Back when 'Grandpa' was more of a nickname

'Grandpa grew up in a tough neighborhood. When he got mad at me, he'd threaten my life, then show me a knife he got in his youth. It had 'Grandpa Clarence' carved into it, from back when 'Grandpa' was more of a nickname.

The neighbor kids would come over and he would tell them to get off his lawn. Then they'd say, 'Grandpa Clarence', but there'd only be one Grandpa because they weren't related to him. Anyway, they'd say 'One Grandpa Clarence, I'm mowing your lawn, stop yelling at me,' and he'd say, 'I don't care if I paid you. I want you to move my lawn, mow it elsewhere, then put it back without bothering me.'

Yesterday this gibberish shot out of my mouth and into Bora's mic for an audio project of his. I'll post the mp3 if I get ahold of it.

Until then...patience.

(Class 'til after 6.)

Everyone on the bus gets violated

I recently learned that there is a bus stop near my house, and that taking the bus to work is faster than walking. However, riding the bus presents one problem: Everyone on the bus gets violated.

Doesn't matter where you are on the bus, someone's going to rub a part of their body against yours because that bus is packed so full of people that, on average, no less than 7 women get pregnant per semester from the Bursley-Baits route alone.

If you sit, you get an ass or crotch in your face. If you stand, then every time the bus comes to a stop, you bend over and get sodomized by the guy behind you. I don't care if you're wearing pants. Bus ride sodomy is stronger than any pants you're wearing.

Then when your stop comes up, you have to get everybody out of you before you exit. So maybe walking's not bad.
(Class.)

Little fortune tellers, those balls

Good morning! Now go back to bed.

There is something unsafe about waking up at 6am for a 7am shift at work. I know this is a fact because I can feel it in my balls.

If there is danger ahead, like you're about to go into a haunted house or there's a cool breeze that day, your balls take shelter. They cling for warmth and for dear life, and you know it because it's a little awkward to walk. That's your genitals saying 'Go back to bed where it's warm and I can relax.'

Ladies, if you need a danger report, borrow a friend's scrotum. Little fortune tellers, those balls are.

(Roving, whilst clinging to myself.)

Fear of Girls, Fear of Graduation

I don't care if you play football or roll dice to slay trolls: This is fucking funny.

This is sort of an awkward combination of Best In Show and Brokeback Mountain. Kind of a Best in Brokeback Show Mountain.

And as much as I'd like to say I'm not a geek, I have to go write a paper on video games. For school. I'm going to school so I can write about Pac Man. Take that, higher education.

...after I get my psych degree I'm going to starve to death in the streets of Ann Arbor.

But until then, paper time.

(Insert sound of Pac Man dying.)

Dog in a dress

Blast from the past.

Then, on the ol' website, I had a picture of a dog in a dress with the caption:
'I originally wanted to insert a picture of a dress and make some crack about John wearing lingerie, but after I found this picture I changed my mind. It's a dog wearing an evening gown. And this tells us one thing: They're evolving.'

Well, Former Self, I sure hope dogs wearing clothes is a sign of evolution, because who doesn't want to speed up natural selection by sliding a pair of pants onto a sad dog?

(Bed.)

Gamer girls are sexy if they're not that good

Guys who play video games really, really want to meet a girl who shares the same hobby. Also, (and here's the tricky part) she has to be hot. However, the fact that a girl plays video games automatically makes her hotter, so ladies, if you can beat Mario 3, it's like you've added 1 point to your 10-point hotness scale or gone up a cup size or some other nonsense way to quantify beauty.

However, when a dude meets a girl who plays video games, there's an initial feeling of elation, because he thinks, 'Hey, we can fuck during a game of Halo 2! Sweet!' (or hang out, whatever). Then there's a pause. Then he thinks 'Bitch best not be bettter than me.' Chances are, she isn't, but if she was, that'd be like her ripping off your genitals and then beating you over the head with them. And she'd get 50 points every time she did so until she beat your high score.
(Class.)

Breakdance, C64 style

Stop what you're doing and breakdance.

This breakdance simulator for the Commodore 64 features a revolutionary 16 colors, as well as advanced 'block men spinning on their heads' technology.

I doubt anyone will click that link, though to be fair, y'all are suckas, anyway. I find a quality breakdancing game from a computer older than you and you just keep on reading this stupid away message, ignoring how fucking great that shitty breakdancing game is. It's even called 'Breakdance.' They make no illusions. Just fucking breakdance, man, and savor all 7 frames of animation while doing so.

(Bed.)

You been to Mexico or somethin'?

Today at brunch an older busboy (a busman?) pointed at Yasmin's fuzzy boots and long coat and said, 'Wow, you been to Mexico or somethin'?'

Now, he had that Southern accent which seems to permeate every backwoods town in America (explain that, linguistics) so I imagine this man thought that every nonwhite person who came into the restaurant was from Mexico, which is apparently the opposite of America.

I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Persians look just like Mexicans and sombreros are now part of everyone's winter attire. I'm not God. Or Mexican.

I can imagine that guy at home watching BET or the Asian cinema channel, scratching his head, and thinking, 'Those gal-durn Mexicans.' I guess this saves him time.

Speaking of Mexicans, time to eat at the Wendy's in the Union.

(El Sandwicho Pollo, por favor.)

Teenage Mutant Ninja Mall Security Guards

The Ninja Turtles had sharp weapons and not once, not once did they chop off someone's head.

You'd think they'd at least acknowledge the idea that Leonardo could slice a bad guy in half if he felt like it. They could say, 'Oh, we're good mutant turtles, we'll use nonviolent restraint' or some shit, then they can just get clubs and tazers and not have to worry about accidentally murdering someone. But those weapons would suck. Who wants to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Mall Security Guards?

But really, who carries two swords and doesn't disembowel muggers for me for a half hour every day after school? You've disappointed me, guys. Deliver a dozen heads to me by sunrise, then we'll talk again.

(Bed.)

Lessons from an 80s party

Learned from the party:

• Dress up if it's a theme party or prepare to get shit all night.
• High fiving people while they're making out with strangers is hilarious. To you, not them.
• The worst part about an 80s-themed party is the 80s music. Fanny packs and padded shoulders don't have shit on a Madonna mix CD.
• If the beer is bad enough, you'll get a hangover before you even go to bed.
• You may find out that people from complete opposite ends of your social circle may make out or even date each other.
• Referencing grandpa prostates during a game of beer pong does not get old if you are drunk.
• High fives are universal.
• Butt pinches are not.

(Krogering.)

Verizon shall ruin all long-distance relationships

Cell phones will cause more fights in a long distance relationship than anything else.

You know a relationship is having trouble when both people start saying things like, 'I'm sorry' all the time and it seems like the other person doesn't listen to you anymore. But the thing with cell phones is, you end up saying shit like, 'I'm sorry, honey, I couldn't hear you,' all the time, so both people end up sounding like apologetic deaf people.

They say communication is the most important thing in a relationship, and if you both of you have bad cell phone service providers, you are fucked. I don't care how compatible you are: if you're getting less than three service bars, you're going to come off as a dick. It'll be like you and your lover have to speak to each other through a McDonald's drive thru window, and that's just fucked up.

(Class.)

And you better make sure you're with the same service provider or there's no way you two are lasting.

Fallen tripod ruins amateur porno

If we are to assume that the universe is infinite, that means that somewhere in a far away solar system, a man is trying to film a homemade porno with his wife when his dog knocks over the tripod and the man stops getting it on with his wife to beat the shit out of that damn dog.

He didn't even want that stupid dog, and now it's gone and broken the damn camera. Come on, honey, that thing cost a lot of money and now your stupid mutt- oh now it's my fault? I didn't want that dog in the first place, let alone in our bedroom while have sex, but you say he likes to watch, and all I wanted was to get my sex on and go to bed, but you wanted to experiment with the damn dog in the room and now I don't have a digital video camera anymore.

You stupid bitch.

(Sleeping, while voices in my head bicker about that dog.)

Professor Cleavage demands beer

When guys are at video game tournaments, they talk really fast about gameplay and rules and strategy.

When girls are at video game tournaments, they are fictional.

Or with guys.

If I was a girl, I'd be too busy getting free drinks courtesy of Professor Cleavage. I think the depression between my lady breasts would be professors because they'd be teachin' everybody how to buy me shit. I'll just write what I want between my girl knockers and just lean forward until it materializes in front of me.

Professor Cleavage would be a good band name. They'd go on tour with Interrobang?!, Scalp Mystique, European Mutt, and Spooning With a Stranger. Henry's Fake Band Tour 2038. Because if it's not really going to happen, the tour bus may as well be from the future and therefore flying.
(bed.)

The Blazin' Sauce incident

I ran out of room for tonight's away message, so I had to put it elsewhere. People, if you can stand reading about my genitals and the wacky adventures they have, click here.

And if you aren't in the mood to hear about my man parts in great detail, then I don't know why we're friends. Or internet acquaintances. Or you're stalking me.

Either way, enjoy the extended special-edition away message. I'll be back Wednesday at about 7pm. Pray for my genitals.

(I strongly considered putting my junk in ranch dressing.)

And in the event that that link dies, here's what it said:

Today at Buffalo Wild Wings a friend had me try a wing slathered in Blazin' sauce, the hottest, deadliest of the sauces.

Within 5 minutes, I drank 3 full glasses of water. My mouth was in extreme pain, my eyes were watering, and to make matters worse, I had to pee, 'cause hey, I drank a quart of water in five minutes.

So I pee then get back to the table and pause for a second. Something...didn't feel right. Then it hit me:

HOLY SHIT, MY PENIS IS ON FIRE.

The fucking blazin' sauce got on my genitals. My man parts were in flames. I guess my fingers got sauce on them, then I peed and ignited my dong.

The burning wouldn't stop. It was like I had just had sex with a campfire that happened to have VD. Flames engulfed my manhood, and soon I couldn't carry a conversation with the guys without thinking of stealing their little cups of ranch dressing and pouring them down my pants. I knew what I had to do.

I had to wash my penis in a popular sports bar. So I took a wet nap from the table and went into a bathroom stall and scrubbed away.

I went back to the table, sure I'd be fine again, but no. The pain continued, but on the upside, my wang smelled like lemons.

So I had no choice but to sit there with my burning, lemon-scented penis.

Eventually, the pain faded and my junk lost the scent of freshly-wiped hands.

Well, everyone, I hope you're happy. You just read about my genitals for an extended period of time. Just know that I didn't read about YOUR private parts. But then again, YOU didn't burn yours in a freak buffalo wings accident.

(Work, class, lab, NOT burning sex organs, etc.)

The party in your head

You ever have a dream so vivid and so wonderful that you decide to hit the snooze button so you can rejoin the party that's going on in your head?

That happens just about every morning for me. So I'll lay back down and sleep in until the last minute, partying it up in my own brain, then I'll finally roll out of bed and realize: God damn it, I wasn't at a party, I was just a dude laying in bed for far too long. Then I feel like all the people in my dreams have betrayed me, then I remember that they're all me, so I punch myself in the side of the head as punishment for deceiving myself.

So now I'm in the real world, where I'll be in class from 10am to 6pm, assuming this isn't all a dream.

(OR IS IT?!)

Feeling lucky with Google

Google the following phrases. Feel free to click 'I'm feeling lucky' if you have the balls for it, you pansy:
'retarded websites'
'spanish swears'

Now google my name: 'Henry Birdseye.' (Stalkers, I just made your life a lot easier by giving you this information)

Note that googling my name won't get you my now-comatose website in the first 30 results, yet I am #1 when looking for stupid internet pages or the Spanish word for 'piss.'

This explains why all the middle schoolers who IM me expect nothing but fart jokes and cuss words, yet none of them know my first name.

This is what it's like to be nibbling the crust of an Internet Fame Sandwich. Two parts bread, five parts you not being able to explain how you have fans to your grandma.

(Bed, work, real life, etc.)

2Pac Man

I'm reading about Pac Man for video games class.

Did you know they were going to release a sequel for Pac Man called 2Pac Man? It never came out because you couldn't see him against the black background OH SNAP INAPPROPRIATE JOKE.

Happy MLK Day!

(Reading.)

That joke was racist, but it made me laugh, so don't blame me if you get offended. The internet isn't about sensitivity; it's about pornography and cheap laughs.

Hobo flesh

I'm eating dinner with Brad and Lauren.

However, tonight I'm in the mood for food I've earned, ya know? I could go to Wendy's and order a pollo sandwich from the vato working el casho registeristo, but that's not fulfilling.

Has anyone ever tried hobo flesh? I think it'd be delicious after you ran a hose over it. Think of it this way: hobos drink almost nothing but alcohol, so it's basically like they've been marinating their internal organs for years and years. You grill up some of that and you're in for a taste sensation. Plus, think of all the treasures to be had in those shopping carts!

And yes, I am a dick for typing this, so I'll tell you what, Karma: next real, non-eaten hobo who asks for change gets it (change, not eaten).

That way, my saying horrible things feeds people. Or marinates their organs.

(Food.)

I'm a bad person for even putting this on the internet, but I've dealt with some shitty homeless people in my day, and I'd be a lot less angry at them if they were hamburgers instead.

He's not a nuclear missile. Just a dude.

Not one but TWO of my professors have said something along the lines of, 'Well, MLK Day is next week, so we won't have class Wednesday or Friday.'

Are they being racist or lazy? Are they thinking, 'Uh oh, a black person day. Better lay low for the next week.' or 'Hey, random holiday, let's go home early and watch VH1 talk about everything else that's on TV.'

If MLK Day were a terrorist attack, I'd understand. A bomb goes off, then fine: stay home for a couple days, relax. But it's a holiday celebrating a civil rights leader. He's not a nuclear missile. Just a dude.

But on the upside, VH1 will be running a marathon of I Love What Just Happened 5 Minutes Ago and I sure do love not going to class...

Hey, learning! You should do it, too, unless you want to scoop elephant crap at the circus.
(TV.)

Meet my crappy car

I hate having to introduce my car to new people. 'Yeah, that's my car. It's kinda balding all over. And the tape deck doesn't work. And the front windows don't roll up or down. And one time it rained and my windows were stuck down and the carpet got all wet so now the car kinda smells like mold. And the math teacher I had in 7th grade owned that while he was dating my mom while I was in 11th grade, so they may have fooled around in the back seat. So, hop in, Person Who's Riding In My Car For the First Time. It'll be great.'

I tell bits of info as needed, though. 'Sorry, no drive through. Busted windows' or 'sorry about the smell. yeah, moldy carpet.' Then I tell them the math teacher stuff so the car has more character, because maybe imagining an older man screwing in the back seat will take their mind off the balding paint job and all the dents.

(eating Livonia for dinner. all of it.)

Muskrats made you frozen dinners

Turns out Clarence and, by extension, I, owe a great deal to muskrats.


(click the above image to enlarge it.)

Granted, because he hunted them, I owe it all to dead muskrats, but the fact remains that the modern process for freezing food stems from a boy saving money so he could eventually shoot things as an adult.

Or maybe Reader's Digest made that whole thing up. 'Birds eye' is such a boring story. Let's add some crap about some muskrats, a dragon, a troll, and a breakdancing gynecologist.'
'That's a marvelous idea, but let's only include the muskrats, as I don't think the American public will believe that vagina doctors can spin on their heads.'

And that's how muskrats made you frozen dinners.

(Bed.)

Clarence Birdseye is my great grandfather. He is the inventor of the frozen food process we use today, among other things. Had he not sold his patents while he was alive, they would be worth billions and billions of dollars today. God fucking damn it.

Internet friendship, anyone?

We can check on each other without actually making any actual contact. Where do we draw the line between an open sense of internet community and just being really fucking creepy?

Also, who out there has internet-only friends? As in, people with whom you chat, but you have never met in person. A lot of people had them in middle school, then most people ditched theirs, but I just realized I have a decent amount of them. The concept first seems to be pointless, then after some thought, it still seems pointless, then you actually talk to someone interesting and it makes sense. So who out there has no problem talking to strangers? Who has the internet balls to do that? And if you're a girl, why do you have balls? Italicized ones, no less.

Riddle me that, internet.

(Bed.)

To date, over 400 strangers have IMed me. About seven of them have been interesting.

Poodles are assholes

Amy's mom made food and I intend to eat it. All of it. Nobody else gets any. Not even the poodle Because there is no poodle. I made up the poodle. Poodles are assholes.

So, in non-poodle-related news, I still fucking hate poodles. I lied about the non-poodle thing.

So remember that food? It's going to be in my mouth soon. And then my stomach. And then you have to look up the rest because it gets messy.

(Din-din.)

Gum from Costco

This morning I was thinking about Costco, and how if you buy anything there, you will never have to buy any more of that one thing ever again.

Then my train of thought made a turn for the stupid when I thought about how if a dude were chewing gum in class and the teacher said 'share with everyone' then he could take out his crate of gum and share. But then at the last student he could run out of gum and he could very quickly spit his gum into the last guy's mouth.

I went from Costco to two heterosexual men sharing a piece of gum so one guy doesn't get yelled at by a teacher.

This is why I don't like thinking. I just end up on some crazy scene in my head wondering what the hell is wrong with myself. Gum does not make you spit gum into the mouths of other dudes. And if it does, stop shopping at Costco.
(Class.)

I'm no seismologist

I took a box of Honeycomb from home, and I'll be damned if it doesn't taste like magical bees pooped it out and put it in my mouth so that I can savor the artificial fake bee poop goodness.

Bees poop honey, right? Just checking. I'm no seismologist.

(Beyond Good & Evil.)

Beyond Good & Evil the video game, not the respectable written work. Besides, text is for people who suck at video games.

I set a terminally ill person on fire

In my 8th grade yearbook, someone wrote, 'First you live, and then you die, but in the end, we all get high.'

I don't think that's how it goes, Other Eighth Grader. I've never seen a man dying, and then just as his heart monitor is about to flatline, a priest comes out of nowhere and slow-motion-throws a lit joint into his mouth and says, 'Whew, just in time.'

I think if I ever had to throw a joint at a man in a hospital bed, I'd probably miss and just set him on fire. 'Oops,' I'd say, 'Just trying to get you high, like the rhyming eighth grader suggested seven years ago.'

So in today's away message I set a terminally ill person on fire. What did yours do for you today?

(Work, class, lab.)

The new Turing test

While I was at my lab meeting, Amy was going through my files and she found a picture I saved of a dead carjacker who had jumped from the roof of a building and accidentally, um, lost his head.

'WHY WOULD YOU SAVE THAT?' she asked.

The thing is, people, everyone needs horrifying pictures on their hard drives. What, then, would you send people you don't like? Viruses are for dog humpers. Email forwards are for old people (my grandpa once sent me a far right propaganda email proclaming America the last bastion of hope against those 'damn A-rabs'). You need to send them something that will make them scream, and in doing so prove that they are not a robot.

The Turing Test isn't as valid as before. Words don't distinguish who's human or not. Gagging at a picture of a dead carjacker or a jpeg of a man's stretched out butthole, though? That's just humanity.

(sushi.)

I drive my 7th grade math teacher's car.

Right now I'm in my junky-ass '92 Crown Vic and driving to pick up the gf while I try to forget what may have happened in this car while my 7th grade math teacher both owned it and was dating my mom.

Yeah, you find one other person with a similar situation. And then you send them to me so I can murder them. There can be only one.

(Vroom vroom, assuming the car starts.)

This is a true story. I had him in 7th grade, she had him in 11th grade.

Poop hats for the unoriginal

I think the worst suggestion for a video game I ever read would be, 'We need to have quotes from Chappelle's Show. There should be a guy who says, 'I'm Rick James, bitch!' '

Someone wrote that in a forum for a video game I'm working on and I just about reached through the internet and shit on his head so that everybody at school would have to see his new Poop Hat. You get a Poop Hat if you have stupid ideas. The Hard Poop Shell in your hair keeps the dumb ideas in your brain from going out into the world and making people do stupid things, like ruin video games with unfunny, overused quotes.

Kids, quote sparingly. Just because you remember funny things does not mean you are being funny. Any laughs you get are from you repeating words another person said, so don't take it as positive reinforcement.

Be original, or y'all get poop hats.

(arcade + TV.)

Atlas Yawned

Atlas Shrugged? More like Atlas Yawned.

Yeah, that's all I have. I'm tired, it's late, you're already sleeping, and all I feel like doing is insulting a book I haven't even read.

But it sure is long, isn't it? Come on, bitch, release it as a comic book or some shit. I have burritos to eat and they're not going to get eaten if you write paragraphs that take up multiple pages at a time.

(Sleep.)

For the record, Atlas Yawned is written by Ayn Bland.

Pay a babysitter and go bang college dudes

I got the override that I needed from Professor Hoeffner. However, he never said his name; he kept referring to himself as 'I' and 'me' instead. And while that's admirably first-person of him, I still have no idea how to address this man.

My buddy Future hooked up with a 30 year old woman with two kids. Meaning he got with the mom, not the mom while she was with the two kids.

The thing is, my buddy Jon also got with a 30 year old woman with two kids. This makes me want to meet the woman, but I'm afraid she'd try to do me, seeing as she seems to have a thing for guys my age.

I don't know where I'm going with this, I'm just saying it's weird that a woman would think 'Hey I'm at an age where I need to be responsible, so I think I'll pay a babysitter and go bang college dudes.'

(Amy, Dinner, Tally Hall, ???.)

First day of ass clay

First day of ass clay. That's pig latin for 'first day of class', but I didn't put 'first day' in pig latin 'cause I'm afraid people will get turned off by the words 'irstfay ayday' but EVERYONE loves the concept of butt clay. It's so mysterious! Is it made out of butts? Does it come out of a butt? How can clay ever be affiliated with a butt? Your mind is stimulated by my stupid use of pig latin because I got you to think about clay and an ass.

So I'm at ass clay, earning lay. Get it? I'm acquiring sex. Oh man, I just set your brain to word-fun overload!

(Going over syllabi 'til 2, then work 3-11pm.)

Pronounce "Hoeffner." I dare you.

I emailed this professor to get into his lab. I emailed him 3 times, in fact, and he has yet to reply. Now I must go to class and ask for an override to actually attend it. The thing is, I don't know how to pronounce his fucking name.

It's spelled 'Hoeffner.' Now, the 'oe' is what throws me off. Could be 'Heff-ner' or 'Hoff-ner.' Maybe even 'Hoe-eff-ner.' And I don't want to gamble on any one of those.

So I start hoping that he introduces himself. If he says 'I am Professor Hoeffner' I'll be fine, but if he just says 'I'm your professor' then I'm fucked again. The man has yet to speak and he's already stressing me out.

So I'll be in class from 1 'til whenever hoping that a man introduces himself correctly so that I can address him without being shot down for mispronouncing his stupid name.

(Class.)

I blame Hartmann's urine

Tuesday night I came home to a piece of paper on our door that said basically 'Your yard is fucking dirty. Clean it up and take out your trash or we charge you $70. -Ann Arbor (all of it)'

I blame nature for this mishap. When it was winter, we could have all the shit we wanted on our lawn. Cups, plates, old newspapers, other people's mail. It didn't matter because snow covered all messes. Then motherfucking Mother 'Fat Bitch' Nature comes in and melts our snow, or 'trash-hiding magic whiteness' and suddenly we're pigs.

Also Hartmann peed out of our side door into what is essentially our neighbors' yard. And they live here permanently 'cause they're old.

So I blame Hartmann's urine and the concept of melting. And then I go to bed.

(sleep.)