I am sticking to my original dream this time. I will not give up like I usually do with most things (which is rather easily). There is a fire inside of me — driving me, steering me, has me on cruise control — forcing me to grow this beard. That fire inside of me is probably some sort of murderous beard-eating ball of flames because, really, why would a fire want me to grow a beard. But nevertheless that fire is there. And questionable intentions or not, it has me in its fiery grip. (A grip which no stop, drop or roll is capable of releasing me from.)

So like a lemming to a cliff or a heart to a heart attack, I go blindly towards the light. I grow my beard and ravage the countryside with glimmers of peace and love and a face that resembles a pubic region.

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It's like: feelings (ew), the art of seduction, this american life

the impossible mystery of the sun’s coronal problem revealed

By dusty (March 14, 2008)

Today I flew a kite. Well, I tried to fly a kite. Kites are HARD TO FLY in this digital age. I remember a simpler time, when a kite consisted of a few sticks, some string, and a piece of fabric of some sort. Apparently that time exists no longer.

When we got to the park (we equals two friends and me), the seemingly impossible task of assembling the kites began. Unfortunately, I do not know anyone who works at NASA or any other spacecraft-manufacturing company, so we were left to do this using our own street-hardened, 2.7-GPA brains. After several hours of assemblage, one kite was ready to go. One of us was assigned to man its flight, and the other two began to put together the second kite.

However, a problem immediately reared its head. The kite was missing a crucial support beam, rendering it a useless, mildly-retarded down-syndrome beast of a flying machine. With no plutonium or iron ore stores nearby, we were left to use the knowledge we learned in prison: we fashioned a beam with sticks and fused them together by melting a piece of plastic around the joints with a lighter.

But that didn’t work. At all. It soon became obvious that we would have to give up one of the kites and focus on launching the second (imagine being forced to perform a second-trimester abortion to just one of your unborn baby twins…that is how we felt at that point). It took many attempts, but eventually we were able to get the healthy kite into the air (and for a time, it was roughly 50 feet high). Let me tell you, the sense of accomplishment and glamor felt when successfully launching a 74-inch plastic dragon creature into the air is unparalleled. Now I know what God feels like. And it feels good. Like God, but with an extra ‘o’ and a lowercase ‘g’.

When the doomsday bombs are dropped on this country and the apocalyptic Armageddon sirens are blaring, I won’t be boarding up my house and running to my subterranean nuclear safehouse; no, I will be outside, flying a kite — because when a kite is twisting and flapping freely in the wind, who cares about a nuclear holocaust. You know?

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It's like: felinian quandaries, the art of seduction

punctuation marks that work very well when intended to describe PMS

By dusty (March 8, 2008)

• question mark

• period

• dash

• exclamation mark

Comments: (1)

It's like: felinian quandaries, the art of seduction

punctuation marks that do not work well at all when intended to describe PMS

By dusty (March 8, 2008)

• comma

• apostrophe

• hyphen

• semicolon

• colon

Comments: (1)

It's like: hysterical history, the art of seduction, ttylkthxbye

an online chat transcript between amelia earhart and an unknown friend, July 2, 1937

By dusty (March 7, 2008)

AIR<3: LOL, yes i love telegrams too.

~~~*cherrypickins*~~~: haha. you should come over!

AIR<3: brb

….

…….

~~~*cherrypickins*~~~: hello ??

~~~*cherrypickins*~~~: umm wtf

conversation window closed

Comments: (1)

It's like: the art of seduction, this american life

a hypothetical conversation involving two homosexuals (using today’s newspaper headlines)

By dusty (March 7, 2008)

John: “Morality is ‘Counterfeiters’ currency.”

Darren: “This group of hungry devils can bite back.”

Darren: “Playing a dirty game.”

John: “Match me with my wheels.”

Darren: “‘Bank’ on it.”

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