Warheads

Many of you are constant visitors to this site, while others are new to my ritual defecation on your internet culture and the time you spend on it. Now heres how things work. I spend a few pages of text, typed within the spanse of a half an hour or less, every couple of weeks or so, to mock much of what you put on the net, and I do so with words and language that indicates the larger aura of arrogance and know-it-all-ness that makes you want to come after me. I vow to spend as little of my time making fun of the overly large amount of time you spend on the internet as possible. I will be bold, I will solve your problems with a fraction of effort, and I will be all knowing, right or not. I cant be inconsistent, do you understand? (* not mine)

So instead I attempt to aid you in remedial reading. I'll space things out as widely possible, I'll add colors, I've recently added pictures that may or may not fit the spirit of what is going on. I might test you from time to time, throw in words like "coalition" or "peroxide," or make my points so obscure that you search for the unfindable, like we're supposed to do all the time with your unholy internet output. I also use tangential thinking, observing from your behavior your tendancy to pick the farthest thought from the point you are trying to make, and attempting to connect the dots through spread out and tarded thinking. (*)
http://bulkybob.blogspot.com/2005_01_01_bulkybob_archive.html
I therefore insist on weirding you out of this habit. I demand that you be confident, know what you are doing, (enter really strong verb) to be your own Warhead towards the weaker minded in society.


(*)
You've been known to dress up for each other... sadly..... and laugh at each other in weird ways, stare each other intently in your totally "heterosexual" eyes, yeah right...... so pretend that each of these is some grandiose lecture, with my hands flailing about, my head bursting, my voice squeeking, and my sexyness reaching the darkest corners of every individual silicon-induced world. Pretend that the Jets are a good team and that Chad Pennington didnt make the right choice.

Some of you cackle, others squirm, some prank phone call, badly. But many think, "wow! What a dork, loser, nerd, little man, swear word," or whatever unimaginative insult you can hurl at me ...... as I remain popular among drinking and non-drinking folk alike and you spend an hour changing the colors of your profile, or rabidly sit home and boringly tracking to see if any "friends" have left you comments on your my space. Shucks, you're going somewhere in life, you-bodacious-checker-of-fantasy-football-induced-boredom that makes even the slyest finicky internet compulsive warry of your ever noticing and annoyingly detailed eye.

(yes I am refering to you, so dont ignore this section, let this bother you for long time, for every word is intentional and has a target)

I assure you, none of the time spent on this blog interferes with my rapant popularity, pure intellectual and musical genius, rapacious desires and calling cards from 60+ year old women, the suckyness of the Red Sox, theirs or your lacking career opportunities, or my overblown ego.

(Ballad of Bilbo Baggins) Warheads know exactly what they want, they are explosive or sour, hitting the tongue, like I often do, with zest and assertiveness. We are difficult, we are know it alls, but gosh darn it people still like us. Trained in social interaction among the toughest and hardest drinking on college campuses, we did not need this told to us, we were named after a game about blowing planets up with missiles. We are assured protection, even in the most weakened physical states, by bigger (rugby team) players......
(*)

WHAT I WANT:
Appealing to your senses, warheads know and state exactly what they want and intend to do. I want to remove your quizzes, profiles, so that I have no job in cyberspace and nothing to mock. With more time, I want to study about wars and conflicts involving possibly the right people killing each other at the right times. I want to listen to the music of dead men with big hair and Rod Stewart's too. I want to enjoy a sweet mixture of anything but guitars and a free flowing verse, with words and analogies to "booty," to pick up the pace and lower the musical skills in the hands of any race. I want to battle rap. I want to enjoy my native Italian food; fortune cookies, and pizza, and maybe break a little mandolin somewhere, maybe "cry" at a violin in a totally guy, yet weirdway, or whistle an obscure bird call to a frightened underageling.(*)

I want to highlight random words and make people think they are important. I want that to be a whole philosophical system for sad, depressed, and totally worthless goth indidivuals. I want those goth individuals to smite Kanye West and other metrosexuals and impose a thousand Kenny G and Billy Ocean songs, for the eternal damnation of Kayne West and all his rotten scourge. Damn them to the Light 98.7 Level of Hell! They must be combined together, West and Ocean, Kayne and G., to suffer and feel the dark pain of their sinister evil master. I too want to have more than one talent.(*)



I want to ignore dumb people who talk about politics, who do more drugs than work, complain about rationality and yet see a demon in the dominant political figures, and dont know the "location of the rebel base" in America, in Star Wars Empire Strikes Back, or an Afghanny. I want voter turnout to be proportional to intelligence, and your inability to comprehend what I've said so far.(*)

(me and my gang) I want to wear a total combination of five preppy striped shirts during the summer, with two colors of pants, and let that stand as my sole contribution to not only global fashion trends, but as the apex of my mastery of probability and the regents question asking you to pear off Johnny's probably metrosexual wordrobe into as many as 1000 different combinations. I want Johnny made fun of for that. I want math to have practical applications in areas other than fashion and for other people to worry about that application.
I want to ignore the existence of Axe body spray, and yet reaffirm society's commitment to reasonable hygiene and once a day, less than 10 minute showers. I want "getting ready" time to not exceed the time for the actual event, especially for guys, and conversely, I want the attention span of the average human being to exceed 1 minute in all regards. That starts with my desire to ban jewels on cell phones........
(picture- My Relief- what is Choonz?)(*)


(SOME of the Icons of the metro,Light 98.7 world: The Backstreet Boys, Axe Body Spray, Evernevernescence, Kanye West, and their predecessors from the light music of the 80's, Kenny G and Billy Ocean. The whole panaroma of mental weakness. Flame on!)

I want everyone to know how my life got flipped upside down. I got in one little fight and my mom got scared and said "you're moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air." I want people to not know about my parents or their sad little dress-me-up sessions as a child.

I want false information to stop spreading and for those that spread that information to know that said information about your said "experimentation" will stay silent as long as said dress up information remains said silent.











What formats do you use?

First: I use the "rant." This is a large paragraph/single sentence meant to simulate from your ims, posts, the long and unceasing rants, crying, whining, lyrical "coolness." I want something really freaky to happen to the world today, like low down and dirty, and Trick nasty if ya know what I mean, which is basically that I want David the Gnome, you all remember him, to be declared the President of the Republic of Sweden, because lets face it, the Swedes need to be reminded of just how insignificant they really are and since we cannot directly involve ourselves nor campaign for power, we must approach things from as far away from power as possible, and thus think to yourself: David is so insignificant that we could declare a little gnome with a sunny disposition, raging hormones (look at his cheeks), and a propensity for violence against his multiple sexual sado-masichistic partners; robustly fat women and giant purple rabbits alike.(*)

To continue on that thought:

Just think about what he could do for the country: tame giant wild foxes who might attack little English drummer boys, provide a startling example of promiscuity and innappropriate sexual relations, show the multiple negative effects of sexual harassment on man, beast, and troll alike, all the while riding around on that same fox FOR FREE! What better way to reintroduce forced animal slavery and systematic animal abuse and experimentation than with David the Gnomanizer. (*)

He'd force everyone to adopt the nose kiss, boosting the ego of 90% of the Swedish population, which are ugly and in need of some physical contact, although its pretty cold in Sweden so they'd probably rub their snotty noses together, which in the end would only increase the spread of dangerous pathogens, like Herpes, and as a result severly diminish the population of the Swedes, especially the ugly ones because they'd be nose kissing more than the rest to make up for their sad life of less-physical contact, and that would achieve the warheadian goal of eliminating the population to move in the trolls, who'd make more money and be a bit dumber when things were asked of them. Lets not get any further into the French. I want the Swedes to start nosekissing.

I want to hear about nice guys not finishing last, but dying. Because if you're that serious about losing because you are SO nice, well first I dont want you as a friend, you are already defeated by the Tori Spellings, Rosie O'Donnells, and the Boston Red Sox (the real women) of the world, and they are sad and disgusting with no careers and little contributions left to anyone, because if you are wimpy, and girl-scared, well you should just probably crawl up, tune into Dawson's Creek for some flatulent or overly wordy memorial for your tombstone and then die somewhere away from humanity, where no one will notice, which is probably in France where all dead, thoughtless, and "nice" people go. Let me, a reputed "cripple" and brainiack, join with the strongmen of society- the other winners- and together we'll prosper if you are gonna wimp out. More for us. So nice guys finish dead, choose your poison now.

But most of all: I want to increase the wattage to my house to power the growing existence of neon and flourescent lighting. Thanks stoner buddies!

Be a Warhead, stand up for yourself, educate yourself, silence your stupidities, become what Saved By the Bell was to millions of American youths.

Now many of you may be wondering, how much time do you really have, because you could swear that the title of Warhead is merely a reflective, self assuring title, forged from years of social neglect and pent up sexual angst. But I assure you, fellow sexual partners, that the title is earned, a potentially delectable oversight from an age where Gods roamed the earth, Zack Morris and Kelly got married every day of our dreams and fed each other cheese doddles, but didnt take the time to wipe off the orange refuse, because of their hot sweet lovemaking.....ahh.....

Warhead was a name bestowed upon me in a moment of sheer awe at the massiveness of my capabilities, and the overriding acidity of my overly aggressive social nature. As a pet of the Rugby gods, I was enshrined in the cultures of popularity, tasting and enjoying the fruits of social connection and Dutch prostitutes.

Now you say, "mr. you are full of skepticism. we youthful internet users arent all for vice!" I would retort that the greatest blight to humanity on the internet is the hellspawn of My Space.com, the Soddom and Gomora of the internet world, with 65,000 new users each day, the growing leviathan of mankind wastes away its time trying to guess the favorite sports of the same generic guy that tries to befriend everyone, and that everyone accepts.

What ever happened to cliques? Maybe for that one guy, the virtual woman-of-the-night of myspace, we should bring back meaness, bully him, and tell him that he is not only too average looking, but that by appealing to so many people to be his friend, he is but the whore of the internet. Heck i'd be willing to see that guy get a bucket of blood dropped on his head at his crowning ceremony at his senior ball, though with his friendige I'd be scared of the supernatural consequences. Nobody really wants or likes him, and his mother has a weird shrine to Jesus. In fact, people just accept him out of pity, kind of like my attempts with a couple of people in the "entertainment industry." So many quizzes, so many bad pictures, so much useless information, so little real communication. "Ugh just give up bulky" I tell myself.(*)

Be a Warhead, ignore the easy temptation for power, for brute force, for coercive behavior. Reject that loser guy that wants to be everyone's friend on myspace. Be strong, be yourself, be a warhead.