This guy is the voice of Mario.

I was there!

I don't mind the fact that there are freaks out there who need to be beaten or dressed as a cartoon bear during sex, but I wish when they invited me to a house party, they'd either put away their bondage equipment, lock the door leading to the inescapable bed of sexual terror, or at the very least, post a sign "Warning: Someone did some really strange fucking RIGHT IN HERE."

Nico gave me a bag of heart candy, and one of them said, "LET'S READ." Which is the lamest sweet talk I've ever heard, even from treats.

Turkish Star Wars ends with the phrase, "Son. Kunt Film." This is, of course, Turkish for, "End of Cunt Film."

Paul, Jennie, and I sat in the rain until we got a reluctant, soggy noisemaker filled with firecrackers to light. The results: noisy. Some say noise science advanced more in those 15 minutes than in the entire last decade.

Jennie and I did a shot of nacho cheese several hours into the new year, fulfilling zero of our resolutions.

Jennie's so cute I want to collect her and trade her.


I'm a card!

When we were at Club 6, it was about 200 degrees, so I folded a rave flyer into a little fan. Now go back and replace that sentence with "I soon rainbowed I'd only feel safe in the sex of four naked men," and see which one sounds gayer.

I don't want to brag, but having a hot Mormon girl comically grab my crotch for a picture was the second-to-last box left to fill in on my Sexual Checklist. Now I just have to wait for science to invent a way for me to sleep with two Lynda Carters at the same time and I'm done.

After I broke my chin open doing the worm after 12 beers, I was declared the winner of the dance off at Caroline's party. And as blood was pouring out of my face into my hand, I warned everyone, "That's how I bring it." So this is actually a victory kiss, not a "make it better" kiss.

Here, a team of sexy doctors makes sure no more of my face spills out onto the floor. Caroline applied first-aid while Kat acted as assistant blood catcher.

Eddie and I shot clowns in the face with squirt guns until their balloon hats popped. And after five rounds, he won 3 to 2. That's why his prize was the majestic unicorn with the magical horn and beautiful collar and I got some faggot ass teddy bear in a bowtie.

Hiding behind that moustache is Imperial Palace feature magician, Steve Dacry. He makes that face whenever he conjures plastic bunnies from beyond reality. And I'm not sure if I'm spelling this correctly, but he also adds, "AaaeeeeaaahhhHHHHH!"

Everything's possible if you hope for rainbows!

Hell, why not?

I don't want to kiss and tell, but I boned the SHIT out of this space warrior chick.

This lizard bastard is still threatening people with his stick at the Hilton Star Trek bar, but it's not for my lack of karate attacks.

I hope this precinct doesn't need any rules played by, because Kat and I don't do that.

The toys displayed at the shooting range and I both agree: fuck you, Osama Bin Laden.

My little killer.

If you cross over to the wrong side of the law, and in addition to that, their truck starts, you will learn to fear the Mexico City SWAT Van.

EGM Mexico!

Moving day with Paully and Amanda.

The family on the moving van poster. Notice how the children have kept their favorite toys unpacked and handy, just like their mother's garden hose.

I never noticed how good my manners were. Check out how I keep my pinky out even when I'm ramming my head against naked tits.

Oh my god, Kat and I so got busted falling in love in the back of a cab.

Hot girls make me so happy!

I like a bar where a pigeon can shit on the table in the corner for several hours without any of the staff caring. This place also had a bathroom door with three locks in case you need to barricade yourself in during a zombie attack. Or more likely, to enjoy heroin in private.

I got this fucking lizard again!

Angelo and I at the greatest lounge act in Westard Ho history, Simon and Garfaggle.

Not pictured: This guy's, no bullshit, thong panties and cape.

Arts and Crafts night at Nocturnal. Pictured from left to right: me, Motorcycle-Mounted Fireball Ted, Outerspace Outhouse Playset, Anthony.

Motorcycle-Mounted Fireball Ted.

Country Kitchen Buffet gets passerbys hungry with this painting of a delicious steak floating through the air. Notice the daring use of olives and ochres, giving the impression that their food is made of reshaped PlayDough and vomit. Yum!

Me at this summer's smash hit, Aliens vs. Predator.

Check out that guy behind me. He's only hugging one girl AND she has clothes on. Psh!

Seen here, I folded a hat out of my brother's junk mail, and then pinned his Captain medals on to it. So technically, this is proof of the crime of impersonating an officer, but only if someone thought I was from a marine division that made their hats out of coupons. Which now that I think about it, would be a great way to get 29 cents off yogurt while behind enemy lines.

From top to bottom: Stella watching the hundreds of clamps, scissors, and needles being stacked in preparation for her chest piercing, her boobs being marked for needle-insertion, and a four inch plastic tube enjoying its new home in the center of her chest. According to her, the faces I make during horrific body manipulation do not inspire comfort. But if you want to talk about discomfort, her people stick a bucket of spoiled cabbage next to my food every time I eat in one of their restaurants.

Stella and her breasts model their new puncture wound along with the number two pencil-sized needle that was jammed through her cleavage.

Above: Me sticking my head through a Seed of Chucky movie poster, falling into their marketing trap to get me to promote their fucking lame ass movie.

Witness the majesty of the year 9834, where we will have evolved beyond your primitive everything!

This 4th of July, I exploded Pat, Stella's longtime bunny friend. She was reluctant to donate him to the celebration of liberty, but since the Korean war led to that bullshit show M*A*S*H, her people owed us one.

Yeah, say goodbye to him, sweetie. His cuddly insides have been replaced with explosive rad. I also stuffed in some nasty Korean fruitcake thing she brought back from the grocery store that morning.

It may not look like it, but with the amount of ordinance in Pat the Freedom Bunny, this is probably the most dangerous snuggling in the history of our nation's independence.

From top to bottom: Me loading bunny with rockets, Eddie applying a triangle choke just to teach it a lesson, and kaboom.

Do it, bunny, do it!

Holy shit, bunny!

Minutes later, after several solid attempts to kill me with projectiles and fire, Pat was reduced to this. Onlookers all agreed that while this bunny was fucked, America, on the other hand, ruled.

Assembling the finest of celebratory karate statue craftsmen, I commissioned this E3 2004 Scavenger Hunt Championship Trophy. Since my team didn't win, I made sure the recipients had to look at that picture of a fat guy's ass cleavage all day.

Caroline and I presenting the E3 2004 Scavenger Hunt Championship Trophy to Pfister, captain of Team Funk City 2039.

There's a reason gay people have Gay Pride day. Because holy shit, look at how much they rule.

I was going to write the caption, "Me and Alexa at her wedding," but thought her outfit made that pretty obvious. So I've decided on the caption, "Beautiful Woman Commemorates Special Day With Photo Next to Drunk Goofball."

As I understand it, it's considered proper etiquette at a wedding to bone at least one bridesmaid. And I am a very polite gentleman. Whoo! WHOOOO!!!

I believe it was the Karate Kid who said, "Fuck you, Lord Xortron! I'll never be your laser slave!"

Not pictured, but right nearby: I love at wedding receptions when men who haven't danced since their last wedding reception are totally getting down and do a spin move. Which, as everyone besides the person spinning knows, requires little formal dance training and simply draws attention to one's offbeat flailing. That's not the part that I like, though; there's nothing notable about a bad dancer at a wedding reception. That's why they're called wedding receptions. No, what I love is how every time they do it, they get a little courtesy "whoo!" from their wife. I LOVE that.

After the wedding, while seeds of possibility were being planted in the garden of Chris and Alexa's love, Japan Town karaoke was fucked in the face with rock.

Paully, Stella, and me on the roof of the Clift Hotel celebrating Activision's release of their new Spider-Man video game. On the way out, we were all given among other prizes, Spider-Man 2, The Game, the t-shirt. And since they knew these shirts were going to be handed out at a gaming industry party, they were all several X's more L than we could hope to grow into without 8 years of competitive bacon eating.

Me and my uncle Tim. He's one of the main IBM researchers responsible for the radical increase in storage space on modern media drives, but since the measure of a person's intelligence is based exclusively on his knowledge of Jean Claude Van Damme films, he really looks up to me and my achievements.

How and why I body slammed seven-foot-tall Kevin Gifford at the Sega cocktail party is an interesting story. But only if you think the word "vodka" is interesting.

"Did we DRINKall thoese?!" demands Paul.
"Who said that?" demands me in return.
"What?" quips Paul.
"Fuck you! I don't PLAY by yourules ANYmore!" shouts me to the evening sky.

Giggle! Milky and I love to laugh!

Maybe it was the Insane Clown Posse, or the gushing blood of the 10,000 thumbtack deathmatch, but something at the Backyard Wrestling 2 release party moved Stella and I to share this tender moment.

Kat and me, racing to solve Rubik's Cubes with our feet.

Sam, Stella, and I might look like we're just having a good time, but make no mistake about it: after we abducted Adam, it was three straight days of electrical torture and forced sodomy.

During an interview on VH1, the interviewer asked me which geek icon I'd most like to have sex with. I think he was expecting me to say Wonder Woman or Batgirl, but I told him, "Chewbacca's wife." Not only from the danger rush of balling a gorilla thing whose husband could tear my arms off, but because she'd make the most flattering sounds in bed. I've always said that if your lover is bleating like a starving seal, and you're not having sex with a starving seal, god damn you're doing something right.

Here I am saying good bye to the last box of a retardedly large collection of bad porn tapes given to me by a friend who probably doesn't want you to know his name. How he had so many videos to hand over to me is a long story, and most likely made up, so I'll let you build whatever intriguing backstory your head needs to make sense of it.

And here I am pantomiming how I'm thinking about keeping Humongous Squirting Knockers.

Poor people need to jerk off too.
Before anyone could ask what the hell I thought I was doing donating Double Stuffed Sluts and Lick My Cunt to a charity organization, I dropped the box and ran away, laughing.

I fucking have no idea what we're doing here with our shirts.

Whenever I start to feel anxious or nervous, I like to do things with my hands to keep from fidgeting. Which, as pictured here, can often lead to rampant seduction. Or maybe I was just losing my balance. Either way, nice work on the boobs, Aim'ee.

If you have a picture of yourself doing something tougher than a keg stand in a Hulkamania shirt, please mail it to Captain Impossible, c/o the Easter Bunny, because there's no way it happened.

Johnny and his girlfriend. And Cat on the left. Holy shit, I just FACED myself!

To the guy who brought a team of dancing robots that can rap, laugh, and fart to E3: fuck your farting robots, you fucking douche.

Me at the prom.

Seriously, this Led Zeppelin enthusiast's truck had an airbrushed picture of the truck it was on airbrushed on itself. It's like... okay, I mean there's a truck within a... fucking baby Jesus it's like it's daring my brain to pop.

Susan: "Make love to me right here in the bar, strange stupid-haired man."
Sean: "I... sorry, not while you're wearing that gay ass pink shirt."

Susan: "What if we traded shirts?"
Sean: "Shit, when I got you a drink, I didn't know you were a space genius. Agreed."

Sean: "I'm having a great time in your gay ass pink shirt!"
Sussan: "Your shirt reminds me what it is to teach crime a lesson from the driver's seat of a talking car."
Sean: "Psh. I know."

Susan: "Are you ready yet, fag?"
Sean: "Fag? Hey, these are your clothes, you fummmph! mmphlmmph!!"

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