This update is dedicated to EVERY politician who thinks the First Amendment is something to play around with to pick up some votes.  This update was initially FAR LESS dirty than it is now.  I would like to thank all of you, you white men in suits, for turning a casual update into a RAUNCHY one.

Part 1:
On the Road Bound for No Where

The night has grown cold.  It's the middle of September in Minnesota; and the weather is about as predictable during this time of year as an electronic dildo is in a hot tub.  Freezing rain falls hard upon my crummy 1984 station wagon and the sound causes me to think of having sex with small dogs and empty bottles of fabric softener.  I wonder if I should adjust my medication.

It's as wet as a German hooker with a lifetime supply of lube outside of the car, but, on the inside, it isn't nearly as warm and welcoming as her lubed up twat.  It's not only the weather that is growing increasingly worse; it is my mood.  My head pounds, my throat screams out for a cough drop and my balls are itching like an asshole with a plump hemorrhoid poking out of it.  I'm guessing the itch is some sort of crab lice that I can't get rid of which I caught from some bitch who has already gotten rid of me.  Great . . . for the next month I'll be washing my pubes with prescription "shampoo" that contains the same warnings on the bottle that are featured on the back of a can of turpentine, and leaving them with a lingering scent that smells worse than an oil spill to an environmentalist.  At least the medicated garbage looks sort of pretty with its artificial pink coloring and cute little bubbles.  I've never seen turpentine with cute little bubbles or an oil spill colored pink!  Have you, tree-hugging man?  I didn't think so.  Score two points for me!  (Then again, it's "scoring" that got me into this mess in the first fucking place.)

The sight of my old apartment is what pulls me from my sickly thoughts of Sexually Transmitted Seafood, poisonous shampoo, and hot looking puppies fluffed up with Snuggles.  My friend Dan, another rebel without a life, hasn't been to my new place yet, so I am to meet him in my former apartment's parking lot (true rebels are never very good with directions, and meeting in the parking lot of a building you were recently evicted from is sort of rebellious, in a Jerry Springer sort of way).  I was to meet him at 1:30 AM.  Neither of us makes it on time.  I'm already fifteen minutes late, and Dan's as lost as an atheist on Sunday.  You may have already figured this out on your own, but for those unfortunate readers slow of mind (IE - those who are voting for Al Gore or George Bush in the 2000 election), I will reveal this, the first rebel without a life rule of conduct:  "A rebel without a life is never on time since he/she had so much of nothing to do before the scheduled time of meeting."

Even though it's a bit hypocritical, Dan's tardiness upsets my stomach in the way 9 imported beers and drunken sex with an ugly fat chick would.  I calm myself down by coming to terms with the fact that I don't have anything better to do than sit and masturbate in a parking lot that I am not allowed in, dreaming about that ugly fat chick I fucked last time I got trashed in a sleazy bar.  I can't really remember her face, outside of it being ugly, but she had some nice features, even if she did weigh about 30 tons.  I recall that she had humungous tits that swung back and forth when she rode my alcohol-induced erection.  Her butt felt all smooshy, like those bean-bag chairs that were hip in the seventies, and every time she landed on me just right, it made me feel like I was at my friend's house, in his living room, when I was 8 years old, watching CHIPS.  I also have this vague memory of her repeatedly calling me "Bill" as we did the nasty at the Holiday Inn.  Maybe she was worried about what the motel was going to cost us, and was saying, "the bill!  the bill!".  Who knows?  Who cares?  She was fat; I can do better.  I can do a "kind of overweight" chick if I play my cards right, which I rarely do, because I don't play cards.  I have been known to partake in a game of Scrabble on occasion.  I also like 13 Dead End Drive, but I have been told that's a kid's game. 

Since meeting tardy Dan is my first major event of the day, I start my day here, at 1:45 AM, on a Saturday morning.  In all normal societal views a day would begin somewhere around six or seven in the morning; but all normal members of society say I'm a schizophrenic manic-depressive scum-bag in need of so much therapy Bill Gates would go broke.  (Okay, I surrender.  It isn't "all" members of society, just the local "theatre" owner and this 30-year-old chick that calls herself a "specialist.")  

The second rebel without a life rule of conduct is simple, and to the point:  "fuck normalcy."  If it's normal, it needs to be questioned, because, if you have any sense at all, you'd see that it's (it being "normalcy") continually questioning YOU.  If you aren't being questioned by the "normal" people pointing their fingers at us, you are normal yourself, and should leave this page and buy yourself a copy of Better Homes and Gardens and maybe get a subscription to Martha Stewart Living (isn't that title an oxymoron?).  Regardless, I am a rebel without a life, and that means my day can, in all actuality, start at any time.  There really is no set schedule or waking/sleeping periods in one such life.  As a matter of fact, if you're truly a rebel without a life, which you probably aren't, so I would simply recommend blowing your lousy brains out; you don't really sleep much at all (the elitist pigs in the neurology/"specialist" field will accuse you of staying up due to a "manic high").  Taking all of this into account, 1:45 AM is the perfect time to start this aforementioned "day in the life."

7 minutes after my delayed arrival, at 1:52 AM, Dan pulls into a parking spot three spaces to the right of my wagon.  I look over to his automobile and watch as his head bobs up and down to the music that is coming from his fancy car stereo.  I've always found it ironic that Dan, and plenty of other friends of mine, spend more on the stereos they put into their car than on the cars that the stereos are put in.  I have a $30.00 boom-box that I bought on clearance at Target one day when I decided smoking pot would be a cool way to stop my seizures and, instead, went on a paranoid spending spree, convinced the earth was going to end if I didn't spend at least $30.00 on a "stereo" for my car.  I haven't smoked pot since, but I do get to hear quality music pumped out of a low-quality system, for my THC-supported effort.  

After Dan bobs his head a few more times, I realize that he hasn't noticed my station wagon.  I figure that he's head-bobbing along with the Queers album that I convinced him to buy in one of my "punker-than-thou" rants at a local record store.  After three or four more bangs of his head he notices me staring at him.  I'm sure he takes my stare as belittling; little does he know I just ejaculated all over myself thinking about the fat chick without a face who thought I was "Bill," that I fucked at Holiday Inn, and her bouncing boobies, and I'm totally humiliated.  If anything, my stare was nothing more than a horny deer staring, startled, at oncoming hookers.  

Hopefully the Kleenex that I used to wipe the snotty semen away from my face will never give my look away as anything more than a ridiculing, "I caught you headbanging over punk rock" look.  Dan gives me the finger, when he sees me staring.  I give him the finger back; only to become even more embarrassed when I see a huge string of gooey white penis sap hanging off of it.  When he looks as embarrassed as me, I figure he only saw the finger, not the spew behind it.  Thank Heaven for the freezing rain which worked to disguise my slippery love yogurt.  

Dan finally walks out of his car and struts over to my ugly station wagon that I am only driving because my dad said, "if I give you $1,000.00 and the station wagon will you leave the house FOREVER?" and I answered, "yes."  I think I probably got the raw end of the stick on that deal.  

Dan opens the door to my wagon.  Although both of us are sober as an AA member who has been strapped down in the AA "Higher Power" Dungeon for over 30 days, I'm the designated driver for the evening.  When Dan sits in the passenger seat, we both try to convey the most surly, disappointed with life look that we can muster.  This look is our official "life sucks" greeting.  It is hip for the unhip to always come off as thinking life sucks.  If you are an unhip rebel, trying to look hip, and you act like life is great, you are going to be unhip with the unhip, and I can tell you right now, you ain't gonna be the star in the next Rocky Horror Picture Show midnight screening. 

"Hey," Dan says, as his ass settles into my seat.  I rock my head back and forth as if intensely thinking about poultry, and conjure up a similar "hey" between oddly contorted lips.  "Do you still think you have crabs?" Dan asks.  "No," I say, while itching my scrotum with a fevered passion.  "Do you still think you have herpes?" I ask Dan.  "No," he answers, while itching his genitalia with a passion that could only be rivaled by a leper about to have his dick fall off.

We both pause to take a breath and itch our respective privates, and then I begin to speak, like the rebel I am.  I decide it's time to pretend I'm all mad, and I tell Dan that he can no longer fuck with me by being twenty-two minutes late.  He says he was only fifteen minutes late, and wasn't fucking with me.  Being that I suck with math, this begins to make perfect sense, and I start to wonder if it was maybe me that was late in the first place.  He was probably there the entire time, watching me get off over lard lady.  Yikes.  I decide to tell him I masturbated.  He laughs and asks if I want to masturbate at the same time he does.  "Right now?" I ask.  "Is there any better time?" Dan asks back, bulge in hand.  I decide that there probably is a better time, and that I don't really want to have a circle-jerk with Dan, because it would be "gay," even though the idea is slightly tempting.  Fake-gayness is sort of neat.  Especially if you're a chick.  

Dan smiles over his newfound bisexuality which causes me to think there must still be some ejaculated fluid clinging to my face.  I casually rub my hand around my lips and nose, but find nothing sticky stuck there.  Dan gives me an awkward look, as though wondering what it is I'm looking for on my face.  "I've had hives," I say, even though I never have.  Thank God for brothers with allergies.  "Oh," Dan says.  Dan smiles at me in a vague, "rebel"-style "puppy-dog" look (which means he isn't scouring), and says, "how long did you wait?"  "I've already been here for like 20 minutes, or something," I say, totally lying my ass off to look good, like Al Gore will oftentimes do.  "I had to listen to the whole new J-Church CD," I claim, "that's like 3 hours long, or at least longer than 20 minutes."  I then try to squander up the most angry, "punk-rock-for-a-guy-in-his-late-twenties" look, which essentially means I show off my Converse All-Stars and sneer, all in hopes that Dan will bow down and be the submissive "rebel" for the evening.  I mean, I AM the designated driver.  I should get the "smack you up, 'ho'" privileges, right? Suddenly I get that "Who Let the Dogs Out?" song in my head, and feel like anything but a rebel.  Stupid song.  I wonder who really did let the dogs out.  I don't share this thought with Dan.  

"I guess that it sucks I was late but I was doing something," Dan says.  We both know he's totally lying.  "Let's get out of here," he continues, "it's raining."  Like I didn't notice.  "So, what are we gonna do?"  I look toward Dan for any advice he can come up with that will stop the inevitable mediocrity of the night ahead.  "I don't know," Dan says, "what do you wanna do?"  Suddenly I feel like I'm in that one bad Disney movie my friend Heather loves.  I decide that I haven't been funny in at least five minutes, and realize that, if I'm not funny for that length of time, I may lose a friend, so I decide to make a joke.  Finally, I chalk the urge to make a funny up to post-masturbation jitters, and decide that I don't have to prove myself to someone I've been friends with for 15 years.  I proved myself funny to this mother-fucker before a lot of the people reading this update were even born.  So, fuck funny.  Funny sucks.  Everyone tries too hard to be funny.  Even Ralph Nader.  Did any of you catch him on Leno?  GAWD was it embarrassing.  Anyway, I'm getting off topic.  Hmm.  Where was I?  I was being funny, right?  I wasn't?  Oh.  That would have bothered me when trivial shit mattered.  

Dan finally comes up with the ASTOUNDING, ASTUTE AND AMAZING idea of renting a video.  "Renting a video would be cool," he says.  I decide that just isn't enough.  I'm 28 damn years old; I need more.  Like the star of a bachelor party finding out the stripper in the cake is full of genital warts, and won't fuck him, no matter how attractive those damn warts look, I decide to get philosophical; "we have been born into this life of tedium," I tell Dan, "Society has conditioned us to live life in repetition leading us, like dogs on leashes, into this pathetic drudgery of normalcy that we both claim to hate.  Do you want to go there?  Or do you want to go to New York or California and finally become the fucking 'rebels' we claim to be?"  Dan responds with a profound "what?!?"  I come back to his "what" with an equally profound "nothing," as I make a right turn onto the highway.  I feel as dumb as a burn victim in a beauty contest.

I try to press play on my "pot-machine" boom-box.  With one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over the seat to fondle buttons like a non-experienced man fondling his first nipple, I lose track of the road.  Music is more important than life, anyway, right?  I swerve like a drunk between lanes.  A gust of bad breath hits me in the face, knocking me out of my daze.  "Let me do it," Dan, the stinky speaker, tells me.  This is a combination of his power-control urge and the urge to survive.  I submit.  So much for being the dominant "rebel."

I turn back to the task of driving as Dan records, fast-forwards, rewinds, pauses, and does everything else conceivable to a Target boombox, outside of pressing play.  His chubby fingers grope for the handle and he pulls the recorder up to the front seat, so it is sitting between us.  The two of us, being the most UNLIKELY couple to ever get fucked by a chick, yet fucked by more chicks than 99.9% of "normal" people ever will be, have an intimate moment over a box.  "Why do you think women fuck us?" Dan asks.  "I don't know, maybe they think we'll get rich and famous," I answer.  I'm probably wrong.  Maybe personality IS a strong factor in what turns a woman on.  I'd like to know.  Email me with your opinions on why you fuck freaks, women. 

Dan's fingers finally press the "play" button and we find Blatz music that is so punk, it makes us feel inferior.  I have heard one of the main girls from Blatz is now making nearly a million a year for doing every corporate thing that she slammed, but this is one rumor that I turn a deaf ear to.  Sometimes watching all your heroes go gets to be too much.  I can handle 99.5% of them disappearing.  Just not every single one of them.  Especially the girl from Blatz who I always wanted to bone back when I was a young punk trying to make good in the scene.

I turn away from Dan's incompetence and back to the task of driving.  Dan pulls the "box" upfront without any apology (for a true rebel never apologizes, because they do nothing wrong) to reconfirm that he hit the "play" button that he obviously hit three minutes ago, being that music is playing.  "OW!  That hit me right in the fucking head for the second time!"  I yell.  "What the hell are you doing?"  I ask, a bit more calm.  "Nothing," Dan says without an apology.  Dan puts in some classic Screeching Weasel and we're both happy.  We simultaneously bitch about Ben Weasel selling out, but "Anthem for a New Tomorrow" is such a damn good CD, we nearly forgive him, and I decide that this is the soundtrack for our road trip to California.

Part 2:
To Inspire the Wrath of Nothing

"Where the hell are we really going?" Dan asks, with some out-of-place concern in his formally rebellious voice.  "Same place as ever, Dan; no where."  My cynical reply brings out a chuckle from the both of us.  We giggle like two drunken Republicans admitting that we wanna suck off Eminem.   "We're fucked," a paranoid Dan says.  "We're totally fucked," I repeat, not adding any enthusiasm to the affair.  "Fuck," we both say in unison, proving, once and for all, that "fuck" is a versatile word that should be added to not only the dictionary, but the Bible.  "Thou shall not fuck."  That would be cool. 

"MINDLINK" we both scream at each other, being that we said the same word at the same time, and now somebody owes somebody else a can of soda.  Neither of us will concede to the other one that the other one said "fuck" first.  Dan thinks it was him.  I think it was me.  Therefore, we settle the matter by deciding neither of us owe the other one anything.  Better luck next time.  "We're so much the same," Dan says.  I agree.  We both feel a little homo.  We also feel comfy identifying with a good friend, rather than some USA Today reporter that wastes 40 minutes of my time, "interviewing" me earlier in the day, for a supposed MAPS article that she never actually puts in print.  But that's a whole 'nother update, altogether.  This is the third Rebel Without a Life Rule of Conduct:  A Rebel Without a Life NEVER worries about going off-topic if the topic you're on isn't getting you off.  Journalism school be damned.

All is not lost.  With the mindlink comes inspiration.  My brain begins scheming in that way my brain sometimes does, when I'm not drunk, and I figure out what we can do, without the help of the multi-colored, wanna-be "reality" journalists behind the USER Today newspaper (was that slam necessary?  I mean, really, I already voiced my opinion on USA Today once in this story.  Isn't that enough?  So what if they totally fucked me over in an interview, right?).  I suck in a deep breath and spit my idea out at Dan.  "Dan," I declare, "I am going to go to California; this time for real!"  Dan stares at me for three minutes and then says, "okay."

To Be Continued!

This, the best update ever on The Juicy Cerebellum, will be continued Monday.  Will Dan and I make it to California, or is everything lost?  Am I really just a gigantic loser that can't accomplish a single dream, or will I be best buddies with Lucas by the end of the week?  Find out Monday.  And, for now EMAIL ME ABOUT WHAT YOU THOUGHT ABOUT THE FIRST PART OF THIS UPDATE!  ThanXXX.  I love you in advance, slut.  

Everything on this page is 2000 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved].  The title graphic was created by Jerky McDermit (I hope I got that right, and I doubt I did), with some helpful guidance from Jerky McMe.  

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