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Fichte
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Name: Johann Gottlieb
Country: Germany
Gender: Male
Interests: Forming the philosophical link between Kant and Hegel
Expertise: Transcendental idealism and my Wissenschaftslehre
Message: message me
Member Since:
10/17/2003
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| Dear Mario Lopez,
It pains me to think of the anguish I may have caused you this past weekend in Las Vegas, Nevada. Had I been just a tad more tactful (or sober), I'm sure I could have avoided the unpleasantness that resulted from my verbal gaffe. Alas, this incident was entirely my fault, and I can only beg you now for absolution: mea culpa!
Please forgive me.
There you were, fresh and exultant like a wet rose glistening in the waning summer light, triumphant from a weekend spent cavorting with a recently divorced Britney Spears (O, saucy tart! Were you even aware that you were the one dancing with the star?) in Las Vegas, Nevada. And your fortunes looked no worse that Saturday evening, for on your arm was none other than Action 13 anchorwoman Melissa McCarty, standing proudly and a full six inches taller than you. Indeed, you stood like the last bastion of manhood, a veritable Kytheran newly risen from the winedark sea. For it was your career which had also been reborn. Like the phoenix, you had risen from the ashes of 80s teen sitcoms to pop culture prominence via reality television. Gone were the infantile days of wooing Jessie and suspending Screech from a gym locker by his underwear. You were the star everyone wanted to dance with. It was your apotheosis.
And where else in Las Vegas, Nevada would you have been other than Tryst, that who's who of dance clubs ensconced in the billion-dollar Wynn hotel? Verily, my friends and I waited 2.5 hours to enter that trendy Shangri-La, but you headed through the V.I.P. line and walked straight into the club, waiting only for your spongecake-soft feet to carry you there, where you frolicked and danced to your heart's content. It was a happy evening for you, to be sure.
Until you met me.
It was upon your departure from said club when we met. You saw the light of recognition in my eyes and were gracious enough to bring me into your world for a brief second. You shook my hand, introduced me to your entourage, and even posed for a picture with my wife, all so kindly. And in an attempt to even further welcome my ignominious presence, one of your crew afforded me the chance for polite conversation. "So, are you in town for the fight?"
It was true that Pacquiao had just faced Morales earlier that fateful evening in a highly-touted featherweight title bout. However, I am by no means versed in the pugilistic arts, and I did not wish to offend anyone's sensibilities by referring to that epic battle as "Pedro vs. My Gardener" (which I had done earlier that night). So in an effort to deflect my ignorance, I replied loudly enough for all to hear.
"Which fight? You mean Zack vs. Slater??"
Suddenly, all those friendly smiles disappeared. You and your friends turned your gazes from my pathetic face and continued towards the exit with nary a look back. I had my chance to hobnob with a true celebrity, and I blew it. But more importantly, I offended a truly exemplary gentleman and a kind soul. For that, I apologize.
Please, Mario Lopez. Forgive me my actions in Las Vegas, Nevada. Tell me it's okay. Tell me you're not angry with me. Tell me there are no hard feelings and that you'll deign to speak with me should we ever run into each other again somewhere in the wide world.
Come on, man. It's what Kelly would want.
Love,
Johann Gottlieb Fichte
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| Are you frustrated by the fact that no one will sleep with you because you have a sexually transmitted disease? Do you constantly drop pennies into fountains, wish on shooting stars, pray to Jesus Christ, or partake in other fictitious nonsense so that you might one day have unprotected sex with someone else who has HIV? Are you desperate for a little lovin' and a little penicillin?
Then look no further, my friend, for Hope now springs eternal in the human breast! I invite you all to point your web browsers to my new website: HisAndHerpes.com!
HisAndHerpes.com is a dating service for people with STDs who want to meet other people with STDs. You can find your STD soulmate at HisAndHerpes.com, even if it's some trick with trichomoniasis. Now you can finally clap if you have "the clap"! Get hip to your hepatitis, 'cause now yo' baby's got scabies!
The advent of the Internet has changed the face of interpersonal communication forever. The online community has drawn people with common interests together from all corners of the globe. Finally, the diseased population has its own unique forum. At HisAndHerpes.com, you can meet other individuals suffering from your particular plight. Search for potential mates by specific pathogen or symptom. Or find someone with a completely different ailment! People with crabs and people with syphilis can't get along? You must be illin'! Prove them wrong on HisAndHerpes.com.
Create a profile today and post it free on HisAndHerpes.com. You can scan other member profiles without charge. Or upgrade to a deluxe account for a mere $20.00 monthly fee and send unlimited messages to other members. Mention this blog and get a two-month deluxe trial account absolutely free. It's just that simplex! Remember to visit us at HisAndHerpes.com.
HisAndHerpes.com: We're keeping it gonorrheal! | | |
| I am starting a new global organization. Its goal is to unite those of like mind into a common, unbreakable brotherhood. It is a crusade for justice against an ill that has plagued the world for many years.
This organization is called the Beat The Shit Out Of Sarah Jessica Parker Club.
The mission statement of the BTSOOSJPC is to, quite simply, beat the shit out of Sarah Jessica Parker at every afforded opportunity. No more should her pasty, skeletal complexion poison the pixelated viewing screens of the world. The BTSOOSJPC believes that the only recourse for forcible exposure to her hideous, malformed face is a sound thrashing, one that will reverberate throughout society. The pummeling heard 'round the world, if you will.
And I know you will! I am certain you will see the wisdom in forming such a club to combat this great evil. Sarah Jessica Parker is a blight in the world's sacred grove, a veritable stain on the societal doily that protects us from Hollywood's sloppy joe shit feast. Allow me to enumerate the reasons behind which the BTSOOSJPC operates:
- Sarah Jessica Parker is seriously ugly. She has no business being on television or in movies. Her face belongs in the space between a brick wall and my fist.
- She is a terrible actress. Her narrator's dialogue on that show (you know, that show) is wooden and completely stilted. I would give almost anything to rip out her vocal cords and use them to hang her by the neck from a flagpole.
- Would someone please explain the nature of that monstrous aberration on her chin? Is it a boil? A perennial pimple? I've heard of racial slurs, but I've never before seen a FACIAL slur (OH, SNAP! I TAGGED YOU GOOD, BITCH!). Since when did imperfections become trendy? Seriously, people watch Hollywood to gape in awe at the sheer beauty of fictitious people. When I see Sarah Jessica Parker's albinic, emaciated face on my TV screen, I howl with glee at how good looking I am.
- Okay, could she be any older? She's supposed to be some kind of a hip thirty-something, except she looks like a hip-replacement candidate fifty-something. Good gravy, someone stop the madness!
I feel as if I've provided sufficient evidence for my cause. Please do your part to make this a better world and join the BTSOOSJPC. Won't you help those in need by beating the shit out of Sarah Jessica Parker... today?
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| Dear Mookie, DAAAAAAYYYYYYUUUUMMMMM! WASSUP NIGGA?!?!?!?! I ain't seen you in fo'eva, foo'! Wuz been crackin', dawg? Me? I ain't been up to sheeit, nigga. I be chillin' all up at da crib, you know, sippin' on da 40, puffin' on da blunt... you know how we do all up in dis beeyotch! Troo! Hey, you goin’ to Malcolm’s party dis Friday? Dat shiznit is finna be off da chain, boy! I heard Sherika and her sista Lakwanda gon’ be all up in dat shit. We ‘bout to get our freak on, you know whut I’m sayin’? Man, my mama be trippin' like a muh fucka. Talkin' 'bout how I'm 31 and still livin' in her crib. Sheeit. Who dat bitch think bring home all da groceries and sheeit? Nigga, please! She know I'm just waitin' fo' my record deal to come through. I be spittin' mad rhymes twinny-fo' seben, foo'. Gots ta get my album on first befo’ I can move out da house, ya feel me on dis? But she be all, “Tyrone, get a job!” “Tyrone, stop sellin’ crack!” “Tyrone, go to college!” Go to college?! Bitch, is you crazy?! I spent six muh fuckin’ years in high schoo’, now she want me to go to college. Fuck dat sheeit! Get a job?! I ain’t never finna get me no jobby job. Why should I when da gub’ment gon’ take half my shit every paycheck? Why da gub’ment always creepin’ on my flow? Git yo’ own damn flow, crackaz! An’ I cain’t stop sellin’ crack ‘til dem niggaz from Death Row gimme a record contract. Sheeit, I sent dem niggaz two demos last year. Where deez niggaz at? Why life gotta be so complicated an’ sheeit? E’ybody gettin’ on my case all da damn time. Man, I know shit wudn’t dis fucked up back in da day, know whut I’m sayin’? I bet dem slave niggaz had it real easy. Dey ain’t had to worry ‘bout gettin’ dey grub on or findin’ a crib ta max out at. Dey white mastaz took care o’ all dat shit. Spend all day pickin’ cotton in da sun an’ den go out into Hotlanta and partay all night, foo’! Talkin’ ‘bout A to the T to the L, nigga! Yeah, sometimes some cracka come an’ whip yo’ ass, but I know dem slave muh fuckaz got paid mad cash fo’ dat shit. All dem slave niggaz musta been straight muh fuckin’ ballin’! Dat’s whut I wanna be: a troo slave nigga. Ain’t no worries when you a slave nigga. No responsibilities, no edumacation, nothin’. You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout takin’ advantage of da freedom we gots today. You can just sit back, max out wit’ a 40, and chill after a hard day of pickin’ cotton. Dayum, dat’s da life. Don’t gotta worry ‘bout gettin’ ahead of da next nigga, ‘cause every nigga in da same damn boat as you. Ain’t got no black role models ta look up to, no one to make you realize you can leave da ‘hood any time you want and make a betta life fo’ yoself. Think about it, Mookie. If we drag every nigga down to where we is, we ain’t gotta strive fo’ nothin’. Sheeit, I miss dem good ol’ slave nigga dayz… Aight, nigga, I finna dip. I’ll catch you on da flip side. WEST SIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE! Peace out, Tyrone | | |
| Today was so horrible. My online girlfriend broke up with me. Granted the relationship only lasted 23.3674 days, but it was really intense as RaVeRkId24 and Luckybubbles89 can testify. I didn't even see it coming. Our last chat session was getting pretty racy and I thought we were about to take it to the next level, but then she just flat out dumped me today. I swear I'll never understand virtual women. I think this poem I wrote while sobbing over my Snickers bar best explains the profundity of my despair.
When Angels Die
I feel that every time I cry,
Somewhere an angel dies,
For all the salty tears that I've shed,
And all the drops of blood that I've bled.
Does anyone know why love is so cruel?
And tastes like orphanage-cooked gruel?
Force fed by a grotesque matron,
Spit up on a checkered apron.
O, love, thou elusive spirit,
Rejection you issue; I will not hear it!
For every time I cry,
Somewhere an angel dies...
I think the meter would probably be something like tricyclic hexadiameter. It needs a little polishing, but I think the three dots at the end really add to the emotional quality. Why is it that all my best poems come out when I'm sad...?
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