Happy Year of the Dog!! Woof!

         What is the point of life, this world, this whole mess of love and hurt and hope if not to provide a bright, gleaming medium for the joy of self betterment? Hence, New Year’s resolutions. I hate the materialistic, predicate obsessed Western New Year, so I choose to make my resolutions on the real New Year, that of our Chinese brothers and sisters. Here’s my list for this, the Year of the Dog:

Chinese New Year’s Resolutions

1. Learn how to make a decent potato salad.
2. Be nicer to people.*
3. Bathe.








* except for really mean people, hit-and-run-drivers, those ice-queens that work at the GAP on Sundays, Tatum O’Neil, anyone with a bleached anus, anyone with bleached anything, Sean Hannity (if he doesn’t already fall into the six previous categories), Jehovah’s Witnesses, anyone that even looks like Sean Hannity, Hitler, whoever Loretta Lynn doesn’t have to be nicer to, The Strokes, anyone in PETA, 7 out of 13 of the Texas UPN affiliates, the cast of Charmed, Skip Reid, the ‘good’ people of Massachussettes, whoever broke the Golden Tee machine in Fletchers’s Bar on 11th Avenue, hate crime committers, anyone who has ever or will ever be on the E! Channel, that jerk that works security at the anonymous hobo cemetery and thinks that that makes him, like, really important or something, Sean Hannity, all of George Forman’s children, any and all Comptrollers, gorillas that know sign language, deaf people that act like gorillas, Jane Goodall, my one coworker that doesn’t like Tom Waits, young Elvis, my mentally retarded mailwoman, people who throw around the term ‘post-structuralist’ when I’m trying to talk about beer, my AA sponsor, cats, meter readers, rock lobsters, and people who say ‘guesstimate’.

Invitation to the Blues

         Well it was only a matter of time. We here at Ok Times have gotten our first piece of hate-mail. Which, even considering my own birth, has got to be one of the most wonderfulest things to ever happen to me. It came from some weird Hotmail account, and all attempts to reply have come back to the sender, but whoever wrote it, I love them.


Dear Shitholes,

         I hate you. And I should, because you’re blog is the worst thing I have ever read over. Oktimes is to blogs what shit is to dirty toilets. You think you are funny! But that is whats funny! Because you are not. Cant you even write on it very often? No. And when you do its like you pretend to be someone else who also isn’t funny. You are douche. Does your parents know you write on? Because you are like children who think that bathrooms are funny. Go to the bathroom and laugh then children! You should not be putting anything on the web because it is boring. And I dont mean that the internet is boring. I mean you! When I read the page I had to call my wife to see how terrible everything you are! You should get OFFline!

Wham! Take That, Oppressor!

         

The Magic Window

          Remember Jim Morrison and the Beaver? No? Just scroll down. Still don't see it? You're stupid. It's right there. Down a bit. There, see it? What? What the hell is wrong with you? It's RIGHT THERE!

Oh, nevermind. Anyways, here's some more fun with Jess. First, the second edition of Woodland Creatures Meeting Historical Figures of Note.



Last night I told Jess that I would just loooove a picture of a steam powered space rocket, then Jess said, "How about a fire-penguin instead?" I said that gee, I guess that wouldn't entirely suck, but what I really want is a steam powered space rocket and not a fire-penguin as she then suggested for the second time. Ergo. . .



I could see that my friend Jess was in a creative up-for-anything mood so I commisioned a piece involving a turtle, on his hind legs, wearing a suit, who is both startled and worried by presently witnessing an off-screen car accident and the surrounding cloud of gnats about which he can do nothing, for his suit is ill fit. Also there is a pile of steaks.



Now you can visit Jess's MySpace page and tell her just how much of your colon she just rocked right out of your body.

Thank You, Jesus.

         





Be somebody.