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Roger_Jolly
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Name: Joe
Country: Micronesia
Birthday: 2/2/1987
Gender: Male
Interests: interpretive exotic dance, rock gardening, bear wrestling, eagle hunting, using hair products and watching deep sea bondage Betamax tapes.
Expertise: Writing "Queer Eye," "Wheel of Fortune," and "Meet the Press" erotic crossover fanfiction; photoshopping Paris Hilton's head into Pamela Anderson sex videos (and vice versa); driving without a seatbelt.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Art
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  skavenseerschins
Member Since:
7/5/2004
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| Haven't updated in forever, and it is specifically because I hate all of you.
Especially you Colleen. Anyway...
Cara mentioned that every graduation party she has been to has been
progressively worse and worse, which is probably not untrue or unusual.
This
got me thinking, if only the first party was amazingly good, then
the following
parties, although ever worsening, would still be pretty
fun for a while.
Expanding upon this idea, I have come up with the
'Thirteen Graduation
Parties of Joe Schinaman'. The groundrules for
this experiment are:
1.) Each party must take place within a span of 24 hours
2.) They must take place on successive, consecutive days.
3.) Each partygoer MUST attend EACH party.
Without further ado...
Party 1, June 12th, 2005
The first party is the most critical party of the
"Thirteen...Parties...Schinaman",
as it is the benchmark from which all
the other parties will worsen from.
Therefore, I feel the only truly
worthy event is a heroin induced orgy on a
Space Yacht. Every since the
"Columbia" crashed, space shuttles have been a
dime a dozen and I know
full well I have a few that I've sealed in comically
oversized mason
jars and buried in the swamp out behind the tool shed in fits
of
paranoia. I'll just dig one up, call my pall Xzibit, have him "pimp my
ride" as
they say (ala the academy award winner "Soul Plane"), stock
cargo hold with
the finest of opiates and personal lubricants, and get
ready to go on a rock
and roll love cruise around earth's orbit. Those
who can't handle their heroin
or 24 hours of N*Sync's "Space Cowboy"
looped need not attend.
Party 2, June 13th, 2005
After the SS Let's Gwen Stefani Love Cadillac Super America Drive-in
Chesseburgers 'n Paradise Let's Roll!!! spontaneously combusts
somewhere
over the Ukraine, Party 2 shall begin. Conveniently located
at the crash site
will be monster truck legend "Ironman" Ivan Stewart
with a fleet of Super Off
Road stretch Hummer H2 limosuines, waiting on
our beck and call. The party
will rage on in any of the numerous hot
tubs, fully stocked wet bars, and
hockey arenas inside the vehicles as
"Ironman" takes us on the Super Off
Road journey across the Atlantic
back to America. Some of you ninnying
naysayers out there might be
asking yourself, "Psyysyychkhckhkh, theres no
way "Ironman" Ivan
Stewart can drive even the most super of offroad vehicles
across the
ocean in under 24 hours" Those of you who doubt "Ironman's"
powers
obviously are not aware that the custom H2's 32" chrome spinner rims
actually house Concorde jet engines, and Ivan will have us
stateside before
you can purge your liquor-drenched innards upon
panda-pelt interior.
"HOP IN, SUCKAHS"
Party 3, June 14th 2005
This is scheduled to be an erotic slumberparty with all the castmembers
of "The
OC" and "One Tree Hill". The mom from "Gilmore Girls" has been
invited as
well, however she has yet to RSVP. Tea time will be observed
at the
Cincinnatian at 4:00 as well.
Party 4, June 15th 2005
The parties are now becoming noticeably worse than the original party,
however, they are not yet unenjoyable. On this day I believe we will
race
down hills on giant blocks of ice professionally sculpted to look
like vintage
Corvettes all day, and grind up the iceblocks into
delicious margaritas all night.
Party 5 June 16th 2005
This day will feature an all stand up comedy festival. It will feature
Sinbad,
Omar Gooding, and Phil Lamarr, and be a sort of watered down,
racially
inoffensive version of the Def Jam comedy tour.
Party 6, June 17th, 2005
This will be the standard get-crunk 'Katie Woodruff's house' style
party.
Drunkyland will be played, Megan Miller will piss herself, and
the whole affair
will be off both the hook and the chain simultaneously.
Party 7, June 18th, 2005
This is the midpoint party. It will be the standard open-house
graduation party
which lasts for some batshit insane period of time,
like 12:35 to 3:22, and isn't
particularly fun but won't leave
you trying to bite out your own jugular vein in
desperation either.
Party 8, June 19th, 2005
This is the beginning of the 'bizarro parties', which are dull and
awkward
parodies of all the former parties. This one will be identical
to party 6, except
that the only alcohol served will be Smirnoff
Daquiri Wine Coolers, the only
drinking game played will be Axis and
Allies: Pacific Front, Megan Miller will
wear some sort of adult diaper
that will prevent her from visibly urinating all
over herself, and
basically the whole affair will be firmly attached to both the
chain
and the hook.
Party 9, June 20th, 2005
This consists of watching a twenty-four hour marathon of "Antiques
Roadshow" in a room full of mortally ill elderly people who could
awkwardly
die at any moment.
Party 10, June 21st, 2005
This will be a boiling water chugging contest. Whoever drinks the most
boiling
water wins bragging rights and third degree burns through 90%
of their
gastrointestinal tract.
Party 11, June 22nd, 2005
This is an erotic slumber party with all the castmembers of "The Golden
Girls."
Caution, Bea Arthur is noted for her hardcore nipple
bondage and
scatological fetishes.
Party 12, June 23rd, 2005
Today all the partygoers must go fishing for king crab in Alaska's
Bering Sea to
help defray the costs of all the previous parties, which
to date include:
1 Space Shuttle- $1.3 billion
60 kilos of pure Afghani heroin- $3.6 million
3 Stretch Hummer Limos- $700,000
24 hours worth of "Ironman" Ivan's services- priceless
"Cincinnatian" hotel fare for every partygoer and OC/OTH cast member, at
roughly $1500 a night- $1500x
Ice blocks- $200
Costs of hiring Sinbad, Phil Lamarr and Omar Gooding for a gig- $12
Incalcuable gallons of alcohol- unknown
Bea Arthur's studded vinyl catsuit and matching anal speculum set- $400
1 Fishing Boat- $70,000
As you can see, we will have to catch roughly a billion and a half
dollars worth
of crabs in twenty four hours, which essentially means we
will have to make
extinct a keystone predator of Alaska's only
worthwhile ecosystem.
Party 13, June 24th, 2005
This is it, the Anti-party. This has to be the worst imaginable party
ever, and
quite frankly, I can't think of anything thats really worse
than bondage Bea
Arthur, to tell the truth. So I think I'm going to
take the pussy, Catholic
Church cop-out and say that the theme of
Party 13 is eternal seperation from
God's love, rather than physical
punishment. Maybe later on I'll come up with
something more concrete,
like an alternate dimension where we are all eaten
alive by Larry
Hagman's eyebrows or are steamrolled by Cameron Manhiem's
fatrolls or
something, but I'm sorry, I'm creatively tapped at the present.
Anyway, if you wish to be a part of "The Thirteen Parties", please
apply
ASAP, I'm sure space shuttle seats will fill up quickly.
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Spring Break Redux '05
This is a dry, vapid recollection of everything i remember (and forget, for that
matter) doing on spring break, so read this if you care, I guess. Also, feel free
to remind me what we did on any of the days that are shrouded in hookah
smoke.
Prequel: Graeter's with Alex, Phil and Amanda. Phil predictably spills things on
himself and eats about twelve dollars worth of cookies in the form of free
samples. We sit in Phil's Riviera for < ten minutes, thus draining the battery.
Alex verbally abuses Phil and jumps his car. Amanda is wounded and flown
off the battlefield via helicopter, the survivors play minigolf.
Day 1: The ever illustrious Annie picks me up from exams and we soujourn to
the wilds of Colerain. After warding off the native savages, our train of
elephants arrives at the Huey household. Mom delivers tales of woe from the
previous evening: apparently the alcoholic beverages served at Annie's party
the night before contained some sort of stomach virus, as those who drank the
ludacrously excessive amounts of vodka and whiskey ended up vomiting. This
did not sit well with the Huey matriarch, and as such, we were entreated with
the duty of taking about a fucking dozen (equivalent to, say, a baker's dozen)
sleeping bags to some laundromat and wash them. Armed with a satchel of
quarters, we loaded up the elephants with the soiled sheets. Upon inspecting
what had become our charge, I must say loyal readers that I was filled with
existential doubt and a deep-seated loathing for virtually everything. All of the
things to be washed were comically childish in nature; most were sleeping
bags that featured The Thundercats or The Little Mermaid or GI Joe and what
have you. However, decadence drenched all that my childhood once
held
dear: Panthro's face was awash with vomit. Cheetara was besmudged
with
human excrement. Ariel found herself tainted with enough musty cognac that
the seven seas themselves could never wash it all away, so much Smirnoff that
even Poseidon's magical beard could not soak it all up. A hearty load of
reproductive fluid was strewn across Sargeant Slaughter's God-fearing,
freedom-loving visage. These sights might have felled a lesser man, but,
luckily, my soul was killed by Trader's World long ago, and I was now a
loose cannon cop with nothing left to lose. Bearing that in mind we set out
towards the laundromat. Once there my disposition improved, as after loading
the laundry, we played air hockey with elf crackers, shared some life stories
and sat on pleasingly-vibratory washing machines. Annie even used the
plethora of quarters to purchase temporary tattoos with the plausible intention
of affixing them to her breasts, but alas, not all dreams can be made realities.
After three hours of good, "clean" fun, (clean, as in what you do at a
laundromat, eh? ZING!) we went to a panera bread where we were
datejacked by Phil. From there, we went to some shitty forest or something, i
don't really remember. In any case, she ended up leaving, and Phil and I went
to Besl's for the Apprentice Party. Afterward, we attempted to steal a Dairy
Mart sign from a former Dairy Mart, but we got cockblocked by a
humorously jamaican employee. Joe ended up coming home with me. I'm sure
some stuff happened, and then we slept. Day one was finally over, but Spring
Break '05 was just beginning, and I could never look back.
Day 2: Joe and I awoke and treated ourselves to a heaping helping of Mauntel
for breakfast. From the wise sage Mauntel we learned of the glories of both
www.famteam.com and www.dogonahog.org
After that, we went to the Music Palace, one of the most underrated
establishments in the state, maybe even the nation. More on that later, but if I
wind up getting a prom date (ladies, I'm now accepting applications) I'm
taking her/him there for dinner.
I believe I spent the evening with the lovely Ms. Bradley and committed an
number of indecent acts the FCC will not permit me to share on this widely
published, nationally distributed and actual form of media.
Day 3: Sweet Christ, I just realized that I have no concept of time. I really have
no idea in what order these events all took place. I think today I went on a 14
hour journey to Dayton with Amanda, which was most definately 14 hours. Of
random stuff. I can't totally recall all that occured in that 14 hour period, but
I'd be willing to bet it shaved off about ten years of my life.
Day 4: Easter. I will have a photo documentary of this experience once I get
the film developed, which should be never.
Day 5: Party at Amanda's. This was alright, I suppose. Actually, between the
physical damage of being placed in a sack and beaten by Alex and the
emotional damage of sitting through hours of karoke sober, it was pretty
traumatic. But afterwards, I went to Annie's, where we ate Nutella and stale
bread. From there, Katie Woodruff, Theresa Whats-her-face, Annie, some
guy and I blasted off to the Blue Wisp downtown. There we sipped Shirley
Temples, smoked bubblegum cigarettes, wore blazers, listened to jazz, did the
Bill Murray Lost-in-Translation one-handed clap thing at the end of sets, and
basically were pretentious as fuck.
Day 6: LLAMA DAY.
People and I went to a llama farm and subsequently saw llamas.
Day 7: Cara and I took a college visit to Indiana Wesleyan University.
Day 8: Wonderful party at Katie Woodruff's. Most of the activities revolved
around Beth Ann for whatever reason. She was as drunk as I've ever seen
any conscious person, and never seemed to stop drinking in the duration of
the evening. But in any case I got to play the piano for a while and, more
importantly, I got to play a pretty sloppy game of Barbie: Queen of the Prom
against Bass. Alex claims he won but he didn't get any of the prom courtisans
which i think disqualifies him, whereas I promptly picked up the asian chick.
Actually, lets break down the end results; I'll let you decide who won.
I think they know who their daddy is.
Also, on the subject of games, barbie dream prom was not the only contest of
wit and skill to be played at this party. Annie and Beth Ann had an epic wine
cooler chugging contest which is in the top 1000 greatest things to which i've
ever borne witness. Also, a game to which adaquate praise would fill the limits
of the internet a hundred times over, and as such I will merely mention, called
"Drunkyland" was played.
Day 9: Parky's farm reopened on this day and we all got lost in another
goddamn forest.
Day 10: I did nothing on this day. Also, I just now realized that my original
"spring break safari" theme for this article kinda tapered off about mid-day
one. I mentioned putting the laundry on elephants and then i just devolve into
bitching for the next few thousand words.
Day 11: Phil and I went to the fake starbucks inside borders and whined
about our lives for a few hours, then looked at the magazine rack and once
again became aware of our superiority above everyone who reads magazines.
Also tried to prank call annie about half a dozen times and make her take a
cosmo quiz via phone, but to no avail.
And I'm spent.
| | |
| And now, Gerry Becker and the First Bell Five will be performing their
no.1 smash hit that's taking the UK by storm! Here's "Now I'm a
Believer!"
[drums and music and stuff]
I thought crop circles were only true in conspiracies,
Or meant for some British farm but not for me.
Just wasn't cut out for SETI, [da da da daaa da]
Theres nothing there to see. [da da da daa da]
But this grain is bent 90 degrees virtually....
And the I saw the ship! [do do dooo do]
Now I'm a believer!
Not a trace
Of evidence in my case!
But I'm in love! [oooooh aaaaah]
Oh, the guys from Aturia,
I reassure ya
They aren't fake!
I thought galactic travel was more or less impossible.
One would have to travel faster than the speed of light!
But whats the use in physics?
Math isn't even real.
But crop circle tai chi is something I can feel.
And then I saw the ship! [do do doo do]
Now I'm a believer!
Not a trace
Of sanity in my mind!
Oh I'm in love! [oooooh aaaah]
I'm filled with elation
The Galactic Federation
Has chosen me to Hybrid-Breed!
Oh I'm in love!
First Vertebrae Illuminati
Sure know how to party
And control the World Bank!
'Cus I'm a believer yeah yeah yeah yeah! [yeah I'm a believer]
And I'm in love! [ooooooh aaaah]
The Greys' intention
Is bring us to the fifth dimension
With sacred geometry!
I'm a Believer!
[I'm a Believer]
I'm a Believer!
[I'm a Believer]
[fade out]
| | |
| Some of you may remember that one of the blueprint holiday shopping
extravaganza's featured a shining beacon of commerce called Trader's World.
Well, yesterday, I ventured to that very place in search of "the perfect gift" for
mom's birthday. At this infernal place I found no gift at all and indeed lost my
innocence.
I must say that as I drove up to the parking lot, I felt my spirits start to flag.
Evil, in the form of a comically oversized, anatomically correct and apparently
excited fiberglass buffalo, loomed in the horizon. As I stared into the
expressionless face of the giant buffalo, I knew all hope was lost. But
something, maybe desperation, more likely madness, bid me into that lot.
I parked out in a vacant area behind the complex, as if to try to distance myself
from the rows of shitty eighties cadillacs and astrovans that had corralled in the
main lot. But I soon realized that nothing could isolate me from the wretched
vehicles filled to the brim with trinkets nor those who drove them.
I was again tempted to leave before I ever entered the marketplace. As I was
on my way in, a couple and their brood were exiting. The rather slatternly
woman stared at me, looking perplexed. I stared back, as those who are
stared at tend to do. I tore my eyes away but they were again magnetically
drawn to the hideous woman's staring visage. Then she spoke:
"Look Billy its steve from blue's clues"
I furrowed my brow, my eyes still grappling with the beast's.
"Wait, I meant Where's Waldo"
Thats right, bitch. Steve never wore a red sweater. But no matter. My fashion
sense was being publicly insulted by a 300 pound woman with biker blonde
hair, a NKU jacket and leather pants. I knew then that I was in over my
head. By I had already payed my dollar to park; I had crossed the rubicon.
But it was going to be a long four hours.
As you all well know, I'm as liberal as any bed-wetting, bra-burning subversive
commie pinko can be. I even went to third base with Ralph Nader during an
anti war rally for $10, and I donated it all to a vegan awareness campaign. But
even my profusely bleeding heart was truned to stone that day. At a place like
Trader's World, all idealism is lost and it is replaced only with the cold desire
to survive. You also begin to notice that at Trader's World, people only exist
as the most base, one dimensional sterotypes of the ethnicities they belong to.
All the protestants are fundamentalist christians and members of the NRA. All
the catholics belong to some sketchy "german american" society that is a thinly
veiled front for getting wasted, talking about how the holocaust never really
happened, and participating in homoerotic, spanking-based initiation rituals.
These things are somehow just loomingly apparent. You just "know". Its
utterly bizarre.
Some other observations:
1. All the white people fit into two groups. Half of the white people have long,
possibly poorly dyed blonde hair, scowl constantly, are wearing leather pants
and 80's hairband promo shirts, and want to kill you senselessly. The other
half are obviously fundamentalist christians, and although they don't actively
want to kill you, are convinced you will go to hell. Roughly all of the white
people are also morbidly obese. So essentially going to Trader's World akin
to going to a giagantic indoor garage sale populated by 5000 bloated Zac
Lees and John O Connors.
2. All white people sell essentially the same products. Every white person's
booth contains some assortment of t-shirts that feature inconcievably buxom
women and motorcyles with witty taglines such as "Floppers n' Choppers" or
some sort of Daisy Duke girl saying "Making the South rise again and again."
It is so obvious that every shirt features either confederate flags or quasi-nazi
regalia that I almost didn't even bring it up.
3. All black people sell a precocious mishmash of plastic spinners, religious
items that feature a black, muscular, dreadlocked jesus, knockoff basketball
jerseys, african tribal artwork, and drug paraphenalia. It is absolutely
invariable that all the aforementioned items be featured in every booth manned
by a black person. Thats just an ugly truth of Trader's World.
4. Asians were by far the most mysterious ethnic group at Trader's World.
Asian vendors sell only hats and hands-free cellphone accesories. I don't
know what the correlation between asians and hats is, but the asians had
absolutely sinful numbers of hats. Tables and tables covered in piles eight hats
deep. It was madness. Also, every single asian I saw that wasn't working a
booth was making out with another asian. Granted, this only amounted to
maybe four asian couples, but they were also the only people I saw making
out the whole time. Maybe its not enough to make any conjectures, but it still
made me think.What was it about nascar and corndogs and polka and
absolutely hideously obese white people that roused the asians' loins?
5. Native Americans only sell the hideous crap that one might associated a
Native American with selling. Things like dream catchers, headdresses, and
t-shirts with pictures of howling wolves or running stallions on them. Also,
Every real Native American looked really depressed. However, all the poser
Native Americans (you know who I'm talking about, the old white people with
grey ponytails and howling wolf t-shirts and feather earrings that are 1/32
cherokee or something) seemed really happy to be there.
6. The Amish were by far the sketchiest ethnic group, and in the intrigue
category they were second only to the amorous asians with all the hats. There
was one Amish family at Trader's World. First off, they were selling shit out of
the back of a van. HEY FUCKING AMISH PEOPLE, did you get the
memo about the horse and buggy thing? And for christ sake, they weren't
even selling faceless corn dolls or squash or anything stereotypical like that.
they were selling FUCKING BOOTLEG CD-R's. Okay, jesus christ, maybe
they had a shetland pony under the hood of the van instead of an internal
comubustion engine or something, but theres no way the Amish can burn cds
and still sleep at night. Hey, Jebodiah, did you download "Get Rich or Die
Tryin'" off the fucking butter churn? Isiah, did you burn that copy of "Word of
Mouf" with a tallow candle? Honestly, when I saw them I was already past
the point of insanity and I doubted my own eyes. For I minute I tried to
rationalize the situation and I kept telling myself "Maybe they are just a family
of rabbis whose wives happen to think bonnets are stylish" but that made even
less sense than what I was trying to explain away. And for those of you who
will invariably ask me, "Were there really Amish people selling fake cds, Joe?
Hmmmm?" I say to you, can you make this shit up?
In any case, around hour 4, I had reached the belly of the beast, the inner
nexus of the Trader's World compound: The Food Court. As one might be
able to deduce from the overwhelming fatness and whiteness of the general
populace, the food court featured every kind of meat known to man in either
tube or fried form. To my newly vegetarian self, all these various meats
created a thick, sadomaochistic stench I found both torturous and tantalizing.
On one hand, I was driven almost to vomiting by the mere thought of it, and
yet, my mind battered as it was, there was a sickly glimmer of temptation in
my mind to feast upon corndog after corndog, moaning in ecstasy in a sensory
overload of processed pork flesh, live polka music, and projection screen
NASCAR. And yet I battled on deeper and deeper into the heart of the food
court until I had reached the Ninth Level of Trader's World. This was it. This
was where the obese man in lederhosen played the accordian and belted out
"Who stole the Kieshka" over the PA. This is were the 1992 big screen TVs
played nonstop Spike TV. This was where you signed up to for the chance to
win the '97 Dodge Dakota Pickup and forever be locked into the Trader's
World mailing list. This was where, obscured from view by racks and racks of
XXL "IF YOU CAN'T FEED 'EM DON'T BREED 'EM" t-shirts, resided
the three headed visage of Satan himself, eternally locked in a sno-cone,
gnawing on the souls of Judas, Brutus, and Cassius, and maybe a few
bratwurst and funnel cakes as well. It was about this time that I fell to my
knees Platoon-style and just blacked out. I awoke hours later in my neon, still
without a birthday present for mom. I decided just to go to target and get
something cliche. It seemed at the time that all I had lost during the trip was a
few hours, but, I was not so lucky. A piece of me died in that flea market, a
piece of me I can never get back. Now the sun does not seem as bright, a
lover's kiss holds less warmth, colors themselves, it seems, have faded
somewhat. But I am survivor. I entered into a place more horrifying than
Hanoi, Dachau, and the Khemer Rouge combined and then multiplied by
Auschwitz, and left with my life. And I have the "Floppers n' Choppers" boxer shorts to prove it.
| | |
| Well well well
its that time of year yet again
lent
the time for us all to give up our vices, i.e. reasons to live
This year I'm sticking to the common staple of giving up masturbating.
This will of course be the anchor sacrifice to which all other
sacrifices will be tethered. All other sacrifices will bow before this
one in all its infinitely impossible glory.
I think I'll also pull a phil for good measure and give up meat as well.
Just to round it all out, drinking only water and skim milk will bring up the rear.
To prepare for my journey into the wilderness of my own willpower, I
drank half a bottle of straight tom collins mix and 64 FL OZ of Hi-C
just to get it out of the house. I also ate all the hot pockets, as
those delicious little morsels of sin will inevitably lead me astray if
I suffer them to exist any longer. I also flushed all the lubricative
substances in the house just to be on the safe side with that. Also, if
anybody has a cracked version of Net Nanny they'll let me use, that'd
be great.
| | |
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