Thank YOU FOR SLAYING ME WITH YOUR inside information

Yes, customer, yes its true, your friend may have gotten an out-of-warranty repair for free both times he had the three red lights, but fuck your friend, that was Canada. Customer, I'm standing outside your bathroom window and there are three flashing red eyes coming in the mildew soaked window. You very well may have heard that the we were giving out free copies of Project G@TH*M, but we only give that to customers without flippers, and your warranty information does indicate two flippers out of a possible 4 appendages, so unfortunately there's little I Can do for you today, what I can recommend is a life of ignorant solitude, and I'd like to thank you for calling BOX customer care, you have a good holiday weekend.

FUCK OFF

I'm sorry for the coarse language broseph, your COFFEE CORNER weather-man [Andrew La Fontaine] just majorly shat himself here. Actually, I fell down and then shat myself, but the order isn't really important now is it. So have you ever seen that movie Goonies, where Chunk's all like walking around the basement in that room with the freezer with the dead guy in it, and he's walking, and then does that sort of half shuffle stop, and then's like, ice cream, I smell ice cream, that's basically what happens to me when I get near meth, I get a little tingle in my crotchel region and the little hairs on my neck stand straight up, before I really even know what's going on, its almost as if the region of my brain that makes me an involuntary breather and controls my heartbeat and circadian rhythms is way ahead of me in making a score, usually I find the parties with the best meth at them, but mostly in life, I'm just yelling into the camera like Shatner yelling KHAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN in STAR Trek, except I'm not yelling KHAN at all, I'm yelling MEEEEEETTTTTTTHHHHHH. I have an apartment, its small, and two roommates, who coincedentally enjoy meth as well, and often we'll all be sitting on my torn loveseat yelling MEEEEEETTTTTHHHHHH, just like Shatner would yell KHAAAAANNNNNNNNN, but I was getting a little leary of all this yelling, so I smashed this big forty bottle over my buddy Turk's head, cause he was sitting there yelling MEEEETTTTTHHHHH, and Turk makes this face like ACE in Stand By Me before he's about to totally stab that skinny Weshley Crusher dude, that ACE dude wasn't fucking around, he was like, that's it, you're dead, except I was totally frieked out, so I starting cry/running, just like Vern when he's running on the tracks with the train behind him, like that fat guy Abbot Costello when he saw the mummy, he totally smashed another forty bottle over my head, cause there wasn't anywhere to run in my tiny apartment, so I was friekin out even more now cause there was blood everywhere and then my friend Boobs comes in and he's all full of meth, and starts flailing his arms and shaking like Johnny Five in Short Circuit, like yelling that's it Oscar, I am really pissed off, and thrashing around and ripping all my posters down, and it's around now I start hearing like this manic giggling and I totally know its my stoner neighbors, those dudes totally piss me off, like not Predator Arnold, when he's yelling kill me, I'm right here, but more that helpless anger like Kindergarton Cop Arnold when the class is going nuts and no one is listening and he's yelling STOP IT, except, i'd be yelling, METH, I think him and I have the same sort of downturned corners of our mouths when we really get distressed, except I'm missing a bunch of teeth because I crave soda all the time, like all the time, boom goes the dynamite.

Back in the nineties, I had two perfectly good working eyes

But fortunately for my opponents in the world crossbow tournament, Lens-Crafters, and anyone else with a stake in me losing sight in my right eye (JAVA BOOTH you're not blameless here), specifically my right, not yours, my sight seems to be drifting into a tide of fuzziness. Considering the laundry list of mechanical malfunctions I've been experiencing since a previously blogged vehicle massacred a previously blogged family of ducks. My own physical health is well within the bounds of spiritually enacted failure, and eyesight appears to be a natural kickoff to what will certainly be a systematic failure of all bodily functions. So to those who know me, don't say I didn't warn you. But surely, none of those ducks could have had time to conjure some horrific curse against me and everything I hold dear in those few moments, surely none of them could have focused on the vehicle bearing down on them, much less the driver through a highly reflective windshield on a sunny August afternoon. And with some research, there is no history of fowl-to-human curses, little has been spoken at all about any kind of bird cursing humanity. But this gets me to thinking, will this incident in August be the end of all human-kind? Are the suggestions of a bird-flu epidemic more than just fear-mongering by a power-hungry government? And consequently, if you are the person singularly albeit accidentally responsible for the extinction of the entire human species are you given some sort of pity-amnesty in the next life? My guess on the matter is no, and that those who spent their mortal visits bettering mankind will fall on my soul like a pack of wild dogs. And since this is more than likely the case, I will now officially apologize for the upcoming bird-flu epidemic as I know several of you were only a few payments away from ipods and haggar slacks. COFFEE CORNER will be running a internet fundraiser of compassion for my eternal infamy and to raise the funds necessary for me to get some frieking glasses.

Sometimes, I just call it a big iron tower of shit and storm out of the room.

Mind you, they pulled out forty-three cubic inches of dust and resin from strangled fans, and a small peaceful colony of elves was found and exterminated in the harddrive, but the scientists at project Makwanza are baffled as to what really happened. For so long it was the terror of Austin, a silver hive of disobedience when so much individuality had fallen to the wayside. Then an evil painter emailed it the worst of kharma, and it died.

Tough Questions for the Easy Button, COFFEE CORNER INTERVIEWS the little red bitch.

Excerpts taken from interview conducted 1/26/06:
CC: You've been described a red pimple of kleptocracy for the underprivilaged of this country, what is your response this sentiment?
EB: Listen, I think these ideas started a couple years ago, back when no one had heard of me, and all I was doing was stealing tools from industrial construction sites, I mean, back then I still had to make a living like anyone else.
CC: Beverage?
EB: No thank you, I've been sober for twelve months now, a point I'm quite proud of, no thank you.
CC: Come on Easy Button, look at this cooler I have, stopped at the gas station and picked up ice, now I'll slowly load it bottle by bottle, looks good doesn't it...

We eventually both black out and come into consciousness only hours later, when I come to, The Easy Button is wearing a headband, blowing lines of coke on a glass coffee table, and talking to himself:

EB:I've been around this block twice now. Looking for something. A clue. I've been looking for clues and something led me back here. Yeah. So here I am. It could have been me, the one who was at Ringo's place when the shit went down. Hey. I know how it is. I've been there. We've all done bad things. We've all had those guilty feelings in our heart. I'm going to take your brain out of your head and wash it and scrub it and make it clean. I don't know. But I'm going to have to settle this. First we're going to check the hole and see what we can find. We're going to get nice and wet, and you're going to spread your legs. Oh, that's good. So you know me. You know my reputation. Thirteen inches of tough load, I don't treat you gently. That's right. I'm Brock Landers. So I'm going to be nice. So I'm going to be nice. So I'm going to be nice, I'm going to ask you one more time. Where the fuck is Ringo? I am a star. I'm a star, I'm a star, I'm a star. I am a big, bright, shining star. That's right.
CC:Huh?
EB: Oh sorry, I have to go.

COFFEE CORNER IS A FRIEND OF FOWL

And no one can say otherwise.

Goodnight Moon?

They don't give everyone a moonshot. While it has recently been popularized as a rather basic and uncomplicated process, any trip to the moon is quick to point out to you the basic difficulties in propelling your rancid meat carcass to an orbitting body millions of miles away. Now I like the moon like everyone else, I saw a very nice documentary on the moon recently on television and as the TV says I do. So consequently, in explaining the amount of toil necessary to launch for our landing target, the most important lesson to consider is the Hindenfield Process, and let's not question, speculate, nor explain the central properties of this understanding, a moon shot is difficult, and like any other trip through brambles, a bitch gon' get cut.

COFFEE CORNER makes its NFL picks, and then half-assedly tries to bring down the internet

To mix sentiments for a moment, COFFEE CORNER will combine its hatred of the internet with a thorough examination of the four NFL quarterbacks playing this weekend. People have lost all will to communicate normally, i.e. order pizza over the phone, ask a librarian for information, or forgo WEBMD to treat their own severed toe. And along these lines, who are these quarterbacks? My sister and I bought speed from Jake the Snake in an alley. Ben Roethslissbergensmerginlicthensteinevilevilevilmorgostromdoamus is a duplicitous puppy loving demon. Matt Hasselbeck reminds me too much of the future. And Jake Delhomme has obviously quit the pros to join some strange local touch-football team where no one keeps score. Will one of their personalities give them an advantage come game-time? Will a massive and crippling internet virus force us to wander out into the light and dance together under the life-giving sun? Will The Snake have anymore of that speed? Coffee Corner wants to know.

ALL CLASS, 1999 FORD TAURUS EULOGIZED:

Perhaps some things only gain the proper perspective from the cozy confines of a first class jet. As much as I'd like to scratch out my eyeballs at the mere mention of anything Ford Taurus, I don't. So I sip my fine first class scotch and look over the glimmer of starlight. The FORD TAURUS, killer of ducks, deer, and snakes. Sold for a cheap dimestore shopping spree of five hundred dollars, cubed and burned, then salt was poured on the smouldered remains of the houses of all the engineers involved in designing it. Lets raise our glass to a fine friend, classy car, (LX) and lets remember exploding engines and stuttering repairmen with the glee of runaway felons.

TOP TEN SONGS 2005

The top ten songs of 2005. As concluded by my expert panel of judges:

No Movie Top Ten This Year

Sorry folks, too many people died last year.