I decided to just put the whole Furpians up for anyone who wants to read it, so go check it out at this link If you like it, tell your friends about it and get them to come read it!

Woop!

Now with new and improved working layout!

Yay beurocracy!

Well, it was my birthday once again, so the festivities started the day before with renewing my car license plate to the tune of $237 dollars! Happy birthday to Fulton County!

Pictured is the line at the Tax Comissioner’s window, which is in a Kroger supermarket. It has three big teller-style windows, two of which were staffed this time. This is a new record, up from the usual one. In fact there was even a third person inside the office, but he was busy chasing a housefly with a can of Raid.

My new tag sticker installed, I went back home to rest up because I played the open mic at Eddie’s Attic. I didn’t win, but none of the people who did better than me did either. There were several acts who had well-written and well-performed songs who didn’t get into the finals, so that doesn’t bother me. It’s obviously a sham, so why be mad about it?

I introduced my song Hold My Calls by saying that it lost the contest it was written for. I also said that I donated it to a benefit CD for a lady with Lukemia and raised 8000 dollars for her, but that she died anyway. A few people went “Aww”. Then I said that that was kind of funny and kind of not. So, I’m an idiot. I keep laughing about it, because what kind of a fucking moron says that shit.

I was nervous I guess.

I did pretty crappy. My mouth was dry, blah blah. I didn’t practice my songs enough. I’ll be better next time, which is pretty much all you can do.

Click the button below to hear the foolishness:

We went home and tried to get some sleep so we could get up early and go eat lunch with my mom, grandpa, and sister. It was fun to have everyone around for my birthday. My sister brought some of my yearbooks from elementary school. Heh. Good times.

So, I’m 30 now.

It’s mah birthday… mah buh-buh-buh-Birthday.

The horror begins!

Welcome to today’s little jaunt into the shit that i’m mad about. Today we will be talking about the six stop signs that I most despise. Now, some of them have to be where they are to keep people from running into one another. However, the other half are there merely to give the cops a reason to catch people in the act of running them and thus generate revenue for the fair city of College Park. What would Ludacris say? The city officials should be asking themselves that.

This first image shows the first sign, about two miles from the interstate. This one probably does need to be there to get people to slow it down before they enter the neighborhood.

You don’t realize you’re in hell yet, but you are.

This mother fucker has no reason whatsoever for being. This should be a two way stop, because only 50 yards later you get to stop number three, which is also adorned with a flashing red light. This one is also where I got spotted not wearing my seat belt by a cop with a flashlight. It was a $15 dollar ticket, but I had to pay $137 because I was a day late. Yay government! College Park represent, beotch!

Hello my name is misery. Oh, and Stop.

Here we are at stop number three. I don’t contest that this sign needs to be here. It’s an intersection of two larger neighborhood arteries. This is also, incedentally, a great place to spot shady characters walking from the project housing a few miles straight ahead to the gas stations and interstate two miles behind. That’s College Park livin, baby!

Am I in some sort of bizarre house of mirrors, only with stop signs? HOLY DOG SHIT!

Welcome to stop sign number four, also known as Useless Motherfucker to his friends (and me).This is another great example of a place where a two way stop would really be more applicable in my opinion. Admittedly I haven’t gone to Traffic Safety class or anything, but I have spent a lot of time driving, and I had to read that book when I was 16 to get my license. I passed with a 78! Booyah!

This is where the weeping begins. Also, the farting.

This is sign number five. This one needs to be here, yet again because it’s the intersection of two major neighborhood roads. This is a good place to spot the wierd jogging couple who live somewhere in my neighborhood and always seem to be running around. Someday I will get a photo of them, although I might have to hit them with my car to get them to hold still for it.

*BANG* Hold still, Lanky! *snap snappity* That’s how it would go down.

Oh my god, it’s full of signs!

Here we have stop number six, the one I ran and got a ticket for. This one is pure horseshit. I am less than a block, maybe 50 yards from my house at this point, and ready to fucking eat the steering wheel and poop a faux leather hat. I just can’t manage to make myself complete a stop here, due to the ridiculousness of the placement. All of these signs are within about a mile of neighborhood driving.

In unrelated news, if you grit your teeth really hard they make a squeaky creaking noise!

Another sign lurking near the house. Not today, you red fucker!

So, as you can see, that’s just too many fucking stop signs. To add insult to injury, there’s yet another one lurking just beyond our driveway, waiting to stop us should we have to make a right out of the house for some reason. I can’t remember ever making a right out of the house on the front side, but I’m sure I have, in which case that stop sign got me.

Man, I’m sick of stopping every block. I’ve tried several different routes to the house from the interstate, but they all involve at least 6 signs.

Blegh.

Tonight I played a gig at the Dalton Depot. Dalton, GA is the carpet capitol of the world, as you probably already know. It is not, however, the cool people capitol of the world.

I have a theory about small towns, which is that most of the people who you would want to talk to or hang with in the small towns move elsewhere.

I wrote a short poem about Dalton on the way home, and it goes like this:
This town is worthashit leaving
and everyone worth a shit
is leaving.

In fact most of the people there seem to only be fond of rap and sneering, in that order, but we soldiered on and played our silly rock music for them anyhow.

About midway through the last set, a guy slumped out to the dancefloor, and hung limply at the waist like a broken doll. His buddy came over, inserted an imaginary crank into his hip, and cranked him back up. The cranker then gave the slumper a mighty go-get-em slap on the ass, and the slumper exploded to life. He immediately charged over to a woman who was rounder than she was tall and began to dance furiously.

He was dancing more at her than with her, but she dug it and danced back at him.

I laughed myself damned near to the point of blacking out. Mister Danceypants pulled no punches, and danced in the way that only a truly drunken fool can. It was wonderful, and I’m glad I saw it. It really brightened up my already pretty groovy day.

In other news, my knee is doing a wierd thing lately where it pops really loudly and feels like its dislocating and hurts like hell all the time.

Other than that, it’s summer time and the earth likes me okay.