...sorta. Real life thwarts art. We are some busy dudes. Coty still managed to single handedly redesign the site, like he had something to prove. Not that he had time, he just doesn't sleep, except when he's at his day job. I managed to do hardly anything,

except your mom.

My name is coty. I like rocks. I have a pirate boat collection.

It was the summer I turned three. I remember the sunny June morning that my father was outside mowing the front lawn. My family had celebrated my birthday just a week before and I was excited to be growing up. I wanted to help my father out with the chores—you know—be fathers pride and joy, the apple of his eye. I wanted him to know me as more than the kid who peed off of his front porch each morning, I wanted to show him that I could start taking on some of the responsibilities around the house.

I decided that I was going to finish mowing the lawn for him. That would prove that I am a capable young chap. I approached him as he was emptying the grass clippings from the bag. The sound of the mower engine was still droning away as I approached, yelling over the sound I asked him if I could recommence mowing where he had left off. He promptly declined my offer. I asked him again to allow me to help him, another quick turn down. After the second dismissal I questioned his judgment. My father did not like his decisions to be second-guessed! He became angry and quickly pointed out the fact that I was only three and that I was not yet old enough to handle machinery of that caliber.

I was heart broken. My pride and esteem had been trodden in one quick instance. No longer was I three years old! No, I was only three years old. My feelings of inadequacy quickly changed to rage. I filled with ire; my diminutive three-year-old body was overcome with abhorrence. I released these feelings with a quick and nimble karate kick to my father’s new lawn mower. Surely a well-placed dent in his bright new cherry red mower would teach him a lesson. Unfortunately at that time my karate skills weren’t as refined as they are now. My foot slipped below the undercarriage of the mower. Just as quickly as the anger came, it had receded, bleeding out onto the lawn. The power of the rotating blade cleanly sliced the tip of my favorite pinky toe. My feelings of inadequacy returned full force. I was no longer a stalwartly young man; I was a stubby ninja toed three year old. Cut down in my prime I was destined to lead a life of failure.

Nineteen years three months one week and six days later …

A large suite on the seventeenth floor of The Little America, this is where I had to relive the moments of that fateful June day many years ago. It was the night of my wedding, I remember it clearly, my beautiful bride began to remove my socks as I lay on my back upon the queen-sized bed. I was only slightly nervous; I hadn’t thought of the small scar on my favorite pinky toe since I was a child, but as my new wife removed my right sock I heard her gasp. Instantly the memories were forced back into my head, the feelings of inadequacy took hold once again filling my very being. There I was, on my wedding night, reliving the day my life had begun its downward spiral. I was so distressed that it affected my breathing, my thoughts, my soul, and my little buddy….

I was impotent. I have been ever since.

Go ahead, Cornelius. You can cry.

It's on like Don Juan, getting it on, till the break of dawn, on a beach in Guam, with your mom, saying "Listen hoe, just call me Ron." Yeah, Mr. Burgandy, tappin' that with all urgency, like it's an emergency, it's a disturbancy, she accept currency, I'll have to pay her double knowing my kind of durrancy

Old war veterans suck. They're all messed in the head and stuff. They have no idea what's going on in the real world. They live in an imaginary place. They kinda have a whole new land inside their skull. I would like to break open one of their skulls and see what's in there. Peel open their messed up, scar ridden, shrapnel soaked, knife wounded heads and see what kind of life they live in there. To see what makes them think their sick and twisted ways. To try to understand what makes their psychotic mental minds tick. Then maybe I won't hate them so much, then maybe I won't knuckle punch them in their throat every time I walk by one. Then maybe I can sympathize with their violent and apathetic ways.

this is ryan. he is an illegitimate vietcong child.

ryan was conceived in america. his mother a vietnam refuge and his true father an anglo saxon milk man. during the vietnam war ryan's mother fled the country for safety, leaving her husband to fight alone. they had planned to convene once again in america once his term with the Vietnamese National Liberation Front was over.

ryan's mother soon became pregnant after coming to america. in order to hide her infidelity she quickly sent for her husband to join her in her new country. when ryan was born she had led her husband to believe that he was born premature and that is why she gave birth to him only months after their reunion. shortly after the birth of their child the vietmanese father became suspicious. ryan had seamed a little too white, a little too tall, and a little too smart to be his son. ryan’s mother insisted it was their child and to further support her story she would often hit ryan about the head in an attempt to inflict mild retardation.

ryan was raised believing he was a full fledged vietmanese premie. his mother would work him very long hours in the family rice pad located in the backyard of their surburan home. ryan’s mother insisted they all live in a traditional vietmanese manor. she would only allow ryan to dress in traditional vietmanese attire and he was forced to wear grass hats and sandals made of wood.

as ryan reached his teenage years he grew very conflicted. he too had noticed that he did not quite look like his mother and father. his conflicted feelings, mixed with his mild retardation, led to a very mentally unstable illegitimate Vietcong child.

ryan would spend hours upon hours working in the family rice pad alone, chanting to himself the sacred words his father had taught him “Cong San Viet Nam”. over the years ryan’s mental illness progressed and eventually he lost all touch with reality. ryan now believes himself to be a cancerous prostate belonging to a man by the name of jack.

As societal members we all have a responsibility to better ourselves, our peers, and our community. If someone is out there acting the fool and ruining it for everyone else then you have the moral obligation to stop them, at all costs. That is why we have SWAT teams. That is why we have constitutional rights to own and bare MP5A2s.

So why is it that people are so complacent when it comes to internet crimes against humanity? As communal members of the Information Super Highway we have a duty to put a stop to those who act the fool, thus ruining the interweb for everyone. So why is it that we have now been putting out this crap for 11 months? We have one issue left before the completion of Volume I, and each chapter has continually gotten worse, yet not one person has tried to stop us. Not even an email pleading for our surrender. If this continues we may have to begin planning for Volume II, which may just lead to the complete and utter moral degeneration of the tubes.

You disappoint us.

Today it is official. Chad and Coty broke all ties. Chad went over to Coty's house to pick up the last of his belongings.

Can they just be friends? It's hard to say. How can they go back to being just friends after what they had? They experienced too much together. Long talks at night, Coty singing "I want to kiss you all over" while Chad stood wet, naked, and helpless, Chad rummaging through Coty's laundry sniffing his garments, and far too many ambiguously gay moments to count.

On the bright side their artwork should improve as they both are suffering and working through this ordeal. Our best wishes go out to them.

and not in a cool way like the book, but a dumb way, like Michael Jackson touching Bubbles in his diaper area.