Archive for November, 2011

Donnie Darko is a film about a teenage boy who travels through time, I think. Nobody really knows what the movie is about. Just like how nobody really knows what BUDDHAKAT!!! means. A cat that has reached Nirvana? Seth Rogan is one of the bullies in Donnie Darko which you may not have known. He has only a few lines, one of which being “Lets get the fuck out of here.” It’s a movie that you either love or hate. Unless you’re me. I can’t decide whether or not I like it. The colors are pretty, the theme is dark, and I’m impressed that they got both Gyllenhalls to play siblings. It doesn’t take much for me to like a movie. Just put on two relatives and it doesn’t matter how little I get the plot. I will still enjoy your film.

The main theme of Donnie Darko is about string theory, I think. Shit. This movie is really confusing. Almost as confusing as string theory itself. For those scientifically retarded individuals reading this, string theory is basically the idea of being able to travel on different “strings” of time. It’s almost like you have multiple paths you can go down. You follow the string to meet your destiny. Honestly, I might be completely wrong as to what string theory really is. That’s what I gathered from flipping through a few pages of a book about it and reading the Wikipedia summary of Donnie Darko. Science isn’t my best subject. Home Economics has that distinction.

One string theory I do understand is the one about the piece of string I found in my parent’s bedroom when I was around 10 years old. I was playing with my sister (not like that you pervert!) and we found a piece of string. I don’t remember the color. All I do remember was that it was a short piece of string. Yarn perhaps.

(Warning: This is as cute as this post is going to get. The rest is very gross)

Being 10 years old, my mind assumes that all adults do when they’re in a bedroom together is have sex. I wanted to believe that my parents were in a happy and healthy relationship so I believed that every time they went into the bedroom it was their honeymoon all over again. That’s where my string theory came into play.

Using my lackluster knowledge of science, I concluded that the string I found beside the bed must be some sort of sexual device. For what exactly? How can one small piece of string possibly cause extreme sexual arousal? Well, here’s a list of things that I can think of that you could use string for to get off on.

(Nazi puppet on the right?)

Puppet Master: The string is tied around the penis in a loop with another strand free to tug on. It doesn’t matter what part it is tied to. All that matters is that the penis is fastened in tightly like it‘s about to go on some extreme sporting event. The partner (or wife, because gay sex is a sin) will pull on the string and make the penis wobble to and fro. This action will resemble a marionette puppet and if the kids were to walk in you can always put on a cute show until you can think of a better excuse.

(Native Americans rioting by burning sticks and figs)

Indian Burn: Place the string below the penis and pull each side of the string upwards. Pull the string back and forth (this will be an up motion) causing the penis to receive an Indian burn. The quicker, the better. This would only be suggested for those who are into inflicting or receiving pain. I know who you are! And I want your phone number.

(This was taken in 2003. He still hasn’t figured it out)

Chinese Finger Trap: Both partners tie an end of the string around their erect nipples while facing each other. Then you take a step backwards until it stretches your nipples even further, guaranteeing arousal. The act resembles that of a Chinese finger trip. The device created by the Chinese where the stereotype of them being sneaks came from. There’s no real escape from this. Unless you count escaping a life of sexual repression.

(You don’t know how hard it is to find an Indiana Jones photo)

Indiana Jones: The female partner lies down on her back, legs up in the air. The male partner (or female partner, lesbian sex isn’t a sin) takes the string and in a whipping fashion, whips the vagina of his female partner as hard as he can. Be sure to hit the clitoris. That’s where girls like to be touched. I’ve read that in Cosmopolitan and my sister’s diary.

(Did we really defeat Communism when this was in style?)

Rat Tail: The female in the relationship places the string into her vagina with only one little piece hanging out. This will look like the tail of a rat if done properly. The male’s job is to slowly pull the string it. This is a very rare yet satisfying sexual activity that has been handed down from incestuous family to incestuous family. Also, do not pull too quickly. It could be hazardous.

That’s where my 10-year-old mind was at. I really believed that my parents could do such horrible activities to each other while I tried sleeping on the other side of the wall.

To this day string still freaks me out a little bit. I wonder where it has been and why it smells like balls. I can’t wear hoodies with the strings in them and always have to cut the strings on the blinds off whenever I enter a room. I can’t eat string cheese. Stringer Bell from The Wire made me feel uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter what form the string is in. Thin. Thick. Long. Short. All string reminds me of is my parents being passionate. It makes me almost want to hang myself, but a noose reminds me too much of string.

I’m not blind. My eyesight stinks, but I’m not blind. Being blind has a lot of negatives that come with the lifestyle, which is a choice by the way. Blind people can’t catch a ball. They can only stop it by being in the way. They also can never cook because they’ll end up microwaving their ties. Television and movies are incredibly boring for a blind person. Especially when there are a lot of sight gags. You will never find a blind person who enjoys The Naked Gun.

(“I don’t get it.” – Stevie Wonder’s review of The Naked Gun)

I see a lot of disabled people. At least one a day it seems. They’re usually the disabled people who have lost mobility below the waste. Often, they are rude. I don’t know why. I’m always nice to them. I hold doors, offer to get things off high shelves, tease them by threatening to push them down the stairs. I treat them like I would treat any other human being. People in wheelchairs always are snarling. I guess they’re allowed to. I spent some time in a wheelchair (3-time leg breaker) and I really hate having all of the girls pay attention to me and family members offering to help for once.

The type of disabled person I never notice are the blind ones. I see their markings all of the time. Brail always graces the restroom signs. I don’t know why that is necessary. If they got all the way there and managed to find that one little piece of brail on the wall, I’m sure they can find the correct bathroom. Blind people have really good senses of smell. That’s how they tell the difference between the men’s and the women’s room. One smells like shit and piss and the other smells like shit and piss and has a longer line. And lets be realistic. They’re blind. It doesn’t matter what washroom they use. As long as they don’t mistake a penis for a sink nozzle or a vagina for a hand dryer they’re good.

What amazes me about blind people is that they have these dogs that lead them places. Seeing-Fucking-Eye-Dogs, minus the fucking part which I only added for emphasis on how amazing that is. We as human beings have trained dogs to help blind people cross the street and do other daily blind people activities. We don’t talk about this enough. A wild animal has been domestic and now can be the eyes for those who cannot see. That’s so brilliant. It’s the greatest thing about the planet earth. That we can replace tiny yet important body parts with a German Shepherd.

(When I’m old and need a hip replaced I’ m having this dog replace it)

I’ve heard rumblings that whenever you spot a seeing eye dog that you should not touch them or acknowledge that they’re even there. Kind of like when you see a blind person you’re supposed to ignore that they may need some assistance because it’s rude to ask people with disabilities if you can help them because they’re not handicapped, they’re handi-capable. I don’t care what anyone with a disability says, if I see a human being struggling to do something I will help them no matter how much pride they might have. Unless they’re ugly. Don’t want any of that rubbing off on me. It sucks that you can’t pet the dogs. They’re always so regal and smart. Not like most other dogs. A seeing eye dog would never lick itself below the waist. Now that’s almost as amazing as getting a dog to lead a human being. Getting one to keep his mouth off his dog knob is still pretty good.

There are a few other disabilities that deserve a dog or some other kind of animal assistant. We all know by now that monkey assistants are no good. That never turns out well for any of the parties involved. People in wheelchairs should have the option to attach themselves to a hippo. I mean, their legs are no good anymore, right? Why not get yourself sewn onto the back of a mammoth animal? I know we have to have the science to accomplish this. We can pasteurize milk. We can certainly make a creepy parapelygic/hippo hybrid.

Surgery isn’t always the best option. Maybe people in wheelchairs can just have sled dogs drag them around. The problem with that is that sled dogs move too swiftly and do not cut corners well. It would most certainly paralyze the man in the wheelchair behind them for a second time. Did you know that if you get paralyzed twice it means that when you go to heaven you’ll still be paralyzed? It’s in the Bible, hidden with all that anti-gay and parts about dinosaurs. That’s why instead of a sled dog the wheelchair man can use a hippo to drag him around town. They move at a nice pace and plus, they’re hippos. They can always go into the water if he wants a bath. They really are the perfect animal for helping out. I hear they’re good at math too.

(Why couldn’t this hippo have gone to my school?)

I’ve barely spoken much about seeing eye dogs at all. I don’t really know what else there is to mention except how incredibly awesome they are. And that’s all I need to say really. If you’ve ever owned a dog you can appreciate all of the hard work that a seeing eye dog does. A dog can have a job! Does that not amaze you? With unemployment at an all time-high dogs are getting hired before human beings. Maybe this isn’t nearly as shocking as I am making it out to be. I’m the same guy who used to wake up early on Saturday mornings to watch the garbage truck.

(Fuckin-A)

I know I might have been a little mean to disabled people in this post. Perhaps a little insensitive. I apologize and if you mail a self-addressed stamped envelope to me I will reimburse you fully for your anguish. Write “Mooselicker” on the envelope and the mailmen will know what to do. They’re good like that. Or you could always attach it to a pigeon. That would kind of go along with the theme of this post. Animals helping out humans.

But if you’re blind and decide to mail me something, be sure that you don’t place your mail into a trash can or an open car window. I know that’s a high probability. I’ve done it myself. I’m also going to be amazed that you’re blind and were able to read any of this. Unless seeing eye dogs have more skills than I once thought they did. Now that’s something I would love to see. A dog surfing the Internet.

Reality star, actress, fat fuck, America’s Sweatheart (yes sweatheart), and oddly colored gnome Snooki recently turned 24 years old. My first thought seeing the news was that she would have been in the same grade as me if she didn’t drop out of school at the age of 6 to pursue competitive eating and non competitive thinking. I’m scared now. So scared that I will grow up to be nothing more than a failure.

I am older than Snooki by a little over a month. That means I am wiser than her. She should call me sir and ask for my autograph. That isn’t the case. If we were to run into each other at a men’s big and tall shop, I would be the star struck idiot calling her sir.

It bothers me way more than anyone can ever imagine to know that Snooki has surpassed me in money, fame, and love. As much as millions of us hate her she still does have her fans out there.

What did Snooki do right that I did not? For one she tried out for a reality show. I’ve never done that. I had the opportunity to be on an MTV show in an episode of a spin-off of a reality show that I forget the name of. My role was going to be “Improv Sketch Comedian in the Park #2”. I turned down the role as it paid nothing and would cost me $40 to get to plus losing a day’s pay at work. The show was never picked up and I like to think it was because it lacked my smile.

Snooki and me have a lot in common already. We’ve both been to Seaside Heights at the Jersey Shore. We both felt incredibly embarrassed when she botched her finisher at Wrestlemania last year. I enjoy pie and assuming that the phrase “we are what we eat” is true, she must like it too. With so much in common why is it that she gets all of the fame and glory? I’m left here waiting to be discovered for my incredible talents while she’s out getting her picture on hamburger wrappers.

This is a plea to all talent agents out there. I guarantee 100% that I can do whatever Snooki can do and I can do it better. No matter what it is I will win. This is also an open challenge to Nicole. Yes, I called you by your real name. I am challenging you to every competition imaginable. Think of it like that part of Billy Madison where they have all of the competitions against one another. I want that with you. We’ll have a race, we’ll mix science chemicals, and we’ll finish it all off with a trivia contest. I will beat you. There is no denying that.

I would like to however give Snooki credit. She has made a career out of being useless and annoying without having to put out a sex tape. This may disgust you, but I would watch a Snooki sex tape if it was handed to me. I wouldn’t go out of my way to find it. I wouldn’t dare risk getting a computer virus to watch her tits bounce around. She doesn’t do it for me enough to risk any of that. But with a DVD of the sex tape was handed to me, I would most certainly watch it.

It’s your move Snooki. Take the challenge or be branded a coward. Branded–I know there’s an easy cow joke in there somewhere, but in the spirit of sportsmanship will not go there.

Random Fact: “Satan” rhymes with “spray tan” coincidence?

Okay, imagine this. I’m outside on a warm fall evening. It’s dark outside. So dark because there are no stars from the pollutants in the air. I’ve just eaten eggs for dinner (for breakfast I had a Lean Cuisine) and now I’m spending my moment in life outside, with a dog on a leash, circling around him getting ready for him to shit. Without fail, he does shit. I reach into my pocket and pull out a plastic bag. I look at the bag and know that if this was a Disney film it would be screaming for me not to do what I did. What I did was sick. I picked up dog shit with a bag then threw it away like it meant nothing to me. I am a cruel human being.

I would hate to be a bag. That’s got to be an awful life. I guess that’s why God made bags non-living items. He didn’t give them eyes, or ears, or butts, or hearts. That’s what you need to be considered living by my standards. Fuck you trees. You’re always wasting your time GROUNDING MY ROOTS!!! into the ground to help you remain stable. You eyeless, earless, buttless non-beings. Trees do have hearts though and I’ll give them that much. They only ever fall on bad guys which is like the ultimate sacrifice a tree can give. They’re like marines, only taller.

(A true American Hero, Colonel Sweet Chestnut whose real life mission was the basis behind the film “Saving Private Pine”)

After I tossed away that bag full of shit (it wasn’t actually full of shit, there was plenty more room for more shit and possibly more items like batteries or carrots) I wondered where that bag had come from. Well, I know it was Target, but I mean before that. It must have come from a factory. That’s where all items come, except babies. I learned that this morning. I have never seen one of these bag factories, but until now, I have never really opened my eyes in search of one.

Chances are, I’ve met someone who knows someone who has a brother who knows someone who had sex with someone who works at a bag factory. That same person also saw an alligator in a New York sewer, got high on LSD and microwaved a baby, and was the physician who got the gerbil out of Richard Gere’s butt. I’m not going to sit here and make fun of people who work in the less than lucrative position known as “bag maker.” I’m not that high on my horse to be able to judge what other people do to feed their children/addictions. I would like to instead send out an apology.

(Mr. Ed, a horse who used all of his Hollywood fortune on drugs to get high. That’s where the term “high horse” comes from according to my thought process)

To those of you who are reading this that work in bag factories or know someone who does, please accept my apology for treating your hard work so poorly. You slaved away in that hot oval-shaped room for hours trying to perfect a plastic bag for my use. All I did with that bag was put a gallon of milk in it for a few minutes, then toss the bag onto the ground, and when it was finally selected by my hand it was used to pick up dog shit with. Your hard work ended up with a piece of dog poop at its center and ultimately placed in a dumpster with a couch poking out of it. It’s not fair that your hard work was treated this way. It would be no different from if Van Gogh finished “Starry Night” and I proceeded to urinate on it. Making plastic bags is your art and I’ve stripped you of that.

I don’t know what the exact process of plastic bag making is. I can only assume that it precisely takes precise precision. You need a steady hand and a strong heart to take on this job. It’s a job that I could never do. Not because I feel I’m above small menial tasks, but because I lack the courage that one must have in order to properly design these bags. The bags need to be strong, smooth, and even. It needs to be able to support heavy items. They need to be airtight to teach children a lesson in oxygen and where you cannot get it from.

Plastic bags have gotten a lot of notoriety from such films as “American Beauty” and several starring Robert DeNiro where he suffocates a traitor with one. But remember, plastic bags are not living creatures. The brave men (women are entirely too clumsy to build a bag properly) who are the Gods of these bags need the credit that is long overdue.

(A stock photo of a clumsy waitress spilling Justin Bieber’s brother’s lunch)

The next time you waste a plastic bag on something stupid like carrying your lunch or if you’re poor, carrying your books to school, take time to salute the factory where the bag came from. You can always find out exactly where if you put the bag over your head and look long enough at the inside. Trust me on this.

(Ricky Fitz is not mysterious or sexy. He’s a creep)

(Walter White, resident of New Mexico)

Calling someone a New Mexican is the most offensive term that I can think you could call a person. There are already Mexicans, why do we need New Mexicans? Are Mexicans obsolete?

In the United States, there are lots of “New” places. New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, New England; as well as countless other tinier, shittier, places in these states and areas that begin with the word New. There was never anything wrong with the old York, the old Jersey, the old Hampshire (except for the prostitutes being overweight), or the old England. The people who named these places lacked originality, but they could either name the place after an old favorite city of theirs or some complicated Native American name. Chipoqupequa is hard to spell and may not even exist. Taking a city that you’re already familiar with and throwing the word “New” in front of it is much easier. Remember, back in those days everyone had to write letters. Hand write! Benjamin Franklin never browsed the Internet. He was too busy stealing quotes from Yogi Berra. That sneak!

(“A penny saved is a penny earned.” – Yogi Berra, 1784)

The state of New Mexico is different from the rest. It’s newer and we had already come up with more clever names for our states by then, like Ohio and West Virginia. My problem with calling this state New Mexico is that I don’t think the regular-old-plain-smelly country of Mexico is done. Calling a place New York isn’t nearly as insulting. York is a city. Mexico, a country. Calling a place New Mexico is like saying “We can do a better job than you can and we’re only one lousy state, not an entire country. Ha Ha! Nenny-Nenny. Boo Boo!”

New Mexico is much smaller than Mexico. I don’t have the exact number in front of me, I’d have to minimize the pornography on the screen in order to do that. I do believe however that New Mexico does have a lot of Mexicans. I guess it makes them New Mexicans. New and improved. They’re the latest model of the T-Bird. Out with the old, in with the new. It’s like in Terminator when Arnold’s cyborg was no longer the best and that chick came in as the best and most up to date cyborg. Too nerdy or obscure? Okay, how about when Darth Vader rebuilt the Death Star with a much stronger shield? Yeah, that’s as non-nerdy of a comparison I can make.

What’s the solution to this New Mexico problem? Change the name–of Mexico! They’re long due for an overhaul. Many great places change their names. Tokyo used to be Edo. France used to be Gaul. Istanbul used to be Constantinople (thank you They Might Be Giants). Iraq used to be Persia. The People’s Republic of the Congo used to be Congo. See, there are many tremendously amazing places that have gotten a new name and remained successful. It’s not like any of those places ever bombed Pearl Harbor, are hated imperialistic cowards, are in countries named after birds, harbor terrorists, or perform female circumcision against the will of the female, respectively. I don’t know what we could call Mexico. It’s up to their trusting government. They must really like their guys they got in charge. They always win the elections every year. It’s like how Saddam Hussein won the presidency all those times despite it being against the law to serve so many terms. But he was The People’s Champ and the people spoke–with guns to the back of their heads.

I was witness to something awesome recently. So awesome that I’m writing about it. I only write about awesome things. That’s why most of what I write about is myself.

I was at a comedy show and while waiting outside noticed a fat girl near the front of the line. She must have been waiting there for 30 minutes already. The show doesn’t start for another hour and a half. My first thought upon seeing her was that she looked like actress Kat Dennings. Actually no. That was my second thought. My real first thought was that she was a fat chick who happened to look like Kat Dennings. And that is why I easily whispered “Hey look, it’s Fat Dennings” into my girlfriend’s ear. She agreed and I felt like a stud. I wanted to pass it along to others in the line, but the man behind me had a shaved head and a goatee. Then the man in front of me had glasses. I was surrounded by brains and brawn. If the joke bombed, I’d be fucked.

We got inside and the first thing I noticed was that Fat Dennings was seated front and center. I mean as front and center as possible. She lined herself up directly with the microphone stand. For the next hour or so (until the show finally started, do shows ever start on time?) she continued to look back, waiting for a friend to join her. It was annoying and creepy. Every 25 second I would have to be subjected to her chubby fat face with even chubbier whale lips. I don’t think whales have lips. It wouldn’t surprise me if they once did and Fat Dennings had stolen their lips to place them on her own face. Her friend finally showed up and she was a very frumpy looking girl. She didn’t look like any celebrities that I know of. Celebrities are usually good looking. This girl was not. She had tumbleweed hair and a scarf that I had earlier in the night seen a homeless man shining his penis with. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but later on I had a laugh about it.

Then came the big failure. At the end of the show, Fat Dennings who I am convinced is a stalker, stood up. She was giving a standing ovation. The thing about standing ovations is that they must start somewhere. It’s like all human life. It makes me think of that whole “which came first, the chicken or the eggs?” shit. F.D. was about to not only fail at giving life, she was having a miscarriage in doing so.

Her fat arms flapped together. A nice clap. She was officially giving a standing ovation. Standing, clapping, giving ovation to a show well done. I thought another man was about to stand, but he was adjusting his ass in his seat. F.D. turned around and noticed that she was the only person standing. It had only been about 10 seconds of her making a fool of herself, but I noticed it and being front and center, others must have too. She had failed at a standing ovation. For a second I thought of giving her a standing ovation for her failure. Or perhaps a round of applause. That is, clapping my hands in a circular motion. I learned that one when I was 5.

F.D. sat back down embarrassed. It must be like how those douches at baseball games feel when they try to start the wave and instead get peanuts thrown at them after they trip.

She should have seen the omen. The entire show she was shielding her eyes from the light that was shining immediately into her face. Front and center and the entire show you have a blinding light detaching your retinas. That’s a sign that you suck. Sit down, shut up, and stop being fatter versions of already questionably overweight celebrities.

One band that gets too much credit is The Doors. They are remembered as being so amazing. I wasn’t alive back when they were together. I’m not an old hag, like you. Why are you dressed like that? You’re not 16! On that same note, why are 16 year olds wearing shirts with Jim Morrison on them? First off, I don’t like seeing men’s nipples. Jim Morrison was always shirtless. I give him credit, for a drunk who pranced around and was fortunate enough to have a nice voice, he never really let himself go and get fat. I thought drinking beer made you fat. Another government lie. The show Manswers proved that it doesn’t make you fat. They know everything that a man wants to know. Unless your thought process goes further than beer, boobs, and beating your wife. Spike TV, for men who slug their wives then eat pork grinds.

(Jim Morrison clearly not in a cold room)

Did you know that The Doors didn’t even have a bass player? How do you call yourself a band without a bass player? Even Hannah Montana has a bass player. And she’s two people. I know Morrison had his alter ego Mr. Mojo Rising. He didn’t go to the trouble of wearing a blonde wig to try to fool his fans and that’s why Billy Ray’s daughter gets the nod in this feud.

They do have a few songs that I like. You know, the ones that don’t sound like them. Morrison was a poet first and foremost. At least, that’s what I learned from the movie about his life. He also looked a lot like Val Kilmer. “The End” is a great song. It’s about 18 minutes too long, but I remember listening to it on the radio while driving in a snow storm a few years ago. I felt like I was going to die and this would have been the perfect song to go out to. I didn’t and now I have to fear dying to something less poetic like a new Daughtry hit. Do the songs he comes out with count as hits? I usually hit my face into the steering wheel and question God when I hear it. Not sure if that counts.

Also, you’re not cool if you know who The Doors are. They’re mainstream. There’s been a movie about them, a professional wrestler who uses a Jim Morrison gimmick, and they always have lots of shirts at Hot Topic. There are plenty of other great older bands that you can check out. Don’t lock yourself into this one because “my dad liked it” or “you love the keyboard chorus” or “your first ass licking session took place with LA Woman on the radio.” Who eats ass with the radio on? Come on!

But none of that is what I wanted to discuss. Sorry for wasting your time. I wanted to talk about doors in general. You know, those barricades for neighbors. I once heard a woman say “Doors are bad. We should let our neighbors in. Not keep them out.” This statement led her to taking away the doors to her home. Soon after she had her home broken into, all of her items taken, and she died of the draft of cold air that had previously been blocked by the door. A sad story. If you don’t believe me, look it up on the Internet. You’re already there, lazy.

I always hold doors open for strangers. For girls and the elderly, I always will go out of my way for them. Even guys sometimes. Does that make me bisexual? And because I do it for the elderly, does that make me a necrophiliac?

It’s a popular opinion to dislike those who do not hold open doors for others. I feel no ill will for those people. They’re in a rush. You have two arms. You could easily open that door just as easy. And when the doors slam into your face and break your nose, remember, broken noses eventually heal. Quit complaining about those busy men and women who are too important to be kind and hold open the doors. If the store wanted them holding open doors for strangers, they would get automatic doors.

And that my readers is what I want to point out. Automatic doors are the most laziest, germaphobic, laziest, self-important, laziest reason why people in the third world hate us. I don’t see what’s wrong with having one of those cowboy doors. The saloon ones that you can walk into and they open. I love those doors! I want to live in a home with them one day. It’ll make me feel like Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, or Emilio Estevez. Emilio was in Young Guns after-all. He counts as a cowboy.

(Ledger might have broken the backs of mountains, but Estevez broke the box office with his cowboy portrayal)

The only real reason for writing all of this was an experience I had recently. I was holding a door open after exiting a train. The man behind me decided that it be better that he use the adjacent door than the one that I had been holding. It was annoying. Here I was, standing like a helpful ass, signaling for him to enter the same passageway as myself. He chose not to. I let go of my door and continued on. Perhaps he’s a reverse feminist where he gets offended by men holding doors open for other men. That’s my theory at least.

“When one door closes, lock it. This is a bad neighborhood.” – Motivational Phrase about moving on

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving to my America friends, thanks for the religious persecution to my English friends, and for those of you not from America or England, you are not my friend.

(Slumdog Millionaire Kid, an enemy of mine)