Congrats to Mr. and Mrs. Jah Jeff on tying the knot and securing a better future for everyone except themselves.

Way gay. We all know this. And I mean “gay” not really in the “man on man” sense, but rather in the “this is a nice quick adjective to use when putting something down” sense. If you disagree then look at these facts, which aren’t really facts at all but rather assertions I’ve made that I’m far too lazy to research properly in order to have them qualified as actual facts:

1. Most golfers are over the age of 35. I’ve picked 35 because, while the actual age is likely higher do to the large numbers of retirees who play golf, I think that a lot of old people die, more so than young, and this might skew the age a little younger. This is also the reason I’m not so worried about the social security “problem” in this country.

2. You look gay when you play golf. Here I’m using “gay” in the “man on man” sense. I feel this fact requires no further explanation, but if you disagree then simply type the word “golfers” into the images section of Google and you’ll quickly see what I mean.

3. Most professional golfers have stupid names that are easy to make fun of. Examples include Tiger Woods, Fuzzy Zeller, Vijay Singh, Sergio Garcia, Lee Trevino, Chi Chi Rodriguez, Sam Snead, and Davis Love III. Those names are all stupid. Get a real name, like Frank Matthews.

4. Golf is boring to watch on TV. Argue this one golf fans if you’d like, but a 3-hour-long commercial for the Cadillac Deville intermixed with whispering commentators, grown men in plaid tossing blades of grass into the wind, and 18 aerial flights over what appears to be the same hole, simply does not make for good television. I’d rather watch billiards.

5. Some golfers use those long handled putters. Just when you thought golf couldn’t get any gayer, some guy pulled this thing out of his lover’s ass. Embarrassing.

Ok, now that I’ve fully established that golf is gay, I offer jeers to professional golfer and stupid-named Vijay Singh on his recent comments about this really good female golfer named Annika Sorenstam getting to play with the men in an upcoming PGA tour event. My message to Vijay “my name sounds like an East Asia venereal disease” Singh is simple: STOP BEING A PUSSY. Don’t give us shit about how Annika is taking someone else’s spot, has nothing to prove, and how the women already have a tour. What if they excluded you from the big money and high exposure because you were black?

And no, I don’t think Vijay’s pussyness has anything to do with him being scared to lose to a girl, because he’s way better than she. Rather, I think he’s scared that a girl’s presence will take away from the masculinity and “non-gayness” of golf. Well too late chubby, no one considers you an athlete nor golf an actual sport. It’s more of a skill, like croquet, and the fact that a woman is perhaps good enough to compete with the men will not really underline this, because it’s already been hit with a thousand different shades of highlighter, many far more neon and brighter than the five facts I’ve listed above.

So shut up Vijay and stop pretending you matter to someone who isn’t over 50, retired, and named Roy. And if you ever piss me off enough again that I find myself taking time out of my hectic schedule of reading articles about Amanda Bynes on the internet, masturbating, and then reading some more, well, I’ll probably write another scathing article about you on Dank that you’ll never see or hear about. So there.

I took some time off from Dank, and things inevitably got better. Congratulations all around. What a sweet surprise it is to emerge from Van Winkle-esque slumber (not you, ‘Nilla) to come across so many great posts in a row. It’s exactly like passing out from 4-5 shots of Rumplemints and waking up somewhere that feels like a warm bed and a woman, but isn’t even close. Oddities and possible spelling errors abound in my poor written excuse of a recent existence:

- First vomit ever due to alcohol intake (5/5)
- Cancelled phone 1.5 months before planning to move (5/12)
- Dank overrun by chairs (5/12)
- Second, third, fourth vomits due to alcohol intake (5/5)
- Neighbor reruns stories of depression, isolation, and pain (4/27 - 5/3)
- Fiancee rifles through one of my desk drawers for no good reason (5/10)
- Implications from making a breast joke to fiancee far outweigh humor (5/10)
- Purposely let good food spoil while I stood idly by (5/9)
- Gave the neighbor an earful about all that rotten food (5/11)
- Miseducated Lauryn Hill (4/28)
- My heart fondled by “Hearts of Atlantis” starring Anthony Hopkins (5/12)
- Followed one of Sneetch’s trails of crumbs, which led to only more crumbs (5/13)
- Saw a squirrel (4/28, 5/1-5/8, 5/10, 5/12)
- Wished I had a bb gun (4/16-)

Overall the last few weeks have been a dark time for me…somewhat of a gloaming perhaps. Most of my energy has been consumed by walking from my room to the porch to smoke and hearing all my neighbor’s problems repeated verbatim almost daily. I guess that’d be semi-daily. I think that means semi-daily. There is also nagging thing in my head to become a cocaine distributor and/or kingpin. I wouldn’t be completely ruthless but if I would definitely keep my eye on things. The thought has been there a long time and I don’t know why. It’s consistently aggravated by media portrayals of said kingpin lifestyle. I don’t even want to be on TV, I just sort of would like to run amuck in Mexico for awhile.

My future bride isn’t very into it. For once she could just say, “Yeah go get all that illegal drug shit out of your system.” It’s not the farthest thing to fetch. I let her walk on my face 4 to 13 days of each month. The least she could let me do is deal and maybe loot some old garage building. I’m glad none of this has happened, don’t get me wrong. It’s infinitely more fun to keep some dreams as they are. I hear Becky Lucas probably isn’t all that you thought she was anyway, Sneetch. The same statement could go for Borg and fresh food, or Borg and things that haven’t been within inches of countless sore and hairy mud flaps.

Whichever one of you made this picture available to the internet-surfing public is going to pay. My anonymity has been compromised. You’ll not here from me again.

Google Image Search for “Jah Jeff”:

While growing up, I never really thought of myself has the type of person to have a reputation. I never did anything reputable or exemplory, I just sort of did jumping jacks in the same rut for about 18 years of my life or so. It all changed one night, a night that probably needs no refreshing for any of you, while at the home of my friend Bunker. To make a long story short, I ate out of the garbage, a la George Costanza. This propelled me into the spotlight that has shone all too brightly these past three years. Every so often, it would seem to die down but inevitably at some get together someone would make a cheap crack about me being a trash-eater. I’ll give it to them. It’s easy enough. So you can imagine my horror at what I’d done while stopping to take a piss in Kentucky.

The long and short of it is this…You know that little rubber mat cradled in the bowl of a urinal? Yeah, well I stole one from a gas station bathroom. Realizing that this will now place me in the cross hairs for another three years, let me tell you why. While relieving myself at some rank Phillips 66, I was engaged in the obligatory staring-into-the-grout that every male does in public restrooms. My eyes started to wander and I looked down into the urinal to find a message printed on the rubber mat. Apparently Donald Rumsfeld himself had been there because the yellow, probably latex rubber, was asking me to help stamp out terrorism. And to make sure I knew just who the enemy was, there, staring back at me from under a stream of my own waste, was a picture of Osama Bin Laden.

I’ve seen the bumper stickers, heard the Toby Keith song, listened to the G-man, just about everything we could use to spread the gospel of the war on terror had crossed my path. Until now…now I was being reminded that the war continues to this very day and that even while taking a leak, we can’t afford to be any less vigilant. Who knows what creep is going to walk out of that stall wanting to shake left hands. We must be prepared for anything, even in the shit house…in a gas station…in Kentucky! Terrorists are everywhere! Bill Maher would have a field day with this. I instantly decided I had to have this diamond in the rough. So, using toliet paper, single-ply, I lifted said item from it’s seemingly final resting place, tossed it into the sink, also used by people other than me, and gussied up the treasure for the ride home. After drying it, I carefully folded it up and stuck the rubber mat in my waistband and was off. And that was that. So next time we meet, I expect barage after barage of lame insults and cheap shots. Or you could just respond like my girlfriend did, who was riding with me, and ask, “Why do you smell like toilet water?”

I got into work about quarter to 7. I was gonna zone out for a while before I had to go to meetings and stuff, but I was rudely brought back from my mental vacation by a phone call. The person on the other end sounded as if she was straddeling a Harley and her ‘Hog’ was being persued by a squadran of aircraft. She identified her self as “Lisa, over in dock 20″. She was calling to tell me that a package had arrived for me. The following conversation ensued:

Lisa: Are you [mrfildo]?
Mrfildo: This is he.
Lisa: This is Lisa over in dock 20. I have a package here for you.
Mrfildo: Excellent. I would like to receive this package. Where is dock 20, Lisa?
Lisa: Around the back of building BB.
Mrfildo: Okay. Send it on over to V V.
Lisa: No. I’m in BB.
Mrfildo: You sure are. I’M in V V. Victor Victor.
Lisa: I SAID I’m in BB. BABY BABY.
Mrfildo: You, Lisa, and my package are in Baby Baby, and I would like it if you Lisa in Baby Baby would send my package from Baby Baby to Me here in Victor Victor.
Lisa: Okay. -click-

At noon I checked the mail room. No package. I hiked over to Baby Baby (long way–1/4 mile through factory at least), where I found Lisa at dock 20. Here’s how it went:

Mrfildo: Are you Lisa?
Lisa: Who wants to know?
Mrfildo: I’m [mrfildo]. You called me this morning and said you had a package for me.
Lisa: Oh yeah. I know it’s around here somewhere.

(We both dig around for like 10 minutes–there are a lot of packages)

Lisa: Hey?!? Didn’t you have me sent it over to Victor Victor?
Mrfildo: That is what I asked. It didn’t arrive.
Lisa: Did you check the mail room?
Mrifldo: Is there somewhere else I should have checked??
Lisa: Well, maybe I didn’t send it out yet. Let’s keep looking

We both dig for another 5 minutes. I identify my package in a huge bin labled “Send to East Peoria”. Now, my building is in Mossville. The package came from Ashville, NC. At no time did my package ever spend time in East Peoria. At no time SHOULD my package ever spend any time in East Peoria. I’m kinda new to this CAT shit, so I wasnt sure of all the building names in East Peoria, so I innocently asked Lisa over in dock 20 this question:

Mrfildo: Lisa, is there a building V V in East Peoria?

Lisa looked straight into my soul and retorted: “Get smart with me and you will NEVER receive a package again.”

Being that this particular package was air-mailed overnight from NC, and it had been about a week and a half since it was sent, AND the only reason I had it this early is because I rescued it before it wandered off to EP for a few days, I figure that they only way Lisa could stop me from getting packages is for her to try to send them TO me.

To whom it may concern,

    I could care less if you have a crush on me. Please stop egging on Crushlink.com by telling them about your crush on me. Your crush is fucking lame. Eat a dick. On the off chance that my soon to be beautiful bride is the one pulling this Crushlink horseshit, you better check yo self.

Jah Jeff

Part 2:

So my boy KK and I often argue about who is better, electrical engineers or computer engineers. Whether or not there is any real difference has yet to be determined. Today I accepted this challenge from him:

“I’d like to hear your disertation on computer architecture.”

My retort:

“Jeff’s Computer Architecture Dissertation. (In the tune of the knee bone connected to the thighbone song)

My hands are connected to the…keyboard. The keyboard’s connected to the…motherboard. The motherboard’s connected to the…internet. The internet’s connected to the…porno. The porno’s connected to my…eyeballs. My eyeballs are connected to my…spinal column. My spinal column’s connected to my…johnson. My johnson’s connected to your…mom’s mouth. The end. Any questions?”

Is anyone else concerned that Mrfildo shit himself to death?

Last Wednesday I ended up staying awake real late polishing my thesis script. It’s a light hearted, semi-autobiographical and slightly whimsical tale about a pedophile. Anyway, after several hours of selecting between their, they’re, and there, I realized I had very little time before work and sleep would do more harm than good. So I went to work for 9 hours, drove to and from for 3, and finally got home to realize that I was nearing a personal record for consecutive hours without sleep. (Not counting my old junior high crack-habit days.) So, I decided to push it well past the 48-hour mark in an effort to see how my underfed, UVA/nicotine ravaged body would react.

After a prolonged night of watching re-runs of Cheers on Nickelodeon, boring people with the story of how many hours it had been since I slept, and sifting through the congested “reviews” section of Dank, I decided it was finally time to end the madness. So I got into bed, fired up the old Discman, and started listening to the new Radiohead.

Well, throughout the whole no-sleep experiment I hypothesized that I was entering different stages of sleeplessness, most of which could be filed under the heading, “I’m really fucking tired,” but with their own distinctive palettes. For instance, in one stage I thought I was dreaming, another drunk, and I believe there was one when the question of my ability to say a sentence without the words “fuck”, “wha?”, or “ser” became very much in doubt. But it was during this last 20 minutes of semi-consciousness, lying there, listening to HTTT, that I entered the most fascinating stage of all. I would dub it the, “God I really fucking hate everyone at work and here’s why and here’s how I would rank them on a scale of how much I hate them, and here’s a long, convoluted list of reasons why if there is a God none of them will get to Heaven and I’ll be sitting up there with the big man, chill’n over a brew and a double-cheese, shooting the shit about how shitty all the fucks I used to work with while I was alive are Stage,” or the “GIRFHEAWAHWAHHIWRTOASOHMIHTAHALCLORWITIAGNOTWGTHAIBSUTWTBMCOABADC-STSAHSATFIUTWWWIWAA Stage” for short.

Now, the funny thing is I don’t really hate the people I work with at all. Well, at least not more than I hate the average person. But I guess a long day at work on no sleep, plus the ominous tones of an album about how our politicians are lying to us and fucking up the planet, will have a certain affect on someone with an already sleep deprived-skewed sense of sanity. Anyway, about halfway through the list making part of the stage, the song “The Gloaming” began, and it sparked a memory from earlier in the day related to an exec. assistant at work who at the time I hated more than the thought of Hillary Duff being disfigured in a car crash. Here was the conversation:

Her: Hey, you want to make an extra 50 bucks?
Me: I guess so.
Her: You just have to write coverage of this book. I don’t have any time to.
(She hands me a 300-page kid’s book about a talking dragon or something)
Me: This dragon looks kinda dumb.
(She looks at me for a moment)
Her: You seem tired today.
Me: That’s probably because I’m in the Gloaming.
Her: What?
Me: The Gloaming.
(She’s quiet)
Me: The Gloaming.
Her: The what?
Me: The Gloaming. Like this Dragon. He’s in the Gloaming.
Her: Ok. Well…
(She starts to walk off)
Me: Hey.
(She stops)
Me: You forgot your book.
(She gives me a perturbed look, takes back the book, and walks off.)

Oh mercy… Anyway, all the buildup of the first four paragraphs of this post was for that rather short conversation. I hope you don’t feel you’ve been screwed. It’s just that I thought it was rather clever, and unfortunately it’s wittier than anything you’ll find in my above mention thesis, so there you go. But if you do believe you’ve been screwed, feel free to think about how much you hate me the next time you stay up for over 50 hours and hit the “GIFHEAWA— Ah, forget it. I’ve wasted enough of your time already.

Not that I should be talking, but it looks like Sheps has been browsing the Nick.com message boards again. So much for the value of a well-planned intervention.

So I usually have some pretty freaking weird dreams. I’ll tell you about one. What’s that? You didn’t ask? Blow me.

So my grandpa and my mom are standing in front of what seems to be a VFW or American Legion Hall or something. It had a flag pole. My grandpa, who passed away about 10 years ago, is telling my mom something and as I walk up, they are clearly trying to hide the topic of the conversation. I’m circling them trying to nudge my way into their little pow wow when I see my uncle come walking out of the aforementioned building. He walks up to my ma and grandpa and says, “Oh is that the one about the guy who borrowed the pinata?”

And thats it. What was it Freud said about mom’s and pinatas?

Future Posting Alert: Stay tuned for a review of a Disturbed concert I recently attended. Yes, you read that correctly.