Thanks, Everyone

You can all stop giving me money now. Thanks to some awesome folks, I now have enough to get cracking on a new website. Hopefully you won't find it to be the enormous disappointment it's destined to become, but anyway. According to notes I just received from Blogger Control, the issues are 'resolved' and my fee for this month has been refunded, but so what? Too little, too late. Doesn't make up for the many frustrated hours I've spent trying to fix things which weren't my fault. I'm over it. Tonight (after I eat and wash this funky sack I call a 'body') will be spent over at Hosting Matters and Moveable Type, setting up the new site. I'll let you all know when it's finished.

Thanks again, to all those who contributed. You own a piece of me, now. Pretty sickening thought, innit?

E.S.B.* PART TWO

Okay, here's the deal:

I can't make a post without deleting something because of the lie that is Transfer Error. 450Disk quota exceeded (300 files; limit: 300). I spent an hour this evening deleting old posts, pictures, etc. - nothing really important, just 'update' type stuff, outdated links, meaningless pics, etc. I thought that would solve the problem for now. Well, I was wrong. Now my archives have completely disappeared, to boot.

And, for every post I make, I have to delete something else to make room - which is total bullshit since I just deleted a whole buttload of stuff. I'm not even CLOSE to my alleged storage limit. I was able to replace the logo with what you're seeing above by deleting the old one first. It's my motto now. If I had the money to make t-shirts with that on it I would. I've become quite pathological in my hatred for the worthless Blogger service over these past two days.

Which brings me to this next thing. I only had two goals in mind when I first started this blog:

I wanted to write, and post weak Photoshopped pictures to go along with it (including a web comic strip I had planned).

I wanted people to read it.

Those two things are impossible now. I am completely locked out of a service I am paying good money for. Seriously, I have no choice in the matter. Blogger won't let me do ANYTHING without deleting something else first. I've written several times, and gotten no answer. They're a multi-million dollar company now that Google owns them. You know, I have to work on the weekends so I can pay to use this shit; some asshole needs to be manning the support page on the weekends.

So I'm about to do something I promised myself I'd never do.

I thought I could hang on another couple of weeks until I scrapped up enough to get my own webspace, but I can't stand it anymore. I want to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible so I can disassociate myself with Blogger, but I'm busted right now. Found out this weekend the brakes on my van are shot, and you can't drive without brakes unless you are a Flintstone. So, that kills whatever cash I had planned to put towards webspace when I get paid next Friday. And, I have about forty dollars in the bank right now. Yes, I own my own business - but a lot of other people own ME. It's just been a terrific week overall, and I can't even tell you guys about it.

So, even though I don't want to, I'm putting up the Paypal and the Amazon buttons.

No pressure here. If you think my wobbly toddler attempts at making grownup jokes are worth a couple of bucks to get me the hell out of here, so be it. If not, I don't blame you, because I'm not the world's biggest fan of myself either.

I'm not going to use the money to buy DVD's, or video games, or hookers. Well, maybe just one hooker. But I'll make it a cheap, behind-the-dumpster one like you see on those HBO Undercover shows. Anyway, I'm going to put every cent I get into getting a new web server and my own domain. If you give me your name I will place it on a special "This site is possible through the kind donations of..." section on the main page, along with a link to your site if you have one. Unless, of course, you'd rather remain anonymous, and believe me I can understand why. I wouldn't want people knowing I gave me money, either.

Basically, I just want to be able to put up all my awful photoshop gags and stories without all the rip off from Blogger. Free hosting services don't give me the option of image storage, or I'd switch to one of those.

If you decide to kick in a buck or two, though, I can use Paypal to directly send money to the webhosting people - most every business on the internet accepts paypal as a payment, nowadays. If I use Amazon, I have to wait two weeks for them to transfer it to my bank. With Paypal, no money need ever be deposited into my bank account and then taken back out again - it can all go straight to the hosting service through my Paypal account.

I'm putting both up for convenience' sake, though. Shit, it's your money after all, and you're doing ME a favor, so whichever one you choose is really okay by me. If Amazon rocks your world I am sure it will rock mine as well.

Anyway, now that I am thoroughly embarrassed about begging, it's going to have to be goodbye for a while until I can find some way to get another site up. I've deleted all I am willing to, and I don't trust Blogger to try and attempt another post after this one. I don't even know if this one will ever see the light of day. Until then, see you guys around. I'll be working behind the curtains trying to scrape something up, but this is the last post here unless something drastically changes on Blogger's end. And I just don't see that happening, because it's painfully obvious they don't give one pebble of shit about their users.

Thanks to Andrea Harris, Michele Catalano, and Joe McNally for all of their very generous offers, but I want to give this donation deal a try first to keep any of you from going out of your way. I will never forget any of you for offering, though, and I mean that.

You know, I used to think the internet was populated by nothing but scabbed-over dickheads, but after all the nice people I've met via this blog I realize now that it was just me. And Micah Wright.



*EAT SHIT, BLOGGER! I can never say it enough.

EAT SHIT, BLOGGER

I should just make that the title of all my posts, since that's what I'm thinking every time I use it. For some weird reason, on Saturday Blogger decided not to let me make any posts. Then, I finally find out that I have a Error: 450 Disk Full. Whatever the fuck that means, because I'm supposed to have something like 25 megs of space and I know I'm nowhere near that amount. So, I had to delete a couple of pictures from past posts. Google, I liken your buying out Blogger to that episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Barney Fife bought that car from the sweet old lady who claimed she only drove it on Sundays - until the car shit out oil all over him, and he found out the sweet old lady was a conniving cunt.

Anyway, Michele had a contest yesterday, and I made several signs for it earlier using this page. It was a lot of fun, up until I tried to post it to Blogger and the sweet old lady shit out oil all over me. Or something. I hate those Blogger/Blogspot fuckers, I mean that sincerely, and as soon as I can get up the scratch to leave everyone who works for Blogger can cram both fists up their ass.

The results are below, click to enlarge:

UPDATE

Now my Archives are busted.

Transfer Error. 450Disk quota exceeded (300 files; limit: 300). That's a fucking lie. I know for a fact that the sum total of all posts and pictures on this site don't equal 300.

HATE THE BLOGGER! HATE IT!

Well, I sorta-kinda know a multi-millionaire now. Well, I know of him, anyway. Congratulations to your brother and his family, Chuck! I guess once you get hooked up you'll be doing a lot of this and this - and you'll be able to use the crisp, new, real version of this just for kicks. As you're relaxing on that remote island somewhere getting a double blowjob from two native girls while sipping coconut milk out of the shell, take a moment to reflect on your old pals still stooped over from exhaustion at the Parke. You'll never have to squat down beside someone else's pube-plastered toilet again, cursing and sweating it out as you try to loosen a thirty year old rust-and-piss-caked bolt. Good for you. Have all the fun in the world, man.

SURVIVOR: MAMMAZON part five

I'm playing catch-up here. After this one I will have three more recaps to go until I am current. Since it's been quite a while, you may want to play catch-up yourself, and read the following Survivor: Dumbass recaps -

First part here.
Second part here
Third part here.
Fourth part here

NIGHT 18

JABBERJAWS TRIBE:

Everyone feels horrible for stoning Ms. Frizz to death voting Ms. Frizz off the tribe last episode. Magic Goof Ball is just glad that Whizzer no longer has the opportunity to partake in The Genital Square Dance with Frizz, and can now concentrate fully on the game. In a tribal Pow-Wow, Magic Goof Ball lays out a plan to screw over his former male teammates, forming a new alliance which will hopefully cut the throat of his hated nemesis Gung Whoa.

DAY 19

At the beginning of the game, each tribe was given a mysterious locked box. In Jabberjaws 'tree mail' a note is found, with the magic key attached. Quick cuts between both tribes are shown, boxes are unlocked, and the surprise inside each jungle crackerjack box is - a note, and a map.

Both tribes row to an island, where Jeff informs the groups that they are now one. This is THE MERGER. From this point on all the back-stabbing, shit-talking, petty squabbles, and exaggerated power plays will be performed individually. Jeff tosses the group all-new Aunt Jemima Survivor head rags, and a map to their new tribal grounds. They will have to work together to build another shelter, and decide on a name for their merged tribes.

As the tribe arrives at the base point, to their delight a picnic buffet has been spread out for them. Let's see - roasted chicken, hot dogs, potato salad, raw vegetables, Coors^tm beer, all warmed under nature's heat lamp. I'm thinking the perfect name for this merged tribe would be Tribe Dysentaria.

As everyone else crams spoiled meat and soggy vegetables down their grocery chutes, Massah Massengill can no longer abide idly sitting by and not being an asshole. He leaps to his feet and starts assigning everyone tasks. They all stare at him like he's a bad High School Drama Teacher running around and clapping his hands(this hissy fit sponsored by Coors^tm!):

"Places, people, places! You, take that food and ice and bag it up like you FEEL it! You, wrap your raincoat around the beer, and let's see some emotion this time! Listen, Mister, I don't CARE if you're young and beer is more important to you than food! This is MY PLAY and you will play the role you've been assigned! Let's move people move, right NOW! That shelter's not gonna build itself, now is it? Hmmmmmmm? And stop looking at me like you hate me when I know you don't really mean it!"

Power Dyke bristles under Massah Massengill's command, her face settling into the permascowl apparent every time the two of them are in the frame together. She is jealous that Massah's penis might be a shade longer than hers, evidently.

Most of the men hack and chop trees, building the new shelter foundation - while the girls (including Magic Goof Ball) split Palm fronds. Children Of A Lesser Gripes is upset because she had to gather and split fronds instead of helping build the shelter, not making the connection that by doing this she is, in fact, helping build the shelter.

Magic Goof Ball smirks at the camera, saying that the hard-humping he-men building the fort aren't going to be around to enjoy it.

Heidi-Ho, Power Dyke, and Stupormodel call an emergency meeting of THE ARTIFICIAL BOOBIE ALLIANCE (or, The Plastic Titty Illuminati) to debate over who will be the first to fall - Massah Massengill or Gung Whoa. It is decided that Massengill will have every last drop of juice squeezed from him, since he and Powerdyke have been engaged in a Meat Swordfight for tribal control. He is completely unaware of this decision, still retaining complete faith in his former all-male alliance.

NIGHTFALL

The new name of the tribe has been decided, and it's JACKIE JOKERS (not really, but I don't know what the real name means). Earlier in the day Heidi-Ho had painted a new tribal flag which pictured Godzilla eating the name of the tribe. Or something.

Everyone is getting all liquored-up on the remaining beer (this dehydration and hangover sponsored by Coors^tm!). Everyone, that is, except Massah Massengill, who is snoring loud enough to make God climb down off a cloud and tell him to shut the fuck up. It is a sound not unlike that of air escaping from a leaky 'hot water' bottle.

Magic Goof Ball wails to the camera that the girls "aren't drinking enough" so that he might become more sexually appealing to them. I feel ya there, man. Can't even go to an island and escape that shit, can you?

They all play the Nasty Question Game, and the first question is "Where's the strangest place you've ever had sex?" Children Of A Lesser Gripe says the Washington Monument, during a July 4th fireworks display. Gung Who relates a Penthouse Letter he recently read, substituting his own name in the place of 'Dick Pounderson'. Magic Goof Ball tells the omniscient camera of his hatred for Gung Whoa, as well as his jealousy over Whoa's ease around the women. He has no exciting sex stories, and very few boring ones. Heidi-Ho and Stupormodel agree on how easy it is for a man to get two women to sleep with him at once if he just asks (LIARS!!!). Magic Goof Ball tells the camera that his strategy has changed to include a Heid-Ho/Stupormodel sandwich. This guy keeps writing my material for me.

DAY 21

JACKIE JOKERS TRIBE

Massah Massengill is up at daybreak loudly splitting wood with the machete, assuring everyone wakes up pissed off at him. Magic Goof Ball is amazed that Massengill is oblivious to the mass loathing of the tribe. Power Dyke and Magic Goof Ball scheme to keep Massengill unaware, and Power Dyke's natural arrogance begins to creep out as she tells the camera "It's now a battle of the weak versus the strong." She and Stupormodel stand on the shore later and talk shit about Gung Whoa, Weatherbee, and Skeletor as they fish. Power Dyke babbles something into the camera about Eve dragging Adam around, and modestly suggests "the game is mine". She really has testicle issues, and I mean in a big way.

IMMMUNITY CHALLENGE:

Tribe JACKIE JOKERS meats up with Jeff at a boat not too far off shore. He takes the Curious George Tribal Immunity Idol away, replacing it with the Chicken Bones 'N' Grass Individual Immunity Necklace.

This challenge is simple: stand on a 4" by 12" perch over the water without falling off or touching the perch with your hands. Last person standing wins.

Immediately, Massah Massengill's knobby knees buckle, his spindly legs begin to quiver, weakened by all the futile labor earlier that day.

Jeff points to an inserted shot of a lethargic crocodile, and warns everyone to swim fast if they fall or jump in the water, or he'll show that footage again for pretend suspense.

Jeff starts the temptation of the...standers...with plates of food. Stupormodel says she will remove her panties for peanut butter. Heidi-Ho says she'll do the same. I'm thinking they should probably just check their buttcracks - after 21 days on an island with no toilet paper I'm willing to bet there's something between them the pasty consistency of peanut butter. Did I got too far there? Jeff produces Cookies, Coke, and a mound of Peanut Butter on the plate. The girls strip, and we are treated to heavily pixelated headlights and wee-wees.. I don't think there was much to pixelate. At this point, Heidi-Ho's body resembles two shrivelled pimento-stuffed olives glued to an orange Twizzler^tm. The girls jump into the murky water, having happily whored themselves out for a plate of Hydrox^tm and a scoop of Skippy^tm.

Roger jumps in five minutes later, stating that he's had quite enough and feels secure enough in his position to do it. The quaver in his voice, however, belies his boldness with clear and present fatigue. Massengill fairly falls into the water without even waiting for a tempting treat.

At the one hour mark, the next temptation is Pizza. Magic Goof Ball, Mr. Weatherbee, and Whizzer take the NAStea plunge. Jeff asks Power Dyke if she thinks she can hold out. She replies that outlasting Massah Massengill is all that matters. Power Dyke puts the 'cock' in 'cocky'.

At the two hour mark, Buffalo wings are offered. I was unaware there was an Amazonian Hooters^tm franchise. Gung Whoa and Skeletor leap in to suck out bone marrow together.

Children Of A Lesser Gripe and Power Dyke are the only two left. Jeff shows them an enormous mound of spaghetti and meatballs. "My balls are bigger," Power Dyke sneers. She and CLG play rock-paper-scissors to see who will take the dive. CLG loses, and Power Dyke basks in the warmth of overflowing testosterone as the necklace is squeezed over her abnormally swollen mutant she-male head.

The tribe returns, Magic Goof Ball and Whizzer both laughing about Massengill's ignorance in jumping from his perch without even waiting for a scrap of food. Power Dyke proclaims she isn't going to pack for the trip to Tribal Council, and mocks the fellows making the evening campfire. Seek help, Power Dyke. Really. Massah Massengill tells the camera that everything in the male alliance is proceeding according to plan, and that "it's all too good to be true." Stupormodel and Heidi-Ho fawn all over themselves for the cameraman, cackling about being "The Original Survivor Girls Gone Wild", smugly smirking about using their hindquarters to manipulate all the men. If by "Girls Gone Wild" they mean 'Subretarded Sorority Pumps Who Flash Their Implant Scars At The Drop Of A Peter Pan^tm Lid" - then, yeah, good name.

TRIBAL COUNCIL

Jeff asks his usual leading pre-vote questions. Power Dyke is still sore about not being allowed to single-handedly build the shelter. Massah Massengill strokes his facial foliage and smiles a reptilian smile. Jeff offers Power Dyke the usual - she can hand off the Chicken Bone Immunity Necklace to someone else if she wishes to protect them. Like any sane person Power Dyke declines the offer.

The votes are taken, counted, and -

THE TRIBE HAS SPOKEN

Massah Massengill gets that not-so-fresh feeling as he's subtracted from the tribe's crotch and dropped into the little trashcan by the toilet. As he voted, Magic Goof Ball sang a farewell song for Massengill. Power Dyke said "Reality check. And Mate. NEVER underestimate the power of a woman." She really needs to turn that fucking record over already, before the grooves wear smooth.

During his farewell speech, Massah Massengill retained full cluelessness and said "I don't think I got outwitted or outplayed - "

YOU DID.

" - I definitely got outlasted."

YES.

What a day

Y'know, when you have daydreams about performing 'broken lead pipe dentistry' on some cockmaggot at work, and those daydreams fill you with more toasty joy than Christmas morning in front of a crackling fire, you're not too far away from the end.

More later.

---

Maybe I will get around to that Pop Culture Gadabout discussion before comics go the way of hieroglyphics.

Long day at work.

Hey, I did manage to think of another reason Right Wing people would move the truck before I could get to the tailgater:

8. STONERS ARE FUNNY WHEN THEY'RE NOT BEING EXTREMELY ANNOYING. I have stated before that I don't mind if MJ is legalized. Like I said, smoke your lungs black and crusty as far as I'm concerned. Just so long as I don't have to pay one thin dime of my tax money towards it. I still think all the arguments about the 'legitimate' benefits of cannabis are horsepellets, but I don't smoke it so I can't really muster up any further arguments beyond my previous post on the matter. Plus, doing the 'Trees rushing by' and the 'watch this finger' tricks on dopeheads provides me with endless sophomoric amusement.

---

Well, the discussion with the gentleman from Pop Culture Gadabout will have to wait until tomorrow (later today, actually). I became bogged down with work and other distractions.

Let's see: I owe THREE Survivor recaps now. I watched Jackass: The Movie and The Beatles Anthology DVD's a while back, and I want to review those for Blogcritics sometime before they both go out of print. I have a video game review I want to do here, because if I put it on Blogcritics no one in their right mind will want to buy the game. I have to change those polls below which everyone is sick to death of by now. I have to put up a new story if I can ever get off my lazy ass and type it in. I still have to finalize the T-shirt design for the monthly contest I mentioned eons ago. I have to get things ready for THE BIG MOVE to Moveable Type and my own server/domain, which will also be home to The Jitters. I have to answer a couple of nice emails folks have sent me.

I am one procrastinatin' sonofabitch.

You know, when I have absolutely nothing to do around the house and work is slow, I can't ever think of anything to write about. Isn't that always the way?

Until I can get started on all those other projects, I whipped up a quick, ongoing list of

REASONS I WILL PROBABLY NEVER BE INVITED TO THE FANTASTIC RIGHT WING HOEDOWN BLOWOUT

1. I HAVE A GREAT DEAL OF AFFECTION FOR PORNOGRAPHY. I don't know if anyone's told you this yet, but there's about ninety bagillion pictures of naked women on the internet, and most of them can be viewed for the low price of free-fifty. Really, if you're paying for internet porn you're either an idiot, or you have more money than you know what to do with. Which reminds me, I have to get one of those paypal things. That way I can actually watch myself not earn any money for writing, instead of just sending pieces off and never getting a reply. When I'm depressed I go look at free internet pornography, so I like to remain depressed as often as possible.

2. I HAVE NO OPINION ON THE ABORTION ISSUE. NONE. I know that's hard to believe, and there's a lot of 'Harrumph!' ing going on right now, but it's true. I could not care less about the subject. I'm not a woman, and I have never impregnated one, so there you have it. It is an issue which doesn't affect me at all. Would I have an opinion if I did knock someone up? Maybe. I don't know. It's never happened, so I don't care to speculate. In fact, the only thing that I can think of at the moment that I would care less about is televised fishing. So save your emails, seriously. I'm just going to look at them and laugh, then hit the delete key. I won't even bother replying; that's how little I care about the subject.

3. I HAVE NO RELIGIOUS AGENDA. I've been in a church maybe five times since the age of twelve, and none of those had anything to do with being washed in the blood of Christ or whatever the hell it is they do in there that makes me nervous. Do I believe in God? Sure. See, without God there can be no Hell - I look around the internet, read the newspapers, and I know there just HAS to be a Hell for some of these bonehead morons to burn in eternally. That, and the George Burns movie. How can you watch that and not believe in a cuddly octogenarian higher power? I like to think that Gracie Allen is Mrs. God, and that's why we have things like THIS.

4. I AM APATHETIC WHEN IT COMES TO THE VOTING. Here's how slack I am: during the last Presidential election, I drove to the wrong polling station. Instead of driving the five minutes to the correct one, I bought beer at the nearest convenience store and drove home. I didn't even watch election returns. I think I watched cartoons. I can't remember, I was drunk. Yeah, I have certain opinions on certain issues - who doesn't? Everyone's an asshole. That's my personal favorite political opinion, and if I can find a group with that phrase as their platform, I will gladly register as a member and wear one of those goofy styrofoam hats at the convention.

5. I REFUSE TO WEAR ONE OF THOSE GEEKAFIED BOW TIES. That may not be exclusive to Right Wing Hermans. I don't know.

6. I THINK ANN COULTER HAS SOME ISSUES. I'd probably still sleep with her, though. She likes weapons, so I'm thinking there'd be some freaky funking going on in the boudoir. Does that make me a pig? I hope not. I'm so very alone. Question: Is her last name pronounced 'Cool-Ter', or 'Cooter', like the guy from Dukes Of Hazzard? I hope it is the latter, because at least then she'd have something cool and quirky to hang on. "Here comes that ole Ann Cooter again, totin' that over and under shotgun o'hers to shoot us up a mess of squirrel."

7. WHAT IS UP WITH THE BLANDNESS? Grecian Formula is not really intended to be applied like shellac. Fuck's sake, where are all the cool politicians with mohawks and cigarette burns scattered across their shaved scalp? THERE'S a politician who would catch my interest. Teeth knocked out, eyepatch, whisky voice, and I'm punching chads all over the place. I want a President who looks like he (or she) could win a ghetto bar fight against any other leader in the world. That, or just some balls-out nutty fucker who dresses up in period costumes, drinks conspicuously at press conferences, and acts out his (or her) favorite scenes from HBO series during the State Of The Union Address for the benefit of those of us too cheap to pay for the service. I want a President who bursts into Dean Martin songs at random moments and strikes kitchen matches off people's ears to light a cigar. Who calls reporters 'Buster', as in "You'll get the answer to that question when chimpanzees fly out of my scrotum, Buster." I WANT A SHOW GODDAMNIT. Is that too much to ask?

That's all I can think of right now, and it's 2:30 a.m., so I have to go to bed. I'll think of more later, and I will balance it out with some reasons I won't ever be invited to the opposition's whingding, either.