Modern Day Mikey

While you all were studying for exams and writing papers in the fall of 2004, I was fast at work in my dorm room single drawing picture requests in MS Paint. I had started a thread, on that same Otakubooty forum that I keep talking about, which simply stated "tell me what to draw and I will." At first the requests were pretty simple or silly, but after awhile people wanted me to draw more and more situations of despicable sexual nature. Shamefully I complied because the praise for my work was greatly appreciated during that dark time of my life. Anyways, I just recently took most (I lost some of these plus all the original bitmaps during the great crash of '06) and made a flickr account so you can catch a glimpse at my sad, sad genius.

A lot of these are nws (NOT WORK SAFE) as they tend to depict very realistic penises. Of course if you are reading my blog instead of working then you should be ashamed. Each drawing comes with the original request in its description and a working title.

My MS Paint Masterpieces


Enjoy.

A Procrastination Story

A year ago I was taking a Creative Writing class at Greenville Tech (College that Works). Now, I wrote some stuff in that class that I'm pretty proud of that have no place in a blog, which are traditionally set aside for shitty poems about hating your parents. If you want to read any of the stuff I wrote that I consider "cool" then drop me a line online and I'll send them to you.

No, this is a story, not about creativity but about lack of productivity.

For our final Portfolio I had to have completed four poems and two pieces of short fiction. My one short story (a scifi thriller) was pretty long and needed revising. I didn't revise it. I touched up a couple of pieces I thought were pretty solid and word-shitted out some peer reviews that I hadn't done earlier in the semester. I had taken a poem that I wrote (in a very emotional state which I might talk about next post) my senior year of high school and revamped it for the final project. All in all putting this whole thing together hadn't taken much time at all and when I did a check off of all the things I needed I came up one poem short.

Now, I had plenty of time to write out a poem and make a fake revision of it but, in typical Matty fashion, I decided to waste my time staring at a web browser or something. I probably played Advance Wars: Dual Strike for the 100 millionth time. Honestly, I don't remember what I filled up that valuable work time with. I do remember that eventually as dawn approached I was in dire need of a poem.

Here is what I did. I fished up a copy of an old thread from Otakubooty that I had posted in about two years prior. The topic of this thread? SUPER SMASH BROS. HAIKU. Yes, haiku(s?) regarding the Nintendo fighting game Super Smash Bros. Melee. I copied and pasted all of my (no, I didn't plagiarize) old haiku from that thread into a Word Document, formated, and saved. Needless to say (considering the scrutiny of my school's grading criteria) I got an A on the whole project.

Here for you all now are the haiku (and the limerick epilogue) I submitted for a final project in an upper level English class at our Community College. Enjoy!

***

she sternly gazes
at Sealab, destroyed, but still
Yoshi or Young Link?

Oh shit, I’m Kirby.
Damage two hundred per cent
Where’s Mr. Saturn?

Queen of sleep and dreams
Sing your sexy lullaby
Ready for down-B?

shall I pull the sword,
or remain forever young?
and not have sword pulled.

Ugh I feel so sick.
What do you prescribe, Doctor?
"Me kicking your ass."

IM BOWSER RARRR RARRR
FIRE FIRE MAIM BITE FIRE PRINCESS
RARRR RARRR RARRR RARRR RARRR

Pokefloats. Wait...what?
No really, what is this shit?
Good God, what the fuck?

Two hundred ninety...
Where the hell is the last one?
Childhood wasted.

Mushroom missed the point.
Mario missed the Mushroom.
Look out, Mario!

Pink stain on the ground
Reminds me of Pink Yoshi.
Come back to me, Yosh!

My pink Yoshi hat-
Glowing beacon in the dark.
Young Link understands.

***

Haikus aren't the cool way to post,
But believe me I'm not here to boast.
Although mine were better
Straight down to each letter,
You've all killed the art to a ghost.

I needed to make something quite fresh;
Haikus reek of old Bangladesh.
And since I'm the wiser
Gimmick fertilizer
I decided to give the art new flesh.

The "F" in F5 Stands for Failure.

I think Blogger.com must be under some kind of Denial of Service attack because all of your comments aren't being reported on my end. I hit F5 (the shortcut button for refreshing a webpage for you blogbabies) for the better part of the day hoping to see what you all had to say about the latest look into my abyss. Needless to say, I sent Blogger.com a very concerned email shortly after I realized there was a problem. I'm still waiting to hear back from them. I've just felt oh so alone and I NEED you guys to reply to my blog. If I don't hear back from you guys on what I've written then how can I justify living? Boo hoo! Woe is me.

YEAH, MOTHERFUCKING RIGHT.

I bet you boiz n' gurlz thought that I was some pathetic waste of space that justifies his life through what others think of him. Well sorry to disappoint you, dicklicks, but my world doesn't revolve around what you think no matter how much you think it. I think some people need to build a time machine and go back and talk with Freud to get your egos checked out. Let me lay out just how pathetic you all are compared to me. Were you getting teary-eyed reading my opening blogograph? I custom wrote that little intro to tug at your weak little heartstrings. I've studied blog upon blog throughout my research and I know what kind of emotional buzzwords are best used to get comments. And I'll tell you right now that I'm not about to stoop to those tactics, pun in-motherfucking-tended. Yeah, I'm mad you guys think my life depends on what you, my small group of readers, thinks. But it's not true. Still not convinced that I'm more e-cool than you? Well let me let you in on a little secret:

I daily visit four (and only four) other websites that can supply me with the comments I need. I'm not a blogger exclusive. So I hope I don't bruise any of your feelings with this revelation of where else I go to get my juice.

Otakubooty.com
I'm a proud member of the Otakubooty community. Otakubooty is a dating website for people who consider themselves, no, ourselves otaku. What is an otaku? Why not just ask me to define the word Juggalo? It's just impossible to describe in words what an otaku is, but if I had to try I'd say, "[It] is a person who is cooler than most other people on the internet." I get maybe 4 or 5 comments from members on that site EVERY DAY. That's like an infinity times more than I get here. Hear that? Ya'll is slim pickins. Some of my best e-friends take time out of their busy lives to skim through the prewritten list of comments that you are allowed to leave. Some of these comments are considered 18+ so I won't go into them in detail here. Occasionally I'll even get a message from some hot chick asking me why I've viewed her profile 200 times. Basically, I can go to this website and get all the attention I need in exchange for posting nude pictures of myself, and that's more than I can say for your sorry lot.

Gamefaqs.com
Maybe you've heard of it? It's only the biggest and best online community for people who are into gaming. If you want good conversation about your favorite games then check no further than the Gamefaqs message boards. If you are some noob lurker on their site then you might know me as Sephirothr4ven-kun. Yeah, THE Sephirothr4ven-kun. Gamefaqs is a place where I know if I put up a thread about who would win in a fight, Yoshi or Young Link, I'll get some timely responses. We have this funny inside joke where every time I post something everyone responds with the word "fag." It's a pretty hilarious typo of the word "faq" (stands for Frequently Answered faQs) which I'm known to be pretty 1337 at writing, when it comes down to it. I'll usually get like 40 or 50 replies like this before my topic sinks to the bottom. I'm smart enough to take screenshots of all those threads in case people want to try to question my clout. And NO, I don't photoshop them.

Facebook.com
You could almost call me a founding member of this community. Back when it first came out I got in on the ground floor on day one. And I'm not the type of bozo who goes around friending everyone I see just to swell up my count. Last time I tried that (as a test to all those out there) no one actually accepted my friendships (You all passed the test). Facebook is set up to where I don't even need to get comments directly from my friends. I just check my feed and it's like every detail of their lives are commented up against my own. Facebook is the Fun House Mirror of networking sites. I know some of you bloozers are on there too, so don't think I'm not aware of your little games. Writing on each others' walls about how today you aren't going to comment on my blog so that when you do inevitably flood me with comments tomorrow I'll appreciate them more. Listen! I don't need tough love okay? I just need anything... no no no. Okay, no. That was a test, too...ah, and you all passed but barely with like a D-.

And lastly but definitely not least Myspace.com
Man, am I popular on this website. I can't look away for less than three minutes without some Super Model asking me to be her friend. How many of you know Super Models? No, Daniel, your wife's JC Penny catalog doesn't count lol! There is something that some of you lack and will probably never learn. It's called charisma, and it's what I use to fill out online profiles to make girls want to be my friend and message me about their picture websites. Lesson 1: Always say that you are single, always. This will have the honies flocking to your inbox. Lesson 2: Always say that you are dissatisfied with the size of your penis. Girls love a guy who's sensitive and honest. Lesson 3 (the greatest of all): Make sure you don't have any losers in your Top 8. Go ahead and check, you won't find any of yourselves in there. It's nothing personal I just think you might cramp my style. Follow my lessons and you'll become pretty popular on myspace.

I hope this sheds some light on my daily web browsing. I'm not just sitting here at my blog hitting F5 over and over waiting for some kind of human contact. No I sit with 5 open tabs in my Mozilla Firefox Browser. Each one opened to one of the websites I mentioned above. I then follow a very strict refresh and browse regimen to maximize the comments I get. First I hit F5, scan, and process any changes. If there are no changes on the website I click the tab to the immediate right of the previous tab (unless it's the last tab in which case I cycle back to the first). I then follow that Refreshercise over and over until someone has responded to a thread or profile. Then I take the time to compose and send a follow up comment and to bask in my badittude. Only then do I move on to the next tab. You see, the Internet never slows and certainly never stands still, especially if you have up to five websites to visit. You can become a very busy and successful commenteer if you just follow my (F)five easy steps.

So, don't cry for me, Argentina, (you can almost spell Internet with the letters in that) the truth is I never left you. I merely minimized your tab. I'll be back one day. Today. Like in 4 minutes.

Matty, Pro Farmer, #1 Dad

Blogs are omnivorous. They feed off of both reader comments and stories about getting dumped on the Internet and the like. Getting comments from your blog readers is like getting a huge steak at a restaurant when you ordered a tiny steak. You just aren't expecting it and when the bill comes you totally don't tell the waiter. In your state of fullness, however, you are more than likely going to tip him an exorbitant amount and then get inspired to go home and write a really good blog post. Writing about emotional iDumping is like going out and shoveling a tough, fibrous diet of e-woe and heart@breaking into the readers' mouths. See, all blog readers are fat cows. Yes, you, the person sitting in the chair in front of the screen, are nothing but a cow to be slaughtered for my nourishment. Sure if I feed you a mass of grain you'll respond with constant, yet lackluster replies. All that personal drama sits in the readers stomach and over time get turned into cud. Then they'll hoark it back up into their mouths and chew on it for a time before deciding to produce milky responses. If I want the juiciest comments I can't keep feeding you the same boring stuff. No! I have to fatten you up even more with tales of the most horrible bloody lows I can think up, because a man can't live on tiny steak alone.

A reader needs variety in his or her diet. It's the only way. When my blog first started the comments posted by some users were so dramalicious that I didn't even need to think up any new material at all. I just fed those readers' comments into the bovine mouths of all my other readers. For awhile this was the perfect "all meat" diet and my blog was awesome. But this kind of cannibalism can only create disaster. Even my most faithful readers ended up contracting a strain of Mad Blog Disease of the Brain that ate them away faster than that Micro Machines Motor Mouth guy at a pussy eating contest. I felt like I couldn't compete with the insane success of my early work so I just gave up on farming for comments all together.

So what do I feed you?

If I talk only about video games or Yu Gi Oh cards then I'm going to alienate a lot of you. If I just talk about how bitchy all my dumb, mean old ex-girlfriends are then they'll stop reading and I'll lose half my audience. I can't just sit around and talk about this bump on my shaft because, although it may be important, it's not going to get much of a response except from the small Doctor community that are required, by the State, to read and analyze my blog. (If only I had a pair of tits my life would be so much easier.) While I may only have modest man-boobs I do have one thing. My ability to create metaphors to link ideas.

Metaphors are tits.

Nothing says, "Good writing." like being able to bring two things together with a complex and incoherent metaphor. Take my whole cow thing I tried to create. You may think it isn't going anywhere. You may think it's nothing but a weak Mootaphor that I used to up my farmer contingent. Well when the cattle get restless you can only do one thing. Give them a firm, swift prod. First with a link to a picture of my "prod" being used as a DS stylus and then with a nice juicy slice of life. People who live amongst the blogotropic planes don't have lives. They suck off the lives of others like how that Motor Mouth guy sucks off a bull's cock at a Bestiality Convention. Filling their small, efficiently pink mouths with a half pint of hot, salty experience, which has a distinct oatty aroma, satisfies them in a way never intended by the Lord our God.

So what rad adventure do I have to tell you about today? Well, I, Matty S., have been digging an 80 foot trench. Hmm. Doesn't seem like much does it? Let me tell you something, Miss Priss; until you work a day in your god damn life and get out there and break some earth instead of breaking hearts then don't ever come up to me online and talk to me about how you are "all that." I have a connection with the Pioneers of our Country's early days, the first Cowboys. I have those same blisters that they had on their palms right at the knuckle. I have those other blisters on my dick that come from jacking off with a fist full of blisters. I've felt the sweet sting as palm blister on dick blister burst forth like the first time Pa took us down to Santa An to see the fireworks show the Traveling Merchant brought all the way from the settled territories. My taint has sweated and sweated creating a perfect mixture of scranal sweat that'll make your boxers smell sweeter than a freshly plowed field. And I do all this, like the early farmers, to start a new beginning.

When I finish this ditch I'll have enough money to move to the coast and settle down and maybe pick up a few more cows along the way. I'll have plenty of experience in trough digging and I'll be able to keep my readers fed with a proper diet of drama, wit, gross-out humor, and racism. It's going to be hard to get from A to B. I don't have an Indian girl to lead me through the unmarked paths. What I need most of all is to have a herd that'll respect me and treat me right. Maybe even post a comment on my blog every now and again. I figure with enough cooperation I'll be able to brand all of you soon enough with my own special brand (LOL) of blogedy. So saddle yourselves up and get ready for me to ride your tight butts into the sunset. This blog ain't about ta' mosie, I don't reckon.

Who Let the Dogs Out?

Well, if you'd stop your Whooping for just a second I'd inform you that,on Monday, they, in fact, let themselves out. I'm not talking in a cute self-sufficient dog-door they go-out-as-they-please way, or in an Internet traveling e-crap directly into your computer's recycle bin Aibo way either. I'm talking about opening doors like the Velociraptors in Jurassic Park. We live on a very dangerous road and we don't want them to get outside. Our road is busy, narrow, and our section has no sidewalk and low visibility because of a hill. It'd be great fun for sledding on until you were cut to shreds by early morning rush hour. We've known our bigger dog could open the gate to our back fence and we stupidly thought that tying the gate closed with twine would be enough to keep them in. Our dog must come from a Nautical background (or at least must love the taste of twine) because as I was printing out some 1040EZ's on Monday I saw them run into the neighbor's yard.

Irritated and a little worried, my friend and I went outside to try to wrangle them back to our yard like that Twilight Princess mini-game (Whoops a plenty). With a pocket full of treats I began my search and soon found our little dog, Bella; however, Jesse was nowhere in sight. I picked Bella up and trotted over to our yard to put her safely inside.

The sequence of sounds that happened next are burned into my memory: The screech of brakes being slammed on, a sickening thud, an "Oh shit!," the yelps and whines of my dog in pain, and my final but futile WHOOP!

I told my friend, "Fuck. Jesse's hit. Go," and we both ran up to the street to find her. I didn't want to see her because I was expecting something straight out of Rodriguez's Planet Terror, some sprawling mess of guts and gore. In the 20 seconds between hearing the horrible sounds and reaching my dog my mind began to oscillate around a set of lows and highs in a way that even I'd have trouble putting into a Roller Coaster metaphor. I'd grasp for silver-linings thinking, Well at least we won't have to buy as much dog food anymore. I'd shoot blame at myself along the lines of If I hadn't wasted so much time getting Bella in I could've gotten to her. I'd just pray she wasn't dead. The sight of her looking back at me in pain put me in a huge low, but also reassured me that her injuries weren't too bad.

I've been playing a lot of Mario vs DK 2: March of the Minis recently and so I think that's why I'm quick to use it for explanation. Jesse and Bella were like two Minis on the move. Bella was tottering along an easy path and so I focused my stylus swiping to setting her up near the elevator door. Jesse on the other hand needed to be guided through the biggest onslaught of Gorilla Minis, Fire Wheels, Piranha Plants, and Shy Guys which I hadn't been totally aware of. So of course she had been immobilized. The thing about MvDK2:MotM is that there is no reason to send your Minis to the goal unless they all get there in an orderly chain for the highest combo score and Jesse, the Golden Mario, wasn't given enough attention. Fortunately, in the game there is a reset option in life there are dog hospitals.

We rushed her to the vet's office in my friend's car. I'd lifted her like she was a dog made out of paper and she seemed to be fine with only a cut over her eye and a bum leg. The vet said she was in a lot of shock and that her hip might have been dislocated, she was lucky though and they'd call me when they found out anything more.

Being in a situation like that puts your low points in perspective. Sure you feel like shit for letting it happen, but you also are the one who acted cool and got help. The adrenaline rush gets you feeling like a Superman. Then at home you are just waiting and dreading for a phone call with bad news. That's when I, of course, turned on the news and saw the stuff about VA Tech. Talk about taking your newly found sense of perspective, chewing it up, and then spitting it into a spittoon and then planting it in your garden, watering it, and watching it sprout into a tree and then eating the fruit from the tree only to find a worm (like the worm from the Bookworm flash games) in the fruit that tells you all about what lows really are. Here I was dreading some phone call about my dog's well being when 26,000 parents were all waiting for phone calls to find out if their children had survived. And yet I was so shaken from the dog experience I couldn't do much but feel more concern for Jesse (She's fine by the way, she can't walk to well and is pretty out of it, but she didn't sustain any major injuries).

Life is a roller coaster and Blogs are like Cedar Point. They catalog the ups and downs of our day with cool metaphors and emoticons (sometimes links and pictures if I wasn't lazy). The best we can hope to do is ride them, hold on for dear life and when coming out of a wicked loop yell out a big ol' Whoop!

Rollin' Rollin' Rollin' Rollin' What!

Times I've realized that I'm pretty fat:

1) Upon recieving my full rack of Jack Daniel's Saucey Rib-o-rama from TGIFridays I said to the waitress, "Whoo boy there is no way in hell I can eat all of these ribs." Of course I devoured them and didn't even feel full so when the waitress came back and saw my totally clean plate I had to pretend to be stuffed and not want dessert even though I wanted the Mocha Cream Cheesecake Sundae really badly.

2) I am trying to stop drinking so many soft drinks to get back the rock hard abs I used to have in my Lacrosse days. Since I've cut out like 1,000 calories of my daily diet I've been snacking on Lil' Debbies and Airheads all throughout the day to compensate. My poop's been smelling funnier too.

3) Just tonight I went to this place called The Vortex in Hotlanta and I got a burger called "The Coronary By-pass," which is a burger with bacon, cheese, and a huge fried egg on it. Yeah, I finished it in like 3 minutes and wasn't full at all, in fact I think it was such an improvement over my normal diet that my arteries unclogged some because I was coughing up this nasty blood all night.

If TV tells us anything though it's that even the fattest of grossies can get some bangin' milf wives if they can star in their own sitcom. Power to ya, King o' Queens. Peace out.

Don't Count Your Eggs... EVER!

This Easter Weekend I did nothing but drink. That's how we celebrate it down South-- we start after the Good Friday service and don't stop until 12:01 AM on Awesome Monday. When I arrived back home from visiting a friend (a Georgian bootlegger) my mother looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh, my pious, loving child." If I heard her wrong it is because I was truly smashed and I know she'll forgive me. I was laid to rest in my room upon my bed, wrapped in swaddling old comforters and the curtains were closed. I slept and vomited for quite awhile and, like our Lord, rose again on the third day. OK, actually I didn't wake up until Thursday morning so technically you could say I rose on the fourth day. But come on, I'm not a pro like the Big Jeez.

What awoke me from my recuperative state was something truly horrifying: The Telephone. I don't allow any phones upstairs where I live (I do have a cell phone but I only text message on it and play Snake), but sometimes when there is a moment of silence during my anime (which I keep on in the background 24/7/365) I can sometimes hear a ring from the downstairs phone and it terrifies me.

The reason is that when I was young I shared a room with my younger brother and like all little boys we'd stay up late and have pissing contests all night (of course we called them weeing contests). Aside from distance and accuracy we'd often times "Sword Fight" where we'd cross streams (LOL insert Ghostbustaz joke haha) and make a CLANG-ish sound effect. I guess our mother had had enough of our late night clang-abouts so one night she came in our room with this Playskool full service telephone from our mock Secretary's desk in the playroom. Over and over she screamed, "RING RING! RING RING! SLEEPY BOYS DON'T SAY A THING!" While chanting she'd whip us in the legs with the phone over and over leaving us in tears and our legs covered in welts. After a few nights of this the mere sight of the phone in our rooms would leave us shivering and cowering, unable to get out of bed or make a single sound effect (which tore us to pieces inside because we'd been on a Police Academy binge). Of course as we grew older and our leg skins grew tougher we, of course, grew bolder. However, our mother was too smart. Realizing that the plastic phone wasn't having much of an effect on us anymore she went out and bought a real phone with really hard parts. Our night time rebellion was quelled before it even had a chance to get off the ground and wee wee.

Good story, you might say, but what does this have to do with Easter? Well, do you remember how in my last post I likened hunting for eggs with hunting for Wii Remotes? If not just scroll down. If you are a first time reader then scroll even more down. If you don't have a scroll wheel then go buy a better mouse, dummy! Anyways, imagine (if you will) if out in your yard (where eggs are traditionally hidden) every single egg-sized patch of grass had a telephone (miniature, of course) next to it. And what if to find eggs you didn't go outside and look in every single patch of grass for them, but sat inside with a phone book and called each individual grass patch and asked them if they had any eggs inside of them. Hmm, seems more like work than a fun game, like Smear the Queer, so to speak. Now couple that with the fact that you are deathly afraid of using telephones because you were beaten with one as a child. There is no way in hell you are going to keep me inside on Easter and have me call around for eggs.

So it is with Wii Remotes. I bought myself a Nintendo Wii last December after waiting in line at Target for 3 hours in the cold. I felt like I had achieved something great, or at least bought something great. I found out that Target might have some Wiis (Easter) in their store through an Internet Rumor (Scripture) not some creepy ass phone call (Beelzubub). Getting a Wii by itself is like getting an Easter Basket, Wii Sports is like that fake grass stuff, and the Remote that comes with the system is like ONE LOUSY EGG. If you are the kid who's mom makes him wear those gay knee socks and suspenders, and you've shown up to the Egg hunt with bed-head and you've only found one egg... You are going to be next Queer to get Smeared.

So here I am with just one Remote and the ever present threat of getting smeared for it, what do I do? Every morning for the next month I go to every possible store that could sell Wii Remotes and I go inside and look for them. I don't call and I don't whine about it--I persevere. Nine times out of ten I'm going to leave the store empty handed, but after searching and searching, day after day, I finally walked into a Toys R Us that had just gotten in a shipment of Remotes. And, just like the Easter when I was seven, I paid the man $140 so that he could fill my basket with eggs and my heart with the Spirit of the Season. So next time you want to know if a store has a game or whatever in stock remember what Easter is all about. It's about getting out there and getting your hands dirty and it's about love.