I haven't updated this thing... well, basically since the last time I checked my old college e-mail. Awhile ago the password expired on that e-mail address (which is conveniently linked to your right) and I never bothered to fix it. Luckily when I finally got around to rectifying it, all of the e-mails sent to me during that time (which I never had a chance to read) were still there. And boy did I find a gem.

So here it is, the first post in two and a half years, inspired by the man, the myth, the golfin' dude (in '08), golfindude08@aol.com.

First, some background: In a couple of posts years ago, I exposed the musician Dave Matthews as the shit-spraying tyrant that he is. For years, it's sat on the Internet, probably showing up in Google searches of people with gross fetishes.

The problem is, Dave Matthews writes catchy, popular music that brainwashes the masses. As such, he has a devoted fan-base that will defend him and his feces-dumping ways to no end. Take this e-mail I received in January from golfindude08@aol.com :

Subject: The Secret of Dave Matthews
From: golfindude08@aol.com
Date: 1/9/2008, 9:27 p.m.

I just wanted to let you know that your article about Dave Matthews is COMPLETE BULLSHIT! If you have that much time on your hands, then write about something else. You are a dumbass for writing this and attatching your email address because ALOT of people are upset with you. If you do not like Dave Matthews, then so be it. GET OVER IT!!! Do not write a public article that is not fact and is the stupidest thing I have EVER read.

Upon reading this note, I did some research, and you know what? golfindude08@aol.com is right! There are a lot of people who are upset with me. In fact, two more! Years after the article was posted and the comments associated with it were deleted, two more stoner hippie Dave Matthews supporters commented on my shitstorm exposé:

you're an hasshole
anonymous | 01.22.08 - 11:32 am | #

This is rediculus and i think u should be ashamed of yourself...
Anonymous | 12.25.07 - 10:35 pm | #

After getting over the thought of David Hasselhoff's asshole (the Hasshole), I couldn't help but notice that the second comment was written on Christmas Day. Dave Matthews zombies are so brainwashed, they'll take time away from celebrating Jesus to come to the poop-hoser's side.

So this is for you, Dave Matthews, and all of your groupies: I will not tire, I will not falter, and I will not fail in bringing about your destruction.

And if you support me, send golfindude08@aol.com a note.

I've never understood cops that, in the process of breaking up weekend parties, insist on being dickheads. There's hundreds of drunk people stumbling around in an apartment or someone's backyard, and this guy's way of solving the problem is flying in solo and arresting people. Sucks for the one or two people who get nabbed, but what's one guy gonna do? Throw 200 people in jail?

Granted, in Gainesville, most of the guys in the police force are pretty cool. Take the time one of my old, randomly paired roommates called the cops on me. Yeah, that's right -- called the cops, in his own apartment.

I had around 6 buddies in town, so a few of us sat down to watch a DVD where guys dressed in monster costumes wrestled each other in a ring surrounded by small-scale cities made of cardboard. Totally awesome. So this weird roommate who I never really talked to came into the apartment with his fat-ass girlfriend and another guy. The 10-or-so of my crew were in the living room, watching things on his DVD player, while he and his two comrades sat in the kitchen and stared into the adjacent living room. I guess they were staring at us in anger or something, they never really made it very clear, nor did they say anything.

After about 15 minutes, they suspiciously left and slammed the front door. Not 20 minutes later, two police officers showed up. Beer in hand, I joined them outside.

"We got a complaint about the noise," one cop said, laughing. "But it must have been a prank, because obviously there's nothing going on here. Let me see your ID."

They made sure I didn't have any outstanding warrants or anything, and then they left. A couple of kids drinking and watching TV was the least of their problems. They were cool about it. But not all of them are.

Even if a cop is a prick, these guys are the law. You can't exactly tell them how you feel about their attitude. So you don't really get the opportunity very often to see Officer Power Trip put in his humble place.

There was a pretty cool shindig going on at a house a few blocks from me this past weekend, complete with a live jam band that did an extended funky rendition of the Inspector Gadget theme song. So we trekked over there and had a few gentlemen's sodas around the bonfire. Granted, things did get out of hand -- some kid was doing fire-breathing tricks, a foreign-exchange student from Hungary was jumping over the bonfire, and random kids were jumping off of the roof of the house. So, it wasn't long before Johnny Law showed up.

This was a short, fat guy who looked like Officer I-need-a-liter-of-cola Farva from "Super Troopers." He didn't have any backup, and he strutted into the backyard, right up to the only two moron underage drinkers who didn't scamper from his path.

"You two," he said, pointing at them. "Let me see your identification."

He started barking orders, asking for the owners of the house. Before anyone could find them, he was on his radio. "We need the fire department out here," he said, staring at a flaming log that even Smokey the Bear would approve. "There's a fire that's getting out of control." The Hungarian girl grabbed a half-bucket of water and doused the smoldering log.

The cop got what he wanted, I guess -- everyone was in a panic, scrambling to find the owners. As the cop waited for them, a stumbling drunk patron sidled up to him.

"HEY!" he said. "I know you!"

Officer Farva gave him a dumbfounded look. "What are you talking about?"

"You were at 'Hamilton Jai-Alai and Poker' last night!" the kid said. "You lost a SHITLOAD of money!"

You could literally see any sense of authority the cop felt he had totally wiped from his face. "Um, no... it wasn't me," he said.

"Well then it must have been your partner," the drunk guy said. "You sat right across from me at the poker table, we kicked your asses."

Before the cop could respond, a loud scratching came from the roof. Yet another roof-jumper was looking to injure his drunken self, but upon making his way onto the roof, he apparently missed the arrival of the police.

"Hey guys!" he yelled, before realizing a cop was standing right below him. "Oh shit!" He scampered back up the roof and into the window from whence he came.

After that, the cop realized he had pretty much no leverage here, and talked pretty straight to the owners of the house. It was just great to see some drunk gambler make the cop look like an ass.

As for the two underage drinkers, they got arrested.

And my douchebag roommate from a few years ago? Rather than deal with confrontation for his actions, he posted multiple notes around the apartment the next day that read "Don't use my DVD player." And I think someone peed on his bed once, or something. But I heard he was into that sort of thing.

Okay, so my brother Craig and his wonderful wife Allison got married in a ceremony that took place over a month ago (and if you missed the stories and pictures at my brother Patrick's blog, you deserve to die). But if I didn't tell at least one story from that insane weekend, I'd be a major douchebag. Besides, this anecdote that I was reminded of was too much to pass up on.

So, at the reception, I was engaged in a pleasant and lengthy conversation with a friend of the family. You know, one of those long, boring "Hey, I haven't talked to you in four years, how's your life been?" kind of discourses that typically drag on awkwardly long.

Conveniently enough, this also took place before a great deal of the drinking started. Which means I can remember it without having to make stuff up to fill in the large gaps that encapsulated a majority of the remainder of my night.

Anyhow, here's how the conversation pretty much concluded:

Mrs. H: So what do you plan to do next, now that you're almost out of college?
Me: Well, I'm in the process of applying for jobs and internships right now. You know, hoping I find something that pays me enough to eat and live once I graduate.
Mrs. H: Oh really, that's great. You know when I got out of college and I was looking for work...
Me: I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse me, I have to ask you a question.
Mrs. H: Um, okay... What?
Me: Is it hard to take me seriously?
Mrs. H: Gee, I don't know. Why do you ask?
Me: Well, I've been standing here talking with you for over ten minutes now, and I've been wearing this ridiculous luchador wrestling mask the entire time. I'd imagine it's kind of hard to take me seriously, especially during a very businesslike conversation such as this one.
Mrs. H: Um, well, I don't know.
Me: I mean, at the very least, isn't it hard to carry a conversation when you can't see someone's facial expressions? I'd guess it might make it difficult to follow.
Mrs. H: Um... Well, to tell you the truth, I've just been staring into your eyes. At first I couldn't really concentrate, because the green on your mask is so bright. But once I started looking at your eyes, it wasn't so bad.
Me: Okay, thanks, I just had to know. It was good talking to you.

Jesus is your Lord and Savior, bitch, and there ain't nothing you can do about it.

I met someone a long time ago who told me he was a "Jesus Freak." And he didn't have leprosy.

That kind of perplexed me. Jesus wasn't really a freak. I guess he hung out with a few of them, though. Even healed and saved some of them. But even still, it's a weird title to pick.

Turns out, these crazy kids who love Jesus use it as a "cool" term -- it's something the youth can embrace as "hip."

Well I don't think Jesus wants to be hip. In fact, I think Jesus gets pissed off at people like these "Jesus Freaks." I think Jesus just wants you to live your life and respect Him without turning your beliefs into a marketable catch phrase that the 'kids' can relate to. I think Jesus knows better. And I know what Jesus thinks.

So I decided I'd become my own unique brand of religion-pusher.

I'm a Jesus Jerk.

I don't take shit from anybody, especially when it comes to my beliefs and my religion. I'm always right, and I'll sacrifice your personal health and state of well-being to prove it.

I've been known to introduce people to the Holy Trinity of ass-whooping: my fist, my foot, and an eternity in the pain capsule of purgatory.

My track record in ass-kicking for Jesus speaks for itself: I baptize sinners in boiling water, I hear confessions from politicians, I don't eat meat on days of the week that end with 'day,' and I don't believe in science, evolution or gravity.

I don't care if you're Episcopalian, Baptist, Mormon or a Muslim terrorist -- if you don't accept Jesus into your heart, I will punch you in the throat. I know all of the ways to send a sinner to Hell: I've been trained in four types of holy martial arts, including Christ-Fu, Jew-jitsu, and Ninjutsuckersgetpunchedintheface.

As a Jesus Jerk, my powers against the forces of the devil are numerous: I've been granted the ability to speak with my tongue, I can worship for no longer than a one-hour block of time per week, and I am the sole possessor of a valuable pocket-sized guide to God and His ways, granted to me by a man who was sent on behalf of an elusive group of people who know God and call themselves "The Gideons."

I kill babies that cry during public worship. I carve the Ten Commandments into public benches with a knife. I think Hugo Chavez should be assassinated. "The Passion of the Christ" was a life-changing experience that made me stop soliciting prostitution. I think Kwanzaa was created by Ted Kennedy.

I am a holier person than you, and I let you know it because I'm offended by everything you say and do. You're constantly self-conscious about what you say when I'm around, because you know speaking in front of me is the equivalent of speaking in the presence of God.

In short, if you don't think God is the Alpha and the Omega, you might just get a kick in your Delta-Iota-Kappa.

Praise the Lord, bitch.

Hi there.

Given the lack of content here lately, and the nature of this story, I felt it appropriate to take a more unconventional route with this one. Let me know what you think of my artistic achievements. Enjoy.


O Lady of the Night
By Reverend Hughes

We stop at MacDonalds at 3 a.m. for a bite
You came to us from across the road – boy, were you a sight
As you took off your coat, I sat and horror and fright
But your ritualistic late-night dance routine filled me with delight
O how I was wrong, my Lady of the Night!

Shaking, moving, gyrating, dancing and pacing
In the passenger’s seat, my eyes were fixed and gazing
Your crotch-rubbing, ass-smacking moves were so rhythmic and amazing
To what honor do we owe this great presence and its gracing?
O why, Lady of the Night, did you leave my heart racing?

Approaching in the distance was a random passerby
Intimidated by your dance moves, he wouldn’t look you in the eye
I wish I could have heard what you yelled at that random guy
For whatever it was, your words made him run home and cry
O but I could handle your words, Lady of the Night, if you’d only let me try!

As suddenly as the dance started, you began to put on your clothes
It was then I realized you weren’t like any other 300-pound black street-ho
How grateful I am to have been in the presence of your show
You left me with such feelings – feelings I never thought I’d know
O where, Lady of the Night, where o where did you go?

I returned the next week to the place, to that same fateful site
I thought I could recapture that moment, if just for one more night
Your absence was a shock – I couldn’t bring you back, even with all my might
But wherever you are now, please - strip, dance and yell like it’s your birth-right
So goodbye, Godspeed, and farewell, my Lady of the Night!

I sound like a nerd.

Or so I've been told by many, many faceless people. See, every now and again I enjoy a few matches of Halo 2 on Xbox Live, which shouldn't surprise you. But I probably wouldn't play nearly as much if it wasn't for my partner in crime across the state, Troy, who makes playing games a bit less random and a lot more fun.

But for the uninitiated, the Xbox Live community is a vast cesspool of gamers spanning all ages and demographics. It can result in some pretty fun, competitive matchups. It can also reveal the dark side of human nature that exists when the anonymity of Internet voice chat is combined with the comfort of one's living room.

It's like an odd social experiment, if you think about it. Give people free reign to say and do whatever they choose in an online world with no repercussions for their actions whatsoever. The results just might make you lose faith in mankind.

The worst kind of player is the 12 year old boy whose parents shouldn't have bought him a copy of a mature-rated game, and should probably move the Xbox to the living room where they can keep an eye on their kid. Honestly, I don't claim to have virgin ears (or the cleanest mouth in the world, for that matter). So, when something that I hear from a small child even manages to shock my numb conscience, you know it ain't pretty.

But forget that. Let's talk about my favorite kind of Halo player: the guy who pays $50 a year to berate everyone he can. Don't be fooled: this guy usually isn't a kid. He usually sounds like he's in his late teens or early 20's, and he's probably got a few friends on which he can't take out his aggressions, so he's found an outlet for it through Halo.

Halo is kind enough to provide you with a ten second "lobby" with your randomly chosen teammates and opponents while the game loads. Some take this opportunity to introduce themselves, some talk strategy, and then some like to get people riled up.

Troy and I are usually in the midst of conversation as the lobby loads up, and these types of people typically take the opportunity to let us know what kind of gamer they are.

"Hey, you!" they usually say, followed by mispronouncing our easy-to-say gamertags. "Shut the fuck up! I'm gonna kick your ass you little bitch!"

Of course, it usually goes beyond that. But the real fun happens when the game starts, especially if the guy sucks. Seriously, ain't nothing stupider than shit-talking and then getting your ass kicked.

To add to the fun, Halo also provides you with a post-match lobby. This is a room where all the players can chat as they view their statistics for the previous matchup. Players can leave this room pretty much immediately if they don't want to talk, or, if you like, you can stay as long as you want.

And the "guy" who's all about spewing insults, he's always there. He stays after the match to yell at you. And he won't leave until you leave first. It's a macho thing, you see. If I leave first, then I've lost the battle of the wits. My own personal global pissing contest, right in my living room.

Of course, you can always ignore this guy, as most people certainly do. It would probably be more effective.

But I have a problem. Like sick gluttons for pain (or entertainment), Troy and I will stay and listen to every little bit of insight this person has to offer. We'll even play along. We'll insult ourselves, we'll laugh hysterically, we'll insult them - anything we can do to keep them in the chatroom and keep them angry at us. It's way too much fun.

Sure, most of the shit you hear is the typical "your mom" jokes, but we all know those can only so far. If you bait a good person, they run out of mom jokes really quick, and they have to start digging deeper for more insults. As you can probably imagine, these aren't the smartest folks, so the insults can get pretty out there, and that's where the fun starts.

Forever burned into my mind is some guy with a thick New York accent who tried his best to get me riled up, but only succeeded in flaring up his own temper.

"Yo man," he said to me after a series of mom jokes. "You sound like a nerd. You do realize that, right?"

"Well damn," I said back. "I guess my dream job in phone sex isn't going to work out."

"Hey, fuck you man!" he said. At this point he was out of mom jokes and had to stretch for some material.

"Yeah, make sure you put in your retainer at night before you go to bed."

"Actually, I wear spacers at night," I said. "That's different from a retainer."

"Do you have a cold?" he asked. "Why don't you go get your mom to buy you some Vicks Vapor Rub and put it on your chest?"

Troy and I lost it. Vicks Vapor Rub? What? Where the hell did that come from? We wanted more. We begged him, keep going.

"Fuck you, man," he says, resetting his train of thought. "I bet you like that Vicks up your ass, right?"

I do! How did you know? At this point, all you could hear over the headset was the unstoppable laughter of Troy and I. Our New York friend got frustrated and left the room.

But tonight was a real classic. Troy, Brian, Fraser and I were all playing together as a team against random opponents. We joined the lobby for a new game and were instantly being harassed. Some guy who tried his hardest to sound like a gangster had the name SyndicateOC, and (no surprise here) started telling us stuff about our moms.

"Syndicate? Like a crime syndicate?" I asked. "Hey," I said to my teammates, "do you guys listen to the rap group 'Crime Mob'? I wonder if this guy likes them."

"Yeah, the Orange County Crime Syndicate, sounds like a good rap name," Troy said. "Hey man," he asked the kid, "do you watch 'The OC' on Fox?"

"No, no, no, we've got it wrong," Brian said. "He wants Fox to syndicate the show 'The OC'!"

And so we all started laughing and talking about the syndication of 'The OC.' Our real-life Syndicate Gangster, meanwhile, got pissed and decided to tell us we were pronouncing his name wrong, and threw in something about our mothers.

The match ended and Gangster Boogie and his buddies got beat pretty harsh, but decided they'd stay and try to insult us.

"Hey man," he said to me. "You sound like a fucking nerd."

Haven't heard that one before.

"I bet you're a huge fan of the film '8 Mile', aren't you?" I asked him. "I hope you are," I said. "That movie really makes me want to go out and try to participate in rap battles."

And now he's fuming. Doesn't take much to get these guys going. They do it to themselves.

"Are you from San Francisco?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm from the Bay area."

"Oh, I knew you were a fucking fag!" he said.

"You're right," I said. "Actually, I live in a bath house." I think that one went over his head. "To tell you the truth, AIDS is destroying my way of life."

"I bet you're a fucking gay prostitute, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm a giggalo."

"Giggalo?" he said. "More like gigga-HO!"

We all lost it. The hysterical laughter of four nerds instantaneously flooded the Internet.

"Hey man," I said. "That's pretty good. Did you write that, or is that a Missy Elliot song?"

Troy jumped in with one of his favorite stock lines: "I make way too much money for way too little work. I am better than you."

"Bitch, fuck you," he said. "I've got more money than you can ever imagine!"

"Oh," said Brian, "I didn't realize we were playing Halo with Ted DiBiase."

And as we all laughed, OC Syndication apparently decided he had enough and left. Somehow, I doubt he realizes how much he left us with in what little time we spent together. SyndicateOC, we hardly knew ye.

This is the story of how my piss ended up on a 350-pound man's face.

It was a frigid Gainesville night, and I was out on the town, enjoying a few gentleman's sodas. As anyone who's consumed a large number of liquids knows, when you've gotta go, you gotta go. And I went. A lot.

That's the luxury of being a guy, you see. I can pee anywhere, any time. Just pull it out, find a tree, a lawn ornament, a hallway, an extra-long pipe, and I've got a urinal. The world is my bathroom.

And why the hell should I have to wait in line with a bunch of chicks who take forever? I'm an American, I don't have to wait. I do what I want. So I pee outside.

This particular home had a nice, luxurious backyard, full of so many potential places for urination that it made settling on one location difficult. Each trip to the "bathroom" was a new adventure: Where do I pee next, the gazebo or the lawn gnome?

I settled on a tree. And man, was it cold out. Suffice to say that my manhood was not at its manliest on this particular evening. After a few moments of collecting myself and getting the pipes warmed up, I let a nice stream of urine fly out. It featured a healthy outpouring of steam that radiated before the piss even hit the ground.

The residents of this particular establishment has a pretty cute little dog, and he really loved people. Apparently, he was pretty cold too. Poor little guy. So he came running out back to find me, next to a tree, draining out my bladder.

I think you know where this is going. You probably also know that once you start peeing, it's impossible to stop.

So here's this dog, bathing itself in my running stream of steaming urine, and I'm in a desperate struggle to keep my piss away from him. I love dogs, I don't want to pee on one. But this little guy was really enjoying the heat. Like an incredibly awkward game of keep away, here I am with my dick out, trying to pee anywhere but on this dog, and he's just running wherever the urine flows.

Out of piss and disturbed by the situation, I hurried inside away from the dog and filled up another beer. I'd have to be more careful next time, I thought, and make sure the dog didn't find me when I went out to piss.

A few beers later, we find ourselves in the same situation, me and this dog. I started peeing in a remote corner of the yard behind some bushes, and out of nowhere, like he's got a radar on my piss, there he is, jumping into action.

The beers kept coming and the urine kept flowing. By the end of the debacle, I was tired of fighting with the dog and too drunk to care, so I just peed and he just sat there and enjoyed the warmth.

At this point in the night, the whole ordeal had become a bit too humorous, so I had to share with someone. I found my comrades for the night and told them the gritty details. "Don't pet the dog," I told them.

I sat down by the stereo, a few folks were dancing to the blaring music in front of me. One of them was a large black man. The type of guy that could shut down both a buffet and a Bar Mitzvah in one sitting. The only surviving member of the Fat Boys was working up a sweat on the dance floor, and he sat down at a recliner across from me and took a break.

And in runs the dog, looking for some attention. And oh look, he's dripping wet. He's rubbing up on the now seated large man. The guy pets the dog and picks up his hand. He looks at the moisture on it.

Turning to one of his friends, he says "The dog is wet."

"Must be running through some sprinklers outside," he says.

Not content with a mild sampling of my urine, he goes back for more, rubbing his hand firmly into the dog's piss-soaked coat. With sweat from the dance floor dripping down his face, the large man takes his wet hand with a heaping dose of my piss on it and proceeds to wipe it on his face.

I lost it. I had to tell someone. Someone I trusted, though, 'cuz I really don't feel like getting my ass kicked. So I run back to the group of friends and open my mouth. Before I can even get a word out, the music at the party cuts off instantaneously.

"HEY, EVERYBODY!" I hear. It's one of the girls who lives at the house. "I hear someone has been pissing on my dog, and that's really fucked up," she says. "Please, stop pissing on my dog!"

Oh... shit. Someone heard me tell the story before.

Shit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see our large friend still seated in his recliner.

We've gotta go before I get my ass kicked.

Faster than a stream of hot fluid, we were out of there. Fortunately, I was never implicated in that night's dog pissing incident. We returned for another party a few months later and the dog and I met again. Only this time, he had been hit by a car and was missing a leg.

Dumb dog.