WheN To AddReSS PeoPLe By THeiR FiRsT NaMeZ




If you interact with somebody on a regular basis and know their name, when are you supposed to address them by it? I mean out loud, their first name.When are you supposed to do it? Every time you say hi to them? Every five times? Never? I always assumed people I knew well didn't need to be addressed by name out loud because it's common knowledge at that point that we know eachother's names, so unless in a large group name dropping each other every transaction just seems kind of obsessive. And even when you do, it can be anything like asshole, fruit loop, G-money, etc... The problem is there's this whole other group of people that include acquaintances people you don't hang out with really but see frequently and regular cashiers you see a lot and shit like that.

The paranoia seed for this was probably planted because I'm bad with names. Good with faces but bad with names. That's fair though. People are allowed to be bad at some things, you can't hold it against someone for not maintaining some encrypted bullet proof encyclopedia of people's names.



The Five Dumbest Drugs to Abuse





Drugs are fun to do. They're available, affordable and it's easy to find other people in almost any place on the planet that also enjoys doing them. They make you laugh, they help people hook up and if I had a dime for every person in the world that loved smoking weed after a busy coffee filled day, I would be a very rich man, the kind who can buy lots of drugs. Of course, I'm assuming both you and I live in Mexico or Amsterdam or some other place where these things are legal... of course. For the sake of keeping your mind at ease though, when I say drugs from here on out I'm referring to a variety of things we all do that could be considered bad if not handled correctly or at all. Pizza is not a drug. If it were a drug it would probably be one of the best drugs to abuse, but that's not what this is about. 

So, there are some drugs you shouldn't abuse, or at least it's just dumb to. Maybe that's a little preachy but most people can agree dumb is something that as a human race most of us don't strive for. Walking across the street? Look both ways before you do. It's a rule that's so dumb a really dumb person would know to do it. Nobody wants to die. You probably shouldn't abuse anything, that's a thought. But barring all the obvious stuff to not get involved with like cigarettes, crack, cocaine,.. etc.. here are five drugs that are extra stupid to abuse, so long as not dying or becoming an old, diseasey land crustacean that knows too much about jail is important to you.




An Ineffectual Truth: Aliens are Real




I feel like the average normal person goes through certain levels of changes in their beliefs, as in what's real and what's not, like ghosts,  Mickey Mouse, green cats, etc... One day you realize wrestling is fake, the next day Santa's not real and at some point in high school God dies. Sometimes he comes back -- but what gets lost in between Santa and God for me was the belief of aliens. Once I was convinced that everything we were being told was a lie, younger me let that include the science fiction hippie belief of aliens and never looked back. 

As it turned out, I guess I did look back (I sort of go back and forth on everything) and eventually decided aliens were real. That doesn't mean I believe in the abominable snowman or ghosts or anything, but aliens from outer space in big ships that look like monsters are real. And yes, because of this fact life is more like a movie than we all thought and there's serious shit going on everywhere besides earth. It even sort of has the potential of broadening one's horizons on the universe, because  infinite space is real and sounds far but when you throw aliens in the mix it twists your concept of reality and the origin of life like a yogurt dipped pretzel.

That doesn't mean we're going to heaven or anything changes in the Atheist Army rules or whatever, but real life space creatures with their own governments and history and starcruisers are way more intriguing than a bridge conspiracy or war in Ukraine. The problem is all that stuff is in your face, happening on TV and so: obviously not made up. Given half the country still thinks aliens are fake, you still find when asked for an opinion lots of people just make a weak smile and say "I don't know I just need more evidence." In case that half of us stumbles onto this post, here's an overly detailed analysis of evidence available online that I examined thoroughly and in a book I totally read all of. So unless you want to look silly then just listen to me get stupid serious for a second and explain why there's every reason to believe.


Dark Night of the Scarecrow (1981)



Dark Night of the Scarecrow is a made-for-TV horror movie I took notice of while looking for cool images online. That guy up top spoke to me enough to give the movie a shot and after both washing and drying my urine soaked jeans I must say the movie worked, along with the three 40's I drank while watching it. A big handicapped guy named Bubba is wrongly accused of killing a little girl he's friends with and as a result gets murdered by a small, goofy foursome of town folk lead by a sadistic mailman who's out for handicap blood. A series of terrifying and semi-erotic events follow that will guarantee if you watch this movie alone you shouldn't do it stoned but will anyway.  Spoilers and shit follow:


Judging Books By Their Cover




Of course you're not supposed to judge a book by it's cover, but people are going to anyway. One of the human species' sharpest abilities is to see, judge, inform and possibly correct anyone around them who might need an umph in a certain direction. Do you think it matters if somebody likes a certain book or not? Do you really think book reviews and your friend's opinions aren't just stuff they heard other people on blogs and at bars say? Trust me, it is. Nobody gives a shit about the actual content of the book unless it was boring. So, in the end, with so many options to choose from on the planet as far as printed literature is concerned, your fastest option is to judge them by their covers, or better yet, have somebody else do it for you. The world isn't gonna sit around and wait for you while you lean on your chin and mull over a decision about nothing. Just get a hold of yourself and let me do the thinking for you, art is subjective.


By Any Means Necessary: How to Live Cheap





Living cheap. It comes out pretty easy when you say it like that but when you get down to business, going through life on minimal greenbacks can't really be summed up in two words, but maybe in about 1,500 or so. I myself have been living cheap for years, and due to my success with keeping the fridge full and that peculiar penchant for not being dead while living life on my very light funds -- could be considered an expert on the subject.  The purpose of this article is to allow you, the doughy keyboard poker who doesn't pay for their own Netflix account, to have as much access to the not-free comings and goings of life as humanly possible, despite your budget. So, sit back and relax with some hot cocoa and get a grip -- because I'll tell you right now you shouldn't be drinking hot cocoa. Not if you're broke I mean, especially if there's no alcohol or caffeine involved. Nobody said this shit was gonna be easy.


BULLSHIT ARTIST IS PROUD TO PRESENT.....


When not attending to his duties as an intergalactic diplomat and general renaissance man, George William Kessel IV likes to travel around a funny little planet called earth to filter out and examine it's varied, colorful culture like a high tech dolphin net built by the military to strike fear in the hearts of people who like dolphins (everyone). What I'm trying to say is that this man is important, and despite our lack of worthiness to his attention, he has donated to us beautiful color photographs of his exploits to share with the masses. So it is my pleasure to say dear citizens, welcome to Around the World in 80 Gays with George William Kessel IV!

Drop the Self Doubt and Leave That Weave Out




Of all the sales representatives at my job I am, without a shadow of a doubt, the most picky when it comes to females. In the dull hours at the office, me and my co-workers do what any bored male with a working penis/brain combo on the clock does: stand around and rate women (pass or fail, bang or no-bang) as they saunter past our window throughout the day. My pickiness had gotten so bad, I had failed so many of my overly concerned workmates’ expectations of what a man wants that it almost became a running gag at the office that I was gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

I am a product of a youth spent watching Seinfeld, exclusively and every weekday at 7:00, when it would come on with that chunky bass line between The Simpsons and Malcolm in the Middle. Everything from my soft attraction to tall women (See George Costanza: Season 3, Episode 35/36; The Boyfriend) to my acute fault finding tendencies (See Jerry Seinfeld: The entire series) is derived from hours upon hours of watching what I felt was the only clever show on television. Kyle, a co-worker of mine and probably the most handsome guy in the office, the only one worthy of being called a gentleman, has this philosophical term he likes to throw around called “standards.” I like to call them rules, or better yet, laws I use when I’m drunk and need the force of the term to deter me from sleeping under my curve. But drunk or sober, there is one rule that will never ever be broken: NO WEAVE. My mother and father owned a hair braiding shop downtown when I was a kid. The only concrete memories I have of the place was learning how to use a cash register and a mouse found in the wastebasket that one of the wash girls burned alive. I was around plenty of weave growing up. Before, I would hardly notice. Now it grosses me out to the point of goosebumps, like fingernails would when found apart from the body. I never noticed how upsetting I found it until after I slept with a particularly memorable girl that happened to wear a piece:


Shit From My Bulletin Board




The following is a collection of scans I put together that were all once pinned to my bulletin board. As I bailed from my last home in a hurry, my old b. board had to be left behind; currently all of these things are spread all over my floor amidst a sea of empty beer bottles, notebooks and a shit ton of really fly ass dirty clothes. Everything was gathered in and around Gainesville, Florida, during the time I lived there, and were found in the street, on telephone poles, inside abandoned houses and other random spots happened upon during regular patrols of the area.


Places Babies Don't Belong




After I read the excellent throwaway filler piece I Hate Old People, I had a bit of an ephiphany. Not only did the article rehash the same "I hate stuff" theme that we go for here on the blog perfectly, but also it made me realize something very important: babies are annoying. Old people suck and all but on the other end of the spectrum, babies are stepping on people's toes and shitting on things way more frequently than old people do, and those little idiots haven't been shit on once on this blog, so I figured I would give it a shot. After all, my girlfriend is always saying I have "baby fever."

The problem with hating babies, though, is that unlike getting old -- something you can stop yourself or others from doing -- just about everybody and their grandma has children these days, and sometimes popping one out is almost inevitable. So, if you happen to get your girlfriend pregnant, fine. But I think we should all collectively practice a good "I don't fuck with you, you don't fuck with me attitude" about the situation and designate some rather obvious places babies should not be allowed:

I Hate Old People


Must we go over this again? Old people are a hazard to the health and happiness of the world's youth and an unsightly waste of taxpayer wallet space who have done nothing but slowly and steadily suck the life out of America's broken-down junkie blood vessels for the past 20 to 30 years or so. And hey, not to sound like a crotchety you-know-what, but I think this country still has a lot of spirit left in it. No one would ever guess that, what with the pasty-faced vampire fucks known as senior citizens riding the healthy asses of everyone under the age of 65, but it does. Old people are the reason we still have a two-party political system where nothing can ever get accomplished, because their votes help uphold archaic laws and ideas and entitled bullshit that characterizes the country we live in and how we should treat and perceive it. Senior bitterzens are an embarrassing sore on the lips of this country and the only reason Two and a Half Men ever got popular.

Old people are gross, they smell bad, they aren't funny, they look like shit all the time and they're cheap. Senior citizen discount, seriously? Do you really need a discount on that moldy orange and jar of pickled chicken eyes you're buying? You know you're never gonna eat that orange. It's just gonna sit on your kitchen table until one of your fucked up kids comes over and picks it up and goes "Geez, ma, don't you ever throw anything out?" Then you'll just wave it off and make some pathetic joke about your age because you know everyone will feel bad and continue to let you fly under the radar like every weak, shriveled-up piece of caveman shit your age does.

Scorpion Jones' Florida Ghost Diary


Photos left inside journal.


Scorpion Jones is a hippie Slash Dribblez and Mark Harvey met while hitchhiking through Central Florida. Encountered at a truck stop somewhere between Daytona Beach and Gainesville, Scorpion said she would do almost anything to raise cash to fund her trip to New Los Angeles. Mark had already slept with her that morning, so, it was a somewhat tough call. But -- she needed help, and, as you know, that's what those two live to do. The quickest idea they could think of besides more sex was of course the one other thing also seriously lacking from their lives: blog material.

When asked if she wrote or had anything she might want to contribute to BSA, Ms. Jones wrinkled her forehead and stuck her nose up as if thinking really hard, then thought of something. She dug through her bag for a minute and pulled out some beaded shit, a doll's head and a beat-up old Mead notebook with the word "Ghosts" scrawled on the front in Sharpie. It was mostly illegible but here's what we could make out, we called it a diary instead of a journal because we're sexist:



8/26

- Boy ghosts are less creepy than girl ghosts in my experience. Girl ghosts want to talk, and to be seen as well as heard. Dying’s scary, so my reaction is to pretend like otherworldly communications are just infrasound or whatever and leave it at that.

- Rundown cities are famous for its ghosts. One time, walking down 3rd Ave in Gainesville, I glared at a girl smoking a cigarette. She said, “You look mad, do you want a shot?” and I said yes. I actually wanted a cigarette but I ended up with a steak dinner, as well as a few shots and a Dr. Pepper. It was the night of her graduation, so I guess she was feeling generous, and her boyfriend wore an apron and had spiky hair. She asked how I liked my meat and I said “medium,” and we shared a meaningful look that lead to us bonding over some of her Camel Crushes. It turns out her grandmother was a medium, and one night after having a stroke she showed up perched on top of my new friend’s chest telling her unspeakable horrors. That night I learned that being rude is realer than smiling, that you don’t have to be dead to be a ghost, and that sightings run in the family.