You can almost hear the crickets

I wonder how long it will be before one of you idiots responds to this.

The Names and Descriptions of My Various Punches

The Bag of Water - This is a viscious little punch that can pull you out of the fire at any time. Thrown from the hip, a tight left hook buried in your opponent's right side between the last rib and the hip bone will jar the flange of the liver that wraps around from the back right there. Your opponent will go down like a "bag of water". Not only is it "game over", he is going to be peeing chunky for days and if you don't fall asleep with a smile over that, you were probably kissed by your uncle and liked it.

The Hammer Fist - Pretty simple, wrap your fist around a hammer and whack your opponent on any exposed surface. Guys don't get up after that, don't care where you hit them. I once saw a guy throw in the towel after being hit in the pinkie toe with a hammer. My take away? Don't wear flip flops to a hammer fight!

Punch- Describes any garden variety punch, right lead, straight lefts and rights, most upper cuts, jabs, etc. I use them when I am not feeling "fancy".

Rabbit Punch - The most self evident of my punch names. I named it after a very similar punch thrown by a pet rabbit I had. You just graze your opponent's ears with a double punch, doing no damage at all. Outside of "Death" it is my worst punch. Everyone knows rabbits can't fight for shit. Faggots.

Death - My worst punch, hands down. A truly terrible punch. Not even worth going into details. I gave it the name in hopes that the guy I am fighting is going shit cold coffee and head for the hills when he hears it. Marketing is mythology, people.

Dim Mak or "Death Touch" - Powerful but ineffective punch. Using one's Chi, the natural flow of personal energy, and a deft touch, a master like myself can cause a man to die 3 days after receiving the blow. The problem is that a man who is going to die in 3 days can kick your fucking ass right now. Trust me on this one.

Yeah, You Just Shit Your Own Spleen - The most misunderstood punch of all. Most people think that I punch the spleen right out of the guy. Not so. This brilliant punch simply knocks the fellow's spleen loose. He then shits it right out. A fundamental law of physiology: the human body will immediately, violently and anally reject any free floating spleen.

Superman Punch - This is the one where I knock a bum out and then go home and fuck Lois Lane.

Cloudy with a Chance of Pain

I've been told a storm front is on the horizon.  The weatherman says Hurricane Michael's Mom is supposed to blow in tonight and wreak all sorts of havok.  Well the weatherman don't know shit. 

But Wait, There's More.

A very good description Omphuss.  I agree whole heartedly, but I'll take it a step further (quick aside:  I actually learned just this weekend the difference between further and farther and am pleased to use the proper word in this post).  Our dear friend MM is the real life version of what would happen if Ruprick the Monkey Boy and Mrs. Lift were to ever mate and have offspring (quick aside #2:  I use the term offspring for to call him a child or boy asserts he is more of a human than reality will allow him to prove).  MM could be described as a failed attempt at alliteration where the word is routinely repeated, instead of the consonant, until finally the writer says "Fuck It", reaches for his stack of low grade porn, and ultimately ends up masturbating to his favorite Mii playing tennis (quick aside #3:  The Mii is an androgynous character named Alex who serves MM's male and female sexual fantasies).  MM is the popcorn that does not pop and nearly breaks your teeth as you stumble upon it in the handful of kernals that did reach their potential.  He is the pulp in what otherwise would be fantastic orange juice. MM is the tannin in wine that leaves you with a massive headache after what you originally thought had been an enjoyable time.  He is the missing sock, the broken shoelace, the AT&T cell phone coverage, the hair in  your soup, the pebble in your shoe, the virus on your computer, and the facial hair that your razor routinely avoids every morning (quick aside #4:  I have such a spot of hair and it pisses me off to no end when I look in the mirror at work and realize I've missed that spot yet again).  We all have a cross to bear and ours is named Michael's Mom.

Fire!

Oh, brings it Woodpecker!

The fucker of whom you write is a soft boy, a lily liver, a little man stuffed inside a big man who doesn't get along with grown ups. He is an urchin eater, and I don't mean the invertebrate. No sir, he hankers some funky, coal-sniffing, YOUNG, English hobos.

The fact is that putty nuts doesn't want to write, won't write, can't write. He gets off badgering folk into doing things, just things he thinks up, things like shaving their legs saying it will make them "look" more "streamline" or tweezing their brows suggesting that they have a distinctly Albanian mein. Do you know how many opportunities I have sent by the board on account of the fact that most women unspokenly desire wind-resistent Albanians? He ties it up in a neat nut cup as genuine concerns for his "friends". The inhuman don't have friends.

If Enar knew Michael's Mom, Enar would spend months just punching him in the nuts. Punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch, punch.

All those were shots to the Michael's Mom's boy purse. Imagine it! Sickening, yes? The fact is he would like it. He punches his own nuts. He does, Enar, he does. He puts 'em on a board and goes after them like Bernard Hopkins in light gloves. All of the things Woodpecker suggested are reasons he quotes but that ain't the real truth. He can't write on account of his bruised fruit basket. Who could? I can't, try as I might. It is worth noting that Walt Whitman wrote Leaves of Grass, all 5 editions, with his "Yawpping Balls" dangling in a sling and never said a word.

Michael's Mom is odd, Enar, and I suggest, nay, demand you boycott his work from this point forward. Woodpecker and I don't like him, never did. No one feels bad when he cries.

He cries...a lot...for no reason at all.

That was a water buffalo you idiot!!

I can commend the efforts.  It really doesn't matter if it works or not.  What matters is that you tried.  Bullshit.  It does matter.  Does anyone remember Billy Coconut from the 1400's whose failed attempt at prose resulted in Humlet?  Does anyone care that Johnny Wisass penned Moby Dike, the story of a fisherman trying to overcome a large dam, long before Herman Melville was even alive.  I will not reward mediocrity.  I will not justify the bailout.  Write or be damned.  Enar would expect no less.  And the poor sap who initiated this mostly failed attempt?  The guy who called at midnight drunk off wine coolers and Boone's Farm who caught inspiration reading Mad Magazine in the john in between bouts of diarrhea and coarse vomit?  He's nowhere to be found.  (Said in the whining 6 year old voice of a girl who wants candy and won't get it)....He's got reviews to write and evaluations to do.  His sprinkler is broken and toilet is clogged.  His IBS has returned and his tonsils need to be removed.  His eyes are too green, his skin is too light, his tatoo's are fading, his hair needs cutting, his toe nails need clipping, his eyebrows need combing, his pubic hair needs to be waxed, his genitals need a good cleansing, and he could use an overall bleeding.  His house is too cold, his underwear too warm, his sperm count is low, he's losing his eyelashes, and he has an unnatural desire to own 12 cardigan sweaters.  His skin is dry, his clothes have static cling, and his Hannah Montana video is lost.  Oh yeah and Neytiri is pretty hot.

I Shot A Fucking Bison - Entry #1

I am going off the reservation, fuckers. I just can't wrap my head around the idea of thinking a whole assignment through. We have argued back and forth on how to get this thing going and nothing has come to pass. I am going to write when I want to write and about what I want to write about.

Right now I don't want to write. I did but now I don't mostly because The Watchmen just came on and I wanted to see it but my girl doesn't go for that shit. She doesn't like super people as a rule. They make her uncomfortable the way some people are put off by mimes or clowns. There is no explaining the unfortunate childhood. People react to the deep seated stuff and cry for no reason. Anyway, I think the supes are cool. Always have.