Ripped Off

I discovered one of my photographs in an ad in Live LB Magazine.

Here's the original.

Typical Gondos fashion – taking everything for free and reaping the rewards.

Genesis Part Two

Fresh from a shit I stepped on my scale.

The scale squealed 200 at me.

Three pounds down, my self esteem must be waning. The abuse is working.


I'm a bit surprised I lost anything considering the wine, beer and beef I consumed this past week.

Maybe the trick involves riding a skateboard.

I poo-pushed myself to work and back one day. Now one calf and both thighs are on fire.

But the belly still hangs.

Hurl.

Midnight Regulations

In case you're interested, here's a site showing all of the last minute laws little-boy Bush is pushing through in order to solidify his position on top of history's shit pile.

Shit Piler

Genesis

I'm about to begin a shitty process. I chose this shitty process because lately I've been going to bed and waking up feeling shitty.

Everything is shitty.

I've tried a bunch of times before, but now I'm calling my ass out and I need your help. I'll get to your part in a minute, just let me explain first.

I desire a more linear shape, a smaller mass. I need to drop some pounds.

A few days ago I dragged myself away from homework and took a walk to the nearest coffee shop. There's a few coffee shops nearby, but I picked It's A Grind. Afterward I noticed a new cheese shop had opened up next door so I peeked in and compared the quality of cheese shavings from a giant parmesan wheel to the processed shit you can buy at Albertsons or Stater Brothers with the employee.

While I walked home I noticed that I may have been waddling a bit.

"Am I fucking waddling," I thought.

Then out of no where this black guy passes by, points and says, "Hey, Jack Black."

I look over and politely chuckle then he shouts, "Do you ever get that."

I do get that. Quite a bit actually.

Jack Black is funny and all and I really don't mind the comparison, but I can't help to think that he's a bit round too.

What happened to me?

I feel like a product of the fast-food culture.

I am a product of the fast-food culture.

Anyways, the guy shouts one last time that he gets Morgan Freeman all of the time.

Holy shit. He did look like Freeman.

So the purpose of this rant is to post this:

I'm 203 pounds and not really fitting into this t-shirt.

But over a period of...how ever long it takes, I will slip this shirt on without straining a muscle. Then I'll wear it around town and tell people how this shirt used to ride high on my belly.

Here's where you come in.

Make fun of me. Hurt me. Hurl jokes and tell me I'm disgusting.

It's the only way.

I will continue to post a shot of me in this shirt every week, maybe every Monday, until the goal is attained.






I may write about things like what I'm eating and how I'm feeling, but don't let that stop you from verbally beating me.

I need the punishment.

I want the punishment like that cat wants to go outside.

So if you're interested in witnessing the transformation stayed tuned.

Hurl away.

Some more heat

Here's the view from the roof of my newsroom building in Fullerton.

Diamond Bar blazed today.

Plume

Anaheim Hills residents are being forced to evacuate.

Ash fall is increasing in Long Beach.

Did you see what god just did to us man!

California fires are raping the rich.

News has shifted from the Tea Fire in Montecito to the wind-whipped blazes in Corona and Yorba Linda.

Long Beach reeks of burnt fauna and human accessories.
Ash is falling everywhere.

No Gigante

Sloppy, but done.

Mini Balero from cinque on Vimeo.

Tell your mamma 'Obama'

Daily Titan

Another Birthday

My mother said she was 32 when my father bailed.

First she said happy birthday.

My father said my mother organized an "Over the Hill" party for his thirtieth.

Am I two years over the hill?
I thought society deemed 50 the peek.

"Yeah, but when you turn 50 you'll think 60 is over the hill," my father said.

Then the conversation transitioned into butchers and drunk Indians.

Rob, Greg, Jeremy and I met up at the Pike for some whiskey and beer on Sunday evening.

Greg aged a year that day. He's 35 now.
At midnight it was my turn.

Then Michael Head graced us with his presence.

Michael Head is an ex-convict with plenty of tattoos, but no teeth.
He mention heroin and cocaine.
Eventually he revealed a personal pleasure - hot candle wax dripping on his balls.

My beer tasted a little funny after that so we bid adieu to Mr. Head and ended our evening.

Happy birthday Greg.
Happy birthday me.