Secret Diaries and Photo Albums - the worst part of the Internet here for you. Below is excerpts from my childhood diary, and on the right is photos from my trip to Cleveland. Here is a shitty photo diary from a space party.

Diaries have always been a joke. Is there something wrong with the brain Jesus dug from the rib of a monkey and put in your head? If he wanted you to remember what color dress you wore on your third day of your Disneyland trip, he would have made your finger a pencil, and made the inside of your nose a little lockable pink book. You spend 24 hours a day with yourself, are you really interesting enough to read about yourself at the same time? That's like garnishing your steak with another steak. How fat do you need to be before you find a hobby? Diaries are two things - a written confession used as your parents' testimonial in the case of them against you going to the prom, or a dramatic turning point that turns the Brady family's potato sack races into a spiral of dark secrets revealed. Anything else, and it's just too much god damn you.

Now with the web, diaries are fucking everywhere. Would you make photocopies of your diary and pass them out to people on the street? Then why are you putting them on the Internet? I know uninteresting facts about my own life sometimes get typed here, I'm not perfect. Sometimes they're relevant to a joke I was making, and sometimes I'm just really excited about a hooker I punched. But for the thousands of people that visit here, I can guarantee you less than 10 of them care that I parallel park like an asian woman, and more than 500 of them will be pissed off that I even made them sit through it. "Lose the 'journal' and get on with the comedy, dickhead. I've got a million homepages to get through today."

I'm sure before the Internet, fascinating people would pass out copies of their journal at bus stops, restaurants, and their Guy-That-Played-Chunk-In-Goonies fan club meetings, but it's probably the same percentage of people that make videos of themselves having sex with stuffed animals. This is actually a pretty approachable fetish. There isn't the trouble of finding a person willing to pee in your mouth, and it doesn't have the public humiliation that goes along with chubby-chasing. You just need a stuffed animal and something that makes a hole. It doesn't do a lot for most people, but if you have to choose between it and starting a diary -- you should fuck that fuzzy panda bear. That way if someone asks you what you did that day, instead of saying "Oh, I wrote about how I was writing about my day," you could rub the belly of a mutilated teddy bear and say, "I think I'm going to be a daddy!"

Are recounts of people's dull lives better or worse now that they have an audience? No matter how obscure your geocities piece of shit is, at least 2 or 3 strangers are going to end up seeing it every day. Are you ready to entertain them, or are you just going to tell them how tired you are and how noisy the guy was next to you at a movie that sooo sucked? Self-publishers have a responsibility to self-edit. Take the extra second to ask yourself if anyone but you and your grandma want to read it. We're a vouyeristic public, but that only means we want to watch people take showers. We don't care how crowded the mall was today.

I once kept a diary. In it is captured some of the wisdom you can only get from a 16 year old boy, but most of it was just one blow to my self esteem after another. Try not to wince when you read this:
The party last night was really fun. Rodge and I got pretty drunk and lost his basketball in the woods. I had sex with Melanie (pretty awesome) and walked home. Rapid Fire is a kick ass movie.
I don't have alzheimer's, so reading the thing was mostly like sitting and remembering events, only with a really stupid color commentator. Sometimes after an especially boring sentence I would say "pretty boring huh?" making it quadruple boring. Boring the time I did it, the time I wrote about it, the time I read it over and wrote about it AGAIN, and absolutely fucking painful years later when I look back on it. A moment does not become notable by dragging it out for 20 more moments, and I proved that to myself hundreds of times a page. But then I realized how important diaries really might be when I reached a piece unmitigated truth that would have been lost forever.
On my Suave skin moisturizer it says "Dermatologist tested." No shit. Did someone think I would assume otherwise? Did the Suave people throw together some lard and carbon chains and hope to get lucky? Of course it's tested! And by a dermatologist? Duh. I don't think they'd have auto mechanics run the testing operations.
And now that I look back on what my life has become, I still regret how I haven't followed through on the huge comedic potential of carbon chains. I remember thinking, "Carbon Chain jokes are like the next crack jokes! Everybody's going to be making them! We'll be like 'What are you, on carbon chains, dude?'" I still think it could happen. And sometimes when I read my diary I talk like Dolemite. I'm not sure if I do it on purpose or not; I'll turn the page and say, "Aw, what is this rat soup eating honkey mother fucker gonna say next?" But this is about me then, not me now. Skipping ahead some pages, I found out if the former me looked deep into himself to try to solve some of our most baffling holiday mysteries? Yes. I did:
Does Santa know every fucking language or does he toss out the ones in Korean? I mean the letters are in hundreds of different languages. Just think of the Native Americans alone! That's like 30 or 40 right there! And aborigones! They click! How do you spell a click?
But I did more than mock the beautiful languages our proud country's proud natives speak, and the birthday of a fictional character we celebrate. Three weeks later me and my diary went after that fictional character's dad and the people he created with his own magic powers. Were my balls really big enough to make fun of the best-selling book of all time?
Okay. Adam's there. Was he a baby or full grown? Okay, say he was full grown. Wouldn't the afterbirth be like 80 pounds of slosh? And would it just drop out of the sky?

Jesus cleaned people's feet because the lazy-asses back then never wore shoes and didn't bother to rinse their own nasty feet.
I probably shouldn't have even put that where people can see it. Statements like that could destroy the faith of the entire country's religious population. How can they believe in a loving god if they know some high school kid thought dirty feet were funny? Later the same day, my family and I got drunk. Drunk enough for an intoxicated kid to write shitty metaphors about it:
There have never been this many drunk people in one family since the Weinhard family reunion. Mark in fact asked the waiter to just throw his meal in the toilet and elminate the middle man.
The saddest thing about that, though, is that retarded Weinhard family reunion simile would be the strong-point of any Dennis Miller monologue. And about the toilet thing, my uncle Mark never actually said that, it's just one of my hobbies to go back into conversations and come up with witty things people should have said. That's another reason I don't keep a diary anymore. Because after I go through the old conversations in my head, they all sound like a polished and hilarious Three's Company script, and when I read the actual transcriptions on paper, it's disappointing to find out how stuttery and unclever everyone I was hanging out with was. Not me, though. I had a diary, I was fascinating and introspective. Anyway, immediately after that last entry was when I totally let loose with what everyone was thinking, but only one kid was brave, stupid, and drunk enough to write down:
You know. If you have met mentos, you can get away with anything. I saw a commercial of a kid who just gets in some guys car and gets out the other side.
And yeah, I don't care what I scored on those SAT tests, I was a little bit of an idiot.

I spent the New Year in Cleveland with Chet and Erik from Old Man Murray. That's Chet above. Since he doesn't want to get mobbed by a person on the street every couple of weeks like I do, he doesn't want you people to know what he looks like.

The first thing I did when I got there was put a hat on some ham.

And speaking of ham hats, here are two giant creatures we saw in funny hats. They were getting into a taxi. That might not seem that weird now, but the entire city was deserted. Seriously, these two things were the only life we saw after walking around for hours. I don't even think there was anyone driving the cab. That means that not counting us, Cleveland had a 100% Fat Creatures In Party Hats ratio on January 1st, 2000. Very impressive.

Big Red was the party's security. We're glad no fights broke out since he spent most of the night hanging out the window and spitting up the food he ate that week. He wasn't even that drunk, I was just telling him about this idea for an article. It's called "Lee Major's Chest Hair." Oh, six million dollar man, I'd pay twice that for just five minutes alone with you, your chest, and a comb.

I don't know if I hate photographers or something, but if I'm not flipping off the camera, you probably took the picture when I was asleep. It's what makes me one of this century's most compelling models. Will it be the left hand or the right? My finger's rage is as unpredictable as the night. This is me and Aranae.

This is a scene from a revolutionary 2 hour sitcom Chet and I are planning. I play Ryu, a street fighter wandering the Earth in search of greater and greater combat challengers, and he plays Froboo, the clumsy ninja who tries to lick me. This leads to the loss of our honor and we have to dress as nuns to escape from the FBI. We start a band to save our childhood playground, but before the big concert, we drink a magic potion that makes us switch bodies! Our catch phrase will be looking at each other and screaming "Yoinks!" together, and we're going to put it in 35 times every episode.

We weren't brave enough to ask the giant taxi people above for a picture, so Aranae, Nay, and Joyce posed in front of them. They were supposed to show up in the background, but were too crafty for us. They must have eaten some kind of secret fat device that caused the picture to blur and for them to disappear.

This is a Supergirl sticker I bought. What makes this especially notable is that Peter O'Toole had to study the MATTERWAND for 3 years before attaining the master status necessary to play Zaltar, known throughout fiction to be a very accomplished master of the MATTERWAND.

Chet and Erik found this pack of gum with my picture on it. Evidently, I'm HUGE in Cleveland.
NES & EGM    Kick to the Groin    Super Friends    Hostess Fruit Pies
Absoludicrous Video    Stupid Comic Ads    Classic

About the Site    Contact