Matt Kelley is Great.com

Do you have an Indian Spirit Guide? 

I don’t. 

Sometimes I wish that I did because then when I was lost I could just ask my Indian Spirit Guide to tell me where to go.  Like if I were at the grocery store and I couldn’t find the cucumbers, I would ask my Indian Spirit Guide and he would tell me that they were in the produce section.  I suppose that’s not a very good example though.  Everybody knows that cucumbers are in the produce section. 

I guess I would have to figure out better places to have my Indian Spirit Guide lead me to.  I should ask him where the best all you can eat seafood place is.  Not everybody knows that.  I think I could learn a lot from an Indian Spirit Guide; especially in an all you can eat seafood environment.  I would be much more relaxed in an all you can eat seafood restaurant and I think he would too.  Then I could ask him the really important questions; the secrets of the universe questions.  Once we are both comfortable, we would both loosen up a bit.   

At first we would make small talk and I’d order a moderately priced bottle of wine.  I’d pour his glass for him.  He would talk about his kids and how he became in Indian Spirit Guide.  I would listen intently and throw in little jokes here and there.  The Indian Spirit Guide would smile coyly at my jokes.  I’d know I had won him over by then but before I could ask the important questions, we’d have to get some of that all you can eat seafood. 

I’d get some lobster tails and the Indian Spirit Guide would get lots of crab legs.  I don’t know if you know much about Indians but they love crabmeat.  Love it. 

We would eat too much food and fall asleep.  When I’d wake up the check would be paid and the Indian would be gone.  All my questions would be answered. 

Wow.  What a gay blog.  Like literally gay.  Why do I seduce my Indian Spirit Guide with all you can eat seafood in my imagination?  Perhaps that’s one of those questions I should ask him.                 

I’m thinking about buying a gun.  Not really for any specific reason.  I just think it might be fun to have one around the house.  You know, just in case I need to shoot something for some reason; like if the Dave Matthews Band ever tried to break into my house, or if I couldn’t find the remote control for some reason.  Everybody runs into frustrating situations now and again and it would be nice to have a gun around to deal with those situations quickly and irrationally. 

Plus, it would be a good conversation piece.  I would probably keep my gun on the coffee table so everybody could see it when they come over…especially if the Dave Matthews Band ever came over.  They would know that Matt Kelley isn’t a dude that the Dave Matthews band can fuck with.  When people who aren’t the Dave Matthews band come over, they’ll be all like, “Sweet gun, dude” and I’ll be all like “thanks.” 

Having a gun would probably help my street cred too.  Not that it needs a lot of help.  I think most people know what a bad ass mother I am. 

The gun is really the next logical step.  I’ve already mastered the nunchucks, the ninja star, spiked club, halberd and the crossbow.  The gun is pretty much next in line.  I don’t think it will take me that long to master the Art of Gun.  It’s going to be a lot harder once I graduate from the gun and get a bazooka.                    

I hate to be the one to have to break this to you, but someday Weird Al Yankovic is going to die.  He just can’t live forever.  I’m sure we all wish that he could but I’m afraid that death catches up to all of us eventually. Even if you are Weird Al. 

You’re probably freaking out right now. 

You’re probably all like, “Oh my God he’s right.  Someday Weird Al is going to die.  What am I going to do?” 

I’m sorry but there’s not much you can do.  Not even Weird Al can elude the Grim Reaper.  It sure seems like he could but when it comes down to it, Weird Al is just a man.  He’s not magical.  I know he seems magical because of his delicious musical parodies and angelic voice but he’s not.  He’s just a really really tight dude. 

So, we know that Weird Al is going to die someday.  Maybe not everyone has accepted it yet but I have and I will wait for others to join me.  When the others finally take that step out of the closet and accept the fact that Weird Al is going to die, I will be there for them. 

Death is a natural part of life and when Weird Al finally does die (hopefully many many years from now) I hope that we will not dwell on the fact that he is dead but instead focus on the memories we have from when he was alive.  Until then, take care of yourself Weird Al.  You will be greatly missed when you are dead.    

Big Jim was the baddest-assest Lumberjack in all of Alberta.  When he walked through the forest, all the trees trembled in fear of being chopped to bits by Big Jim’s mighty axe, Stephanie. 

When Big Jim saw a tree that he didn’t like the look of, he would say to Stephanie, “Ho, ho, ho.  Looks like it’s time to make some furniture.” 

Stephanie would never laugh of course.  She was an axe and axes don’t laugh. 

Big Jim was happy with his life.  He would wake up every morning and eat 10 pancakes and a pound of bacon.  Then he would strap on his boots and head into the forest to chop down trees.  The simple life of a Lumberjack was all Big Jim needed.  It was all he ever wanted.  There was only one problem…Big Jim was always being raped. 

Yep.  Raped. 

Not in a metaphorical sense either mind you.  Big Jim was literally being raped physically.  Two or three times a week Big Jim would wake up with his underwear on inside out and his asshole would be pulsating with flashes of pain.  Big Jim could never recall anyone raping him.  He lived alone in a cabin miles away from his nearest neighbor.   Somebody was raping Big Jim and he was going to get to the bottom of it. 

One morning Big Jim woke up and sat down to his usual breakfast of 10 pancakes and a pound of bacon.  When he sat, he knew that last night had been one of those nights.  One of those rape nights.  Big Jim was angry but what could he do?  He continued to eat his pancakes.  Just as he was finishing his last piece of bacon, Big Jim noticed a note written in asshole blood posted on his refridgerator. 

The note read “Stop Chopping Down the Trees”

It wasn’t the words on the paper that sent Big Jim into a berserker rage, it was the asshole blood with which the note was written.  Big Jim would know that scent anywhere.  It was his own asshole blood.

Big Jim grabbed Stephanie and sprinted towards town.  In all his years as a Lumberjack there was only one person who had ever protested him chopping down the trees.  That person was Greg “Wiggles” Wigglerston, the local hippie.  Wiggles ran a small book store and was always there.  Big Jim fanatasized about dismembering him as he ran into town straight towards Wiggles book shop. 

Wiggles was reading some pussy ass book about nature when he felt Big Jim’s size 15 boot hit him in the stomach.  Wiggles was at first surprised but then terrified as he saw the 7 foot Lumberjack in front of him shaking in anger.

“So you’re the one who’s been raping me,” Big Jim screamed. 

“What are you talking about, man?” the hippie replied. 

Big Jim showed him the note but Wiggles denied ever raping anyone.  He explained that it was way out of character for him.  He would never rape anyone.   

Big Jim wouldn’t listen.  He took Stephanie in his hands and chopped Wiggles into pieces.  By the time he was done, all that was left was a piece of Wiggles hemp bracelet.  It no longer smelled like patchouli in the book store.  It smelled like blood.  Big Jim thought his problems were solved.

When Big Jim went to bed that night he thought everything would be ok.  Nobody saw him come into town and murder the hippie and best of all nobody would be raping him that night.  Big Jim was wrong. 

About halfway though his slumber Big Jim awoke with his head in the pillows and his ass in the air.  It was happening again.  Somebody was raping him right then and there.  Big Jim was almost afraid to turn around to see who was doing the deed but he wasn’t that scared. 

Big Jim jumped up to see who was raping him but when he turned around, nobody was there. 

“Hello,” he said. 

Nobody spoke.  Had he imagined all this?   

Big Jim reached around to his ass to make sure nothing was there.  When his hand reached his backdoor Big Jim made a gruesome discovery.  His axe was jammed up his arsehole.

“Stephanie?” Big Jim asked. 

“Yeah, it was me,” Stephanie the axe said.  “I’m made of wood dickhead and now you’re going to go to jail for murdering that hippie.”

Big Jim broke Stephanie in half and threw her in the garbage.  The next day the cops took Big Jim to jail.  Big Jim would never be raped again.  Oh no, in jail, he would do the raping.                

I don’t tweet. 

I just can’t bring myself to do it.  Not just because it’s incredibly popular right now (although that does help me to stay away from it) but because it’s evil.  Twitter is making people dumber…or should I say more dumber.    

I’m all about giving the people out there a voice to share their thoughts, just not all of them.  In fact not even most of them and especially not anybody who can’t spell or use grammar properly.   It’s a bad habit for society and I fear that it’s getting worse.    

All the abbreviation and shortening of words is not a good thing.  It’s AOL speak on steroids and it’s sweeping the world like the bubonic plague.  Not using full words makes you sound stupid and when you send those half-words to the news or information websites via your twitter account it makes them look stupid.  Maybe I’m all alone on this one but I think the people that run these news shows and websites have a responsibility to weed out this abuse of the English language. 

I mean, I don’t think the people in charge of these things got their jobs by misusing verb tenses and spelling words incorrectly.  In fact, quite the opposite.  I think they got their jobs by not making these mistakes. That’s why they bring us the news.  That’s why we haven’t had the opinions of some 15-year-old suburban high school girl mixed in with our news until now.

Now every idiot with a cell phone has as much power to deliver information as Wolf Blitzer.  Not that I’m a big fan of Wolf Blitzer or anything. I’m just very anti-idiot and unfortunately, they all have cell phones.  Spelling things right and using good grammar is hard and that’s why the people who know how to spell and can articulate information are in charge of distributing the information.  At least give me the illusion that I’m not living in a country full of idiots.  Let me live out that one fantasy. 

The problem is that people just don’t care.  Everybody wants their opinion heard and they don’t care how it looks.  Everyone in the universe thinks their thoughts are so important to the rest of the world that they must immediately express them in 130 characters or less via their twitter account. People want to feel important.  They always have.  However, by doing this, they are quickly making everbody less important at an astonishing rate.  Once everyone has an equal share in the information pool, nobody is important. 

Where does it stop?  How long will it take before we start talking in Twitter speak?  Once we are conditioned to expressing ideas in under 130 spaces who’s to stop us from saying N. Korea instead of North Korea.  How many people do you know now that say OMG instead of oh my god?  I can already think of a few.   It’s already started.   

Ok, so I know I’m not perfect either.  I make spelling mistakes and grammatical errors on here too but believe me, if I had the time, I would search through this blog with a fine toothed comb to fix any mistakes I might have made.  I know they’re in there but I rarely go back and read what I’ve written.   It’s mosly just ranting. 

And Twitter isn’t all bad.  I just wish people would keep it local.  Tweet if you ‘re thinking Arby’s or if you’re looking for somebody to go see Fast & Furious with. I just don’t want Brittany from 7th period study hall giving me her thoughts on the war in Afghanistan on cnn.com.  Twitter is merely a bug I have not yet caught and I am sure that much like the bubonic plague, it will infect me soon.                    

Life’s not really so bad, but sometimes it can get you down.  There are a few things in life that if changed could definately make things better.  Like your job for instance.   I hope that someday you will find a job doing something you like that pays you a decent amount of money.  That would be nice, right? 

Or it would be nice to not have to deal with the cold so often.  That probably won’t happen in this town, but hey, it would be nice.  It would also be nice to own your own house and car.  It would be nice to be able to afford the time to own a dog too.  Man, that sure would be nice.

It would be really nice to spend more time with your friends or people you love.  Just thinking about that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.  Geez, that would be nice. 

If you got to take a vacation to somewhere new and exciting, that would be pretty nice.  If you rented a ridiculous car like a lambourghini or a ferrari on said vacation, that would be quite nice too.  Then if you got real drunk and drove the fancy car into a wall and didn’t have to pay for it, that would be nice as well. 

It would also be nice if you remembered that in your drunken rampage, you accidentally hit an old lady with the fancy car, but when you went back to the scene of the crime the cops had not yet discovered the body.  That would be nice.  Then it would be nice if you buried the old woman in a shallow grave and nobody ever found her.  Swell.   

It would be super nice if after some time passed, you realized that you were never going to get caught for running down that poor defenseless old woman.  Then it would be nice to know that you could do it again. 

It would be nice to start kidnapping random people off the street and using them as slaves to build a shrine to your God of the Underworld, Xerzacs.  It would be nice if none of them ever escaped and it would be really nice if at the time of the shrines completion, Xerzacs revealed himself in his true form, a jackyl. 

It would be nice if Xerzacs was eternally grateful for freeing him from his prison dimension and he offered you eternal life.  Not likely, but still nice. 

It would be nice if you could get rid of all the evidence (aka the slaves)  by burning them and it would be nice if you made a pile of their skulls and stood atop of them laughing a manical laugh.  It would be nice if Xerzacs placed your throne upon his right hand and gave you the earth as your own dominion to do with as you please. 

It would be nice if you enslaved all of mankind and made them build huge towers out of their own bones where you could reside peacefully with that dog you finally have time for. 

Man, that sure would be nice.        

Brothers and sisters, I have a dream. 

I have a dream in which people live together in peace and harmony.  Humans are kind to each other and not a single person goes without food. 

In this dream, there is no hate, no anger, no fear.  Children of all color and nationality play together in the streets without fear of harm and poverty is a subject of which they know nothing.     

I have a dream for all these things brothers and sisters, but most importantly, in this dream I do not have to have a job. 

That’s right my brothers!   

IN this dream, I will casually find a briefcase full of money laying on the sidewalk.  Enough cash not only to pay for my rent and meals for the rest of my life but also enough for me to buy a fancy sports car and a month long vacation to somewhere in the South Pacific twice a year…every year. 

In this dream I save a wealthy man’s life and he showers me with riches.  He sends me evelopes full of cash on a monthly basis so I can afford to buy Xbox 360 games and weed.  I don’t ever have to visit him. He just sends me money.  When he dies, he leaves me his not only his flourishing business and his multi-million dollar home but also his priceless coin collection and fancy jewelry.  I have a dream that his spoiled family will get nothing.       

In this dream, I will have no boss barking orders at me.  I will have no deadlines to make.  In my dream I work at my own pace and only on projects I care about finishing.  Yes, my brothers and sisters in this dream I am actually in control of my own life. 

In this dream I win the state lottery and have enough money to buy an island off the Florida coast. 

In this dream I am hit by a car only to receive minor injuries but instead of being grateful for my health I sue the driver for a shitload of money. 

In this dream I am Hugh Hefner’s sole heir and when he dies (next year) I not only get all his money and a sweet ass mansion but also all the girls that he owns too.  

Brothers and sisters I have a dream.     

I don’t know what the deal is lately, but dogs have been barking at me a lot.  I gotta say, I’m not down with it.  Normally, I am a friend to dogs.  I like dogs a lot.  Most of the time they are friendly buddies. 

I’ve had 3 incidences in the last month where dogs have just started barking at me and trying to get me.  I don’t know what I did to make dogs mad, but it’s not cool.  They are totally pissed at me and I don’t know why.  All I want to do is pat them on the head and feed them snacks.  Why they gotta be all barking at me and shit?  If you are a dog and you are reading this, please quit barking at me.   It makes me feel bad. 

I saw this dog in the hallway at work yesterday who was just chillin out.  I said hi to him and he completely ignored me.  No reaction whatsoever.  I thought about trying to pet him or giving him a pat on the head, but he didn’t seem to be interested.  I sure as hell didn’t want him to bark or snap at me so I just left him to mind his own.  I was totally bummed that I missed the opportunity to pet a dog. 

Me and dogs used to be tight.  Whenever I would get together with dogs, we would have a grand old time.  We would sniff stuff and roll around and lick things.  Well, usually they would lick things.  I try to only lick food.  Now dogs don’t even want to hang out.  They just want to bark.  That’s totally lame.  That would be like if I just started yelling at a dog whenever I saw one.  It’s just rude.   

Why are dogs mad at me?