Ok, it happened in April, but I just heard about it now. Miley Cyrus is getting a seven-figure book deal for, get this, an autobiography. Is anyone else’s bullshit detector going off? Because mine SURE THE FUCK IS.

What a fugly bitch.

In case I’m forgetting something, Miley Cyrus is fifteen. An autobiography is a literary work, usually non-fiction, detailing the life of the author. I’ll say it again- Miley Cyrus is FIFTEEN. What the hell is she going to write about? Plus, who says that she’s a phenomenal author worthy of a million plus dollars? If she’s anything like the average fifteen year old girl, her book would go something like this:

“umm lol ok so i caem out of my moms vagina, then my millionare hilbilly father sold my soul to a corporation bended on the corrpution of todays youth, wher i get thousands of $$$s to be in a half-our sekwense of mindless drivel!!! OMG LOL!!!”

Miley Cyrus said in an interview…

“I am so excited to let fans in on how important my relationship with my family is to me…I hope to motivate mothers and daughters to build lifetimes of memories together, and inspire kids around the world to live their dreams.”

Yeah, if the motivation you’re talking about relates to nude photos, an impending crack addiction, and an eventual death by drowning in a toilet. Also, what does she mean by “inspiring kids around the world to live their dreams”? Last I heard, she did nothing to live her dream, she was given handouts, deals for a TV show, records, live concerts, a movie, and now a friggin’ book deal.

Don’t they get it? She’s fifteen. She doesn’t have enough life to encompass a book, unless she were, by some freak occurrence, Marcel Proust.

Hell, I’m sixteen, but I don’t see anybody giving me millions of dollars for a description of my life. I’ll even give it to you for free.

Fall from Grace: The True and Gripping Tale of Maardu Rakvere

I was born into a family of three in rustic Estonia- a land where cruelty was king, and unibrows were regent. My father, Tallinn Rakvere, was a dirt-farming dirt farmer whose skull was as thick as his unibrow. He worked sixteen hours a day every day, just so the villagers could get fresh dirt in the markets every day. My mothers, Ookaboog van der Kleeg and Jane Eyre, worked as a duo of backalley surgeons. Together, my parents could barely make enough money to put dirt on the table. Our country’s economy was diving lower than a suicidal Sperm Whale. To make matters worse, my father was slowly dying of consumption.

At the age of nine, my father was dead, and we would surely starve. It was at that tender age of nine that my mother took my head in her hands, and said in her Estonian accent (which was as thick as her unibrow), “Maardu, there is nothing here for you. Make us proud in America.” My mothers, after sending me off to America, signed on to be the costars of an eight season long TV show about two mismatched, interracial lesbian roommate comedians, who try to live a normal life in NYC. It was called “Love City” and was cancelled before the first commercial break.

I took a job as a rower on a Viking ship, headed for America. I toiled all day and night, moving the oar back and forth until my childish hands were raw and sore. In the middle of the Atlantic, our ship was overtaken by the Dread Pirate Gipetto.

Gipetto had planned to sell our cargo, sandalwood perfume, in the Senegalese black market. He whipped us mercilessly for eighteen straight days and nights, until the entire crew was dead, except for me. Gipetto forced me to tether myself to the ship and dog-paddle the rest of the way to Senegal.

After selling the entire load of cargo, Gipetto was not satisfied. He wanted to sell me. He did, and for the next two weeks, I lived in a slave camp. I befriended an albino black guy named Moktar. We helped each other live through the slave camp by producing and selling shanks. Two weeks later, we were bought by the bad guy from Hostel.

The Hostel guy took us into the heart of Nepal, where he brutally brutalized us. He broke and re-set my bones so that I would permanently walk like a crab. He hooked up Moktar’s balls to a car battery and shocked him until his huevos rancheros fell out of their pouch- just like the Painolympics guy.

As the Hostel guy was about to kill Moktar, I used my pincer to chop off his leg. He bled to death as I freed Moktar and helped him escape. I delivered a one-liner, spat on my captor’s face, and promptly abseiled down a mountain.

At the bottom, Moktar and I found an ancient coven of monks. Not the pussy kinds, the kind that do martial arts. For five years, they trained Moktar and I in the art of Fuckyourshitup-fu. We both excelled in the beautiful, yet deadly art form, and attained the rank of So-black-light-cannot-escape-it Belt.

We left the monastery in order to get back to America. We walked for days and days, until we were at the foot of Mount Everest. We met a fat man who was getting a piggyback to the summit by Hillary Clinton. They agreed to give me their Cessna on one condition- I kill Moktar. There was this really emotional scene that they would definitely use in the movie and the music they play during this part would probably be Adagio in G. Anyway, I shoot Moktar in the face, shed a single tear, and fly to freedom.

The Cessna runs out of fuel, and I am forced to land in Canada. I spend months begging for money, living on the streets, and watching reruns of “Love City” in TV store windows. Wayne Gretzky hired me as his official ice skate licker. He paid me meager amounts of money, and let me sleep in his dirty laundry. This went on for ten months, when I got a rare blood disease that mere mortals cannot pronounce, and was sent away to avoid a lawsuit.

I wound up in Washington, D.C., where I eke out a living by stealing people’s pets and collecting the return reward money.

That was hella more interesting than any Miley Cyrus shit, and it teaches its readers a valuable lesson.

Ok Disney, where’s my million?

Argh! I am so fucking sick of all of the dandy-ass punks sending me all this chain mail shit. I used to not care about it- I’d just ignore it or send it to the trash can. Now things have changed. I have to wade through too much inane drivel in order to get to the important stuff. Now I can rarely find my Web MD customer support responses, or messages from my BPD email group. It’s got to stop.

I swear, if I see one more “Amazing Chalk Art” picture, I will form a cavity in the soft spot of someone’s newborn baby.

Whoop-de-damn-doo. The first time I saw it, I was unimpressed. Maybe if you sent it to me fifty more times, I would start to appreciate the goddamn picture.

In conclusion, the next person who sends me chain email gets a one-way ticket to my spam filter. Yes, even YOU.

Undefeated!

I am proud to say that all of my pages contain cussing of some sort. I had to delete and edit a lot of them, but now I’m at the coup-de-grassi… 100% cuss rate.

Thanks for the link, smoke and mirrors (which is here: fuck)

Since I am unable to get girlfriends based on my looks, money, athletic ability, intelligence, verbal eloquence, musical/artistic talent, hygiene, or sense of humor, I am forced to use pickup lines and innuendo. None of them have worked so far, but there were a few that I felt were close.

1. Me: Knock-knock
2. She: Who’s there?
3. Me: pretty please go out with me.

1. Me: Have you ever read Of Human Bondage by William Somerset Maugham?
2. She: No.
3. Me: Me neither. Let’s date.

1. Me: I’d like to plunge my Microsoft into your Silicon Valley.

1. Me: I love you more than the moon, the stars, and the curiously strong flavor of Altoids.

1. Me: You remind me of Mrs. Pac-man- always eating tiny white balls.

1. Me: Do you ever watch TV late at night, turn the volume down really quiet and pretend that the TV show characters are having a conversation with you?
2. She: That’s incredibly depressing.
3. Me: I know. How about a pity date?

1. Me: You know, in Italy during World War Two, adolescents were encouraged to have children at a young age in order to supply more troops to the Axis Powers war effort. *wink wink*

1. Me: Hey hot girl
2. She: I don’t  want to hear another pickup line. Stay away from me.
3. Me: I guess you don’t care that you dropped your calculator, then.

1. Me: I don’t like sand. It’s gritty and rough and it gets everywhere. Not like you, you’re not like sand.

Of course, there’s always the “threaten suicide right in front of her face unless she goes out with me” move, but I don’t think I’m quite there yet.

There comes a time in everyone’s life when they must choose between their most basic desires and what is prudent for their futures and posterity. Fortunately, I haven’t come across this situation as of yet.

Many of you have commented/emailed me/T.P.’ed my house asking me “DT, where the dick have you been?” and I would like to say something like slaying the Dark Lord Raytheon von Evilsworth, or finding magic cocoons in swimming pools. But no. I’ve been sitting here with my thumbs up my ass, not blogging. Here’s some updates to… keep you up to date on what I’ve been doing for the last two friggin’ months. Most of these are just tidbits of stuff that happened, which weren’t good enough to write a full post on.

• I’ve been getting nosebleeds at least once a day. I’ve narrowed it down to three diagnoses- I’m anemic, I have a brain hemorrhage, or my nasal veins are permanently damaged due to the $50 of blow I snort every day. I’ve got to get that shit cauterized- I tried doing it myself with matches, but all that did was make me lose my sense of taste and smell.
• I found an unused condom on the ground. I filled it with mayonnaise and egg whites (the actual foodstuffs- not euphemisms for man-milk!) and dropped the mess off of the overpass near my house. I missed. It’s not like I need condoms anyway. Birth control is the woman’s responsibility.
• I came up with a new catchphrase- “If you were my girlfriend, I’d punch you right now.”
• I’ve been watching a lot of movies online. I like to hide behind the rationalization that unless I download it, I’m not breaking any laws. Deep down I know I’m still stealing potential profits from innocent people.

So yeah, things are pretty tight for me right now. If you’ll excuse me, I have about 2 months and 50+ comments to catch up on.

(P.S.- what is up with the new wordpress? It’s like blogs and Web 2.0 had a lovechild.)

Some of you may remember that a few years ago, I did a blog series called “From my Li’l Notebook of Thoughts.” It was intended to be a weekly shin-dig, but I discontinued it because I didn’t have nearly as many thoughts as I thought that I thought. What you didn’t know was that I still write in the notebook, and it serves as a portion of my soul, forever binding be to the world unless it and six other objects containing my soul are destroyed. Let’s take a peek, shall we?

•  Yo momma’s so fat, she lost her left foot to type 2 diabetes and will never walk again.
• Yo momma’s so fat, she suffered from a myocardial infarction and had to go under intensive heart bypass surgery in order to save her life, then had to take out a second mortgage on her home and sell her car to pay the subsequent medical bills.
• Yo momma’s so fat, she throws up twice a day and slits her wrists because she can never keep up with the impossible physical standards set by the media.
• Idea: turn empty wall next to the door into a “Wall of Shame.”
• You are more depressing than Sophocles in his emo phase.
• Ah, the 1750’s. When a transatlantic trip took a whole month, hot air balloons were high-tech, and America was England’s bitch.
• The worst part about the truth is that it’s true.
• Guns don’t kill people- video games, goth, and rap music do.
• When I get my first car, it will be white, and I’ll name it “honkey.”
• “I’d like to rock her Cashbah.”
• “I’d like to hustle her Van McCoy.”
• “I’d like to do that chick’s ass what MTV did to music- wreck it.”
• “I’d like to infiltrate her Spheres of Influence.”
• “I’d like to make sexual innuendo about her.”
• With that hat, you’ll be the envy of the mental hospital.
• Greeting card idea: You’re not quite as ugly as Carrot Top.
• What if you wanted to file a bunch of folders? Then what would you do?
• Just think- 50 years from know, today will be history. 100 years from now, our movies will be boring. 1000 years from now, nobody will care.
• Just once I’d like to ask my teacher a question and have her reply “I’d could tell you, but I’d rather SHOW you… in song!”
• Whenever I see a sock with no partner, I put it back in the laundry. Who knows? It might meet someone.
• If Jesus were cheddar, he’d be Cheesus.
• The only difference between a good essay and a bad essay is whether or not I wrote it.
• I shave my entire face. Not just my chin and cheeks, but my forehead, too. I call my eyebrows “eyestaches” and my mustache my “Hairy Sanchez.”
• Why do they bother making the top two rungs on ladders if they’re going to put a warning label that says you’re at risk of falling if you stand on them?
• In 2041, Windows XP will be a 40-Year-Old Version.
• There are some people who do nothing all day but think great thoughts. But I have one thing that they haven’t got- a notebook to write them down in!

That’s all for now, chums. DT Out.

I’m sick of all this video game shit. It has been forever since the Wii came out, and people are still clucking on about it as if it cured cancer.

It’s a friggin video game system. It does not bring grandma back to life. It is a little plastic box in your living room that makes you more likely to smash your TV.

Oh, and you Xbox fans, don’t think you’re so smug with your “superior system OMFGBLAARGH!!!” The Xbox, like your mother, is a steaming pile of feces. However, if there’s one thing I hate more than video games, it’s the people who play them. They’re all uptight fanboy pricks who spend months discussing how much they’re going to jerk off to Brawl.

It’s sad to see how many people waste their lives on this shit. Anybody who says that Bioshock, Guitar Heo, Gears of Warcraft or whatever is a “way of life” can go snort a bowl of smegma. A video game is not a way of life. Living in your parent’s basement is a way of life. More accurately, it’s your way of life.

The Mozilla Foundation (MoFo for short) and I have always had a love-hate relationship. Namely, they hate me, and I love them.

It all started back in the days of yore, when Firefox had been out for about 4 years. Mozillions of people gabbed endlessly about how Firefox was infinitely better than Internet Explorer in every conceivable way. Usually, it is my policy to ignore fanboys (and any cockgobbling, asinine webcomics made by them and their fellow nintentards), but I decided to give it a try anyway.

I find that internet browsers and operating systems are a lot like religions- you tend to be faithful to what you were brought up with. Since I had been using IE exclusively, Firefox was foreign and, in my opinion, inferior to IE. I uninstalled it after two weeks.

About a month or so later, firefox 2.0 came out, and I decided to reinstall it. This time, I kept firefox on my computer for a longer time. I had became more familiar with the tabs system (thanks to IE7), which gave me the incentive to keep it on my computer. The party ended when my computer got more viruses than your mom gets on the average Friday night, and I had to wipe it.

After reinstalling Windows, I again reverted back to IE for a year before getting Firefox for a third time. Unlike my previous two experiences, I found myself to be a savvy user of Firefox. I had add-ons coming out of my GreaseMonkeyed ass. I was getting close to hitting the 10,000 webpages mark on StumbleUpon. 

Sadly, the internet is no fairy tale. One day, Firefox crapped out on me, and refused to open, even in Safe Mode. I uninstalled it yet again, assuming I could simply redownload it through Internet Explorer. This was not the case. When I tried to download Firefox again, Download Wizard refused to open up, my computer won’t extract the saved file, and it pretends that it is corrupt.

I was not content with IE. I was willing to download Ubuntu in order to get Foxxy Browse back. It was the ultimate act of sacrifice- I wouldn’t be able to use any Adobe products, nor could I play computer games. I wouldn’t be able to email any files to people I know, but it would be worth having Firefox.

However, Linus Torvalds had other plans. In the middle of downloading the 300 MB file, the download window stopped for no reason. So here I am with no Firefox, no Ubuntu, and all my MP3’s changed to .ogg format. I guess you can’t cut out your own heart because it bleeds on your dreams.

To prove how ludicrous my school’s agenda is, I’ll be posting a recent essay I had to write for one of my classes. I won’t give too much away, but it involves comparing Jane Eyre to Ramen noodles. It was an easy essay, but the hard part was refraining from making jokes. Kathy- as you are both a fan of Jane Eyre and soup- this one’s for you.

            In my project, I chose to reflect upon Mr. Rochester and Mrs. Reed. For the sake of this exercise, I will focus on Mr. Rochester, as he is definitely more pasta-like than Mrs. Reed. The pasta that he is related to is none other than the world-famous Ramen noodles. In this essay, I will address his physical relations to the noodle, as well as his metaphorical relations to it.

            For starters, Mr. Rochester is probably a white guy. This is convenient, because Ramen, although being from Japan, has a distinctive Caucasian tinge to their noodles. Mr. Rochester is short and has a well-built, athletic body. He is boxy, but thin, which is a prime characteristic of Ramen noodles. He also wears clothes, which I guess would be the packaging of the noodles.

            On a deeper level, Mr. Rochester is like Ramen noodles because he is very hard, cold, and sarcastic. He can stand u for himself, but he breaks easily. If you recall, he falls off his horse and breaks his ankle. Later, after his crazy Creole wife and part-time incendiary, Bertha Mason, sets fire to the house, he loses an eye, his vision, and a hand. How careless. Ramen noodles might burn easily too, but I haven’t reached that part of my science fair project yet. You can enjoy Mr. Rochester on his own, but he is not really complete until you add Jane Eyre- the hot water- to the mix. Finally, some people like to add the optional flavor package, which are the new emotions Jane teaches him. Before you know it, lunch is over and Edward Rochester has metamorphosed from a stale packet of Japanese cuisine to a delicious pile of noodle and compassion. 

I was wrong about the Super Games. The Patriots didn’t win 23 to 7. That’s the last time I put faith in the tenable veracity of made up facts in a movie. No sir. From now on I’m going to solely believe in Pulp Fiction books that tell me that I’m possessed by crazy spirits, who I must pay handsomely in order to free god from his volcano tomb, where he has been imprisoned since the earth was created, a trillion years ago. Now that’s sensible!