Sorry if I haven't been on in a while. It's partly because I don't give two shits about any of you, and it's partly because I finally said "Fuck it," and spent the last week or so finishing the screenplay I've been working on for over a decade.

At long last, Robot Dad Explodes Noisily is complete.

The single greatest thing I have ever done, it's the story of a robot who undergoes a two-hundred-year odyssey through time on a quest of sexual existentialism after getting raped in his robot ass. And, yes, he explodes noisily at the end.

This journal is now the dumbest thing you've ever read. Your gratitude is expected.



And, yes, I realize that "explodes noisily" is redundant, but then again, so is "Fuck you, you fucking fucks," and yet, as always, it remains the only thing of note I have to say to you all.

I wouldn't apologize for being born with brown skin.

I wouldn't apologize for being born a male.

I wouldn't apologize for being born Asian.

I wouldn't apologize for being born heterosexual.

I wouldn't apologize for being born with an insatiable lust for cheap whores.

So why would I apologize for being born human? For being born at all?

No reasonable being would create something and demand its apologies for its having been created. And if it did, then, I'm sorry, it's a massive fucking tool that doesn't deserve any sort of devotion in the first place.

Unless, of course, I'm Dane Cook. There's no amount of apologies that would make up for being born Dane Cook.

So I finally caved in late last night and jumped on the blog bandwagon, but only because I know you bastards can't get enough of how awesome I am and would like to follow me to the very fringes of the 'net.

Check out Everyone You've Loved is Dead, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Increase the Morphine Flow at [link] for random crap and links to my columns and articles around the web.

So here's the deal.

Those of you who've known me since my previous account know that I'm a bitter fuck of a man, suffering through a scrotum-ablating love/hate relationship with this goddamn site. These days it's more of a barely-tolerate/want-to-bludgeon-it-to-death-with-a-hammer type of thing. I mean, yeah, I get it, it's a cool place and all, and everyday I see a new photograph or a painting or a vector that makes me want to sever my dick and cram it up my ass out of how fucking awesome it is. But the thing is, and those of you who primarily work in the literature aspect of the site will know this, if you're a writer -- like an honest to God I-wanna-fuck-the-world-in-the-mouth-with-words type of writer -- you're pretty much fucking screwed, and unless you want to whore out whatever artistic integrity you have left by catering to the masses and immersing yourself in whatever soul-shattering aberration is currently making the rounds in the court of popular opinion, you've got a fuck-all's chance of getting recognized for your efforts. And if you say that you don't want to be recognized, then fuck you, you're not a writer. Take that weak-ass shit out of here. If you're the type of pompous, self-righteous asshole who says "I'd rather see my writing on a wall than in a book," then go write on a wall and quit wasting everyone else's time. Don't even front. You want to at least be acknowledged by your contemporaries, otherwise you wouldn't even have your damned account.

We're all whores, yes? We all want to be told that our shit doesn't stink and that our words have the power to explode some heads out of how fucking awesome they are. And there's nothing wrong with that. It's natural to want to be praised and adored and held to some lofty standards. In fact, it's a goddamn great thing, because otherwise you're never going to get any better. So stop fronting and admit that at least some popularity is essential to being an artist.

Unfortunately, however, if you are a writer on this site, you are not an artist. You are the goddamn scum of the earth. You are an abortion gone wrong. You are the fucking reason God flooded the world. You are, in short, a fucking idiot. Why? Because you've chosen to open yourself up on a site that will laud and fellate some tool dressing up as a perpetually prepubescent anime hack long before it recognizes writers as artists.

And the worst part is, you can't really blame them. You can't expect people to spend all their time looking for good literature. Those little thumbnails on the front page? It's the exact same thing as a sales pitch. You've only got so much time to sell yourself before your prospective customer becomes fucking bored and moves on. This is where your sorry ass, as a writer, is at a distinct disadvantage. The visual arts and the naked chicks will always get more recognition because, for the most part, you can tell at a glance whether or not the art is any good or if the naked chick's tits are worth a closer look. Not so for the written works, which actually require a person's time and attention.

Look at it from some random moron's perspective. You log onto the site for the first time and -- BAM! -- there's an awesome 3-d render of a fucking meteor crashing to Earth staring you right in the face. Next to it is some seraphic eighteen-year old blonde with her ass pushed up right against your screen, and every single imperfection has been Photoshopped away (Yes, I know that Photoshopped isn't an actual word. Fuck you, I'm making a point here). And right after that is this amazing fucking painting of a Viking riding a goddamned dragon like a cheap whore. You, the random moron, are undoubtedly impressed by the quality of the shit you are seeing. In fact, you are just about ready to cum. So, with one hand stroking yourself, you click on the current most popular piece of literature, thinking that to be this popular it's got to be some sort of eye-punching masterpiece that would make Hemingway blow his goddamn head off all over again. And, lo and behold, you, the random moron, are treated to some angsty poem about getting dumped, filled with all the cliches and metaphors that can be found in any random Bauhaus lyric, and you feel your sad little boner wilt in your hand like the sad little bit of misplaced bowel it is.

"Surely," you say to yourself, "surely this must be some kind of mistake. There's no way five-hundred people approved of something that looks like it was written for an introductory course on how to be an untalented asshole. There's no way the rest of them are like this right?"

Oh, you poor, poor motherfucker. Not only are you wrong, you are about to get raped in the mouth by all your regrets given flesh. As you click on deviation after deviation, you are inundated in the literary equivalent of your creepy uncle sliding his dick into your ear as you carve the Thanksgiving turkey. You are given whiny poetry about the pain of a broken heart, asinine rants about how tough middle-school is, and nauseatingly lurid fanfiction written by some lunatic who -- if there is a just and loving God (there isn't) -- is right now safely locked away inside a padded cell.

"Jesus Tittyfucking Christ as a cracker," you mouth to yourself, too horrified to actually say the words out loud. "There's no way. There's no fucking way. Was that batch of smack I shot up bad or something? This is what's considered good literature? Fuck me with a spoon, let's just go back to jacking it to the naked bitches."

And as a cold wave of sobriety washes over your random moron ass, you swear to never again subject yourself to the testicular-torsion that is literature on Deviantart, and those written works which are actually worth reading are left behind in the dust, like some wide-eyed Ethiopian orphan with a swollen belly and a fly-flecked face, just wanting to be loved and having been shit on instead. The only difference is Angelina Jolie won't be coming along to save you from obscurity.

Okay, so the above might be a little extreme, but the point stands. For every good (and believe me, I'm using that term very fucking loosely) piece of literature on this site there are twenty more steaming pieces of shit burying it. Why? I don't fucking know why. Maybe it's because people are idiots and they don't want to read anything of note. They'd rather know what would happen if Character A from Shitty Anime # 1 met Character B from Shitty Anime # 2, and despite their canonical sexual orientation, these two characters somehow decide to dress up like Sonic and Mario and plow their dicks into each other's assholes.

It's amazing how the standards for literature are the complete opposite for visual media. For them, the quality pieces (or the hottest naked chick) find their way to the front page easily enough, while the demented scribblings of an epileptic ten-year-old are relegated to the back of the bus lickety-goddamn-split. For quality writing, however, the good pieces, the ones that took time and effort and talent to craft, are immediately banished to the bowels of cyberspace while the ones that are the approximate equivalent of crayon scratchings on a torn piece of napkin from Denny's at three in the morning are hungrily gobbled up by the masses as though that shit was going out of style.

And again, why? And again, I've got no fucking clue. Maybe because the good shit is too long. But that ain't right. There is some fucking awesome writing here that tops out at a couple of sentences. Maybe the good shit has too many big words that today's mind just can't swallow without imploding in on itself. But that still ain't right. For fuck's sake, look at Stephenie Meyer: she used the word 'vacillating' in one of her shit books. Normally, that type of thesaurus rape would earn you a beat down with whatever large rock is nearby, but she's fucking rolling in the cash.

So, really what is it? It's not that kids today are dumb. Fuck that shit. They're as dumb as they've always been. That doesn't preclude them from being able to tell good writing from their own puckered assholes.

Honestly, the reason that good writing doesn't get recognized is because the good writers just don't give a shit. Or rather they do, but they're too busy sucking their own cocks over how awesome they are to do anything about it. He'll write a fucking opus, a goddamn Everest of words and ideas, and he'll submit it, then he'll take some time to go kill a bear with his cock or whatever it is you fuckers do when you're not writing. Then he'll come back hours or days or weeks later and, if he's lucky, he'll have a couple of favorites, a few one-word comments, and hopefully a minimum of 'tl;dr's. Then, while he's scratching his nuts, this writer will see that a DD has been given to some poem about overdosing on Tylenol, and then this writer will call everyone a whore for a few minutes before shrugging his shoulders and saying, "Fuck it."

Because that's the rub, right there. For the most part, writers are solitary creatures, poor misunderstood tortured faggot-fuck souls who get most of their inspiration from sucking so badly at life, and there's no one to tell them to keep going when their misanthropic bleating rants go unheard and unheeded.

So.

What the hell is the point of all this? I'm not sure. To tell the truth I'm kind of fucking wasted. It's a slow evening and I snorted the rest of my coke and saw another piece of shit story that landed on the front page and since I'm out of booze I'm ranting about it here instead of repressing the rage through whiskey.

And, oh!

There's this new thing on dA. This Group thing. I dunno what it is exactly, but apparently it's a lot like a Club except it's all shiny and fancy and fucking official looking.

So here's a question for you all:

If I were to create a Group dedicated to good literature, whether creating it or searching for it or promoting it or even just preaching its fucking virtues, would anybody join me in this pointless endeavor? Just don't get the wrong idea. We're not going to change the world, here. It ain't gonna be no fucking revolution. Most of the time we're going to be sitting around with our thumbs up our butts, but every once in a while maybe we'll get the opportunity to see something good in this world, or create something good, or help someone out who wants to do good. Maybe remind a couple of people that not all the writers in this godforsaken cesspool are scrawny white kids from Columbus who're convinced the world's gonna end because nobody's asked their pimpled asses to the prom.

And yes, I realize the futility of all this. Fucking hell, I just talked about how writers are solitary by nature. Trying to organize a little cabal of wunderkinds is going to go down about as well as herding cats. But like I said, I am also high off my motherfucking tits, and even though I'm going to regret the fuck out of this journal tomorrow, today the invitation stands.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I was always content to sit on the sidelines with a lawn chair and a beer and laugh at everyone else. But maybe, just fucking maybe, if I do this thing, when in the future I will pointlessly bitch about the sorry sad-assed state of the world, I'll have earned that right to an extent, because for a brief period, fuck it, I tried.

Anybody in?

Someone stole my drugs.

Right now, there's a bastard believes he's invincible kicking the shit out of four or five cops sent to arrest him.

Right now, there's a cunt staring at the sun without blinking.

Right now, there's a crotch-stain trying to make people's heads explode by thinking at 'em real hard.

Right now, there's a quivering shitsack jerking off and cumming beams of light out his dickhole.

Right now, there's a spineless thieving little maggot with his eyes wide open taking in the universe as it is, all primal and raw and untapped and chaos and fury and motherfucking Care Bears and love -- pure fucking love -- and he's knowing what it is to live in a perfect world as his soul seeps out of every pore and is replaced by the energy of an indifferent cosmos.

Right now, there's a goddamn dead man getting high off of my drugs.

Right now, I am about to go put on my bastard-stomping shoes, and then someone is going to get their balls kicked out through their eyes.

Tape the Steelers game for me.