My 6 AM Delirium

Well, it’s 6:18 AM, I’m still awake, and I feel a little delirious. If I’m being honest, I just want to write to see what will come out of this lil tweaked out mind right now. So go ahead brain, do your thing. You know? YOU KNOW?

All right, yall, let’s hit it. First of all, screw essays. No, actually. Ok this may sound a little weird, buuuuut… I like writing essays! I said it. I’m not afraid to admit it anymore. I’m thinking about going FB official with essays, but she essaid that she’s not ready for the commitment. I said, “What’s wrong, ese?” and she said “I just don’t think of you that essway.”

Essay puns! You ever think about the fact that “friend zone” rhymes with “end zone?” That’s weird, because being in the endzone is awesome, cuz you either just scored a touchdown or you’re using a dirty euphemism. BUT being in the friend zone is worse than having scalding hot knives shoved down your throat while crocodiles nibble at your genitals.
I think in football, they should replace the “end zone” with the “friend zone.” It would be the same rules. Every time you get into the friend zone you get 6 points, but then for the rest of the game, a really attractive girl will follow you around complaining about her boyfriend, wishing she could “just find somebody nice.” That way, when you get a touchdown, you win the game, but do you really win? Really? You may have scored, but you’re not gonna score. WHOOOOAAAAAA! Boom shaka laka, yall!

Boom shaka laka?
I believe it’s time for bed.

One more thing. Chapstick is a name brand lip balm, BUT how did they come up with that name? I like to think that way back in the 1800’s, during cowboy times, when men wearing leather chaps wasn’t gay, there was a monster. It would get inside your chaps and eat away at your skin. It was called “the chaps tick.” Then, a brilliant man by the name of Jaison DeQuanda (I don’t know who invented chapstick, but I’m assuming that was his name) invented a special moisturizer that you could put on your legs after the chaps tick did his dirty work. It was called “chaps-tick-stick.” Then, in another brilliant marketing move, they invented a superbug to combat the evil chaps tick. He would eat chaps-tick-stick and track down the chaps tick, and kill him with chaps-tick-stick. He was called the Chaps-tick-stick-tick. His name was Rick. However, soon he realized his own potential, and started squirting his chaps-tick-stick into tubes and selling it. And that’s the story of how Chapstick started!

Good night everyone!
It’s still technically dark, don’t judge me. 

Nessie Knoll

Note: this blog is not funny at all.

So, from what I heard, Nessie Knoll died one year and one day ago. And it has hit me hard. It has hit me extremely hard. Partly because she is the first person that I've actually had some kind of connection with that has died. But I think it's mostly because I respected her so much when she was alive.

I just got back from a walk around the block. I saw my friend's status on Facebook saying that Nessie Knoll died a year and a day ago, and immediately I started crying. I don't mean like a few tears. I mean BAWLLLLINNNN! Ok sorry but seriously tears were shooting from my face like a waterslide. I could not stop the tears from coming. I had friends over, so I decided to take a walk, and along my walk, I was making noises I had not heard myself make in my entire life. Noises of pure, 100% grief. And I thought "Why is this happening? I hardly knew Nessie!"

I hardly knew her. Maybe the problem is exactly that. She's gone, and I hardly knew her. I went to Del Dayo elementary school with her for 6+ years, and still I can honestly say I hardly knew her. I think that's part of the problem. I'm crying because I will never ever get a chance to know her. I've seen her facebook photos, and she seems like a really cool person. She does gymnastics, and from what I saw of her in elementary school, she had amazing potential. Were she alive today, I am sure she would be in the olympics some day.

But she's not. She's gone. Which horrifies me. What if I die before I achieve what I know I'm capable of? She had so much potential, and neither she nor the world got to see what she can achieve. It's horrible. And that is why I'm tearing up as a write this. All right, tearing up is an understatement. I have literally wiped off my keyboard 3 times since writing this.

So I'm crying. I wish the world could see her amazing potential. The worst part is, I imagine how her best friends feel. Those people who trusted her, who could confide in her anything. And all of a sudden that amazing feeling of trust and companionship is gone forever, and there is nothing they can do to get it back. I can't even imagine how that feels, and I never, ever want to experience it. So, best friends of Nessie, if you are reading this, I am sincerely sorry for the horrible loss you have experienced. I hardly knew her, and tears are streaming from my face, so I can't imagine what it's like for you. I wouldn't wish this pain on anybody. I'm sorry if this made it worse, I just felt like I needed to express how I felt, since a few people were staring at me strangely for crying right after a party.

This may not be the best blog ever, but it's the best I could do, and I hope it does justice to the wonderful person that was Nessie Knoll. The world misses you, and hopefully your soul gets reincarnated in the form of Michael Phelps. You honestly deserve it. Also, Happy 21st birthday. I wish that you were here to celebrate it, but I promise you, I took a shot in your honor.

R.I.P. Nessie Knoll

So I decided...

...to write! I guess you've figured that out by now, and if you haven't, then that's really weird, because you're reading what I'm writing... Anyway, here's some general musings by Monsieur Eric James Barger the first.

1. I'm celebrating no shave November at the moment, and here's a few reasons why I'm thinking of giving up. It looks like somebody shaved off their pubes, rubbed my face with superglue, and then threw their cup of pubes on my face. Ok, yes, that actually happened, but still, that's what my face looks like even when that doesn't happen.
Why does it look like that, you ask? Well, despite the fact that my dad looks like Gandalf dumped a bottle of rogaine on his face, I can hardly grow any facial hair. There are 12 year old girls that look more manly than me right now.
But, of course, there are a few hairs that peek out, just to say, "HEY, THIS CHIN IS DISGUSTING!" They're not long enough to warrant shaving, but long enough so that everybody notices that my face looks like cat vomit.
So, yes, I am single, just in case you're wondering.

Here's another musing:  BALLOOONS!
I literally had the best party ever this weekend. For 3 hours straight, my housemates and I blew up balloons, occasionally pausing to let the blood come back to our heads. But what happened next will blow your mind (lonely island reference). EVERYBODY STARTED HAVING SEX!!!
Not true. BUT our entire living room floor was coated with balloons. Anywhere you tried to walk, there were BALLOONS! Look inside my fireplace, THERE WERE BALLOONS. Look on the couch, THERE WERE BALLOONS. Look inside my butthole, THERE WAS A BALLOON, but that was the next day when I got my prostate examined. Should I ever find out how to use my god damn Droid and upload a picture to here of all the balloons, I will. But until then, I will simply end this blog with a quote from my favorite author.

"Pain is weakness leaving the body. Pooping is poop leaving the body. In my case, pooping is blood leaving the body. " - M.C. Hammer

Film 20P "Study of a Space"

 Frame within a frame

 Decontextualization

 Foreground, midground, and background

 Just a good picture

 Another just normal picture

Uses depth of field

The Poop Store Pt. 2

 READ PART 1 FIRST!

The work went by as usual. Charlie went about making calls to his poop suppliers, making sure the shitments were set to deliver on time. But he felt on edge. When would the Poopypoop evaluators show up?
Oddly enough, right as he thought that, two large suited men wearing jet black sunglasses entered the office. They looked better than most of the people working in the cubicles, because their pristine suits weren’t covered in poop stains, and from their slick black hair, Charlie could tell that unlike most people in this office, they weren’t required to use the store’s special brand of “ShamPOO.”
They walked from desk to desk, writing down notes, using a large pen that looked like a lumpy turd. Charlie tried to focus on his work, but found his palms were sweating, and he kept typing in “pee” instead of “poop.” At last, he just gave up on working altogether, and waited for the two suited men to come his way.
“Charlie Peepeepants?”
Charlie took a deep breath, and turned to face the two suited men. “Actually, it’s Dr. Charlie Peepeepants,” he said, extending a shaking hand and faking a smile. “I got my bachelor’s in poop studies at Brown. We called ourselves the Brown Poops.”
“Interesting, Dr. Peepeepants,” said one suited man, not looking up from his clipboard. “Well, I’m Number One, and you can call this man Number Two.”
Number Two nodded his head.
“Let’s get right down to it, Dr. Peepeepants. You know you are up for the position of… what is that?”
He pointed to the jar that Charlie had received hours earlier. Mister Penis was still inside, trying to claw his way out.
“Oh…that’s my penis… I mean, that’s Mister Cat… I mean, er…” Charlie said, stammered.
“You know that company policy forbids bringing cats to the office, Mister Peepeepants?”
“Doctor Peepeepants.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely important right now,” replied Number One, still not looking up from his clipboard. “As I said, cats are not allowed in the office, correct, Number Two?”
“Yes, Number One. The only animals allowed in the office are iguanas, orioles, cardinals, scarab beetles, and zebras if their belly is less than 70 inches in circumference.”
“No cats.” Number One at last looked up from his clipboard, and lowered his sunglasses to look Charlie in the eye. “No cats seems like a pretty simple rule to follow, Mister Peepeepants.”
“Doctor Pee-“
“We need somebody who’s going to comply by company code, Mister Peepeepants. If you don’t follow the rules, then you’re simply not Diarrhea material.”
“I think we need to go, Number One,” said Number Two.
“Yes, we should go, Number Two,” replied Number One. They turned around in unison, and Number One said, “Now, does anybody have a stapler I could borrow?” 
Hoping to save grace, Charlie shouted, “I do! It’s right-“ and then he realized what had happened. John Fartbutt had managed to sabotage Charlie Peepeepants. He had set Charlie’s house on fire, stolen Charlie’s beloved cat, and threatened to kill Mr. Penis. And by making the deal, Charlie had not only broken one of the major Poop Rules, but had effectively given John the only thing that might save his opportunity for promotion, his stapler.
“I’ve got a thtapler!” said John, standing up as if on cue, and he smiled right into Charlie’s eyes. Charlie felt the hatred fill his body. John Fartbutt had ruined his life. It was all an elaborate plot concocted by John, in order to get the Diarrhea Manager job.
“You son of a bitch!” he yelled at John, standing up in rage.
“Mister Peepeepants!” exclaimed Number One. “Sit down!”
“I’m Doctor Peepeepants, and this asshole set me up!”
“Charlie, thit down, now,” John said lazily.
“NO! I will not just sit down and take this! I…I fire myself!” Charlie yelled in outrage.
“You mean you quit?” Number One asked in a mocking tone.
“I didn’t know that that was what it was called!” Charlie screamed. “Now, if you don’t mind, Mister ‘Diarrhea Manager,’ I am going to take Mr. Penis, and leave!”
John looked at him, smiling. Number One and Number Two stared at him, blank-faced.
“All right! Well… I’m leaving!” Charlie grabbed the jar awkwardly, and after a quick glance around, he stalked out, Mr. Penis in a jar under his arm. He fumed as he heard the conversation between Number One and John as he left.
“So Mister Fartbutt, is it?”
“Yeth, thir.”
“That’s quite the stapler you’ve got. Is it strong enough to staple the femur bone?”
“Yeah, you want to see the wound?”

The rest of the story writes itself. John was promoted, and from the looks of this letter, had continued to be promoted, right to the top of the Poop Store company. Charlie moved in with his mother, a woman who had coated every wall in tinfoil, except for one wall, that was instead covered in toilet paper, because “it smelled like grandpa’s poop.” He got a job as a pizza delivery boy. Ever since he quit, Charlie had longed to smell poop just one more time. But the poopy scent was long gone from his nostrils.

Could it be? Could Charlie possibly be about to smell the fantastic smell of farts and poop once more? Or was this another one of John’s tricks? Charlie didn’t know how John could possibly ruin his life more, but he knew John, and knew that John Fartbutt could always have something up his sleeve. He stroked Mister Penis, who had died 2 months ago, but still had the softest fur.
“What do we do, Mister Penis? Should we go? What’s that, Mister Penis? I should go and get my revenge on John? Bring a knife? Oh, good idea!”

So John showed up at the Poopypants Hotel Lobby on the designated date, a maniacal smile now on his face. He opened the double doors to the lobby, and met… darkness. The entire room was dark, except for a stool in the middle of the room. A single lamp hanging down from the ceiling illuminated the stool. Sitting on this stool was a small white envelope. Charlie looked around. What was going on?
He expected something to happen: somebody to jump out at him, something to fall from the ceiling… but nothing happened. The only thing apparent in this room was the mysterious envelope.
Charlie approached it cautiously, ready for anybody to jump out, for Ashton Kutcher to appear and say he was being Punk’d. But silence dominated the room.
“Screw it,” said Charlie, and casually walked over to the envelope. In scrawled writing on top of the envelope, it read “C.P.” Charlie Peepeepants. Charlie reached down warily, and noticed his hand was shaking. He picked up the envelope. It was unsealed. Inside was what looked like a piece of graph paper. Charlie pulled out the slip of paper, and it was, indeed, graph paper. And in scrawled writing, the note read:

“Charlie.
When you read this, I will already be in Madagascar. Don’t attempt to contact me. But if you really need to I’ve put my contact information in this letter. Anyway, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry that I set your house on fire. Also, if you were confused about the doorknobs, I rubbed ice all over them to sterilize them. Anyway, I didn’t mean for you to get fired. I just really wanted your stapler. I didn’t think you would get fired or anything over this whole thing. Sorry. I hope this makes up for it.”
Charlie felt a small weight inside the envelope. He looked inside, and found a small brown lumpy object. It couldn’t be.
He lifted the turd out of the envelope, staring at it in awe. If this was what he thought it was, Charlie was rich.
He looked at the bottom of the turd, and carved into it were the words, “Certified ‘Poop Store’ turd.”
John had given Charlie the most valuable asset of Poop Store industries, a single turd. Charlie sniffed it, and knew it was true. The poopy smell of a Poop Store poop filled his nostrils, and Charlie breathed it in deeply for the first time in years.
“Thank you, John,” Charlie said, his eyes closed. John had not meant to sabotage Charlie. John had only wanted a stapler that could puncture his femur.
Charlie grabbed his turd firmly in his hand, tucked the letter in his pocket, and headed out of the hotel.
He nearly cried. He once again felt like a true Piece of Shit.

The Poop Store Pt. 1

Warning: the following contains immature content not suitable for readers age 8 and up. 

It had been years since Charlie’s last trip to The Poop Store. Yet here he was, a man of 40 years old, sitting on a lawn chair in the middle of his living room, holding the invitation to the “Perfect Ornamentation Of Poop Store,” or “P.O.O.P.S.” The Poop Store would christen their store as they had done every year, by inviting the most elite members of the town to hurl fecal matter at the windows of the grand store. As Charlie had learned during his duration as Poop Deck Manager at The Poop Store, this process was referred to as “Ornamentation.” Thus, the title, “Perfect Ornamentation Of Poop Store.”
Charlie wiped away a brown stain in order to read the last few words of his letter.
“…and while attending this grand event, you, Dr. Charlie Peepeepants, will officially re-gain entrance into the Poopy Club, and will re-gain your title as an official ‘Piece of Shit.” We sincerely hope that you are able to attend, and we look forward to seeing you again.

Sincerely yours,

John. H Fartbutt, CEO of The Poop Store, President of the Poopy Club

Upon reading the name of the signer, Charlie inhaled in surprise. How could that snake, John Fartbutt, be CEO of The Poop Store? John Fartbutt?! It was not possible. How had he gotten away with it?

Years ago, Charlie Peepeepants and John Fartbutt had been competing for a managerial job. Charlie remembered John vividly. John was the kind of person that wouldn’t exactly make it into the country club. He was stocky and skinny, but his head extended almost completely out to his shoulders. As several co-workers had said, “he looks like a walking spoon!” He had greasy blonde hair, which had a different color piece of denim in it every day. He wore a red sequined cape every day, and often swished it around, proclaiming that he was going to disappear. His nose was crooked, and he spoke with a lisp, and a southern accent, even though he claimed to be born and raised in South Africa.
But that wasn’t the oddest part of John Fartbutt. The oddest thing about him was his jar. On a desk in his cubicle, there sat a large, clear glass jar. In January 1995, it had been empty. By February, it was halfway filled with a red liquid, with little green chunks of something floating in it. One day, Charlie had walked by, and curiosity had overtaken him. He asked, “John… what’s in the jar?” Without looking up, John said non-chalantly, “Bats.”
A long silence had ensued, with John casually punching in numbers on his keyboard. Without saying a word, Charlie walked away from the cubicle over to the urine cooler.
So needless to say, John Fartbutt wasn’t the most likeable person in the office. But despite all these traits, Fartbutt had been promoted to the same level as Charlie, in half the time that it had taken Charlie. A new promotion had opened up: the highly coveted position of “Diarrhea Manager.” Charlie knew he would need to get this promotion if he ever dreamed of becoming Regional Supervisor of Poopstains. So needless to say, John and Charlie were forming a bit of a rivalry.
All of his friends, even Sally Vaginapoop, the most skeptical of Charlie’s friends, had said that Charlie was a poo-in for the job. So Charlie had tried not to get too angry when John sent him derogatory faxes, and viruses on his computer. John knew the only way to beat Charlie was to somehow sabotage Charlie. Now, this was a comforting thought to Charlie. John would never get the job, unless he sabotaged Charlie’s life. And Charlie liked to think he knew John Fartbutt, and sincerely believed that John would attempt no such thing.
Charlie did not know John Fartbutt.
He awoke to the sound of coughing. He smelled smoke. He was sweating in his posture-poopic bed. It felt like it was 100 degrees in his room.
His house was on fire.
He threw his sheets off the bed, and dashed to the bedroom door. He checked the doorknob to see if it was hot, because he paid attention in kindergarten. Oddly enough, it was as cold as ice. Charlie stopped for one second to think about how this was physically possible. But he had no time for that. He rushed downstairs, and called out, “Mr. Penis?”
Mr. Penis was his cat, his cat who had travelled with him everywhere. When Charlie had moved to Atlanta, then relocated to Cleveland, then relocated to Toronto, and then once again relocated to Atlanta, and then relocated to a small broom closet in Little Rock, and then relocated back to Atlanta, Mr. Penis had been his only friend throughout the journey.
“Mr. Penis? MR. PENIS??!” Charlie cried out in desperation. But no luck. Charlie did not hear the familiar hissing and growling that usually occurred when he stepped into the living room. There was no time. Mr. Penis would have to save himself. Charlie sprinted towards his front door, and grabbed the metal doorknob. This one was icy cold as well. Charlie stopped dead, and turned to look at the fire behind him. It was dangerous, but Charlie was perplexed. How could the doorknobs be icy cold? Honestly, it made no sense.
He shook it off and sprinted out the door, coughing and sputtering. The smoke was spewing from the house, obscuring Charlie’s vision, but even with his eyes tearing up, he distinctly saw a shape skulking away through the haze. It looked like a walking spoon.
Charlie knew that he could not miss the next day of work, when the Poopypoop evaluators would be coming around, and judging each employee based on Poop Sales, Poopy Product Placement Allocations, and of course, customer service. He knew at once what was going on. John Fartbutt was attempting to make Charlie miss the one evaluation that just might push him to the top. “Well,” thought Charlie, a tiny bit of wet poop slipping out of his butt, “that’s not going to happen.”
He rushed back into the burning house, and sprinted upstairs. He grabbed his best suit, and his most soothing lube, and ran back downstairs, coughing. He burst out of the house, feeling triumphant, and headed to the neighboring “Pooooooooop Hotel,” not even waiting for the fire department to arrive and put out his house.
He showed up at work the next day, furious. He stormed over to John’s cubicle, and was about to start screaming, when he suddenly noticed John’s jar.
It was no longer filled with red liquid. Instead, it was pristine and clear, with one writhing animal inside of it. It couldn’t be…
“Mr. Penis?!” Charlie exclaimed, in shock.
“Yeth, Charlie, it is Mr. Penith,” said John, swiveling in his chair to face Charlie.
“Is he…?”
“Alive?” said John with a menacing smile on his face. “Oh, yeth, quite alive. But… that could change at any minute.” He held up a syringe filled with the red liquid that had previously filled John’s jar. Upon noticing Charlie’s shocked look, he grinned threateningly, and said “You didn’t really think I was keeping bats in that jar, did you?”
“I…I…” Charlie stuttered.
“Bats are a solid object. I was very clearly holding a liquid in there. Bats are not made of liquid. I was not holding bats.”
“Yes, it’s not about… the bats…” Charlie said, confused.
“Did you honestly think that that liquid was bats? How could a liquid be bats at all?”
“We didn’t… it was…”
“Well it wasn’t bats.”
“I understand it was not bats, John.”
“It was poison.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t bats. It was poison in my jar.”
“Ok, I understand that.”
“Bats are not liquid. Poison can be in the form of liquid. The liquid was not bats. It was poison.”
“I understand that, John!”
“And I’m going to kill your cat with the liquid poison.”
“I figured as much, John.”
“Unless of course, you’re willing to make a deal.”
Charlie paused, his eyes narrowed. He was feeling thoroughly frightened and equally frustrated. John had acted odd before, but now, with his red sequined cape shining like the devil at a gay bar, he looked especially evil.
“What do you want, John?” Charlie said, his eyes still narrow with suspicion.
“You know what I want, Charlie.”
“The Diarrhea Manager job.”
“No. Your stapler.”
Charlie was dumbfounded. “My stapler?” he asked quizzically.
“Yes. My stapler isn’t strong enough to puncture my femur, and I’ve noticed that yours is bulkier than mine, and might be able to poke through my leg bone. What do you say?”
Charlie was ridden with confusion. “You only… want my stapler?”
“Yes, Charlie. Like I said, I want to stab a staple through my femur. Just your stapler.”
“Well...” said Charlie, perplexed. “Ok, I will take my cat… and give you my stapler.” He walked back to his desk, staring at the Poop Carpet, trying to figure out John’s actions. He grabbed his apparently amazing stapler, and walked back to John’s cubicle.
“Put the stapler on the table,” said John with authority, staring at Charlie’s hand. Charlie slowly put the stapler on the desk, and carefully reached for the jar containing his cat. John looked up and smiled, something purple poking out from underneath his lips. John did not break eye contact with Charlie as Charlie grabbed the jar, and slowly backed away from John’s cubicle.


Stay tuned for part 2!

I'm Back!

Hey there world! I know all you loyal followers have been anxiously awaiting the next installment of Monsieur Eric James Barger's blog, so consider yourself lucky! There were many that I was thinking about posting, but I decided that maybe I should save my readers from having to read them. Here are a few titles of blogs I was going to post, but wisely decided not to.

Rectal bleeding

Top 10 reasons why I'm considering becoming a door-to-door potato salesman

The story of Poopy McTamponface

Top 20 places to shave your eyebrows

Chicken nuggets in my pillowcase

Man, I am tirl;alkejfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff (I fell asleep on the keyboard while writing this one)


Why you should replace water with vinegar in your diet

Clearly, these would not have made good blogs. So the point is, I haven't had any good ideas for blogs lately. Honestly, I didn't have a good idea for this blog either, but I have homework to do. Procrastination is often the best inspiration. For instance, once I was working on accounting homework, and I had the amazing inspiration to stop working on my homework. And you know what, thanks to that moment of inspiration, I wound up blowing off my homework and watching 30 Rock all night. So I think you get my point.

Seriously, I am the worst focuser ever. If it's for a class, I can't focus on it. Seriously, I was reading this article that said "We only retain about 25% of..." and I don't really remember the rest. But I remember reading it and thinking "Man, I wish there was a chipotle in Santa Cruz." It really hit home for me.

I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. If you read this whole thing, I love you. If you skipped to the end, then that was stupid, because the end isn't funny. So stop reading.