Work.

Ok, so, work has found a way to interfere with my blogging. Thanks. Really, my days go great, staring at my desk. Apparently, they like to pay me to actually work. I know this is a rather common problem for most, so we won't dwell on it any longer. Here's my new issue: Mandatory Sales Meetings. Especially when they have titles like 'Discussion on Standards of Behavior/Conduct'. Why can't we just say, " Look. One of you guys is an asshole that is fucking up in every possible way. He's going to be flogged tomorrow. Sleep on it, and tomorrow, if you find yourself in the way of a good flogging, guess what? The asshole is you." Or maybe bossman could pull over the asshole and tell him, ' Hey, buddy, you're an asshole that is fucking up on a regular basis. Instead of holding a mandatory meeting so I can punish everyone equally for things that you have done, I'm going to fuck with you, just you.' It has something to do with, well, with being a pussy I suppose. Let me stop you, the reader, from making a mistake. I'm not the asshole in question. And even if I was, no one would ever know because nobody in management has the balls to blame anyone for fucking making a funny face. These fucking characters would rather stab their own children with Freddy Mercury's old toothpicks than piss off a coworker. Pretty fucking slimy. Know the type? Let's hear about the slime you work for. Go on, I know you want to. Do it. Now.

New Store Hours

While we're waiting for the new sexification to take place here, I thought I'd let everyone in on something. But then I decided not to. Look, I'm nocturnal, so you might as well be too. This blog is officially going nocturnal as of today. Wow, look, it's already contradictory. Shut the fuck up. Surveys tell me that 'night' time is the 'right' time. It's more sexy apparently. Of course, if you're in a dumpster with the lid closed, it's always dark I guess. Whatever. So, patience is a virtue, yadda, yadda, whatever.

The Party is Over.

Note to staff:

Today, as of 0715, my time, I, Keywork, have withdrawn my name from the 2008 ballot. Nothing personal, people, but I feel my work on the political front has been done. I feel that I can better serve the public in other areas and it's time to move on. I would like to thank every staff member for your undying support throughout this wild ride, it's been um, special. I would like to point out that I still believe that we would have won this election by a landslide. But there is nothing left to prove. Everyone that has been a part of this campaign should go forth knowing that you are, in fact, better than everyone else. Maybe we will go at it again in 2012, but for now, I am sick of the structure, I'd much rather be out causing trouble and vandalizing stuff. Oh, and more dumpster fucking would be good as well. So, again, thank you everyone for everything. Micky, the interns are yours, but there is still work to be done. Wait for my signal. Everyone else: see you in the dumpster.

Keywork. Maybe 2012.

Is This Redneck?

Keywork, here again, reviewing another blog for the people at Ask.

Well, there's things I know, and there are other things I don't know. I know this, Redneck Bar and Grill is not the worst blog I have ever read. Look, fellas, don't get all excited to the point of drinking lighter fluid, that wasn't meant as a compliment. While Redneck wasn't the worst, it's on my list of 'Blogs I Won't Read Again'. See, as an American, I am slightly more accustomed to a different brand of redneck. Not to say y'all ain't rednecks, I'm sure you are. Things are just different in Canada I guess.

Ok, the blog. Simple enough, easy to navigate, no widgets! Y'all musta known I'sa comin. I hate me some widgets. Really. I didn't really find anything to dislike as far as your template goes. So you get points for that. Unfortunately, I found the content to be simple as well. Look, you guys make beer, and I have great memories with beer. So it's hard for me to tell you this: if you brew the same way you blog, you guys are fucked. Apparently, you don't, from what I've read, so kudos. But, what I'm saying, in short, is stick to brewing. You know the type of humor that is appreciated at Ask, you knew before you submitted. What in the name of hockey were you guys thinking? Tim, Ernie, you guys need to tell us who's writing what. I don't know who to direct my verbal katanas (that's the ninja sword word you were looking for) at, so you're both going to hear it. Remember, I'm trying to wake you guys up, so take this shit to heart. One of you is funny. I don't know which one, but whoever wrote this, you have your moments. I'm guessing you would be the same fella that wrote this, please correct me if I'm wrong. Here was the high point, I really thought this was funny enough to italicize:

' This stuff isn't rocket surgery'

I enjoyed your observations and you showed hints of hilarity. I enjoyed the information on DIY Hydrogen Generators. There's your positives.

Let's glance at some things you should never do again.

1. The Ninja Post. This is what we call literary suicide. Never, ever, ever, ever, claim to be a 'pretty good' writer. Don't fucking do that. Let someone else tell you that. Believe me, if you're not a good writer, someone like myself will call you on that shit. Humility: please have some.

2. Bird Squeezing. One of you missed out on a great opportunity to really entertain the masses. Jesus, if you ever feel the need to post something this bland again, send me an email. I will tell you not to.

3. Have unprotected sex. Not that you have, I just felt like it needed to be said.

So, Rednecks, I must tell you this: grab another Blue Beaver, build some generators, and don't post again unless you're reaalllly fucking drunk. Spelling errors are funny. I don't really have a star rating for you, and I can't toss a flaming finger your way, it wasn't all bad. Hey, Love, give these guys one of those 'meh' things. Yeah.

Campaign 2008: Charlotte

The Super Campaign is back on track, after a month of oddities. Friday, May 2nd, the Campaign Bus of Hope will depart Denver, Colorado, and barrrel through states until it reaches Charlotte, NC. Stops along the campaign route will be updated daily. So, if you live where we stop, feel free to contact KWHQ to setup a meet and greet with the only raccoon candidate. The first stop will be somewhere in Kansas, so, if that's where you find yourself, let us know and my staff will gladly bludgeon you to death. Or be nice and let you meet with me. Hey, it's a 50/50, what could go wrong? Ok, I guess the bludgeoning could be considered 'going wrong', but it's war on the campaign trail, there will be casualties. Micky, grab my cigars and blue dresses.

You Can Have My Ration.

Ration Reality. I stumbled upon this incoherent, slimy sac of anal seepage a few months ago. And I can tell you this: don't visit this blog, Bagel has syphilis. Yes, the editor, Bagel of Everything, has syphilis. Frat boys beware. Never in my life have I ever read such horrible propaganda. Let's look:

She's a Racist. Really, she is. All jokes aside, she's a horrible human being in every sense of the word. Wait, the blog. Ok, it's easy to navigate. If you really want to cruise around this vat of cerebral vomit. I'll save you the trouble: shit, ass, fuck, cunt, anal sex, holocaust, wong, ass cadet, desperate lesbian. That's about it.

Soylent Ape. He's a dirty jew. So, you don't even have to read his posts. Again, I'll save you the trouble: economics, penis, obscure bands, drums.

Seriously, I'm glad you both have jobs. I liked your old template better, the new one is shit. Oh, please don't reproduce you two. And if you do, make sure your spawn aren't allowed near a computer. No stars on this one, you guys put the 'k' in suck.

When in Mumbai...

This is a review I did for the kind people over at Ask And Ye Shall Receive. Feel free to go read this again, with a new set of comments here.

At first glance, I was excited when I visited Cave of Wonders. Because, well, I like clouds. And there's a shitload of clouds on this blog. This excitement turned into something else rather quickly: confusion. Harshal, the man behind the clouds, has a few things to work on.

The sidebar, it bothers me. Way too much shit going on here. Really. I don't know where to start honestly. It's a veritable widget orgy. I understand the charm of the widget. Now, I believe i also understand the widget's attitude toward reproduction: fuck like bunnies. I think that's what happened to your sidebar. Harshal, you can't leave widgets to their own devices. Please purchase contraceptives or learn how to perform vasectomies. Please. No more widgets.

Before I got eyefucked by the widgetry, I was greeted with "Cave of Wonders: Where Fantasy Meets Reality." After careful consideration, I am one to believe that the two will never meet. Harshal, it doesn't fit the overall content found on your blog. It just doesn't. I didn't find much fantasy on your blog. To be fair, most of the fantasy I did find, I almost enjoyed. Only because it all involved killing/maiming your roommate. I can relate to this fantasy, so I'm giving you the green light on more 'death to the roommate' posts. So, yeah, change your headliner and write more about killing your roommate. Fuck it, kill your roommate and write about it. That's a post I would like to see in the future on your blog. Don't make the reader dig for it, I could have done without the filler that exists between death threats. I understand that you study biomedical engineering. What that is, exactly, I don't understand. I don't need to. That's another thing I enjoyed, from the posts I read: you didn't try to explain that shit to me. Thank you for that. So, in short, here's my advice: unless some really crazy shit happens to you, focus solely on demeaning your roommate. That shit was funny. Not hilarious, but much more high-speed than your musings on the 'scare factor' of Eddie Murphy (it's in the Singapore post, funny moment #2). Yes, readers, you will dig for that as well. i found bits of interest, but I see a creative writing class in your future. I'm not going to get into your sentence structure, grammatical errors, or misuse of the English language; I think that would be most unfair. English is obviously not your primary language and your understanding of it is something you can improve. All I can really say is, well, keep at it. I like to encourage people to write. I also encourage honesty, so you're getting one star on this. For making an effort.

Hiatus.

So, I took a small one. And we're back. Post Hiatus Promises:

1. More posts.
I've really been slacking on my end, so I promise to post more. Really, I've rearranged my life to accomodate frequent posting. Oh, and the vile is making a comeback, motherfuckers.

2. More comments.
I'm going to be more 'here' starting now. This is my ugly child, and I'm going to start paying more attention to the way it's being raised.

3. More campaign related stuff.
Because the people like campaigns. They also like stuff.

4. More interns.
For Micky. I can't keep them alive apparently. Stupid daily feedings.

5. More new faces.
Because we like to celebrate diversity. And the perversion of the masses.

6. More little known facts about the raccoon.
Because I have a following. Oh, there's the first one: I have a following.

Because America is about 'More, More, More', so am I.

Keywork: "Don't Get Lost In The Dumpster. You May Find Yourself Rather Fucked."

Half Assed.

I hate you, Fraction. Look at yourself. You're diluted; a mere shell of your former self. Not whole, that's you. Yet I find you in so many places. I've tried various methods to rid myself of you and your ilk. I have been successful in some areas. I don't pay exact change for anything, and I take you in your decimal form to Coinstar when I find myself overrun with you and your friends. I still find you on my time sheet at work though. I just want to round up, but my boss says I can't. He must like you. I don't. There is my wonderful whole number, his beauty tainted by your floating nastiness. Oh, sure, I could dress you up as a decimal, but you even have a counter to that: division. And you know me, Fraction, I will not take the time to carry you out, I fear it will bring about another line. And I hate lines. Like the one you wear like a belt, you arrogant son of a bitch. You know that I will have to find a way to add or subtract you which will only bring me more misery. What happened to you? You were once a whole, naked number in the Garden. Did you eat of the wrong fruit? Whatever you did, fuck you. Now we all have to deal with your mathematical imperfection. As a child, you wreaked havoc on my brain at a time when such stresses were simply overwhelming. You remind me of old friends. Through the years, they lost a step or two and joined your ranks. Unfortunately, I can't take them to Coinstar. Well, I can take them there, but I'm sure they would have some questions for me upon arrival.

Friend: "What the fuck are we doing here? Fucking Coinstar, this is your idea of a good time?"

Me: "This isn't fun, I just want to see if I can turn you into a case of beer. Or maybe trade you in for a voucher of some sort. Now get in the slot."

Friend: "You're fucking out of your mind."

Me: "You are a fraction, we must make you whole."

Friend: "I'm outta here."

Thanks for fucking nothing, you piece of a whole. I will never cut a pie again. Or a pizza. My gas tank will either be full or empty. I will either be there or here, never almost or half-way anywhere. Factor that motherfucker.

Devil of the Sacred Heart

Well, if you actually read this blog, you may have noticed a few recurring themes. Sex, Religion, and Anger are on repeat here at KW. And I realize that it may get old after a while. Fine. I also get the feeling that I put off a bit of the 'Oversexed Atheist' vibe. So be it. My parents decided long ago that I needed to be spiritually guided from an early age and they were to be the guides. I guess raising a raccoon isn't like raising a human. Look how well that worked. So, I found myself in a slew of different private schools and odd churches contemplating eternity. I learned some things during my incarceration, and now I would like to share them with you.

1. How to get away with illegal activity.
Eyes are always on you, whether it was the nuns, the Jesus, or the other children. They're all watching, all knowing, and definitely all a pain in your ass. So you have to be slick to have a good time. I learned this in first grade: if you get caught, humiliation is coming your way in a steadfast and religious manner. So, if you're going to pick your nose, you better be quick about it or suffer the wrath of the Cod Liver Oil.

2. The kids in public school weren't nearly as bad as the kids in private schools.
All the kids in public school were accustomed to minimal surveillance, so the ones that were trouble makers weren't necessarily bad, they were just stupid. The kids in private schools, on the other hand, were more accustomed to maximum security correctional type facilities. Much smarter criminals for sure. So, the worst kid at private school could make for a rather straight laced All-American type at public school.

3. Jesus loves you sometimes.
That's right, sometimes. Because you should feel guilty, you rotten little striped son of a bitch.

4. The Maypole dance.
Why in holy hell do you want to teach small children a fertility dance? Seems wrong all around. Also, aren't you preparing the young ladies for careers in topless dancing?

5. Stations of the Cross.
This was my favorite part of my episcopAlien/catholic experience. Because it was scary, dark, and musical. The episcopals did it much scarier than the catholics, something about a flair for the dramatic and tramautizing.

6. School graveyards kick ass.
The episcopal school I attended featured a chapel built over dead people. Cool. The catholic school featured a small patch of grass full of dead nuns. Just to remind you that no matter how good you are, you'll never be buried here. We used to smoke cigarettes while standing on dead nuns just to let them know that they lost.

7. Holy water smells like old people.
I don't know why, it just does.

8. Fish Fryday isn't just during lent.
I guess they buy cod in bulk. Again, with the cod.

9. Don't wear your rosary around your neck.
I got the looks for doing that one too many times. Hey, if it looks like a necklace, smells like a necklace, then guess what? It is not a fucking necklace.

Well, there it is, everything you never needed to know about my fabulous upbringing. Minus the sex and drugs and booze.