The Loner VS. SBC

My lengthy battle with the stupid assholes at SBC has finally come to an end. Well, technically, they aren't SBC anymore. They started off as Ameritech, then became SBC Ameritech, then became SBC Michigan (or the other way around)... I think now they're SBC/AT&T or some shit. It seems like I every time I get a bill from these fuckers, they've changed identities yet again. Why don't they just be truthful and call themselves "Company That Loves To Dry Fuck Your Virgin Ass?"

This company hates me. I hate them. It all started years back, when they liked to randomly shut off my service even when my account was paid in full. Since I refuse to get a cell phone, I'd have to go to a payphone just to call the morons. "Look," I'd cry into the receiver, "Can you please just turn my fucking phone on? I paid you guys two weeks ago." After several minutes of them denying that I'd paid them, I produced a confirmation number--and my phone was back on that same day. I was really, really pissed though, especially after the ordeal was over and the operator had the nerve to say, "Thank you for choosing SBC!" The last thing I said to her before I hung up was, "Aw, go and lick the sack." If this story sounds somewhat familiar to you, I'm not surprised. Tanz has stories just like it. So do several other less-than-satisfied customers that I know. The last time I closed an account with them, I received a $30 refund check in the mail--and then, two months later, I got a letter from a collection agency, claming I owed them money. Hmmm... they gave me a refund, yet I owe them money. Does that make any sense to you? Of course it doesn't; anyone smart enough to read this blog knows the company fucking blows.

It all came to a head last week, when the phone woke me up at 8:00am. Even though I was barely awake through most of the conversation, one sentence stood out in my mind; "We have a disconnect order scheduled for today on this account." Again, I was half awake, so I was like, "Huh?" It turns out that my account was "past due," even though the statement I had said my bill wasn't due until March. And if I didn't pay them $29 that very day, they were turning off my service. That's right... over 29 fucking bucks. Well, I paid them their money; then, I hung up, called Talk America and switched my service over to them.

I feel so much after having removed the giant corporate dick from my ass. Maybe Talk America won't be any better--but at least I can say with absolute certainty that they won't be any worse.

Fuck you, SBC, AT&T, or whatever the fuck you're calling yourselves this week. I've had it with you pricks.

Laid

It's funny how some songs can really "get" you, and resonate inside your soul on an intense, emotional level. You hear the song and it hits you hard, like being punched in the stomach. It makes you remember a certain person, a certain time, a certain place. It puts a lump in your throat. It makes you realize what's missing.

Most of the time, what I write in this blog is for thousands of anonymous people. But this entry is for one person, and one person only. She knows who she is.

It's time to wake up, dear, before it's too late. I know you deserve better than me, but I also know you're as miserable as I am. I miss you so much it hurts.

"This bed is on fire with passion and love
The neighbors complain about the noises above
But she only comes when she's on top

My therapist said not to see you no more
She said you're like a disease without any cure
She said I'm so obsessed that I'm becoming a bore, oh no

Ah, you think you're so pretty (eeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeee)

Caught your hand inside the till,
Slammed your fingers in the door
Bought the kitchen knives and skewers
Dressed me up in women's clothes
Messed around with gender roles
Dye my eyes and call me pretty

Moved out of the house, so you moved next door
I locked you out, you cut a hole in the wall
I found you sleeping next to me, I thought I was alone
You're driving me crazy, when are you coming home?"

As for the rest of you, I promise to get back to being a miserable prick tomorrow.
Don't worry, the woman this post is about won't make me happy. She could make me happy if she wanted to... but she won't.

I'm Dying

I've been so damn busy... I only have a few minutes before I have to leave again for my "extracurricular" activity, plus I worked today. Speaking of my outside stuff, I hurt myself fairly badly yesterday while I was carrying this girl Kira around. (I told you, don't ask.) When I went to pick her up, she slumped back unexpectedly--and to avoid dropping her on the floor (which would have been embarrassing for both of us), I hyper-extended my arm; now it hurts like hell. Just something else to add to my aches and pains list, I guess. Thanks a lot, Kira, you damn near crippled me.

I can say that, though, because she doesn't know about this blog. At least I don't think she does.

Well, I'll be back later. I have to leave in a minute, so I should probably put some pants on. I had a really, really cool interview in the works, but now I'm starting to doubt it's gonna happen. Maybe I'll get into that later... maybe not.

Sorry, I have nothing interesting to say at the moment. I suck.

Ralph Furley; Swinging Bachelor in the Sky

Aw, come on, how could I NOT comment on the passing of Don Knotts? I loved him. I know that he's always going to be best remembered as Barney Fife, but for me, Don is (and always will be) Ralph Furley, the most macho bachelor Three's Company ever had--with the possible exception of Larry, of course. That show will probably never get the respect it deserves because it was so corny, but I'll tell you this much; it made me laugh, each and every single time I watched it. So in my book, a world without Mr. Furley and Jack Tripper is a much, much sadder place.

It seems to me that the good always go too early... even if they happen to live to 81. Thanks for all the laughs, Don. Tell Jack that Greedy Gretchen has been asking about him...

The Main Page

I like how every time Dean's Planet goes several days without an update, people start asking me, "Hey, when are you guys gonna update the site?" I guess the assumption is that I have something to do with it. Listen, I've never even met Dean. For one thing, we live in different states. There was talk of us going to NYC last fall and covering some porn star convention, but that never happened. (Bummer.) So anyway, I don't know why the site isn't being updated, and I haven't even seen Dean online in several days. Maybe he's having computer problems. Maybe he's getting laid. Maybe it's just a pain in the ass to constantly update the site with free entertainment for the masses. That's right, always remember that the site is free. I try to keep that in mind when people bitch at me about all the pop-ups on the site. Yeah, I think they're annoying, too, but when your site is getting hundreds of thousands of hits every month, you have to do SOMETHING to help cover the costs of running it. It sure as hell ain't coming out of my pocket, I'll tell you that.

As for me, I've been busy... really fucking busy. I have to leave for my part time job in half an hour--you know, the one that's killing me? Then I have to spend a few hours on my "extracurricular" project after that. (I told you, don't ask.) Then it's off to the bar, where I plan to do some more drunken karaoke. I should point out, though, that I haven't had a drop of alcohol in two weeks. Are you proud of me? You shouldn't be... it's only because I've been broke.

Well, gotta get ready for that stupid fucking job that I despise. I just hope I can make it through the day... I've been hobbling around the apartment like an 80 year old man...

My Hour Of Darkness

I've always loved Let it Be because it's one of a small handful of "personal" songs Paul McCartney wrote when he was in The Beatles. He wrote it during a particularly rough period in his life--the band was breaking up, his relationship with Lennon was fracturing and everything around him was in turmoil. Right in the middle of all this drama, Paul went to sleep one night and dreamed of his mother, who had died when he was just a child. In the dream, she told him not to worry; everything would be all right. "There will be an answer," she said. There was no great revelation in the dream--for Paul, it was mainly just good to see her again after so many years. When he woke up the next morning, he felt much better and wrote Let it Be as a tribute to her.


The song has always struck an emotional chord for me. No matter how old you get and no matter how cynical you are, sometimes you just need someone to hold you and tell you that everything is going to be okay. I could use a little of that in my own life; especially now, in my own personal "hour of darkness."

Thanks, Paul.

"When I find myself in times of trouble,
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be
And in my hour of darkness,
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom
Let it be

And when the broken-hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer
Let it be
For though they may be parted,
There is still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer
Let it be

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Yeah, there will be an answer
Let it be

And when the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me
Shine until tomorrow
Let it be
I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom
Let it be

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
There will be an answer
Let it be."

I'm Batting 3 For 3!

... as far as shitty days go, that is. This is my third one in a row! All in all, I'd say this is shaping up to be a pretty shitty life!! But don't worry, I'm not gonna go off on another depressing tangent. I think I'm too tired for that. I don't even think I'd want to get laid tonight, that's how sleepy I am. If a chick offered me some ass right now, I'd politely thank her and say, "Thanks, but in my condition, I couldn't even raise a smile."
Unless she was hot, of course, in which case my pants would be off faster than you can say, "Is that your dick or a roll of dimes?" But I don't see that happening... ever.

I noticed that our friend The Great Kat has prominently featured our interview on her site, www.GreatKat.com. I can dig that. Most of the time when I interview someone, they act like they're almost embarrassed to be associated with me. (Much like my family is.) When am I ever going to learn? Serious journalists do NOT go by names like "Jeremy the Loner."

But like I said--most of my readers weren't overly impressed with Kat, even though she has ample cleavage and spiked "come fuck me" heels. Here's one e-mail that I got, and it's typical of most of the stuff people have been sending me;


From: JordanT1120@aol.com
Date: Wed, 15 Feb 2006 19:24:46 EST
Subject: the kat interview
To: goodnight_tonight@yahoo.com

Whats up

As I've read your blog and interviews on DP, I've always liked your writing style. This article was pretty good, the only downpart was the turd of a subject.

I can respect the chick for her passion of classical music. It's a forgotten form of music that's always overlooked and overshadowed by incredibly inferior talents from musical genres across the board. But fucking stick thumb tacks between my nails before I'd sit and listen to this chick "shred" classical "classics". It all seems a bit dumb, and just a way for her to get attention. maybe I feel this way because I never got into that heavy metal-shredding type of music, I dunno.

Also, not to ball bust, but I thought this quote was kinda funny:

Jeremy The Loner: Do you really think the "moron masses" are ready for the shred/classical genre? They seem to buy a lot of Kelly Clarkson, Kanye West and all of that shit.

Funny because this bitch has Kanye's ego x10.

Oh well...Here's hoping your next interview subject is a lil better. And its good to have you back blogging.

Jordan

Huh, well, he's entitled to that opinion. I wonder if he'd say that to her face. I wouldn't. Chick or not, she might just claw your eyes out and start screaming about how she's a "goddess" and all that shit. I have enough drama in my life without some jacked up dominatrix beating me about the head with a fucking guitar.



Oh, and speaking of interviews; some of you longtime readers may remember my very first celebrity interview here on Dean's Planet, which was with actress (and hot redhead) Louise Robey. You want some interesting reading? Check out her message board at www.LouiseRobey.com and look for posts by some guy named Tim Lo. I can personally guarantee you this much--no matter how pathetic you are and no matter how unlucky you've been with the opposite sex, you are definitely NOT as much of a loser as this guy is. This douchebag gives stalkers a bad name.

Don't believe me? Take a look for yourself, including some of the archives. Compared to this loser, I'm damn near studly.

Wow, What A Shitty Day

I feel terrible. Like somebody stuffed me into a barrel filled with rocks and rolled me down a mountain. No, wait... I don't feel quite that good.

My new part time job SU-U-U-U-U-U-U--U-U-U-U-CKS. Don't bother asking me what it is, because I won't tell you. But it's one of those places where you're never quite sure when you're going to go home. It MIGHT be 9:00pm. Or it might be fucking midnight. With this new job and the extracurricular shit I've got going on, (don't ask about that either) I'm gonna be dead in three months. God, I wish I was 19 again... and not just because I could easily get laid in those days. The fact is, my body just can't handle abuse the way that it used to. I wish my muscles were as durable as my liver.

You know, my brother once said that if he didn't know any better, he'd wonder just how much of this blog is "real," and how much is exaggerated. How can one man's life suck so much? Well, let me tell you... my life sucks. Worse than yours.

Does that make you feel better? It does? Well, fuck you.

I'm going to bed.

Wednesday Night

Since I have nothing else to do, (and since every other idiot on the planet besides me is watching American Idol) I figured I might as well update the 'ol blog. Hey, I don't have any beer anyway, so why the hell not? I still can't get over the fact that I'm a "blogger," though. I hate that fucking word. I hate the whole concept behind blogging. Nobody ever has anything interesting to say, so what makes us think we should post our pointless thoughts on the Internet? I don't know... but here I am, along with the rest of the sheep. I'm a hypocrite, I guess.

So anyway, my interview with The Great Kat was posted today, and it's already getting loads of feedback. (It's always nice to see that SOME of you are able to tear yourselves away from the "nip slip" pics on the main page and actually read a column now and then.) I think it's safe to say my readers weren't overly impressed with Kat--at least, not the ones who've bothered to write thus far. Some people had a problem with her massive ego... I didn't, but some of you did. (Who says that rappers should be the ONLY ones to be arrogant and obnoxious?) I'm thinking about posting some of the e-mail, but I'm going to wait and see if I get any positive feedback first. The Great Kat does have a fairly big following--especially overseas, where they dig that twisted shit--so I'm assuming that somebody must dig her. We'll have to wait and see, but some of the e-mail I've gotten thus far has been pretty damn funny. You guys are mean bastards.

Bah, I wish something was on TV other than the fucking Olympics. The only time I watch the Olympics is during women's gymnastics; I could give a fuck about curling. And how about bobsledding? What the fuck is that?? How is that an Olympic event, when the bobsled does all the work and people just ride the fucking things? Never mind, I don't care.

I'll see you assholes later.

It's Valentine's Day...

... so it must be time for a massacre. We'll start with all of you spineless pussies that plan on stopping at Rite Aid on the way home from work today, so can buy your woman a cheap box of chocolates and a card that you won't even bother to read before buying it. It's amazing the things guys will do to avoid being bitched at, even going so far as to figuratively neuter themselves.

Now, I know what a lot of you are thinking--"Oooooh, what a rebel, talking shit about Valentine's Day like every other lonely, cynical prick on the planet!" And I will admit, it's become a "cool" thing to slam what many deem the "Hallmark Holidays." Especially when you're like me, a loser that doesn't even have a woman to bitch at him in the first place. So of course I would be bitter about it, right? I'm just jealous, because at least those "pussies" I referred to earlier won't be going to bed alone tonight like I will.

Well, let me set you all straight... I'm not jealous of you. I might indeed live in hell, but it's a hell I created for myself. I'm miserable, yes--but at least it's on my own terms. And I would be even more miserable if I felt guilted into buying a bunch of bullshit for my woman just because everybody else says I should. You might as well surrender your nutsack right now if you live your life that way. I know that a lot of guys would literally be afraid to come home tonight without presents for their significant other. For women, however, buying presents for their men today is considered "optional." Fuck that noise. I'd rather be lonely for the rest of my life before I put up with that bullshit. And what's the point of buying flowers, anyway? Flowers are only going to wither and die, just like your relationship eventually will. Statistics don't lie, my friends.

Happy Fucking Valentine's Day.

In Pain...

You ever wake up in the morning to find yourself in intense agony, having no idea of why you're in pain? That's me at the moment. My right wrist hurts so badly, I can't even move it without searing pain shooting up my arm. I have no idea of why this is--it feels as if I spent the night pounding my wrist with a hammer, or I had some marathon masturbation session from hell. Either one of these things would have been just fine--at least then I'd know why I'm in fucking agony.

In fact, even typing this blog entry hurts like hell. So fuck it. I'm done for now.

She's a Beauty

"Step right up, and don't be shy
Because you will not believe your eyes
She's right here, behind the glass
You're gonna like her
'Cause she's got class

You can look inside another world
You get to talk to a pretty girl
She's everything you dream about

But don't fall in love
She's a beauty
She's one in a million girls
She's a beauty
Why would I lie
Now why would I lie?

You can say anything you like
But you can't touch the merchandise
She'll give you ev'ry penny's worth
But it will cost you a dollar first

You can step outside your little world
(Step outside)
You can talk to a pretty girl
She's everything you dream about

But don't fall in love
She's a beauty
She's one in a million girls
One in a million girls
Why would I lie
Why would I lie?

But don't fall in love
'Cause if you do you'll find out
She don't love you
(She's one in a million girls)
One in a million girls
(Why would I lie)
Now why would I lie?

---- Instrumental Interlude ----

(Step outside your world)

But don't fall in love
She's a beauty
She's one in a million girls
One in a million girls
Why would I lie
Now why would I lie?

But don't fall in love
'Cause If you do you'll find out
She don't love you
She's one in a million girls
One in a million girls
Why would I lie
Why would I lie?

But don't fall in love
She's one in a million girls
Why would I lie?"

My Latest Interview...

... is with none other than The Great Kat, considered by many to be one of the very best guitar shredders on the planet. She also scares the hell out of me, but then again, so do most women. Especially ones who drool blood, dress in leather and studs and abuse a guitar like it just murdered their mother. Are you guys ready for this?

Well, neither am I, but it's coming nonetheless. In the meantime, check out her site at www.GreatKat.com. This chick is intense.

The Battle Continues

Sweet, sweet chocolaty source of all evil! You will not tempt me. I have no need for the gritty, sugary goodness found within your milk chocolate shell. You are bad for me. Your nutritional value is, at best, nominal. You don't love me--you seek only to add more chins to my already ample face.

Let me live, goddamn you! Is it not bad enough that I'm already addicted to beer and Easy Cheese??? Every year we go through this! I'm dying quick enough as it is, thank you very much. I don't need your assistance.

FUCK YOU, Easter Bunny!
Fuck you!!!

You know, if I got laid now and then, I wouldn't have time to obsess over chocolate eggs that are slowly killing me. Here it is, Friday night, and look at what I'm thinking about...

God hates me.

I Feel Like A Fucking Raisin

... and that's one of the side effects of spending the evening consuming approximately 14 gallons of beer on an empty stomach. I'm not hung over--not really, anyway--I just feel like... well, like a fucking raisin. No other similies are springing to mind at the moment.

It was worth the discomfort, though, because last night was the first time since summer that I went to a karaoke bar. And I was with a bunch of theatre people, so just about all of them were singers. Nothing's worse than going to a karaoke bar with a table full of pussies that are too scared to sing. These are the same people that have no problems making you listen to their obnoxious singing when you're in the car with them--but suddenly, when faced with an audience of drunken rednecks, they find humility. There were no such problems last night. Plus, I had all the beer I could drink and only spent six bucks. Too bad there were no single women around that were into ugly guys, otherwise it would have been an ideal night.

I'll have more later. Maybe some reader mail and shit like that. I'm hoping to have a new interview done within the next day or so, too--if the guy ever sends the questions back.

Bah. I need fluids. In a BIG motherfucking way.

Wayne Gretzky's Hot Ass Wife

I'm sure you all heard about the group of NHL players involved in the scandal about betting on football games. I don't know too much about it, personally. I would, except every time I try to read articles on the scandal, I'm distracted by pictures of Janet Jones, wife of hockey great Wayne Gretzky and smokin' hot piece of ass.

Holy shit, that's a MILF if I ever saw one. I used to wonder why people would nominate her for Classic Broad of the Month back in the days when I was still writing that column. Well, now I know. That's some perfectly aged, Grade A, prime woman meat right there. Okay, okay, so maybe she's a little old for me--well, "Goo goo ga joob, Mrs. Robinson!"

I don't care about her being involved in some gambling scandal. Who gives a shit? I'd rather do some other "scandalous" things with her, if you catch my drift. Christ almighty, I wish I could get ass like that. Gretzky's a lucky bastard.

I Could Never Take The Place Of Your Man

I couldn't. But I could probably fill in on a temporary, trial basis. That's about all I'm good for.

Oh, and on an unrelated note, I'm still winning the battle of the Cadbury Eggs. (A-HA!) And apparently, only three people read this blog, because that's how many e-mails I received to my "what are you doing here?" inquiry.

I wonder about you people. I guess most of you are antisocial loners, just like myself.

It was only last June when her old man ran away
She couldn't stop crying 'cause she knew he was gone 2 stay
It was 10:35 on a lonely friday night
She was standin' by the bar
Hmm, she was lookin' alright, yeah
I asked her if she wanted 2 dance
And she said all she wanted was a good man
And wanted 2 know if I thought I was qualified, yeah

And I said, baby don't waste your time
I know what's on your mind
I may be qualified 4 a one night stand
But I could never take the place of your man

It hurt me so bad when she told me
With tears in her eyes (tears in her eyes)
He was all she ever had and now she wanted 2 die
He left her with a baby and another one on the way
She couldn't stop cryin'
Cause she knew he was gone 2 stay
She asked me if we could be friends
And I said, oh, honey baby that's a dead end
U know and I know that we wouldn't be satisfied

And I said, baby don't waste your time
I know what's on your mind
U wouldn't be satisfied with a one night stand
And I could never take the place of your man
Yeah, yeah, the place of your man.

Who Is Reading This Blog...?

That's not an existential question, I actually would like to know.

I already know who reads my dumb columns, because every time I write a new one my inbox reflects it. But I very, very rarely get e-mail that's specifically pertaining to this blog. I mean, does anybody actually READ the fucking thing?

The counter says that people do... but I don't know. It's a free counter, so how accurate can it be? If you read this blog, please drop me a line and tell me why. Is it interesting to you? Funny? Do you just read it because it makes you feel better about your own miserable life? I was reading through some of my past posts earlier today and I was bored to tears. Let me know why the fuck you come here... I have a specific reason for asking.

goodnight_tonight@yahoo.com

Don't let me down, you anonymous pricks...

I Hate Shopping

I don't know why I bother going to the grocery store during the day. The place is literally crawling with old people up until 5:00pm. It looked like a Civil War reunion was going on, for Christ's sake.

I used to wonder why old people took over the grocery stores during the early afternoon. I think I finally figured it out. At first, I thought it was because they wanted to avoid all contact with people who were born less than 100 years ago, people who tend to go shopping in the evening. But then it dawned on me--old people get up at the fucking crack of dawn (for unknown reasons) and usually head to bed around 7:00pm. Hell, for them, noon is practically dinner time.

I wouldn't mind it so much if they weren't so fucking annoying. But they love to stand around with dumb expressions on their wrinkly faces, their carts blocking off the entire aisle as they decide what size Depends Undergarments they need to buy. Meanwhile, 800 people have to patiently stand there, waiting for them to move out of the fucking way. I'm not sure if they're completely oblivious to the world around them or they just don't give a fuck. Either way, fuck them.

That's why I'll never understand the Japanese. They worship old geezers over there, and act as if they're the country's greatest resource. I guess the idea is that people who grow to be very, very old must be smarter than the rest of us because they've experienced so much more. A good idea in theory, but I don't buy it. I've said this before, and I'll say it again--if a person is born a total fucking moron, it doesn't really matter how old they get. They could live to be 120 years old and they'll still be morons.

Fucking old people. Fortunately for me, my lifestyle pretty much guarantees that I won't even make it to age 50. A good thing, too, because if I ever got to be old I'd hate myself even more than I already do.

Bah.

R.I.P Grandpa Munster

"Grandpa" Al Lewis, star of The Munsters and friend to Dean's Planet, has died. Now that's a damn shame. Good ol' Al was nice enough to do an interview with our own Doc back in 2003, so he gets props for that. Here's the interview, in case you missed it;

http://deansplanet.com/doc_grandpa_lewis.html

Rest in peace, my good man... please allow me put a lightbulb in my mouth in your honor. No wait, that's Uncle Fester. Never mind me, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. Anyway, grandpa, make sure you say "hi" to Herman for me.

I Fucking Love Cadbury Eggs

There are two types of people in this world--those who love Cadbury Eggs and those who despise them. Obviously, I fall into the former category.

Ahhh, such sweet bliss! Every year in the coming weeks before Easter, they begin appearing on store shelves, presumably put there by that Easter Bunny that clucks like a chicken. For those of you who don't know, Cadbury Eggs are chocolate, egg-shaped confections filled with a sugary glop that resembles the yolk and white of an egg. The mere mention of this product makes people like my friend Tanz pucker their faces in grimaces of disgust--as for me, I am filled with an evil, ravenous lust when I pass by them in the grocery store. I can see them almost beckoning to me as I pass by, tempting me to give into my unholy desire.

"Come on, big boy," they coo at me. "Buy us. You know you want to. What's a little diabetic coma between friends?"

"Fuck you!" I yell back at them, prompting curious stares from my fellow shoppers. "I don't need you!"

But I'm just kidding myself. More often than not, at least a dozen of them end up in my cart, right next to the beer and the peanuts. And then, later on, I eat the damn things, my teeth literally aching from the several pounds of sugar found within. I am a stupid, stupid man.

I wish I was more like my brother. He chows down on the eggs every single Easter without so much as a pang of guilt. But then again, the guy's been married for almost 13 years, so what the fuck does he care about the ill effects of his actions? I'll tell you something about him; he doesn't fuck around and buy three or four of them at a time. Nope, he goes right to Sam's Club and buys a case of roughly 14,000 of them. Meanwhile, I go through an internal struggle between good and evil every time I go to the goddamn grocery store.

Not this year, though. I made a pact with myself not to buy a single egg. Now all I have to do is avoid grocery shopping for about, oh, I don't know.... three months.

"I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can..."

Chat Room Losers

One thing about me that some of my readers might find surprising is this--every now and then, I like to hang out in chat rooms.

AOL is sort of a chat room Mecca, where horny losers try to find women insecure enough to engage in casual sex with them. Some guys are actually somewhat successful in finding such women--my former roommate, the Rev, had the art of seducing chat room broads down to an exact science. He's helped himself to many a piece of ass that way. But he had an advantage over 95% of the poor assholes that hang out in these places; he actually had half a brain and the ability to construct a sentence. And he has the ability to be charming in his own way. I really miss that bastard, but he's pissed at me. If I were him, I'd be pissed at me, too. But that's a long story...

So, I'm sure some of you are wondering--why do I go to chat rooms? To pick up women? Hell, no... any confidence I may have had was shattered many years ago. Besides, "JeremyTLoner" isn't exactly a name that drives women mad with desire. Say whatever you want about me, but at least I'm honest about myself. I know that no women want me, and besides, I never get a chance to meet any single women in the first place. Even if I did, I live my life based on this credo;

"Any woman worth being with could do much, much better than me."

But, as much of a loser as I am, at least I'm not as pathetic as those assholes who go trolling for chicks in anonymous chat rooms. They always seem to have retarded names like HotBlondeGuyy4U, and they haunt chat rooms on Saturday nights, typing mindless shit like;

"Any hott chixx wanna cyber??? holla at me lol!!!

First off, you aren't "hot," you fucking imnbecile. If you were, you wouldn't be polluting a chat room with your immense stupidity on a Saturday night. Secondly, anyone dumb enough to talk to your moronic ass probably should have been aborted. That's why if you happen to see me in such a chat room, you probably won't see me contributing to the conversation. I'm just there to laugh at those idiots that are even more pathetic than me.

But do you want to see guys that are really hopeless? Check out www.perverted-justice.com. I always go there when I need to feel better about my own love life. Which is, admittedly, quite often.

Still More Random Thoughts

-Some enterprising individuals snatched up the domain www.jeremytheloner.com, which means that if I ever want to have my own website, I'll have to buy it from them. Maybe I should be flattered that someone thought enough of me to steal my name and place it up for sale. But I'd be much happier if the link led me to some hot, sleazy, lesbian porn. Give me something I can work with, motherfuckers.

-I am WAY behind on e-mail at the moment. Over the course of the last two months, literally hundreds and hundreds of e-mail messages have piled up in my inbox. But before you get too impressed by that, I should mention that more than half of it is spam. So if you wrote to me and got no response, try again. Unless you think I'm Melissa Midwest, in which case you should probably go fuck yourself.

-Thanks to everybody who wrote to me, welcoming me back to Dean's Planet and this blog. If I wasn't so drunk right now, I might actually be touched. Nahhh, I'm not really drunk. I mean, it's not even 6:00pm yet... give me another hour.

-FUCK the Superbowl. As you all know, it's being held in Detroit this year, which just happens to be my hometown. Look for a column on that very subject before this Sunday.

-I wish I had some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups right now. A HUGE fucking pile of them. Oh well, at least I have some beer.

Now, let's see if I can still remember how to write a column...

Holy Shit!

Can you believe it?? I'm finally back. And yes, I hear the resounding sound of crickets as I make this announcement. I'm sure most of my readers have long since abandoned this blog--except maybe for checking in to see my obituary posted here.

It wasn't my fault, you know. I haven't been lazy, it's just that the computer blew up and I haven't been online in quite a while. And I NEED to be online. I get my news online. I talk to my friends mostly online. I have no fucking life. Seriously.

But this blog will now come back to life, as will my column. I would say that it's good to be back, but I lost the ability to get excited about things long, long ago. And away we go...