tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58678183198154181112024-02-06T20:03:53.354-08:00Angry Step Kid®Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-50069598247423566462012-01-30T11:13:00.000-08:002012-01-30T11:13:21.676-08:00Cyber ICandi..<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXHGMpw-pd4S2NS-m58XV8JJutzLsUMCSe2Rwvhrv2higrfDg2p6s8S_mdTpZfZL2uOewBKaPIZwyK5yX5qZNTML5qYtj0amSDZyyYIFrol-TUiTT4gV1gCvb0RObzwwCeE28MJBucRd8/s1600/icandi+laptop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXHGMpw-pd4S2NS-m58XV8JJutzLsUMCSe2Rwvhrv2higrfDg2p6s8S_mdTpZfZL2uOewBKaPIZwyK5yX5qZNTML5qYtj0amSDZyyYIFrol-TUiTT4gV1gCvb0RObzwwCeE28MJBucRd8/s320/icandi+laptop.jpg" width="320" /></a>I have once again decided to dabble in the decidedly murky world of internet dating. I put up a profile and in twenty-four hours I had over 200 e-mails. I had to remove the feature to e-mail my home e-mail because my inbox was overflowing. Sigh....I am a hot commodity apparently. The burdens of being awesome and sexy.</div><br />
I have already e-mailed, chatted, texted, phoned and met someone within a span of a couple of hours. We met for ten minutes and went our separate ways. THAT is what I am talking about people. Efficient use of one's time is paramount to success. That includes dating. We clicked through e-mail, chat, text and phone. However, when we met it was like eating just iceberg lettuce. If you don't know what I mean by that...you are stupid. Moving on. (See that? Efficient!)<br />
<br />
I have also had some very amusing e-mails that illicited uncontrollable laughter but no response. I literally had someone e-mail me with this gem. "how u doin boo mah god u is so beautiful dnt b a stranger..." Seriously? Really? Wow. That is copied verbatim spelling and all. To be fair, I think he may have been using his phone...but still...<br />
<br />
I am having fun with this. Maybe, too much fun. Oh and in case you didn't notice I decided not to become a lesbian. I am happy being straightish. Maybe, I have some form of ADHD. Omigod look a dead cat! I don't know it is a strong possibility. I do like potato salad. What was I talking about? Oh yeah, ADHD I don't know I think that is a made up thing.<br />
<br />
I have realized that being this awesome has some downfalls. I literally can't keep all these men straight. I have sent texts to the wrong one and accidentally called someone I didn't mean to call. I played it off. I am a pro.<br />
<br />
So currently I am talking to about six different men and just talking. I am not ready to share my candi goodness that way yet. I am just loving the attention and it's intoxicating people. Like fine crack, I mean wine. I may talk slutty, but I am not an actual slut. I just know how to speak it.<br />
<br />
I am sure I will have more thrilling tales you are DYING to read about my "love" life. I know I am fascinating and addicting. It's a curse more than a blessing. You learn to live with it and cope with it like any disability. Those of you cursed with awesomeness and sexy know what I am talking about. The other 90 percent of you seethe with impotent rage and jealousy. I wrote 90 because I was being generous and nice (another wonderful thing about me). It is probably more like 99.9% but everyone must have dreams right?<br />
<br />
Well, I have to get to my day job. Like Superman had Clark Kent to hide his true awesomeness, I have another persona that I put on so I can lead a normal life. You are all wonderful. I am high off my awesomeness. I love you! Kisses!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div>iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-40607399705720287032012-01-15T17:20:00.000-08:002012-01-15T17:40:08.855-08:00Secret Santa Sucks!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMwYUapDfHpUhZWnpBnFAb7pwuVprPKfcQ_jO21CQ7qrxjuhHDmJ7zsWSI5aAB9on7mGcyrhey25QxSb5t7CgmdFT-SDOT644QwI2-Y48JPAbj3u217kfikxYIFTJOHvBmqj0aYdCVtgb/s1600/santa-gives-more-to-rich-kids.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMwYUapDfHpUhZWnpBnFAb7pwuVprPKfcQ_jO21CQ7qrxjuhHDmJ7zsWSI5aAB9on7mGcyrhey25QxSb5t7CgmdFT-SDOT644QwI2-Y48JPAbj3u217kfikxYIFTJOHvBmqj0aYdCVtgb/s320/santa-gives-more-to-rich-kids.gif" width="320" /></a>It was a dark and stormy night. All the chitlins were tucked away. Nestled. Dreams of an honest man's means and a poor man's wages were toiling over the next commercial. I enjoy watching the excitement and anticipation of another yule tide season.<br />
<br />
Every year seems to be more drab and more plastic than the last. Fuckers! They told a fib. I was to understand that the holiday season was to be filled with jolly and love. Not the constant reminder of how broke I am.<br />
<br />
What happened to the secret Santa present that was cool, witty, and reliable? The awesome gift that was 25 dollars or less and didn't make you feel obligated to at least spend $24.43 + tax?<br />
<br />
I'm at a loss. I like to purchase gifts slightly out of the range and act like I got a spectacular deal. Am I alone in this? I imagine so as it seems that most gifts are the direct result of a gift card denomination.<br />
<br />
How were we supposed to know that this was a two part story? One part written while I was sober and shopping, and now some fuck writing while drunk and elusive? I can't complain anymore. Complacent. I still wanna ask the question. Why is it that the more money I bring to the table, the less gifts are placed under the tree?<br />
<br />
Once upon a time I made shit for money. Shit! I made enough to build a "wish sammich". (If you're curious, that's two slabs of moldy bread wishin sumpthin was betweenst insteada just ketchup.) Now that I have made a sumwhat name for myself, the means are great, but not what I figured they'd be at my level of heroism and pimptasticness. <br />
<br />
True, that my taste in liquor has been upgraded slightly. Slightly. I have become a snob if that's how you wanna werd it, jerk. I have dragged myself into the realm of fine fine alcoholic fantasy. So what! It is a passin time in every humans life to try indulge in the finer things that Crom has blessed us with. I have graduated and indulged in the same. Sad but true. <br />
<br />
This holiday season seems to be better than the last. I mean honestly, don't we all feel that we can provide for our loved ones better than last year?<br />
<br />
22 more Ramen packages from Walmart in the cupboard is better right? Let me retort. Most of us can anyway.<br />
<br />
My crackhead slug bottom brethren seem to have more crack then before. They're higher and more numb to my questions. I ask in a mild manner with my same flask full of scotch, "Hey Lucille, How are you doin this holiday season?" I ask this not because I actually care, but because I wanna know what the fuck she'll say. (Turnin 8 dollar blow jobs an whatnot seems to make her family happy during this yule tide season.) Sorry, I had to ask. such as my want, I ask.<br />
<br />
Happy Holidays and Happy 2012 to those of you that keep track of such nonsense. I hope all is well and..<br />
<br />
P.S. Fuck your Christmas Tree! out..Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-17349621317659446162011-11-02T21:04:00.000-07:002011-11-03T10:00:20.246-07:00My Interview With The Ghost Of Dr. Hunter S Thompson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwnALSMFc-EssmgCK7NnLdscnKHU81v7hbJq_5wuVcDMFRS8DzTTWm1mIikljqSvqwQ2KUamFfPGHnYO8OFecnq-ZQNkiPlUifpMb3LEph9FVAxV71aHDKXh3ETQMbFVrAlk9_iX5y0EAS/s1600/hunter+s+thompson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwnALSMFc-EssmgCK7NnLdscnKHU81v7hbJq_5wuVcDMFRS8DzTTWm1mIikljqSvqwQ2KUamFfPGHnYO8OFecnq-ZQNkiPlUifpMb3LEph9FVAxV71aHDKXh3ETQMbFVrAlk9_iX5y0EAS/s320/hunter+s+thompson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Last night I had a talk with the great Dr. Thompson. He returned from the grave to bitch at me about football, Nixon, and the current unavailability of good acid in the afterlife. Ashes dropped from his famous cigarette holder onto my old shag carpet as he waved his arms around wildly while telling me the story of his death. “Oh, but you will find out soon enough, you god damn Mexican, you will find out soon enough.”<br />
<br />
At first it was just regular old man bullshit. We argued about the greatness of the Denver Broncos, the best way to skin a rabbit, and how to get out of a traffic ticket. He thought my idea of being polite to the police was ridiculous and instead advised me to piss all over myself and start giggling wildly. I told him while that may be good for a white man, it would get a brown guy like me shot. He smiled, then we broke out the good whiskey and the talk got deep.<br />
<br />
“Your type of journalism”, he said “will never be popular with the mainstream. You can’t write a god damn straight story to save your life.” He took a deep swig from the bottle of Jim Beam and his eyes became bloodshot with hellfire. “But for fucks sake, don’t listen to me. Lord knows you don’t give two shits what anyone else says. I never did either. Light that god damn reefer up!”<br />
<br />
I pulled a lighter from the front pouch of my black hooded Adidas sweatshirt and inhaled deeply from the resin-darkened glass bowl. The good doctor mumbled something under his breath about the lack of good old fashioned wooden pipes these days and took his turn with the sweet smelling herb. We puffed in silence for a minute. Then he asked me about my plans for the future.<br />
<br />
“I’m not sure,” I responded slowly. “I’m here now I guess. I’ll keep writing, doing my thing. Try my best to follow in your footsteps…” I barely got the last words out of my mouth before he stopped me abruptly. “That’s a load of horse crap if I ever heard one!” he screamed as he slapped me in the back of the head.<br />
<br />
“My generation failed. Our revolution was killed in the early seventies. Stop looking at the past! Your readers are here, now! Wake up man!” He threw another slap my way, but this time I had the good sense to duck back. His chair swung wildly as he barely held his balance. I chuckled a bit as I tipped the old Jim Beam bottle into two more shot glasses and pushed one towards his side of the table.<br />
<br />
“You were right about one thing. You need to keep writing. You’ll most likely fail if you do, but you will definitely fail if you stop now.” He winked. Or at least I think he did. It could have been the effects of the Beam. Do dead people even still feel the burn of good, four year old Kentucky bourbon?<br />
<br />
“Zero, you’re not listening you bastard.” Hearing my name flow from between the lips of my greatest hero made me quiver a little. “Stop comparing yourself and your generation to others. This is the future, man! Ride your own rollercoaster. It is not your topics that make you original, it’s your words. You’re not Gonzo, your something different. Pirate ninja or whatever the hell you are calling yourself nowadays. I came here to get you to stop chasing ghosts. Your whole generation has been chasing ghosts. Jesus Christ man, stop. For your own good.”<br />
<br />
I looked down at the half empty bottle of Beam. His words resonated in my head. I began to think of everything that is going on in this world, all the bad crazy shit, and realized the good doctor was right. Me, hell, all of us, have been chasing a dream that does not exist anymore. We need to create our own dreams. We need to live our own lives. It is time to forget our heroes, our past, and everything that has happened and do something new. Our future is our future; it doesn’t belong to anyone else. It is time to get on with that.<br />
<br />
Just as that thought settled into my head, I looked up and the old coot was gone. All that was left was a diminishing cloud of reefer smoke and the slight smell of stale acid. All of a sudden, I was alone; left to mull over the wise words of our greatest journalist, my one time hero. I now leave you, good reader, to do the very same thing. It is up to you to take with your own conclusions from reading of this encounter. I couldn’t explain it if I triedxxoozerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00616000113344547628noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-53303125128292694432011-10-11T16:35:00.000-07:002011-10-11T19:11:16.472-07:00”Bob Dole”, And Other Funny Things to Say During Sex<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_uloy4CNzvdEofl7xDEszCfrBUCGad-QITkhft1p3_DnTM2Fhx_x2DYpCefVEl4gfYaDZ8hfSYf1WdVvczXh2IV7oc5E18UmEgL2lczU2ATNg5D91krbfQj_tThc7mrzfR8Ehbe27eyD/s1600/bob+dole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_uloy4CNzvdEofl7xDEszCfrBUCGad-QITkhft1p3_DnTM2Fhx_x2DYpCefVEl4gfYaDZ8hfSYf1WdVvczXh2IV7oc5E18UmEgL2lczU2ATNg5D91krbfQj_tThc7mrzfR8Ehbe27eyD/s320/bob+dole.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><b>1. The Bob Dole</b><br />
Before all is said and done, I will make this one famous. All credit for this must go to the man who created it, for now he shall be known only as “Maples”. I described this tactic once before. Wait until the woman is a few seconds away from an orgasm, stop, look her straight in the eye, and say in a low tone “Bob Dole”. This never fails to end a relationship.<br />
<br />
<b>2. The Ninja Scream</b><br />
This is done mid-sex. As soon as things get hot and heavy and the girl is getting into it, start pounding her as hard as you can and scream out “NINJA! IM A NINJA!” Immediately after you say this, jump up and start fake fighting an imaginary foe.<br />
<br />
<b>3. Yo Querro Taco Bell</b><br />
This one is done while you are eating the pussy. Again, you must wait until she is all hot. The trick to this one is getting that first little scream. You must then stop, look at her and wait for her to look back, smile, and say “Yo querro Taco Bell.” You must then continue on like nothing happened.<br />
<br />
<b>4. The “Dwayne Johnson”</b><br />
The great one himself inspired this one. Here is the deal: while in mid stroke, say in a manly voice, “You like this? Want more?” She will start to respond. As soon as she opens up her mouth to say something, cut her off in a loud voice and shout “It doesn’t matter!”<br />
<br />
<b>5. The Primus</b><br />
You can only pull this one off if your name is not Mud. This one differs from the others also in the fact that it is done right after sex. While you are both basking in the goodness that is the few minutes after sex, tell her your name is Mud using your best Primus voice. When she looks at you funny, continue to go through the rest of the lyrics to the song until she gives up and leaves.<br />
<br />
<b>6. Screaming your own name</b><br />
The key to doing this one right is to wait until she says your name. As soon as she does this, say “Yeah, ZERO! Fucking ZERO! YOU ROCK!” Substitute my name for your own.<br />
<br />
<b>7. The “Chas”</b><br />
This can be pulled off at any time during intercourse. You have to be all into it then all of a sudden get an annoyed look on your face and scream out in the direction of the nearest room, “MOM! MEATLOAF!” Go back to fucking her for a second then get an even more annoyed look and scream it again.<br />
<br />
<b>8. The “Jesus”</b><br />
This must be done during the more intimate moments. You know, when she is looking you in the eye with that sweet, chick-like, I-love-you look. Slow things down a bit, stare at her back, and in a girly voice sing “Jesus loves the little children…”<br />
<br />
<b>9. The “Arnold”</b><br />
While “Get to the chopper, NOW!” is the best, any of Arnolds catch phrases may be used. In order to make this funny, you must kind of sound like Arnold when you are doing it. Another good one to use is “So, you cook up a story and toss the six of us in a meat grinder?”xxoozerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00616000113344547628noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-75344542292050831092011-09-22T09:04:00.000-07:002011-09-22T09:04:40.579-07:00iCandi Lezbehonest<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9sFcZ7ScoWXeV9ECoF2xpc8f4Vz7-2cKD1urj7ctX8f2Qup9YpMYiVbq1Vj4_RngETeVBMsC1oxpO_TX7eDW6AqemeOdCFLi_jMBkPC_59OdKnnsI2R_Ml5q8d6XCLELOkhT0LNgrRuk/s1600/icandi+kissing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9sFcZ7ScoWXeV9ECoF2xpc8f4Vz7-2cKD1urj7ctX8f2Qup9YpMYiVbq1Vj4_RngETeVBMsC1oxpO_TX7eDW6AqemeOdCFLi_jMBkPC_59OdKnnsI2R_Ml5q8d6XCLELOkhT0LNgrRuk/s320/icandi+kissing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This is it. I have officially decided to become a lesbian. I already was leaning in that general direction. I have been told by numerous lesbians that it can't be a choice. That it just happens. I want to know why. Why can't I switch teams mid-game?I like both men and women and have tried to play the ahem "straight and narrow' with strictly men. However, that is not working so well for me. </div><br />
I want to try being a lesbian for awhile just to switch things up. Is that so wrong? Women are nice. They smell good (usually) and feel good (most of the time). They are soft and pliant and oh so beautiful (some of them). <br />
<br />
But when I really think about it, I most likely wouldn't have any better luck with women than I would with men. With my luck, I would end up with a prissy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">princessy</span> bitch type. You know, someone who would nag me all the time and throw temper tantrums and call me names in public. Oh and she would probably cheat on me the whole time with a dude. Yeah, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">mebbe</span> being a lesbian isn't such a hot idea. <br />
<br />
I would like to be a card carrying <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">member</span> though. I am going to start going to the gay bars and see how I do. In the past, it seemed as though I was doomed to be a love toy fag hag for gay boys. Not that I ever did, mind you, it just seemed that way. I don't know if I should be flattered that so many gay dudes wanted to bang me. I think it was because I was the closest they were going to get to banging a girl who was more like a guy without actually looking like a guy.<br />
<br />
If I am not making sense, it is because I am highly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">intoxicated</span>. I heart vodka. When all else fails, vodka is there. It soothes the empty void and makes everything else inconsequential. I couldn't afford <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ketel</span> One so I bought <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Skyy</span>.. the sacrifices one makes in this recession. <br />
<br />
So I think I will leave this to a vote. Should <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">iCandi</span> try lesbianism or not? Let me know. I will weight your opinions carefully depending on my level of inebriation. This may be the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Skyy</span> talking but I love you guys. Yep, it's the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Skyy</span> talking. Damn cheap liquor. Peace out my lovelies. Till next time. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">XOXO</span> Gossip Girl....oh fuck... I just went into prime time daydream mode..iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-76362861212039279792011-09-12T11:11:00.000-07:002011-09-12T11:12:00.281-07:00Mirror Mirror Ketel One..<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZiOFO4rR1nfR0RdK6jAO2U3ieNgg0oyQt3aAI_lpHKEbjWQd02uMFSD3tBUnyuqaG1_56qOBSAhhPz1JCDJbTE6UBCyoznpZwD1iDzdj4RiKOcnRMEb5gdA2jL6tJR66FKDKSfklZpBc/s1600/ketel+one+girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZiOFO4rR1nfR0RdK6jAO2U3ieNgg0oyQt3aAI_lpHKEbjWQd02uMFSD3tBUnyuqaG1_56qOBSAhhPz1JCDJbTE6UBCyoznpZwD1iDzdj4RiKOcnRMEb5gdA2jL6tJR66FKDKSfklZpBc/s320/ketel+one+girls.jpg" width="320" /></a>In my previous post, I mentioned that I would do a piece on how to redeem yourself if you are a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">fucktard</span>. Well in order to determine how best to help yourself , you must first ascertain if you are indeed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">fucktarded</span>. </div><br />
There are different levels of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fucktardedness</span>. I am only going to touch on the most common and abundant flavor. The most common are the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">douchebags</span>. How do I know if I am a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">douchebag</span>, you might be wondering. Well, there are telling signs that while obvious to everyone else, may escape you entirely.<br />
<br />
Look in the mirror. Give yourself a once over...actually give yourself a twice over. Do you have either a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">lesbianish</span> Justin <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Bieber</span>/Zach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Efronish</span> side do with carefully applied product to look casually indifferent? Or do you have a teased bump a la <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Snookie</span>? <br />
<br />
Do you have a perfectly orange fake tan stylishly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">emulating</span> an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Oompa</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Loompa</span> in heat? Do you shop at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Ambercrombie</span> and Fitch? Do you tuck only the front part of your shirt in or wear cutoff jean shorts that are so short the pockets show? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Fyi</span>, that last one may also make you a lazy, trashy ho. <br />
<br />
If you have said yes to two or more of the above, you my friend are a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">douchebag</span>. Don't despair these are just physical things that are entirely fixable. However, certain personality attributes that accompany said <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">physicality</span> are harder to fix.<br />
<br />
Don't worry I am here to guide all of my lost little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">sheeple</span>. Admitting you are a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">douchebag</span> is the first step in recovery. Embracing the wisdom of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">iCandi</span> is next. St. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Tropez</span> makes a self tan remover that is amazing. I suggest never self tanning again. Period. Either get your ass out in the sun or stay the fuck white. Nobody gives a shit if you are perfectly tanned. Trust me.<br />
<br />
I could go on and on about the different ways you could tip the scale from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">douchebag</span> to awesome, but I would have to literally write a book. My friends, I am way to much of a procrastinator and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">waaaay</span> to lazy or drunk.. but mostly drunk. At least, I have provided enough adequate guidance to get you on your way. So kisses and licks.. I got a bottle of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Ketel</span> One that is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">eye fucking</span> me.. or is it the other way around?iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-39611405764562319352011-09-06T13:27:00.000-07:002011-09-06T13:27:14.392-07:00The Awesome Standard<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLFcmRjDAukfq354TwrK6oTNrWBDDoCnyycQkBcAYqS1zNe1fX158E9hyphenhyphenFgMtIhKdnXs-Cof2u0BN0IGmC54mrDe0uaxBLaUxzHEMj0NntjUsThwLKOpoZJut4FvyGMeq4EH0tK4ykKaQ/s1600/im+fucking+awesome.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLFcmRjDAukfq354TwrK6oTNrWBDDoCnyycQkBcAYqS1zNe1fX158E9hyphenhyphenFgMtIhKdnXs-Cof2u0BN0IGmC54mrDe0uaxBLaUxzHEMj0NntjUsThwLKOpoZJut4FvyGMeq4EH0tK4ykKaQ/s1600/im+fucking+awesome.gif" /></a></div>I am fucking awesome. Yeah I said it and you better damn well know I believe it. I can't say that I have always known this, but through all the hell, shit and drama I came through. I like me. I think I am pretty, funny, honest, loyal and maybe <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">well</span>.....no maybe.....I am a bitch.</div><br />
How many of you know you are awesome? I mean truly know that. To be fair, some of you probably aren't. You can't help that, but it doesn't mean you can't achieve some level of awesomeness. Most likely you won't attain the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">awesomeness</span> that I have, but some level is surely within your reach. Yeah I sound like an asshole right now, but you know what? I am a fucking awesome asshole.<br />
<br />
Just so you know it is imperative to liberally sprinkle your speech and writing with "fuck" in order to be this awesome. I can honestly say that I am truly happy with who I am. I think that my thirties are going to be my most defining years. It helps that I am almost done with my genetically modified <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">velociraptors</span> that I will use to finally take over the world. Just kidding....<br />
<br />
I am going to take a minute here to be universally caring. Don't blink or you will miss it. I want every single one of you to know how awesome you are. Unless you are completely <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">fucktarded</span> there is a portion of you that is awesome and will always be awesome. Find your inner awesome. Embrace and flaunt that bitch like I flaunt my boobs which by the way are fantastic. <br />
<br />
If someone wants you to change, punch them in the ovaries and walk away. Unless you are the aforementioned <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">fucktard</span>...then you probably should change. For those that think they may be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">fucktards</span>, I will be posting a self-help piece for you dick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">drizzlers</span> later.<br />
<br />
I am back with a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">vengeance</span>. Love me, fear me, try to keep up with me....and it doesn't have to be in that order. This is just the beginning bitches...it won't always be this nice and won't always be this unoffensive. For now, I love all you hookers. Peace out <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">niggas</span>.<br />
<div><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div>iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-4566953826584082011-07-24T00:00:00.000-07:002011-07-24T00:00:32.523-07:00Patty Jewett<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KfwJ68_O_3XIncMxHel_-D_HzwurTmcLQZCUqyMvr8tecAJEt_hpLtG2ncrkl1nr-on8n0vqCgsSAHvNTymcuxiz1-MYlZHK-ZlX3ybmSrlQgObo8FPpUh4xqgGlPC91H0FV0Nat33fC/s1600/patty+jewett+colo+spgs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KfwJ68_O_3XIncMxHel_-D_HzwurTmcLQZCUqyMvr8tecAJEt_hpLtG2ncrkl1nr-on8n0vqCgsSAHvNTymcuxiz1-MYlZHK-ZlX3ybmSrlQgObo8FPpUh4xqgGlPC91H0FV0Nat33fC/s320/patty+jewett+colo+spgs.JPG" width="320" /></a>Promising.. This glimpse of perfection. Highly unattainable, but I figured I'd take a shot. All of my life I have lived beneath my means. I ventured into the abyss due to my lack of intelligence, or maybe it was because I could no longer understand why I was so dim. She, in her lush, candid mist, tainted demeanor, appeared with all of the grace and solitude that would cause a head-on collision, if I were in control of a moving vehicle... Instant erection.<br />
<br />
Generally I feel that I am a man of moderate intelligence. This particular day, this was not the case. She glided across the landscape and I was in complete awe of the scenario. For the first time in eons I was speechless. I had to wonder why this feeling was felt. I, a normally confident man was instantly transported back to 7th grade. She made me erect and I could only think of my protruding boner and a possible smelly finger circumstance.<br />
<br />
First, I wanted nothing more than to dismiss this fate. Second, I questioned my sobriety, but no. I had nothing to drink or smoke. Nothing to ingest other than the ambiance of the scenario. This my friends was/is a first. Calming my nerve, I had to blame the almighty.<br />
<br />
Why would Crom send something so incredible into my view? What a fucker. If asked, I would suggest that maybe the earths gravitational pull was offset. Maybe it was time. Time to venture into the next chapter, rather than constantly replay all of the scripts that have previously been viewed and spoken. Fuck it. I'm just rambling about the inconsistency's that have been pre-told in my nocturnal slumber.<br />
<br />
I ask a lot of my dreams. I ask for solace. I ask for a simple explanation of my deranged emotions. Like you, I have questioned numerous sources and have still come up empty handed and confused. Why?<br />
<br />
My own struggles and interest are only magnified by my own will to ask. Silly? Yes! Confusing? Yes! Yet as you the reader follow along with my insanity you wonder also, where the fiznuck this is going??<br />
<br />
Well my friends and comrades.. This is actually a question about being on a par 3. Ya see... I feel that every time I step up to a par three on any golf course, it is a chance at a hole in one. It. Will. Happen. Prolly not tomorro. Prolly not next week. Soon.. Either way, it was... Home.Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-31684024330936392582011-07-13T22:10:00.000-07:002011-07-13T22:10:04.874-07:00Faith, Lyrics, & The Stepkid<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIeJDzS303OnDTv9xAAvUCEL9uVt3MxarfYK871E_v2crkfTMQhMsMayydL1X84UC-5SMgfkEacDUPlvbU2lr7Kh0SKsW_QCzo-5OcvPZK189uw3wLaIlFHKB6l7fMx4Mu1sM4ddLDnIX/s1600/vader+lack+of+faith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIeJDzS303OnDTv9xAAvUCEL9uVt3MxarfYK871E_v2crkfTMQhMsMayydL1X84UC-5SMgfkEacDUPlvbU2lr7Kh0SKsW_QCzo-5OcvPZK189uw3wLaIlFHKB6l7fMx4Mu1sM4ddLDnIX/s320/vader+lack+of+faith.jpg" width="251" /></a><b>"The universe is shaped exactly like the earth, if you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were.." </b>I got a premonition that our lives may be some circular phenomena. This possibly is a drunken notion that creates a disturbance in the force. I may just be shitfaced and rambling, but follow me. Funny is the abnormal situation that song lyrics dictate our daily motion. Go figure. When I am at my best, I honestly have lived my life like a long song. I have always been fascinated by my own thought process and the feelings involved when listening to certain music. Like you, I listen to different types of music when I'm feeling certain ways. I'm gonna make a stellar movie one day. You'll see.<br />
<br />
I have a badass friend named Adam. He constantly keeps my intellectual penis erect. Ya see, Adam has found that guy he's been looking for (<b>Jesus</b>) and is 100% ready to submit his will to Him. I have another friend who also has surrendered to His will. Her name is Laura.. Although I am at constant odds with their ideals, I must respect that they both seem to know what is going to transpire because they have faith in something that can not be touched. <br />
<br />
<b>"I got a notion to say what doesn't feel right. Got an answer in your story today."</b> When told anytime in my life that I was 'supposed' to do anything, I always question the motive behind it. I know, probably a fucked up thing to do since we are 'supposed' to all be sheep and all 'supposed' to listen to what is good for us. Fuck that. I question. I have to. I know the fuckin oven is hot. I know that if I touch it, I'll most likely get burned. I have been burned a lot. Will I touch it again? Yes. Not because I'm an idiot but because I question my own stability and my own free will to do what the fuck I choose. I know this post is WAY off track when it comes to the norm. That may be the reason I share it with you.<br />
<br />
My friends that I speak of are both awesome in their own right. One has literally dropped all of their earthly belongings and backpacked across Europe with no direction. The other has hopscotched thru more drama then I have ever witnessed and came out the other side stronger and full of more resolve than anyone else I've ever known. Is it possible that Jesus had sumpthin to do with it? They would both say "Fuck Yes!" (<i>They both still cuss</i>) Me, your fearless leader, still would have to blame luck. I know, pretty shitty but again I have to question if the oven is hot. <br />
<br />
<b>"If I don't say this now I will surely break. As I'm leaving the one I want to take. Forgive the urgency but hurry up and wait. My heart has started to separate." </b>I generally understand that I need to have faith in something. It's human nature for fuck sakes. Whether it be family or my shitty football team, we as humans have faith in something. I get it. At the present time, I have hope. Hope that if there is a heaven, many of you like Adam & Laura will get there. Hope that my family and friends will grow old and so will their offspring. Hope that the werld will keep on spinning after 12-12-12. Hope that one day I will be a fat old perverted geezer sippin scotch with the most divine of golf swings. Possibly unrealistic, but I hope. <b></b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
I guess I could hope for Casey Anthony to be released from jail and instantly get struck by lightning, but then I'd have to admit that maybe there is a sumpthin upstairs and He does judge.. So Casey.. If you happen to look up and then BAM! ZAP! KAPOWEE! your dead, then.. I'll look up to the sky as well and start askin a shit ton more questions to Him too.. Out. <br />
<b><br />
</b>Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-23080561592382941252011-06-14T09:20:00.000-07:002011-06-14T18:45:01.826-07:00Hell Hath No Fury..<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; CLEAR: both" class="separator"><a style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; FLOAT: right; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em; CLEAR: right" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MXZTkAUe1xv9v9mIajPB89v3R7l93ubl5QnVTV8VWTrRuo0yYWmTG4umwoIUuQX1CtvWwo4N8wnHbB8JailwBuL0u99iqof2AygvBNS03CC2z9LR-1ELilJzR9DJXr9IV3KIVuQfDbRg/s1600/hell+hath+no+fury.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MXZTkAUe1xv9v9mIajPB89v3R7l93ubl5QnVTV8VWTrRuo0yYWmTG4umwoIUuQX1CtvWwo4N8wnHbB8JailwBuL0u99iqof2AygvBNS03CC2z9LR-1ELilJzR9DJXr9IV3KIVuQfDbRg/s320/hell+hath+no+fury.jpg" width="320" height="248" /></a></div>I am in absolute hell. Hell is not a fiery inferno with screams of dispair and demons jabbing your nether parts with light up pitchforks. Hell is not monks chanting ominously while you are chained with barbed wire and tortured for all eternity. No my friends, hell is living with someone who hates your guts. It is cold and oppressive silences. Hateful glares that cut like knives. Cruel and vicious comments made in "jest".<br /><br />He hates me. He told me that I am unattractive and that he could not fucking stand me. Wow. Welcome back asshole. You have been in the country less then 24 hours and I am to blame for everything. Gee. Awesome. Well, needless to say I am in the process of packing my bags. No amount of money or free living arrangements is worth being made to feel like shit.<br /><br />However, the hell is that I have to stay here for another two months. That's like twenty in break-up years. I am really stretching for the humor in all this. You may want to sit down for this next part, but I am actually not saying much and trying to be as unobtrusive and unnoticeable as possible. Which is rather difficult when you sleep in the same bed.<br /><br />He does not call me names and does not hit me. Been there, done that and have the divorce papers to prove it. What is most baffling is that he gets pissed when I point out that the constant diatribe of my sins and faults is abuse. His response? I am just being honest, that isn't abusive. He also went on to state that he didn't think that what he is saying is that mean. Well, compared to the normal sewage that spews out of the cesspool that passes for your mouth...no it's not.<br /><br />It is getting increasingly harder to be quiet and just go about my business. But I am tough. I am strong. I am resilient. I am ICANDI. Sorry had to do that. So if you are reading this and hear a story about how some girl tripped and fell on top of a douchebag assmunch with a knife and accidentally stabbed him nineteen times in the chest...it may or may not be me. Peace out.iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-33879898529454063812011-06-06T22:33:00.000-07:002011-06-06T22:33:25.068-07:00Stripping for Columbine..<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwIRsGaQq3qRaL2agqmcfOPgz0j_d1ofGnEr8dvZnkdrJ89g3AVVFczDoO01o6LzRW_1Tne3Jcdxcsa2QIeRCiaRHtbjA5PKOuorhGInkJmCgRS9ihawtDW-Z1K6OtqWvalC91eQxDhqZ-/s1600/klebold+and+harris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwIRsGaQq3qRaL2agqmcfOPgz0j_d1ofGnEr8dvZnkdrJ89g3AVVFczDoO01o6LzRW_1Tne3Jcdxcsa2QIeRCiaRHtbjA5PKOuorhGInkJmCgRS9ihawtDW-Z1K6OtqWvalC91eQxDhqZ-/s320/klebold+and+harris.jpg" width="320" /></a>Electric velvet. Bitch felt soft. She was a classy broad. She glided across the floor as if weightless. He was a shitfaced mess. A mere victim in the eyes of this professional. Once their eyes met he was done for. There was no use in trying to persuade my inebriated colleague. He wanted her. He said so. Not so eloquently as I've stated it mind you. It was more like this --><i> "Did you see her badunk? Man, I wonder if her meat curtains are the same color? If so, maybe I can con her into playing 'just the tip'.." </i><br />
<br />
It was an odd day to begin with. After hungoverly driving to pick up my esteemed partner in crime, we drove up Power road on our way to catch a Minor League Baseball double header. As we approached Astrozon Blvd., we noticed a crotch rocket laying on its side. About 200yds further we seen the helmeted figure laying limp on the side of the road. "That fuckers dead." Jesse says. I still to this day have not been able to retract the image from my memory. I often wonder if he/she was in fact dead. I also think that I should have called someone. The thing about being stoic and gankster is that under no circumstance should you EVER call the police. I know that many of you may trust the cops. Where I grew up, you just don't. Ever. <br />
<br />
She said her name was Pandora. <b><-- (Proceed with caution)</b> We both knew that it was a stage name and for whatever reason paid it no mind. <b>*sidenote* I am a shitty wingman.</b> While I was politely turning down the wanton strippers for lap dances, my dear friend was being hornswaggled. On the norm, I would happily help the maiden swindle my friend out of his money while she dry humped his leg. Yes, sometimes guys are dicks and like to watch their whiskey drunk comrades fumble the ball and lose their cool. Anyway, Pandora was wearing his prized Yankees World Series hat and grinding her hatchet wound all over the leg of his lightly starched and pressed Dickies. He was a goner. I seen it.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>"The only thing cooler than a guy who gets a lot of chicks, is a guy who scares a lot of chicks."</i> After seeing a dead biker on the side of the road, it figured to be a peculiar day. We arrive at the ball park and all anyone would talk about was the the massacre that was happening just up the road in Littleton. Evidently two boys in trench coats were shooting and killing all of their classmates and faculty at their school. We were both mesmerized by the brutality being unleashed by high school kids. Although enjoying the ambiance of a baseball game, I couldn't shake the thought of what had already transpired on this day.<br />
<br />
She sat down next to him and began to chat. Small talk mostly. I kept bringing up rancid conversation and trying my best to make her understand that although he dressed like a baller, he maybe had 30 bucks in his wallet and I'd be damned if he was gonna spend it on pleasures of the flesh. I asked him if his leg smelt fishy. I asked him if he thought she REALLY liked him. I made it awkward as fuck. Personally, I don't pay for flesh. I know, I'm a frickin jerkwad. Sue me. I don't like the idea of tossin away my loot for some tits. If it's your money and you want me to throw it at strippers, than give it to me and I'll serve them up like a champ. My cheddar though? Negative ghost rider.<br />
<br />
As the 2nd game came to a close, we plotted our next destination. We went home, changed clothes, and then headed out to see a live band. The band we seen was pretty good. They weren't very well known at the time and nowadays you'd definitely pay more than 4 bucks to see them. <b>(I'd name the band, but I'm not a name dropping assclown.)</b> All was right in the werld. 2 dollar pitchers of PBR and live music. After about 6 pitchers, our horn dawg friend Chris called. <i>(imagine The "O" face guy from Office Space. That's Chris.)</i> He wanted to hit up the Jiggly room. Jesse being all smug and drunk, and me willing to let someone else play DUI roulette happily obliged..<br />
<br />
Cool as a polar bears toenails we drifted into the smoke filled abyss. We sat and the game began..Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-30529859840707043412011-06-05T10:21:00.000-07:002011-06-05T10:21:00.271-07:00Sisterly Roots<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilifq3aoEyVtrrtT9OSStckhSX07WNGYvR61pcFFRatQGAFumYhEJtQQ2EeBtHvGrTeZix0G94b1dF092sek2-jGvOD_L_8qcwVBGm6UcWMSAPpcFwUqzb-N-RCHiE2yqEsXGHIIsrkRP1/s1600/Bad+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilifq3aoEyVtrrtT9OSStckhSX07WNGYvR61pcFFRatQGAFumYhEJtQQ2EeBtHvGrTeZix0G94b1dF092sek2-jGvOD_L_8qcwVBGm6UcWMSAPpcFwUqzb-N-RCHiE2yqEsXGHIIsrkRP1/s320/Bad+Tree.jpg" width="320" /></a>The other day I was getting some food to get my grub on. It was during my lunch break at work. I work in a bad side of town. So of course I am perfectly at home. Not all my co-workers share my indifference to the fights and car jacking that take place on a weekly basis. However, they are not completely apathetic like me and also they don't carry.<br />
<br />
Anyways, I was waiting for the folks at the drive through to take their interminably long time in preparing my food. With the length of time I was waiting, I can only assume that they were preparing my food as fresh as possible. Harvesting the vegetables, slaughtering the cow, etc. Again, I digress.<br />
<br />
While I was waiting, I observed a lady stumbling around aimlessly in the parking lot. I wasn't really paying attention. Well at least not until she started having a very animated conversation with a tree. I couldn't hear what she was saying. But from what I observed the tree was not being very nice. She was getting more and more agitated till finally she had enough.<br />
<br />
She started walking away. However, apparently the tree called her back because she turned around like it called out to her. She went back to the tree. Apparently the tree became even more abusive, because she started crying. Finally she walked away wiping her eyes. Bless her heart.<br />
<br />
Being a kind hearted and caring person, I rolled down my window and yelled out my window at her. I said, "Girl don't let that tree treat you like that! There are plenty of other trees out there. You deserve a better tree!" Then I drove away.<br />
<br />
I felt for her ya know? It's all about sisterhood. But being the foolish women that we are we will take abuse from something we think cares about us. There were two perfectly good trees on either side of her. They were quiet and not saying anything. However, she kept going back to the tree that was obviously no good for her.<br />
<br />
That is why I felt it was my duty as a woman to let her know that I felt her pain. That tree did not appreciate what he had in front of him. But what do you expect from an ash. Sorry bad puns...couldn't resist. Well hopefully, she took my words to heart. So to the sister with the tree problem.. Be strong.iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-9371848260780747032011-06-02T09:58:00.000-07:002011-06-02T10:14:02.838-07:00Nighty Night Soldier..<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxpc1CYMFYxS9dVX7Cdm7JCsQpm94tCQWw5qAdc34MVsjYv6LkH8RfQbQi52oImFpqW8y9HtGt7j4P-YGM8e7NG03Lm8ktzfdTYRwpEBaHel9xAedVi_wDJYxHy3kV0FfoogZssuTNsKM/s1600/sleeping+soldier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxpc1CYMFYxS9dVX7Cdm7JCsQpm94tCQWw5qAdc34MVsjYv6LkH8RfQbQi52oImFpqW8y9HtGt7j4P-YGM8e7NG03Lm8ktzfdTYRwpEBaHel9xAedVi_wDJYxHy3kV0FfoogZssuTNsKM/s320/sleeping+soldier.jpg" width="320" /></a>So I am back and I remembered why I did what I did. I almost wish that I wasn't so clever and had to stay on the lam a little while longer. I so didn't need to come right back into the same old drama. Do you remember the movie 'Groundhog Day'? Oh yea. That is what it is like with my old man aka Douchebag. DB for short. </div><br />
He is completely predictable in his penchant for assholishness. I will ask a question knowing full well what the answer will be and that it will be a lie. Why oh why am I with this person. Oh yeah. He pays for my shit. I was told that older men are better, because they are more mature. What so they act like 18 year olds instead of 15 year olds? Tell me how that is better.<br />
<br />
He is coming back from deployment. Ugh. I mean HOORAY! Anyday now. I am simply thrilled. If by thrilled, you mean crying and throwing temper tantrums. I think that the military needs to disperse his orders based on my moods. So next set of orders please.<br />
<br />
He recently changed his fb status to say that he is in a relationship....with someone else. Meanwhile, back at the batcave aka home..iCandi sits patiently and faithfully waiting....hahahahaahahah! I couldn't even keep a straight face TYPING that. But seriously, RESPECT dood!<br />
<br />
All our mutual friends and the majority of our family members know we are in a pseudo relationship that has carried on well over a year. I live in your house and you pay all the bills. Then you have the gall to tell me it is a joke, but haven't really called me or texted me in like two weeks. Really? Don't be a effing cumstain. This is NOT my first rodeo and you won't be the first clown that falls into the bullshit.<br />
<br />
I have given you every opportunity to have your cake and eat it too without having to do it in the dark. All I have asked is that you allow me the same privileges. Don't be greedy and stingy. I also don't understand why you have to lie when you know that I know better. <br />
<br />
Moral of this story is stand up, take it like a man and be honest. Remember you ALWAYS fall asleep first..and you have sleep apnea...just saying.iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-24756811909049773862011-05-13T23:36:00.000-07:002011-05-13T23:45:11.415-07:00Stepkid Travel Guide<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxzLwbuk985tKwUGK5Gqtk9hto2mfFB3TtcYFMz0W6QLBGU1Rj4zQi97epNj4QcGUd17-0DtfVx8IIsS5aLK5-LgBz7VlNzYIep6pDJrM9JqsGQwXIDXhV1dlyPN7DTtnA3QCLf6BX8yp/s1600/Flo+Mels+Diner.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxzLwbuk985tKwUGK5Gqtk9hto2mfFB3TtcYFMz0W6QLBGU1Rj4zQi97epNj4QcGUd17-0DtfVx8IIsS5aLK5-LgBz7VlNzYIep6pDJrM9JqsGQwXIDXhV1dlyPN7DTtnA3QCLf6BX8yp/s320/Flo+Mels+Diner.jpeg" width="239" /></a>As many of you know, I am an international phenomenon. I travel for werk, play ,and generally have single serving friends. Single serving friends are people you get acquainted with while traveling. You may meet them on the red-eye from LAX to Dulles or D.I.A. to O'hare. I may have met you on such a flight. I may have discussed how my profession is one that warrants a certain.. <b>fakeassmuthafuckinbehaviorthatihatetodobutimustinorderfor therenottobeadisturbanceintheforce. </b><br />
<br />
You see ladies and germs, I have mastered the art of communication. All. Of. It. I understand the ins and outs of negotiating and service with a smile. I get it. There are numerous facets to society as a whole, and a feeling out process that needs to be addressed when speaking with people. (<i>over the phone or in person</i>) No need to fret because the same rules apply. I understand this and can pretty much please anyone that is put in front of me. It is a gift. I know this. My tongue and cheek ease and my cheesy approach to it may seem assholish at times but you get the idea.. <br />
<br />
Back to the beginning.. I travel. I check into swank hotels, I fly business class, I rent cars too big for just me, and I make time for small talk. I consider myself a professional at this. I am polite, courteous, swift, and rarely<br />
have any complaints anywhere I go. I know what you are thinking.. Where the fiznuck am I going with this post? You shall soon see.. I am here to school you in fucktard activity that many of you may partake in while traveling so that you too can be as fucktastically awesome as I.<br />
<br />
Here's some ground rules for you so that you won't get your food spit on and you may even get free upgrades along the way..<br />
<br />
<b>1.)</b> DO NOT piss off the minimum wage service workers you encounter. This may be a waitress, front desk agent, airline clerk, concierge, or even a lowly bellman. In order to forge a fair relationship with these people, you need to just be cool. Be yourself. It's easy and should make your voyage pleasant. (<i>sidenote: If you're an assclown and don't care for my advice, just skip ALL of this post and donkey punch yourself. You fail.</i>)<br />
<br />
<b>2.) </b>When speaking to people, be honest in your requests and NOT demeaning. If they sense that you feel you are "better" than they are, they could give twofucks less that you need adjoining rooms or need a window seat. Remember, their business will still strive without your graces. You ain't gonna make or break them. If you think that your negative comment on their comment card gets to the manager, think again. It gets ripped up, tossed, and forgotten. Shitting on people to their face only makes you look like a dick and only makes them want to fuck you over harder. In private, they tell other co-workers about your dickish ways and laugh at you behind your back. Sorry, they do. <br />
<br />
<b>3.)</b> Don't be a drama whore! DO NOT think that they are at your beckon call and they HAVE to please your every whim because "that's their job". Starting shit with people who are werking minimum wage doesn't solve anything. It only sets you up for failure the next time you have to be in front of them. THEY. WILL. REMEMBER. YOU. In fact, I'm pretty sure that before you became the successful summabitch that you are now, you werked a shitty job. You recall that asshole that tried his/her hardest to ruin your day. Remember? I do too.. So do they.<br />
<br />
<b>4.)</b> Don't assume that you are smarter or more educated. Werd. I almost wanna repeat this. In our day and age, many people are werking WAY below their education level and or intelligence. Talking down to a person or using your 3rd grade teacher tone only creates an environment that neither party wants to be a part of. You're not the smartest person in the werld. They might not be either, but why take a chance when all you want is good service. (ex. <i>How hard is it to operate a register and take my order?</i>) This not only is going to get YOU a loogy filled taco but it will also put you on the "I hate that fucker list" which nobody in their right mind wants to be on. Once you're on that list, I hope you enjoy always paying full price and driving a Geo Metro every time you rent a car.<br />
<br />
<b>5.) </b>This is a no-brainer. BRING YOUR OWN SHIT! I know there are times when you will forget your toothbrush, your own shampoo, your cellphone charger.. etc.. It happens. We are forgetful fucks roaming this earth. Just know that if you are the cock goblin who calls them every 5 mins for dumbshit, they get tired of you. Yes they are supposed to provide service with a smile, they are supposed to provide amenities for you and your isms. I understand. I also understand that if I bring my own shit, I don't gotta bother anyone during their shift. Only in extreme cases do I request anything above and beyond. My mother once told me, as a man traveling, I should always bring my own pillow and always try to just have a carry-on bag. Genius she is..<br />
<br />
I know that there are out of the ordinary circumstances where you have been treated poorly by the help. I know that there are times when they just didn't get shit right. I know this. I'm sure I travel a helluva lot more than many of you. I know I do. I crisscross this country of ours weekly. I see and observe and stalk you all the time. I actually wrote this because of the way I've seen you treat people. I know them. I'm more prone to be on their side. Next time you're acting all dickfaced and arrogant, just know that your BLT or Latte may be flavored with jizz or crotch sweat. Think it can't happen to you? Then it <b>definitely </b>already has.. Just sayin..Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-54176400657579471112011-05-06T11:08:00.000-07:002011-05-06T11:08:41.201-07:00Costa Rican Alopecia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNRWngaXL-ssFO0-ddJQ7qgdAQ22Rj_qmPrI7IvvMkh0Vg035ojmsMaaM17Q7i3uL4mdtSfklZzEJZqhnYPu3MJr3ObFnFtUeCaJQLkgF2h_DnRGXc2G2E2aU9ILjSjy90RCV4YwwoUaY/s1600/icandi+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNRWngaXL-ssFO0-ddJQ7qgdAQ22Rj_qmPrI7IvvMkh0Vg035ojmsMaaM17Q7i3uL4mdtSfklZzEJZqhnYPu3MJr3ObFnFtUeCaJQLkgF2h_DnRGXc2G2E2aU9ILjSjy90RCV4YwwoUaY/s320/icandi+beach.jpg" width="320" /></a>Hola putas. Still on the lam....however I think all my cleverly thought out and brilliant plans are coming to fruition. If the final piece falls into place, you will hear from me on a more regular basis.<br />
<br />
With that in mind, land in Costa Rica is awesomely cheap....I plan on continuing my ultimate plans for world domination by building a Zombie Jurassic Park. What's scarier than renegade dinosaurs? Renegade zombie dinosaurs under my control.<br />
<br />
But I digress...have you ever had someone in your life that at one point you would have done anything to be with? Like even the "M" word? Not masturbate, silly rabbits. Marriage. <b>THE BIG M.</b> I am talking about the one person you thought could maybe, possibly be a soul mate. Then you think you lose your chance and then when you least expect it you get that one last free spin.<br />
<br />
That happened to me very recently. So cliff notes back story. Met a guy when I was barely a teenager. Thought nothing of it. He wrote me for four to five years and I was positive in my naive adolescence that he was always going to be the one. Lost contact with him for years and boom there he is out of the blue.<br />
<br />
He confessed that I was always the one. That I was the one that got away. That he always thought I was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. How he could not believe how it was even possible that I had become more beautiful. To this I was like inoright? Just kidding....but not really. Anyways it was everything I had wanted him to say when I was young, naive, blissfully ignorant and just plain dumb.<br />
<br />
He was all about me. Oh I enjoyed every minute of it. Ok that was a lie. I enjoyed the presents and the money. I have to say that I never really did anything for him. Maybe except for give him some sex talk on the phone and send him pics. Not those kind of pics. I am not stupid. I ate up all the most beautiful girl in the world crap. Just because that is what I wanted to hear at that particular moment in time.<br />
<br />
He then decided that it was high time I had pics of him. <b>Motherofsweetbabyjesuswhatthefuckhappened</b>?!?! When we were teens, he was that sexy jock with the awesome hair. All that hair fell down to his shoulders, neck, chest, back....you get the pic. He was going bald in the most distressing of ways. I like to call it the Charlie Brown vs. Homer Simpson. It's where the guy gets a severe receding hair line (<i>Homer Simpson</i>) except for a little swirly patch smack in the middle right up front (<i>Charlie Brown</i>). AND his hair is almost black. So very noticeable. Combine that with looking ten to fifteen years older than your given age, plus fifty pounds. Ded sehxay.<br />
<br />
When he was a teenager he was damn fine. <i><b>DAMN. FINE</b>.</i> However, time was not his friend. Hell, time wasn't even a casual fuck buddy. Time just plain did not fucking like him. Now at the risk of sounding completely narcissist and conceited, time has been good to me. Good genes, expensive products, good surgeons and a sweet sweet sugar daddy(s) will do that for ya.<br />
<br />
For now all I am going to say is I put the brakes on so hard, my unborn children are suing me for whiplash. I have to run again. Hopefully our time apart will be shorter. I know you miss me. I miss me too.iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-51612667661530036432011-05-03T22:19:00.000-07:002011-05-03T22:19:15.860-07:00Open letter to Meg White.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUIVTLokPd3qG-qIcuj8hyphenhyphengEsMBsL2cvOGwnZPoISNoKQrT0YrxI9Fx9gOKmNZDKpPijBG2gaQxAZMzmQYpNUd1oYD5yGXXdyVdZ6s4MyeckU1gcyoh1lmaxfpKN2FJ3cCSIy8dyp3U5l/s1600/meg+white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUIVTLokPd3qG-qIcuj8hyphenhyphengEsMBsL2cvOGwnZPoISNoKQrT0YrxI9Fx9gOKmNZDKpPijBG2gaQxAZMzmQYpNUd1oYD5yGXXdyVdZ6s4MyeckU1gcyoh1lmaxfpKN2FJ3cCSIy8dyp3U5l/s320/meg+white.jpg" width="260" /></a>Dearest Meg:<br />
<br />
As you know, I have been following your fantastic career for some time now. I know that you are very shy and would never publicly announce your admiration or love for me. I understand. I can be quite intimidating and quirky at times and I wish you only happiness. Jack is a dick. You've always stood by and watched while he tramped his narrow ass around from groupie to groupie.. Stoic trooper you are.<br />
<br />
After all of the wanton emails and text messages you forgot to answer, I figured something was wrong. I saw you at Laramie Falls and you seemed shocked to see me instead of the normal salute to me with your middle finger. (<i>That's SOO us by the way.</i>) I like how we have our own language and gestures that no one else gets. We've always meshed well. I was kinda concerned at all the body guards you keep around you as of late? It's nice to feel safe Meg, but you know you can always count on me if you need protection. <b>I. Will. Kill. For. You.</b> just kidding.. kinda..<br />
<br />
Oh hey! I just remembered, did you receive the snuggie with my face on it? I sent it about 2 weeks ago. It should keep you warm the remainder of the spring. I'm always thinkin bout your well being. Like the time I slept outside of the Beverly Hilton in my car to make sure you were safe from paparazzi. I wanna cut your skin off and wear it to my birthday party. It's next month. I sent you an invite. (<i>It's the only one I sent, just so you know</i>) I want us to have some "us" time. You'll like that right?<br />
<br />
I'm gonna let you off the hook (<i>metaphorically</i>) for now and finish this letter open ended. I hope that you write back soon and I can't wait to hear from you.<br />
<br />
P.S. Did you have an incident with identity theft or something? Your phone number is out of service and I keep getting "message failed" notices when I email you. Hmmm. weird. Okey dokey Meg, ttyl<br />
<br />
~Stepkid Richard~Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-5372191707979412162011-04-21T23:45:00.000-07:002011-04-21T23:45:12.084-07:00Como? No Habla Internet Servicio..<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_5oDbY7-wM_TClFikT3Jh1GUIXO_hJRkiQ76ifMbAa0gSh5OoG5Irbs3yCb4tnlHAzSmL5uinMI1lnZXGABtDLiWx0Rh-6jE4L2y9qv3E0GJSyepdWf77KtGDpH0eDra_ImNFwaudw7BL/s1600/myra+on+the+lam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_5oDbY7-wM_TClFikT3Jh1GUIXO_hJRkiQ76ifMbAa0gSh5OoG5Irbs3yCb4tnlHAzSmL5uinMI1lnZXGABtDLiWx0Rh-6jE4L2y9qv3E0GJSyepdWf77KtGDpH0eDra_ImNFwaudw7BL/s1600/myra+on+the+lam.jpg" /></a>Hola bitches...sorry it has been so long. I am hurriedly writing this on a dilapidated old computer that still runs windows 95. The internet is sketchy were I am at and now that I feel it is safe I will fill you all in.<br />
<br />
I am currently on the lam. Ha! I have always wanted to say that. I wish I could tell you what I did, but that would make you all accomplices and I am a noble villain if nothing else. I wish I could say I did it for love, for passion, for honor...but the ugly truth is I was curious.....and bored. Not a good combo for the Candster.<br />
<br />
No I did not go all Dexter on someone. I wish it were that simple. I will have to say that my Spanish is getting better..but I am getting quite drunk because all I know how to ask for is beer, tequila and the bathroom.<br />
<br />
So in that regards I do apologize my lovelies for being AWOL. However, I am too pretty to go to prison and I hate breaking my nails stabbing people with a homemade toothbrush shiv. Plus you all know how I love my wine...and while you can make your own in your toilet with some rotten fruit....not the same panache.<br />
<br />
I have found that no matter where I go...weirdo men/boys are drawn to me. Like retarded romantic moths to a flame. The more I am indifferent and apathetic the more they try to get me to react. Tho' I do have to say having money wired into my offshore account to help me because you say you love me...not complaining. PLEASE, PLEASE love me...with money.<br />
<br />
I actually had to slow their roll a little though. Mostly because it was tiring and I am trying to evade detection. Kinda hard when three different men keep wanting to know where you at and where you be. Most of them know about the others and for some inexplicable reason do not care. I would be more curious about it, if I just plain didn't give a shit.<br />
<br />
At least, I have an excuse for not answering right away or being unavailable. What can you say to, "Babe shut the fuck up I only have a minute, because your phone is probably tapped." You make that minute count dammit. You express to the other person what is effing important. Like when you are going to deposit more money, por favor.<br />
<br />
I have to go. Dial up here is sketchy due to brown outs. However, I don't anticipate being here for much longer. Even though there is no extradition here I ain't taking no chances. I honestly am just laying low. I am pretty sure the person I set up to take the fall will and my alibi is almost flawless.<br />
<br />
Anyways, peace out for now. I will catch up with ya'll when I get to my next undisclosed location. Ciao.iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-47384094411725768532011-04-10T19:48:00.000-07:002011-04-10T19:49:25.829-07:00Nuggets of Sanity<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZ9icJ0jR6oC1teBjycmdmlyMDk5FQUkTdVhKzD4Y_ospXdoesxfBTRnQmjAA4rhfw6xDze96LNuqi2Zsokdu8yMqh5KHdGCSDTw-1TNUjywj5gSbuDISxxatpDv-4TprHG9oOQJ_ExkZ/s1600/gawd+hates+signs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZ9icJ0jR6oC1teBjycmdmlyMDk5FQUkTdVhKzD4Y_ospXdoesxfBTRnQmjAA4rhfw6xDze96LNuqi2Zsokdu8yMqh5KHdGCSDTw-1TNUjywj5gSbuDISxxatpDv-4TprHG9oOQJ_ExkZ/s320/gawd+hates+signs.jpg" width="320" /></a>"I came to bring the pain, hardcore to the brain." Yeah, so what... It's not mine, I stole it from Clifford a.k.a the Method Man. It seems relevant though. I wanna dry hump you on your living room couch after school while your parents are still at werk. Can you say latch key kids gone wild? I figured that opening would catch your attention.. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/GD3O_I2nx70">http://youtu.be/GD3O_I2nx70</a> <br />
<br />
Anyhoo, back to shaken shit up. I was a walking and singing the other day, (<i>staggering and slurring is more like it.</i>) when I overheard someone whistling the whistle song from Kill Bill. Little did they know that I knew this song and they must of felt super smug and shit for being so original. I of course had to rain on this fuckbags parade and blurt out that I knew that tune.<br />
<br />
Not only was I upset about their smugness, but this little girl might have been 8 or 9 yrs old. What in all that is <b>Tarantino</b> and <b>Holy</b> was this chickadee doin watchin Kill Bill? I must admit that I ventured off the PG path a time or two when I was a wee lad, but it was for "B" movies like Porky's or Risky Business.<br />
<br />
I immediately felt jipped outta my youth. For fuck sakes, these little ungrateful basterds don't realize how good they got it. Netflix and Internet porn are a testament to that. How far we've come..<br />
<br />
Another thing about these freeloaders that you keep spawning.. They're not as cool as you try to make them out to be! They're dicks! Yeah I said it. You're little angel is a dickhead. Rude little shitbag versions of you. Keep your babies out the street cuz I'm lookin to run them over in my inebriated drunk driving escapades. Just kidding, I'd run them over if they were tucked away safely in your bosom too. Lol. <br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><a href="http://youtu.be/ENyGj_NQKkU">http://youtu.be/ENyGj_NQKkU</a></i><br />
<br />
Gawd damn it! I had an awesome story to tell you about the time I saved an Asian babies life.. It got lost in my feverish flurry of magnificence at copy and pasting and "cutting".. Fuck! Anyway, I'll re-tell the tale. It goes like this..<br />
<br />
Once upon a time I was stranded in the gawd forsaken heat of the Arizona desert. Phoenix, mid-summer to be exact. If you've ever experienced this madness, you know what I mean. (<i>118 degrees in the shade</i>)<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, the brave man that I am, I decided to venture out to smoke a cigarette. Crazy.. I know.. I'm a rebel right? Almost immediately I spotted a small child with my superb hyper sensitive visual skill. I noticed that it was crying and appeared to be lost.<br />
<br />
Who in their right mind would discard a perfectly good Asian I thought. I sprang into action and swooped up the toddler with the cunning and speed that only a man of my caliber and pedigree can. I asked it it's name. No response. I used my best Cantonese and asked it again, all the while being polite as most Asians are easily offended and bashful. Again, no response.<br />
<br />
Me and Jackson (<i>I named him Jackson</i>) sat there for what felt like an eternity. prolly about 20 mins and no parents showed up. Thank gawd for me.. Imagine if I hadn't saved him? He might be a math wiz or something.. Horrible. He's been making shoes in my basement for the past few years and he's never been happier. I'm tiring of him though. Maybe I'll ask Nike if they want him.. I'd hate to see his skill not go to good use. <br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Well my dear friends, I'm on a tight schedule tonight so I'll leave you with that. I gotta get to the liquor store before I am too drunk to fly..</i>Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-55834322323603141652011-04-05T23:46:00.000-07:002011-04-05T23:46:06.324-07:00Preamble To A Lunacy Legacy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig4sgRdLczPu4QvGOHsPtX-A3cQ3SVO2fMc3sNcUIFzf1CbIChJZ3iGt1xd-IGtDNegjcMeTxY6GYjALdpdCJr7-gTT8XGuW-5067U_YExVmlRAwtBiRCoK7S16QfLHnqVJq8JQO2bMVUI/s1600/Lunatic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig4sgRdLczPu4QvGOHsPtX-A3cQ3SVO2fMc3sNcUIFzf1CbIChJZ3iGt1xd-IGtDNegjcMeTxY6GYjALdpdCJr7-gTT8XGuW-5067U_YExVmlRAwtBiRCoK7S16QfLHnqVJq8JQO2bMVUI/s320/Lunatic.jpg" width="212" /></a>As of late, I've been contemplating questions about life and it's true meaning. This may be an indication that I am growing up. Probably not, but humor me for a spell. As I crisscross this country of ours, I see you. I wonder how many of you are walking around dead already.<br />
<br />
How many of you are just taking up space? Are you merely a bad copy of something that was once grand. Like a shitty lower priced knock off? It's all good if this is the case, I just wanna know if it suits you. Haven't you ever aspired to be something better than nil?<br />
<br />
Well my dear friends and cohorts, I have. I'm starting to firmly believe in leaving a legacy of some sort. Whether it be for shits and giggles or for some other werldly purpose, I want to be recycled. Regurgitated.<br />
<br />
It's an awesome feeling to entertain the masses. Some have called me a conceited prick. I dig it. I must admit that I am at times. It's cool. I'm hip. Fortunately for you, I share my madness. I share my taste in music, humor, and I share my ignorance. You lucky basterds.<br />
<br />
I enjoy pushing buttons, being told "No" and generally laughing at the demise of others shortcomings. It makes me jolly. I want nothing more than to show my perspective and to teach tolerance. Think about that. Is it noble to want to scare people into seeing things my way?<br />
<br />
A dear friend recently suggested that I use my powers for good. I could see where that would be worthwhile. I can also relate to the masses that want a couple lines of smut with their A.M. coffee. Hell, I'm known for writing gibberish to feed the wanton five minute brain orgy.<br />
<br />
<b>iskullfuktfrandreschersvoiceandmadeasongboutowenwilsonsfailedsuicide</b>. It's things like that that make me wonder if I am the only one not afraid to scribble the stuff or if indirect thinking is the new fire. I'm back bitches and I'm bringing the pain with me. I'm gonna get back to my roots and write. I've been stalling and bullshitting around long enough. These last couple weeks have been a thinking process and I'm done thinking. I'm just gonna put it all out there for your pleasure. You're Welcome. Werd.Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-1180511750754244242011-03-16T23:28:00.000-07:002011-03-16T23:28:36.674-07:00Daddy's Nihilist<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieHNIQfH8hAItVv26hcXSUoLpkTp5PpdtBbHwl1JsPG6SQJOWIFyt8wqj1oYQpAju1R49A0RC0ZAoq1LT-rHE28P0w5jP-RDazPrz4VzSFLKrG8V3ePh6b1Dy0uQy8f54XmAEdH_B9zTe1/s1600/nihilist+care+bear.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieHNIQfH8hAItVv26hcXSUoLpkTp5PpdtBbHwl1JsPG6SQJOWIFyt8wqj1oYQpAju1R49A0RC0ZAoq1LT-rHE28P0w5jP-RDazPrz4VzSFLKrG8V3ePh6b1Dy0uQy8f54XmAEdH_B9zTe1/s320/nihilist+care+bear.gif" width="320" /></a>I know it's been awhile..besides a brief snapshot of my current situation, I have been MIA. I have been a cog in the machine, a slave to the man.<br />
<br />
The other day at my job, everyone was very upset about a patient that died. They never met this person and didn't know them. Inexplicably they were all sad and said it was sad that they died. When I queried why they were sad, I was accused of having ice water ruining through my veins.<br />
<br />
I was highly offended since I am pretty sure it is alcohol that runs through my veins. Later that night, as I pondered why I am so apathetic and unconcerned it hit me. I don't believe in anything.<br />
<br />
I mentioned to my esteemed male parental unit this new found discovery...bear in mind he is a gung ho bible thumping Christian...LOVE him. He said, "Huh, so you are a nihilist." HAPPYHAPPYJOYJOY I have a name for what I am.<br />
<br />
A profound peace settled over me. Like wine down my throat. Mmmmmm wine. Mmmmmm vicodin. 'Member what I said about finding the perfect ratio? Don't hate, but I digress.<br />
<br />
I love my new found reason for being which is no reason for being. Is it crazy. YES. Is it awesome. YES.<br />
<br />
Trust me I still have weirdo things going on with the Y chromosome factors in my life, however that is a tale for another day.<br />
<br />
I am so zen and calm. It's bizarre and inexplicable. It is pure chaos, but I don't care anymore. My hand to Nietzsche. Apathy join me or not...whatever. <br />
<div><b><br />
</b></div>iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-41422381524139848812011-03-13T10:56:00.000-07:002011-03-13T10:56:33.814-07:00Evil ICandi..<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMRShKsth5GkM1YsJiwrxl1ljLv5TBn2nYmpVAhin97C4QSDeLG8KCyWty1oz3ZhW1FQPOlm8vK-PISDygsM8uoB6pBUyfPNJ3dDPIYZOfmA56k4C979eaxjfLpNZnphiXhN0JnrPP_AP/s1600/evil+icandi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMRShKsth5GkM1YsJiwrxl1ljLv5TBn2nYmpVAhin97C4QSDeLG8KCyWty1oz3ZhW1FQPOlm8vK-PISDygsM8uoB6pBUyfPNJ3dDPIYZOfmA56k4C979eaxjfLpNZnphiXhN0JnrPP_AP/s320/evil+icandi.jpg" width="268" /></a></div>In one of my previous posts, I had briefly mentioned how most artists are terrible when they are happy. I have found out that I am one of them. Maybe its because I found the right wine to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">vicodin</span> ratio (which I have) or maybe it is because all of a sudden I have all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">eyez</span> on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">meh</span>.<br />
<br />
Out of the blue, I have men literally begging me for attention. I make them buy me things like gas and stuff and then I don't return their texts. Don't judge. Don't hate. Just taking back ladies, just taking it back. The way I figure it, it's reparations for having to put up with so many <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">douchebags</span> in my past. Some of them ARE the very same <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">douchebags</span>...I am extra, extra, extra <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">sooper</span> manipulative to them.<br />
<br />
Ahhhhh.....me. I would say I am regretful and sorry...but I AM NOT!!! I love this shit and I am eating it up like a fat kid at a candy buffet. I just need to ease up a little. Weed out the potential stalkers and creepers. Keep the dumbasses with big wallets strung along.<br />
<br />
Don't hate me cuz I am beautiful. Hate me because I am evil.iCandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11783406435118381074noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-5969565206280152082011-02-23T21:37:00.000-08:002011-02-23T21:37:24.782-08:00Waiting for a Massacre<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77UT6KKyeurZFLpvjhqWnjOjOpTo7iUnV7foBVjELJIfxbOUrv9QVFywUtyNP_OkRzhjza_XsP0tMxanKuWRiRNrEk1okl7A5iKGNJU2lFUEsDywLZ6u1ZpyCIrUhQQltGmblHxWqpme5/s1600/bloody+chicken+cage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77UT6KKyeurZFLpvjhqWnjOjOpTo7iUnV7foBVjELJIfxbOUrv9QVFywUtyNP_OkRzhjza_XsP0tMxanKuWRiRNrEk1okl7A5iKGNJU2lFUEsDywLZ6u1ZpyCIrUhQQltGmblHxWqpme5/s320/bloody+chicken+cage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Once again we can hear him breathing outside. He has been here before. He lurks. His stealth and cunning are unmatched. I have witnessed his brutality first hand. Even with the reinforced barrier he manages to slip through taking with him the life of many of my close family and friends. The violent screams and quick snapping of bones echo above the brisk wind and the fear within our humble abode. <br />
<br />
We wait. With the night upon us, we wait. He tends to attack only at night. The young, the weak, and elderly are his victims of choice. Our children are morsels and do nothing to appease his tremendous appetite. Broken necks, running around with out any sense of direction from a grisly beheading. I have witnessed his brutality since my birth, yet I have not fallen victim.<br />
<br />
I like to imagine how he chooses his victims. I day dream about being him. To have the power over another that he does. To mercilessly maim and kill at will as he does. My hunger has never been that great. My blood lust meter has never operated in such a way. We wait. It is a cold evening and most of us are huddled together shivering and snuggling close for warmth. Perfect conditions for him to be on the prowl. An eerie uncertainty fills the room as we all know, but don't speak it. Perfect conditions for him...<br />
<br />
By the light of the moon I can see that most of the others are asleep. Their breaths the only sign of the nocturnal massacre that awaits. Once again the howl of the wind makes itself audible. A slight wheezing is heard from another section of the room. Mrs. Little's newest infant may be congested. I worry that this may alert him to our slumber and give him invitation..<br />
<br />
I begin to nod off and am quickly alerted to a twig breaking outside. Fearful, I listen. I can hear muddled voices but can not make out any coherent phrases. They are here. Not just him, but they. How many? 2? 3? I nudge the nearest body to me and motion that something is outside.<br />
<br />
They burst through the front door and the nightmare begins. Instantly everyone is screaming and bleeding in complete chaotic disarray. I glance over and see the leg of my sister torn off. She is hobbled and screeching. My mother's heart is exposed. Her chest ripped open. She lay dead on the floor. I leap onto one of the killers backs and begin assaulting him with every ounce of my being. He tosses me to the side like a rag doll and is unamused by my heroics. He glares down at me. I am sure I am going to become another statistic...<br />
<br />
A loud BOOM stops the commotion. The killers know the sound of the explosion can be only one thing. They flee. As fast as their four legs will carry them they flee. The farmer has heard our screams. He made his way to our coop and saved us this night. This night. Those foxes will be back. Many more will die, but not tonight..Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-36334761055917571752011-02-17T22:45:00.000-08:002011-02-17T22:45:44.264-08:00Dead Horse = Dead Phucking Horse!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjukXf3sg7Q2Jrl42gtH56tAf3bx8Jw5-rBw8K0S6qbtuW67ap2xKsPgVqBUgR1msK-6tuAxBOMNA61tuNnfu4UMqQ5WCxPjndSCb5uDkOFtVI7MUK-P-OgFYoeCyykIr5QzqJ2nleAc4ge/s1600/Beating+a+dead+horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjukXf3sg7Q2Jrl42gtH56tAf3bx8Jw5-rBw8K0S6qbtuW67ap2xKsPgVqBUgR1msK-6tuAxBOMNA61tuNnfu4UMqQ5WCxPjndSCb5uDkOFtVI7MUK-P-OgFYoeCyykIr5QzqJ2nleAc4ge/s320/Beating+a+dead+horse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Driven by my desire to write, I write. No focus. No one really behind the wheel. I write. Generally most writer's put out their finest material whilst engulfed by turmoil. I am the exception. I feel my best werk is done while I am happy, laughing, and smiling at the short-comings of others. I am for fuck sakes the original Angry Step Kid. I know turmoil. I have my Anger badge. (<i>#666 if you're curious</i>.) I've been a life time member.<br />
<br />
I currently have been involved in the same stoopid conversation for the last 2 months. It never changes. The results are ALWAYS the same and it is literally about beating a phucking dead horse. It's phucking dead! DEAD! There's not anything that you say or do that is going to change the phucking outcome! IT'S. NOT. GONNA. CHANGE! Leave the phucking horse alone. There are flies around his head and maggots are nesting in his earlobes! The saddlebags have been looted. The stench of 2 month old death has almost been lost in the breeze. Leave the once noble steed to it's fate! It's a phucking dead issue!<br />
<br />
It's possible that I am a bullheaded basterd summa-mo-phuckface. It's possible. The fact that I have explained myself the exact same way when asked about it only strengthens my resolve and adds to the complexity of why I am pissed. I'd like to dismiss this as retarded and moot, but it won't go away! I have tried everything except one unreasonable act to cure this terrible affliction. I am at wits end and maybe that's the answer. Put a metaphorical shotgun in my mouth and pull the trigger. Not only will the horse be dead but so will the issue! I guarantee I'll be a lot more pissed off and it'll be pent up rage when unleashed.<br />
<br />
I exist in a shaky fucking environment where my werds, even when used in poor comic relief, I am held accountable for. Bitching aside, this is the gift and curse of all scribes. Once in a while writing gibberish and ranting to your hearts content unleashes and frees inner demons that needed to come out and play. Once in a phucking while. Not recently though. Most times it's just so that you can gather your emotions and so that you can continue on without the care of others feelings.<br />
<br />
Quit giving a phuck about my werds? They say actions speak louder than werds. They say. I say whoever the phuck said that never had to write. Never had a reader. Never had someone asking them what "<b>that meant</b>". As if everything that I scribble has a profound or deeper meaning. Some words are meant to create emotion. We all know this. Some werds are meant to make people laugh, smile, cry, feel pity, shock, apathy, even hatred. Control of these werds are what makes them fun to write. Werd. If you've never been in the position to make others scream at you for what you have written, I suggest you try it. It's very liberating. The alternative, go find a phucking dead horse and descibe as many times as you'd like how, why, who, and what the phuck a dead horse is. Insanity is described as doing the same shit headed thing over and over and expecting different results. I must be insane. Must. Be. Insane.<br />
<br />
I will have to consult CROM about my sanity and get back to you. In the meantime, bounce around in the ignorance is bliss state of mind and await the new wine or <i>new whine</i> whichever floats your phucking boat. Out.Angry Step Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04536278622172940414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-4916732284241258242011-02-15T21:14:00.001-08:002011-02-15T21:56:45.619-08:00Skinny Jeans are for Ass Clowns<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMVh8K3uvLj3FPXn0tjyT6jAWrSfYo1odH1yUEuXNK0s93LpXMpepCHSNkLsrDy6JXSC7T3PGk0VSadyqFlJp44MgdVEUNkzt22ZYA3L1VPtqgbOZEMYZnhjo5Vtde3b9jlSGUNxkzl1xO/s1600/crocket+and+tubbs.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMVh8K3uvLj3FPXn0tjyT6jAWrSfYo1odH1yUEuXNK0s93LpXMpepCHSNkLsrDy6JXSC7T3PGk0VSadyqFlJp44MgdVEUNkzt22ZYA3L1VPtqgbOZEMYZnhjo5Vtde3b9jlSGUNxkzl1xO/s320/crocket+and+tubbs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574161862952905666" border="0" /></a>I understand that these little horny, hormone driven, shit stains are going to court my Violet. I understand it's my job as her father, to put a 12 gauge shotgun over my mantle to ward them off.<br /><br />What I don't understand is their peacock feathers. I can't for the life of me understand the trend or the attraction to these long haired, greasy, skinny jeaned, little shits. I see them when I pick Violet up from school. They stand around her with one white ear bud in their ear and plaid shirts. They don their skinny size 4 jeans half hanging off their ass. Skinny sagging jeans with studded white belts. Fucking weirdos.<br /><br />I remember during the 90's guys would sag their pants. They were baggy jeans not skinny jeans. I guess Sasson or Jordache is ok for boys jeans now. I'm outdated. Even so, I forbid my son T.L. to wear anything like this. As of now, I buy his fucking clothes. I know that will change and he'll follow the flock and begin fluffing his feathers too. I'm just troubled by all the newness.<br /><br />I have to admit that I used to roll my pants at the bottom sometimes. I also used to wear Bugle Boy pants with suspenders hanging down around my ass. It was all the rage to wear grey casual pants or bleached, stone washed jeans, and a pink shirt. I also remember that everyone wanted to look like Crocket and Tubbs from Miami Vice. Those guys were cool. I enjoyed dressing in pastel colors and white slip on shoes. Nowadays it looks retarded and rather metro-sexual. I hate knowing that I'm getting older.<br /><br />My beard and my hair have some gray in it. I didn't know this until about a year ago because I never tried to grow a beard before. I still haven't received any gray nut sack hair, so that's promising. I don't require Viagra, but the wife says my stamina has slipped. Little does she know that I just like to get my nut, and go to sleep. We both have our secrets. She still thinks that her 10 inch dildo is a secret. (<span style="font-style: italic;">yes I measured it.</span>) I tend to not sweat the small stuff. She knows about my smut mags and has never made a peep about it, so we're even for now.<br /><br />Evolving with the times is inevitable and damn it I'm trying to be optimistic. I just wish I would have had fair warning. All's I can do for now is act mean as hell when these Justin Beiber clones come a knocking and try not to sweat the small stuff.Thadeus Funkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16540800302115791565noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5867818319815418111.post-30191406397456844202011-02-10T18:21:00.000-08:002011-02-10T19:44:41.962-08:00The World Will Not End In 2012 Chapter 1, Part 2<p>Check out the first part of chapter one <a href="http://angrystepkid.blogspot.com/2011/02/world-will-not-end-in-2012-short-story.html">here</a>. Otherwise you will be lost. Chapter two will be coming soon. </p><p>The man broke out in a coughing fit. Jack thought he might have killed the old guy. He made an awkward motion to pat him on the back but realized halfway through it would do absolutely no good. It took a minute but the old guy rode it out and finally passed the pipe back.</p><p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">"Maybe that's why I hadn't tried it yet." the old man laughed. Jack knew it was only a matter of seconds before it hit him. This was good stuff, not your regular street quality marijuana. The old man was out of his league. Either the guy would have an epiphany that this is what he should have been doing his whole life or he would implode upon himself and never truly be heard from again.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Thankfully, it was the former. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Jack had just lit his cigarette as he felt the first of the snowflakes start to fall. The wind went from "I am not here" to "Yes, I am here and I am going to beat the shit out of you." The old guy excused himself and wandered back inside. The only rule Jack had for this situation was the cigarette must be done before seeking shelter from the weather. He would finish what he started. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">That became easier said than done. It gradually but very quickly went from 100% visibility to white out conditions. It was just too damn cold to finish the cigarette. Jack motioned to throw it out, but hesitated two or three times to take long last drags. He finally chucked it and hit the back door to the Dirty Duck like a gazelle on the run from a pack of hungry lions.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">The people were all quiet. Most were staring out the window in awe at the sudden change of climate. The feeling that the apocalypse had started resonated amongst a good portion of the crowd. As Jack was newly stoned, it took him a second to comprehend what was going on.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">These people thought this freak snowstorm was the end of the world. 'It's Colorado in December for Christ sakes...' he thought to himself. He didn't say anything though, his idea now was to sneak up to the bar and grab one of the temporarily vacated seats. He got a good one just to the left of a mounted television screen with a man in a suit standing in front of the pyramids and a rolling sidebar displaying the last night's sports scores. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">"God dammit!". This time he said it out loud, after reading the score from the Laker-Heat game last night. A man gave him a dirty look from the far right corner of the room. Slowly folks went back to their drinks, still however talking in hushed tones. A couple of minutes and some sips of booze later all that was thrown out the window. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">People returned to their half drunk jovial selves and it was time for Jack to start drinking whiskey. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">He ordered a shot of vodka and Red Bull. For a guy like Jack this was a really really really cosmopolitan drink. Anything fancier than some ice cubes in his bourbon usually rubbed him the wrong way. He tried the vodka-Red Bull thing a few months ago, however, and for some reason was instantly sold on the idea. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Then there was Mitch. Mitch was the guy working behind the bar on the busiest day he had ever seen. Mitch was the guy working behind the bar on his day off on the busiest day he had ever seen. Mitch was also the guy noticing his tip jar was nearing a grand and it wasn't even noon yet. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Mitch handed Jack the Red Bull as he poured the vodka shot. "What the hell do you drink these for?" Mitch had a more professional tone with most customers. But then most customers weren't in the same second grade class as he was.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">"I can't pass out early and miss the end of the world, Mitch." The sarcastic smile wasn't the only thing that betrayed his actual meaning. The tone was pretty damn sarcastic too. Even the way he dropped the shot of vodka down his throat and slammed the Red Bull to chase it reeked of a man who did not give two shits if anything in the world has ever been taken seriously by anyone. He did not care.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">"It's all a gimmick to sell trinkets. Bullshit like earthquakes and hurricanes happen every year. People are just paying attention more this year is all. In Australia, this shit is already over with man."</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Mitch agreed but Jack could tell he wasn't going to sell it as his position. Not while he was making so much money off just the opposite idea. He smiled and threw Jack a small bag of Doritos. "Here, just in case it is the end of the world don't say I never gave you anything." He moved off to make a few drinks for a pretty young girl and her friend who just came up to far side of the bar. Jack tore open the bag and tossed down a couple of chips as he began to sip the last half of his first beer. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p></p>xxoozerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00616000113344547628noreply@blogger.com0