Brilliant x 5000

In a previous version of Able2Know, users' overall level of participation could be assessed by a little bar beneath their avatar and, above that bar I believe, a title designating where in the hierarchy of time-wasting the users fell. Upon their reaching certain milestones, say 1500 posts, the bar would increase, and users' ranks would change from, like, "Miserable Waste of Skin," to "Shogun," or something like that.

But reaching 5,000 posts and earning the label of "Veteran Member" was like the equivalent of being Bar Mitzvahed and ****. Is that acccurate? I'm Irish Catholic. We have no real ceremony to mark adulthood (Confirmation?); you're grown-up the first time you orgasm without feeling totally shitty about it. But I digress. For years I toiled as a pathetic "Seasoned Member." Hell, for most of this morning I was a Seasoned Member.

BUT NOW I'VE PUBLISHED THIS POST AND YOU CAN SEE THE DIFFERENCE.

According to that now abolished system, I am a Veteran Member. So when you see the pitcher of Kool-Aid on your screen, you are in essence seeing a wizened man with a receding hairline but long locks in back, tattoos on his formiddable biceps, in a wheelchair, a plaid blanket across his lap. A Veteran.

In honor of this occassion I have perused the voluminous backlog of retarded **** I've posted over the years. Can I tell you something? This was a humbling experience. Allow me right now to apologize for everything I published before 2007. Lame. What's that? You don't like anything I published after 2007? **** you.

I'm well aware my contributions amount to--I'll use a metaphor here--a single drop of diarrhea in an ocean of champagne. Others often leave a thread I've sullied worse in mind and spirit than they were before they encountered me. My observations of Homo sapien sapien's foibles are admittedly not very original. My arguments are porous and lazy. My temper rivals Setanta's. Thing is, I crack myself up. Which is the worse part. It compels me to post on.

Okay. My ego is exhausted (yeah right!). I'll end this self-tribute with a 25-post retrospective. Enjoy. Or shudder. Whatever, as long as I get a reaction.

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

In the joint, the best way to shank a bitch is to first challenge him to a friendly push-up contest, something that requires physical exertion and will wear him out. Then you come up behind him with a shoelace. What I'm saying is, I'll kill that tranny for three packs of cigarettes.

Smoking makes people want to have sex with you. Because it's cool. This is one of the first things I'm going to teach my kids. God I love cigarettes.

Sex is a special, almost mystical sacrament to be shared between a man and a corpse.

At the risk of having my--and I consider them elevated--tastes called into question, I must say that I rather enjoy that one television commercial advertising some kind of salve for genital warts, where tiny animated, pulsating, green, purple, and red genital warts dressed like court jesters and wearing spiked cleats are laughing hysterically as they jump up and down on a cartoon scrotum. Then, suddenly, above them appears an index finger coated in the salve. It is extremely toxic to them, and they burst into flames, shrieking like devils before they turn to ash. A thumb replaces the index finger, giving the "thumbs up" to genital wart sufferers nationwide. Classic.

Until giraffes accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, they are doomed to perennial electrocution on the African plains.

Women: can't live with 'em, can't get 'em to have sex with you. Am I right fellas?

Know what would be totally awesome? If your house was a gun. Like, if you just lived inside of this giant freaking gun! No one would ever try to break in and steal all your guns. Why? Because they, or at least every man still living in his mother's basement, would have too much respect for you. Why shouldn't they? Your house is a gun. And you'd get tons of chicks you could "bang" (get it?) on your super-radical gun-bed. This is such a good idea!

I Democrated the Democrat out of your mother last night. I mean, I rammed my Democrat right up her Democrat, and she was like, "Oh, Democrat, that feels so Democrating good!"

What is the color of world peace? That's my favorite color.

I'm going to offer you a tip, H20 Man, that I think will clear up a lot of your confusion and alter the manner in which you use A2K from here on out. When you hit "reply," the text box in which you then type is not some sort of "magical truth converter." Like, you can't just type in a bunch of bullshit, post it, and then expect it to come true. That's not how it works. Check it out: the Beatles are getting back together. I just typed that and posted it. And you'll see that the Beatles will not, in fact, get back together. Same goes for posts where you simply say something like, "McCain is going to be the next President," or "Palin is qualified to manage a K Mart." Posting that over and over will not help their ticket. This isn't like Purgatory, where you can get someone into heaven by saying enough prayers for him. I'm not trying to insult you here, but I think even Palaeolithic man came to understand that painting a buffalo on the inside of a cave would not actually cause one to appear.

I'm a third-string poster. When the game is already out of hand and the crowd wants the awkward novelty player with the funny nickname out on the court, I check in. Often, I don't get my hands on the ball. When I do, I lay a lot of bricks. Every now and then, nothing but net.

I've learned a lot over the years, but I was recently shocked to find that some women prefer the penis to be erect during intercourse. You gotta tell us these things, ladies! We're not mind readers. Am I right fellas? LOL!

Nine months later, a stork will deposit your child at your doorstep. Unless the two of you decide on an abortion (), which will require you to assassinate the stork midflight.

I fail to see how Barack Obama's race or religion has anything to do with your mother's loose morals.

Thus ensued the most spirited of spontaneous snowball fights there ever was. In the woods I cornered her at last (I suspect she let me), and just as I thought our lips would meet, she ducked and fled again. O, mynx, most impudent hussy, for you I would devour each star in the galaxy until I farted rainbow puppies! I have no idea what that means. From there we skipped from house to house, a-wassailing. And as the hour grew late, we sipped hot cider spiked with cinnamon sticks, at the local Starbucks, where in the men's room a homeless gentleman was having an argument with his feces. We parted at her doorstep. Come Christmas I hope to find her there, under the mistletoe. That goddamn bitch of a tease.

Wait, are we talking about consensual phone sex?

Ted Nugent swinging across stage in a loincloth--that pretty much breaks the gay needle on the "homograph."

Republicans are to government what Rainsoft systems are to water filtration.

My response would be, "Darling, I look dashing in this sombrero, red unitard, and these downhill ski boots. Any further objection from you and I shall go to bed wearing this outfit. Meaning you will not enjoy the privilege of intercourse tonight. Now let's go, or we'll be late for the funeral."

What I'm saying is, if you smell like burgers, women will assume you're in the food service industry. And if they discover that you are in fact part of the fast food industry, prepare for the burden of nonstop sex. Sure, it sounds great, but perhaps you're familiar with the story of King Midas? I tell you, I was drowning in a tumultuous rapids of french fries and vaginas.

Here's a fairly cryptic question I often hear mid-coitus and which I'd like you folks to help me interpret: "Is it in yet?" Guys are girls have such different ideas about sex. What is she really asking me?

I have a very strong feeling, and I am usually right about these things, that Sarah Palin’s next stop is Dancing With the Stars. And how many second careers has that show launched? She'll be...oh ****, I feel another hunch coming on...the new Oxy-Clean spokesperson, as that one loud guy who used to do 'em recently choked on a hotdog or got crushed by a garage door or something like that. On the other hand I could see her becoming some sort of recurring character for, say, Dominos ads. You know, like they used to have the Noid? I could see Palin as the Noid II, trying to steal good hardworking folks' pizza and ****. Everyone will be like: "That Palin', she sure likes her some fuckin' pizza."

Now, what do you think the connection is between sex and the tiny people that crawl out of women's vaginas?

When this A2K ends, our internet personas simply turn off, like television sets. Yet such an end should inspire us to do good for good's sake, and for each other, rather than as a personal investment in some after-forum. However, I do not rule out virtual reincarnation. To quote Voltaire: "It is not more surprising to be born twice than once." The virtuous among us are destined to return, here, as enlightened souls, as a Sozobe or Thomas. While the licentious and corrupt are doomed to be reborn as a, well, as a Gargamel.

A stripper who doesn't take her clothes off is like a...Clydesdale who doesn't **** during the Circus Parade.