There was a major upset in this week's Florida lottery in that Troy Lukkarila didn't win. "I picked very strong numbers so there's no reason I shouldn't have won," stated a disheartened Lukkarila. "I believe the system is rigged and I'm officially calling for a federal investigation. I spent a dollar on this thing and I got back absolutely nothing! Do you think that's right?" He continued by urinating on the ticket and spitting in the face of the convenience store clerk who sold it to him.

Troy Lukkarila's close friend Percy was arrested yesterday in Duval County for attempted arson. We here at Lukalips Destruction Co. are confident in our colleague's innocence and we believe that he will be vindicated when all the facts are presented.

"It's only natural that Vernon Twinburger gets my endorsement. After all, he's already serving you."
~ Troy

Also, check out Roy Peak's hilarious entry. You may see some familiar faces!

I don't really care about the whole psychic thing, but when psychics start getting preferential parking, well that's just bullshit!

I love the Jacksonville main library, but this sign is shit-all stupid.

Hey everybody, it’s time to forgive Michael Richards.
Yes, I saw the video.
Yes, he flipped out.
Yes, he said some ugly things.
But guess what folks, people say things they don’t mean all the time when they let anger take them over. Michael Richards grabbed the one obvious physical characteristic he knew of his hecklers and tried to use it to hurt them. It worked. Then, in a similar vain, the hecklers came back with “cracker” and “white boy.” Now those people paid to see Michael Richards, so I have a feeling they don’t really hate white people-- at least not all of them. And I don’t think Michael Richards hates black people except for maybe those hecklers.

Five minutes ago I called my girlfriend a bitch just because I was mad at her for sitting around the house on her lazy ass all day crying and I was tired of hearing it. Yes, I said something nasty to hurt her, but it doesn’t mean I believe my girlfriend is really a bitch and I certainly don’t believe all womankind to be bitches.

Yesterday my girlfriend called me a "cocksucker" and a "prick." She didn’t use that type of language because she hates men or even "cocksuckers." No, she’s just miffed because she found out I’ve been screwing her little sister. She’ll get over it and I’m smart enough not to take her angry words to heart.

Just a couple of days ago some guy cut me off on the road and I screamed "fuckhead" at the guy. Do I have a problem with people with fuckable heads? Hell no! I love fuckheads!

Then about a week ago there was this guy I was beating the hell out of because he owed me ten dollars. So while he was begging for mercy like a little baby I called him a pussy, which is very ironic because I love pussies. After all, my girlfriend’s sister’s is really awesome!

I called a guy “retard” once, but it turned out that he was really mentally ill so I guess there was no harm done with that one.

Then there was a time when I called a guy a “wop” except I didn’t really know what that meant. I should have called him a kraut.

Then there was the time when I was bartering with a towelhead over some illegal ammunition I was selling him and I told him that he was really trying to Jew me down. He got all mad and called me an infidel and he told me he was going to kill me and my family. Now do I think that my Arab friend hates infidels? Of course not! That would be crazy!

It all boils down to one thing: Most any name you call somebody in anger is going to going to be offensive to some group of people. Perhaps we shouldn’t worry so much if we have a racism problem in this country. Perhaps we should worry more that we have an anger problem.

Across the globe outrage has erupted into violent protest due to the defaming of one of pop music’s dearest stars, Celine Dion, by Troy Lukkarila on his web site. They’re also a bit miffed about the Mohammed cartoons and the “Jesus skid mark” on his web site, but the Celine Dion thing really takes the cake.

"I'm getting this strange vibe that my publisher doesn't like my new children's book. Sometimes you just can't make some people happy." -- Troy

Without warning or explanation Troy's book was dropped by his publisher even before it made it to the bookshelves. Said an irate Troy, "This is my life's work! They have offended me greatly by banning my blasphemous book and I shall take my revenge by setting fire to their headquarters!"

I’d like to meet my old lover in the street sometime. No, not that one, the other one! Talk about some old times. Have ourselves some beer. Find out if she’s still crazy after all these years. And I’m not talking a sweet Paul Simon crazy, whose lyrics I’m kind of ripping off here. No, I’m not talking the spontaneous jump in untested water with all your clothes on kind of crazy. I ain’t talking crazy where you go eat at a dirty looking sushi restaurant that was sited by the board of health because the chefs pick each other's nose and don’t wash their hands. I don’t mean that crazy where you say “Ah, look how cute she is with her funny hat.” No, I’m talking CRAZY! I’m talking boiling the pet rabbit on the stove crazy. I’m talking crazy where people get shot. I’m talking about the crazy where she ought to be baker acted because she’s a danger to herself and the people around her. I mean restraining order crazy. I’m talking knife wielding fucked up bitch crazy! I mean even worse than mom!
If I were to meet her again by some chance I can imagine how it might go: I’d ask her how she’s been and she’d respond by flailing her arms and yelling something like “DHCYEIAJDFGBHNK!” just like she used to. Then she’d wipe her own feces in her hair and drool. Then I’d say, "You know, I have to be honest here. I really don’t know what I used to see in you."

"Unsafe Structure" in issue #57 (25th Anniversary issue) of The Big Takeover.  It's not available online so march yourself to the nearest bookstore and pick one up.

Outstanding journalist Shelton Hull has a nice article this week about Troy in Jacksonville, Florida's Folio Weekly.  If you can't get your hands on a copy, you can read it here on the WB17 website.

Update -- The article can now be found here on the INK 19 website.

I don’t know why we, as humans, prefer to subject ourselves to daily torture. You see, this morning I was at my dentist. He's a good dentist, but he’s cheap because he doesn’t use novocain and his instruments are rather dated and a bit rusty. He's also very efficient because he doesn’t waste time wearing gloves or washing his hands. Anyway, he's pulling a few of my teeth and I'm crying and screaming, "You're killing me! How can you torture me like this?" He says in his German accent, "Vhat a little baby you are, I am only pulling a few of za teeths!" I yell back the best I can with a pair of pliers in my mouth, "It’s not the tooth pulling, it’s the music!" Blasting from the office speakers is one of the worst songs to come out of the 80’s. Mike "Loverboy" Reno and Ann "I Was Quite a Heifer There for a While" Wilson cry out:

Whoa-oa
ALMOST PARADISE
We're knocking on heaven's door
ALMOST PARADISE
How could we ask for more?
I swear that I can see forever
in-your-eyes
PAR-A-DISE

My dentists laughs, points to his lobes and says, “Dat iz vhy I vhere deez earplugz.”

“Have mercy!” I plead.

He says, “You be quiet now or I play ze entire Footloose zoundtrack!”

Then Mike Reno’s screams the chorus again which does something permanently detrimental to my inner ear causing me dizziness and nausea. I vomit, and because my head is strapped down, I almost drown. What kind of sick, inhumane people would produce a song like this? What kind of society would make a hit out of that crap and distribute it through public airwaves? What happened to basic human decency? Is Pinhead in control of Clear Channel? Fortunately, I’m bleeding so profusely from my tooth sockets that I pass out due to blood loss. Next time I visit my dentist I’ll make sure to wear my earplugs.

Everybody in the entire world celebrates.

In the entrance of the local grocery there is a big scale. Not a fish scale or a music scale, but a weight scale. I guess it’s so people can weigh themselves and know how much food they need to buy. Golly, I’m skinny today. I guess I better fatten myself up with lots of fatty food. Or Gee whiz, I didn't know I was such a lard ass until I stepped on this grocery scale. I better purchase over-priced heath food. So my girlfriend and I are leaving the store and there’s this skinny guy standing on the scale. My girlfriend glances over at what the needle is reading then turns and whispers loudly to me, “My god! That guy weighs less than I do!”

I say, "Yeah. What do you want me to do about it?"

She says, "I want you to kick his ass"

So next thing you know, she’s gone home and I’m standing outside the Publix waiting on this skinny son of a bitch to exit so I can kick his ass. Fall is here and I’m chilly and my patience is short—I mean how much food does a little fucker who weighs less than my girlfriend have to buy? It can’t take long!

Finally! He emerges with his cart full of health food. He appears to be a vegetarian. Anyway, I start pummeling him. He's pretty easy to take. He's crying and trying to give me money and I'm like, "I don’t want your fucking money! What do I look like, a thief?" He's practically squealing, "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"

"Because my girlfriend has a borderline eating disorder and you’re skinnier than her!" One hit on his glass jaw leaves skinny boy unconscious on the ground. It's at this point I think it would be funny to stuff a hotdog (bun and all) into his gaping mouth, but alas, failure to plan ahead is a personal weakness of mine. So I leave with a slight feeling that the job's not complete, but I tell my girlfriend about it all and she's satisfied, so I guess that’s what’s important. She’s a good woman. Really.

What was described by Troy Lukkarila as "a very painful itch in a very private area" turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for shortly after scratching, Troy discovered the divine image of our Lord imprinted in his underwear. An ecstatic Troy exclaimed, "In the history of mankind there has never been greater indisputable physical evidence of God's glory!"

The heathens at eBay refused to list the "Jesus skidmark" under the guise that it is offensive material, therefore Troy will be holding a private auction. According to Troy, "The Vatican has shown interest and I'm hoping to work out a deal with them to where my Holy underwear can be publicly displayed among other great works of art -- perhaps in the Sistine Chapel."

Troy is hopeful that the Lord will continue to use him as a vessel. To prepare his body for God's work, Troy is currently maintaining a Krystal burger and prune juice fast.

I grew up in the hills of Tennessee. When I was a kid the popular dog for the "redneck in denial" was the chow. I say "redneck in denial” because these rednecks were ignorant of the fact that they were rednecks. You see, the common "self-aware" redneck is proud of his/her hickdom. They are easily identifiable. These rednecks proudly display their rebel flag on the back of their truck with the oversized wheels. They own rottweilers or pit bulls. But the "redneck in denial" is another breed of redneck who believes that the surrounding people don’t recognize them as the lowlife rednecks they are. These rednecks believe they're being suave by purchasing an "exotic" dog like the chow. Now, years later, chows' mutt decedents litter the south so the rednecks in denial have moved on. The new "exotic" animal of choice by these dimwits is the dreadful and partially-retarded Chihuahua. The south is becoming infested with these terrors.

My current redneck neighbors weren't happy with simply owning one of these wretched creatures. No, they breed the little shits, which, in my opinion, is pretty much equivalent to breeding cockroaches. They have 15 or more of the so-called dogs and any noise sets them off barking. I once sneezed in my own house and it set them off barking. One of them sounds like it’s being killed when it barks. In fact I wouldn’t really call it a bark -- it's more like the wraiths from the Lord of the Rings movie. And they're so stupid that even though they see me every day in my own friggin' yard they still bark at me. Why? Why? Why would anybody keep such an awful creature in their house?

Hear it for yourself! Check out the actual sounds of these horrible animals recorded from my bedroom. (Sorry about the buzz)
Chihuahuas.mp3

Then one day the shit hit the fan when the bitch (in this case, I mean the dog) that the rednecks keep impregnating died while giving birth. Now even a fairly simple mind would conclude that she died because she's given birth too many times and there were some complications this time. Nope, not this redneck woman. Instead, she decided her dog died because I poisoned it. "You poisoned my dawg! Yer lucky we don’t have an autopsy done and have you sent to jail!" she screams at me.

So I’m throwing in the towel. The neighbors hate me. I hate the neighbors and I especially hate those little four-legged fucks! I'm moving into a new house where there are supposedly less rednecks in the hood.

-- some time passes --

Yesterday I was in the yard of my new house to be when my future neighbor approached me barefoot and shirtless. He said, "Gawddamn the luck! I just bought this new pit bull pup and I'll be damned if he didn't get a damned fishing hook stuck in his lip! Damn! If that ain’t bad luck!"

"Where did he find a fishing hook?" I asked.

"Well I took him fishing with me."

"Yeah, that sucks," I said. But I meant for me, not him.

My neighbors have littered their yard with tacky Halloween decorations. They have a giant blow-up ghost. They have a giant blow-up Frankenstein monster. They have a witch who has tragically killed herself by apparently ramming into a tree at a very high velocity. I guess night flying has its disadvantages.

This year I thought I'd get into the spirit, join the fun and decorate the yard a little bit. So I go to the flea market to find some treasures. A guy sells me a realistic looking baby doll for a mere buck. What a deal!

I go home, douse my little baby in fake blood and hang her by the neck from the tree in the front yard. Next thing you know, the neighbors are complaining saying my Halloween decoration is tasteless and goes over the line.

I just don't understand what everybody has against my poor little naked, bleeding baby. She never hurt anybody! She doesn't deserve this kind of discrimination! Meanwhile, the neighbors, who are apparently experts on where the "tasteful" line is drawn, proudly display their stupid witch in the yard. Well I have news for them -- witches have a history of cooking and eating children! I also happen to know that the Frankenstein monster has killed at least one child by throwing her in a pond and drowning her. But NOBODY has EVER been killed by a deranged bloody baby! NEVER! So she really doesn't deserve this kind of treatment.

I'm sorry, poor little hanging bloody baby. I'm sorry the neighbors hate you, but I'll always love you.

I have a dead laptop computer. In other words, I have a $1,400 door stop on my hands. But I'm not going to rant on that now. No, I'm not going to go into how unhappy I am with this piece if crap computer and the maker. And I'm am most definitely not to bore you, dumb reader, with the list of hardware problems I've encountered from the beginning with this computer and how it has basically fallen apart in little over a year. I am not even going to mention the brand name of this computer, except that the initials are HP.

I recently returned from Costa Rica. I kept a log that you might find entertaining. It's certainly more interesting than hearing about my computer problems.
Here it is in Word: Costa Rica.doc

On the roads of Jacksonville, Florida I often notice large blue trucks that belong to a certain building contracting company named W.W. Gay. The out of the ordinary feature these trucks have in common is they sport bumper stickers that read, "If 10% is enough for God then it should be enough for the IRS."

First off, my question to Mr. Gay and company is why does God needs 10% of your money anyway? Is God short of cash? Does God have bad credit and can't get a loan? Didn't He manage to create an entire universe before money was even invented? I tend to believe God is smart enough to figure out a way to make money. He should write another book and this time make sure He gets it copyrighted and collects royalties. The G-man is pretty well known and I'm sure the book would be a bestseller. Hell, if God plays his cards right, he could score a huge advance before he types the first "thou" or "shalt."

Now I know there are a few Mormons out there saying right now, "But God did write another book!" My response to them is this: No He didn't, and I don't care about the opinion of people whose religion makes them wear special underwear. That's why I could never become a Mormon- because my SpongeBob boxers rock! Oh, and another thing I want to say to any Mormon who happens to be reading this so I'm not dismissed as total jerk: Every Mormon I ever met was really nice and a very hard worker. It's true. But you people are crazy, nonetheless.

Oh, I'm digressing! Troy gets an F! W.W. Gay's bumper sticker is what I'm addressing here. The bumper stickers are dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Most people get this concept without it being explained, but for the benefit of Mr. Gay and company, here goes:

God and the government are two completely different entities that provide two completely different functions. God created the universe and puts people like Celine Dion in hell after they die. The government is just a bunch of jerks who we kind of elect to represent us and pass laws. The bumper sticker is like saying I bought a twelve pack of Schlitz for $5.95 so I should be able to fix my car for $5.95. You see? They ain't the same, schmuck! Whatever you think you owe God is irrelevant.

Now I think you should give all your employees a nice 10% raise for subjecting them to the humiliation of driving around town with that idiotic bumper sticker. It's what Jesus would do.

So I go to the grocery store today to pick up some extra large condoms. I'm walking to the ten items or less line and this asshole darts in front of me. Yep, he practically sprints to beat me while I was merely three steps from the checkout line. But unfortunately for him I've always considered myself an expert at passive defense. So I played it cool for a minute while we're waiting in line then I discreetly wiped a booger on his shirt. In the past, I've always successfully pulled off this little maneuver without getting caught. At the most, I've had to do is say "excuse me" to any victim who happened to notice their personal space was invaded. But this guy turns and looks angrily at me and asks, "Did you just wipe a booger on me?"

I look at him like the whole concept is crazy. "Of course I didn't wipe a booger on you"

He looks at the prize on his shirt, "You bastard! You did wipe a booger on me!"

And I'm like, "Look, I didn't wipe a booger on your shirt! That's disgusting!"

He looks at the other guy behind me and asks him, "Did this guy just wipe a booger on me?"

And that guy says, "Yes. Yes he most certainly did wipe a booger on you."

So now I know I'm busted, "OK! OK! I WIPED A BOOGER ON YOU! BIG DEAL! WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO? CALL THE BOOGER POLICE?"

And at that moment, he placed his finger on the side of his nose and with the accuracy of Robin Hood, blew out a mucus ball from his left nostril that hit me square in the chest.

All I could say was, "Touché, my friend. Touché!"

My monthly Assholes Anonymous meeting is held at one of those popular buffet restaurants. You know the place--it epitomizes the whole attitude and over indulgence of America. Their motto should be "It's a bunch of crap, but damn, ain't there a lot of it?" It's funny, because there is not one item on the vast buffet that stands on its own. In fact, if there comes a time when I order a dish in a typical restaurant and they put crap in front of me that's anything like what's on that buffet, I'll tell them to keep it. But hey, the buffet is "all you care to eat" so we go to town. People want to get their money's worth so they create great towers of Babel upon their plates and ingest them until it hurts- oh the sweet pain of overeating!

Outside the great buffet is a whole row of handicap parking spaces filled with giant SUV's sporting handicap tags. But the same people who drive these vehicles navigate the buffet like Olympic ballet champs. Those jerkoffs aren't handicapped at all! They just have the tag because they're fat and they're fat because they hang out at the "all you care to eat" buffets and they're so fucking lazy that they can't even walk an extra 25 feet to their SUV and they believe they deserve special parking rights for this! But I guess I should cut them some slack, their time on earth will be severely shortened. There has been more than one occasion where I witnessed the ambulance arrive and remove a large pile of fat from the premises. In fact, one time I was standing in a ridiculously long "admission" line with a bunch of other strangers when a guy in front of me collapsed grasping his heart. Somebody called 911, but other than that we pretty much went about our business and ignored the guy. The line adjusted around him and I remember thinking, "Alright! Now I will get to the buffet faster!"

The biggest problem I have with the buffet is not with the food, but with the patrons. Frankly, I just don't like average Joe Slob getting anywhere close to anything I eat. I like the fact that these days in most restaurants, the cook staff wear plastic gloves. And even though they touch things with the gloves and contaminate them, I still can be pretty sure they weren't wearing them while they were wiping their ass. Just today, I was in the bathroom at the buffet, and a guy came out of the stall and didn't wash his hands. Probably the same guy who just drops the thongs in the middle of the salad when he's done with them.

There was another instance a few years back when I saw a kid puke next to the buffet. About ten minutes later a staff member emerged with a damp mop and spread the puke around a bit. I was pretty disgusted, but the puke didn't stop people from braving the slippery yet chunky floor to get to the lukewarm, mediocre tasting food. Hey, it's all you can eat!