Is it necrophilia if you find yourself sexually attracted to a zombie or in sexual congress with a zombie and you weren’t aware of it?  Or any type of undead.  Fuck, how about undead animals?  Where the hell does that natural proclivity fall?

I don’t think it is necrophilia.

I was looking for some more information on World of Warcraft because it looks like a pretty cool game.  You can be an elf or a troll or a monk or other kinds of gay shit.  Whatever you want.  I wanted to be a zombie named "Indiana Bones".  You can also be zombies.

People in the game would be like, "Hey there goes that Indiana Bones guy again.  That’s pretty clever I guess."  I would imagine that slowly they’d feel more and more dissatisfied with their choice in name, and then quit entirely.  None of you better steal my Indiana Bones name either.  Dicks.

I went to the World of Warcraft site to see if someone already got my name and somehow I immediately found this picture.

I did one of those little eyebrow things, as if to say, "Hey, what’s this now?"  Then I saw the missing elbow and did one of those eyebrow things as if to say, "Hey, what’s this now?"

That’s pretty much where I am right now.  I checked wikipedia on Necrophilia, but that wasn’t any help.  Maybe I’ll just scratch the whole thing.

UPDATE!

4 of 4 people I’ve asked about this agree that it is not necrophilia! 

Sweet Jesus!  No sooner had I posted about our neighbors and their delicate ear holes when what should happen, but the very same drummer I referenced had his car keyed right in front of our house.

It was during the hours of 10PM to 7AM the next morning.  I was up until 5 that morning playing video games downstairs and I heard nothing.

There are two possibilities here.

1. One of the punk ass skateboarding kids who are always hanging out in front of our house and asking us how to be as cool as we are did it. 

2. Our neighbors did it.

Now that is some creepy shit!

Extra creepy shit! 

When our drummer heard about the letter from me last night, he said, "I know which house that is."

"What the fuck, how?" I said.

"It’s that one," he pointed.  "Every time I’m playing drums during the day, I see a silhouette in that window there.  That’s gotta be the house."

Grim echos of mayhem and hate whisper from the shadows of paranoia.  I ask, what comes next?

Feud.  It cannot be unsaid.

The snow shit’s hit the fan in the Chicago area.  That means I’m stuck at the airport for a few hours and maybe stuck in Denver all night.  Here are the highlights:

"Caution, the moving walkway is ending" playing on a loop every 5 seconds for the moving walkway that is ending just a few feet away.
I forgot to take off my belt and large metal bucket.  The specter detector did not go off.
The Da Bears guys that do all the announcements in the airport.  "We would like to remind all our food court customers of the additional seating near the concourse" is so much funnier when it sounds like "We would like ta remint all arr food cort custumers of de addish-nal seatin near da concourse."

The internet conference was a success.  I think my presentation on e-pimping went well.

Do not go to The Londoner British Pub in Santa Clarita.  It is as much a British Pub as I am a Chinese Jet Pilot.

See that brown looking bottle over there on the right or left of this text (I haven’t decided which)?  That is a bottle of Brown Sauce.  That is what you’re supposed to put on the counter when a customer orders a fish and chips and then asks for a fucking bottle of brown sauce.

This is how it goes.

Customer: I’d like a Fish and Chips.
Gabby bartender: Here you go.
Customer: Can I have some brown sauce because Fish and Chips are gross with only vinegar?
Gabby bartender: Here you go.

You’re not supposed to laugh and then get all the other dumbfuck hicks at the bar to laugh with you.  You trailer trash dirtbag pieces of shit.  Fuck you.  No it doesn’t look like we’re in England, you stupid mullet cocksuck.  The enormous sign outside that said "British Pub", directly above a Union fucking Jack, just confused me for a second.  How I dare I forget that I’m in Santa Clarita: home of the teenage mother.

Next time you’re watching the news and they show a bunch of trailers getting washed down the street (and it will be in Santa Clarita.  It’s always in Santa Clarita), laugh your ass off and have a pint.  Those filthy bastards don’t even deserve homes on wheels. 

I was going to write some shit about how thankful I was for some things as sort of a Thanksgiving day post.  Things like TMJ and Acid Reflux and the fucking jerks at Blue Shield who cancelled my health insurance for both of them.

Except when I was driving in my car and trying to listen to 97.1 the FM Talk Station to think of a bigger list all I could hear was mariachi music.

Some damn Mexican station went and bought a radio tower right in my town.  Now it’s all accordion, all the time.  Or as we Mexicans say, siempre.

If I drive to work in the far left lane with my tires almost riding the center divider, I swear I can still hear High Pitch Eric giggling like the gay idiot he is. 

If their party platters weren’t so goddamn delicious, I would say fuck Albertsons.  Here’s how it went down.

Me: Hi, I’d like to get a spread of sandwiches and cheeses for a Halloween party.  Albertsons is world reknown for the deliciousness of its meats and dairies, so when I had to plan a party, the choice was obvious.
Cockbag: When do you need it by.
Me: Tomorrow.
Cockbag: Ooooh…that’s pretty short notice.  We can do it though.

Hey, Cockbag, if you can do it then just shut your fucking mouth and do it.  If I’m so shitty at planning parties that I wait until the very last minute to order the FOOD then I probably have more frantic things on my mind then you having to rush your stupid delicious sandwich making.

Frantic things like:
I need to find something that looks like glass but is safe to eat.
Everyone in town is out of decorative spider webs.
I got turned down for health insurance.

Fuck.  Just take the order if you can do it.  I didn’t deserve any kind of fucking reprimand — and neither did the Russian girl in front of me who didn’t think I was funny.

Fuck Russia and fuck Albertsons.