To the four fans that read my humble blog, I apologize. I've been busy consuming numerous adult beverages thanks to the fine people at Financial Aid.

It seems life has a taken a turn for the better in Y2K Dogg's life. He has recently become a sex symbol. How you ask? Simple. A steady diet of beer seems to attract the women like flies on shit. Or it could be his sudden attainment of a large stash of money. Or it could be the fact women are attracted to a piece of shit. Anyway, what seemed to be a gift from the ever funny Diety has only created more problems in the Dogg's life than he wants. Oh the problems of being a good looking piece of ass.

So for anybody that wants this, I do not wish it upon them. What's a guy to do when girls are throwing themselves at him when he's only known the company of slightly overweight males whose only interest is to get drunk and amuse themselves? Whatever. The summer that was deemed "The Summer of Love" certainly turned into that, although not much love was made due to Special K's desire to remain a "nice guy." I wish I had the mentality to just use the poon and move on, but it doesn't work that way. And for this, I blame my parents. Fuck you dad for being the nicest guy I know and passing that quality onto your son. Fuck you mom for saying I can have anything I want and then actually getting it (except for the million dollars). Fuck both of you for the morals you instilled in me. I hate you. You've ruined my life. Well, at least the sex aspect of my life. What to do?

Fuck it. I'll see what happens. Let's hope my dick doesn't rot off. So, until next time (more than likely six months down the road), I'll sign off. In the words of Jimmy Dugan, "Avoid the clap."

Sadly, I lived to tell about it. It turns out Europe is pretty nice, except for the jet lag, communication barrior, and smelly Arabs. The highlight of my trip was drinking 4 bottles of wine and 5 beers in Aviano, Italy, by myself, while my sister was saving the world. I also had the opportunity to view "Hackers" for the first time. I figured since the situation was already pretty shitty, I might as well have another reason to hate Mattew Lillitard. That guy is a fucking tool. Do you realize how pathetic your life is when you're getting shitfaced and watching "Hackers" IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING ITALY! There were a thousand things I could have been doing had my sister not been at work. But no, the ever present diety named God decided to toss some more shit in my direction in the form of boredom, Italian wine and Matthew Lillitard. Fucking christ.

While there, I visited Rome, Zurich, Paris, Frankfurt, and London. Rome was alright but too fucking touristy. That may sound odd, but it's true. I fucking hated being in that goddamn tour bus, looking like a fucking moron with the fucking little headphones jammed in my ears. And the traffic is fucking retarded. I swear to god these fucking morons were born with three brain cells in their fucking heads. No wonder we're the fucking power of the world; our opponents are fucking monkey's. We went to the Vatican, which was a mistake. It was cool to go to the smallest country in the world but it fucking sucked ass taking the tour of the Sistine chapel. For the first ten minutes it was fine but people just fucking crawled through the place. The tour lasted 2 and a half fucking hours! The only thing that made it tolerable were two Americans behind us. We spent most of the tour making fun of the stupid Europeans. The Sistine Chapel was alright for two seconds. I figured out why they make textbooks: because you'll break your fucking neck trying to see the "works of art." Some of the shit in there I could have painted on the shitter blindfolded with my big toe. You also don't have to deal with tourists. I fucking hate tourists. This was also the first place we dined on Chinese food. Why did we eat Chinese food everywere? I don't know.

Next we went to Zurich on the overnight train. The stewardess was a fox and her lack of English skills made me want her more. I could just imagine her at my house in Fargo, yelling at me, nude, in some nonsense language, but since I wouldn't be able to understand her, I would point to stove. She would take that as a cue to bake me a pie. But aside from that vaguely mastabatory thought, it was really cute watching her try out her English skills on us. The ride there was fucking gorgeous; large, rocky mountains that scaled higher than our view would allow; nude women frollicking across snow covered fields, beckoning me towards them; quaint (for lack of a less gayer word) houses dotting the countryside. Switzerland was really gorgeous. Zurich was a nice city, but we only were going to be there for one day. We walked around the town and ate in our second Chinese resturant. It was fucking expensive. I think I spent like 35 fucking euros on that fucking meal and I didn't even have any fucking beer. Goddamn gold diggers.

Next we went to Paris. I fucking hate stairs. The Arc De Triumphphphph had like 225 stairs to the top and that fucking blew. The walk down was even worse because all the stairs started looking the same and I almost biffed it. Fucking French. On the way out we encountered the Chinese mafia. A Chinese couple asked us to buy them a handbag at some store and I didn't see any problem with it so I said sure. My sister was pissed off because she hates Chinese people. Actually, she smelled a rat. I, in my naive ND wisdom, didn't see anything wrong. We went into this trendy, gay, purse store and it looked like it was a fucking haven for Chinese people. It was like flys on shit. So I pointed out what I was sent in to buy and the lady looked at us and explained that the money we had on us was from the Chinese mafia and to go and give it back. This pissed Meg off so we did and she stewed for the next hour. I finally yelled at her and told her it's not liked they asked us to buy a fucking gun; it was a fucking handbag. By then we were at the Eiffel Tower. What pisses me off almost more than Mattew Lillitard are the fucking Arabs trying to sell you stupid little Eiffel Tower trinkets and post cards and plastic flying birds and shit like that. So we had to run that fucking gauntlet just to get to the tower. I had the last laugh, though, when a fight erupted amongst the large group of Arabs. I couldn't tell what was going on because they all had on those stupid umbrella hats they were trying to sell and there were plastic birds whizzing overhead like planes over Bagdhad. Anyway, the fight didn't last too long because they would have lost their privalge to sell there and since they had one green card between 40, they would have deported back to their war torn country. The French were actually probably the politest people we ran across, which surprised me. We also ate at our third Chinese resturant in Paris.

We then took the overnight train to Frankfurt. This time we had to share a cabin with two dirty, stinky, drunk, Arabs. Most time, it probably would have been pretty funny to be in there, but due to the fact we had slept for about two hours since we embarked a couple days before, it wasn't. Coupled with the fact Meg hates Arabs, it was a bad scene. Actually, Meg, doesn't hate Arabs; just meat eaters. Anyway, we left and ended up spending the night in a cabin with some chick from Amsterdam. Sleeping on trains sucks.

Frankfurt blew because we just hung out at the airport. Plus in was in Germany. And Meg hates Germans.

From there we flew to London. We were so fucking tired from being on the go that shit didn't sink in. We took the obligatory tour on the bus but cut it short because we were fucking bushed. We got our tourist pictures then headed back to the hotel room and spent much of our stay in London watching the war coverage. We ate Pizza hut. How fucking pathetic is it when someone goes to Europe and they eat fucking pizza from America? Fucking christ. I am one pathetic bastard.

So then we went back to Italy, Meg went back to saving the world, and I went back to the US. The only thing of note on the return trip was there was a hot black stewardess so I kept my Toni Morrison novel in play view. She noticed and then she took me into the bathroom and screwed my brains out. Actually, I just took advantage of the free booze and sat through "I Spy." What a fucking shitty movie. At least it didn't have Matthew Lillitard in it. Fucking shithead.

Good children,

I'd like to say goodbye to everyone. I will be flying to Europe tomorrow and I feel this will be the last time I see you people alive. Let me explain.

My life blows donkey dick, and I feel that there will be a bad ending to my trip. I have narrowed it down to these four options; you may choose which one has the greatest chance of happening. Email me with your prediction by tomorrow afternoon and I'll see if I can't make your prediction come true. Of course, there will be no gambling on my life. Gambling is illegal outside of Nevada or a reservation. I think.

Option One: My plane goes crashing into the ocean on my journey there, but I do not die. Oh no, I am the lone survivor. While I thank my lucky stars for surviving an airplane crash, I get eaten by sharks.

Option Two: My plane goes crashing into the Eiffel Tower, making me a martyr for generations to come. And a nice stain in France. I don't know which one's better.

Option Three: My sister and I are walking in downtown London and purchase a cup of Starbuck's coffee when the coffeehouse explodes, killing me and wounding hundreds of others. The Hama's will claim the bombing.

Option Four: I enjoy Europe, leave without incident, then, when flying into Fargo, the landing gear goes out. Somehow, everyone survives except me, the lone casualty.

Whatever option plays out, at least I'll know that I went out with potential. I don't want to be 35 and still dicking around, working at gas stations and calling myself a writer/muscian/professional masturbater. So farewell good people, and wish me the best on my way to death.

There is a chance I'll get back alive, and for that, I'm sorry. As my friend Jason said, it would be pretty anticlimactic for me to come back alive since I've been talking about dying since I got tickets. So, anyway, maybe I'll see you guys when I return. If not, shit happens. Boo-yow.

People,

In a moment of clarity, I'd like to announce that my shitty band's website is up and running. It is located at http://ministersofagony.com. Please check it out and see how stupid we are. Peace out.

Okay, I've been busy as of late (ie, drinking, not keeping up with school, blah blah blah), so here's a bunch of shit.

The session summary with O'Conner, Betsy, Martinson, and the other two I didn't really know didn't shed any new light into my writing. Like I said, I'm a terrible English major and I don't think anything that these writers could tell me would help my ill English skills. I enjoyed listening to them talk to one another because I had class with almost all of them and enjoyed them as teachers. Betsy seemed to think to be a really good writer you need to be happy while Martinson thought being depressed was a better way to go. I agree with both of them because some of your most serious writing occurs when God (if there is a God) takes a big fat shit on your head. But I also think to write something with great clarity takes happiness. But everybody's different so different shit works for different people. I don't think either way works for me so I continue to drink heavily.

My research report is non existant because I don't know what the fuck I'm going to write about. I haven't really been thinking too much about it because I'm in Astronomy and I fucking hate that class. I devote most of my energy towards hating the fucking teacher because he can't teach shit. I hate Astronomy, Physics, and the fact Mattew Lilliard is still alive.

I failed to make it to either of the readings because I was busy sitting on my ass at Tesoro selling gas and other merchandise to stupid people. Some dumb bitch asked me how much her total was about 13 times within 30 seconds. After gaining this information 13 times, she asked if she could write her check out for more. I told her yes then she asked what the total was. I wanted to blow my brains out. Fuck stupid people.

That's all I've got right now. I haven't showered in two days so I'm gonna go scrub my balls now.

As a practicing alcoholic, I'm not up to par on a lot of shit. Was it just me, or were we supposed to do a fiction piece on eating snow? Oh well, here's the original "Eating Snow."

First of all, I never knew there were so many goddamned stairs in this building. It felt like we were walking down them for ten minutes. Secondly, I knew I would be the one dude eating the snow sitting on top of dog shit. Thankfully, that didn't happen. I ate the snow and went inside. I experienced no rebirth of my spirit, no closeness to a higher power, or no calming feeling coursing through my body. I just felt relief that the snow I ate wasn't sitting on top of dog shit. Then I found myself longing for an elevator in sight.

Okay, I'm fucked up right now, but here's "Eating Snow, Part Deux."

"Fucking bitch," Chris muttered, slamming the door. "That fucking no good slut fuck fuckface fuck!" He adjusted his coat.

The snow that had started falling lightly earlier had picked up and the flakes were the size of quarters falling from the sky. Chris turned from Mary's house and looked forlornly down the sidewalk. He sighed and began the long trek home.

i'm too fucking young for this shit, he thought. I'm 22 fucking years old and I don't need to get shit on by chicks. Am I just a magnet for shit? Someone drove by and splashed a combination of salt, sand, and cold snow on his left leg. Spectacular, Chris thought, his question answered. Fuck. He cast his eyes up to the sky, glaring hard.

He spent the next three blocks trying to comvince himself that it wasn't his fault; the goddamned bitch was at fault. She was fucked in the head, as are all women. But even he knew that it was his fault. Fueled by Captain Morgan's, a few friends, and his hormones, he licked and pawed his way right out of a good relationship . Absently, he tried catching a snowflake in his mouth.

I want to remember the time, he thought, when cathcing a snowflake on my tongue was fun. As he thought, he spied an empty baseball field to his right. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking and entered the field.

He stood on the pitcher's mound and with one final glance, he fell on his back in the snow. He began to make a snow angel, complete in earnest.

In trying to catch snow flakes in his mouth and in making a snow angel, Chris almost forgot about his problems. The fact his girl troubles (which was his fault), his credit card payments were late (again, his fault), him failing two classes at the local college, and his shitty job (McDonald's fucking blows), all melted away like the snowflakes he caught in his mouth. Smiling, he stopped his making his snow angel and watched the snow fall gently to wear he rested.

Catching snowflakes one at a time only seemed to wet his appetite for a time of complete innocence. He rolled over on his stomach and licked a large amount of snow with his tongue. He swirled the snow around his mouth, packing the snow in between his teeth. He felt the snow making his teeth grow cold, slowing melting away and he felt all of the problems he had at that moment melting away, until he focused on the spot he licked the snow from. There, laying in the area he just sampled innocently, was the biggest piece of dog shit he'd ever laid eyes on.

Chris realized right then and there, after vomiting up the Taco John's he had had ealier, that no matter what he did, good or bad, he was never going to escape the fucking shit that was his life.

Poop.