Dog

True story. Swear to god. My sister has a friend who was doing some house and dog sitting in the east bay last year for some of her family friends. The owners of the house and dog would ask to hear the dog bark when they called to check in, as they were very much infatuated with their pooch. The dog dies one day. The girl doesn't know why. She buries it and simply cannot dream of a way to break the news to the owners. She tries to break it to them slow. She tells them the dog hasn't been moving a lot, just kinda sleeping all the time. Concerned, they ask this girl to rush the dog to the vet. She has to break them the news. She says the dog died that morning. Dismayed, they ask her to take it to the vet for an autopsy and they want it cremated after the cause of death can be identified. She agrees. She digs up the three day dead dog, stiff with rigor mortis and wreaking of wet, furry ooze, and puts it in a big, green duffle bag. This is a golden retriever, so it about 80 pounds or so. She has no car. No available friends to cart her and the dead doggie bag to the vet. So she lugs lucky to a bus stop to wait for the trusty rapid transit service. A man asks her what's in the bag as the bus approaches and if she needs help carrying it on. Panicked she says that its stereo equipment and that she would love some help. He helps her on and pulls the cord. He punches her in the head and runs of the bus with the green duffle bag. There is a special circle in hell where people, delighted by a seemingly great come up, find their spoils to be a couple days dead animal remains. It’s just below the circle where fire ants crawl up sinners urethras. My name is andrew hine.

Kraig Heins the Movie critic

Um, Kraig (with a K) Heins the movie critic here. Now, as all of you are probably very aware of, I had never seen The Wizard Of Oz prior to three hours ago. So, within the past three hours I changed that, I watched it. I watched what is said to be, “A classic.”, “A great leap forward for cinematic storytelling.” “The best movie, since the movie about sliced bread.” Well, you heard it right here on Kraig (with a K) Heins’ blogomatic movie blog first: I was hardly impressed. I’d like to work my way from the end to beginning because as all of you know that is how I work. When the movie ends, a title came up which said “The End”. Now, any filmmaker knows you don’t have to tell us it’s the end to have it be the end. Just roll the credits or black out, that’s all it takes. Secondly, there was something wrong with the film quality because it went from sepia, to color, back to sepia, and this was very distracting as a viewer. The farm hands looked much too much like the lion, and scarecrow, and the tin man which was also distracting. Even worse was that these characters were named, “The Scarecrow”, or “The Tinman”, or “The Cowardly Lion”. Once again, we knew that this was true, we did not need it to be shoved down our throats. And don’t even get me started on the flying monkeys, which were obviously just cleverly make-upped people with fairy wings on their back, it just wasn’t convincing at all. When the “Wicked Witch” (really? and what’s the wizard’s name? Oh, Wizard, that’s right!) When the “Wicked Witch” melted I put my foot down and thought


Hi there, Tyler Watson here. It turns out that Kraig Heins has been typing his blogs in Sue’s attic without Sue’s permission, and in a very violent scuffle, Kraig was forced to leave. He left his computer however and I am not positive if he will continue these blogs from another computer, but for now, be patient please.

Julia Yeager, Blog 3

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Why Isn't My Life A Sitcom?

So the other night before I drifted off into dreams and after I listened to “Don’t Stop Believin’ on repeat to make my miserable, lonely life feel better, I thought to myself, why the fuck hasn’t NBC tapped me to star in their brand new Thursday night hit? I don’t want to star in their scripted stuff though, I just want there to be a sitcom about my life. Some witty name will be thought up like “The Kat’s Meow” and it will just show the day to day activities of me and the weird ass people I meet. Take for example the black, gay checker at Safeway that rang me out the other day. Now, this man is someone that is from two historically oppressed groups. As I was buying my delicious Maruchan brand Mac and Cheese, he picks up the package and says really loudly “What the FUCK? I didn’t even know Asians were allowed to eat mac and cheese?!” This baffled my mind, because I didn’t think any entire ethnic group would ban the delicious combination of pasta and melted cheese AND why did he ever think Asians would be the ones to do it? Would they get together at their next offical meeting and have the secretary say something like “uhh okay we’ve decided to keep the terrible driving and misogyny but we’re fucking gettin’ rid of that mac and cheese! I wanted to talk to this man further, but my busy filming schedule meant that I could not.

My next weird encounter was when I was enjoying a nice walk near the beach. I passed a group of men, probably around 40 to 50 years in age, and I mean, being the beautiful woman I am (real women have curves!) I felt that their eyes were watching me. I turned around (naturally to give them my number and let them ogle me some more) just in time to hear one sing to me “Hey prettttty lady…you got a lot of junk in your trunk.” I thought to myself that this man must obviously be Shakespeare, and in that moment I silently thanked my mom for giving me the genes for this lady hump that I’ve been carryin’ around since the 5th grade.

You know you love me,
Xoxo Kat Brown

Oliver Cruz-Experieince of having a car.

Well when the one thing that changed about this year is I finally brought my car. Back home I drove a lot and pretty fast. Even though I drove fast I never got one speedy ticket. The one thing my dad said to me before I left was if you get a speedy ticket I’m taking your license away. Of course of saying goodbye or good luck he had said that which was great. The one thing I notice since I brought my car is how important money becomes. Also there are a lot of people asking for rides. I remember at 3 am in the morning while I was driving back onto campus, a girl jumped in front of my car. I stopped instantly and I was thinking what the fuck was she thinking. She then said can I get ride and of course I said yes because she risked her life just for a ride. Then one day I was driving down high street and a cop pull me over. All I was thinking to myself is was my dad actually serious. The cop gave me a ticket for going 45 miles per hour on 30. I knew I had to tell my dad but instead I told my older brothers first. They were understanding but told me I am stupid for driving that fast. I told my dad after and he said he wanted me to bring the car back but changed his mind. Instead he said I had to pay for the ticket myself. I then told him but you got like four speeding tickets yourself. He then told me all of them were because of emergencies. I told him well my was too which was to buy call of duty modern warfare 2 before it sold out. He then just hangs up the phone.

Christopher D. Garcia: my most AMAZING blog ever

Comedy Blog #3
Christopher D. Garcia
November 11th, 2009

Yo, what’s up people! So I actually forgot to write a blog for all my fans a few weeks ago. Sorry guys! But don’t worry, I have a plan! I’m going to write a blog this week that is SOOOO FUCKING GOOD that it will make up for the one I forgot about… and maybe get me a blow job on the side. YES it will be that good… aww shit I already wasted like 80 words.

Alright alright, so let’s get serious now. Last week I did an open-mic night at Cowell College. Other than nearly shitting my pants from nerves the hour before show-time I did pretty good, mind that it was my first open-mic EVER. I ended up doing a more polished act of my talk about Old Volkswagen Bugs and Hippies, talking about how my speedometer doesnt work in my car so I have to count the lines on the road to know how fast I'm going. I was surprised… I didn’t bomb on stage and actually got some pretty good laughs out of the crowd. Or I don’t know, maybe half of them were stoned; it only was a performance at UCSC (wouldve got more laughs at Porter). Either way they liked it, and so my comedy “career” begins. I think I will look for more open-mic nights around Santa Cruz and San Jose to get more comfortable with stand-up comedy, I still have a lot to work on. Gotta start some where I guess…

Oh, I almost forgot to mention, you can find a video of my performance from last week at
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_okmXH5Nls

If you watch it, leave me a comment on youtube. But don’t post some faggy little comment like “nice”. I fucking hate that…

Take care fans… sigh who am I fooling, I don’t have fans :(

Sincerely,
Anonymous Clown
umm.... i mean Christopher D. Garcia

Abigail Cunningham: Sleep

Dear Abby,
You and I both know everyone loves sleep..... except for those who are insomniacs or are crack addicts. For me sleep is the most precious moment of the day. I look forward to sleep always, its what I do best. Soo for a girl, like me, who is this addicted to sleep, there comes many problems. One being my roommate. Luckily she is one who also likes her sleep but she does like to stay up late on facebook or talking on the phone with her boyfriend.... Problem...I hate being the annoying roommate but even with earplugs and and an eye mask if shes awake, Im awake... I mean I can't sleep on a floor, I can barely make it on a couch.. I need some sleep therapy! Help me Abby! Another problem is boys. Boys always want to sleep over and honestly I'd rather not have someone sleeping with me in my super compact twin bed. But fuck, I guess for the sake of cuddling I let the boy sleep with me. At one point I suggested that the boy sleep in my roommates bed, which is never good. They get all offended and weird. I mean I totally understand, its my roommate's( someone they don't know) bed... Anyways what am I going to do when Im married? Have my husband sleep in another bed or another room? And my kids are going to to come into my room in the middle of the night and say “Mommy, I'm scared, can I sleep with you?” “No, sorry, need my sleep and my own bed, go deal with that monster under your bed solo”. Also when I was little I used to have a ritual before I went to sleep. Id say “Im surrounded in a bubble of white light and Im safe from bad people etc” Then I'd go to the bathroom like 3 times before I could finally lay down... yup. So what Im trying to say is I really need your advice on how to deal with my sleep issues so I don't end up a lonely cat lady...
Sincerely,
Sleepless in Santa Cruz

Unoriginal (as of an hour ago) by Julian Burg

I live in Los Angeles, and have done the drive back and forth between Santa Cruz too many times. I’m sort of fascinated with the California coastline. I don’t give a fuck about the ocean, but I love all the beat ass little towns between like Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz. Case in point: if your town has a saloon, move. Don’t get me wrong here. I like jamming on the Honky-tonk/sipping whiskey/dueling/watching overweight brothel dancers as much as the next guy, but it started to get kinda stale around the turn of the century (1900). For real though, if I want to feel better about myself, all I have to do is kick it in these shitholes. Towns that are basically just strip malls and fast food, filled with these tragic, pathetic cross-sections of life. I stopped at a Subway and ahead of me in line was this classic all-American family. There was Dad with the handlebars, reflective sunglasses, Navy hat, and the sleeveless shirt--chillin with his morbidly obese trophy wife at his side. Then their two fatty kids and the big fatty grandma. So he orders “the Feast,” which is like every cold cut subway has piled extra high with all the trimmings. And he’s like, “and can I get double the meat on that?”

The subway guy looks sorta stunned like, “Uuhhh. Nah. It’s already like… this big (mimes it)”

“Huh. Well I tell you what. There any bacon on that?”

“Uh, no. No bacon.”

“Well, let’s put some bacon on there and uh… put some extra cheese on there too.”

sigh

So fuck that part of California. Hah, I love shitting on entire regions, especially because some people really take offense to it. I’ve never really understood that—like identifying yourself with a city or country or whatever. I mean It’s alright to a certain extent; if you wanna wear a hat or a jersey then knock yourself out, but any beef started over ‘repping your territory’ is unbelievably foolish. Maybe I’m just not a team player. But the common one you hear up here in Santa Cruz is the token NorCal vs. SoCal argument. I don’t really get it because A) NorCal is so gay, and B) who gives a shit. So to derail, I’m now reminded of a subject that cracks me up. Gays have always been a classic target for “fuck those people” throughout history, but I don’t think it was until recently (within my lifetime) that the word gay has slipped into the vernacular as a straight up synonym for “bad.” Like “Oh man, that test was so gay” or “Oh what! They cancelled Queer as Folk? Gay.” But I’m thinking why stop there, you know? Certainly people can get more creative with it. I’m trying to start my own versions, maybe you guys can help spread them.

“Oh what the fuck, the internet won’t connect again? Uuggghhh. So Middle Eastern.”

“What up dude, how you doin”

“alright, I was late for class today though cause I was waiting at the bus stop, and the fool makes eye contact with me and just blows right by. It was so Morrocan.”

For some reason they don’t seem to be catching on. And way to steal my idea Charlie (below). Ghey dude.

trading places

Michael Platten
November 11, 2009
Trading Places
So I often imagine what it’d be like to trade places with famous people. The other day I day dreamed of what it’d be like to be Danny Devito. First I’d wake up, I wouldn’t see anything cause my glasses are on the bedside table. I’d then reach for them, but realize halfway that my arms are about 2 feet shorter than I thought. Once up, I’d lather up my face with shaving cream using my grubby little fingers. Freaking myself out because I look like a garden gnome. Then I’d hop in the shower and use my foot stool so I could turn the water on. After waddling out of the shower I would greet my wife and 3 children and be pissed that I’m the smallest one. Then I’d go to work, again where my fame stems from my height being that of a 5 year old boy with stunted growth. After an excruciating hour of working with that guy from “it’s always sunny in Philadelphia” with the voice of a dying veloci raptor, I would strap on my five inch platform boots so I could drive home.
Sometimes my snap back into reality can come quite unpleasantly or pleasantly. Like in this example someone just spilled a bunch of freezing slushy on my body. The person who spilled it was so apologetic, I just had to calm them down and tell them “No, thank you, you just freed me from a much darker and colder place”

Haterade - Patrick Webster Blog #3

I’m an angry old man at heart. Even though I’ve been alive only a fifth of a century, I have enough built-up aggression and distaste for the next (my) generation that I will challenge anyone to a “Get Off My Lawn” contest. Long-barreled shotgun and rocking-chair aside, I go about my day to day life as a normal, mild-mannered, passive-aggressive man, taking in all the bullshit without so much as a frown or movement of the finger, only to go home and enter a tirade of amazing retorts and brilliant hate, usually finishing in hours of crying and a quart of ice-cream, naked in the shower. But sometimes, there is that rare event that transforms my basal hate levels into raging, Revelation-style quantities of God-fearing wrath. I know in the long run it isn’t healthy nor desirable to stay this angry; “An eye for an eye leaves the whole word blind”, after all. But what Ghandi didn’t understand is that for some people, the satisfaction of knowing that your enemy can’t see either is all you need to stumble through your day.

Recently, the nuclear threat that is my undying disdain for stupid people was given an isolated atoll in the South Pacific to test out its nuclear might. I don't think I need to tell you at this point that my anger fuels metaphors to make your mind bleed, but bear with me. I was riding my bike on the road by the Media Theater, when suddenly a rare beast was summoned into existence, the dreaded Cuntbagel™. Riding up the hill, slow as a cardiac patient on a stationary bike, basking in the sounds that resonate in the vacuum that is his brain, he decides to share his pathetic existence with the opposite lane of traffic. My muscular, powerful self, cruising fast through the crowds, nimble as a gazelle and gift to God's eye, didn’t have time to shift attention from the mysteries of the universe and my sheer awesomeness, to allow for this unfeasible event to be more than a dream. And so my bike and his bike collided, the pain of hitting the pavement masked by the sudden rage I felt inside. After the apology and understanding of fault from him, that came in the form of “You OK?”, he immediately said that he would need my information so that I could pay for the damage. In that instant my hatred for his existence was beckoned from the gates of Hell, and I responded in turn: “It is so unfortunate that the atoms that make you up could have been used to make a beautiful tree, or playful squirrel, yet instead I have to stare at your paltry excuse for a creature, and wonder why the universe would make such a appalling error.” Having undermined his very existence to the cosmos, utterly baffled by my sharp and witty retort, he disappeared. Through the steam of the shower, I noticed my ice cream was all gone.

blog 3 charlie nilawat

Don't you hate it when people say "ohh thats gay" and "that shirt looks gay." I don't personally, but i can see how that can offends people. but sometimes there's no word to really describe something buy gay. you wouldn't say that a blue shirt is azure, or a green towel is beryl. You wouldn't use those adjectives unless you know a lot of colors, and the people who you are conversing just so happen to be conversing with also know a lot of colors. ( to tell you the truth i had to look on the internet for another word for green.) That is why when i suggest the further proliferate the term "ghey." Ghey is everything that you would normally associate with the word gay, but without any of the gayist connotations. (get it gayist, like racist) The thing is i acknowledge that it isn't cool to have the word that defines you and your life style to also coincidentally mean weird, strange, and kinda bad. but its not as bad as retard... People use retard as a way to describe things as stupid. " man that guy is retarded" or "my cellphone is being retarded" they do not mean that my cell phone has down syndrome, they're saying that it is being...ghey.

Kara Kraus Blog 3

This past weekend I took a greyhound bus down the 5 to Southern California to see my family. On this bus I met some interesting characters, specifically, a racist African American.
I first noticed him when he pointed to me from across the room and said “that white girl is prolly going to Santa Barbara” with a stereotypical “straight outta tha ghetto” voice.
Now I let this slide since I am white and realize a lot of white girls make up the population of Santa Barbara.
As I boarded the bus for the 10 hour bus ride I hoped to maybe sleep or do some homework along the way. But apparently I have wronged the god of bus rides, since the outspoken racist decided to sit next to me.
The first thing that came out of his mouth was “Oh heyyy, where you off to girl?”
The first thing that came to my mind was “Why do you insist on behaving like a stereotype?”
But instead of saying that I answered in a low voice “Santa Ana” to which he ignored because the man across the aisle was wearing a Raiders hat.
The next four hours passed without incident – until the bus broke down.
Mr Ghetto Talk was not worried, nor annoyed by the news, but rather enraged.
He immediately ran to the bus driver and all I could hear were lots of “My brother” and “Man whatchu talkin bout?”
After 10 minutes of this the man sat down and continued to mutter Indian slurs under his breath at the Filipino bus driver.
We were stuck in the middle of nowhere for 3 hours and by the end I had learned 2 things.
1. Public transportation sucks
2. There is still racism in America, no matter how many progressive black friends you claim to have

Blog 3 - Devin Liu

I haven’t been home since I got to school this year and I’ve been missing all the Chinese food since I am Chinese. So the other day I just started thinking about the crazy things Chinese people do in San Francisco. On the bus, Chinese people shove and push to get on and they never apologize. Kinda makes me think about the people from Oaks when they get on the bus. Chinese people always have to get a good deal on everything, if my mom were here with me, I wouldn’t of bought any of the books because she would think they are too expensive. The other day in Econ class, our professor had her mic on and she forgot to turn it on off when blowing her nose. The next thing you know we hear a big blow and she has snot all over her hand. No wonder people warn us about swine flu. The thing is, I went to the 9/10 medical center to go get some condoms and there was a bunch of girls lining up. I think it was some outbreak but the thing was … they were getting their vaginas checked out. I remember looking at all their faces so I’ll remember which girl not to fuck because god damn … they might have some kind of STD.

Blog #3 November 12, 2009

Dear Bloggy,

Ever since attending college I have discovered the phenomenon of dealing with drunken friends. It seems like anytime they get insanely drunk something bad has to happen. Just the other day I had an unfortunate event coming back from a party we attended earlier in the night. Before we started our walk back to our apartment my friend Eric jumped out of the car a head of us. While the rest of were shambling out of the car, Eric was trying to grab our attention. When we finally looked over we saw the sight of our beloved friend full frontal urinating all over the parking lot. I hate saying this, but that wasn’t the first time I saw one of my college friends penises’. I did tell him later I wasn’t impressed in case he was trying to show off. M group of friends and I have this expression we use quite frequently and it’s “drunk as hell”. Now you can be drunk while you’re drunk as hell, but it’s not a requirement. Drunk as hell is a state of being rather than being just plain old drunk. It’s the opposite of a moment of clarity. Mostly it’s others that point it out when you’re being stupid such as, “Jamus why’d you trip down the stairs? You’re drunk as hell!” Actually that could be used for either drunk as hell. My friend Alulla became an alcoholic when he came to school at UCSC, which obviously led to some crazy adventures. One night after getting rejected from a girl again he decided to hit the bottle. He did drink a little too much and had to be taken care of. One of our friends suggested we give him some bread to absorb the alcohol. We didn’t have any bread so our friend suggested that we use some spare cheez-itz. Suffice to say, we did not move ahead with that plan, but one of my friends was not happy about some of the puke that got on his bean bag. One of the best times Alulla was completely wasted was when we went to a showing of Rocky Horror where I dressed in drag to get into the spirit. So before we left he got hammered… again. It did take a turn for the worse because he needed to go to the hospital. He blacked out and couldn’t remember anything except seeing me in full on drag.

Stay Classy,
Jamus Hain

Scott Curtis Blog # 3

As you are reading this government agents who are answerable to no one and are armed with unlimited resources and the USA PATRIOT act are surveilling every moment of your pathetically insignificant life. UCSC has recently attracted the attention of Federal agents determined to seriously fuck up your day. If you don’t want to spend the rest of your ephemeral life running away from black helicopters and our nation’s deadliest special forces operators then your survival will entirely depend upon your willingness to follow these simple directives:

#1 Open the back of your cell phone, remove the sim card and destroy it. Then go to a dinning hall and replace it with the sim card of an unattended Freshman’s phone. They are naive and do not guard their property. This will ensure your telephone conversations can not be easily traced. Repeat this step every week. If you have a Verison phone your best option is to sell it for meth because your life is fucked anyway.

#2 Turn in papers for classes under an assumed name, this will ensure that your professors can’t match your face with your true identity, and betray you to the authorities.

#3 Modern Laser Microphones work by recording the tiny vibrations that sound waves create on window panes, and decoding the data with a computer algorithm into crystal clear audio. This technology is so sensitive that it can even pickup whispers. Jam their laser microphones by taping personal massagers (i.e. huge fucking Vibrators) onto all windows in your residence.

#4 Turn down the sexual advances of anyone and everyone, except me... you can trust my thunder-cock. There is no way of knowing how deeply the government has penetrated into your social network.

#5 On that note, consider your family to be potential moles (informants) limit your exposure to them and deny them any circumstantial knowledge of what you’re doing at college... If they persist in questioning you then break-off contact completely.

#6 Live on Pacific avenue, not in a building but on the street. The homeless wander around town virtually undetected.

If you’ve made it this far you are well on your way to becoming an untraceable super-agent. Or at least you’ll be known as the meth-addicted family-less weirdo who taped sex-toys to windows until you dropped out of college in order to keep the government out of your mind by living in the gutter.

Grant Patrizio rants about luck; Who has it, Who doesn't, and where it counts.

I’ve always been really jealous of people who always have good luck. Not just good luck in, say, finding a face-up nickel on the pavement. I’m talking about the luck of having anything and everything they want to happen to them… well, happen. They want to find a pretty lady to make theirs and have the sweet loving chances with? They get it. They want an A on a test? They get it. They want to go to a party? An invite is sent to them within 12 hours of them even thinking about it. THAT’s just insane. What do you think they do to receive said good fortune? From my angle, it looks like they do JACK SHIT.

I, on the other hand…am not so lucky. Whenever a stroke of luck hits me, and I feel like I’m finally getting a lucky break, it’s like the overall balance of the planet and the survival of the human race are put into jeopardy and the stroke of luck gets negated RIGHT THEN AND THERE. Take Halloween for example. I was (finally) invited to a Halloween party, since I wasn’t cool enough in High School or last year to get the invitation. I hear it’s pretty far away from campus, so I’d need a car to get there. I go downtown to get my car, only to find that my window got busted into. The point? I got the invite, confirmed my going, then fate said “WRONG. YOU NO GO TO PARTY.”

I am lucky in one way, though… I am DAMNED good at attracting busses. Whenever I need a bus to take me somewhere as I pass a bus stop, one immediately shows up. It opens its doors and speaks to me. It says “Come in me, big boy. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” If only I had that luck with women…

Working at Abercrombie and Fitch

Working at Abercrombie and Fitch may seem like the kind of job that is full of glamour and tight, ass-hugging jeans. But beneath the portrayed glamour is a job that takes patience and self-restraint. I could be literally in the middle of fixing a stack of clothes, and then all of a sudden, a cougar comes out from the fog of cologne and haze of spotlights to disrupt my folding and fuck up the pile! Then she will ask me if she gets a discount because she is a beautiful woman. At this point, I am usually thinking of ways to strangle this woman without anyone seeing or noticing, but instead I smile and say something like, "Oh, unfortunately we don't do that here." But what I really want to say is, "Bitch! Get your wrinkly, old hag hands off of me and go shop at Nordstom's! You might find what you are looking for there!" The worst is the teenage crowd. I very often have the thirteen year old girls with braces follow me around the store, whispering sweet nothings from afar. Then when I turn around to say something, they smile at me and I am able to see all the way down there throats because the braces have yet to fix their gapped teeth.

In the store, it is pretty much a fucking swimming pool of cologne. It seeps into all of your cracks and crevaces no matter how much you cover up. And right as the cologne begins to burn your eyes, your ears begin to bleed from the Whitney Houston remixes. I would quit my work, but the women keep me there. I have no problem stinking like hell with cologne that sends the "I'm gay" signal. It all is worth it in the end.