Three Years Closer To The Grave...

The glorious day has finally come!

Today, my humble blog, The Book Of Lies, celebrates its third year of existence on the mysterious and seldom-traveled country roads of the internet. Does that really mean anything? It means a lot to me, Dear Imaginary Reader. The fact that I've managed to maintain this shaggy abomination for three years running is quite the accomplishment for yours truly. Because I am an astoundingly lazy human being.

Fun Fact: in high school, I was voted "most likely to die of a bed sore-related infection!

But I've done it. I've come back to this blog time and time again, to entertain, to educate, and to enlighten. I do it all for you, my loyal readers.

Shit, we both know that's not true. I was never particularly concerned about having readers, to be honest. I understand that thinking is a little counter-productive considering the purpose of a blog is to share things with other people via the marvel of communication known as the worldwide web. But I didn't do any of this to attract readers.

The podcasts, the movie reviews, the endless mountains of barely coherent text... I don't do all of this because I want to build a loyal readership. I'm not etching the diseased contents of my demented mind on the supple flesh of the internet for the few people who read this blog on a regular basis. Don't mistake these words for an ungrateful nature, however. I do genuinely appreciate those of you who are disturbed and/or bored enough to read my posts and listen to my podcasts.

But the real reason why I've kept updating this nightmare of a stream-of-consciousness for three years is because I want to piss people off.

For realz?!

I've spoken about this in an earlier entry, but I feel I must reiterate my mission statement on this prestigious anniversary.

On occasion, somebody out there (out here?) will stumble upon The Book Of Lies based on the results of an unfortunate Google search. They will read one of my incomprehensible, rambling stories. They will listen to one of my podcasts. And it will upset them. The product of my misanthropic brain will rub them the wrong way. They'll leave a hateful comment, or send me an angry email.

In these comments and emails, people have called me a deviant, a malefactor, a pathetic excuse for a human being, a worthless troll who will die alone, a blight on the face of the earth, and a malignant tumor. I've received emails from people who tell me that they're praying for my soul, praying for my death, wishing I had been aborted, and hoping that I am involved in a terrible car accident that leaves me a miserable, bed-ridden shell of a man.

Over my three years on this blog, I have managed to truly upset at least sixty people who have taken the time to tell me how reprehensible I am for inflicting this harm upon them. I'm sure there are plenty more who simply weren't motivated enough to share their hatred or disgust for my amazing blog, but I can only comment on the people who have left feedback.

I do like the fact that I've managed to consistently entertain the dozen or so people who do read my blog regularly, but that was an accident of sorts. I never intended to entertain you. I'm sorry, but I'm just trying to be honest. I don't know how to entertain anybody, it just happens once in a blue moon. When you read any of my movie reviews or podcast introductions, that's just what spills out of my head, transferred through my fingers to a keyboard, onto the tabula rasa called Blogger.



Because I have a quota to fulfill. Also: Yippee!

The podcasts are never planned out. I never have an agenda when I sit down with my cousin for a recording session. The only difference between the podcasts and the regular conversations I have with Ky is the fact that I am recording the latter. The shit you listen to is simply the shit we talk about while we sit in a basement and drink and stare at a muted television. There's no attempt to entertain any potential audience. There's just boredom, alcohol, and two strange people with abnormal brains rambling about whatever the fuck comes to mind.

In other words: magic.

If you like this blog, then I'm happy for you. Keep reading if you're so inclined. Enjoy it. I don't know how that's possible, but apparently it happens. But you're not the reason why I do this. I do this because from time to time I happen to seriously piss off some random man or woman sitting in front of their computer or dicking around on their smartphone. And they let me know just how much they hate me for ruining their day with my awful existence. That's a win, my friends.

I've profoundly affected a few sensitive souls out there, and that means that I've done something right. I can sleep well at night (or during the day) knowing that I've made somebody's life the tiniest bit worse. It warms me like a bracing shot of whiskey.

So thank you to the poor souls who keep coming back. And thank you to the people who stumble across this dimly-lit corner of the web for a moment before you run screaming in the opposite direction. I appreciate all of you.

For realz.

Now that I've got that out of the way, it's time to reveal the true purpose for this anniversary post!

Throughout our lives, we're all searching for meaning. We're looking for answers to the big questions that plague us. Why are we here? What is our purpose? Is there a God? Will I die if I eat that jar of olives that expired in 2007? What is the guy sitting behind me on the bus going to do with that suspiciously stained tube of sexual lubricant? Are my children the harbingers of Mothra? What does it all mean?

My friends, I am here to tell you that I have found the answers to these questions. And I have chosen this auspicious day to share these answers with you. Because I care. I don't want you all to burn in the fires of Hell for all eternity. I want to save you from damnation.

But I'm not your savior. I'm just the messenger. Your true savior is an enigmatic entity from beyond time and space. An entertainer of great renown. A true master of communication. Some call him a prophet. Others call him the new messiah.



Egg Shen just calls him "drinking buddy".

No, it's not Charles Bronson. He's already sitting on his throne in Party City, the undisputed lord of all reality. But some say this glorious prophet is an emissary of the Almighty Lithuanian Vigilante.

His name is Gerry. And below you will find his gospel, in the form of a radiant book. Not a literal book; I've already bored you half to death with text. No, this "book" is actually an audio-only version of the written gospels, translated from a collection of golden plates found in the fire-devastated ruins of a crack house somewhere in the bowels of Omaha, Nebraska.

Look below, and you will discover The Chronicles Of Gerry, and when you emerge from your sojourn with the divine you will be a changed man (or woman). All you have to do is click "play", and the cosmos will lay her secrets bare before you, like a two dollar hooker in the alley behind a Dollar General store:

The Chronicles Of Gerry



That is all for now, my friends. But fear not. For I shall return soon with more words of wisdom. This train has only just left the station. And by the time it reaches its destination, we'll all be dead.

Before we part, you may have noticed a few slight differences on the blog. A swank new header, for instance. Also, you may or may not have noticed the "reactions" space at the bottom of each post. In lieu of commenting (because it's just so difficult), if you are so inclined you may check one of the three entincing little boxes after you finish reading in order to leave your feedback. Now telling me I suck is easier than ever!

Gerry be with you.



SWOLE