Thanks "Jessica"!

Upon reading my last post, a person known only as "Jessica" left the following comment on this website:

"DJ Ozz may be pathetic, but so are you. Didn't you graduate from high school last year? Aren't you attending college this year? Why do you care so much about what goes on at high school functions? I think it's time for someone to grow up."

Folks, this is a landmark in history. For the first time ever, a person that I don't know has slighted me on my own cyber-turf. With this distinct honor, I now join in the ranks with some of the greatest web-personalities of all time. I now sit on the highest E-Rung of the E-Ladder with the likes of Tucker Max; The Great, Maddox; and, my good friend, The Social Retard himself, Matthew P.

When I started Save Rivers in late February 2004, and then Phoenix Rivers last August, I envisioned, for both, a place where my friends could view themselves and their world, that of late-adolescent life, from another person's point of view. I typically achieved this through pictures and written recollections of things that people were too intoxicated to remember; though more so in the former. I could've never imagined the soaring heights that my site has, apparently, achieved.

Early on, my various weekend stories and random bitchings about George W. Bush, music, computers, and just life in general, garnered me some praise. However, the complements and comments always came from members of my target demographic: my friends. This wasn't unexpected, and was by no means unappreciated. I love having the friends that I do, and I take their input to heart. I made this website for my friends and myself; and did not expect for anyone else to care.

MOST BLESSED DAY! "Jessica" has proven to me that I am a necessary force in the E-Universe. Someone resting on their E-Laurels, surfing on an E-Wave of E-Compliments from E-Friends and E-Influences, has no place in an E-Society; and will quickly fizzle from E-Memory. In order to be E-Great, you must have E-Detractors. Well, today is a great E-Day. I have my first E-Detractor. I now know that people other than my friends give a fuck about what I think and what I have to say. "Jessica" took time out of her busy schedule read about my life. My God, I thought that my ego could grow no bigger, but it just has. This feels great!

Now I know what it feels like to be Jesus! Everyday, worthless plebians like "Jessica" read about Jesus' life. Some are even compelled to write responses to it in their theology books. "Jessica", you're the Jerry Falwell to my Jesus. How about that?

This is so much fun. I'm going to start my own E-Ministry like BroKen Lovett did. I'll be Jesus, but instead of the old message, I will preach salvation through committing acts of malice and tomfoolery.

Oh, "Jessica". You have me in the binds of a good ol' fashioned messianic delusion fit. You rascal, you!

Despite the fact that her "insult" has made me realize my greatness, I must, nonetheless, defend my reputation.

Our friend "Jessica" has a problem. She doesn't understand the nature of humor. "Jessica" asked me why I still concern myself with the affairs of AHS, this I say unto thee:

You see "Jessica", most of my friends, at one time or another, attended AHS. All of whom most likely remember that bald, shit eating bastard, DJ Ozz, from school dances, both past and present. Based on this assumption, I proceeded to craft, what I hoped would be, a humorous interaction between my words, and their relationship to the memories of people reading the post. If the reader knows who I'm talking about, and they think he's an asshole like I do, they will, most likely, be humored by it. That is why I concerned myself with the goings on at AHS, for the sake of humor. This entire website is meant to be humorous. If you don't think it's funny, then don't read it.

"Jessica", the only reason that I can divine for your not being humored by the post is that you are cold and dead inside. You are an empty shell, on the battlefield of...

HOLY FUCKIN SHIT!

I just figured it out. "Jessica" is really "Jessica Ozz". It's Ozz's fuckin' daughter, man!

(Also: "Jessica", before you type a comment saying something to the effect of: "I wasn't humored by the post because it wasn't funny", please consider putting your hands to better use. Is it really worth risking Carpal-Tunnal over a cliche comment like that? No, didn't think so.)

I've never been easily insulted, and I continue not to be. If you want to insult me, rape my mother for fuck's sake. You're not going to accomplish shit by implying that I'm a loser. Trust me "Jessica", I have enough friends to take over a small city, and most of them are crazy enough to try it too.

Despite the shitty comment made by this paltry whore of babylon, I still hope that she will take stock in this list of life-enhancing tips that I've made for her:

Jessica, The best thing that you can do for yourself is to HAVE FUN!

Have fun dating drunk, rich, and particularly boring trustfund kids all throughout college.

Have fun selecting one of them to be your spouse.

Have fun in your empty, meaningless marriage.

Have fun driving those 3 kids to soccer, Chuck E. Cheese, and the mall.

Have fun cleaning the house day after day without so much as a "Thank You" from anybody.

Have fun with your secret vodka and pill habit.

Have fun raising those kids for almost two decades; only for them to turn out bigger assholes than you and your husband combined.

Have fun finding out that your son is a coke fiend and an Atheist.

Have fun identifying your other son at the morgue after he gets drunk and crashes your $80,000 Lexus SUV into a telephone pole.

Have fun finding out that your daughter has contracted twelve different sexually transmitted diseases as a result of being the designated "booty call" for everything with a penis in the tri-county area.

Have fun at her funeral after she commits suicide.

Have fun when years of repressed anger, sadness, and disappointment finally come out during the weekly shouting match with your husband.

Have fun while you're unconscious on the floor.

Have fun getting your face stitched up.

Have fun lying to the friends you've bought; convincing them that you're just clumsy.

Have fun finding out that your husband has a mistress who works at JC Penny.

Have fun waking up from the coma that he put you in for three days.

Have fun in court.

Have fun when your ex-husband dies, and the alimony runs dry.

Have fun living in a one bedroom apartment.

Have fun when the kid that survived decides to moves in with you; all the while, buying and selling blow out of your apartment.

Have fun when that kid puts you in a nursing home so he can devote less money to your food and sustenance, and more to his ongoing cocaine habit.

Have fun during the Royal Oaks Retirement Village's famous Sunday afternoon domino tournaments, your biggest activity each and every week.

Have fun realizing that you are in your twilight hour; and you've accomplished nothing in your life. The only moment of happiness you can recollect, is that minute right before you decided to leave a comment on my website. That was a good moment for you.

Have fun dying sad, unwanted, and alone.

Have fun in hell.

I was reading this post over at Lots of Co, when my undying rage was, once again, rekindled. The source? DJ Ozz. Mr. Jones and Chandler, I guess, made a list of songs that they wish the DJ would play at prom. As much as I like the idea of mixing it up, musically speaking, at prom, unfortunately, it's wishful thinking at best. You see, DJ Ozz is the biggest loser on the planet. He is content to ride his wave of bullshit from here to eternity.

My problem with Ozz, and the music he plays, is very specific. I understand that there is a demand for him to play the popular songs of the day. Though I wasn't there, I feel quite certain that DJ Ozz played the song, "Candyshop", by 50 Cent at least once during the prom. Understand this: I hate the song "Candyshop" more than I hate Hitler. However, I understand that some people, for reasons that escape me, do like the song. Therefore, I understand why he played it. My real problem with Ozz is twofold.

One: Like I said, I understand that DJ Ozz has to play "Candyshop" to keep the drooling idiots that like this song happy. My problem with the man comes in the year 2011, when he's still playing "Candyshop". Don't know what I'm talking about?

Think about it...



There you go, Juvenile. Juvenile's 1999 hit, "Back That Thang Up". Notice that I emphasized 1999. Do you know why? Because that was SIX MOTHERFUCKING YEARS AGO! That stupid asshole is still playing that fucking song. That song was unbearable, at best, in 1999. Now it's just a sad joke.

DJ Ozz does not have his finger anywhere close to the pulse of America's youth. The man wears JNCO Jeans. He doesn't even wear the subtle JNCOs that just say "JNCO" on the side, and have an outline of a dragon or some shit drawn in orange plastic goo on them. No, he wears the full-on JNCOs. The kind that, in addition to said dragon, measure 30 inches in diameter at the base of the pantleg. Jacob Caudle was the last hanger-on in the JNCO fad, and his JNCOs went back into the closet sometime in late 2000.

Ozz is the most tragic individual that I've ever come across, and I hate him. Once I saw him at a dance. He moved behind those turntables, and green and red light reflected off of his glossy, bald, skull and directly into my eyes. The light gave me an epiphany: I must kill myself before I reached this man's age. Otherwise, there might always be the possibility that I would turn out to be the shadow of a man that Ozz is. Ozz hates the fact that he's old, and has lost touch with what's cool these days. Ozz plays songs like "Back That Thang Up" and "All My Life" by KC & JoJo to make the students in attendance feel old. Ozz hates you, and he hates your youth. He's trying to compensate for his own insecurities about aging by playing songs that were popular before you got into middle school. Don't fall for his bullshit. You've still got your youth, run with it.

Two: Last year I attended the AHS Prom. This was my last state-sponsored dance party, and I was ready to get down. As I danced and socialized, I tried to think of a way to make the prom a little bit better. I decided that the perfect thing at that moment would be kicking out the jams to a classic: Foghat's "Slow Ride". I was clamoring to see the looks on people's faces when Rod Price's squealing guitar and Lonesome Dave Peverett's voice came out of those speakers, and echoed across that basketball court. I was, very much, looking forward to rocking the fuck out to this timeless tune.

I approached Ozz with my request. Much to my surprise, he had exactly the song I was looking for. He promised to play it, and I believed him. What a fool I was. I stayed at prom for as long as could be expected. That asshat didn't play my song. He had it in his CD Binder. Among the discographies of KC and JoJo, The Spice Girls, and Juvenile; there it sat: a diamond in the rough, BUT HE DIDN'T PLAY IT! I was, understandably, crushed as I left the prom that night. Though I didn't stay the whole time, everyone who did told me that there was no Foghat to be heard.

A month passes. I've just graduated. After leaving the Auburn University Colosseum, where the graduation ceremony was held, I went to Project Graduation as everyone does. Not surprisingly, DJ Ozz was there. I confronted him about his failure to play the greatest song in history. He promised to play it before the night was through. A CURSED LIE! Once again, I believed him. Once again, Ozz took me for a fool. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, you get a razor blade dragged across your jugular.

This go around I won't get fooled again. I will be attending this year's Project Graduation. In my pocket will be a CD-R with one song on it: "Slow Ride". I will approach the sad old man at his booth, calmly drawing the CD from my pocket. I will then ask him, one last time, to play the song that he fucked me out of hearing so many times before. I am a patient man, so I will endure through "Candyshop", "All My Life", and "Back That Thang Up" in order to hear the masterpiece that is "Slow Ride". However, if that geriatric dick doesn't play "Slow Ride", at least once, during the evening his number will be up.

I'll meet him in the parking lot after Project Graduation has ended, and it's only he and I. The carnage to follow will be unfit for Christian eyes. I will go home and listen to "Slow Ride" on repeat until the police arrive. After dying in the intense shootout to follow, I will descend to hell with the knowledge that, by doing so, I avoided an Earthly fate more horrible than hell: the very possibility of becoming a pathetic soul like DJ Ozz.

The story surrounding a craze caused by T-Shirts featuring the image of, one, Mr. Miles Bugg was deemed worthy for inclusion in the March 2005 issue of the school newspaper at Auburn High School: The Auburn High School Free Press.

The inclusion was first brought to my attention by my friend and confidant, Mr. Chandler White. It wasn't until today, however, that I had the chance to view the article myself.

Unfortunately, the article regarding the shirts is sub-par at best. At worst, it's a burlap sack full of wet pig shit. It saddens me even deeper to know that this publication, of which I am a former contributor, has lost its ability to edit appropriately. Miss Booth's article is nothing short of a pointed attack on the character of everyone involved in the project, including myself. The article is filled with a sporadic incompetencies and factual errors based on hearsay. If you will, allow me to go into greater detail.

Throughout the article, grammatical errors abound. For instance, Mr. Bugg's face cannot walk, therefore, it is impossible to witness "his face walking somewhere down the hallways." That is only one of the many mistakes made on the part of Miss Booth in the grammar department of the work. However, I will not delve too deeply into this area, as I am more upset by the factual errors and anti-Bugg bias that plagues the article in question.

It becomes abundantly clear that Miss Booth has done no research whatsoever in her assignment. For example, Miss Booth, after spelling his name incorrectly, indicates that Mr. Adam Gullatte had some role in the production of the "MiLES" T-Shirts. While Mr. Gullatte is a dear friend of mine, he played no role, whatsoever, in the creation/distribution of the "MiLES" T-Shirts. It was strictly a collaborative effort between Mr. White, Mr. Rollie Harris, and myself. I hatched the idea of creating a pseudo-Communist propaganda shirt depicting a sharply contrasted image of Mr. Bugg against a white background. Then, using a picture I took on my digital camera I created the graphic in Adobe Photoshop. Then, as it relates to Auburn High School, Mr. White and Mr. Harris produced the shirts for widespread distribution at a local screen printing store (Stamp).

All of this was readily available information, had Miss Booth been willing to check with either of the team members still enrolled at Auburn High, that being Mr. White and Mr. Harris. In fact, this task would've been incredibly easy due to the fact that Chandler himself is a staff writer and Archivist for The Free Press. However, Miss Booth isn't interested in fact. Either that, or she's too high to know what she's interested in.

From what I understand, Miss Booth has a bit of a social life. In fact, to be quite frank, hers is a life of debauchery and unruly delectation. It should be noted that this behavior can cause serious damage to a person's ability to weigh their options properly. This is truly the only elucidation I can divine to explain Miss Booth's critical lapse in judgment when she decided to publish the address of this very website in the school newspaper.

Has Miss Booth ever truly examined the contents of this website before? I am an unstable, capricious asshole. I am a malcontent curmudgeon. I am a lying, cheating, stealing bastard. My complete disregard for anyone's feelings other than my own, and my utter lack of ambition is wildly inappropriate in this, and every, circumstance. Miss Booth fails to realize that when a naive and impressionable soul reads about my life they will become corrupted. Children will abandon their dreams of success when they see that my only ambitions involve my desire to carry out malicious acts and complex ruses, aimed only at the goal of shaming and degrading those close to me in order to enlarge my, already hyper-inflated, ego. If news of the website spreads, eventually an entire generation will abandon the idea of "work" as we know it. Capitalism will fall and anarchy will rage; all because of Miss Booth's ignorant and reckless disregard for the good of mankind. In fact, I would venture to say that I am, quite possibly, the worst role model in history for anyone wishing to accomplish anything meaningful in their lives. My behavior should've never been advertised and advocated in a periodical representing a public hall of academia. Truly, Miss Booth's mention of this web site has forever sullied Auburn High School's reputation as a credible academic institution. The mention of the site was especially irrelevant to the overall story when you consider that only two people (The Brothers O'Neill), to my knowledge, purchased "MiLES" T-Shirts from my online store.

However, all of the mistakes in Miss Booth's article pale in comparison to the exceedingly blunt statement that "the makers (of the shirts) are making a profit". Indeed, Mr. White and Mr. Harris did make a profit, about ninety three cents per shirt. With fifty shirts sold in total, anyone who can do basic arithmetic will tell you that this can be construed as being a decent sum of money, depending on your socioeconomic status. However, when you factor in what it costs for Stamp to create the original screen print and other assorted production costs, Mr. White and Mr. Harris's profits only came out to $27 dollars. Between the two of them, that's only thirteen dollars and fifty cents. Now, I pose this question: "Would you take time out of your busy schedule to walk all around school pitching and selling the idea, taking down names, collecting money, and motoring, on your own gasoline, to and fro to Stamp in order to produce and distribute a t-shirt for a mere THIRTEEN DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS?" If you would, either you're a damned fool or a nice guy. Mr. White and Mr. Harris are not damned fools. They are simply nice guys; and Miss Booth is a damned fool for assuming any differently.

I can personally vouch for the utmost purity of Mr. White and Mr. Harris's character as it relates to the matter at hand. I do so by telling you that, at one point, demand was so high for the "MiLES" T-Shirts that Mr. White and Mr. Harris ended up having to sell their own shirts to a couple of late-comers who hadn't had a chance to sign up in time. Like Christ before them, Mr. White and Mr. Harris, having only white undershirts to wear on that late winter's day, suffered for the common good of everyone. How dare Miss Booth question the motives of people such as this? It is appalling. If Miss Booth had put any effort into this article, she would've known that, with the profit they did make, Mr. White and Mr. Harris lessened financial burdens attached to future "MiLES" T-Shirt owners by reinvesting it into the production of more "MiLES" T-Shirts.

Furthermore, who is Martha Booth to question the fiscal responsibility of two upstanding young men such as Mr. White and Mr. Harris? If, indeed, Mr. White and Mr. Harris were making the kind of profit that Miss Booth insinuates, chances are that they would have invested it in one of their many charities such as GreenPeace or The Tsunami Relief Fund. It is disgusting that Miss Booth would assume that Mr. White and Mr. Harris would do anything non-productive with that, albeit a small amount, of money. What do you think Miss Booth would've done with the said twenty seven dollars? This is, of course, a hypothetical seeing as how Miss Booth is too lazy and complacent to check her facts on her lackluster joke of an article, much less plan, organize, and carry out something as big as "MiLES" T-Shirts. Regardless, in the hypothetical situation, I think I have a pretty good idea of where that money will go.

Miss Booth would've swayed and moved, danced and grooved to the beat of the black market chemicals persistently drumming somewhere in the back of her mind. She moves at the speed of light through a brightly colored, hyperreal sense of euphoria. Overwhelmed by bliss, Miss Booth is rendered unable to speak properly, choosing instead to communicate only through various moans, whimpers, and the occasional "Oh, my God". Then, slowly but surely, she transitions into an oblivion darker than her own soul. Waking up the next morning in an unknown bed, in an unknown place, Miss Booth realizes that she is twenty-seven dollars poorer and has nothing to show for it, save a new dark blue spot to add to her collection on the infrared picture of her brain.

I can rest easily at night knowing that Mr. White and Mr. Harris would never participate in such hedonism. Unlike Miss Booth, they are not beings of self-worship. They, instead, opt for increasing the common good of those around them, rather than squandering their resources on meaningless intangibles.

Though I focus over ninety-nine percent of the blame for this outrage on Miss Booth herself, I will say that the editors and advisors of The Free Press should monitor Miss Booth's future articles more closely. Be aware that this person is lazy, and is clearly contented to do unsatisfactory work. She is, therefore, dangerous to the credibility of The Free Press. The editors of this otherwise exceptional publication, shouldn't hesitate to permanently silence Miss Booth if she speaks sardonically of Mr. Bugg, or anyone else, again in the future. Though it might be so in Miss Booth's drug-fueled wonderland, in reality, calling someone's face "big and juicy" is not a complement.

I can only hope that the editors and advisors at The Free Press will sequester Miss Booth; give her a thorough chastising over this indecent slander; and force her to write, sign, and publish a retraction, apology, and correction of this most foul slight against Mr. Bugg and all involved with the project.

Here at Montevallo, I'm forced to read USA Today because it's either that or The Birmingham News, and I'd rather eat glass than read that bullshit.

Anyway, I've decided that USA Today, in addition to their utterly pointless illustrated graphs, is also the funniest newspaper in the world.

Most notably in the comedy department, USA Today provides us with a section called "Across the USA". This happens to be my favorite section. The idea is to take the main news story from every state in the union, and fit it all on 3/4 of a page. Today's edition of "Across the USA" was particularly hilarious. I will now share with you just a bit of "news" from all over the country:

Alabama:

A prisoner serving a life sentence and awaiting transfer to a state prison was inadvertently released from the Montgomery County jail last month and is still at large.

Arkansas:

State Senator Jay Bradford's eight year fight to ban bottle rockets in Arkansas fizzled in committee.

Michigan:

A man was charged with beating his mother to death with an electric guitar. Margaret Besola, 53, was found bludgeoned to death in her home, police said. Her son, Emil Batayeh, 29, was arraigned on a charge of second degree murder. Bateyah was previously charged with felony charge for attacking his mother with a barbell.

and finally, the best one...

Idaho:

A woman accused of scalping a 15 year-old girl in January will stand trial on July 13. Marianne Dahle, 26, pleaded not guilty to aggravated battery in a hearing last week. If convicted, she could spend 15 years behind bars. Police accuse Dahle of bringing the girl to Kirkham Hot Springs in January and scalping her for "a personal slight."

Finally it came. My very first Spring Break as a college student. The experience would be one to remember.

I left my dormitory in Montevallo at around 2:30 PM, with the intention of making it back to Auburn at 5 o'clock (on time for my delightful job at Chick-Fil-A).

I was cruising along I-65 South, and everything was going fine. I was jamming out to the new Beck CD, Guero. By the way: If you don't have this CD yet, you are missing out on my candidate for album of the year. I understand it's a little early, but it's just that fucking good.

Anyway, I was making my way, and everything was going fine until...



WHAM! Massive traffic jam. There I sat for the next hour and forty five minutes. My exuberance for the upcoming break quickly wore off when faced with this shitty turn of events.

After taking some back roads, I eventually ended back up in "the loveliest village on the plains." Unfortunately, I had to go to my job at "the ugliest strip mall ever conceived by man on the plains," TigerTown.



The situation was made worse by the appearance of this incredible moonrise over the azure sky in the spring dusk. I'm a pagan dammit. This is my night to burn potions and sacrifice vermin to the moon goddess. FUCK!



On my final approach into TigerTown, I noticed that we're getting a TARG! Yay!

I got to work, and endured hours of dish washing with no help at all from some Beauregard bitch. That's a vague term where I work considering that everyone is from Beauregard. Anyway, this girl was supposed to rinse and sanitize dishes after I washed them. Instead, she opted to go around tickling people and leaving me all by my lonesome at the sink. This wouldn't have been a problem were it the middle of the day. However, the store was closed and I was ready to go the fuck home and this stupid, braindead, Beauregard, whore was the only thing standing in my way. I didn't get out of that place until 11 because of that bitch. Soaking wet and angry, I made the drive home. I noticed on the way that I was experiencing that "I'm going to be sick in the next day or two" feeling (Throat scratchy, extra phlegm, etc).

Indeed, I woke up the next morning unable to breathe through my nose and a bit of a fever, I think, maybe. Anyway, I was kind of sick, it 5:30 in the morning, and I definitely didn't want to go to work at six. In the DVD that we watched for Chick-Fil-A it said "Even if you're just a little bit sick, don't come to work. Even if you need the hours." Well, I was a little bit sick, I didn't go to work, and I could care less about my hours. So, with that, I called Chick-Fil-A to send my regrets of my inability to work.

I slept so good for so long. Then, when I woke up, I found a surprise, a letter on my desk that read:

Dear Rivers,

We are staying with John and Georgia in Atlantic Beach, FL. Be back Tuesday.

Love,
Mom and Dad

Could my luck have been any better? No, no it couldn't have. Despite the sickness, I invited some friends over for a great time. Matt, Miles, Richard, and I had a nice dining experience at my house Friday night.



I stole some of my parents Smoking Loon Merlot. Despite what Paul Giamatti says, merlot is great. Matt said it tasted like earwax. Silly goose!



On the menu for the evening was Red Beans and Rice.









A good time was had by all.



After everyone left, it was time for bed. I took this heaping handful of medicine, and retired.

I woke up Saturday feeling a bit better, but I decided that there was still a possibility that I could accidentally land a phlegm bomb in the chicken nuggets via a sickly cough or otherwise respiratory disruption. So, sent my regards in for Saturday as well. Saturday brought together another gathering, this time at Casa de Kinnucan.

I found out that Trent has somehow locked himself and whatever motley crew of volunteers he can muster in as the house band for Project Graduation. We quickly banded together everyone who could play an instrument, and some who cant (Trent and myself) and formed what will prove to be the greatest rock band in the history of Planet Earth:



Comprised of a rotating door of talent, Spectacular Vernacular (Thanks to Sean-dogg for the name) had it's first jam session.















Suddenly, the fun came to an end:



Well, sort of. Actually we just hid the broken blade around the corner. I'm not really sure if Trent knows about this yet. If not, Surprise Buddy!

That night, it was time to get down to the get down at Trent's house. After a bunch of sketchy 10th graders left, things kicked into high gear.



Well, not really, but it was pretty fun all the same. Sean did some tubular drawings. (I know that's at my house, but I had to throw the picture in somewhere).

The highlight of the night came when Matthew decided that it was time to fry up some omelets. Enticed by the allure of said food, Miles quickly asked Matt to make him an omelet as well. Matt agreed, but not before putting expired pepperoni (at Miles' request) into the omelet. It's at this point that Trent and I entered the picture. We decided that what the omelet really needed was some PowerBar Carb Boost Apple Cinnamon Flavored Energy Gel. This is the nastiest shit ever devised by the minds of men. So we poured an entire package of that in there, along with the diseased pepperoni. Then, just to add a little zing, I put in some Dawn Dish Liquid Soap. By doing so, I overruled the objections of Matt, but, Hey, he didn't die, did he Matt? No. No he didn't. Anyway, we cooked the omelet and fed it to Miles. He ate the WHOLE FUCKING THING. The best part came halfway through the omelet when Miles said: "Did you guys put soap in here?" After the utterance, he continued eating. It was foul to say the least.

After Miles left to go sit on the shitter for what must've been hours, the remaining members of the party (that being Trent, Sean, and myself) gathered in the living room to watch television.





Trent didn't last long.

With the owner sound asleep, Sean and I moved in for the kill in the kitchen.



Unable to locate any acceptable food in the Kinnucan's vast pantry, Sean settled on some wheat germ which he found was quite acceptable, as per the look on his face.

Famished and still pseudosickly, I returned back to my big empty house.

Easter Sunday dawned bright and beautiful. Maybe not, I can't remember. I just know that we went to the creek one of those days, and I can't remember which. So, good enough!



Like I said, we went to a very swollen Saugahatchee. Here are the shots:















On the way back I noticed a roaming tribe of bedowins. It rocked... the Kasbah.

One night, the storm came. (At this point, I've lost all track of days, times, etc. Just bear with)

We were at Richards. Meanwhile there was a Macbeth-esque storm brewing outside. We decided to move it onto the patio to watch the lightning.



Chandler was so excited, he climbed a tree.



Then he realized he was in a tree... during a lightning storm.



He was okay after that though.

When it really started coming down, we moved inside. This resulted in an impromptu jam.









It was tons-o-fun.



It rained all night long, creating a knee-deep puddle in the middle of my street.



One day we went out to Kiesel Park and painted rocks.





Conor had fun.



There was even a nice sunset to cap off that particular day, whatever day it might have been.

One of the most notable main events of the break happened on the last day of the break, Sunday night. While putting up posters for the Green Lemon show (EARTHDAY: THIS SATURDAY DAVIS ARBORETUM 4:00 PM) I saw my acquaintance, Orange, working at The Wall Street Deli. He told me that Ryder was having a BBQ at his house that night. I had to go. I called up Caroline and Adam and we went.



When we arrived, Ryder greeted us with joy. He also uttered the funniest/saddest thing that I've ever heard:

Caroline: I'm planning to go to Southern Union for two years and then transfer to Auburn or wherever.
Ryder: My acne is getting better...

It was so sad... and yet, HILARIOUS.



He then started to play with cutlery.





Everyone was cooling out, when Orange noticed that I was taking pictures. A Kodak moment indeed, Orange grabbed the knife from Ryder and they posed for these pictures:





Yeah.



Orange is a scary looking dude. He's scary looking, but is gentle in reality.



This is one of the best pictures I've taken in a while.



Meanwhile, I improved my mad BMX skills,



Austin caught-up on some reading,





Ms. Tina rocked the hell out of a cowbell,



"No pictures please" says Chad,



Caroline showed me her crazy facial abilities,



Brian showed me why he's going to be the next Tony Hawk,



Chad showed me why he's going to be the next Les Claypool,



and Jose showed us all how he makes the camera work for him.



Then, some random dirty hippie showed up and stunk the whole place up with the overwhelming smell of B.O. Get a job you worthless piece of shit!

Unable to stand the intense odor coming from this lowlife, Caroline and I moved into Ryder's room.





When we walked in, Ryder was completely passed out on the chair in his room. He was non-responsive, but still breathing. I deemed this a good time to fuck with him:



Wow, I didn't know that Ryder liked to look at naked pictures of Ron Jeremy. Gross! (By the Way: You're welcome for the penis shielding).

The position he was in reminded me of something... What was is?... Oh yeah:



The Death of Marat







I began covering Ryder in tons of random shit strewn about the place. Then, I took the above pictures and then quietly (not that it mattered, the man was OUT) removed all the stuff.



Then, just to see what would happen, I began violently shaking the chair he was in. This gave us the scariest moment of the night when we thought he might have been dead. I shook the chair and Ryder just slid out onto the floor. Just when I was getting mildly concerned, he got up and hurled himself down on the bed only inches away from the chair. Caroline and I decided that we should start writing cryptic shit on his hands. I deemed this much more clever and hilarious than the usual dick and Swastika markings that typically show up on passed out people. So, I went to work:



"All the answers you seek are at 227 Ross Street." Ryder told me later that he actually contemplated visiting this address. I don't know if this is even a real address, but Ryder seems convinced that it's the police station.



REPENT!



I was particularly proud of the one on his wrist. The rose came out much better than I expected.

Realizing that 100 miles away, my 3:00 class awaited me the next day, I left Ryder's. I also managed to snag Bob Dylan's Bootleg Series Volumes 1-3 on the way out for burn and return purposes. When I came back last Thursday to give it back, it wasn't hard convincing Ryder that I hadn't stolen it:

Rivers: Here ya go.
Ryder: You fuckin' stole this?
Rivers: No dude, you said I could borrow it last Sunday
Ryder:...Oh, yeah okay.
Rivers: You were pretty fucked up.
Ryder: Yeah, ha ha ha.



So that was my Spring Break.

Sorry for the lack of update. I've been sort of busy. Well, actually I haven't. I'm just fucking lazy. Deal with.