Once My Looks Go, I've Got Nothing

You may have noticed that there was no intro/outro as usual for my last installment. Or maybe not. Either way, there's no grand reason for it; I simply forgot. Anyway, thanks for sticking around, and here's part 8: Vengeance consumed my mind as I drove the old van back home. I was wearing a slightly too large white shirt with a picture of the Golden Gate bridge on it, and a pair of blue shorts that said “Yay Area” across the ass. I was fairly certain they were girl’s shorts, but they were the best option I had at the time save my soggy pajama bottoms, and there was no way I was climbing back into those things. Despite my new clothes, I was still cold and wet, and I shivered as I cranked up the heat. I dropped off the van at Prosciuttscio’s newsstand, and at my request he gave me some old magazines he was going to toss anyway. I walked over to an alleyway a few blocks away and tossed my soggy pajamas into a banged-up steel garbage can. I then tossed in the old magazines on

Welcome back. We're up to part 6 and things are really heating up! What awaits me in this next chapter? Well, come on, you're going to have to read it if you want to know. I'm not going to summarize it for you, for Pete's sake. If someone would have told me before I walked into that hotel room that my evening would be even worse than my morning, I would have scoffed at them and perhaps insultingly tossed some old grains of rice at them. The idea was too far-fetched, my misery too complete, for anything of the sort to be possible. Yet they would have been right, and shown the foresight of George Orwell, as my evening became a smoking ruin the instant I laid eyes upon the three corpses lying within a hotel room that was reserved under my name. Well, lying may not be the proper word here. They were in fact sitting, the three of them posed in a macabre diorama that indicated a sort of undead love triangle. A gypsy woman, who resembled a more ethnic Bret Butler, s

Annnnnd welcome back, for the fourth installment of "The Return of Friendly Tony." Hopefully you've been following thus far, as I've been bouncing back and forth with myspace.com/joeymarsilio in order to bring you this heart-wrenching tale. Anyway, without further ado, we continue: I returned to my former home to find the door locked. Repeated pounding on the door went unanswered, and I knew that attempting to ring the doorbell was fruitless. Ever since the time I tried to rig it to play a simplified version of “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit every time someone pressed the button, the doorbell has been silent. Some say it died to preserve what little dignity it had left, but this of course is hogwash. It had been a horrid day so far. After my trip to Jack in the Box, I had ventured to a local tavern in the hopes that a drink might raise my spirits and calm my stomach. An elderly woman approached me, and asked whether Friendly Tony was my given name, or a nickname. I

Hi There! This is the second chapter to my world-shattering blog crossover, "The Return of Friendly Tony." The first chapter is on my Myspace blog (myspace.com/joeymarsilio). Go ahead and check it out to catch up...and if you're not my friend on Myspace, feel free to add me. This is a good opportunity for me to explain how this is going to work...the blogs are going to alternate chapters. So chapter 1 was on Myspace, chapter 2 is on Blogspot, Chapter 3 is on Myspace, etc. Anyway, enough chit-chat. Here's chapter 2. “What are you talking about?” I hissed. I stifled a dry heave, then continued, “Have you lost your mind?” “No,” said Friendly Tony, gesturing at my vomitous sheets, “but it appears you have lost your lunch.” He chuckled, a tittering laugh like raindrops bouncing off a sparrow’s head. “God, that was so lame,” I said. “I think I might barf again just because of that joke.” “Barf away,” said Friendly Tony. “Do whatever you like. As I said, th

It is a ritual that is repeated like clockwork, once a year or so. Despite its fruitlessness and utter futility, I have been involved in it many a time, and know I shall see it again. The ritual that I speak of is...well, I suppose this will require some explanation. My father is possessed of the inexplicable idea that he and I listen to the same music. In fact, he has said as much on several occasions. "See, Joe," he slurs, "it's great that we listen to the same music. It's not like I'm some old guy or something; I can listen to your generation's music." Now, anyone that knows me reasonably well knows that, despite my diverse musical tastes, on average I would say I listen to hip-hop probably 80% of the time, minimum. My father doesn't listen to hip-hop, period. I know this isn't going to change and, to be honest, I don't want it to. But in and of itself, it sort of conflicts with what he claims. Of the other 20%, I usually listen to

"A Democratic victory would not change the world, but it would at least slow the berserk white-trash momentum of the bombs-and-Jesus crowd. Those people have had their way long enough. Not even the Book of Revelation threatens a plague of vengeful yahoos." -Dr. Hunter S. Thompson The above passage is a prime example of just why I miss Hunter S. Thompson...it was written in reference to the Senate elections in 1986, and yet is every bit as relevant today, and is exactly the sort of sentiment on the minds of millions of us across the country right up to the moment one Barack Obama was elected to serve the United States as its Commander in Chief. And frankly, I wish he were alive to see it today. As a staunch Democrat and vehement opponent of George W. Bush, Thompson was a vocal supporter of John Kerry's efforts to win the presidency in 2004, and the continued reign of the GOP clearly caused him some discontent (I learned all of this from reading the archives of his

The more astute among you may know that I hold a Bachelor's Degree in English Language Literature from the prestigious UC Santa Cruz, where, Wikipedia tells me, Ego Trip's The White Rapper Show runner-up John Brown attended. The numerous minutes of work that led to my acquisition of said degree has instilled in me a furious passion for the English language, which will likely eventually become a mild fondness for the English language, and will no doubt end up a grudging, resentful acceptance of the English language. Amidst this passion has grown a resentment for renowned poet E.E. Cummings. Some amongst you may believe that said resentment comes from the fact that my porn moniker, P.P. Cummings, was met with universal ridicule, but this is an erroneous belief. The fact is, Cummings and his avant-garde poetry make a mockery of the syntax, punctuation, and proper capitalization I hold so dear, and I simply cannot sit idly by while his bizarrely-phrased musings metaphorically te