I have nothing to say

Guess what happens when you give an introverted single guy who thinks he's the best person in the universe unlimited access to an audience willing to read his work, with the single stipulation that he write at least a paragraph a month? Yes, you're right, it has happened again: I am f*cking out of ideas. My friends say that writer's block is sh*t or it's all in your head. Yeah, like they know. And actually, to clarify, I'm not out of ideas, I have one more, a rant against pop culture, but I figure Lewis Black has that covered pretty well. So, for all intents and purposes, I am out of ideas for the time being.
F*ck, this is a total pain in the a**, having, or rather, wanting to write sh*t and post sh*t but not being able to think of sh*t. I mean, I have another few installments of THE SIXTH DEGREE, but I don't want to post them in case I get writer's block on that sh*t too.

I just read what I've written so far and it sounds like a coherent blog post, so I'm going to post it. Too bad for me, almost no one will ever read what I have written because I have not yet established a prominent spot in the blogosphere. I think one day, I will post total bullsh*t nonsense and THAT will be the day someone comes and reads my blog and they'll see this BS post and think, This guy's an *sshole. I shouldn't give a sh*t about what he thinks. Then they WON'T tell their friends about my insightful clever, mind-opening, and truly witty blog and I will go back to the bottomless pit of the Internet, confined to the anonymity of an electronic Sargasso Sea. (See? I said I was mind-opening. Now, odds are that you will have to look up the Sargasso Sea. I'll wait.) Ah, well. Fame isn't all it's cracked up to be. (So they tell me) I guess I can go without being famous, because then I get to write the sh*t that makes my blog insightful, clever, mind-opening, witty and truly unique. So there, big publisher people. I took writer's block and did something with it. F*ck you. Oh, and normal reader? Think about all the other stuff I said, before I started to insult publishing companies.

Guess What?

OK, so I took this piece of sh*t quiz called "Are you stupid?" and I guess I got my answer right there, because I'm wondering whether I'm f*cking stupid in the first place. So here is a
Question: Who wonders if they are stupid?
Answer: Myself, mentally challenged and the village idiot (George W. Bush)

I have just been notified by the CIA, FBI, and the NSA that GWB is not an idiot. I apologize Mr. Bush, but I will not remove the reference because of the 1st Amendement. (3 Words of Advice: Learn Your Rights. If you ever go to jail or somewhere equally unpleasant but fully law abiding [unlike Guantanamo Bay & Abu Ghraib], you need to know them) Sh*t, I feel like a textual copy of Stephen Colbert, without snarky writers (I have all the snark!). BTW . . . sh*t again, I forgot what I was going to write and both my Backspace and Delete keys are broken right now.

Anyway, away from the World's Longest Digression, which would not be out of place at the 1904 World's Fair (why is "World" capitalized there anyway?), I got a badge for completing the quiz, which is here by the way, if anyone out there wants to take it and HTML works here, but I lost the badge and don't care much about it.

Luckily for all of you out there who wonder about my intellectual capabilities, you Platos of the world, (not capped!) I took an I.Q. test and here is the badge for that! 144! Take that! I am smarter than our current president! (Whose I.Q. is 120-something, if anyone wants to know) And I have a tendency to boast! (Insert Nelson-esque "ha-ha" here) I also am addicted to random tidbits of info I'll never need to know and I ramble! I'm trying to stop myself, but I can't! Must hit 'Publish' button!

The Return/Part 3 of The Sixth Degree

Sol-o-mon's back and I'm better than ev-er! I couldn't resist. I wrote "I'm back," and the Hess Truck song popped into my head, so . . .
Anyway . . . part three of THE SIXTH DEGREE!!

Yolanda Martinez turned on her computer and drummed her fingers impatiently as she waited for it to warm up. Maybe I should buy a new computer, she thought as she ruefully eyed her six year-old desktop. ’Course, the kids gotta come first, as the sound of three year-old playing tag wafted in through the open window of her study. It wasn’t really a study, more of a closet, down to the shelf a foot above her head. And the window wasn’t really a window, more of a hole cut in the wall with a hacksaw by an ex-boyfriend, coerced into doing it by the act that had produced the three kids playing outside.
The computer booted up and Yolanda wasted no time in going onto the long-distance schooling website, where she logged in and started her math lesson. I know it’s not the best way to get an education, she thought, but it’s all I got.
The door of her study banged open. Her oldest son, Samson, stood in the entrance. The thirteen year old boy had always been the child that had given her the most grief, and now she was afraid that he would get caught up in this nonsense with the Bloods and the Crips.
“Moms, I’m goin’ out.”
“Where?”
“To Mr. Houston’s house. I still have that job mowing his lawn for the rest of the month.”
Yolanda glanced at the clock on her computer. “Okay, but you gotta be back by five.”
“A’ight. See ya.”
He left the door open on the way out.

The Sixth Degree (Part 2)

Note to Readers:

Certain sections of this serial, THE SIXTH DEGREE, can be read in any order. When you (the reader) need to have read a previous section, I (Solomon, the author of THE SIXTH DEGREE) will put in one of those sections that say "Previously on THE SIXTH DEGREE . . ." and then everybody will be happy, and if you're not, then go to hell, you f*cker.

Charlie Kingston gripped the baseball and slowly pulled it out of his mitt. He eyed the man at bat, his best friend, Glen MacDougal, and lifted his right leg slowly, the way his idol, Randy Johnson did it on TV. He drew back his left arm and held it there for second, then whipped it forward and let the ball escape his grasp. The red-stitched ball flew through the air and was met by the aluminum bat as Glen hacked forward and hit the ball, more by luck than anything else.
The ball quickly sailed high into the air, over the fence marking the boys’ baseball field and landed in the lake, startling a placid fisherman, who quickly recovered and began yelling obscenities to the boys, much to their enjoyment.
Charlie looked over at Glen and saw that instead of running the bases frantically, or laughing at the fisher’s displeasure, as the other boys were doing, he was instead looking at the fence. Charlie looked and soon understood Glen’s fascination: Daniela Cortez was standing there, with her girlfriends, watching the game. But as Charlie turned to look, she about-faced and began to leave the field.
Charlie jogged over, abandoning the fallen apart game, and patted his friend on the back. “Come on, dude. You’ve been after her since summer started, but you haven’t said a word to her.”
“Yeah, but what could I say?” Glen sighed. “We ain’t got nothing in common, ’cept the fact that we’re both minorities, an’ so is everybody else. You’re the only white kid here.”
Charlie looked around. “Well, you both . . . like . . . to . . . .” He trailed off.
Glen bent down to tie his shoe. “C, give it up. You know I ain’t got no chance with her.” He stood up. “You’d have a better chance askin’ her out than me, even though you sweat like a dog when you talk to a girl.” He pushed up his glasses. “I’m outta here.”
Charlie watched him go, his friend’s muscular frame noticeable as he pushed through the smaller kids, watched him pass an old, scruffy man as he went through the gate on his way home, watched until he turned a corner and was out of sight.

New Thing

Okay, it's been a while, but I'm back, AND I have posts, not some mother f*cking public service announcement begging for ideas. My creative fires are stoked, my literary engines are on, it's go-time baby! So let's get this second coming started! I'm doing a serial and it's called, (drumroll) please) duhduhduhduhdudhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduhduh . . . . . . SIXTH DEGREE! (tentatively titled, in case any copyright infringement lawsuits come up ) Anyway, here's the first installment:

James Olwegenae paced the waiting room. My FUCKING sister, he thought angrily. Why the FUCK couldn't she get married and settle down and have some OTHER bastard have to go through this shit of waiting for her bastard child to get itself born. And why the HELL am I here? God knows I don't owe the slut nothin', especially after her FUCKING retard mutt trashed my place. Why the FUCK couldn't she get herself fucked by the wrong person an' die, or get the shit beat outta her, like happens to half the ho's out there? SHIT. God knows I got other things to do more important than waiting for my sister's baby to get born, so she can get it into the foster care system.
James' train of thought was interrupted by a scruffy-looking, bearded, white man in a light blue suit and a green and purple striped tie who shambled into the empty waiting room, took out a newspaper and sat down. James offered a polite "Hello," that was gruffly returned. James resumed his pacing and his thoughts.
The command came from nowhere. "Sit down." James stopped and looked around, but there was no one there but the bearded man and himself. He continued his pacing, thinking he had been mistaken.
"Sit down." This time, there was no mistaking the note of command in the voice. James stopped in his tracks. Then he sat.
The bearded man hrumphed and continued his reading.
At that moment, an orderly came out of the waiting room and stammered, "Mr. Ole-wedge-, I mean, Mr. Old-wejen-, no, sorry, Mr. -"
"Olwegenae," James supplied.
"Right. Mr. Ole-wej-in-eye, your nephew has been born. Would you like to come . . . in . . . and . . . see?" The orderly stopped and watched as James hefted his 6'6" frame out of the tiny waiting room chair.
"No thanks." James left the room.