The Water God’s Balloon Tree of Destiny

In terms of the arts, I am what you would call an ultra-sophisticated hardcore latte-sipping Apple-using artiste. Of course, that’s only if you don’t count the artiste, Apple-using, latte-sipping, hardcore and ultra-sophisticated parts. But still, I’m one ultra-artistic individual. Or at least, now that I’m in college.

All right, all right. Realistically, I am the spawn of rednecks whose concept of awesome art boils down to posters of wolves and mountains all over the house. At my house, we have numerous rooms, named primarily by the type of art we have in them. For example, one room is named the “Wolf Room”, where I keep my wolf memorabilia. We have our “Living Room”, named for the pictures of buffalo we have on the wall facing the big-screen TV. In addition, we also have real life in our living room, in the form of various types of mold floating about in the air from the remains of childrens’ forgotten peanut butter sandwiches. We have a “Lego Room”, where I keep my urbane and sophisticated Lego bricks; and our “Utility Room”, where we keep our fine wines and soda pop.

And yes, we have Pepsi Throwback. And sardines. That is the kind of sophistication my family has.

Anyway, my artistic background goes along these lines. And so for me, building my Water God costume was the highlight of the art I have created so far. The Water God is a noble concept, one which I pondered for quite a long time before I finally got around to actually building it. I built it in the hopes that I can get into architecture school and design buildings for a living, because, let’s be honest here, Legos can only go so far, and whenever I have ambitions of building a working radio station out of Lego bricks my ambitions have gone where Legos can carry me no further.

The Water God, or Water Pope, consists of a rain slick and a large cone-shaped hat made of cardboard and duct tape. Out of the top sticks a sprinkler head, which shoots water up five feet in the air. I wear gloves with water hoses duct-taped to them. When somebody turns on the garden hose, water shoots out of my wrists, out the top of my hat, and out a water spigot attached to my nose, because I also attached a garden hose there.

Don’t laugh! I really did build this contraption! I can’t show pictures of it yet, but the basic gist of the concept is that I was required to build something that would enable me to do something I otherwise could not do. My decision was that, although touching both ends of a room with your fingertips would be cool, it was nothing like being able to shoot water from your head, nose and wrists at the same time.

Out at the back of the art building at my school I was standing, in this dark raincoat and black cone-shaped hat, with blue tape attached to make it look like  a tribal mask, and when the water came out, the feeling was electric. I was the Water God. I could shoot water from my head, nose and wrists at the same time! It was a powerful feeling. And, best of all, I didn’t get wet, except for my shoes.

My latest project, the Balloon Tree of Destiny, is set to be wayyyyy cooler than even the Water God. It only requires standard household balloons, duct tape, fifty feet of water hose, at least a dozen water bottles, a Home Depot “Homer Bucket”, several packets of yeast, sugar, water, aluminum foil, and probably at least one Anglican priest. In the end, however, it transforms into something beautiful: A giant thing made of balloons, hose and duct tape that kind of looks like a tree if you squint really hard.

This is going to be a powerful statement regarding trees, generally. Trees are important to me. They are green, and green is my favorite color, and sometimes trees have squirrels in them, which are adorable furry woodland creatures that you can hug and get mauled by.

The Balloon Tree of Destiny is a dissection of Man’s respect and reverence of trees. It represents themes as complex as the ancient caveman, who liked to pretend that trees had evil spirits in them, which they don’t; everybody knows that trees are inanimate objects, they have as much life as a pencil sharpener or a rock. My project represents Johnny Appleseed, who, as with my project, proved that a man with far too much time on his hands can do incredible things that nobody with half a brain would ever do, such as plant apple trees all over New England, or build a pretend tree out of garden hose and inflatable balloons. My project represents emos, via the very famous tree in California that you can drive through, because that tree had a hole in it that no emo’s ear piercing can ever match.

And, frankly, my tree represents God. Much more so, in fact, than a Water God ever could. Water Gods may come and go, but a tree will always serve as a natural lightning rod, and that’s something a Water God could probably do if he felt like it. So there.

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Homosexuality and Bellybuttons: The Chilling Connection

A gerbil burrowing through the anus of mankind.

The Internet is like a gerbil in the anus of the human race. It burrows deep down into our collective colons, finding all of that information which we, in previous generations, would have had the necessary self-consciousness to keep ourselves from revealing, because we, as humans, used to know that this information was not intended to be known by either God or man. In previous generations, as just one example, Paris Hilton would have been dragged through the streets and stoned. In today’s politically-correct society, she is dragged through the tabloids and…

NO! I’m sorry, but I just can’t keep writing like this. Not with what I have been informed of today at school, by a person whose name musn’t be mentioned but who I will refer to as “Paul” anyway because I laugh in the face of danger. He has informed me that, in three of my last four blog postings, I have mentioned men sticking things into their anuses, such as dry ice and gerbils. I also referred to Carlsbad Caverns as “the anus of New Mexico”, referred to Mega Bloks’ pirate minifigures as “ass-pirates”, and said that the LEGO company’s character Danju, a knight with a purple suit and a wolf on his shield, was gay. He has therefore asked me whether or not I am gay.

In case you are wondering, yes, Paul is a weinerface. So, Paul, who I will now refer to as “the weinerface”, has suggested that I might be gay, and, Hawley-Smoot tarrifs and Kaycee Posts notwithstanding, this will simply not work. The word “anus” cannot be used to such extremes on this blog, especially if it makes it seem as if I prefer the company of other men (I don’t! Really!! Honest!!!). So I find it necessary to post this, the Anus-Free version of The Luigiian. It is factual and correct, in which I write a page-long essay about my bellybutton, because it is dry right now and I fear for it. I aim to please.


My bellybutton is an important part of me. It is a part that penetrates deep into me. It is fleshy and surrounded by large mounds of fat. The area around my bellybutton is hairy; this allows sweat and debris to accumulate inside it, and this, naturally, makes my bellybutton somewhat smelly and fetid, not unlike Paul, the weinerface. It is, in short, a part of my body which God gave me to remind me that, no matter how “civilized” and “X-TREME” and “intelligent” the human race becomes, there will always be a part of every one of us human beings where the unmistakeable smell of hooman will continue to linger.

To attempt to recreate this smell without using actual smell: hoooooooooooooooommmmannnnnn…

And so, as I listen to Invisible Touch by Genesis and sit writing this, I think of my bellybutton, for it has become dry. I fear for my bellybutton. Bellybuttons are supposed to be moist, are they not, moist like a baby’s bottom? This fear–the fear that my bellybutton is too dry–haunts me.

And so I go on with my everyday life, living with only the knowledge that my bellybutton is dry and troubling, and that something terrible may happen because of it. Hell, I may even write a terrible blog post about it that Paul the Weinerface will use to make fun of me at school.

ATTENTION NOW I WILL WRITE ABOUT MY MATH CLASS, WHICH IS GAY. PLEASE TO BE ADVISED.

Speaking of school, my math class is becoming quite a pain, as my grade goes deeper and deeper into the depths of sadness and pain. Nearly every person in my math class is currently “in the hole”, so to speak. People are becoming concerned for their grades, which continue to penetrate deeper and deeper into the bowels of depression. It is, in short, really, really, gay, what is going on in my math class. Gayer even–this will shock you, you should know, before I reveal this to you–gayer than Michael Jackson or (God forbid) Richard Simmons.

And so, like so many times in the history of this site, I am left without a magical fairy wand with which to solve my deep, dark problems. Oh, yes, they are dark. They are as dark as dark chocolate inside of a mine shaft, unpenetrated by light of any kind. And they are indeed deep, as deep as the Carlsbad Caverns which so adorns our southern New Mexico with its glance deep into the bowels of the Earth.

May I see you next week. And may your bellybutton continue to be moist and fetid.


…And so finally, is the Internet like the squirrel, for it can hold many acorns in its plump, accomodating cheeks. Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m done with that. Yeah, sorry for all that. I hope you liked today’s article. If not, you have Paul to thank.

…And I still have yet to see our history teacher’s Hawley Smoots, Paul.

…Weinerface.

New Horizons and New Wolf Dolls: The Joys of Santa Jesus

Lupe and Jack 1st Panel Lupe and Jack 2nd Panel Lupe and Jack 3rd Panel Lupe and Jack 4th Panel

The holiday season is a time of love, a time of caring, a time for our Lord and Savior Santa Jesus, and, most importantly, an excellent time for one to scare the shit out of himself.

Perhaps you think that I’m crazy. Maybe you think, as you’ve thought so many times before, that Old Uncle Lupe who Thinks He’s a Wolf-Person has “went off the deep end” again, and that he’s proposing crazy ideas.

You would be wrong. An important factor in making a New Years Resolution inherently involves scaring the shit out of oneself come Christmastime. A New Years’ Resolution typically involves self-purification. In order to purify yourself, you have to get rid of the impurities in your body, i.e. through shitting. And in order to shit, especially during these constipated times, it is often necessary to confront yourself with something truly scary, such as Michael Jackson (the artist formerly known as Wacko Jacko).

Thus, it was my mission this holiday season to scare myself until I was finally able to go to the bathroom again. This process was delayed for a very long while, because of Thanksgiving turkey.

But I was finally able to go to the bathroom, thanks in no small part to David Hopkins, whose grim-reaper character Jack is featured in the last panel above. I will do a review on Hopkins’ magnum opus next week, and you should thank me, really, because I spared you the agony of reading it.

All right, then, but you ask, “How did your Christmas go, Lupe the Lobo or Justin or whatever the hell you call yourself?” And I say, quite swimmingly. Let’s go to the board, shall we? “Lupe/Justin’s Board of Christmassyness”, we shall call it.

  1. I get off school until late January. If you are currently in high school or are working a full-time job, I am laughing at you right now, through your computer screen.
  2. I haven’t found evidence that David Hopkins is not in an insane asylum.
  3. You don’t know who he is.
  4. This is for your own good.
  5. The fact that you don’t know who I am is probably a good thing, too.
  6. I got a new wolf doll. (Update 12/27/07 12:12 AM MST: I am hugging him right now, along with my other wolf dolls Aurora and Amarook, and my Corgi doll Ein.)
  7. As usual, I have slacked in my LEGO orders, which should be finished by the time Easter is finished, and these orders shall transform my city of dead plastic people into an even larger city of dead plastic people with more plastic crap attached.
  8. I got a remote controlled helicopter that doesn’t work.

In addition to all of this, I got fishing gear which I cannot use, new underwear, and hopefully a girlfriend by New Years’. I know that that last present is a bit farfetched, but I figure, with all the outsourcing to China our nation is doing, I should be able to get a girlfriend, even if I have to pay first class mail to get her.

My mother has found a man. It has been her personal dream, for many years, to finally find her “Mr. Right”, and during Christmas dinner, she announced that she found him. There is this man made of coffee cans in our front room, you see, and as I stooped over to get away from the table after dinner, I hit this tin man with my head, and, being the kindhearted individual she is, my mother told me not to “hit her man”. I think I hear wedding bells in the distance, although that could just be the clanking of the coffee cans.

So anyway, I’m looking forward to writing yet another comic post, and my review will be forthcoming. In the meantime, be rest assured that I do not care about your sexuality, race, gender, creed or religion. Your personality and facial features are almost assuredly enough to make me hate you.

It’s Time for MOAR DRAMA PLZ K THX: My Girl Relations

Hello Drama Girl Posts

Last time I attended a presentation by a speaker, I attended a “First Friday Fractals” exhibit by one Jonathan Wolfe, a man apparently obsessed with repeating patterns in geometry. On this occasion, I attended a presentation by a man obsessed with putting iron sticks into a fire, and then hitting them repeatedly with large sticks. This obsession, called “blacksmithing”, is an important concept in the history of the human race, as it has given us nails, which us humans use to put pieces of wood together. These pieces of wood form houses, and these houses form timber with which large fires can be started, often destroying all of the furniture inside, which incidentally is also made of wood and nails.

I mention this not because I am obsessed with fires, but rather, because I want to discuss girls again.

I know, I know, I hear the howling peals of laughter through my little online audience. I know that in the past, whenever I discussed girls, it invariably involved law enforcement officials beating me with sticks. I also realize, however, that my torment is an outlet of incredible enjoyment for you, my Internet audience. So I have decided once again to discuss my relationships with the womenfolk, no matter how strained they are or how embarrassed I am at my geekiness. I aim to please.

Chapter I of my Odyssey with the Womenfolk:

I am currently friends with a girl named Shari, of whom I know very little, excepting of the details with which she has divulged to me. These details are indeed quite interesting. For example:

  • She gets irritated whenever I start talking nonstop about pickup trucks and how much it pisses me off that they quit making the Subaru Baja.
  • By the time a person has drank three-fourths of a bottle of Mountain Dew, according to Shari, “85% of the liquid is backwash.”
  • She has a boyfriend.

These facts, when taken together, leave only one possible outcome, namely: that I need to spend more time talking to Shari about her interests. Unfortunately, this is not possible, because while I live in a pink double-wide mobile home on the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico, Shari has a dorm in central Albuquerque, New Mexico, and I am afraid to drive my car any distance further than a mile, because it is a Ford. This means that we have had to communicate primarily in class, and because we are both afraid of getting any lower than a B-plus in any class our discussions are primarily related to the “classroom material”, which in this case amounts to Cadillacs buried in the ground by some Rich White Person.

My chances of any meaningful relationship with Shari are strained, primarily because I have now written about her ON THE INTERNET, but also based upon my almost universal track record with women, which usually involves my untimely demise and unnecessary hatred and random death. Thus, I give this relationship a four out of five stars.

Chapter II of my odyssey with the womenfolk:

I have been conversing with a girl I know in one of my classes named Quian. I think that’s how her name is spelled. She is very nice and does not seem to hate me. I have learned the following:

  • She is an actual artist.
  • She is from China.
  • She also has a boyfriend.

These facts, when taken as a whole, suggest one possible outcome, namely, that I need to learn to speak Chinese. This would allow me a realm of possibilities, not just in this particular situation, but also when China takes over the United States for the usage of our women. My abilities would also come in handy with discussing possible takeovers of American corporations by the Chinese, particularly Chrysler, which just needs to die.

My chances of any meaningful relationship with Shari Quian are strained, primarily because I have now written about her ON THE INTERNET, but also based upon my almost universal track record with women, which usually involves my untimely demise and unnecessary hatred and random death. Thus, I give this relationship a four out of five stars.

Chapter III of my odyssey with the womenfolk:

I have also attempted to be friends with another girl I know, Brittany, who I have known since high school. I have also had little time to talk to her. I have learned the following:

  • Apparently, Kaycee’s little sister is very different from Kaycee, the Girl of Pure and Ultimate Beauty.
  • She (Brittany) works at a deli.
  • She, too, has a boyfriend.

These facts, when taken as a whole, suggest that I should probably stop talking about Kaycee. Just guessing from the amounts of hatemail I am going to get regarding this post I can honestly say that I will never forgive myself for having written this, ever, and I feel considerably saddened by the fact that I had to be told specifically that Kaycee, the Girl of Ultimate Beauty’s little sister is far different from Kaycee herself. These facts make me cry inside. I do not like Kaycee’s sister.

After all, Kaycee’s sister is too young for me.

My chances of any meaningful relationship with Kaycee Brittany are strained, primarily because I have now written about her ON THE INTERNET, but also based upon my almost universal track record with women, which usually involves my untimely demise and unnecessary hatred and random death. Thus, I give this relationship a three out of five stars, assuming that her boyfriend does not kill me.

I hope that I have enlightened you on my current situation, and I also hope that you are laughing, assuming of course that you have not whipped out your shotguns and are planning my untimely demise as I sleep peacefully. At the very least, please do not be too mean. My current relationships are bad enough.


Tell me what you think! email me: Luigirepublic@aol.com


Wisdom Tooth Removal: As Painful As Pulling Teeth

On Sunday, we made our historic trek back from the mountains. Yet the worst was to come. We made our way to the Quarters, a local barbecue grill, as my last meal before evil was to come to my poor mouth. I ordered a shrimp sandwich with salad and the like.

I could not enjoy my sandwich.krystal_humor1.png

The next day, I awoke, knowing, deep down inside, that I had not gotten any sleep, and that something odd was about to happen, because as I awoke from my slight slumber I began to make little howling noises for no apparent reason. Evil was to befall me, and soon. I became entrapped in the hands of Fate, knowing that I had to have my wisdom teeth removed. It was not negotiable, because wisdom teeth, like anything pertaining to wisdom in our society, simply cause trouble. If we wanted “wisdom” in our society, we would buy a medium-sized regular Coke, instead of a Gut-Buster 52-ounce Diet Coke filled with carbonation and Nutra-Sweet.

Although, to be fair, those teeth were becoming little bastards, causing me undue pain and frustration. They had become the Juvenile Delinquent Youth of my mouth, putting peer pressure on my teeth, trying to get them to do crack and smack and marijuana. They regularly performed drive-by shootings in my mouth, causing tiny cavities to form in my poor teeth. And, worst of all, they created these little pink lumps at the back of my mouth that got in the way when I tried to eat. If God had wanted us to have pink lumps at the back of our mouths, He would not have invented dental surgeons to take our money.

So anyway, we went to the doctor. Like the Beverly Hillbillies, in our family, everybody (that means me, my grandmother, and my mother) travels everywhere together. It should, of course, be no surprise to anybody that we drive a Ford pickup truck, and the only thing that is even remotely foreign in our yard is a Ford Escape, which is actually a rebadged Mazda. So, on this trip, we all packed in and made our redneck way to the dental surgeon’s, which was owned by a man named Dr. Wheaton.

I was escorted to the back by a woman wearing a very cute lab coat, one with Snoopy on it. I think all dental surgeons should do this. It made me feel very calm, to the point that my blood pressure was only about 140 beats a minute as I wet myself going into the operatory.

Note: The only reason I know my heart rate at this point is because I could feel my heart beating in my chest. Also, I didn’t wet myself. That was only hyperbole. I think.

So, anyway, they strap my arms down, and put on all this equipment and electrodes and a mask on my nose, and I’m scared to death. I begin asking questions as they stick the IV in my arm.

“How are you?” the doctor asks.

“Fine, but… I thought I was supposed to be under general anesthesia”, I say. “So why am I still awake?

“Because we haven’t given you the anesthesia yet,” the doctor says.

So, anyway, in a couple minutes, I’m completely out. And whenever I come back through, we all pack back up into the car, and take me home, where I sleep for the rest of the day. Oh sure, I read webcomics a little later. But realistically, I didn’t play Dance Dance Revolution, and still have not, meaning that I’m pretty much wasting time. This is sad, but someday I’ll get back.

What I have been doing is surfing the Internet endlessly, as well as playing guitar and researching things I probably shouldn’t. Of course I have not prepared for college. There are more important things to do. Tomorrow, I’m going to get a new game for my Wii, and I’m going to eat some soft Chinese food, and I’m going to continue to not prepare for college, and I’m going to continue to research horrible things I shouldn’t be researching. Why? Because I’ve lost my wisdom teeth, which were what made me wise.

Although, to be fair, I did the exact same things before the surgery.

The High School Graduation Speech I Wish I Could Give

Update (June 19, 2009): I originally wrote this article as a humorous piece to poke fun at an obsessive crush I had on a girl I knew at the time. She still does not like me. I doubt she even remembers who I am. Regardless, I keep this up, as I find it to be funny, and always did. I see no reason to take down what is and always was a sincere attempt at self-deprecation.

The New Face of My Graduation

Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight we are watching a beautiful thing–the passing of many children, many of whom have the exact same Ford Mustang car I wish I could have had five years ago, SAMANTHA, not to name names or anything–into adulthood, a time in which you are always expected to stay at work every day, with no hope of a spring or summer break unless you’re a teacher, in which case you are forced to deal with children, so it seems as if the hassle isn’t worth it. Tonight we also watch me kiss Kaycee, who is sitting behind me and who is just asking for it, seeing as how she is so cute and…No! I mean, ahem, we are here with many beautiful women, including Kaycee, behind me, Kaycee, also behind me, Kaycee, behind me as well, Kaycee, who is also behind me, and of course, Kelly, Caroline, Allie, and many others, none of whom would date me, no matter how much I begged or pleaded. But it is, by far, Kaycee whom I think deserves this ceremony the most; who worked the hardest; who was always the smartest; who was beautiful in every way except that she wouldn’t date me. And then there’s Kelly, but I’ve gotten over her. I know she’ll never date me.

There have been many sad times in my life. One of the saddest was waiting for my cap-and-gown outside school in one-hundred degree heat, getting the sunburn that makes wearing this damned costume unbearable, and watching everybody else cut in line in front of me. Another was beginning to write a blog that nobody read no matter how much I actually wrote. And then there was finding out that I was too late to get a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship, thereby making less money in scholarships (I only get a measly $5000 a year for a $4000 a year college) than Kaycee did. What girl would date a guy that couldn’t get the top scholarship in college, I ask you? Not Kaycee.

Oh hell with it, the rest of this speech is going to be me talking about how much I like Kaycee. I wish I could say I love her, to the bottom of my heart, from her face to her sandaled feet, but I cannot, such as she has never actually said anything more to me than “hi”, and that’s only if I pester her, so I can’t really tell. But I have a longing, deep in my heart, deeper even than the cockles, but not quite down to the loinal regions, for Kaycee. She is beauty incarnate. She is everything that makes life worth living. Seeing her face–even when, no, especially when–she is telling me to give her her space–is why I went to school all these days, and why I wanted to become class valedictorian.

Now, Kaycee is not valedictorian of this class, or however the hell you spell that word, but you have to understand, in order for a peon like myself to ever have a chance of loving the nymph that is Kaycee–even at a court-mandated distance–I must be even smarter than she is. Otherwise, I am not worthy to even kiss her feet, even though that is exactly what I am going to do as soon as I am finished with this speech. She is everything to me, she is beauty, she is wisdom, she is love, she is kindness, she is law, she is the universe and every planet, every star, every meteor that makes orbit around the infinite expanse of the universe. She is the ultimate reason of every law of physics that was ever written by the feeble mind of Man, and all the creations of Universe were put into place so that she could exist–the reason God created the Universe itself. Just for her.

Now, I’m sure you realize most of this speech is hyperbole, and that my obsession with Kaycee is most likely little more than a high-school crush, an insignificant speck in the vast wasteland of my life, littered with sadness and darkness, tinged here and there with the slightest specks of lights, of which much of Kaycee is; but for this moment, she is here, and I am here, and at this very moment my very existence hinges upon Kaycee’s sitting right behind me, within the closest reach, a beautiful butterfly which I will allow to exit my life as abruptly and as haltingly as it had entered it. It is only this moment that matters; and this moment is not merely a speck in many ways; it is a highlight, it is a footing. It is something which gives me stability, and thus life; it would be without the stability of my obsessions that I would collapse in a vortex of my own making, like that of a star which, being too large for the laws of the Universe, collapses into a supernova and black hole, which sucks up all the light around it and loses all light which it once had.

Now, I suppose I’m supposed to get back on track here, to something about this graduation. I will say this: There is little to be said that has not already been said. Awards have been given, most of the fluff has passed away, tests are finished, the year is over, with only a long, long time of passing between this year and the next. What is left is to tie the loose ends, end that which must be ended, and close this year. And thus it is over. If someone else wants to add to that which has already been finished, I ask you to come now and make your peace. To all else, I say: The year is over; thus it is finished.

The Wonderful Art of Squirrel Drawing and The Corporation

I think corporations hate America.

I know you’re wondering why. After all, there’s so little evidence, either than gas-guzzling SUVs, gigantic amounts of food that make your stomach close to explode whenever you go to an American restaurant, video game systems that cost upwards of $250 (and video game designers that stupidly make video games only for the most expensive systems like the PlayStation 3), Britney Spears, spinach, Chevrolet, and of course, Taco Bell, which is well known not only for being a hotbed for every disease known to mankind but also as America’s fart factory, where there are so many beans in every dish that you wonder whether or not you’re actually eating British food rather than Mexican. (Yes, I know there are beans in Mexican food; Taco Bell makes its food extra-British by making it at least twice as disgusting as any other Mexican food in existence, with the possible exception of fish tacos from Taco Depot, which I will not try because I respect my stomach.) I’m used to looking on car websites and knowing that Ford Motor Company has brand new designs for both a crew-cab compact pickup Ranger and new Ford Focus, only they won’t take them to the U.S. because they say they can’t “afford” to, still managing to stealthily sneak the topic of Americans buying cars from them damn Japs in Japan into their advertising. (My feeling? If you can’t bring your best cars to the country you’re in because you don’t “have enough money”, you’re cheating America. Maybe we should buy Japanese cars in protest, Ford? Or will you just try to make us feel bad some more? Huh? WHAT?! YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME, YOU BITCH!?!?)

Anyway, so I’m used to all of that. (Kind of.) But I’m depressed at Nitrome.

Nitrome is a little Internet video game maker that I go to occasionally because they let you play creative video games for free. It’s fairly nice, even if everything on the site happens to be pink. And one of the games they have is called “Tanked Up.”

Do not play this game.

I don’t know who made it, but I’m guessing it’s Satan. On its second level, the game becomes shooting other tanks rather than racing (which is what the game is supposedly about). To me, this is absolutely wrong, and Nitrome is to blame. They are also to blame for this squirrel video game that reminded me of a girl at my school named Kaycee, who kind of looks cute like a squirrel. But these squirrels were not cute like Kaycee. They had these weird-looking noses, and they used a trampoline to save baby chicks falling out of the sky (probably their mother was giving birth in midair). I feel that this is also Satanic.

My solution is to execute everybody who has ever made a Nitrome game. For good measure, anybody who has ever seen or played a Nitrome game, except for me, should be sent straight to prison. Everybody else should go to Detroit carrying pitchforks to force Ford (by force) to release one of its new crew-cab Rangers to the U.S. Preferably a hybrid. Also green with sheepskin seatcovers.

This solves the Nitrome problem, but not the squirrel and food problem within the United States. People who are allowed to draw squirrels, even for fun, should be licensed professionals. Squirrel drawing is one of the few true art forms left (the others include rap and beach volleyball); it is not something that can be picked up within a week, or even, in some cases, a lifetime. These squirrels should either be drawn “cute style”, like Kaycee or reindeer, or “realistic style”, such as a real squirrel.

NOTICE: I would just like to make it clear that I do not like the girl at my school named Kaycee. I see her as looking like a cross between a crazed monk and a squirrel, and she looks British. I just like to talk about her every single post because I think that squirrels are funny. That is all.

Finally, a word about restaurant food. Please make your portions smaller before we all die of GAAACK WHEEZE COUGH CLUTCH CHEST PAINFULLY