The Archetype

  So I was recently at a friend's party and I noticed some interesting things that I guess I've always kind of known, but never put the thoughts to coherent words.  So there I was, sitting in the corner on the couch, under the influence, blank staring at people like a mother fucking creeper when I started to see similarities and begin to understand the dynamic of a party as an entity to itself.  Like the human body, parties have several elements that you will always which classifies a party as a 'party'.  This will be a generalization of everyone there in the order I saw them.

1. Obviously, you have to have 'The Host'.  This is going to be a decently chill guy with quite a list of friends.  He/she will be drinking, but not enough to hinder their judgement.  They are also the first to snap into soberness when someone vomits all over the carpet.
2. Go to any good party and you'll see there are women there.  There is also a girl, maybe more, who is usually a decent person and not normally slutty, but is able to use alcohol as a reason to be a bit flirtatious and playful.  She's not going to put out, despite leading you on.  She is 'The Tease'.
3. There is always a 'Good Guy'.  This guy likes our number 2 girl, above, but is too much of a pussy to make a move.  I can understand.  I can totally relate,except it's less pussy-ish when I do it, as it is not being an opportunist.  It's the good guy move, but good guys never win, EVER, and they never get laid.  This guy will spend the time at the party taking care of her after the 'bad guy' made her feel horrible or when she's puking her guts up.
4. There is a bad for every good and a 'Bad Guy' for every 'Good Guy'.  These are the guys who are plowing through women by the condom full.  They are willing to say what ever it takes for sex and you know what, it almost always works.  He follows his next victim into the bedroom while accepting congratulatory high-fives from the others.
5. The next is a guy I like to call 'The Expert' and a full fledged creeper.  At the party, he happened to also be the 'good guy'.  This guy hasn't drunk a damn thing all night.  He is called 'The Expert' because he seems to know everything about being drunk.  He tests other's sobriety to make sure they know he is 'The Expert'.  He is a fucking tool that no one really likes, but everyone is too drunk to care.
6. You could go to any corner of the Earth and you will always meet Number 6.  This person is the guy that thinks he is too cool to be drunk.  He'll do shot after shot and pretend like it's not affecting him at all.  He'll also probably be the guy who is going to drive home after getting butt-fucked by liquor.  At the party, this is the guy that vomited on your floor.  He is 'The Asshole'.
7. This next person, I was hilariously surprised when I found out his archetype, because I actually know this guy really well.  He is 'Mr. Really-Fucking Obnoxious'.  At the party, any party for that matter, this is going to be the obnoxious person who screams way too loud, being entirely too physical, and not really fitting into any of the sub-groups at the party.  He might also be the colossal asshole playing beer pong and is screaming, because some one made a shot on him. The best way I can describe him is like Dwight, from The Office.  Just imagine Dwight at a party.
8. Number 8 is the one that makes everyone uncomfortable at the party.  These are 'The Couple'.  These mother fuckers are making out the whole time, using their one or two drinks to pretending like they are wasted.  They take PDA to a whole new level.  Whether it is soft core porn making out, dry humping, or maybe even straight out dick-sucking, it's uncomfortable to everyone sober enough to notice.  
9. Next, we have 'The Uninvited'.  These people are the ones that got sucked into the gravity of the invitation someone cool got.  This is how people like 'Mr. Really-Fucking Obnoxious' got into the party or how a fat chick made it in, because she has a skinny, attractive friend/roommate that the invitee would like to have sex with.  It's sad, but it's the truth and you all know it.
10. And finally, we have everyone else.  These are your fillers to make your party look cool.  Much like movies use extras to have people to kill off or to make it look like something is actually happening.  Same as a party.  They are self-sustaining and are useful to disappear into a crowd when the cops show up.

  So that is my list.  Next time you are at a party, take a good look around in between shots and see if what I am telling you is true.  I know it is, but I want you to know it to, punk bitch.

Hiatus, a million dollar word...

  ...Meaning I'll do what ever the fuck I want when I want to.  So I'm sure a couple of you have heard rumors that I haven't written any new blogs recently.  They're all true.  Except the one about me dying in that horrible, dinosaur-related car accident.  That one was made up entirely by me to avoid writing blogs.  By the way, how ironic is it that a dinosaur would get into a car wreck using the fossilized remains of its brothers and sisters as fuel?

A spitting image of my English teacher.
The resemblance is uncanny

  Well the truth is I fucking hate writing more than life itself.  It's more work than I ever get back out of it.  I just sit here, tap, tap, tapping away on this godforsaken keyboard, pretending like I'm making coherent sentences and we all know that isn't the case.  I also have to choke down a lot of resentment and hatred for a one, "Gaconnator" (she knows who the fuck she is).

  We had an understanding that I won't say anything if she won't look, talk, or call on me.  Anyways, she was bat-shit crazy about some grammar.  Like crazy crazy.  Needless to say, I hated the hell out of her, but she taught me an invaluable lesson: anyone can get a job at my high school, no matter how crazy or self-righteous they seem to be.

Pictured: Crazy Crazy

  As I get older, I realize, "Holy fuck, I've been in school for over 17 years and I still have at least another year to go."  I have been trained like an animal to sit in desks, arranged by rows, typically alphabetically, in a depressing white room with some shitty "inspirational and educational" posters on the walls, underneath fluorescent bulbs, where I spent my time contemplating "The Great Escape" all while writing essays, that apparently I should be thankful that I learned.  And you know what, it's all I know.  I feel like the only way I can express myself in an argument anymore is if I write down my views in a 5 paragraph paper.  It's the only way I can think anymore.  I'm a beast who realized that I have secretly been broken.  Fuck me if some one asks me to voice my opinions on the spot, but I digress.  Here's a metaphoric exercise: Try to find out which character is portraying me and which one is portraying The Man.

Here's a hint: I'm not black.

  And now here we are, at the end of this little tale.  I have never liked concluding paragraphs.  It's this whole confusing, "wrap up your whole essay in one paragraph, making everything you just wrote completely fucking pointless."  "Don't say 'in conclusion' or 'as you can tell', that shit is for noobs." I also apologize for not blogging like I'm making money.  Writing kind of really sucks, because of emotional scars I received during the whipping session in the English department.  Keep expectations low, so when I do what I'm supposed to do, people are impressed.

  I forgot to mention that if you can't wait for your next blog by me, follow me on twitter.  I use it every single day, leaving fun little sayings that make even the heavens 'lol'.  http://twitter.com/#!/Rascalkingdom  That is my twitter obviously.  I am the Rascal King and twitter is my kingdom.

Baile de Muerte.

  It's Spring Break right now and I had to make a long drive to get home.  There is something about driving 2-hours through car-infested highways that is just physically exhausting.  It really makes the butt cheeks sing once you get out of the car.

  For years, I have always thought of the highways as the most synchronized dance of death.  Every one is doing their part to not eat shit in the pile of metal, death, and fire that is known as a 15-car pile-up.  I, as the main character and choreographer of the production of Baile de Muerte, have the strict job of making sure everyone is nailing their parts in perfect harmony or I will be laughed right off of Broadway, in this case, dying like a bitch. 

  So as I was driving through hill country on my way down to Houston, there is a part of the road that goes up a hill in about a 26 degree angle.  Luckily my car can handle it, but that's not the point.  It got me thinking that this highway is nothing more than a big, not so theatrical roller coaster.  My car can go just as fast or faster as any roller coaster, the hills provide the thrills, and the other cars provide the danger.  It made time go by a little faster imagining it. 

This ride would be so bittersweet. 

The List.

  As I have lived my short life, like most of us, I keep a mental list of everything that pisses me off or something I hate.  Ok, this is how this works.  For everything I have written down, add Fuck You to the beginning of it.  Then, I list what I hate and why.  Pretty straight forward I would imagine.

Fuck You...

  ...Cancer.  You killed my dog.

  ...Hulu.  You used to be cool.  Now you charge to watch your shit.

  ...Team Rocket.  Quit trying to steal my Pokemon.  I went to the fucking work of catching them.  If you would would catch something more intimidating that a fucking Rattata, maybe you could stand a chance at your goals.

  ...Gamefreak.  You keep encourage Team Rocket.

  ...Scar from the Lion King.  You cut Mufasa down in his prime.  You're lucky he comes back as a ghost or I would ice your ass myself.

  ...Steven.  Is it so hard to pick up a fucking phone or shit, even reply on Facebook?  You could at least pretend to still be my friend or at least tell me that we can't be friends anymore.

  ...Mazda.  You made a shitty car and you know it and you still let me get it.  If it's not one problem, it's another.

  ...Math.  For years you have been putting me down and I'm fed up with it.  I'm not stupid!  I just have a hard time focusing on what the fuck I'll need Trig for in any part of my life.

  ...Mark Zuckerburg, the CO-creator of Facebook.  Yeah I saw that shit ass movie, "The Social Network."  It fucking sucked.  I don't like the smug little shit that you were portrayed as which I can only assume is how you act in real life.

  ...Gas Prices.  Quit being a tool.

  ...The White Walls of My Apartment.  God I'm tired of staring at your blankness.  I need a woman's touch to redecorate my place.

  ...Dish Network.  You take away my Cartoon Network to put up 3 MTV2 channels?  Who the fuck do you think you are?

  ...Racism.  Get over yourself.

  ...Yelllow Jackets (the insect).  I still have not forgotten about the physical and psychological torment you put me through.

  ...Hot Pockets (for the moment).  You gave me the worst burn in my life.  I haver never felt so much pain before.

  ...Fighting-type Pokemon.  Can you be any more over powered?!

  ...College.  Why do I have to take TWO years of a forgein language?  I'm not planning on moving to Germany in the next 50 something years.

  ...Jobs.  Just hire me; I'm a good worker.

  ...iPhone.  You're such a smug, pretentious little shit, but I can't live without you anymore.

  ...Women.  Why do you have to have so many complicated emotions?

  ...Salads.  I would eat you more if you didn't taste so awful.  I'm not meant to live that way!  I have sharp teeth for a reason!

  ...Heroes (the TV show).  The first season was so awesome and the others just weren't.  You kept my interest for 3 more seasons by throwing some stupid fucking twist that had no impact on the story.

  ...Writing.  I HATE writing!

  ...Golf Cart Guy.  You aren't cool and you're definitely not funny.  Don't look at me.  Don't talk to me.  Don't even make eye contact with me.  Just do your job and drive me to and from school.

  ...The Red Head that checks out cameras at school.  Why are you such a bitch?  I can't tell you how many times I wanted to put you in your place, but didn't because you were in charge of the cameras I have to check out for class.  I hear you're in London right now.  I hope you are having a shitty time eating British food and listening to the Beatles.

  ...The Beatles.  I don't like you singing your songs.  If someone sings them then fine, I'll listen to it.  If Chris Cornell sings one, I'll love it.  I just don't want you singing them. 

  ...Wolverine from the X-Men.  I don't know why I don't like you, but I don't.

  ...Black Kid from my P.E. class in my freshmen year in high school.  I should have fought you when I had the chance.  I regret almost every month that I didn't hit you right in your fucking face.

  ...Bad Drivers.  You know who you are.  You don't believe you are, but I know for a fact you are.  Good drivers don't watch Youtube when they drive.

  ...Cancer...Again.  You killed my dog you piece of shit.  You better not let me catch you on the streets at night.  Shit, you better not let me catch you anytime of the day.  I'll ruin your whole day.

The Ballad of Derek the Sim

  So I rented Sims 3 on the Xbox what seems a month ago now.  Let me be the first to say this game is pretty sweet.  So I made my guy and named him Derek, after yours truly of course.  It seemed fitting at the time.  He's a pretty handsome devil if I do say so myself.  He's like me, except skinny and he knows how to play the guitar.  He's got my silver tongue, my charming charisma, life of the party, and other such wonderful characteristics about me.  I filled out all his little traits and the what not and his lifelong dream was to have his guitar and charisma skill maxed out.  From here on out, I will be speaking from the viewpoint of Derek the Sim.  I will also be listening to "You Spin My Head Right Round" over and over while I write this.  I might throw in some 3Oh!3 to shake shit up, because it puts me in the mood.

Prepare to surrender your life over
to EA. 

  It all started in Character Creation.  I got my swag on with some thugerific clothes in the glorious green variety.  I chose some devilish good features and then went out into the simulated game I call life.  For whatever reason, I had 16 thousand dollars burning a hole in my pocket and no place to live, so that seemed like the next logical choice to do.  I bought a small, one bed, one bath house for about 14k.  It was quite a lovely neighborhood.  My house was right across the street from a park with a fish pond.  I liked to get away from the hoopla of work and life by going to this park and practicing my guitar or reading some literature about zombie safety.  Of course, this would be much nicer if some asshole *cough*Cookie Leary*cough* wasn't playing his guitar all hours of the day every day right outside my house.  I'll tell you more about him later.

  Let me tell you about my job now.  You see, my lifelong dream is become a guitar god and the charisma to move a nation.  I'm talking so charismatic that nations fight wars over who can be in the front row of my worldwide concert.  But as with every great story, it all has to start some where.  It was a bright and beautiful Saturday afternoon.  Kevin, the adorable and pudgy paperboy (probably running papers to have a little extra spending money at school), had just dropped the paper off on his daily runs.  I opened it up and looked under job listings.  There was an opening at the theater!  Can I be so lucky!?  I had to start small, $12/hr working 6 days a week as a Roadie.  My boss was Kara Leary.  At first she was a tight-ass, but I eventually wore her down and we became pretty good friends.  Remember Cookie?  Well Cookie is her husband.  They are a couple in their 60s or so and have a genuine appreciation for the arts and music.  More power to them I suppose, but I digress.  I wouldn't be a Roadie for long though!  I'm going places baby!

 -Fast Forward 3 Real Days-

  I'm really starting to climb the ranks now.  I'm a Lyricist working 4 days a week for $152/hr.  At this point, I have more time and money than I know what to do with.  Sure, I buy a nice thing or two to make my home better looking and less of a death trap, but what I really want is some human companionship.  I trolled around my little town for a suitable mate.  I spent some time at the gym and the hangout place around the theater, but to no avail.  Then one day at the park across from my house there was a girl named Sara Masterson.  She looked like your typical poet with the typical black beret, with a black turtleneck and black circle glasses.

A lot like this except as a woman.

    So I start chatting her up using that family charm.  We became fast friends.  I'd invite her over and hang out.  Sometimes I would show off by playing my guitar or paint a picture.  I AM an artist after all.  As I get to know her more, I find out she is not a poet, but a burgler....and evil.  But it's whatever, I'm not too picky and she seems to be the only person that is not geriatric or in elementary.  As the days go by, I would invite Sara over and she would say "Ok! I'll be right over!" and then I would get a call not 2 seconds later from her saying "Something came up."  This went on for a couple days.  Then one day I said "Fuck the bitch."  I give up on her and continue living my life.  The very next day, my maid (I'm rich as shit so I can afford fun stuff like that) was cleaning my house.  She looked like an angel! 

  Her name is Isabella Daniels. I tried to spend as much time as I could with her.  I invited her over all the time.  Sometimes she would stay over and we would hang out all night.  Eventually, I asked Isabella to be my girlfriend.  When things started to get serious, Sara started calling me and asking if I wanted to come over.  I put the bitch in her place is what I did.  I told her I was in a happy and loving relationship right now.  Almost immediately after that, I asked her to move in with me.  Now the fun never stopped.

-On the 6th Day-

  By this time, I had become a Rockstar and was making any where from 15 hundred to 6k in just one concert.  But what outshined all that money is that my sweet Isabella was preggers.  We had the baby shortly afterwards.  It was a beautiful baby girl.  Her name is Anne Hathoway Daniels (named after my celebrity love and she took her mother's last name since we weren't married yet.)  Isabell and I got married the next day and we were one big happy family.  I spent some mad money on expanding our house for our little angel.  I put in an entertainment room for company too.  Also around this time, Sara would sulk around the park across the street looking for any kind of attention.  Pathetic really.  Occasionaly, she would come over and ring the doorbell looking to come in.  I would chase her off in this situation.  But one day, I was at a concert and Isabell was at work so we had a babysitter come over and take care of Anne.  Sara saw this as a time to strike.  She let herself in with her burgler skills and picked up and held my baby.  I rushed home and called the cops on her.  I haven't seen her since. 

  Isabella worked at the town stadium trainning little leaguers for their game.  I was still making major cash as the Rockstar.  Anne was growing quickly.  She had her first birthday and I found out she had the traits of a genius.  I'm not surprised though; she is from my seed.

-The Final Day-

  Disaster struck in the form of an earthquake.  It ripped through our quiet town and made the appiances catch fire.  I was at the park when it happened.  I ran over and grabbed Anne and shooed Isabell out the door.  Luckily no one was hurt.  While some saw nothing but heartache and tragedy, I saw a golden opportunity.  I was stupid rich by this point, so I decided it is time to start living like it.  I bought the mansion on the coast, overlooking the luscious sea. 

  And this brings us to our close.  Anne is a beautiful young lady, beginning her first days of elementary.  Isabella is now a professional athlete and a damn good one at that.  And I am still living my dream, one day at a time with my wonderful family.

Ranger Dan, the Only Man to Walk Out of Mythology Alive

  In the Davis Mountains, there exists a man named Ranger Dan.  This man is unlike any other man you have ever met.  I had the pleasure of meeting him at a boy scout camp where I was working.  This man is the personification of sheer badassness and being bat-crazy wrapped in one mortal body.  This man is very much real.

Ranger Dan and his trusty giraffe Too-Tall

  The picture above is the one that set Ranger Dan down the path of being a legend.  It was one day during summer when the sun was busy being hot as fuck and I was dying from dehydration.  It was some time around lunch I remember.  I was waiting at the end of the line for the campers to get their food first when out in the distance, I see Ranger Dan riding a huge horse.  I brain was fizzled so it comprehended that I was seeing a giraffe.  It took me 3 whole minutes to realize that is was a large horse.  My brain kept thinking "how did he get a giraffe to the middle of 'Where the Fuck are We,' Texas" and "I wonder if a giraffe is capable of traveling across this mountainous terrain with ease?"  I'm a little embarrassed about it, but I was justified for my absent-mindedness this time.  So like any sane person would do, I retold my experience in the form of a picture in some journal thing I had that I probably stole from some little kid by saying something like "Bitch you better give me that shit or I'm going to punch you in head!"

"Safe Swim"

  That picture turned into another several more like the one above with some witty saying about something about camp or something he said or did.  By the end of the summer, I probably had nearly 50 pictures of him doing wacky, zany things.  I was pretty proud and pretty damn popular too.  Everyone wanted to read this book, because frankly, it was the fucking shit.  I even got an award for it being so kickass.

  Now I know what you're thinking, who cares?  Let me tell you this man's credentials of awesome prowess.  About two or so weeks into camp, I hear a rumor about him and his run in with a cougar.  Now being the reporter I am, I had to find facts.  Putting my ear to the ground and searching around, I finally found it.  The story goes like this, a malevolent cougar was stalking around camp and being a creeper in general.  Ranger Dan was going to have none of this.  He set off into the mountains sometime after lunch to go try and scare it off and go ransack the cougar's home.  He not only found the home, he found the cougar.  He shot the mountain cat in the face with a .22 pistol.  A .22 pistol!  Right between the eyes.  That means he was really close to pull that kill off.  Finish him! Fatality!  If that wasn't enough, he carried the carcass back down the mountain and had him stuffed and put him in the living room because Ranger Dan keeps what he kills. 

None of this picture is exaggerated.  Except maybe the number of claws.

  I am going to put new Ranger Dan pictures up here as I draw them because I have a new scanner and am eager to use it for any and everything, so check back often for more tales of awesomeness.

D.I.T.T.O.: Ditto Is (a) Tarded Thundercunt Organism

  For those of you who don't know, I still play Pokemon.  I find it fun and mentally stimulating.  I strive to be the very best.  Well, there is this place where you can take pokemon to be raised by some old lady and her old decrepit husband.  Here, they will give your pokemon (they can raise two at once) experience for every step you take. 

  Sometimes when you have two pokemon at the day care at once and they happen to have the hots for one another, they will bang and you will get an egg to celebrate their monstrous copulation.  For the trainer, like myself, who don't feel like going the extra mile, you can leave a Ditto with another pokemon of which you want a baby from.

Pictured: A living sex-toy.  Ditto for short

  You see, Ditto has the unique ability to become any pokemon it wants to.  This gives it the power to bang and make a baby with any other pokemon.  I have a Ditto for exactly this purpose.  His/Her name is Dr. Love PhD.  His/Her sole job is to bang and conceive another pokemon's baby. 


  And frankly, I am completely fine with that.  The problem I have is the Day-Care Man.  When I go to collect my freak babies, Mr. I-Watch-Your-Pokemon-Bang is standing there holding it.  Instead of saying something obvious like "Hey your pokemon is a sex freak, here is ANOTHER egg," he says some shit like "We don't know how it happened, but we found this egg out with your pokemon."  We don't know how it happened.  I am a goddamned adult.  I know where babies fucking come from.  Don't pretend like you are fooling me, because I see through your child-protected bullshit.  Be straight with me bro.

  If you don't know how pokemon are made, it goes a little like this.  I leave my pokemon with you, they bang each other with their genital parts, and then said banging creates an egg.  How about instead of remaning ignorant, you should actually look out your window and watch my fucking pokemon like I am paying you with my hard earned pokedollars that I made by risking my pokemon's life for each and everyday.

  In summary, I hate you Day-Care Man.