This past weekend, most Americans enjoyed an extended weekend and some time off work as we
celebrated the Memorial Day holiday. Now, I say "most Americans" because I was not one
of the lucky few who was allowed to participate. It wasn't because I didn't
have the day off -- because I did -- but rather because I managed to contract a
case of I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-itis and spent the weekend becoming intimately
familiar with my toilet bowl. I nicknamed him Fred. Fred and I
shared quite a bit over the two days in which I was sick, namely anything I tried
to eat or drink. Fred was a good sport about it and managed not to complain
a whole lot, even if he didn't like what I was serving up. As an added
bonus to almost watching my lungs and esophagus come out of my mouth, if someone
managed to use the restroom during one of the off times that I dared to try and
keep some water or a morsel of food down, I would manage to also become intimately
familiar with whatever it was they ate as well. I'd make a joke here about
them rubbing my nose in their fully functional digestive track but, really, it's
not that funny and frankly hits a little too close to home. So what does
this have to do with anything? Nothing, aside from the fact that laying on
the bathroom floor unable to move gave me a lot of opportunity to think, something I
long forgot how to do.
Unless you're still living in the year 2005 and maybe also happen to be blind, you might have noticed that this site isn't quite what it used to be. On the off chance that you are some kind of sightless time traveller, I've pretty much just summed the whole situation for you so you should now be as up to speed as the rest of us. Anyway, before I go any further, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize, not because I really give a damn about you as a person but because I figure that if I start apologizing to everyone now, there is still a small chance that I can get into heaven and give Jesus that high five that I have always dreamed about. Now, if you've long been an avid reader, which is to say that you're one of the three Vietnam vets that I pay to keep my visitor count up, you've also probably noticed that I have been apologizing a lot lately. There is a good reason for this: it's pretty much the only thing that I do well anymore.
You see, I realize that the quality of the site is down the tubes and that the updates come about as frequently as a eunuch who's attempting sex, but I also realize that there isn't a whole lot that I can do about it. This is largely due to the fact that I have no idea where everything went wrong. It's like when you used to read those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books as a kid. Sure, taking the path to the cave sounds like a great idea because you really like caves so you turn to page 73. The next thing you know, you die in some horrible rated PG death which leaves your poor child brain scarred for life as you wonder how books could be so cruel. Having what little literary talent you possess brutally sodomized by an unknown force is a lot like dying in that fictional cave, especially if that death involved some sort of sodomy act. But look at me prattle on. I feel like your homeless alcoholic uncle that has become a permanent fixture on your couch who constantly talks about nothing but the "good old days" before he was convicted of his second strike and bathes himself in a mixture of self-loathing and cheap, store brand vodka. I really didn't write this so that I could bitch and moan about my plight.
Between my extended bouts of relieving my body of anything containing nurtritional value, I actually gave serious consideration to the idea of closing up shop and shutting down the PNC Campus for good. I just don't have what it takes to run the place anymore. Gone are the glory days of wacky corporate antics and regaling the children with tales of drug abuse. Gone are the celebrity restraining orders and the grand idea that I could kill anyone that I didn't agree with. They say that it takes a strong man to admit when he's finished but I'm no strong man. However, the man standing next to me with a gun to my head is extremely strong and I'm inclined to believe whatever he's telling me. If the Islamic jihadists have taught me anything, it is that it's better to let your career go out with a bang than to limp along like a marathon runner with two rubber legs. If you know when to call it quits, you can leave the business gracefully, with dignity and whatever amount of self-respect years of taking depressants hasn't already stripped away from you.
Just as this thought began doing laps around the track in my head, another started to take shape. Sure, if I kept treading water in the kiddie pool of vomit that I call my talent, I might be able to eke out a few more decent updates but really only postponing the inevitable; further disappointing myself and whatever remains of my fan base. And then it hit me: I've been disappointing my fans for years! In fact, they've probably almost come to expect it by now. Why, I'm akin to a comic book hero whose superpower is the power to disappoint. Without someone like me in the world to stink up the entertainment playing field, people like Carlos Mencia wouldn't be nearly as funny. Hell, I'm actually providing a public service for people almost as unfunny as me and to think that I was about to throw it all away because my sanity and better judgement commanded it so. How selfish of me. If sleeping with women has taught me anything, it's that I'm good at providing disappointment and frankly, when you have that kind of talent, it's pretty silly to ignore it. Embrace it and empower yourself. Negatively.
Unless you're still living in the year 2005 and maybe also happen to be blind, you might have noticed that this site isn't quite what it used to be. On the off chance that you are some kind of sightless time traveller, I've pretty much just summed the whole situation for you so you should now be as up to speed as the rest of us. Anyway, before I go any further, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize, not because I really give a damn about you as a person but because I figure that if I start apologizing to everyone now, there is still a small chance that I can get into heaven and give Jesus that high five that I have always dreamed about. Now, if you've long been an avid reader, which is to say that you're one of the three Vietnam vets that I pay to keep my visitor count up, you've also probably noticed that I have been apologizing a lot lately. There is a good reason for this: it's pretty much the only thing that I do well anymore.
You see, I realize that the quality of the site is down the tubes and that the updates come about as frequently as a eunuch who's attempting sex, but I also realize that there isn't a whole lot that I can do about it. This is largely due to the fact that I have no idea where everything went wrong. It's like when you used to read those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books as a kid. Sure, taking the path to the cave sounds like a great idea because you really like caves so you turn to page 73. The next thing you know, you die in some horrible rated PG death which leaves your poor child brain scarred for life as you wonder how books could be so cruel. Having what little literary talent you possess brutally sodomized by an unknown force is a lot like dying in that fictional cave, especially if that death involved some sort of sodomy act. But look at me prattle on. I feel like your homeless alcoholic uncle that has become a permanent fixture on your couch who constantly talks about nothing but the "good old days" before he was convicted of his second strike and bathes himself in a mixture of self-loathing and cheap, store brand vodka. I really didn't write this so that I could bitch and moan about my plight.
Between my extended bouts of relieving my body of anything containing nurtritional value, I actually gave serious consideration to the idea of closing up shop and shutting down the PNC Campus for good. I just don't have what it takes to run the place anymore. Gone are the glory days of wacky corporate antics and regaling the children with tales of drug abuse. Gone are the celebrity restraining orders and the grand idea that I could kill anyone that I didn't agree with. They say that it takes a strong man to admit when he's finished but I'm no strong man. However, the man standing next to me with a gun to my head is extremely strong and I'm inclined to believe whatever he's telling me. If the Islamic jihadists have taught me anything, it is that it's better to let your career go out with a bang than to limp along like a marathon runner with two rubber legs. If you know when to call it quits, you can leave the business gracefully, with dignity and whatever amount of self-respect years of taking depressants hasn't already stripped away from you.
Just as this thought began doing laps around the track in my head, another started to take shape. Sure, if I kept treading water in the kiddie pool of vomit that I call my talent, I might be able to eke out a few more decent updates but really only postponing the inevitable; further disappointing myself and whatever remains of my fan base. And then it hit me: I've been disappointing my fans for years! In fact, they've probably almost come to expect it by now. Why, I'm akin to a comic book hero whose superpower is the power to disappoint. Without someone like me in the world to stink up the entertainment playing field, people like Carlos Mencia wouldn't be nearly as funny. Hell, I'm actually providing a public service for people almost as unfunny as me and to think that I was about to throw it all away because my sanity and better judgement commanded it so. How selfish of me. If sleeping with women has taught me anything, it's that I'm good at providing disappointment and frankly, when you have that kind of talent, it's pretty silly to ignore it. Embrace it and empower yourself. Negatively.