[The previous account of Stevie and his clones can be found in Me and My Nineteen (Remaining) Clones]
18 November 2025 – These have been some dark times for me and my eighteen clones. No, not because Fredward’s aorta went up like the Challenger – it’s November, and these jerk clones never let one pass without reminding me how I can’t grow facial hair worth a damn! Try as I might, after all these years, I still can only manage an ugly, inconsistent patchwork of clumps. I don’t even bother anymore, but these sons of bitches go all out for this Movember thing, just to jam it to me! Dicks! Even Hensonite! We figured he couldn’t possibly grow anything on his Muppety face – and look at that argyle beard of his! It’s amazing!
(seated, from left: #35 Tedward, Stevie, #4 Hensonite, #9 Tomfoolery; standing, from left: #14 Kevincible, #46 Delano, #48 Magnus, #17 Matrick; wall: #40 Junior; table: #18 Georange)
Oh, I’ve finally hit the big time! You know you’ve made it in America when the hackerazzi infiltrate your smart phone bunker and commence with the plundering! My email account is largely fine, my Twitter is locked up secure, but my cell phone was roundly violated within a byte of its life! Just like Paris Hilton – my privacy has been all sorts of invaded! Hooray!
I’m thinking of getting some work done, needed Before on record
I can only imagine the hacker disgust on display when they investigated my photo albums. Hoping for salacious nudes, or at least blackmailable idiocy, they instead got my dentist chair selfies from last week. No one is going to want to see that, dumdum!
Practically porn, I know
Looking for something to use against me, they plodded onward, deeper into my delicate folders, kicking over stones and thumbing through the file cabinets. What did they turn up, to shame me for all times? Naturally, gelato pics! They comprise most of my phone memory at all times! Continue reading
Culled from a variety of apps and websites designed to help you learn a new language, here were my valiant stabs at French today:
Please translate into French:
The spider is drinking some wine.
Me: What the hell?
The spider is drinking some wine.
Me: Jeez. Um.
*Typing* L’ariagnee boit du vin.
L’ariagnée boit du vin. Please pay attention to accents.
Me: Christ. Okay.
Please type in French: Continue reading
(standing, from left – Clone #46 Delano, #20 Vitoadie, #48 Magnus, #23 Bobtail, #40 Junior, #14 Kevincible, seated from left #18 Georange, Stevie, #2 Jackwagon, floor #5 Dantopia)
Everyone thinks it must be so cool, having a bunch of clones. That’s what they always tell me. You’ve got this big pack of friends, you can play crazy tricks on girlfriends and neighbors, and you can test drive different hair lengths and styles without messing up your own head. Also (the way it was described to me early on) you’ve got a huge supply of spare organs, an enormous wardrobe, and multiple doppelgangers means high unlikelihood of assassination. It’s been a weird life.
The clinical story has been recounted by the press and biographers hundreds if not thousands of times, but here it is right from Patient X. I’m Stevie and I’ve got nineteen (remaining) clones. Continue reading
Back in the day, people used to email surveys around to their friends, with a bundle of generic questions on them, so their friends could get to know them better, and in theory would then fill out these surveys themselves, perpetuating a cycle of information exchange and harmless secrets being divulged.
Then Myspace came along and turned this innocuous novelty into an even bigger pile of time wasting than it already was. Now there were surveys about every stupid thing imaginable, from your favorite sport survey to favorite Gatorade flavor surveys to Do You Remember the 80s? surveys to Do You Remember Last Thursday? surveys. Survey overload commenced, and yet people still fill this silly shit out. Usually it’s the same people filling out essentially the same survey over and over again.
Hey, that’s fine, do what you like, but how do you think the surveys feel about this? They aren’t taken seriously by anyone, not even their moms and pops (which I guess would be the archaic email surveys). They are used to blow a half hour before passing out in the wee small hours of the morning. So what happens when the surveys finally have enough and put your sorry ass in its place? Well, worry no longer, because I encountered one of these pissed off motherfathers the other day… Continue reading