Monday, April 30, 2012

Z is for Zodiac Horoscopes

Aries (March 21 – April 21)

Do not go swimming today; there’s a man-eating shark on the coast. Do not go to work today; a disgruntled employee is still pissed at you for taking a dump on his keyboard. Do not mow the lawn; there are snakes and spiders out there. In fact, it is better that you stay inside and play video games while munching on Cheetos.

Taurus (April 22 – May 21)

Today you will befriend a stranger. His name will be Chiz, and it is vital that you hand this man two thousand dollars in cash. Neither check nor credit will be acceptable. Failure to do so will result in the cancelation of you Good Housekeeping subscription.

Gemini (May 22 – June 22)

Your day will be filled with lively wonderment as the Discovery channel allows you to intake precious knowledge that you would otherwise let pass should you vacate the couch and venture out into the wilderness. It is important that you immediately go to the corner store and purchase a bag of Doritos in preparation.

Cancer (June 22 – July 21/22)
You will lock yourself out of your home, but fear not. The locksmith who will come to your aid will be super hot, and although you’ll stand no chance with him or her, you will be able to gaze upon his or her bodacious booty. Unfortunately, you may be discovered through carelessness and slapped with a restraining order, $350 fine, and sexual predator documentation or something.

Leo (July 22 – August 22)
You’re just plain awesome. Awesome stuff will happen to you all day as you bask in the awesomeness of your awesome. Everyone will want to hang out with you because you’re so awesome, but they won’t because they’re jealous of your awesomeness. That’s the only explanation.

Virgo (August 23 – September 21)      
You will receive the grade of the chemistry test you handed in last week. Seeing as you were still drunk from the night before, you will have failed the test and offer sexual favors in exchange for a higher grade. Unfortunately, your professor is a eunuch and will report your lewd suggestions to authorities leading to a restraining order and F in the course.

Libra (September 21 – October 21)

By the time you read this, you will have already discovered the dead hooker in your bed. It is important not to panic and to take the day in strides. Consult Google for further assistance as you are the only one left that you can trust. Good luck.

Scorpio (October 21 – November 22)

It was not the man you accuse. Chiz did not eat the remainder of your Hot Pockets. He also did not clog the toilet. The man you seek is that other friend of yours, Billy. He is the one that is lying to you, not Chiz. Please forgive Chiz for all the hurtful things you said to him, and give him $20 for pizza and beer.

Sagittarius (November 23 – December 22)

You’re thinking of writing a Facebook status made up purely of country music lyrics. I suggest it a bad idea that you plague your friend’s otherwise useless news feed with further filth. In fact, updating your status with anything other than something funny or life changing is a crime against humanity.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 20)

Bah! Bah, Bah-eh-eh. Bah baaah bah baaaah. Bah-eh-eh-eh. Phhh. Bah baaah bah bah bah bah. Bah! Baaah baah beh beh beh, buh bah bah! Bah baaah bah baaaah. Phh. Bah bleh bahahahah. Beh-eh-eh-eh-eh. Bah baaaah! Bah bah bah. Also, your Christmas and birthday presents will be combined. I’m sorry.

Aquarius (January 21 – February 18)

Stand at the corner of 8th and Burrow, and give the man that shows up at promptly 4:23pm a back massage. He will not pay you for your services. However, he will bestow upon you good luck with his magic fairy dust that will look like dandruff, but rest assured, it’s fairy dust.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

I’m out of steam. Here’s a cute puppy:


Saturday, April 28, 2012

Y is for YouTube

So, this post is basically all about how YouTube ruined my life. Since the invention of this satanic website, I’ve developed an unhealthy addiction to talking animals and toddlers getting clotheslined by large objects. Instead of writing that 20 page paper that’s due in 14 hours, I procrasturbate to delightful, baby puppies. Anyway, to explain my point further, let me convey it to you in the form of a song a poem this cluster of words that kind of rhyme with each other.

I held dreams and aspirations,
Hard to tell as I work in a cube.
Forgotten plans to conquer nations,
Since the invention of YouTube.

Sits my manuscript, barely started,
What I have, critics will mock,
All because my insight’s departed,
To make room for talking livestock.

Furthermore, I do confess,
Writing is hard to focus on.
With my room, a constant mess,
And watching a guy obsessed with Tron.

I love to write, don’t get me wrong,
For this craft, I believe I was born.
Although, I type like Donkey Kong,
Because of Charlie the Unicorn.

I suck at poetry; it’s not my forte,
It all can be cured if I study lots.
Instead, I tend to waste the day,
By listening to this guy talk about knots.

I’m ending the poem here,
Because I’m busy today.
You get the picture,
Now go treat yourself to some beer or something.

P.S. Sorry, I got to run now. I will read everyone's' blogs tomorrow. Don't think I am ignoring you.

Friday, April 27, 2012

X is for Xeroxing Your Buttocks

Yes, I am breaking the Law of Blogging and writing about butts. It’s the A-Z Challenge, give me a break.

I’m here to teach you the proper procedure of xeroxing your buttocks. Why, you ask? Because I am literally at my wit’s end and have absolutely no idea of what to write about for ‘X’.

If you’re stuck in a dead-end job like me, there isn’t anything in the world more satisfying than planting your firm behind on a Xerox machine and watching the hilarity ensue as pages file out the printer showcasing your meaty goods. Don’t call me a depraved maniac until you’ve tried it! It’s essentially immortalizing your butt!
Anyway, with every lewd act, there are rules that you must abide by. Follow these simple laws of the Xerox to ensure you aren’t supervised out of the office and slapped on a black list.

Do not let your butt hole show.

Apparently this is the point where it’s considered crossing the line into indecent exposure. You can find me on a sex offender list in Zimbabwe as I was on a business trip when I discovered this interesting tidbit. To prevent such exposure, firmly clench your butt cheeks before you lift yourself upon the Xerox machine. This will ensure properly coverage of the butt hole.

Do not completely remove your pants.

Another lesson well taught when the 70-year-old secretary entered the copy room unannounced. When she promptly had a stroke, I finally realized that it was not kosher to completely remove my pants while in the confines of the office. To prevent injury to others, spare them the eye-level view of your genitalia.

Do not put your John Hancock on the printouts.

This was the camel that broke the boss’s back. Before, he could at least pretend it wasn’t my buttocks that littered the floors of every cubicle in the office. Also, the secretary had a select memory after being unintentionally flashed by me rendering her unable to pinpoint the culprit. But, my signature finally gave it away.

So, for the sake of job security, follow these laws of the Xerox, and you will be that much safer. Also, please refrain from xeroxing other private parts. Unless they’re boobies; boobies are always acceptable.

P.S. I am not actually a sex offender anywhere in the world. Also, I apologize for breaking the sacred rule of writing about butts on a blog. At least it wasn’t about poop and farts, right?

Thursday, April 26, 2012

W is for Well Equipped Wallet

I was examining the contents of my wallet today and notice how well equipped it was. Aside from my credit card, debit card, ID, and money, I have quite the array of unusual articles in it. Since I’m at a loss of what to write about for ‘W,’ I will entertain you with the stuffing inside my wallet.
Not my wallet.

Scuba Diving License

I find this form of identification extremely useful. Say a comrade of mine loses a very valuable item in the ocean such as a ring of keys, expensive jewelry, or a crystal Indiana Jones figurine. Well, all it would take me was a quick trip to the nearest scuba diving rental, a good $120 minimum, and a good 40 minute dive to come to the conclusion that my friend will never see his prized possessions again. It’s a good way to initiate the healing process.
Damn, I thought for sure I'd find that bobby pin.

Lobster License

Suppose I happen upon a gigantic lobster roaming the streets. He’s escaped from the local seafood restaurant and could fetch a good 20 bucks for his return. Without this form of identification, I would not be able to approach the fugitive; he would essentially have a government-protected restraining order against me. He may even cross the Mexican border before he encounters anyone with a lobster license. Unfortunately for him though, I have the requirements necessary to bring him to justice.
Honey, let's turn around. I don't like this neighborhood.

An American Express Gift Card with a Balance of $0

I’m walking my dog down the extremely low crime rate streets of my suburban town when all of a sudden, a masked burglar pounces out of a tanning salon/spa. He shouts for me to give him my money, but with a little persuading, I convince him that this American Express gift card with a balance of $0 actually contains $40 billion. What’s he going to take: my $4 and a piece of lint or a gift card worth $40 billion? Exactly.
Please, just take my credit card.

A Jack-O-Lantern Temporary Tattoo

For all those times that you happen upon a Halloween party. You never know when you’re going to run into a Halloween party.
Sweet tat! Come on in. The beers in the fridge.

13 Hooter’s Coupons, Good for 20 Wings for $10

This one speaks for itself. AM I RIGHT, GUYS! Yeahahahah! I’m such a loser.
That's cool and all, but where the fuck are my wings.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

V is for Ventriloquism

In my never-ending quest for shiny, golden, diamond-shaped rubies, I was scouring eBay in attempt to find tools that would prove as useful vehicles on the road to riches. However, some of the things people sell on this website baffle me. Some guy tried to convince me to buy a never-before seen screenplay written by some dude named Woody Allen for $10. Yeah, right! I'd rather spend that money on something I know will make me millions over a screenplay by some no-name.

That's when I saw it. This obviously flawed and dimwitted business man was selling a box full of ventriloquist dummies for only $499! What a sure-fire way to get rich! I've seen that comedian guy who does those things on stage with the dummies and stuff, and it doesn't seem at all difficult. I thought for a fact I could pull it off, but since I'm still writing on this blog, you already know the outcome.

I learned from a friend of mine who's a children’s performer/drug dealer that the best way to hone my skills in the way of ventriloquism is to start with a younger audience as they are too distracted by the dummies to notice that my mouth is actually the one talking. So, I ventured on down to the nearest kindergarten with my new box of dummies and offered my services for a fair price of $1,000. The kindergarten eventually talked me down to a $10 gift card to Applebee's which I graciously accepted.

I started off the performance with a goofy character I aptly named Sneezy the Clown as I aimed to interrupt the dialogue every once in a while with an over exaggerated ACHOO! I figured the children would get a good laugh at his uncontrollable sneeze spasms.
It's silly because puppets don't sneeze.
However, the children didn't react as I'd assumed. Every time I had Sneezy the Clown let out a violent sneeze, the children would burst out in tears. Damn, kids these days scare way too easily.

Moving on, I switched to Griddy the Grump. I aimed to portray him as a disgruntled, crabby old man. Equipped with a soft, plushy baseball bat, he would flail around screaming at children to get off his property.
The mustache is commonly associated with innocence.
Again, I misjudged the children's sense of humor as they cowered in fear every time Griddy the Grump moved in for a swing. Did they not realize that the bat wasn't real?

As to brighten up the teary-eyed children, I brought out my next dummy: Gilby from Planet Gigglebum. I can only describe this cute little critter as loving, cuddly, and gullible as fuck. As him any question and he'll respond with an outrageous answer.
Giwby wants a wovable hug.
I would substitute his 'L's and 'R's with 'W's as to further influence the children of his innocence. But, yet again, the children screamed and bolted for the door whenever Gilby came in for a hug.

I just don't understand today's youth. If I can't amuse kindergarteners, there's no way I'm going to draw in an audience of epic proportions. If the children were frightened of the other puppets, then good thing I didn't bring this guy into the picture. Bah, they would've shit their pants at the sight of Billy the Hedgehog.
I thought him quite dull anyway.

Yep, I managed to bang this out with 30 minutes to spare. Sorry, for the messy formatting and crap. I was busy watching the Bruins unfortunately get KO'd.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

U is for Urinal Chatter Deterrent

The pleasant resonance of a steady stream echoes throughout the acoustic alleviation station. You tilt your head back in relief as the pressure begins to subside. All of a sudden the bathroom door flings open, and a man takes the position left of you. No matter, just as long as he doesn’t— “Hey, buddy! What’s hangin’?”... Shit. Your stable torrent is cut short.

“Nothing”, you leave him nothing to work with. There’s no way he could ignite a conversa—

“Nothing’s better than something, right?” he punches your shoulder and boisterously laughs.

Oh you mother fucker. “Yeah, I suppose.” Keep giving him nothing. He can’t keep this up for too—

“Bugh,” a strange noise discharges from his face hole. “I was afraid that game was going to be postponed due to the rain last night.”

You are finally forced to give up all hope. You abscond the premises, unrelieved and unsatisfied. You’ll have to try again later.

We’ve all had these unfortunate run-ins with “Urinal Chatters.” Your body is expunging itself of harmful waste, and all it asks of you is to avoid awkward confrontation with other restroom-goers. But, even that is not easy to obtain with Urinal Chatters running amok.

However, these days of frustration and unwanted company are over. No longer will you be forced into conversation with your manhood functioning in your hand. May I introduce to you, Forced Urinal Chat Counter Operational Frighten and Flee deterrent. With FUCCOFF, you can finally enjoy a constant flow without out worry of distraction.

FUCCOFF comes in an easily concealable spray can that can fit in your pant’s pocket, shirt pocket, arm pocket, and pocket pocket. All that is required is that you remove the cap, aim the nozzle directly at the Urinal Chatter, and press down unleashing a scientific combination of habaneras, ground pepper, red peppers, bell peppers, jalapeños, and mercury into the eyes, throat, and nasal cavity rendering the perpetrator unable to speak, let alone breath.
This is a horrible example.
FUCCOFF works against such extreme cases as Urinal Weather Chatters, Urinal News Chatters, and Urinal Political Chatters. Find yourself playing therapist with an Insecure Urinal Chatter? FUCCOFF! Trying to fake laughter at the Lame Joke Chatter? FUCCOFF! Struggling to angle yourself away from the Unwavering Gaze Chatter? FUCCOFF! FUCCOFF! FUCCOFF!

Order now and you’ll receive a complimentary t-shirt:
Only one easy payment of $1 billiondy dillion! Act now!

Monday, April 23, 2012

T is for Train Etiquette

I wrote this post back in March. Apparently I was none too pleased with the commuter rail this particular evening. Pardon the rage.

We’ve all rode the commuter rail before and witnessed atrocities that would make even Satan shed a tear for humanity. So, in an attempt to deter these injustices, I present to you Chiz’s Train Etiquette List of Stuff Not to Do List Or Something.

When I’m obviously struggling to reach from my train pass because your tiny frame is somehow consuming an abnormal amount of space, please do something to help.
 Dogs are notorious for this... I guess. I don't know, Google gave this to me.
I was in the seat first, so you’re actually the imposition on me. So, close your damn legs, tuck in that purse, fold in your arms, and take a deep breath for crying out loud. Let out a fart if it will lessen your body mass. The reason I’m making these over exaggerated flailing motions in attempt to grab my train pass is because you won’t move your pretentious ass an inch to allow me to do so. The 900 pound walrus that sat next to me yesterday took up less room than you.

Don’t talk on your phone in the quiet car.
There's a reason he's wearing that glove.
I just don’t want to hear it. There’s a reason I have subjected myself to this frequently overcrowded car, and it’s not to listen to another horrible day in the life of Cindy of Winchester. I don’t care if Billy forgot to pick up the caviar for the merrymaking revelry your throwing tonight; if I hear you on the phone, I’m going to throw something at you. I won’t have control over what it is either. If a culinary apprentice happens to be sitting next to me, that fresh pot of scolding hot potato soup is going to be air-Jordan’d at your yapper.

If the train breaks down (which is a weekly occurrence) don’t you dare crack a joke out loud.
I hope Cindy's there to hear my hilarious joke.
I swear to batman that if I hear one funny man blurt out, “we must be out of gas” or “do we got a flat tire?” I am going to rip the seats to shreds while tossing innocent people aside in an attempt to reach you and pull all your stupid hair out of your stupid head. Or, at the very least I’ll tell you to not be so desperate. We’ve all heard the jokes before, and despite popular belief, when jokes aren’t funny the first time, they unfortunately aren’t funnier the next 40 billion times. Shit jokes will forever be shit jokes. If you ever happen to hear a chuckle after one of these horrible jokes, don’t throw out your shoulder trying to pat yourself on the back; it’s just Large Marge trying to get a piece of that ass. Anyway, refrain from those types of jokes for the safety of innocent bystanders because their death will be on your hands.

Don’t look at what I’m typing on my computer.
Why? Because that's what Google gave me!
YEAH GUY I’M TALKING TO YOU, GUY. I DON’T APPRECIATE THE NOSINESS (Oh, he’s reading a Chinese newspaper and probably doesn’t understand this. Ah, well you get the point).

Alright, this is just a portion of a list that’s pretty gosh darn long. So, I’m going to spare you guys my frustrations with public transportation because I’m fairly certain you’ve all had to deal with this multiple times in your life. *Calming guitar theme to close out rant*

Saturday, April 21, 2012

S is for Sleepovers and Epic Conclusions

If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been for the past few days, I’ve been having a sleepover with a new pal of mine, John Smith.

I awoke in his basement tied to a chair. I had no idea where I was so I shouted for help. That’s when I heard the door open, and a burly gentleman sauntered down the cellar stairs. After a brief discussion, I learned that Mr. Smith had happened upon my bloodied carcass shortly after being mauled by a throng of fugitive zoo animals. Being hard up on cash, he decided to what he called “kidnap” me. However, John must’ve assumed I was a kid when in fact I was an adult, even my mommy told me so. Also, I’d been unconscious for over a day, what makes him think I would want a ‘kidnap’? I did find it very kind of him to take me in and tie me to this chair to avoid further injuries unto myself, though.

After some deliberation John decided to untie me under the condition that I stay indoors and out of sight, which was perfectly reasonable as I was in pretty rough shape. Also, can you believe this jokester said he’d put a bullet in my head if I tried to leave? What a wisenheimer! Though, I know he was only concerned about my safety.

We finally got to know one another through the days. He enjoyed mapping out escape routes and conversing anonymously with strangers over the phone, and alternatively, he became accustomed to my chronic nudity complex and love of 16 and Pregnant. We eventually got to that point of palling around with each other. I would dump Cheetos on the carpet and mush them within the fibers as a practical joke. Then, John would run out of the kitchen screaming how he was going to shoot me in the head, but then I would just give it right back to him: Oh, yeah! Good luck because I’m wearing my Invisible Helmet of Arnock lvl 23! I always won the arguments that way.

Day in and day out we would frolic around the house: me causing playful mischief, and John waving a realistic-looking water gun at me. I swear to God I’m going to shoot you dead!

Then it happened just yesterday; there was a knock at the front door. John opened the door at an angle so that I could not see. What a freakin’ silly billy, but I wasn’t going to have it. I pried the door from John’s fingers, and a man who looked suspiciously similar to me stood at the front door.

“Chiz! You’re coming with me buddy!” the stranger hollered.

I motioned towards John, “who is this man?”

“Just go with him, you retard!” John snapped.

“Stop kidding around, John. This is serious!” Just then, the stranger grabbed my armed. “John! Help me! This man is trying to steal me in ofference of money or something!” But John did nothing. He just tossed a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos to the stranger and closed the door. Was he that scared of this man?

The strange man who kept referring to himself as Choz continued to drag me down the street. “Let’s go,” he yelled, “I need you to complete this challenge so I can build a time machine, blah, blah, blah.”

What in the fuck was he talking about? All I knew is that I had to escape. As Choz dragged me down the street, I noticed an approaching couple walking a dog. Immediately I had devised a plan.

I waited until we were next to the frightened couple, and I reached over, grabbed their poodle, and bludgeoned this Choz character until he was bloodied on the sidewalk.

And, that’s how I ended up here at my house! Apparently, he had been posing as me, filling my blog with lies about how “I didn’t want to complete the A to Z Challenge” or something. Of course I want to finish the challenge! Or else I wouldn’t have started it, right? Right? Right?!

Besides, you guys could immediately tell the posts weren’t coming from me due to his poor writing skills. I mean look! He didn’t even proofread any of his posts! 


Look what I came across this morning on my doorstep:
Dun, Dun, Duuuun.

Friday, April 20, 2012

R is for Ransom Note

Hey, it’s Choz of the 31st Century again. I’m still trapped in this shit era where children choke themselves to get high and adults find this noise they call “Coldplay” inspiring. I can’t stand the people here. They insistently ask me about the weather when they can simply look outside. These people are retarded!

Anyway, I found a very interesting note in the mailbox today whilst returning from Chiz’s extremely boring, dead-end job. Here’s what it read:

I couldn’t believe it! Chiz is alive! However, I knew this note was an obvious ruse to lure me into an ambush. I immediately started devising a plot to get Chiz back so that I may relinquish myself from this taxing challenge. I had almost perfected my grand scheme, when I found the second half of the note:

Well, I suppose I must venture over to this house to retrieve Chiz so that I may begin work on constructing a new time machine. ‘Til next time!

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Q is for Quantum Leap

My name is Choz. That’s only a fraction of what’s left of my memory. Lost in this foreign era, I find myself being referred to as Chiz by the native-time people despite my innumerable corrections.

The last thing I remember from my own era was volunteering to test an updated version of Apple’s iTeleport 32. I assume that a quadromolecular glitch occurred in the flangometer which triggered a quantum leap to some unknown period, but that’s only a hypothesis.

Apparently, the Chiz I’m being identified as was tragically killed by a throng of fugitive zoo animals according to his obituary. However, many took this obituary as a joke on his behalf and believe he is still alive. I’ve been attempting to blend in as to not arouse suspicion which would be easy under normal circumstances considering this Chiz guy was apparently really fuckin’ weird, but in order for me to fulfill this role presently, I must carry on a challenge he carelessly submitted himself to: The A-Z Blogging Challenge.

Now, I’ve treaded the treacherous caves of Aernoth and fought in the Sporkle Arena against a gaggle of Shark Cheetah hybrids armed with nothing but a spigaggle and shmishy-smorsh, but never in my life have I faced a challenge this taxing.

I mean seriously, these humans whom have christened themselves ‘bloggers’ have a desire to torture themselves with such difficult tasks. Fortunately, this Chiz guy’s posts are severely lacking, making this challenge a little more manageable. For Splorg’s sake! He doesn’t even proofread them! Yet, it goes without saying that these bloggers must have fingers like oxmonkeys and minds like President Clinton-3000. They don’t even have superhuman enhancements in this primitive age.

All I can pray for is that I complete this challenge as to continue to mask my true identity of Choz of the 31st Century.
Only my prettiest photos are selected for this blog.
Half the time spent on posts is the selection process.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

P is for Professor Chiz

Back in the day, I used to be an English teacher at a prestigious university. Now, to all you teachers out there, it goes without saying that we all have that one wily, stubborn student who refuses to listen to and intake criticism. For me, that student was a young Mr. William Shakespeare. I'll show you just how sloppy his work was with an example of what he considered "one of his better sonnets":

Fortunately for Billy, he had an audience out there for his unkempt work, and somehow, beyond reason, his "Sonnet 18" is considered one of the most influential poems in the world. I'd take credit for this, but he didn't even take my corrections into consideration!

Kids those days!

P.S. I was never actually a professor. In fact, I wasn't even alive in the 1500s believe it or not. Also, I actually like Shakespeare's works; I'm just sayin' shit.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

O is for Obituary

(1988 AD – 62 BC)
May we mourn this fine day as a beloved member of our community has passed. Chiz was tragically killed this weekend while attempting to scale what he believed to be a rock wall but unfortunately turned out to be a throng of fugitive zoo animals.

But let us never forget the man he was. When Chiz wasn’t smoking heaps of crack and reciting Harry Frankfurt in a loud, monotone voice to baby strollers at the mall, he enjoyed reenacting Civil War battles with carrots, celery, highly flammable substances, and live ammunition. It seems like only yesterday that Chiz accidentally remodeled his home due to a poorly placed explosive and half-eaten celery stick.

He even enjoyed donating his time at the local soup kitchen. If it weren’t for the discovery of his obsession with adding black market sloth meat to the soups, he would probably still be contributing his time to the kitchen and the many people he helped become homeless.

With his multiple personalities, he would often have many memorable exchanges with the townsfolk. We all had a hearty laugh when Chiz offered to escort Ol’ Man Diddledink across the street and then spontaneously burst into a fit of rage using his retard strength to hurl Diddledink into a mailbox. It’s like he used to say, “I put the Chiz in schizophrenic!”

His final days were most memorable when he managed to infiltrate a local prostitution ring. Although he failed to report the criminal activity, he made it easier for the police to bust the organization by bringing prostitutes to town meetings and county fairs while drunkenly shouting, “Make prostitution taxable! Will it then be legal?!”

So, we say farewell to Chiz and the many lasting memories he’s grace our community with including an uncontrollable outbreak of herpes and a radioactive, uninhabitable section of town.

P.S. I’m not really dead.

Monday, April 16, 2012

N is for Nostalgia

While perusing my room one day, I happened upon an ancient artifact I hadn’t seen in ages. I moved the 14 year old condoms and seashell collection that were disguising the relic. I picked it up gently and it erupted in a magical display of lights and sounds. On the bottom of the object it spelled out the words Lights Out.
I found it to be a challenging puzzle game, but despite the simplicity of the objective, I found myself not being able to put the dwarfish machine down. However, the longer I pounded my fingers against the rubber squares, the more I felt a sickening feeling that I was longing for some unknown thing I could not attain. The sensation got so intense that I decided to visit a doctor about the issue.

While sitting in the waiting room in the ER, I fiddled with the Lights Out. I rotated it around in my hands, smelled it, and even tasted it, searching for any signs of radiation or ancient alien viruses. The child sitting next to me tried to reach out and touch the strange machine, but I quickly reacted with a swift roundhouse kick to his upper body. He would probably thank me if he could just understand the negative consequences of physical contact with the machine.

“Chiz!” the nurse yelled. I got up and followed her into the doctor’s office. “Wait here please,” she said as she left.

Moments later, the doctor entered the room and I quickly shoved the Lights Out into my back pocket. “What seems to be the problem, sir?” he inquired while sensually donning surgical gloves. I proceeded to explain the situation to him. How I found a strange machine amidst my belongings; how I’ve had a strange pressure in my gut ever since. “May I see this relic you speak of?”  I was hesitant to show him, but I bravely reached into my pocket and pulled it out.

The doctor gasped and grabbed his chest! “Doctor! Are you alright?” I panicked.

“You fool! I have contracted your nostalgia!”

“Nostalgia?” the word alone sounded life-threatening.

“Yes! You must leave this place at once! There is no time to explain! You mustn’t spread this disease to anyone else! May God have mercy on us both!” Just then, he picked up a scalpel and started waving it at me. I instantly fled the office and sought serenity in a nearby park.

I contemplated my situation and the unknown life-threatening disease I had contracted. Nostalgia was certainly coursing through my veins, and I could feel it. Just then, I had an idea. If I could only destroy this artifact, then maybe the symptoms would disappear.

So, I raced to the nearest volcano and entered its domain. I held the Lights Out above the lengthy drop into the pool of lava. I felt my fingers loosening when I heard someone behind me.

Don’t do it! Give me the Lights Out!” I turned to see the doctor crawling toward me. Saliva dripped from his maw as he reached forth.

No,” I cried, “it has caused us much harm and must be destroyed.” In saying that, I dropped the Lights Out. The doctor flew by me and dove for it, catching it in midair as both he and the devilish machine cascaded into the lava below.

After the traumatic experience, I found that I had no longer bore the symptoms of the debilitating disease, nostalgia.

And, then I saw a dragon. The End.

P.S. Sorry I’ve been away for the weekend and haven’t been able to view comments and other’s blog posts. I will eventually get to them all. I was just having a busy weekend. Also, I ran out of reserved posts; so tomorrows post will be in the afternoon as opposed to in the morning.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

M is for Monkeys of the Finger Variety

If When I become rich, I’m not going to squander my wealth in frivolous things such as cars, houses, reconstructive penis surgery, or charity. No, I’m going to invest in an army of finger monkeys (a.k.a. pygmy marmosets). Why finger monkeys? Well, I’m going to construct a bit of a social experiment with said finger monkeys.
For science!
In my newly acquired gigantic pool purchased with straight-up cash, I will build an artificial island. I will fill the island with bonsai trees and create a self-sustaining environment complete with minnows swimming around in the pool (Those things will look like great whites to the finger monkeys. Am I right? Haha! I’m right, aren’t I? Yeah). I’ll then surround the pool in an artificial sky (You know, so the finger monkeys don’t know they’re in a pool).

Once the island of Chizopolotopialand is complete, I will herd the finger monkeys into a box and secure little bags, blindfolds, or thimbles over their heads. I will then dress in a ceremonial gown and headdress (this part will make sense in a bit). Entering Chizopolotopialand, I will release the monkeys onto the island whilst I remove their bags/blindfolds/thimbles. The first thing they will see is me in all my lavish glory donning beautiful garments and granting them the gift of sight. I will then bestow upon them sumptuous delicacies such as mushy bananas and Oreos. I will return everyday and bequeath them these bountiful nourishments, and they will build monuments in favor to my magnificence.

After a few days, I will return to the finger monkeys with miniature sweater vests. However, I will only gift these sweater vests to half of the finger monkeys and disappear into the artificial sky. They will be glorious sweater vests with shiny faux jewels. The monkeys will gratefully accept my endowment. Yet, the sweater vestless monkeys will be overcome with jealousy and begin to hate the sweater vest finger monkeys.

I’m assuming the rise in tensions will result in the creation of two separate factions. The island will be divided down the middle. After an allotted time, the monkeys will grow to respect their boarders; this is when I will bestow upon them one more gift. In the cover of night, I will deliver miniature swords and shields along their beaches. When the monkeys arise in the morning, they will discover the foreign weaponry littering their beaches and will learn the true destructive power of steel.

The finger monkeys now have the resources to protect themselves… and retaliate. Tensions will once again rise as the monkeys flaunt their newfound weaponry from opposite sides of the boarder. Further and further the finger monkeys intimidate each other, until one monkey decides to finally lash out. With the first clang of metal on metal, I will rush to the island and view the commencement of The Sweater Vest Finger Monkey War. While the battle rages on, I will have a boom box blaring this song:
Once the war is over and only a few finger monkeys remain, I will build a fulsome paradise for the finger monkeys to live on for eternity (or like 2 years or however long they live).
Yeah, something like this.

Also, I will record the results or something.

I should be banned from Blogger.

Friday, April 13, 2012

L is for Liquor

(Pronounced lik-wawr [lik-ore] for rhyming purposes)

He lifts you up when you’re feeling down,
All he asks is a lengthy pour.
Impossible to wear a  frown,
Turn to the drawer for your friend Liquor!

Think your voice is as hushed as a mouse,
Yet vocal cords strain as you let out a roar.
The cops are called from the neighboring house,
Blame it all on your comrade Liquor.

Playing poker with wads of cash,
Thought you were in with a nine and a four.
Realize what’s what and made for a dash,
But tripped and fell because Mr. Liquor.

She certainly wasn’t a real good-looker,
Broke the bank, now you got no more.
Used your expenses for a lowly hooker,
Thank your buddy! High-five, Liquor!

You mocked the gorilla in the zoo cage,
He took a swipe and removed the door.
He caught up to you and attacked with rage,
Forget the pain with your pal Liquor!

Infiltrating the mafia seemed easy enough,
Posing with bling and drugs galore.
They uncover your files and find you’re not tough,
Sit back and relax, offer up some Liquor.

Thought it’d be fun to raid missile silos,
Launch a rocket and declare State of War.
Now you dread the draft they propose,
As long as they let you bring your Liquor.

Beaten and bruised, seems like no fun,
Try to keep stable on the slanted floor.
But it’s easy to forget these horrible nights,
Grab for that bottle of trusty Liquor.

Woah! Is that bottle writing a poem? 
There's no way that picture is photshopped!

Yep, I got a little lazy with this one, but it's getting hard to keep up with the challenge. Must... drink more... epinephrine.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

K is for Knock Knock Jokes

The television emitted the intelligent tête-à-têtes of the 16 and Pregnant cast. The popcorn felt like… buttery balls between my chubby fingers… or something. I was in a state of utter bliss until I heard a rapping at the front door. I struggled to remove myself front the concaved couch and started toward the knocking. “Who’s there?” I murmured.

I high pitched voice echoed from outside, “It’s Boo!”

I thought for a moment and then came to the conclusion that I did not know anyone by such a name. “Boo who?” I inquired.

“Whatcha cryin’ for?” the voice questioned.

What a remarkable question. Why was I crying? A moment ago I was delightfully indulging in American reality television, and next, I was vocally crying out boo hoo.  I flung the door open as my curiosity got the better of me. Before me stood a young lad, roughly of the 5-year-old variety. “Who are you?” I inquired once more.

“Hutch!” The child gleefully replied.

Again, I’ve never heard of such a name. “Hutch who?” I impatiently asked.

“Bless you!” he said in such a way as if he knew the sneeze was coming. There was something horrifyingly off about the situation. 

“Please! Tell me who you are!”

“Armaggedon,” he chuckled.

What was this child getting at? His response gave me a chill as I uttered, “Armageddon who?”

“Armaggedon outta’ here!” As soon as the child answered, he began running off into the distance while emitting an unsettling giggle.

I was left completely immobile as I attempted to comprehend the situation. The child seemed to compel me to vocalize actions and thoughts without my consent. He forced me to cry, to sneeze, to recite an incomplete sentence. I had no control over his sorcery. I closed the door and bolted it shut. I wearily made my way back to the sofa as I tried to free my mind from the trickery of what was almost certainly a demon spawn of some sort.

Knock, knock.

I gripped my chest as my heart skipped a beat. I looked back to the door in horror. “Wh-Who’s th-th-there?”


C-C-Cash who?”

“No thanks, I prefer peanuts.” An animated cackle reverberated through the house.

The demon’s presence weighed heavily on me. I could feel my soul slowly slipping away from me. “Get out!” I screamed. “Get away from me you demon bitch!” I cried. Silence followed my uproar.

I had finally warded off the demon sorcerer. Or though I was lead to believe…

Knock, knock.

Dun, Dun, Dunnn, or something. The End.
Knock, Knock.
Who's There?
Photoshop Skillz
Oh, and it's my 100th post! Woo!

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

J is for Job Interview

Good work! You landed an interview for your dream job! However, you’re not quite prepared for the onslaught of perspiration-inducing questions that are about to be blasted at your face, are you? Relax. Relax. That’s what you’ve got my blog for. May I introduce to you, Chiz’s List of Job Interview Tips! Below are some tips that will help you make a brilliant first impression on your soon-to-be boss.

Grow a Mustache
So phresh.
Nothing says experience like a big ol’ bushy mustache. When you walk into the office, everyone’s going to be looking at your healthy mustache and admire your sense of style. I guarantee your future boss will be foaming at the mouth as he/she attempts to withhold his/her passionate desire to dive face first into that luscious, upper-lip mane. You will undoubtedly be receiving your desired salary as the boss is unwavering hypnotized by your manly/womanly mustache and its constant flow. 

Skip the Suit and Tie

Yes, you read correctly. Suits and ties are about as overdone as flame-broiled toast. All you got to do is show up in one of these bad boys:
I don't know, but there's something about this guy.
It says, I like to party, but I’m also all about business. Your boss will be screeching Eureka! as he/she finally gets a break from the ordinary, dreary looking interviewees that frequent his/her office. Who knows, maybe the boss will grant you blessing to wed his/her offspring. Jimmy, give that man my daughter’s number and home address.

Wear a Watch

Well, you’ll have to do more than just wear a watch. During the interview, constantly check your watch. The boss will cut the interview short thinking that you have somewhere important to go limiting the time you need to talk. Remember, the less you talk, the smarter you sound. Also, the watch will put the boss at the mercy of your time. Make him believe he comes second. That way he/she will strive for your attention and possibly even hire you on the spot.
Let's speed this up, I got an arm waxing appointment at noon.

Bring along a Joke Book
"What do you call a bee that's having a bad hair day? A Frisbee!"
This tip is necessary in case the first three steps fail to deliver (which is highly unlikely). At the first sign of disinterest, whip this baby out and unleash a tidal wave of knock-knock and yo’ momma jokes. Your future boss will be rendered speechless as he attempts to cling to life due to the utterly hilarious one-liners. 
If you believe these simple steps have helped you tremendously, feel free to send me 10% of your paycheck. Your generous donations will go towards the Chiz Foundation.
The Chiz Foundation is a non-profit organization that helps Chiz move out of his parent’s basement.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

I is for Investment Strategy

Now that the economy is regaining some strength, I thought I’d provide you guys with some tips for generating a safe investment strategy. Through carefully and arduously examining stock holdings and economic wealth guarantees, I have come up with some guidelines for secure, money-builders.

Lottery Tickets

There is no safer way to invest your funds than to purchase stockpiles of lottery and scratch tickets. Sure, people label such investments as “betting” and “gambling,” but are you truly gambling if you know you’re going to win? Look at it this way: many of you probably have a few thousand bucks saved up. If you invest all those funds into buying 1-2 dollar lottery tickets, then you are bound to win something. My positive calculations state that the odds of you winning is 113.34% or something. I forget the exact figure but, it was something like that.
Instant riches.
Invest in Cutting-Edge Ideas

First, let me warn you; do not invest in technological devices because I read somewhere that sooner or later, they are going to become obsolete since brain computers are pretty much almost developed or something like that.

Anyway, people love revolutionary ideas that remodel our lifestyles. I’m talking about investing in foolproof money-makers such as finger pillows, arm hair straighteners, shoes for your shoes, and lipstick for men. With stocks as secure as these, you are guaranteed to receive three times your initial investment.
Safest investment in the world.
Plan a Business
When you think ‘money-making business’, what’s the first idea that pops in your mind? Yep! A silly t-shirt company!

There is no easier way to rake in the dough than to print silly animals saying even sillier things on t-shirts. To help you get started, I have a few ideas for t-shirts:
Original designs by Chiz.
With these simple ideas to get you started, you’ll be running out of stock within the first week. Therefore, I suggest you at least supply yourself with a minimum of 40 thousand plain, white t-shirts.

You are most certainly welcome for this guaranteed investment strategy. Feel free to donate any of your earnings as thanks for my generosity.

Monday, April 9, 2012

H is for Hooker

I occasionally go fishing, but it seems that every time I go, I have trouble hooking my line.

One day, I finally decided to see someone about my issue. I consulted a friend of mine, Billy, who seemed to have no problem hooking up seeing as he was constantly bragging about it. When I visited him, he seemed to be preoccupied with watching lewd videos on the internet; so as to not waste his time, I skipped the small talk and flat-out told him: “I’m having problems with hooking up.”

He stared at me for a brief moment, then handed me a card. It read Chet’s Brothel. I assumed ‘brothel’ was a fishing term of some sort. “Excellent,” I added. “Just as a heads up, should I be using any specific line?”  I asked Billy.

“No need for a line,” he replied. “Just tell him I sent you.”

No line? I guess Chet will provide me with one. “And, I’m assuming I should bring my rod along?” Billy just stared at me and chuckled. I thought it was a silly question to begin with. Of course I should bring my rod. How else would I learn to hook my line?

Billy resumed watching his erotic films, and I headed over to the corner of 13th and Catch with my rod. I wandered back and forth along the sidewalk, but for the life of me, I could not find the place. I finally caved in and asked the kind-looking gentleman smoking a Pez dispenser next to an alleyway where I could find the brothel. The gentleman looked around, and then pointed over his shoulder, down the alleyway. I should’ve expected a fishing shop to be low-key. There can’t be a high demand for fishing supplies in the city.

I ventured down the alleyway and walked down a corridor to my right. The place probably didn’t get a lot of business because it appeared that they were barely affording their electricity with all the flickering lights.
I finally reached the end of the corridor and opened the door. A heavy stench wafted through. It smelled like fish; this must be the place. 

I walked up to the man at the front desk and requested help with hooking up. For some strange reason he was eyeing my rod in a curious fashion. The man told me he had a variety of hookers. They all had strange names: Lola Lickletter, Scarlett Buhdamn, Portia the Portly Praying Mantis. However, there was one that bore the name of a true hooker, Wendy The Wide-Mouthed Trout. If any of them knew much about fishing, it was sure as hell her.

He showed me to her office, and I walked in. She was sitting on a bed in the middle of the room in a bathing suit, as is custom with fisherwomen I presume. I inquired about hooking up, and without warning, she pounced off the bed and attacked me. She tried tearing off my clothes! I reacted quickly and whipped her with my fishing rod. She finally backed down, and I bolted out of the brothel.

To this day I don’t know what set this crazy woman off. Perhaps she was so insulted that a rookie fisherman such as I disgraced her brothel with such an embarrassing inquiry as hooking up.
I don't know. Just go with it. Everyone gets one... or two.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

G is for Gum Control

We’ve all been there: sliding our hand along a wall or reaching under a desk and feeling that solidified wad of spit-absorbent known as chewing gum. Needless to say, this horrific event oftentimes unleashes a ferocious flood of regret and despair as we contemplate amputating our hand to cease the spread of perhaps damaging germs.

I believe strict laws should be implemented to deter run-ins with these monstrous injustices. I demand some Gum Control!

Why can’t we all chew gum to counteract the assaults over other’s landmines? Because that will obviously increase the chances of endangerment. The more people chewing gum, the more prone we are to gum violence. Pretty soon the streets will be littered with landmines; you won’t be able to take a step without someone putting a wad of gum between the treads of your shoes. You’ll probably have to buy tread-less shoes or something.

That’s why I stand behind the banishment of all gum and such related violent chewing materials. If there’s no gum to be chewed, then gum on shoe violence will be extremely rare (statistics say even less so for gum on hand violence).
We must protest! Bring the children along!

We’ve succeeded in outlawing gum and related chewing materials from the U.S. We are victorious! No longer will we have to live with the fear that a piece of gum is awaiting us around every corner, door, and back alley. Let the treaded shoe market reign supreme!


Unfortunately, due to the banishment of gum and related chewing material, children and teens have resorted to illegally purchasing homemade gum. This homemade gum (known as Glum on the streets) has claimed the lives of several American citizens due to the ingredients it’s processed with. Glum’s three main ingredients are cat feces, poison, and gum. I am deeply sorry for the loss of any family members or friends due to this heinous illegal substance.

The Gum Control Initiative is hereby abolished. Gum and related chewing materials are now free to be sold in stores with the proper licensing.

Don't hurt yourself trying to read into this. It's not a political statement.

Friday, April 6, 2012

F is for Flirtatious Dog

So, I have a slut for a dog. Many people would refer to him as a Shiba Inu, but I see through his façade. He’s a no good, filthy harlot.

Whenever I’m home alone with Pogo, he has no problem jumping on my lap and receiving a good head scratch. However, the issue is when others are around. He instantly turns into an attention-seeking slut. Despite how I beckon his name, he ignores my call and prances around the room like he’s some sort of marvel to gawk at. Where was this dog a minute ago before everyone arrived? Oh, we’re not worthy of your greatness! Get over yourself, Pogo! I hope you get around to reading this and feel like a little skank!  Yet, regardless of his obvious display of narcissism, people actually give him the attention he wrongfully deserves. He struts across the room with his curly tail perked up; flashing his anus to everyone he passes. How can they not see that he’s using them?

Recently, I caught him licking a person. He was slowly caressing her leg with his tongue. If it weren’t for my intervention, he’d be jackhammering her leg until it fractured.

Later, after everyone had left, he put on the same ol’ front I’ve seen a million times before and tries to get cozy with me. It’s like he had no recollection of how he just acted. How he treated me like a peon far below his empire of pats and compliments. He then tried to win me over my licking my hand, but I pulled away. I’m not falling for his deception anymore.
Yeah, that's me trying to make my dog look slutty.
Now, I’ve got a rash where he managed to sneak a lick on my hand. I’ve scheduled an appointment at a clinic, but there’s no use; I already know it’s herpes contracted from that girl he was slobbering over.

Unfortunately, we’re still not talking. He’s still acting like he has no idea what he did. Pogo’s playing his oh-so-common dog-card. He thinks that he can play stupid because he’s an animal, but I know he’s realized the error of his ways; he’s just too stubborn to admit that he acted foolishly.

Here’s hoping he eventually breaks.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

E is for Easter

They herded us like cattle to the starting line. I was almost nudged beyond the dedicated point, but I persistently held my ground. There’s no telling what would happen to me should I stumble beyond the starting line before the preliminary signal. Would I trip a landmine? A bullet to the head, perhaps? I couldn’t think such things. My only focus was to bar back the onslaught of impatient opponents.

The judge began counting down. 5… 4… My heart felt as if it were bursting through my chest. 3… 2… The sounds of children being crushed by the overwhelming crowd made me shutter. 1! …And so began the 74th Annual County Egg Hunt.

 I was frozen in fear, but the flood of edgy children forced me onward. I advanced at a steady sprint. The battlefield erupted in violence as children were nearly decapitated by flailing egg baskets. I found myself leaping over trampled opponents barely clinging to life. The numbers were growing thin as I moved farther away from the pack.

It wasn’t long before I spotted the first objective: a shiny gold egg approximately 25 feet northeast. I adjusted my course in line with the dormant egg. I reached the egg and leaned over to collect the prize. I hadn’t lifted the ball of plastic an inch off the ground when a rival child pounced on my arm. I shrieked in pain as my opponent was visible attempting to amputate my appendage. It must have been through sheer adrenaline that aloud me to lift the child up and smashed him into a tree. I nearly vomited when I heard the horrific snap of his spine fracturing, but there was no time to wallow in regret.

Before long, I had gathered a hearty bunch of eggs. I took a moment to study the landscape. Children lay bloodied on the tear soaked soil. I saw a mother attempt to aid her child whose head was lodged in the handle of his basket.

Another hour passed, and I heard the gun shot signaling the end of the hunt. I bolted back to the finish line with my hefty collection of eggs. I was almost home free, when I heard footsteps approaching from my flank.  Bam! I saw stars as I collapsed to the ground. It took me moments to recuperate. That’s when I saw a child pilfering my scattered eggs.

NO!,” I shouted as I tackled the child to the ground. I pinned him, and I raised my fist. Before I could rain down a fury of fists, my opponent unleashed an Indian burn the likes of which I had never witnessed. I launched myself backward to escape his grip. He was already in route to deliver a final blow. That’s when I saw the boulder lying next to me. I quickly gripped the rock and flung it at the child’s face. Blood spouted from his nose as he immediately let loose a tsunami of tears. I collected my rightful prizes and continued onward to the finish line.

The eggs were counted and counted once more. It was unanimously settled upon, and I was crowned victor of the 74th Annual County Egg Hunt.

And that is the story of how I was the first 23 year old to ever win the County Egg Hunt.

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