Global Aspirations

Soup, Progressives. Few will get the reference; all will perish. Anywhat, I'm still in let's-expand-the-blog-empire mode. The demographics I've claimed are thus: secular stoners, chivalrous cheerleaders, and friendly foreigners. But I'm going to BBC this shit. Yes, it is time to expand our global popularity and importance. There are five groups I've ignored throughout my literary quest. You might as well throw baseballs at my house and call me a "prejudiced pinhead." Well, you had your chance to do that -- my blog is fucking gorgeous, so ya didn't. Anywhen, I've decided to make an appeal to the following cliques: whores, gangsters, hipsters, guidos, and Mormons. I'll present to you stories for each set, written in appropriate diction, using established Fictional Account characters, in the order prescribed above, within syllables. Ready, set, ho!

Confessions of a Teenage Tramp

My name is Jill and I'm a prostitute. It wasn't always this way, though. But who fucking cares . . . I love my job and it pays the rent. My drug of choice is heroin, and I frequently ingest it before sucking off a guy. I'm not sure you wanna know the really sexual stuff. Why should I care, though? My dad's in prison, my mom's in an insane asylum, and my mouth is wrapped around a lollipop. I use various candies as sex toys. I'm like Katy Perry.

Coming into the business with nothing more than money and fake bosoms and wide hips, some have said, "Jill, how'd you do it?" I can't answer that question. Talk to my clients. I'm trying to convince my friend Jen to support me, but guess what, she fucking doesn't -- that's not fair, it's not. I think that being a whore, slut -- I don't care what you call it, hey I don't care what you think about me, hey, call me fat or dumb if you want, I can tell you now, I don't fucking care . . . where was I?

Oh, well, being a whore is tough, since I'm against what I do. I wouldn't call myself religious, but I have faith that God will forgive me if He's there, because I give people pleasure every single day, and pleasure can't be a bad thing. I'm not happy about it, ha, well maybe I am. I just have to tell you, stay in school but if you want to have sex for a living, go ahead because you're basically -- well I call myself a humanitarian. Whatever way you cut it, it's still the same thing. You want people to be happy and you want money. Reciprocal. I'm no dummy, by the way. I really really like Ellen Hopkins' Crank -- sometimes I cry when I read books. When you feel exactly like the author describes you get the feeling you're both alone and not alone, the first one because you physically are -- the second because you're mentally not. I love myself and really like sex and don't box in my emotions. So forgive me, God.

Streets Strengthen Structure

"Yo, Jewfest, whatchyou doin' today?" I said to Dave C. Dave gets a lot of shit in our hood because he's a Jew.

"Chillin' wit Ang, ya dumb Nazi. Mims's gonna be at Starland. Come bro -- twenty fo' tickets."

"Screw that shit, muddafucka. Les see Daddy Yankee -- he be at Nokia at eight."

"Reggaeton is horrible. All they got is Sean 'n Daddy Yankee. See Mims bro; his new album if fuckin' beast."

Honestly, the dude had a fucking point. Reggaeton is ruled by Sean Paul and Daddy Yankee, but I love the genre to death. I'd see Mims that day, even though his stuff is terrible and he's not doing anything for hip-hop lyrically. "This Is Why I'm Hot" is fucking catchy, though. I'll give you that.

"Whatever . . . I'll go to the Mims show," I conceded.

"Hell to thee yes," Dave said, enunciating every fucking word like a retard.

I was looking forward to seeing the opening act. Because, believe me, Mims is a joke -- no doubt. The time passed and eventually it was around seven and we headed to Brooklyn. What happened could only be described as "amazing." It was me, Dave, and Angelo, and we saw FAG (First American Gang), our rival gang. The feud between our gang, GOT (Gleeful Oddball Troop), and FAG, commonly called the FAG-GOT Wars, was about to undergo its seventh or eighth battle. I had my pistol on me, bitch.

We were definitely dumbasses that day, trying, us three, to beat them, which was probably, I'd say there was nine people out there. I went down first. My fucking Biggie Smalls t-shirt was permanently ruined. My wrist was . . . sprained. Dave was the second victim. He clearly injured his ass. Kinda funny but man was this battle violent. Angelo went down last because by then it was a good seven on one and he just fell. Didn't get many injuries, just a few bruises and a torn eyelid. That's it, don't get an erection haters.

The Mims show was good at least. Cool Kids opened. Pretty badass show I'd fucking say.

Timely Commentary

Oh, I am so very dissatisfied with my pronunciation as of late. The sloth bug has crawled upon my crops and defecated on my raspberries and avocados. I recall a discussion with my good mate Ryan; thereupon I lamented his stamina, rendering it less than stellar -- the expression may seem tiresome and overused, but it is an apt substitute for the source text -- and he retorted, as his brow furrowed, with a disagreeable "not accurate."

Here arrives my entry into the apathetic rafters: "Well, I say it is, and it is." Three-fourths of my dumbly-delivered quotation were given a bag of chips for lunch, a can of Axe for cleanliness, the half-hearted rubbish seen in today's youth on a grand scale. I have hence practiced oral exercises on the hourly, reciting As You Like It monologues, rehashing news stories with incomparable emphasis on trivial matters such as creed or count, ironically delivering barely-realized fables in town square -- the latter I've since spent upwards of threescore hours in prison as the result; who knew anatomical features shan't be yelled out in front of supposed "littluns" -- for nothing but increased self-awareness.

I have no enemies, only exaggerated opinions (meritable folks still call them that, I presume; I must conform to emphasize the following). My good comrade Alison B, one offspring of God's ambivalent and beatific actions, has taken a liking to Adam Young's musical (by whose measure?) exploits, vomited from the alias Owl City and mastered by a laptop and allegorical confusion. Twas my first aural experience of Young's somehow-emotional fodder when I decided I'd spend a few hours each day, for the rest of my dwindling epochs, protesting the existence of an Owl City.

This life mustn't look at troubles and pensively gasp, "I shall let you off, at once!" My picket signs were both artistically endearing and dramatically crafted. Once the townsfolk become aware of Owl City's abhorrent endeavors, they will -- along with their ears and hearts -- reject it! Homo sapiens, the sole music makers, must preserve their medium. A negative trend may be a deceased philanthropist quicker than a ringtone hip-hop connoisseur rises and falls. I suppose some moronic dullards thrive in my state. Quietly and tastefully, I delved into Sayreville to oppose Owl City's infestation of the area. Teenage scum paintballed my aesthetic masterpieces and looted me. The two chaps with me, the punk-influenced Jennifer A, and the effective Queen of the Indies, Miss Sarah B, managed to remain unscathed during the chaos. I have a renewed passion for both ladies because of their now-ubiquitous scruffy, scrappy nature which is absent in their respective visages.

Those sensible young persons searching for emotional comfort and auditory, hedonistic delight need not look farther than Death Cab for Cutie's Transatlanticism and Chan Marshall's You Are Free. Never sacrifice self-consciousness, quality, passion or public affection in thy idealistic engagement -- time is thee purveyor of only waste; be the binman. My words are thence excavated from a life knowing little of mindless pursuits. As a token of indelible gratitude for your hopeful fancy, I henceforth divulge my motto: popular culture, by its very nature, blurs thine intellect; hesitate nil and commence warfare.

Jersey Shore Product

Let's make it known -- I hate reading, you hate reading. But today was fucking awesome. I love taking my girl down for a walk on the beach -- fuck that, but she likes it, and she's hot as hell, bro. You know what -- this girl I have right now has proven to me dark-haired broads are so much better. Her tits are fucking beastly, too.

I fucking hear it everyday, bro -- New Jersey sucks, it smells, all this bullshit. It's honestly the best place ever though. So many hot girls. So many. I'll tell you guys about my day, though -- it was a definite win.

I woke up at one, bro, and I'm just like, fuck this. But there was a party later so I'm all chill and shit, just talking to my main bro AJ basically. Dude's got two threesomes in the last month. You gotta meet this guy. He's fat as hell and doesn't talk much but he just scores.

At three I went to the gym and did some chest flexes and cardio shit. I was pumped like a champ by the time I got back to my apartment, bro. It was like four and I just started doing my hair and crap, getting ready for clubbing with AJ and Vlad. I gotta break up with my girl. She's absolutely perfect but I'm just like, restricted, ya know?

I hear it's like the same rate or more -- girls are horrible, they cheat all the time. But at the club, it was just awesome. This girl made like seven hundred jokes about my hair -- I'm like, yo, I need a funny chick. Most girls are just not funny, at all.

But yeah, I'm still with my one girl, and I feel mad held down -- I'm just gonna be honest with her. She's fucked at least 4 of my bros -- believe me, this chick is strong, she's hotheaded and the worst that'll happen is she'll spread rumors about me. But honestly I don't think she'll do that shit. She's one of the most truthful girls you'll meet -- that's why I'm with her. If there's one thing in Jersey that I hate, it's the drama. This chick is fucking chill.

Honestly I gotta fight this guy Adem -- he's been texting my girl Josie. Yesterday I took Josie's phone and texted him -- I'm like, Dude get a fucking life. He texts me back saying how, Wow, your boyfriend took the phone from you obviously and that he's gonna tear my ass up. I don't fuck with people normally but a guy like this -- that's when I make an exception. He's 150 maybe -- skinny bitch. Anyway, peeps, always be true. I hate liars. People are like, Yo Nick you're a guido, popping your collar, working out, all this shit. I'm like, "First off, fuck you. Secondly, I'm a guido, sure. I'm proud of it. Third, don' mess with me. I love my life and I'm gonna live it to the fullest. Spending your time hating -- what a waste of space you are." Peace guys.

Splatter Grey Paints

Hello. You may call me Christian, or simply Chris. I prefer the former for a host of reasons, though I'll simply say Chris is not a very happy person, and Christian is a naïve boy of sixteen, searching for the utmost joy that usually accompanies childhood. My parents are respectable people, although I may hardly proclaim them patron saints of leisure culture.

I really enjoy the game Candyland. I understand its juvenile and fantastical ties, but it's so fun, and I wish the board would envelop me and I'd be a carelessly happy schoolboy on Gum Drop Mountain, just pigging out on peppermint sticks and licorice, enjoying Z-100's party tunes. I am aware that most of said songs center around sexual intercourse, though its too obvious to offend me. It's bubblegum to the ears, I say.

My parents push literature in my face at an alarming rate. I really enjoy reading, writing, watching television, seeing films, looking at glossy photos of stars in magazines -- virtually all forms of escapism I try to reach. Most forms of media I am not suppose to consume, though. My good friends have brought me with the delicious sweets because my friends are unarguably the best.

Though I love my God, and my parents and the wonderful Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, et al, I still marvel at this feeling etched in me. I feel like the mild oppression I've experienced has only made me more prone to closure. Reverie has taken over me, and its warmth, and the comforting spiritual reliance never to depart from me, has made my life only the greater.

Alas, it was a Friday night, at around quarter to ten, when I started reading Twilight -- I finished it by early morning, before crashing in my cot. The last bit I got from it, on the back flap, was that Miss Stephenie Meyer is a Mormon. But, oh, the novel wreaks of sexual tension, and I think she shouldn't call herself a Latter Day Saint with this disgusting piece of child pornography etched onto her breast. It's inexcusable for this poorly-written account of sexual angst to be taken as an indirect symbol of our people.

Do not deny our reputation. According to current archetype, we never have fun, we aren't really Christians, we go door-to-door spreading our faith, and our leader dreamed up all this nonsense, Christian P -- you can't possibly take it as anything more than fiction, can you?

I won't refute any stereotypes. I'll just say Stephenie Meyer is someone who carries herself loosely, without regards to tradition, and has an inattentive husband who must cry over the words that leave this dame's mouth. I'm so sorry for the insult, Miss Meyer, but you only push down brick buildings a layer before completion. I've learned some distinctly human lessons from literature, and I must share them, because they stick to me. Be yourself, because individuality only exists if you don't know what it is, fully, and respect everyone else's right to speech, prayer, belief, and thought.