Conspiracy of One: Brady Quinn Slips to 22

I watched the NFL Draft this morning after a long, long week. It seems like next week will be just as tedious as well. The ceremony was rather boring this year, but I’ve never known it to be interesting, so I can’t complain too much. However, the Miami Dolphins are no longer a premier organization. I thought the signs were there, beginning with Nick Saban’s departure. I gave the owner a free pass, even with the Daunte Culpepper situation. But drafting Ted Ginn, Jr. over Brady Quinn? That is the dumbest reach in recent history. I’ll admit…Quinn’s demeanor is rather unsettling to me, as I don’t feel anyone can be that nice. However, he’s more prepared than JaMarcus Russell, whose career will be over within five years due to the mismanagement of Al Davis. Some teams really need to study the tape a little harder.

Work has been tedious. I’d try to rationalize it as the norm, but honestly, I’m fucking lost at this point. I must stop being a somewhat nice guy around there, or at least, firmly implement the definition of “no.” The situations I’m being placed in are barbaric…the Eighth Amendment allegedly protects me from this torture. Meh.

I’m done with my weeklong experiment. No more wig, but the bucket hat may be optioned to stay. The reactions I drew have been astounding to say the least. It takes a lot of balls to pull off that look, and I’ve got balls galore. It was inspiring, but I’m done with that trial. Time to age another year older, and restart the routine for next year.

My only gripe was that I barely glimpsed happiness this biological year. I had Christine for just one night. Saw her a couple of days ago, and she didn’t acknowledge me. I barely knew Katharine. Hell, I saw Katharine tonight…still as beautiful as the last time we went out for fresh air. I miss those days. It eats a hole in me each time I think about where I should be, or should’ve been. Hell, I never wanted to be this way, but too many close calls forced me to…well, didn’t force me, but granted me a choice. For better or worse, I’ve stuck with the results, and as usual, it’s time to capitalize on opportunity by creating my own chance. Christine, Katharine, someone…I’ll bring the smile back to Gotham. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Sheryl Crow “The Few That Remain”

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Conspiracy of One: Mambo Masquerade

Work is a boring conspiracy that just needs to end. However, the money keeps me pacified until I can head back to Mattel. Word.

I’ve got crappy taste in girls, but after that one off dance, my eyes have told me the truth. Find girls that at least have something in common. Common stengths. Common flaws. Common tastes. It makes all the difference. To have the mind of a genius, I really need to look at the simple matters.

Continuing on the same note, I truly had a blast that night. It made me laugh and cry tears of…well, I wouldn’t say happiness, because my feet were killing me. About the only qualms I have was the fact I didn’t get any phone numbers and I didn’t have my first mate with me. Other than that, and a couple of stunning revelations that a girl I liked had a boyfriend, well, it was close to awesome.

My favorite coworker will be leaving for Seattle soon, so I have a somber disposition. May Mai find happiness back in Seattle. God knows what I’ll have to deal with here down south. At least the new pair of glasses I had will be made soon enough. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Jeff Trott “The Few That Remain”

Conspiracy of One: Weekend at Casa Lane

Work has been stressing me out. School is growing tedious. My social life has gone nowhere and fast. How do I remedy this?

“Anthony, you there? Good. How do you feel about going to Mexico tonight?”

Needless to say, Jordan and I were definitely in. Private Lane, Sir McIntyre, and Dr. Guy would be heading to Mexico with a couple of Brandon’s college mates, or people he randomly knows. Hell, before we crossed the border, debauchery ensued, with hilarious results. Heh, but I’m not the kind of person who kisses and tells, preferably because I’ve never kissed anything to tell about, and I’m sure as hell not going to mention anything that puts me in a bad light while outside these States United. Let’s just say if you’re in Mexico, make sure that the girl you’re interested in is really a girl after all. One would be surprised about the clever ruses some devise.

Mexican police can kiss my ass. I thought LAPD was corrupt, but I’m proven dead wrong. I love American cops. Now I have a reason to like them even more. Thank you, Mexico; only you could’ve made American cops look tame and caring.

From this little excursion, we ventured to the car across the border, and slept. Well, everyone else slept; I garnered about 12 hours of sleep the entire weekend. We come home, we play Tekken, Marvel vs. Capcom 2, Guilty Gear XX, and…I’m sure we played something else. Oh yes, Raw vs. Smackdown 2007. Watch out world, Cameron Hunter is the next big thing. Name anyone else who could deliver a Vertebreaker like I can. That’s right, no one. Except for Jordan’s cheap ass diluting the fun, all was well. Sleep came, I dreamt about the KKK invading Inglewood, and preparation was made for the main event the next day…

Jordan and I awoke to the sounds of whatever Brandon’s frog roommate played. We hit the mall, where we proceeded to piss off some of the locals in a way that only I can…like excessively honking a horn. Super sweet, methinks. Word. A few short hours later, and Wrestlemania 23 is here, the reason for our trip to the Tragic Kingdom…

“Nice guys finish last. THANK GOD I am not a nice guy….Mr. Money in the Bank. Bank”

Mr. Kennedy won Money in the Bank to everyone’s glee. Khali and Kane put on a match for the ages. Undertaker did not disappoint. Benoit deserves more. I can’t stand Donald Trump. I could care less about the Divas. Most importantly, Cena fucked up my night. I’m sure the guy is a great human being, but for Pete’s sake, develop a personality. Shawn Michaels jobbed to John Cena. There’s no other way to explain it. Speaking of which, Cena’s entrance really, really pissed me off. Really. Do they expect me to believe he could drive like that? Nah, impossible. Thankfully, Detroit took a shit on him in the process, and HBK refused to shake his hands. Unfortunately for me, there were a couple of Cena marks in the crowd who had zero intelligence. I ignored them until I was confronted after the show. How does Anthony reply to confrontation? The only way he can: with precise execution…

“GO WATCH THE ‘MARINE!'”

They had nothing to say after that. Cena may have the win, but he has to live with “The Marine” with the rest of his life. Not to mention the fact that he was destroyed by Kevin Federline. J.R.!

One more jack and coke, bitch. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Shawn Michaels “Sexy Boy”