Finding a really good muse these days isn’t easy, so plan on going through quite a few before landing on a winner. Beware of muses who promise unrealistic timelines for your projects or who wear wizard clothes. When honing in on a promising new muse, also be on the lookout for other writers attempting to swoop in and muse-block you. Just be patient in your search, because the right muse/human relationship can last a lifetime.

So one day Saint Patrick’s sittin’ in his house ovah in Ireland n’ he’s gettin’ fuckin’ bo’ahd outtah his mind with all his prayahs n’ shit so he goes n’ he gets out a bottle’ah Jamesons n’ he prahceeds to staht gettin’ fuckin’ shitfaced instead.

Within no time, Larry, Janet, and Kyle were eagerly making their way into the large Gothic-spired mansion. What they observed next absolutely amazed them, stunning them beyond belief:

Large fraternity types placing compact discs into compact disc players!

Half-naked women, their breasts jingling and jangling, perched on the shoulders of football players!

Pyramids, 15 feet high, created with only empty beer cans!

Pizza pies, half-eaten, lazily strewn across expensive leather couches!

A rock and roll band playing very loudly!

A fat man with a beard pouring vodka into a crystal punch bowl!

But in typical Jeremy fashion, he said something like, “Basketball can wait. Kidneys? Those are a whole ‘nother story.” And we all laughed, except Dina whose kidney was failing.

And in the recovery room, when we discovered that Jeremy wasn’t a good match after all and he would have to live without a major organ, I said, “Hate to say I toldja so, Jer.” And we all laughed, except Dina who still had to find another kidney.

(Source: thatwasnotveryravenofyou)

So close your eyes and turn on your noise canceling headphones if you want, but it won’t help. Because you can block out sound but you can’t block out my creativity. And I mean that to be forty-percent a statement about how moving it can be to watch an artist work and sixty-percent a warning that I throw elbows when I get creative.

So I’m sittin’ in this bah ovah on Boylston Street sippin’ my Hahpoon IPA n’ watchin’ the Pats when in walks this fuckin’ loudmouth qwee’uh with some’ah his friends n’ he’s goin’ on ’bout how he prehfuhrs the hrynhenda fohm’ah ancient Nahrse poetry ovah the dróttkvætt fohm on accoun’ah it’s havin’ mohr syllables per fuckin’ line n’ that makes it, yah know, mohr fuckin’ complex ah whatevah n’ yah can tell that this guy’s got a real fuckin’ hahd-on fah that complicated intellectual type’ah shit. But whatevah you know, ‘cause this just ain’t the typical kind’ah convuhsation muhterial that yah nohmally ovah heahr when yah’re out havin’ a pint n’ I kindah just jehrked my head back like I just got kicked in the fuckin’ face by Gostkowski.

this is written by the same guy that wrote “i’m comic sans, asshole.” so it’s definitely good.

September 20th

Seems like the bands of looters are becoming more ruthless, huh? Today, take fifteen minutes to visualize killing a home-invader with your bare hands so you won’t hesitate when the time comes. Because the time absolutely will come.

November 2nd

What the fuck was that noise? WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT NOISE?!

If only you had asked for a real gun, Santa might have been able to defend himself. Even a Red Ryder air rifle could have at least put his assailant’s eye out. I guess this is a less heartwarming irony than O. Henry’s “Gift of the Magi.”

Incidentally, when I said earlier “I hope you’re sitting down,” I meant on the floor. You don’t deserve a chair, because you killed Santa with your greediness.

I tell you this because roughly a decade ago I began work on a technology that would permit the extreme shrinking of text. At the time, fonts could be rendered as small as four points in size, or maybe even three, but this was nowhere close to what I hoped to achieve. I confessed my ambition to my wife. “I want to become an expert in miniaturization,” I said.

“You already are,” she said. “If you know what I mean.” She scowled at me.

Now this Danish paht’ah England, it’s not fuckin’ Suffolk Law ah Hahvahd Law ah BU ah BC Law ah some othah shit like that. What it is, is the mothahfuckin’ Danelaw. N’ the Danelaw, it’s not ’bout these Danish guys goin’ n’ fohrkin’ ovah shit tons’ah money just so they can go tah fuckin’ school n’ dick eachothah ovah on study notes n’ shit n’ then maybe get some sohrt’ah job suein’ people aftahwahds if the economy evah fuckin’ recovahs. Nah what the Danelaw is ‘bout is it’s ’bout the Danes fuckin’ bitch-slappin’ the English so fuckin’ hahd that now they fuckin’ rule that nohrthuhn paht’ah the country where they been livin’ n’ so natuhrally that all ends up worhkin’ out pretty good fah this Danish guy King Svein Fohrkbeard fah when he decides tah go raidin’ ovah in England in the 990s ’cause now he’s got half the country watchin’ his back.