See You

The endless bread sticks entry into a vacation so large and in charge had started. Buckle your seat belts. Honestly, though -- that is not enough. It's a joke of a request. Hold on to your perfect body, make sure your bulletproof vest is sealed, wear various protective headgear -- ay Dios mío, you've dumbly decided to get on board the longest, bumpiest, sweetest, Dave-filled, seven out of ten, happy-go-lucky, most insidious rail transport service in Universe history. Look: the conductor is also the star of Vivid's Cock Wars Eight. The train itself is an aesthetic idiot. It's ignorant about façade, interior design, the color wheel -- the right choices in fashion fields throughout. Our ticket collector is the director of Cock Wars Nine (wow, your creativity baffles folks, Nick Rapper) and has a rabid gambling problem. Passengers! On whored is Jill, Jen, Christian P, Adem U, Anthony C, Anthony M, Vlad, Marina C, Andrea S from The Facts of Life, Angelo L, Katie P from We Rite Good Artikulls, novelist AJ, hip-hopper Concetta K, wrist-slitter Kate B, and -- you guessed it, sisters -- Sarah B. You're honestly a fucking clown if your thought process looks something like example a: "Wow, fun lot of folks. Anthony C is a good writer. Sarah was in . . . I think . . . well, she's a wonderful character. You can tell by her grey visage and thick southern accent." Example b is where your mind should be. Example b, get over here: "That's a lot of awesome dudes and dudettes. But I know you got more in store for your cute readers, Nick Rapper, known for his debut disc on ACI Records titled Fat Kids Are Welcome." Thanks, Example b. He's right -- those names I conveniently dropped are only half of what I have for you halfwits. Special guests? Yes! Train metaphor, resume. One thing no one (not even Him, I think) knows: where the fuck this train is going.

Dave took out his mechanical pencil and scribed on a sheet of loose leaf why he shouldn't look like Satan's spawn's Hebrew infant right now. Nice try, boy:

1. I'm alive

2. i have friends who love me

3. my fam is chill

4. Delorean (jk lol I'm still funny)

5. Jen loved humor

6. hmmm, when I get home i wonder which knife im gonna use

I wish seventeen of my cell phone contacts were names of therapists. Wait, unfortunately (for my blog cred) and fortunately (for Dave's life) that wish is really just a notable fact about me. You should spread correction fluid over "I wish." Bored silly and tired of alluding to nonexistent pornography features, I texted Dave, handing him some numbers he should call. Instead of the ubiquitous "K," I received a harsh "wow nick." Hey, don't thank me when, in a long while (duh), you're Lucky Charms content with things.

I love that boy. It's not so much sexual as . . . no, it's very, very sexual. Fuck lies. For once me and my characters may open up. Jen likes Scott. Dave got rejected. I have a chaste crush on Dave. The truth tastes like hard candy. So, readers, how are you? I care about my fans, Dave. Get over it. So, naturally gorgeous and somewhat irreverent consumers of only the finest prose around, seriously, what's going on? Are you enjoying your ride? Use the bathroom, brothers and sisters! Stop holding your bladders. That's simply ridiculous -- relieve yourselves. Fine: I'll confess . . . there is no bathroom. It's okay; our sensual locomotive engineer will stop whenever you yell in his ear (eighty-seven years old), "Stop!" Oh, Adem, your neighbor Andrea prefers window seats. Sorry! Okay, take your time, rude asshole. No -- you know what, don't give it to her. Blerg. I thought I went over the train conduct guidelines.

"Computer mastermind" (Miss Teacher) and "eligible bachelor numero uno" (Tech Geekly) Anthony C has been making advances in two fields: band photography and t-shirt distribution. Please, buy cheap, worthless rubbish quality products at Anthony's website. Or else . . . well, I don't need to spell it out for you. You are a wealthy Hispanic male (that's my average reader, right?) and you know (saber) that (que) I (yo, right?) will (use Google translator; I don't have time for this) abruptly stop posting on this site if you don't purchase material created by Ant, immediately.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," Vlad informed us. Motion sickness. Fun disease. "Not a disease, tool -- a condition," said Sarah B. Really . . . name-calling already? We've hardly begun this ride. Honestly, I'm just going to screen one of the Cock Wars flicks for my babes. Let lame time pass. As I'm about to insert the DVD into the slot, Vlad vomits all over my upholstered leather seats. First official stop of the day. Get out, lovers.

Matt G is an American hero. He proved to me how unimportant lifestyle choices are. Knowing the facts is where it's at! Seconds ago I scribbled cocaine off my To Snort list. That reminds me: Pixy Stix. Jen knows what I'm speaking of. If you're reading this, Jenny, hook me the fuck up ASAP. I love Matt, though, by the way. Look into his eyes.

What else! That deserved a question mark, Nick? Huh! Whatever? According to trusted sources, it's been a long, spirit-wrenching year. I was going to make a bunch of pointless lists (Best Songs, Best Films, yeah) regarding two thousand nine's media. Honestly, let me just give you a miniature glimpse into high school fanfare. Julian G said, "Not much came out this year," after I commanded him to recommend me some dope new joints. Christian mentioned David Guetta's "Sexy Bitch" and Nirvana's "All Apologies." He claimed the latter was his favorite song ever. Thankfully, Mr. Anthony C gave me a solid, stern response to my inquiry on this year's greatest album. Farewell's pop punk Run It Up the Flagpole. Hooray for directness. I'm fucking bored. Get me a luxurious energy drink, play "Calabria," and yell expletives in my general vicinity. Shall we continue?

"Fine," remarked the socially and vocally delirious Nick L. So, I first found out I was ga -- wait, word is in . . . for something. Oh -- my poll! And the winner is . . . wait, that can't be correct. The barely mentioned Christian P won your vote? You (reader, thinker, etc.) owe me (writer, rapist, etc.) an explanatory dissertation on why you chose Christian (Anabaptist I think) Christian P as your new leader. I mean, he's a clean, crisp person. Nice, smart, and chocolate full of witty snaps, I wouldn't call him a "loser at best" -- but he's not (read it over a handful of times for emphasis) the coolest minor character in my "stomach-closing" blog. The imp that deemed my blog stom -- ew, I'm not even gonna give Chris L the benefit of the doubt by giving him press or saying stomach-closing again.

Dead and gone Charles Dickens wants me to get into the particulars of the poll! No one asked you, respectable gentleman. Remain dormant in your grave, brilliant novelist. Eh, whatever: With 42% of the votes, Christian P stole your hearts. Senior Miss Jill claimed second place with 17%. Actress Sarah B received 14%. In fourth place, Mr. R -- wait, he doesn't want to be in my blog. Uh . . . here, I'll just spell it: R-Y-A-N. He or she finished with 10% of your generosity. Tied for last: Nick L and Katie P. Surprised the latter (who's both popular and upstanding) didn't pull away for at least a bronze. Nick L, though -- come on, who voted for my editor? Simply a dick move to support the existence of a rabid System of a Down fan.

Crap. I haven't checked in with my esteemed passengers in quite some time. Huh? Sarah, I know you're pissed and bull (although, you should keep in mind: Chris is on the varsity basketball squad, and in his other life he's the Joel Osteen of Christianity), but seriously pay attention. What did I say when we started this ride, lovers and haters? Thank you, Angelo. Please, tell your fellow trainees what you mumbled to me. "You said that we should be 'self-aware' at every single moment." Exactly. Sarah, hand me the diary. No -- don't put it in your purse. Give it to me. Now. Okay, fine -- then read what you wrote. Share your personal thoughts to everyone or else I kick you off. I'm not even sure we're still in America. I snatched her diary and consumed the negative commentary. Here's what the dame scribed:

I'm soooo bored. I can talk, like, for two years about how lame this train ride is. But let me just list some main complaints. 1) I love Ant C to death, but he smells. And his eyes are literally glued to everything Nick Rapper is doing -- he won't even give me a stick of gum or anything. 2) Vlad keeps blinking literally every second. And it's weird he's sitting across from me but since I know he does it every second I can't contain myself from looking. 3) Ok, I know he doesn't wanna here this, but like I'm not that entertained. Why do you think I'm writing down these complaints. Whatevs I hope this ends soon.

No wonder our mission's chief critic didn't want to say her rubbish aloud. I should just throw these worthless sentiments in the bin. Or reveal to Vlad and Anthony C just how bothersome they apparently are! This spat on my wounds: "not that entertained." What? Huh? Zzz. Fucking jump out the back window. I have patrons to pleasure.

There's a knowing quotation from my favorite gray erotica full-length, that goes: "I'm neither black nor white, but I'm surely going to place my yardstick in your charred dick." Eh, let me give you context! The burnt sienna star of this particular film had just found his maroon coworker alone in the office. It's an artsy little piece of severely-graphic movie-making, but basically, the maroon brother finds it easier to rhyme them to deliver a solid pre-sex line. In fact, it's unarguably pretentious. So, anyway, when he says that oral masterpiece, he takes a yardstick and inserts it into -- well, you get the picture. Wait . . . you probably don't. Either way, after that flick I stopped hating people for pigmentary reasons and started injuring people for personality reasons.

Without hesitation I laser-tagged the previous poll. He fled the scene and a "fun in the sun" (probably someone with too much time and all because seriously: no one needs the whole iambic pentameter trash) third baby has effectively snatched my middle child's need to exist anymore. "Trim your sentences, Nick," barfed AJ. Do you know what? I will indeed check the hedges for any unnecessary drivel. AJ is an important member of Nutley. He wrote a -- it's predictably difficult for me to tell you. He . . . wroteanovelokaythere. What? According to a dotted red line, that collection of letters is not a word! Weird. And don't try deciphering it. It wasn't meant for the common folk.

Back to my new [buzzword] poll: she will, upon first glance, seem irrevocably controversial. That's why I beg of you, my riders, to take her out to eat or something. Show her a good time. Approach her snow, and, if you want, caress it in full. I'll admit, her Tiger Woods may seem a bit too sexual. And she has a gravely sensitive leg. Not sure which one, though. On the positive (Stay Positive) side, she has terrifically designed fingers. And what handsome ears! Oh, you'll fall in love with Favorite Entity? so quickly! Anthony C's famous for saying, "Nick, your personificatory exploits are sure indicators of veiled faggotry." Ha, I remember when he said that -- not what I was looking for, though. Here we go: "Fall of Troy suck ass, Sarah." No, that isn't it! Last try: "Shut up, Dave. Just because I hate Israelites -- that doesn't mean I hate you. It's pure fact: most Jews are boring. Stop looking at me like that! Most!" Damn to the it! Sigh. Wow, it was in my left optic cranial nerve! Wow, I'm dumb. Anyway: "There's no such thing as 'love at first sight.' I'd guess that most people who claim it exist are either gay or Jewish. So . . ." That's all I needed. My point? Never say the four words "love at first sight" in succession, unless you're a fan of Kyle Minogue. Her terrific single's title includes, and is limited to, the aforementioned phrase.

I know precisely what you're thinking! (Partly because I'm a convicted mind-reader, but we'll touch on that later.) "Twilight . . . Facebook . . . hmmm, Nick Rapper does make a valid point regarding rape -- I mean, we have to put some blame on the victim . . . Cool Ranch Doritos . . . Adam Lambert's album is a huge -- no, massive -- letdown . . . Facebook." Am I in the ballpark? Who asked you.

The raisin I axed you was that, indeed, time's store-owner is closing up shop soon. I gave you all this delectable and healthy (psyche) prose for your own mortal benefit. Now I'd appreciate it if you quit your browser, ate some midlife snacks, and went to bed. You'll find me -- in a dark robe, with pink-rimmed glasses -- in your wonderful, wild reveries. Take care.

Ha, you're a freaking numbskull if you thought I'd just depart my readers -- seemingly out of nowhere and with a lame stock farewell. Conductor, fucking give each and every one of our passengers a Jim Beam. Let's do this. Why the fuck did Katie put on "reading" music. No! Absolutely unacceptable. Miles Davis is a jazz great -- true genius, in fact -- but DJ Princess Superstar, play some Ke$ha and Jay Sean and I hope someone has the Juno soundtrack on vinyl in their purse. Really, Anthony C? Was expecting Marina or Jill to respond to that question. Whatever -- put the needle on that motherfucker and let's dance like only Lady Gaga's wildest dreams could come up with.

Within millimeters, everyone was on their feet, singing things like, "Ain't got a care in the world, but got plenty of beer," with bizarre integrity (and warlike intensity.) By this point, the train driver was naked, wasted, and energetic like only cocaine's business. Wait, who the fuck's driving this shit? Whatever! Who cares? Whatever! Who cares . . . um, Vlad, have you ever hijacked an Amtrack? "No, and why would you --" No time for specifics or anymore chatter. Well, I have to say this, and this -- wait, I didn't have to say that. Or that. Mr. Vlad -- you're my expressway's new engineer. Or we're all dead. Thanks.

Admittedly, it was a hefty task. So at once I thew my hands in the air and took the wheel. Wow, what a boring job! Or is it? Adem U, Anthony M, and Kate B made my time in the cockpit fiery and diary(-worthy) Hell. So, I steered my bros through rain and shine, and wait, I'm still going! I'm kind of, no fully, surely, on some sort of illegal stimulant. Though the Monster wore off, the coke was a joke, and all my Sprite Lymon's remain in my garage fridge. What was your chalant prose god on? The world may never -- fuck you Tootsie Pops. I thought your trademark expired weeks ago. I guess I'll just say, very ambiguously, that I was on MDMA. I'll tell you why that's especially terrific in a "choose your own ending" capacity. You guys call it ecstasy. So my whole "MDMA" thing'll simply glide over your stupid heads. Ignoramuses. Holy script -- I actually need to get to a hospital, like, now. I think Marina's a nurse. But, um -- I'll blog about it. I can't just tell you face-to-face. I hate people that start sentences with "I hate people," simply because those folks dish out lame explanations which you may file under the Nitpick category. 2009, my readers, my online girlfriend (no longer active) -- you've all been good to me. But my pen (you mean your keyboard, bra) has proved to be invaluable to my success. I mean, what would I be without q, w, and e? (so, keyboard -- point proven!) Just kidding, wonderful inhabitants of Earth who indulge themselves in my sensual prose. You are my reason. My purpose! So, I take a small break and crash the train into a mailbox. I'll probably find you in 2010. Have a wonderful time rereading the most "hard-to-follow" (all my readers; ☺) posts. And, with that, I love you and I'll see you in bodily existence form for a few hundred thousand million . . . ☂