It's a nine mile walk from the office to the pumps
Sometimes you think you're gonna drop
In the end you're filthy dirty, horny, and pissed off
And before you can leave you gotta sweep the fuckin' shop

It's a real real bitch to be workin' for the man
But shit, I do it well, so what the fuck
I could probably wash dishes at some other fuckin' dump
But it's all the same to me, bustin' ass to make a buck

So read 'em up and stick 'em
Pump that fucker good
Some woman down on Main Street needs a jump
Get your fingers outta your ass
And pump some faggot's gas
And think about how bad New Hope sucks

And it's a piss poor life when the ladies fire you up
And then you check their oil and know you're fucked
'Cause no one wants a loser who works for 5 an hour
Smells like gas, looks like shit, works in the rain and rude as hell

Now I can fix a tire like Hurricane Melinda
I know that I'm the best for what it's worth
So if I choose to help you don't look like you expect it
'Cause it's a gift that God gave me at birth

So read 'em up and stick 'em
Pump that fucker good
Some woman down on Main Street needs a jump
Get your fingers outta your ass
And pump some faggot's gas
And think about how bad New Hope sucks, woohoo!

in my cold dead heart: amused thrashing to: once again, "Pumpin' 4 the Man" by Ween

What a bizarre past couple of days it's been - but I guess that's what I get for disturbing my predictable little bubble and hanging out with Brodie's crowd. Only that tricky motherfucker could take a perfectly normal day at the mall and turn it into an anal mindrape. I'm still in mild shock that the Bruce/Graves family is gonna be one step closer to taking over the media world. I may as well spoil the news for everyone else - my fucking cousin is in the process of finalizing his contract to be host of the Tonight Show. We're talking about a guy who, like me, lives in his mom's basement, exists on a diet of corn syrup and partially hydrogenated soybean oil, and would choose pop culture over sex with his girlfriend most days of the week. They have made this man the voice of late night humor in America, folks. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Kinda had a fun time with everyone at the diner, though. Apparently T.S. and his chick Brandi are getting married after graduation, and they even got it in their heads to invite me and Dante. T.S. wants to marry her on the Jaws ride at Universal Studios - the most romantic thing I have EVER heard, hands down, no question. I think I'll try to finagle a way down there just so I can witness the sheer awesome novelty factor. Besides, I hate people...but I love gatherings, as some of you may already know. Gwen Turner was definitely my favorite part of that particular gathering (and has continued to assist my other favorite part ever since).

Sometime during the evening Dante and I visited Julie Dwyer's grave. I'm convinced that her death has acted as some sort of cosmic magnet for change and entropy, but I need more proof. Her ass was mostly fat because the rest of her really wasn't. She always looked strangely out of proportion to me. Didn't stop Dante from hittin' that, of course.

To conclude, I think Jay and Silent Bob have built robot doubles of themselves and are preparing global takeover as we speak. Do you think they have a secret underground lab, and if so, is it under the Quick Stop or the video store?

whereabouts: strapping on my hockey gear in my cold dead heart: hyper thrashing to: Ween - "Pumpin' 4 the Man"

Getting laid is a good thing. I recommend it to all you sorry mooks.

More later. I'm in serious need of a shower.

whereabouts: on my way to "work" in my cold dead heart: pleased thrashing to: G'n'R - "You Could Be Mine"

So I recently stumbled across a few other versions of me. First we have Randal #2, who has resigned himself to a boring existence of forever manning the fucking block of stores because he can't think of anything more creative to do with his thirties. Then, a little more interestingly, we have Randal #3, who has stumbled into some sort of post-apocalyptic nightmare world. In both instances, I'm naturally joined by my friend and compatriot Dante Hicks, whose cloning luck seems to be even worse than mine (they got the loser part right, though).

Seeing as we're all floating in the disembodied ambiotic fluid we call cyberspace here, I've been trying to analyze what this means. Are the other Randals cautionary tales? Are they examples of what could happen to me if I allow fate to continue along its plodding and inevitable course? Or is the universe trying to teach me another lesson here?

I thought of something while I was relabeling videos that might work out for all of us - me and the other two Randals. Now it's hard enough for a chick to resist one Randal, but what about three Randals? Picture this: I ask some girl out, and we're gettin' down and nasty in the back of my mom's car when my fingers start roaming for the border. "Oh Randal," she pants, ecstasy glimmering on her parted lips. "Can't you eat me out, baby? You know how much I like that." (Which of course I don't, seeing as I've just met this girl, but we have no time for semantics.)

Now what Super Slut here doesn't know is that Randal actually fucking hates eating girls out, right? He thinks it's never worth the mess, not to mention the taste that seems to stay in your mouth for days and days, no matter how many sticks of gum you may chew. And when he's not busy flipping tenses in the middle of fantasies, a natural solution to this problem occurs to him. Because if the real Randal doesn't like eating girls out, then perhaps there's a possibility that Randal #2 does? And if Randal #2 doesn't, maybe Randal #3 does! (Randal is hoping that none of the Randals are gay, figuring that they would be less of a Randal if they were anyway.)

So Randal - okay, fuck it, let's get back to first person - so I take out my special whistle tuned to a frequency that can only be heard by other Randals. I blow on it discreetly, and but a few moments later am joined by two other doubles of myself. "Okay, boys," I instruct them cheekily. "Target acquired. Prepare to launch Operation Hot Lips." Randal #3 seems like the type, so he wets his lips and gets to work. In the meantime, Randal #2 starts fingering around her ass while Original Flavor Randal prepares to dive into the place Randal #3 is preparing for him. Once all of this comes to its inevitable sticky conclusion, yours truly discovers that yes, in fact all of the other Randals in the world who engage in sexual activity are able to transfer their sensations over to him automatically (and in a decidedly un-gay way), that all of our central nervous systems are connected through some magic of shared consciousness.

I can't help but think that there's some scary loophole here that I'm not paying attention to, but seeing as I'm at work and Wendy's about to "improvise" on the Dickless Wonder as only she can, I think I'll resume my ruminations with Dante later, if he hasn't vanished down to the boardwalk again for anonymous sex with slutty shore chicks.

whereabouts: RST, watching "Wendy and the Dickless Wonder" in my cold dead heart: thoughtful thrashing to: Megadeth - "Peace Sells"

Apparently Bob has a journal, or a guy doing a good imitation of Bob. I stole this from him, then liberally applied my own comments, because I'll fuck a duck if I ever leave something uncommented upon.

I present to you...

( You Know You're From New Jersey When... )

whereabouts: On the porcelain throne in my cold dead heart: tired thrashing to: Jane's Addiction - "Idiots Rule"

Okay, last things first - I like reviewing movies, but I don't have the motivation to do so on a regular basis. So what I need from you guys are movies and films (you know, the opposite of movies) you'd like to see me rip into. All suggestions will be considered and a few might even get used. If you know what's good for you, you'll choose movies that repel as well as attract. I'll try to do one movie review per week at the very least. I watch enough fucking movies in this shithole as it is, and I never miss a chance to run my mouth off about things cinematic.

I'm currently in a smoking period. Little known and decidedly strange fact about Dante and me: we alternate. When I'm smoking, he's not. When he's smoking, I'm chewing gum. Every once in awhile we're both completely clean, but I'm pretty sure that giving both of our bodies over to the cancer merchant at the same time would result in some sort of seriously twisted apocalypse. Y'know, like killer clowns coming down from the sky to smite the earth with terrible puns, something like that.

Shit, I had a whole bunch of other things I wanted to say that I completely forgot because I've been watching all the parody disaster movies back to back - Airplane!, Airplane II, The Big Bus, etc. - and then my boss from the Quickstop came in to ask if I knew anything about why the Pelican was unplugged. Which, of course, I don't.

whereabouts: R.S.T. Video in my cold dead heart: okay thrashing to: The Dead Milkmen - "Life is Shit"

I am a patient boy
I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait
My time is like water down a drain
Everybody's moving,
Everything is moving
Please don't leave me to remain
In the waiting room
I don't want the news
I'm not a part of it
I don't want the news
I have no use for it
Sitting outside of town
Everybody's always down
Because... they can't get up
But I don't sit idly by
I'm planning a big surprise
I'm gonna fight for what I want to be
I won't make the same mistakes
Because I know how much time that wastes
Function is the key
In the waiting room

whereabouts: On the foldout couch I call my bed in my cold dead heart: pensive thrashing to: Fugazi

I'm just sitting here waiting for Dante to show up in cyberspace.

Until then, why don't you entertain me with one of those five question memes?

You know the one - you ask me five questions, I blow you off to the best of my meager ability.

By the way, the name of this layout's color scheme is "Dante's Cheese Grater." I shit you not. Isn't it scarily accurate?

whereabouts: Basement of my parents' house, aka my room in my cold dead heart: bored thrashing to: King Missile - "Martin Scorsese"

I thought about starting this entry with "Hi, I'm Randal Graves and this is my journal," but that approach struck me as too pedestrian. Then it turned from "pedestrian" to "fucking sissy," so I obviously had to start over.

Then I was gonna say "Hi, I'm Randal Graves and Dante's penis is made of chalk," but that too seemed beneath my capabilities. I'm no sheep. I'm no follower, and I refuse to bow down to the conventional morality that would demand such mundane and boring statements out of me. I refuse, damnit.

Then I was gonna say, "Hi, I'm Walt Flanagan and this is my anal-dwelling sock monkey Dave," but it was clear that the time I spend running a shitty video store was getting the better of me. I'm obviously rotting my mind with bad porn and preservative-laden snack cakes if that's the best I could come up with.

So at long last I thought of something worthy of his hallowed forum. Here it is. Wait for it...

Hi, I'm Randal Graves and I'm a creation of Kevin Smith. I accept full responsibility for being someone else's creation. Kevin not only looks like somebody I went to high school with, but I think he's impersonating Silent Bob. Apparently he's done really well thanks to me, and maybe Dante but I think that's being overly generous. Someone told me he's also rolling in dough and has a hot wife. In lieu of getting checks in the mail for assisting him with his rocketlike ascent to fame and fortune, I'm okay with the money going to the asshole who plays me, Jeff Anderson. This is because he not only looks like me and sounds like me, he also acts like me. And comes from the same fucking town as me. Thus I'd like to think that it's actually my divine spirit who's benefiting from the cash Kevin gives him. Late at night I whisper movie ideas in his ear in the hopes that he'll pass them off to Kevin, like the hermaphroditic porn version of the Indiana Jones trilogy. Give me the whip and I'll throw you the idol, or in this case, I guess you need the whip AND the idol.

I mostly exist around 1992 or '93, but every once in awhile I visit the future in The Flying Car. I'm pretty happy that I'm still working shittily at a shitty job ten years down the line.

in my cold dead heart: amused thrashing to: Bad Religion - "Leaders and Followers"