Ahh, shit. Yeah. Hi.

Oh ... um, hey. Yeah, it's good to see--no, no, go ahead. Interruptions are sort of ... your thing. No, I'm not being a dick. Listen, there's no fucking reason for us to fight right now, seriously.

Thanks. You look good, too. Really good, actually. How long has it been? Mmhmm, that seems about right. Has been a while. How's the boyfriend? That's cool. Yeah, that's cool of him to say. I ran into him at Wal-Ma--yeah, I'm sure he did tell you. Anyway, what else is new?

Wow. Wow, just ... really? No, that's great. Married, huh? Seems like you might have let me know ... face-to-face. Well this doesn't really--how does this count? I mean, I fucking prompted you! You would have never told me on your own. No, you wouldn't have.

No, I don't fucking care, it just seems like, if we are friends--and you said that we'd still be friends--that it might be something worth mentioning.

Listen, get fucking snotty. It's what you do. What else would--no, argue as much as you like, it's what you do. I'm not going to argue with you. I'm gonna be the bigger man. The BIGGER man, and you can tell that to your little boyfriend.

No, look, I'm sorry. I am. I don't mean to be a dick. Don't apologi--don't fucking INTERRUPT! Listen, don't apologize. Look, why don't we get out of here. Go pay for your toilet paper, and I'll wait here for you. Turn around, lemme see that ass. Mmm. Been too long, girl.

Hell hath no fury like an obsessive fanboy (or girl) scorned. However, this stunning reenactment (using only words!!!) of this one time that I ran into this chick who had a TOTAL Melvin for a boyfriend (well, husband at that point) when she was at the gas station (and I was at the same gas station, if you can believe that luck!) and I waited for her to buy ass paper, and then we went and got a bite at Denny's, and we way came close to making out (and also, I could see some of her boobs 'cause of the shirt she was wearing) demonstrates the central component to a healthy BlogGodSexMaster/tremblingsubservientbarelyliteratepeon relationship: forgiveness!

Indeed, my ire towards you, the smellypoopypoopystupidbuttweineredsmellyrumpeating reader, is well deserved. Luckily for you, it is also well intentioned.

I don't mean to be manipulative. Plato once said (well, I mean, the cover of the book says that he said it, but then inside the book, it says that Socrates said it, so I don't even know what that means or what to believe, but whateva, I suppose?!?), "You are a beautiful boy, and I want to taste your face." As you might have guessed from the way I wrote it, Socrates or Plato or whatever gyro-eatin' yahoo it was that really said this shit wasn't just talking to himself: he managed to get someone to listen to it! Can you even believe that bullshit? That's worse than that interrupting bitch that I ran into at the--SIT THE FUCK BACK DOWN! Seriously!

Man, everyone these days is so distracted with their fucking IpLayers, and facespace, Dave'sItinerary, and all those weird porno site things where the girls pretend not to be upset while the dudes do things that I've only performed, but never dreamt of ... mmm ... have left you all unable to ... pay attention for more than three ... seconds ... mmm ... BRB, got something to do (By the way, BRB is an "acronym"--which means letters that stand for word-thingys--that stands for "Business Regarding BabymakingsoI'llreturnshortly." Seems to me that they combined a bunch of words to cheat their way into an acronym that, at best, doesn't really work, and, at worst, is a cheap attempt at a joke that only a Deceivingly Intelligent Conniving Klansman could laugh at [which, on the Internet, is acronymized as DICK--or, more commonly, simply "dick." So, all those times you thought someone had called you a dick on the Internet, it turned out that it was a pretty layered rip-job on you, and you should feel even worse than you did before. You just got netBlasted. Also, I just made up the term "netBlasted." Take that shit to the streets! Not the real streets, though. You'd way get shot. The digital streets, though? Take it there!!!!]) ... aaaaand I'm back! Whew. Way hot shit disgusting stuff. Research, however, is the key to responsible blogging, and I'll be goddamned if I won't do my part!

As I was saying (or, more accurately, trying to say before SOMEONE was so uncouth as to interrupt me ... !!), Internet distractions are at an all time high. Even now, the mentally-weak amongst you (read: all of you) are probably multi-tasking to the point of distraction, never fully engaging with ... the world around ... you ... long enough to ... eh, fuck it, where the hell was I going with this? Let's check back in with Placrates!

Socrates: When human sees a god, he appears to him as a glistening, virile, taut, wet, sloppy, stubble-bearded boy. For it is in this sight, that man truly knows the essence of--

Phaedrus: Actually, I'm late for an appointment with--

Socrates: Sit down, boy! Loosen your robe as you ever-so-gently lay back against the Tree of Discourse! The day grows long, as do I, but alas, yet has my story to grow in kind, dear boy!

Phaedrus: What?

Socrates: I've warned you before about the interruptions, Phaedrus. Is it not true that, shall a man receive an adolescent boy in all of his natural beauty and splendor, that the boy should sit with his mouth closed--well, periodically open, but you get the drift...should not this boy act at the behest of his elder, stopping not to rudely interrupt his chain of thought?

Phaedrus: It's just that I'm running la--

Socrates: And, should not a young boy realize that, should he wish to continue to study under the Lord of Discourse, he should act at the behest of his elder, denying neither advances most physical nor anecdotes most homoerotic? AND, should NOT a young boy realize that, with ONE trip to see a certain young wanna-be philosopher's father, he could once again be subject to the unyielding hand of the WhipLord down in the salt-n-pepper mines? And, should not a boy remember that 'tis a most beneficial set of circumstances that his father was able to ... mm, "pay" the Lord of Discourse for his service? mmm.

Phaedrus: Yes, I suppose he should.

Socrates: There's a good boy. Now, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

Phaedrus: Well, all right, I suppose. Aaahhhh--hey ... wait a tick! Is this--is this play that you're engaging me in?

Socrates: Soon, my boy, soon. You're on the right track ...

Phaedrus: I've got it!! It's false play, isn't it?

Socrates: Getting closer ... lean back ...

Phaedrus: I--I don't know.

Socrates: It's false false play, idiot--and that's a real thing! Now suck on that!!!

SCENE


So, where was I going with this? Sorry, let me finish this article I'm reading on cnn.com ... something about manipulation. My manipulation, I believe ... got it!

The above passage from the Phaedrus is generally cited to demonstrate the danger in manipulating (see, there's that word again, I'm back on track!) power structures for one's own hot, sweaty sexual benefits.

Here's the skinny: You're under my stubby, chocolate/oil/grease/hot dog runoff/malt liquor-covered thumb. I know it; hell, even you know it.

Still, this isn't right. I know you have feelings for me, and, well, I have 'em too. But the fact is, you're better than this. All that waiting around for me, checking this blog every day, refreshing the page every 3-5 seconds just to be sure that I haven't updated--hell, think of how many F5 keys you've worn out on my site alone!

I'm flattered that you care, and I love it when we're together. The feeling that comes over me when I see you submit to my every earthly, kinky desire: well, it simply can't be put into words (and I graduated sigma cum verbose from Davey Writtenfield's School of Highfalutin, Incredibly Pretentious Diction!)

But, just as Socrates should NOT have--in a move he'd famously term "dick-course"--forced himself upon and into young Phaedrus (no matter how willing the supple lad may have been--and believe me, he was willin' and ready! ;-) ), it is time for me to set you free. I'll give you a moment to collect yourself, dry your tears, and--SERIOUSLY, FUCKING HANG ON FOR ONE LAST SECOND AND LET ME FINISH MY THOUGHTS! What the FUCK with the interruptions?!

All right, get dressed though, for real. It's not happening, and it's pathetic. Hot? Sure. Morally okay? Unfortunately, no.

You don't love me, you love the idea of your idea of what I could ideally--in an ideal world, of course--be, should I be idealized.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need to stop using you. My power over you necessitates that you submit--and you get off on it. It's not okay, and I need to stop. But, I'm not going to.

So, get ready to hear from me quite a bit more often, from here on out! I promise.
You and me, we gonna be the real thing.

Just don't call me. Also, never stop into my work. Check in with me here at the blog, or not at all. You should also probably know that, should my friends ask about you, I'm telling 'em that you're a trampy whore who I haven't seen since the last time you slutted out at that party.

Should you decide to disregard this mandate and go ahead and call, it will no doubt go just like this:



Whew, that was a familiar routine for you, eh? And yet, it never seems any less devastating. You don't want to go through this (again!!), and while I'd love to put you through it, I'm turning over a new leaf. I can use you, but not be a dick to you.

For, should not a demagogue ensure the well being of his horrifically simplistic followers? Of course he should, no?

Ohhh, shit!! False FALSE play, bitches! Just like your other hookups, I'll be back just as soon as I'm wasted and your self-esteem is at its lowest!

Suck on that!!!

You're welcome.

Here, Have a Blog Entry

Of the many ways in which this humble blog has revolutionized the Internet, I am most proud of the harmony in which various forms of media live together. As these once-strange bedfellows work in concert here at Incredibly Loud Writing, so must your senses--auditory and visual--work together as you browse this site.

"It's kinda like listening to the radio AND reading words," said some guy at a party I was at, and I was pretty sure he was talking about this blog! He was mackin' on a chick pretty hard though, so I didn't interrupt to press him for details; rest assured that THIS blogmaster has NEVER blocked a cock in his life, unless it was to strategically deter the initial cock in question in order to (possibly/hopefully) insert his own blog-mastering cock at a later (bar close) time.

So, we've established two things: This blog is revolutionary, and people are starting to talk. Well, three things: I don't block cock. But the first two of these three established things are the reason that you're here today.
In the words of the illustrious Beatles: "There's gonna be a revolution, yeah, you know; we all want to read your blog."

The bulk of this entry will be in audio form, so put on your listenin' shoes now. Then, walk them shoes back to the store. There's no such thing as "listenin'" shoes--you've been had. Demand a refund, impart a great sense of indignation, and tell 'em that Chenowith's onto their li'l scheme.

Now that you've returned--$75 richer, if out a pair of relatively nice shoes (which, if you were really frugal, you'd have hung onto anyway; so the listening enhancement was bogus, but the shoes themselves were pretty nice looking...probably worth the $75...bad call, dude), we can get onto today's big announcement.

Imagine an Internet where videos could be viewed by you, the terrifically uncreative, easily amused, hygenically-unsound reader. Friends, the technology exists. I'll give you a moment to soak it all in. The world is changing fast, Gramps; better look around to catch your breath while you still can. Climb the mountain while you're young, without looking a gift horse in the mouth, for a hen in the bush is worth a penny saved in the barrel. The world spins faster with each passing rotation of the sun.

So NOW, assuming that you didn't waste all of your imagination on "an Internet where videos could be viewed by you, the ... reader," imagine that these videos were created by A.M. Chenowith.

"By Joe, it's like watching a television, listening to the radio, and reading words!" These will be the words that echo through each and every house party...if you make it so! That's right; the tables have turned.

If I'm gonna be slaving over a hot camera day and night to produce hilarious video content to go with the already-brilliant audio and prose, it is your collective job to bring people to this blog. Send e-mails, use FaceSpace, give away free laptops for anyone who gives this site a hit...it is incumbent upon you all to pull out all the stops to increase web traffic at this site. Always remember: You owe it to me.

I had considered preparing a speech to motivate you like the coach/father/mother figure that I am to each and every one of you. However, as you are no doubt aware, I've written and performed some of the greatest speeches in history. "Why not," thought I, "Why not recapitulate some of my finer oratorial glory in an audio piece that all could enjoy? Plus, that way, I wouldn't have to write another fucking speech. I fucking hate speeches!"

So, here it is.

You're welcome.

A look back at some of A.M. Chenowith's memorable moments in history, meant to motivate you all into helping advertise this site. Remember, Tucker Max got a movie deal AND won the 95th Annual Biggest Cocksucking, Entitled, Wealthy Frat Boy, Duke Blue Devil of the Year Award, presented by Entourage on HBO, and his bullshit writing started online too!

Duncan the Dullard OR: What have YOU accomplished over the last four months?

On the shores of Ithaca, Telemachus cast another stone into the Ionian Sea. Watching it skim, almost daintily, across the top of the rippling waves of foam, the young man sighed aloud.

"It was here," thought he, "where Father first showed me how to skip rocks." Young Telemachus dipped his fingers into the sand, pulling from it a flat, smooth stone most suitable for skipping. "Here it was that we built sand castles. Here I murdered my first fish, tore through it's innards, than learned how to prepare a fire-based fish meal. " A tear formed quickly, then began its descent down the young man's perfect cheekbones, coming to rest near his cut, rugged jaw.

At twenty years old, Telemachus was a sight to behold. Walking towards the sea, the West Wind gently ran his fingers through the young boy's hair. It wasn't a creepy sort of head-rubbing; really just a tussling sort of thing that was playful and completely, totally innocuous. Seriously, Telemachus should have thanked the kind old wind; he knew not just how hot he looked as the uncreepy, gentle old wind blew his sweet, moist breath through Telemachus' sunflower-blonde hair.

Telemachus scanned the horizon, searching desperately for signs of his father's ship. It was a futile routine, but one that he had practiced daily for nearly twenty years. The wind had gotten harder and harder; it seemed to blow Telemachus with all its glorious might. The fibers of young Telemachus's loin cloth fought back, stretching against the ample constraints of the sweet boy's--what ho? It couldn't be. Telemachus ran into the waves, desperate to get a look at the ship on the horizon. Finally, it became clear: Odysseus was home.

Together, Odysseus and Telemachus walked the long dirt trail from the sea to their mighty home. Telemachus had walked the trail alone, many times; often he would stop and stare directly towards the sun, praying for his father's return. When his eyes began to burn, he knew his prayer had been accepted. Now, with his prayer finally answered, he turned to the sun, and gave it a pretty cute wink. "Thanks, Helios," said he.

Finally, Telemachus turned to Odysseus, and prepared to speak. He had been waiting for this moment for nearly twenty years. "Dad, Dad, you'll never believe what's happened since you've been gone! I played t-ball, and I learned to draw, and there's a bunch of suitors at the house that we need to kill, and plus I got all As in high school, and I learned about wine, and what foods each wine are supposed to go wi--"
"Jesus Christ," bellowed Odysseus. "I've been home for like six fucking minutes! Give me a goddamned break, and you can bother me later!" The boy smiled. His father was home.

Later, Odysseus and his wife Penelope were alone at last. After a tearful reunion, and several glasses of scotch, Odysseus now laid his wife onto the bed, his hand slowly wandering up Penelope's soft, vanilla thighs. He had imagined this moment for nigh twenty years, had ached for her with every ounce of his being (well, except for that whole thing with Circe, but c'mon; that was just a year of gettin' bombed, and gettin' ass...plus, being in different zip codes, it really wasn't cheating). At long last, he was home.

As his fingers crept into her warmth, a clammy, cold hand slapped upon his wrist.
"We need to talk," screeched Penelope. "There are like thirty suitors here. They're partying every night, drinking all of my fucking wine, and eating all of your meat. It can't be a good influence on Telemachus. For the love of the gods, how is he even supposed to sleep? And you don't even wanna know some of the things they've said to me! You've been home for like a half-hour, and you still haven't even--"
"ENOUGH!" cried Odysseus, slamming a mighty fist upon the table. Even as he did this, his protector, goddess Athena, took action. Disguised now as a small girl, she thrust open the mighty bedroom doors, strode across the room, and slapped Penelope across the face. Then, with a wink at Odysseus, she morphed into the majestic sparrow, and flew out of the room.

Penelope stared at Odysseus, aghast.
"Remember, wife," said he, "if anyone asks, you fell." And with that, Odysseus stormed out of the room, went downstairs, and got hammered with the suitors.




This beautiful, oft-cited excerpt from Homer's Odyssey is generally interpreted, in the world of post-modern, deconstructionist criticism, as a passage espousing the necessity--and indeed, hilarity--of domestic violence.

However, for YOU, this passage has only one interpretation: Don't ever ask a man about his business.

Yeah, so I've been gone for like four months. Back out! What have you done in that time period that's so fucking great? Stop right there. If you're so fucking spec--don't interrupt me. Don't you EVER interrupt me! I am the leader of this cult blog, and you will do what I say, when I tell you to do it.

I ask the questions around here. Never forget it, lest you suffer the same fate as poor Penelope.




Now that you're firmly re-subjugated, we can get back to business. Today I'd like to introduce a new feature I'll be running from time-to-time: Questions from the Reader!

You haven't noticed, but the comment boxes have been getting pretty full. However, each and every one of you used the space to express your undying adulation towards me, your humble blog author and King. There's nothing wrong with this, per se. I just assumed that some of you would prefer that your hero worship and/or graphic sexual fantasy descriptions were read by me privately, and would greatly embarrass you once you sobered up and realized what you had written. Thus, I did all of you the favor of removing your comments.

In the future, these sweet-nothings can be whispered to incrediblyloudwriting@gmail.com.
Please continue to fill up the "Comment" sections under each blog entry, but be forewarned: I shall henceforth allow any and all "Comment" correspondence--no matter how blubbering--to be displayed on the mighty Internet!

There was one comment that I allowed to remain, and it serves as the impetus for "QFromtheR." This question (though the box is clearly marked comments) comes from your fellow peasant, Duncan.

A.M.--I have enjoyed reading,seeing, and hearing your blog entries to this point. Is there a way I can also smell these amazing bits of entertainment?

Incredibly yours,
Duncan.

I'll give you all a moment to stop laughing.

Alright, that good? Seriously, stop, we've got things to do. Yeah, yeah, ha ha, what an assbag, I know. Really, let's all calm it down and get back to--is that gum? Are you chewi--give me the gum. Give me the gum, now. If we can't all be responsible, we won't have treats next week. Alright, back to work.

Duncan, I'd like to begin by thanking you for your thoughtful question. I appreciate your patronage here at Incredibly Loud Writing, and as I used your question in the blog, you'll be receiving a FREE "Incredibly Loud Writing" baby-tee, as well as a cassette tape single of the Darrel and The Groundhogs smash hit, "Three Groundhog Cocks." You pay only $7.95--American currency ONLY--in shipping and handling. Now Duncan, I'd like you to go ahead and skip forward five lines. With your hard work, you've earned it! Go on, skip ahead! We'll catch up there. Start now.

What a fucking idiotic question for real, huh? Alright, let's laugh a little more. There you go. That's good. Wow.

Welcome back, Duncan! I hope you enjoyed the vacation. Make sure to note it on your timesheet. Now, to speak directly to your insightful query: Of course Interactive Internet Smelling Devices--or I.I.S.D--exist! As a licensed blog owner, I was required to pass a six-month course on general Internet knowledge (one I recommend to you), as well as pay the hefty Internet Portioning fees.

Here's the skinny: The International Council of the Internet, who administers these devices of control, has the technology. It is being fine-tuned, and when ready, will be shipped directly to Bill Gates, who has the daunting task of inserting it into Windows (a construction process that generally takes up to a year, requiring several man hours, and impacting urban traffic negatively). Once this process is complete, the new version of Windows will be loaded into a flat-bed truck, and shipped across the country. At this point, you'll be able to smell more Incredibly Loud Writing than you ever thought you'd hear or taste.

So thanks for your question Duncan. I'm sure at this point that you've got another one (Duncan, go to the next sentence), because you're PRETTY FUCKING SLOW! Hi again, Duncan. You're wondering where the I.C. of the I. gets all their money for smellology. A simple question, from a simple mind. The answer is right in front of you, and indeed ubiquitous in the land of the Internet: Copyright Fees!

While the dues from new Internet owners keep the 'net spinning, advances in tech would not be possible were it not for the heavily regulation of Internet content. The Council receives a cut of all copyright fees paid for reproducing copyrighted materials on the Internet. As such, the Council dutifully monitors ALL Internet content, ensuring that copyright laws are never broken!

Beyond the monetary benefits, this process serves as a method of control. Imagine an Internet where anyone could have a website! That's not an Internet I'd want to visit. Additionally, things like movies and music could be shared using user-to-user technology, with no money changing hands!

Needless to say, the Council performs a truly heroic deed in protecting us all from the horrors of an unregulated 'net. However, this does make it a bitch to access copyrighted work for this blog! It took me the last four months to collect the $25 fee for the rights to rebroadcast--well now, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Thanks for the questions, Duncan!
--AM Chenowith




Together, we join arms and celebrate: We've come to the end of all this reading! Well, almost to the end. Hang in there.

In 2006, I was working as an intern at Independent Radio Iowa. My first assignment was to chronicle local musician Thad Taylor, who was making a splash in the burgeoning music scene in Solon, Iowa. IRI's top reporter, Brock Rosaleb, conducted several interviews with Taylor, which I recorded, then pieced together, as I discovered an affinity for digital editing.

But I paid the aforementioned $25 to reproduce this copyrighted (damn you, Independent Radio Iowa) material not to display the genesis of my audiogenius--no, this is to introduce you to a kindred spirit.

Thad Taylor personifies the ethos that typifies the mantra that represents my art. He'll teach you more in these ten minutes than I have during the three hours it took you to read this post. I'll step aside now, and let this brilliant man speak for himself.

Check back soon for more Incredibly Loud Writing.

You're welcome.

From Independent Radio Iowa, circa 2006: A young audio editor named AM Chenowith successfully documents a moment in time with musical legend Thad Taylor. Take 10 minutes now to listen to it, or recover from all of that reading by taking a nap, getting high, going to the bathroom, or watching football, or something like that. But then, come back and take 10 minutes and listen to the god damn piece.

I Cut You Open, and You Keep, Keep Bleeding Luck

The title of this post is not just a clever play on the chorus of a popular song. No, this post represents a brief moment of serendipity in your otherwise hopeless lives; if only for today, Sweet Lady Fortune smiles upon you.

Like all (worthy) kings, I keep one ear open for the unwashed masses. Of late, the same question has been upon your collective filthy lips: "Who is the real A.M. Chenowith? Where does he come from? Which path did he walk to glory?" Here's where the aforementioned spot o' luck comes into play.

INCREDIBLY LOUD WRITING PRESENTS:
"A.M. CHENOWITH: THE UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY"

A retrospective audio piece documenting the life and times of author, entrepreneur, and respected Internet figure A.M. Chenowith, from the good folks at Incredibly Loud Writing. Press play, and listen to it with your speakers fucking dimed.




By now--assuming that you clicked the "play" button above and listened to the audio project I worked so fucking hard on just for you--the secret to my success has become clear to you. I recognize it was a bit of a whirlwind tour; I'll give you a few lines of blank space to catch your breath, recap the adventure mentally, and allow your heart rate to return to a normal, healthy pace.





There. Feel better now? You still look a bit flushed. Let's call it a day; you've worked hard. Hit the road, plop on the couch, slap that t.v. on. Get some food in ya (I recommend carbo-loading), and call it a night.

However, be sure to return in the near future. I'll be making the file available for download (Part Blog. Part Podcast. Holy Multi-Media!) within a few days. Better still, I feel that you've been working hard, and deserve yet another reward. Well, here it is: I'll be providing you with an e-mail address! The "comment" portion of the blog (despite its lack of use thus far) seems insufficient; what if you should need to contact me privately? Or two separate ways? Problem solved. So, stop back soon, as it'll be posted as soon as I've gotten around to creating it.

You're welcome.

Hand-in-Hand, We Begin a New Journey

Oh, hello. I didn't see you come in. Gave me quite the startle, really. Next time, it would be appropriate to consider knocking, appointment or no. Anyway, take a seat ... no, not that seat. That's the good seat. There, that seat will be just fine. I'll ask at this point that you remove your shoes, and make yourself as comfortable as possible.

First, a few administrative this-and-thats: I am required by law to inform you that the multimedia blogging experience that you are about to enjoy can be hazardous to those who are pregnant, nursing, slightly overweight, chubby, pudgy, skin-and-bones, allergic to mold or mildew, adverse to peanuts, average in physical stature, or those who rely on a certain type of pacemaker. If you presently are suffering, or have in the past suffered from one or more of the above conditions, please click HERE for alternative ways to experience "INCREDIBLY LOUD WRITING!"

Undoubtedly, the first thing you'll want to ask is "This blog has a great name!" That's not really a question. Oh, the things you'll learn with my guidance. What you meant to ask was, "How did you come up with such a genre-defying summation of all the things you hope to accomplish in this life-changing blog?" The answer to your fair (if understated) question is indeed complex. Perhaps a list would be helpful; after all, we all learn in different ways.


"WHAT'S IN A NAME?" BRILLIANCE, THAT'S WHAT: THE LIST


STEP ONE: BY GEORGE, I THINK I'VE GOT ONE! Truly the most rewarding facet of selecting a name for just about anything (a band, your dog, that kid I found in the park) is the moment when inspiration strikes. It makes the lonesome minutes of looking around the room, verbalizing objects that you see in hopes of random non sequitur glory ("The Bedsheet Curtains...well, it does kinda sound like a killer name for my black-metal band...") worth it in the long run.

STEP TWO: OH BUMMER; SOMEONE ALREADY HAS THAT ONE. Well, that's lame. You've struck gold once; time to strike again while the iron is still hot.

STEP THREE: REALLY, SOMEONE HAS THAT ONE, TOO? Panic starts to creep in. As it seeps into the back of your throat, you feel you must quell the burning taste of failure, somehow, someway. Perhaps a shot of whiskey and three or four beers will do the trick? That'd be good for inspiration--a hideous bitch goddess here to punish the sober--anyway.

STEP FOUR: NOW COME ON, THAT'S NOT EVEN A REAL FUCKING PHRASE, THERE'S NO WAY SOMEONE ALREADY HAS THAT! WHO ELSE ON EARTH WOULD EVEN FUCKING CONSIDER THAT AS A TITLE? Though the whiskey has led to a waterfall of "hilarious" ideas, each and every last one has already been reserved by some dude from Maine, or some secretary in Oregon. Their first--and last--posts are dated in the neighborhood of September 2007, promising upcoming content and blog-related adventure. Should figure out a way to sue them, get those names. They're rightfully yours, anyway. You thought of 'em.

STEP FIVE: THIS THING IS BROKEN. WHAT ABOUT "ASSCLOWNSALAD FESTIVAL BLOG?" IF THAT SAYS IT'S TAKEN, THIS THING IS BROKEN FOR SURE, AND IT'S JUST NOT LETTING ME PICK A NEW NAME. YEP, THIS THING IS BROKEN, I'M SURE OF IT. "Assclownsalad Festival" is available. You briefly consider accepting it, and organizing an Assclown Salad Festival in order to justify blogging at that address. Instead, why not have another drink? Not much, just a lil' bit. Just a lil' bit.

STEP SIX: hA--Hang on,, I think I have 1one but I'm a little too dizzy haveta type with just one eye opeN! I can finish it tonite tho cuz I'm hardly even drunk



STEP SEVEN: ANY COMBINATION OF WORDS THAT HAS NOT YET BEEN RESERVED. You are hungry. You are tired. You are unbelievably hungover. It's just like college now; you've waited until the last second, and you have to get this shit done. "Paperless Writing?" Taken. Damn. "Words Without Paper?" Damn. "Wit and Wisdom From a Handsome Man?" DAMN, that one was good.

"Incredibly Loud Writing?" Da--wait, that one's open? We have a winner!
Fuck. Ing. Brilliant.

STEP EIGHT: THE CELEBRATION You've earned this. Genius takes a toll on the man daring enough to harbor the burden; indeed, you've earned the right to pop a cold one, have a seat, and call a few friends. You'll want to let everyone know what a great title YOU just came up with.



I'm sure you have further questions; you will be given ample time to address them. However, the bus has just left the barn on this journey of ours, and this is but one of many nuggets of wisdom that I'll all-too-willingly be imparting upon you.

In the future, I'll be filling this site with interactive pieces involving text and audio. I'll also be posting some short fiction, needless rambling, and fun audio creations.

So, what's in it for you? Well, the step-up the ladder in terms of human enlightenment and self-fulfillment can't hurt. However, you'll also have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to help pick a slogan for this blog coming soon; start dreaming about it now.

Please address any questions, concerns, or requests to view my wide-ranging self-nude portfolio in the comment box kindly provided by the good folks at blogspot.com

And with that, I bid you good day. Please send the next person in as you leave, and don't forget to grab your shoes. I think you put them under the good seat.