Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


At One with Nature
I confess — something I share with many hippies is a desire to connect with nature. The modern world focuses so much with the superficial, you know? The blinking and beeping and chirping of computers and cellular phones, the numbing comfort of sitcom laugh-tracks, the overwhelming spectacle of big-budget action movies, the compelling lure of naked boobies all over the Internet... Think of the knowledge and peace we as a people could gain by turning away from these distractions from time to time and instead savoring the pastoral.

It’s perhaps no surprise, but while the hippies and I have this yearning in common, our paths significantly diverge. For example, hippies seek out the tutelage of shamans, spirit guides, healers and visionaries to learn about the natural world. They frequently sit around being all natural and filthy. Some smoke or ingest a selection of natural, psychedelic flora in order to melt the shackles of mundane reality separating us from our animal brothers and sisters, fostering an embrace of the Cosmic All. And I can certainly respect all that, if by “respect” you mean “deride.” But me… Well, I prefer to instead put nature in my mouth and stomach, if at all possible after it’s been killed, or at least reasonably subdued.

One time I sat on a bar stool and listened to a very attractive young woman tell me about some rough times she had experienced (I think she had said her ex-boyfriend was too focused on his band, boo hoo hoo). Her life had been turned around during a morning jog, when she saw a deer. The deer looked at her, and in that instant she felt a jolt of spiritual connection. It was quickly over — the wise, noble deer went back to nibbling at the spoiled cottage cheese mixed with dogshit stuck to the side of the dumpster, and she made her way back to civilization, where she became a vegan and devoted herself to… to…

Shit, I can’t remember. Reminding humanity of that which is has been lost by the artificial lifestyle of Western culture or something. At the time I was completely dazed by her total stupidity, which had made my penis go irreparably soft. I abandoned my hope of using it to feel a jolt of spiritual connection with her vagina, and excused myself to seek adventure elsewhere.

After waking up the next afternoon and waiting for the tremors to stop and the feeling to come back to my legs, I enjoyed a few moments of quiet reflection. Piecing together the previous night’s activities, I had to admit to feeling a bit jealous of the pretty cretin and her supernatural deer. If only all my encounters with the natural world could be so enlightening; so free from spines, fangs or toxins.

But you know, as Gandhi once said, “Dude, there’s enlightenment, and then there’s enlightenment.” Why does enlightenment always have to result in inner peace and be topped with a fruity, mystical foam? Shit, there have been a few instances when I’ve felt my consciousness expand faster than Michael Jackson’s pantaloons at a Chuck E. Cheese, and it wasn’t because some flea-bitten varmint beamed me with a ray of woodland wisdom. It was because some rogue piece of nature, apparently forgetting the way the food chain is supposed to work, was trying to eat or kill me.

Like the time I was in the yard jacking off with a beer bottle in my ass and fell into this nest of angry scorpions. As they began to sting me in the eyes and genitals, I yelled out to the priest to put down the video camera and…

Okay, that never happened. But you know the only damn reason you’re reading this is because most of these stories end up with something terrible getting stuck in my pee-hole. So don’t judge me.

I may never have managed to get any scorpions stuck in my pee-hole, but once I was attacked by a giant spider. It wasn’t at all action-packed and exciting, like the scene in that movie where the two intrepid, gay midgets with the ring have all the magical adventures. I did, however, feel my consciousness expand. It expanded to include the thought, “Holy shit, big hairy spiders are totally fucking scary.”

It happened on the lovely, pristine waters of the Itchetucknee river. Despite the fact that you can’t bring booze in there, unlike Ginnie Springs, the crystal-clear, spring-fed Itchetucknee is a popular summertime destination in this area. People of all ages rent big, black inner tubes from nearby merchants and pay a nominal fee to spend a few lazy hours floating down the river, enjoying the cool water and gorgeous scenery. No additional fee is necessary to enjoy the thrill of having a multi-legged piece of that scenery break off and attempt to stab you in the face with poison.

I had only been on the river for a few minutes — my inner tube was still partially dry — when my buddy Jim looks over and says, “Hey. You’ve got a really big spider on your tube.”

Now, I grew up in a town built on a swamp, and I’ve spent a lot of time harassing the local wildlife. We’ve got these things around here called
banana spiders, which can spin a giant web, say across your front door, in about two seconds. I’ve been walking face-first into these webs and emerging sticky but unharmed about nine times a week since I was a kid, so big spiders don’t freak me out.

Calmly leaning over the front of my tube, I see the spider. It’s hard to miss — the damn thing is as big as my hand. Not to mention ugly, brown and covered in hair, just like pop singer
Ashanti without her makeup.

“Man. That is a big spider,” I say, and give a little chuckle. Jim gives a little chuckle, too. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, but he suspects that whatever it is will be plenty entertaining. “Alright, Ashanti. I’ve got nothing against you. But this is my tube, so you’re going to have to hitch a ride somewhere else.”

I purse my lips and blow a little air toward my arachnid hitchhiker. Nothing. I try again, blowing a little harder. It ripples the spider’s fur, but engenders no response. Jim smiles. I blow again, this time with more force. The spider turns to face me, as if noticing me for the first time. “Look, dude, you’re going to have to go in the water,” I say, furrowing my brow and blowing once more, this time really trying to push some air.

The spider races up the side of the tube, heading right for me, exactly like those fucking things in the Alien movies. Wisely, I let out a piercing, high-pitched scream and flop backwards. Of course, I’m in the middle of an inner tube, so heaving in that direction lifts the front of the tube, launching the giant spider toward my face at a velocity which surprises both of us. My scream ratchets up in both pitch and volume, and at the last second before the horrid beast’s fangs pierce my skull and full my brain with fiery venom, I slip through the tube and duck under the water.

I thrash around under the water for a few seconds, than pop up, out of breath and wild-eyed, and start batting around my tube, flipping, shaking and submerging it until I’m satisfied it hosts no giant spiders.

I climb back aboard, and look over at Jim. He’s incapacitated with happiness, quivering with glee at how the events played out. I get my bearings, the adrenaline stops flowing and after a minute or two my breathing starts to return to normal. Jim is still obviously delighted. Thinking about what it must have looked like, I start laughing a little as well.

“Heh heh! Whew,” I say. “Close one. Biiiiig spider! I didn’t even know I could scream that high, heh heh heh.”

A few minutes later, and I’m totally relaxed. The river is beautiful, the water is cool and the sun is shining. It’s like paradise. This type of thing is one of the reasons I put up with living in this ass-backward state in the first place. All the trees and plants and shit are pretty and green. It’s nice. I float over some fish, and think, “What’s up, fish.” I see a turtle on a log. He’s just hanging out, soaking up the sun and enjoying life. We’re not so different, me and that turtle. You know? I float past a banana spider, suspended on his web between a few branches of a nearby tree. “What’s up, banana spider,” I think. “Sorry about that scene with your spider cousin a little ways back there. I may have overreacted. But I have nothing against you spiders.” The banana spider nods. Me and the spiders are cool. In my own drowsy, mellow way, I’m beginning to feel at one with nature.

About 20 minutes later, a group of teenage girls comes floating up behind us. We can hear them swimming, gossiping and splashing for five or six minutes before they come up on us. Just a bunch of all-American girls having wholesome summertime fun. They come around a bend and see me and Jim drifting along.

All of a sudden the girls become very quiet. Before I can turn around to get a look at them, one girl’s voice shrieks out:




Yeah, kids, I know. This batch isn’t as funny as the first one. Look, Uncle Patrick is trying to hold down a job, alright? So give him a break.

An important rule of thumb for fishing: the shallower the water, the closer you are to the top of the food chain.

I don't care if it's Burger King or Ritzy McShittington's — if you’re a dick to the help, you’re going to be eating a loogie.

Conversely, nobody gives a shit how busy you are, or how the shift manager fucked up your schedule. If you can't handle the job, get another one. Don't take it out on us. In the meantime, your tip will be one shiny penny.

A little lotion never hurt. Yes, I'm talking about what you do with your ding-dong, Chappy.

Dolphins are all smiley and frolick-y and shit on TV, where they solve problems, rescue kittens and do flips. In the wild, they're as big as Volkswagens and twice as fast. Not to mention totally evil and smart enough to really fuck with you.

For that matter, no other wild animal ever acts like it does on TV, or in a Disney movie. Unless that Disney movie is Claw Claw the Bear Feasts on Your Entrails. Those cute squirrels with the fluffy tails? Tree rats. They bite.

There's a big difference between being bitter or cynical, and just being flat-out mean.

Quick — what's the worst job in the world? Wrong! It's picking watermelons. Big-ass 20-pound "jubilee" watermelons, out in the hot Florida sun all day. This is the worst job in the world. Now, while no honest work should ever be beneath you, you really should try to avoid this job. Well, unless you're part of a gang of big muscle-bound redneck gorillas that thinks it'll just be hi-fucking-larious to throw those things overhand as hard as you can at that skinny punk-rocker dude with the gay haircut who has to catch 'em and put 'em in the truck. Haw haw haw, ain't we having some watermelon fun now, motherfucker! Shit.

All the tradition, bowing, belts and ki in the world won't keep your ass from getting whooped.

The discovery on an afro puff down there can be daunting, sure, but think about this — a little too much topiary sculpting might mean she's showing it off to a larger audience than you've been led to believe. I'm just sayin'.

For fuck's sake, just go ahead and pop that disgusting blister. It won't get infected, and you know the damn thing is going to bust open sometime anyway.

Try to not believe in things. Most people frankly aren't qualified to have a belief, and when they go ahead and do it anyway it almost always makes the world a shittier place.

Look here, Spooky. You're not really a vampire.

You are also not really a ninja.

Really tough guys do not have orange-y tanning-booth tans and six-pack ab muscles. They look like Harley Race.

And, by the way, wrestling was a whole lot better when it was fat guys in underpants pretending to fight. It was called "wrasslin," and it was real.

Don't use "energy" as a synonym for "every fucking stupid made-up tarot-card bullshit scam of which my foolish hippie brain can conceive."

Now that you’ve got yourself a handful of that lotion, take some time with the whole thing. Pour yourself a glass of wine. Light a candle. Pace yourself — the Internet isn't going anywhere.

Contrary to popular belief, you don't become a geek because you're smarter than everyone else. You become a geek because your social skills are retarded. While you're off administering a Linux system, the rest of us are kissing girls. So the tech support guys can be as snide as they want. The minute the clock strikes 5, we win.

Tofu is OK. Just don't make it a cause.

Neither your IPod nor your cell phone is impressing anyone. Well, anyone that counts.

The rest of the country can make fun of Florida all they want, but if air conditioning had never been invented all that shit would still be their problem.

There's a little-known law that says if you wear one of those tennis visors when you're not playing tennis the rest of us get to hit you with rocks.

That stripper doesn't really like you.

All the local bands are terrible. If they were any good, they wouldn't be begging everyone for "support."

Curiosity is good, but remember — there are a lot of things out there that, if you go research them, will stick in your brain. Forever. Like "bukkake." So be cautious. Once some shit like bukkake gets in there, it ain’t never coming out. You could be in the middle of a job interview or something, and your brain might start whispering, "Bukkake. Bukkake. Bukkake."

A wise man once said, "If she can take the occasional punch without running off and crying to the cops, she's probably worth keeping around." Hmmm... Wait a minute... Did I type that out right? Shit, who the hell told me that, Ike Turner? Christ, that's terrible. Kids, maybe you ought to hold off on this one until further notice.

The guy who drinks beer out of green bottles is not really your friend. I know, I totally stole this from someone. But I can't for the life of me remember who it was, and it bears repeating.

Stinky armpits are not a statement; political, fashion or otherwise.

Boozing and drugs and all that is OK; for a while anyway, when you're young. But when it comes to getting involved with that stuff, remember two very important words: diminishing returns.

Planning to put that funny butt-plug story on the Internet? Or the thing about your drunken, failed high school threesome? Be forewarned — even if you don't use her name and haven't seen her in a decade or more, she's going to read it.

Say you find yourself drinking with George Rebelo, the drummer for Hot Water Music, and a couple of sexy, giggly, tattooed punk-rock girls. And say — this is just total conjecture here, by the way — these girls promise you guys a few hours of naughty fun if you'll kiss George right on the mouth. Now, if you’re sitting there and everyone's taking turns shaving your left leg and this far-fetched situation does come to pass, I recommend going ahead and kissing George, even if you're not especially inclined. Because you know that horndog George won't object, and it'll be over soon, and you can be more or less sure George's tongue slipping in there for a second is accidental — or, wait, even better, a hallucination — and then you'll get to see two sexy punk-rock girls naked, and touch their boobies and stuff and it'll totally be worth it. But if for some crazy reason this unlikely scenario occurs, maybe you should skip peeing in that big ceramic bowl by the couch as a prank, even if nobody will see you. Maybe a cat sleeps there. Cats get all weirded out and territorial about pee. Anyway, this is all hypothetical.

It takes longer than you might expect for leg hair to grow back. Wearing long pants all through the hot Gainesville summer can be mighty uncomfortable.

By the way, learn from George’s mistake — if you get busted having sex with Skinhead Katrina around the side of the house during a party, and some outraged girl wanting to know if you had a condom asks if you "used anything," do not grin and say, "Yup! I grabbed a tree branch for support!" Actually, now that I think about it... What the fuck. I take it back. That's exactly what you should say.

Oh, I almost forgot — you probably shouldn't have sex with Skinhead Katrina.

If you do have sex with Skinhead Katrina, and you do it around the side of the house during a party, know that you will never live it down. Your asshole friends will be putting that shit on the Internet 10 years later. You didn't even know the Internet was going to be invented, did you? Ha ha! Should've kept it in your pants, Caligula.

Plan for the future. For example, if you live in an abandoned house and you get pissed off and kick through the wall, or take a bunch of drugs and shoot out a few windows, that shit will be really, really cold come winter.

Also, if the hot water heater quits working during this time, you might look and see if it has a breaker switch that can be flipped before you freeze your ass off all winter trying to take showers in a room with a hole in the wall.

Unless you were raised by wolves, having to deal with the dirty dishes by moving them out of the kitchen sink and into the bathtub should be looked upon as a personal failure. If you leave them in the tub for a month because it's too damn cold to take a shower with that wind blowing through the hole in the wall... Well, you just managed to erase about 10,000 years of civilization. Good going, Chaka.

Last, but certainly not least: You should listen to Thin Lizzy at least once a week.




Todd turned 27 yesterday. Here's a picture of him and the asscake. Nobody's really sure when Todd decided he was Willie Nelson.

For supper, we prepared fruit salad, tofu dogs, gazpacho and crisp celery sticks. You kind of need to keep it light in the summer, you know?

Watch and be amazed as the guy who once played bass for the wussiest emo band in the universe morphs into Ted Nugent before your very eyes!

This is me, trapped in Todd's disgusting bathroom thanks to a stuck door. I'm trying to pry it open with a tray from a computer printer.

I can hear Jimmy Buffet music coming from upstairs, and become increasingly desperate to escape. It's hard to estimate, because I blacked out when fucking "Margaritaville" came on, but I was locked in that stinking hellhole for like 20 damn minutes.

This is one of those rare instances when I simply just don't have anything to say.

Struggle all you like — Todd's got the scent of asscake, and there's no holding him back.

Your parents would be so proud.


I usually make it a priority to celebrate July 4th by getting in a bottle-rocket fight. Well, I failed in that goal this year. But I did get shitfaced while floating down a river. That's got to count for something, right? Hell yes it does! I think it counts as a big Fuck You, Osama. His beardy murderous ass is freezing in a cave while thousands of free Americans representing all races, creeds and colors drink cold beer and float down rivers. Girls are wearing bikinis, some fat guy is jumping off the rope swing and I'm pretty sure those kids over by the trees are smoking a little weed. And this rules.

People might think I'm being flippant or sarcastic here, but I'm not. I want religious fundamentalists, terrorists, commies, bluenoses and self-righteous player-haters all over the world to know one very important thing: You can kill people, wave around your Korans and Bibles and manifestos, demonstrate, chant, believe what you hear on talk radio, pray, elect idiot presidents named Bush and generally try to screw things up as much as you want, but you can't stop America from being awesome. And a day where we drink cold beer, play horseshoes, walk around half-naked, turn the radio up very loud and float down a damn river just because it's there is not only proof of that — it's an essential component of why this country is so great.

Alright, this isn't the place to hash over details, get all glaze-eyed and partisan, point fingers or debate on the best way to un-fuck the things that are fucked-up, so I'm climbing down off the soapbox now. I was getting a little misty-eyed up there anyway.

So my July 4th was spent at Ginnie Springs, a huge campground a little north of Gainesville. It's privately owned, so you can booze it up in there all you want. A contingent of Gainesville punk rockers had camped out there the night before, so I drove over for the day knowing it was going to be a bad-ass time.

After driving around the woods for an hour, I find the site and roll up just as folks are crawling out of their tents and cracking the day's first beer. Here you can see where someone has attempted to make the world's shittiest-ever campfire. I think they succeeded. I mean, what the fuck... That thing looks positively accidental.

Ronnie, class act that he is, pairs up his morning tater chips with a nice Zinfandel.

Ham! Mmmm-mmm good. Have a bite; we've got some antidote right over there on the picnic table.

Ginnie Springs or Bosnian refugee camp? It's hard to say. Oh, wait. Bosnia has fewer guns.

Horseshoes — sport of kings. Here, Ben demonstrates his mastery of the controversial Single Underhand Reverse Cowgirl grip, which as I'm sure you know was declared illegal at the 2002 Summer Olympics.

The winning toss, delivered by my teammate Sam. Oh, sweet victory, you're a cool balm on the burning pain of every other stupid fucking aspect of my shitty life.

Taste the foot of defeat, Osama! Er, I mean Paul! For we are your horseshoe masters. Ho, wenches! Bring us tankards of your finest Zinfandel!

It starts to rain, making Paul a little frisky. "This is how the ancient Greeks did it," he yells, while pulling out his jug of olive oil.

One of the more entertaining features of Ginnie Springs is the high ratio of drunken rednecks to people. It's pretty lopsided, even for north Florida. Anyway, these totally wasted car salesmen from Valdosta pulled up and decided we were their new buddies. Ben has this curious expression on his face because we quickly ascertained that they were way too drunk to notice that we were helping ourselves to their beer. By the way, I think I've got a new slogan for Keystone Ice — "A Big Fucking Headache in a Can."

...My best friend Kalpesh just called as I was typing this thing up. I was telling him about it, and he insisted that I include an anecdote that involves him, me, Ginnie Springs and a handful of drunken rednecks. It's a little risque, even for this site, and I was going to skip it, but I've found it's best to pretty much do whatever Kalpesh tells me to do, so here goes.

Back in '86 or '87, Kalpesh and I were playing hooky, chilling out at the springs. It was a beautiful weekday, and the place was half-deserted. Kalpesh, being from India, is an attractive dark brown color, and at the time he had a big crazy-looking pile of thick, black hair that hung down past his shoulders and face. He was also rocking a swank "pudding ring" (moustache-goatee combo) back then, and looked like a hip cross between the dude from Soundgarden and Cousin It.

So we're kicking back on out towels, enjoying the sun and a lifestyle free from responsibilities. Kalpesh decides to walk over to his car (a green, sticker-covered 1970 Buick Wildcat, big as a battleship and just as indestructible) (and gas-efficient, for that matter) to get some smokes. A nearby blanket full of rednecks closely watches Kalpesh's every move. Now, you couldn't hardly blame them. You didn't see too much that looked like him around those parts back then. Hell, you don't see too much that looks like he used to look around these parts now. If you bumped into him in the woods back then you'd think you had run across a larval bigfoot or something.

But anyway, these guys are watching him, and I'm watching them. They didn't seem anything more than curious, but you had to watch your step. Sometimes folks get a little racist on you, and you might need to smack them in the mouth with a stick.

I could hear them talking about Kalpesh, using no different inflections in their voices than people discussing different types of trees or something:

"What do you reckon he is?"

"Must be some type of ni---r."

"Yeah, but what kind?"

"I reckon he must be one of them Bob Marley ni---rs."

After Kalpesh came back, I informed him of his new classification. He was delighted, and for years afterward when some well-meaning, curious type would gingerly ask him about his ethnic background (which happened a lot), he'd blurt out, "I MUST BE ONE OF THEM BOB MARLEY NI---ERS!"

(I love you, Kalpesh.) (Also, you can pretend to be a responsible husband, father and professional all you like — I remember many stories much worse than this, and am saving them all for when your daughter hits her teens.)

Okay, back to our regularly scheduled tomfoolery:

Why pee just anywhere when you can pee on your own truck?

"Sorry kids — July 4th is canceled. Tweedledum drank the river."

A second game of horsehoes is initiated, this time in the rain. Here's Paul and the other drunken cracker car salesman. Somehow this guy manages to communicate solely by bellowing the phrases "Son of a bitch!" and "Somebody better call yo mama!" Volume always compensates for articulation, that's what I say. Anyway, I hope nobody reading this is friends with those guys. They sleep with the fishes tonight.

Here Paul gives the guy's toss a little boost by helpfully punching him in the ass.

After a grisly ham-oriented accident, we all pitched in and built this girl a new foot.

I know you're proud of it, but I still say you ought to get that thing looked at by a professional.

I had one coherent thought and decided not to take my camera in the water, so here's a drawing of me floating down the river. You can't really tell here, but it was a real circus. You'll have to imagine all the kids jumping out of trees, floating beer cans, hundreds of shrieking children, snorkelers, pot-smoking fratboys, lightning strikes, splash-fighting teenagers and drowning hillbillies. I'm way too lazy to draw all that shit. I'm also not going to draw Ben knocking over the stacked picnic tables while we were standing on them, or Mike sliding down the rope swing and hitting his nuts on every knot on the way down, because that shit was just too traumatic.

All good times must come to an end, so I make the trip back to Gainesville. Kind of sad. But you know what'll liven some shit like that up? Listening to motherfucking AC/DC so loud it makes your ears bleed.

Know what else? Driving 30 miles over the speed limit while listening to AC/DC so loud it makes your ears bleed. (Please don't tell The Man about this photo.) (Also, I apologize if it looks a little fucked up, but it was not easy picture to take.)

It's God's country out here. Too bad God hates me.

Anyway, that was July 4th around these parts. If you chose to celebrate as well, I hope your day was as satisfying and weird as mine.

Fuck you, Osama.

How People Get Here
People type these phrases into search engines and find this site. I reckon there are a lot of disappointed masturbators out there.

girls using vibrators pics
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rash on head of penis that won't go away
where the bear shit in the woods pic
snort benadryl high
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So I guess the Internet decided anyone typing profanity into a search engine must be looking for the Diary of Indignities. I couldn't be more proud. Well, unless someone out there thinks of this site as the "fixin' to be my woman blog." Oh, wait! Got that covered! Fantastic.

I guess we can go ahead and declare civilization collapsed now, huh?

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