Once again, I disappoint my Beloved Readers. Yes, I have nothing to write about. My output's been reduced to every other day and that's really sad. Oh well, I guess I'll just make do with writing about nothing in general.

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In my quest to supplement my income, I've made a decision: I'm going to try selling my worldly possessions, basically comic books. The thing is, how? eBay? I don't know how much they're worth, but they're collecting dust someplace.

I'm also seriously thinking of parting with my Remington 870. It's a surplus CHP shotgun with the serial numbers stenciled on the buttstock. I'm never ever going to shoot that thing, whether it's sport or close-quarters combat. Besides, it's way too hard to maneuver that weapon inside our house. I wish I never sold my S&W snubnose .38. It featured a shrouded hammer and was designed to be carried, and fired, from within a coat pocket. Sweet.

Maybe... I'll retell one of my stories. YAY!! I'm pretty sure I already wrote about this, but it's a story about the sea. Sea World, to be exact. Do you guys like Sea World? I hope so. If it isn't the first time you've read this story, I apologize.

One weekend a long, long time ago, my friends and I went down to Sea World. Everything was normal until we got to the masturbating walrus. Until that day, and before I discovered lesbian porn, I thought I had the market cornered on self-abuse, but apparently the walrus was horning in on my action.

So transfixed were we on the action happening below that we stayed for the entire walrus show. It was actually facinating to watch; almost clinical. However, that wasn't the opinion shared by the mothers who dragged their children away from the railing. It looked like they didn't share our interest in lovesick sea mammals.

Okay, so by now, most of the readers probably stopped reading this entry. If that's the case, fine. I will reward the stronghearted with a detailed description of how walruses rub themselves off.

1) Walruses have no shame whatsoever. It was proudly massaging its enormous member in plain daylight. In this way walruses must be sociopaths.

2) Walrus schlongs are ginormous and look alarmingly simliar to a human's. They are hung like nobody's business. I have no idea where they keep that thing when they're swimming around in subfreezing water.

3) Walruses use their rear flippers to stimulate themselves. Who knew? I always thought one needed to be equipped with hands featuring opposable thumbs to-- I mean, I HEARD that hands with opposable thumbs help.

4) When walruses pleasure themselves, they float on their backs, with their flippers folded across (what I'm guessing) is their chest. I find it incredibly ironic that these animals can masturbate handsfree, yet are unable to their forelimbs to grasp or hold anything like a magazine, remote control, or a wad of tissue. Please note: at no point did the walrus rub his nipples.

5) Walruses do not make any noise when they masturbate. It's the complete opposite of, say a solo scene in which the principle actress might straddle some sort of electric-powered onanistic device and vocalize her pleasure. I watched, expecting some sort of walrus-like moaning and groaning, but nothing. Some weirdly twisted part of me wanted to hear, "Rarp-... arp-... arp-... arp-... Clams, yum... arp-... arp-... arp-... arp- arp- arp- arp- arp- arp- arp- ARP- ARP- ARP- ARP- ARP- ARP- FLIPPER!! FLIPPER!! Oh... my... FUCK- Fuck - king... God..." followed by a satisfied walrus sigh. Apparently, walruses get-off in complete silence.

6) Walrus jizz does not look like jizz, er... not that I know what jizz looks like; I'm against impregnating my hand, a tissue, or someone's face with my Kenwats seed, but I digress. When the walrus climaxed, it looked like he was giving himself a golden shower. He looked like some perverse fountain. I can't remember if any splashed on his muzzle (do walruses have muzzles or faces?) I think I erased that little tidbit from my memory.

There was a smaller walrus swimming around in the pen. Walrus faces aren't very expressive which made it really hard to tell if it was alarmed or indifferent to what its cellmate was up to. All I remember is that it never stopped swimming.

I don't know if the other, more discreet, walrus was male or female, although when you think about swimming around in water contaminated with walrus seed, that point is moot.

With that, I wish all of you a wonderful weekend.

I only have a few things to report.

1) I am so frickin lame. I hurt my lower back yesterday. I wish it was something worth injuring myself over, like making the sweet love or escaping from a second story window, but no.

My lower back usually gets sore after aikido practice, then gets better after a week's rest, but this time the reason is truly stupid: Yesterday, after I watered the lawn, I squatted down to yank a weed, pulling a small muscle on the right side of my lower back.

It wasn't a debilitating sort of hurt; well, not to someone with a normal pain threshold, anyway, so I'll self-censor the part where I writhed on the grass, calling out for my mother. I'm not a hypochondriac but I considered calling 911 in case the soreness spread into my blood stream rendering it septic. I don't want what I have infecting the general population. One can never be too much of a pussy, ya know?

2) Someone from Virginia has been looking at my site almost 24-7. I think this is in addition to J's friend in San Francisco who reads my Xanga via an RSS feed. That's perfectly fine. Apparently, every time I adjust myself, it sends an update to her blog reader.

The problem is this other person (and I assume it's not J's S.F. pal) who spent the last several days going through a majority of my entries. This I know because my entry's titles showed up on my footprints page, one after the other. I hope they're not stalking any of my readers.

The only reason I can think this happened is that Mr./Ms. Stalker's blog reader only shows part of my entries. If this is the case, I'm going to give myself the benefit of the doubt and assume that my entries are just so compelling, so deliciously entertaining, that this person had an insatiable need to read the rest of my entries.

Then again, this person might have an unnatural attraction to me, which is, I guess, okay as long as things don't get out of hand. Just because the location is Virginia doesn't mean anything. The server might be in Virginia; the stalker could be... staked out and watching me this very minute. Oooh. Creepy.

3) Saturday we stayed in and watched the second and third installments of the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. I didn't get to see the flicks in the theater, thank God; I had to watch the movies twice to figure out what was going on with the story. I can tell you one thing: I had the weirdest dreams after watching those movies. I don't remember the details, but I know the dreams were really, really strange.

4) I didn't get to go to Donut Man yet. I don't know when I'll be able to go with gas prices so gosh-darned high. The thought saddens me.

5) Did you hear about the murder in Monterey Park last weekend? That's super close to where I live. A man killed his girlfriend Saturday with a three-foot sword and the morning news played the audio in which you can hear the victim's daughter talk to the 911 operator.

Tell me if this is sad. The first thing I thought when I heard the news introduction wasn't that's horrible; my first thought was I hope he's not J-A.

6) This always gets me: the fabric in my crotch area wearing out prematurely. How does that happen to boxer shorts? The cloth down there gets so abraded... somehow. Don't ask-- that it gets nearly translucent. It's far worse when I'm out fighting crime. I don't know about other crime fighters, but it's bad enough that my outfit doesn't withhold any secrets. All I know is that I could've never worn this get-up in high school. I'm not a big cape person, neither.

Oh, and by the way, to any people on the street: screaming out "DON'T look up in the sky" is both hurtful and mean.

*EDIT!!*

7)  This hairy moment happened after I posted so I thought I'd better add it to my entry while the image is still burned into my eyes

Okay, so we were sitting in front minding our business when we see this guy walk across the plaza toward us. As he gets closer to the doors, I could see he's borderline homeless. Great. He stops at our admissions desk and asks if it costs money to visit. We, of course, tell him that there's an admission charge. It's surprising how so few people see the huge red and white panel behind us with the price, but whatever.

As he's talking to us, he's lifting up his t-shirt, using it to clean his sunglasses. Mind you, were sitting down and he's standing up. All of a sudden, at my eye level, I see flesh followed by hair and not the hair on his stomach. I don't know how low his pants were sagging, but it was low enough to see the head of his "trail to treasure". UGH! It was the topmost part of that inverted furry delta better left kept under a pair of underwear. I had to avert my eyes right away.

He left to go to the store where the person working, and I don't know why he did this, told him that we were free every Thursday after 5pm. Oh, come on!

When he left shortly afterwards, I glanced at my co-worker, J.S., and she had this look on her face like she saw-- well, for one thing, a dirty man's pubes.

For the rest of the day, I'm not looking down when I go pee.

Balls!
Do you know what I hate about being a guy? Yes, THEM! The darned things always seem to get in the way. For example, it's been kind of muggy and they've been sticking to my inner thighs. It's not a good feeling. I especially dislike it when only one is clear from any of my three lower extremities.

I don't know about other guys but with me, freeing them always turns into a big production as I find it very hard to be discreet about it.

Job!
I need everyone's advice.

What would be a good second job for someone who already works fulltime, 9am to 5:30pm, Tuesday through Saturday? I really need to make some extra money; and please, don't say stripper.

Seriously, if I could, I would.

The thing is, I'd have to go in after I leave my day job and-- no, I'm not going to be a male prostitute. This second job has to be somewhat legal: no drugs, no sex, nothing that would put me in a potentially compromising situation or one which my life would be in danger.

Lots of people have seconds jobs, but what about those who already have a fulltime daytime job; what do THEY do?

Maybe I can be a waiter? I have no experience, but I have lots of experience talking to people. Maybe I can work at a bookstore? I like books: I read them, too. I have no superpowers so fighting crime is not an option.

I'm actually being serious, here. I have no talents nor practical experience. At least none that I can see.

Doughnuts!
I'm getting the itch to eat doughnuts from the Donut Man. I don't really like doughnuts but the ones at donut Man are sublime.

My Little Pony
When the lovable characters get old and lame, losing their usefulness and appeal, I was thinking a good idea would be to slaughter them for a glue factory. The resulting colorful, glittery glue would be used by the same little girls who watch the show and love the characters.

Ahh, the delicious irony.

Reminders
I read that people who write down everything they eat while dieting lose twice as much weight as those who do not.

I was thinking of doing the same thing for myself: write down the stumbling blocks that prevent me from being a better, happier person but I know a list like that would just embitter me, getting me down and discouraging me even more.

It's my most heartfelt desire that one day world suffering come to an end. Think about it: sickness is running rampant in Third World countries, governments are oppressing their own people, wars are destroying lives and livelihoods; thousands have nothing to eat, have no place to live, or have no access to the proper medical care. I could go on and on about floods, swarms of locusts, dial-up internet access, and squat toilets but that would just get me down.

The one thing to say about the whole thing is this: Stop stealing my thunder!!

I hate getting a paper cut or a splinter only to have my little personal hell upstaged by orphans in Calcutta suffering from leprosy; something about disfigured Indian people getting by on makeshift prosthetics. At least that's what the 911 operator told me after I explained what my emergency was. I wish she didn't have to be so sarcastic about it.

I'm getting really tired of people making light of my problems, subtley reminding me that in many parts of the world people are starving and dying. "You don't know the meaning of the word famished!" they tell me. These same finger-pointers, who obviously camp out at their local Hometown Buffet, also summoned the nerve to tell me that I have no idea what these malnourished people are going through.

Hell-o~ooo!! Guess who didn't get to eat breakfast yet, smart guy. Yes: ME! And I apologize if I can't offer a witty rebuttal to your accusations; my sugar level's droppping and I'm getting a little light-headed.

If there wasn't so much misery in this world, then I'd be at the head of the line basking in the sympathy I so deserve. Instead, I'm completely overshadowed by refugees, orphans, quadraplegics, the Amish, homeless runaways, children maimed by landmines, the poor, the oppressed, the overweight, the forgotten elderly, sexually abused minors, Mongolian idiots, the one guy down the street with the lazy eye, ingrown toenail sufferers, the colorblind, Bruce Lee fans who still believe he's alive, those working in the fastfood industry, Amazon explorers afflicted with that one parasite that swims up your urethra and homesteads in your brain: the list of those more deserving than me seems to be neverending.

Basically, I get the feeling that I should have nothing to complain about, which is silly. You, who've never gone a day without a limb falling asleep nor found lint in your bellybutton; what the hell do YOU have over me?

I know, I know... It's a little self-serving for me to wish all the suffering eradicated from the face of the Earth, but the day life is perfect for everybody else will be totally awesome; everybody within earshot of my complaints will be in complete agreement that yes, Kenwats is suffering and well-deserving of some TLC.

Until that day arrives I guess I won't mention my hangnail from hell.