Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Iron Poet.

Hey there loyal readers (the loyal ones are the prettiest by the way).  The Toastygod is hungover tired today and so I've decided to host the very first Comment Contest of Cozy Delight.  Today's challenge:   haiku!

Here's how it works:  leave your haikus in the comments and I will pick the one I like best.  The judging criteria is nothing more or less than my arbitrary whim and whatever mood I'm in when I read them.  The winner will get the much coveted Mad Props of the Toastygod (redeemable for praise, admiration, and the divine right to rule small island nations) , a get out of lame free card (perfect for those unfortunate acts of accidental lameness), and a pie.  Unless I don't know you in person or you don't live in my town, in which case you get Props, card, and picture of a pie.  I assure you it will look delicious.

Let Battle Haiku begin!

Allez Cuisine!

Note: To see other submissions, please see the mirror zlog at toastygod.wordpress.com

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

It's Not a Namesake, It's Blasphemy.

I need to clear something up for everyone. Toast is fucking lame. Toast was sent to the world by the evil forces of frigidity to give my name a bad reputation. It takes something as innocuous as bread and something as pure and right as warmth and transforms them into MOUTH SHREDDING TERROR!

And think about it: toast is just overcooked bread. When someone overcooks chicken everyone is all, “Oh this chicken is overcooked, it’s dry and tasteless. I would prefer not to eat chicken like this again.” But when bread is cooked to the point of being dry and tasteless, everyone is like, “OMG, I think I just came. Let’s eat this EVERY FUCKING MORNING!”

…I hate everyone so very very much.

Did people really think this up on their own? Of course not. It’s a plot, by those that would oppose me. I’m pretty sure dentists had something to do with it. Who wants your mouth to be in blood-soaked agony? Dentists. I hate dentists. One yelled at my little sister (Toasty Mini-Wheats) once and I have to drill out his eyes. True story.

So toast has propagated itself to every corner of the globe. What pisses me off the most is when you get no warning of a toast attack. I’ll sit down at a restaurant or deli and order a tasty sammich. I’m sitting there all thinking, “Oh man, I can’t wait for this sammich. It’s going to taste so good.” Then BAM, they throw down what should be my delicious symphony of meat and cheese (let’s face it, the bread is only there as packaging) and instead it’s a steaming pile of burnt bread. What the fuck are you supposed to do with that? It’s sadistic. You can only stare at the savory sammich insides, trapped in a prison of impenetrable, stone-like bread. You are left with few options:

1) Starve.

2) Take the insides out of the sammich and eat it with a fork, totally defeating the purpose of a sammich. Also, because toast is so fucking dry and selfish, it soaks up a lot of the sauce and juice, leaving shriveled husks where juicy morsels of cholesterol should be.

3) Beat the toast monstrosity against the table, breaking it into pieces small enough to fit in your mouth, which you can then suck on like a piece of hard candy. Bread flavored hard candy. Fucking yum.

4) You can TRY to bite into the thing. That can only end in tears.

Restaurants that ask, “Would you like that toasted?” crack me up because it’s like asking “Would you like me to stab you in the roof of your mouth?” or “Your gums aren’t bleeding, let me help you with that.” Yeah no guys, thanks I’m good, your girlfriends insist I keep my mouth in perfect working order. But at least they ask. Even if it’s on the menu I can lead a preemptive strike of, “Seriously don’t toast that shit.” But when there is no warning at all. This is why, no matter where I go or what I order I tell them, “Not toasted.” “I’d like a PB&J, not toasted.” (Yes I order those at restaurants) “I’ll take a Whopper with Cheese, not toasted.” “Vanilla malt please, not toasted.” Mmmmmm, malts. I haven’t had one of those in forever. It’s the perfect mid-morning snack. Ok, I’ll see you guys at the ice cream parlor. I’ll be the one ordering my milkshake, “Malted, but not toasted.”

Friday, May 15, 2009

Get a Real Job.

So everyone needs to get off my nuts about posting. I’ve been in prison and the internet there was spotty at best. “Prison Toastygod?” Yes, prison. “What for?” Glad you asked. I had to kill a man. I’m not exaggerating, I HAD to kill him. He clearly did not want to live. How do I know?Because he was one of those fucking guys that stands on the street corner trying to get your credit card number to save the whales or trees or children or some other ambiguous group that you will never see and can therefore not validate 1) their existence, 2) their need for your money, or 3) the effect your money is or (more probably) is not having on their plight. Taking this job is tantamount to shoving a gun in your mouth. It’s beyond a cry for help, nothing can help now, it’s a cry for someone to fucking kill you.

I used to just tell these people, “Get a real job.” And when they’d be all, “What do you mean?” I’d break it down for them:

“Real businesses offer goods and services that people want. They market themselves and then interested parties seek them out for said goods and services. Customers come to them, they don’t force themselves on anyone stupid enough to go outside. You try to hock the intangible commodities of ‘good karma’ to people who are at best apathetic to you and your cause and at worst hate you for your intrusion into their lives.You are nothing more than snake oil salesmen mixed with panhandlers. But at least most pan handlers will dance or sing or make a sign or say ‘please’ so they have somehow earned my meager contribution. You earn nothing but my scorn and are a blight on all of society. Your existence shames humanity.”

At this point they are speechless from the ruination I just dealt them so I tip my top hat and walk away with a jaunty spring in my step that says, “I’m so much better than you in every way.” My treatment of them has probably led to many an inevitable suicide (I inspire people with the courage to kill themselves), but, admittedly, I have never had to resort to actual murder before. And this was murder. I didn’t just kill him, I murdered him. Premeditated style.

He would not stop talking to me. I tried to walk away, he blocked my path. I told him to fuck off he said, “I will, just sponsor a child, fish, acre, unicorn first.” Then he did the unthinkable. The sin for which no one escapes my realm unscathed. He hugged me. He was some stupid hippie fuck that thought everyone should just get along. He was all, “Here have a hug for your trouble” and the next thing I know he’s leaning in to FUCKING TOUCH ME.

I don’t know what happened next. I went into blind smiting mode. I woke up in a jail cell covered in blood. They tell me there wasn’t enough of the guy left for the family to bury. They’re going to have to fill the coffin with his black light wall art and Grateful Dead CDs. I said nothing, because everyone knows you never talk to cops. EVER. You hear me loyal readers. Let Toastygod give you this life lesson. NEVER TALK TO COPS. For any reason. They could be behind you in line in the Krispy Kreme, and they’d say, “Nice day isn’t it?” and you’d say “Yeah. Sunny.” And the all of a sudden you’re on the floor, coming to after a taze to the temple. True story.

Ok so now you may be wondering, “Well then how DID you get out of jail?” Why do you have to be all up in my kool aid? But I’ll tell you anyway. I waited until they charged me and I went to court. The judge asked for my plea and I said “Not guilty by reason of that guy was a hippie douchebag with a clipboard who wanted my money and a hug.” And the judge said, “Wait, from Children International?”


“Case dismissed!”

And now I’m free and back on the streets to spread my even-handed justice and make this world a better, more hippie-free place. You’re welcome.

Saturday, March 21, 2009


I have recently discovered Hulu. Be glad I post at all. Now that I have almost every TV show imaginable (no Mr. Belvedere WTF?) I have no need for anything else, like food or sunlight or gainful employment. I can watch any Survivorman, in any order, without commercials whenever I want. THAT IS THE TRUE MEANING OF POWER. Survivorman is the cute little Canadian guy that goes out and is all badass on nature. He makes outside his bitch. He's like Mcgyver, but without technology and with something to lose.

Survivorman (aka The Rugged) is not to be mistaken for not-survivorman, Bear Grylls (The Pussy). Just because you name yourself "bear", doesn't mean you're a "top." Notsurvivorman hosts the show "Man vs. Wild" which should be renamed "strolling with an idiot."

Where Survivorman survives 7 days in the harshest environments on the planet, notsurvivorman (no we don't capitalize his name, he hasn't earned capitalization) just kind of strolls around and after about 10 feet he has his crew take him home. Granted, that 10 feet is always straight up. Because apparently if he gets stranded in a survival situation, he wants to die in any manner of the lamest ways possible. Get caught on a mountain or other high elevation? Clearly, you should start climbing. Because all societies build their villages at the tip top of a mountain, where there is no air or resources. Also, climbing is a great use of your energy, as opposed to the much more strenuous controlled falling. Got it. Dick.

Survivorman has an impressive resume of being a badass. His resume literally says, in big letters, BADASS. Not many people have earned that title. Notsuvivorman was a french girl scout, as far as my research can find. He also failed out for pouting and taking his clothes off at completely unnecessary times.

Notsurvivorman show formula:

1) Talk about how, though it may LOOK like he's at a Wolfgang Puck's, the conditions (he assures us) are brutal.

2) Start climbing a mountain for no discernible reason with nothing more than a columbia jacket and a pair of sketchers.

3) Make some big deal about eating something that's only mildly gross. "Oh no, i must eat this earth worm" *face that mimics what one would look like if one had to eat one's own mother's liver that had just been ripped violently from her as one looked on in horror and is 8 years old, cuz seriously, that guy crys like a little bitch* Btw, any kid that went to grade school ate a damn earth worm (willingly or no). YOU'RE NOT COOL!

4) Crew brings sammich from Kraft services.

5) Nakey (swimming in leach invested water, wander around snow covered moor, fish for sharks with his tiny worm penis).


Also, he gives TERRIBLE survival advice.

Notsurvivorman: Sometimes you have to drink your own pee. Mmmmmm man pee.

Survivorman (in perfect baritone with burly chest heaving): NEVER DRINK YOUR PEE!!!!!!!

Then Survivorman would show you a way to get the water from your pee using nothing but saran wrap and pure manliness.

Hulu has all of this to offer and more. Including all seven seasons of Star Trek: TNG. If you don't know what this is, or if you haven't seen every episode, then you have not truly lived and society should shun you until you are a real person. I firmly believe that if I ever get roped into marriage, I don't want a wedding ring, I want all 7 seasons (plus extra scenes and commentary) on DVD. A ring is like, "Oh look, there's that ring again, it's kind of shiny." Whereas Star Trek TNG is like, "OMFG! I forgot about the one where Riker bones Troi AND Roe. Mad props to your skills, player." The ring gives like a few random seconds of nostalgic stirrings for what adds up to several minutes of something that approximates joy during your whole life. TNG gives you HOURS AND HOURS OF AWESOME. Personally, I'd want my spouse to associate me with the orgasmic joy and pure awesome TNG offers over the appreciation of slight aesthetic sparkly that a ring has to offer. But maybe that's just me.

Ok, I've been away from Hulu for like an hour now. I'm starting to shake and sweat and the Silver Spoons theme song is softening in my head. SILVER SPOONS WHAT A GREAT IDEA! I'm full of those.

Obligatory Lost Post.

So to have a blog you have to have a certain amount of posts dedicated to the show Lost. Or the blog police come and beat your dog then throw you in a dungeon where you wear an iron mask and have only the moonlight and your desperation for sustenance. I've had my lawyers on it for weeks, but apparently the same rule applies to zlogs. Someone will pay dearly for this.

But until then, I guess I'll write about Lost, or as I have re-named it "Meaningful Glances." This is a much more pertinent name in that approximately 95% of all communication from character to character, character to audience, and character to random shrubbery is through nothing more than meaningful glances. Hear a weird noise? Meaningful glance. See a weird statute? Meaningful glance. Have your heart eaten by a random polar bear? Round of meaningful glances by everyone on the island. I expect that if something truly huge happened (like, I don't know, any plot point gets explained at all) the meaningful glance would be so epic, that it would extend into several generations to come. Every child born of a Lost character would emerge from the womb with a meaningful glance on its face. It would be met by the meaningful glances of its parents and would in turn welcome its children into the world with a meaningful glance, and so on, in perpetuity.

The use of the meaningful glance (perfected by so many a daytime soap) becomes clear when considering the fact that the entirety of Lost dialogue consists of random phrases said (often shouted) emphatically. When you're working with, "You can do it! I believe in you!" as the most profound statement in an episode or the riveting exchange of:

"You got my back?"

"I got your back. You got my back?"

"I got your back."

"Who got back?"

"Baby got back."

A glance may need to fill in the blanks.

And I know that the show is supposed to be full of "mystery" and "intrigue," but the biggest mystery to me is why these people just blindly follow whatever some douchebag tells them.

"Go back to the desolate island you finally escaped from." "Hmmm, I always wanted to die of diphtheria."

"You're special." "That's what my mom always said."

"Don't worry about that whole death thing, just shoot yourself in the damn head." *bang*

Seriously I wish I could find a group of people this gullible. And before someone argues, "But they've been right every time" let me just clear something up. You're an idiot. In what possible way has this all worked out for them? A prominent doctor became a drug addict, a whiney cunt is raising someone else's baby, and everyone else is either dead, dying, wanted by the cops, or just sort of mysteriously disappeared. Yeah every thing's great on magical, fuck-me-in-the-ass-til-it-bleeds-and-i'll-ask-for-more-because-i'm-an-idiot island. I'm just going to tell people to do random, arbitrary shit until I find a group of people that make me their sovereign. "Buy a bucket of salamanders." "Don't use your left foot today." "Slam your head into that wall." Apparently there are people that will do this shit unquestioningly, and they are trapped on a time skipping island. I'm not really sure if that's a good or bad thing.

There are also TOO MANY FUCKING CHARACTERS! I renamed them all (with better and much more badass names) in an attempt to keep them straight and make them suck less. An exhaustive list would take up the entire bandwidth of the internet so I'll just list a few in this post (more later, if you're good):

Jack: Party of Five

Kate: Degrassi (because she always looks like she's about to cry. Seriously, if Sawyer leaves
Juliette for her I swear I will punch the entire writing team in their obviously flaccid penises).

Hurley: Becker. Yes he was on that show. Yes he was. Look it up. Pwned.

Locke (and how completely not subtle is that name. It's a philosopher too, we get it. LAME.): Survivorman (there is no greater honor. Shit, why am I now writing a post on Survivorman right now? Stay tuned).

Michael: Oz

Walt: Little Oz.

Shannon: Soroi-slut

Boone: Jordan Catalano

Ok, that's more than enough for now. You get the point.

I have to say though, for my money, if I was stuck on that island I would totally be sleeping in Becker's (Hurley for those of you that are stupid) tent. He would keep me warm, he's got tons of money for booze and hookers when we get off the island and are inevitable best friends, he looks like a proficient cuddler, and he would make for an excellent shield in case of zombie apocalypse. Because zombies make every thing cooler.

Great Moments in Toastiness.

As an overlord that appreciates all things toasty, it is only fitting that I commend and bring attention to the great advances in forsaking the frigid. The latest advance, which has done the most to banish the sinful sinful cold since the invention of feety pajamas, is the one, the only, the incomparable Snuggie.

These things live up to their name. Wearing one is snuggelicious. You may be thinking, "Pfft! Tthhhhp! It's just a backwards robe." Well first of all, shut the hell up. And second of all, you're kind of right. It is like a robe you wear backwards, but so much more. By more I, of course, mean MORE FUCKING FLEECE. The Snuggie is made entirely out of fleece, one of the sacred clothes, and for that alone deserves distinction. Here is how I imagine a typical brainstorming session in Snuggie headquarters going:

Guy in Suit 1: Ok, we've decided to use fleece and we have this proto-type. But it's just a blanket.

Guy in Suit 2: What if we add sleeves?
1: You sick mad fool! Then the arms will get cold!


2: No no, we'll make them long sleeves! Longer than any human arm has ever been! That way the warmth will be trapped in the folds of unending fleece.

1: I like it! Also, don't make a big thing about the slap, I've got warrants.

A few days later, another prototype:

1: It's better, but why not just buy a robe and wear it backwards.

2: Hmmmmm. No belt?

1: I hate you. With a burning hot intensity that will live on far after we are all gone.

2: Ok ok ok, what if we add...more fleece! To the back so you can wrap it around several full grown hamunculi.

1: YES! But I just feel like it's not warm enough yet. I mean, is it as hot as the surface of satelites as they enter Earth's atmosphere? I think not!

2: Hmmmm. HHHHMMmmmmm. What about...? Hmmmmm.

1: I am breathless with anticipation

2: I've got it!"

1: Yes?

2: MORE FLEECE! Why stop cutting at 3 yards. Just keep going. The more fleece the more warmth!

1: Brilliant! Let's go get wasted!

2: Way ahead of you!

And so the Snuggie was born (Guy #2 is way smarter because second player is always the best, Luigi for life). The best inventions are created on alcohol and blow and sold on 30 second infomercials. Don't believe me? I've got two and a half words for you: Bake N'Fill. Nuff said.

I encourage each and every one of you to go out right now and buy a Snuggie assortment, certianly one is not enough. I need one for every room in the house, including bathrooms. I also have my work Snuggie, home Snuggie, and party Snuggie (party Snuggie complete with unidentifiable stains). Before you ask, yes OF COURSE the Snuggie is proper business attire. Wear one to your next job interview, I'll put money down they make you CEO of the company on...the...spot! You'll walk in and they'll be all, "Well that's an employee that will never die of exposure. Comfort, convenience, and style. These are all things this company could use more of! Be my boss! Here's a sack full of money!" There is also nothing sexier that someone in a Snuggie. Trust me on this one.

As the commercial says, "You can get up and walk around, you can wear them any where! I <3 Meth!"

Oh I will wear them, Mr. Announcer Guy, I will. The waves and waves of fabric also make twinkie storage and concealment MUCH easier. The Snuggie makes warmth and snacking easy everywhere. Give those guys a Nobel freaking Prize. They've done more for this world than Al Gore and Sting combined. Hell, Al Gore wants to make the planet colder. You know what? Fuck Al Gore! Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some smiting to do.

Valentine's Day is for Lame-os and Sissies.

In the spirit of the second stupidest holiday ever (the first is mother's day, before you ask) I think I will talk about Brett Michaels' Bus of Love, as it truly epitomizes modern commercial love. This show should really be called "Washed Up Rocker Looking for Coked Up Whore to Help Revitalize Career." It's literally a bus of former and aspiring porn stars who vie for the attention of a guy most of them have never heard of. He's looking for his newest piece of trashy arm candy to make beautiful, tabloid drama with and they are looking for their way into or out of the porn industry.

The farce, though, is elegant in its complete transparency. He gives fertility challenges to women who cannot medically breastfeed thanks to certain "enhancements," most of which are too old to naturally have children yet have the emotional and mental capacity of a child. Truly their progeny will grace the halls of MENSA. Actually, it was during a "challenge" to test "maternal instinct" (by knocking baby dolls around an ice rink with hockey sticks (I am not making this up)) that one of the contestants gingerly fell on her face and spent the next two days worried she had "Popped a boob" (still not making this up). What kind of back alley, Mexican boob job did you get that can't take light impact? Seriously, if I got to second base with this bitch would I cause permanent internal damage. I'm used to causing permanent psychological and spiritual damage, but organ failure seems like an actionable cause for tort litigation, so I'd like to avoid it. Also, deflated titty is just gross.

I think that the BEST part of this show, though, has to be that no one seems to realize that the cameras are around at all times. Not even Brett Michaels. When the ONLY woman on this show that seems to know who he is and isn't a walking "White Trash Barbie" refused to get on the stage at the strip club he took her and a couple of the other girls to for a "date" (can we say "clazzy" boys and girls?), he got very concerned. The other girls were dancing, stripping, and making out with each other, and she just "wasn't into it." So he took her into a back room to find out what the problem was. The term "buzz kill" got thrown around, but basically she said she has kids and this probably wouldn't be a cool thing for them or the people they go to school with to see on TV. His response? "I mean come on. I have kids too, but they're not here. This is just her and me having a good time alone. This has nothing to do with our kids."

Ok two things:

1) Brett Michaels has kids?! I mean that he acknowledges?! I expect the court and his bank accounts know who they are, but I didn't think he did.

2) You do realize this is on TV? There are cameras following you. This is not just between you two. This will be broadcast for anyone with access to VH1 to see.

Also, nothing says "love of my life and mother to my children" like someone who will take off their clothes in public (without getting paid...directly any way) and making out with strangers. I know that's what I look for in a one night stand long term life partner. Maybe he was banking on her being too stupid to recognize what a camera was and how television programming works. With this batch of intellectual quintessence, it would be a pretty safe bet she didn't. I somewhat suspect that he doesn't understand the concept either. And by "somewhat suspect" I mean "am completely sure he doesn't."

Another example of nobody understanding the concept of "television" was the girl that called her boyfriend to bitch about the show, Brett, and Brett's fake hair. Seriously. I expect that every one of these girls has several paying "boyfriends" at home, but don't call them from the hotel the show put you up in. To be fair, these girls are used to the cameras rolling only until they are covered in someone else's seminal fluid, because no one cares who they are beyond a glorified cum rag, but still. You are getting paid to be recorded. This isn't rocket science. But it is clearly beyond their comprehension. Oh also there was the girl that stole used socks.

So on this, the day of lovers, just remember: You're all whores.


That’s right. Today is the anniversary of the day the New York Football Giants proved, once again, that they are indeed number one in what was certainly the greatest display of athletic prowess since Super Bowl XXV in 1991. One year ago today, the Giants toppled the undefeated Patriots. Patriots coach Bill Belli-cheat and cry baby, apparent pretty boy (though I still don’t see why women throw their vaginas at this guy) Quarterback Tom Brady could do nothing but watch in awe as the greatest team to ever compete in any sport since the dawn of time, totally fucking pwned them with plays too brilliant and feats of athleticism too great to be accomplished by mere mortals. Truly, it was the stuff of gods.

I call him Belli-cheat, of course, because some “allegations” backed by some “evidence” and these things called “facts” surfaced that very season that the Patriots had perhaps “stolen” some info that didn’t, necessarily, belong to them. Someone finally cried shinnanigans on Belichick being a huge bud-in-ski when it came to other teams' play books. For his part, the Patriots coach put down his telephoto lens long enough to claim that the team did nothing wrong and everything they accomplished was totally legit. Anyone tell me what the Patriots did this season? That’s right, a lot of crying. But they didn’t cheat. That’s preposterous.

But I digress. On the complete opposite end of the spectrum of the Patriots complete lameness, is the severe and pure awesome of the NY Giants. My pathetic prose cannot capture the glory and transcendent beauty of that game. I won’t do a recap, we all watched it. If you didn’t, then you are a bad person. I carry a copy of it on DVD with me at all times, in case a situation arises where someone needs or wants to see true greatness and what football is really all about, NAY, what life is all about. I cannot say enough about the humbling magnificence of this truly great and benevolent dynasty. So all I will say is...

We are better for living under the Giants' rein. Long live the Big Blue Wrecking Crew (actual proper noun so totally legitimate capitalization).

P.S. The first person to post a comment citing any supposed examples of Giants' non-awesomeness will be smote.


And someone was stupid enough to give me a zlog.

Toasty FAQ.

Since I'm new around here, I thought I would start things out with a little FAQ of toastiness. So let's get going with the frequently, never-once-asked questions:

Q: What is a toastygod? Should I be offended? Is reading this zlog some kind of blasphemy?

A: Heresy at best I swear. No no, I kid. I am the Toastygod because I am dedicated to vanquishing all things cold and frigid, wherever they may exist. I enjoy worship as much as the next anonymous compilation of pixelated text, but my calves are not golden. For the monotheists out there, the "g" is lower case, so it's all good. For the polytheists in the crowd, if there are so many deities anyway, why couldn't one be in charge of warmth and why do you assume only mortals have a need to rant on the internet? (Wait, who's asking the questions here?) Also, it's all one word, which denotes a proper noun as opposed to a description. It's a name, not a job title. If you still have some sort of issue: get over yourself.

Q: What is all this ruination I've been hearing about?

A: Ruination will come about in many forms over the course of this zlog. I will either ruin your shit with how right I am or how wrong you are; with the unveiling of great majesties of the awesome or the exposing of the cruel truths of the lame. All-in-all I will break you down and make you better for it. You're welcome.

Q: Do you have a theme; a gimmick; a niche; a raison d'etre; a core from which all else is built?

A: I don't do gimmicks. Impressive list of synonyms though. There will be a loose and completely irrelevant scale of awesome to lame that pops up with no recognizable consistency, but that's about it.

Q: Is this scale empirically verifiable?

A: No. It is based solely on my unfettered whims. My judgment is harsh and final.

Q: Do my comments matter?

A: You don't matter.

Q: Is this zlog appropriate for children?

A: Not in the slightest. Mentally stunted adults who want someone to "Please think of the children" shouldn't read this either. You are not welcome here. Prepare to be ruined.

Q: What the hell is a zlog?

A: Don't ask.

Q: Do you think you're better than me?

A: Yes and so do you.

Q: How often will you post?

A: I will not insult us both with forced posts, however I will post whenever I come across something ironic or funny or I must type to keep the rage stroke at bay. My doctor says the daily rage strokes are really having a negative impact on my health. So potentially daily, though I seriously doubt it. I'm thinking weekly. Unless I have shit going on. Or I have the opportunity to nap. I <3 naps.

Q: What do you have to offer?

A: General badassery and a total lack of lame.

Q: What is the nature of our relationship?

A: I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.

Q: In the event of zombie apocalypse, are you prepared?

A: The end is nigh and I've got an itchy boom stick.

Q: Was that some sort of pop culture reference I don't get?

A: If you have to ask then yes...and it was more than one. Most of the words on this zlog will be stolen directly from television, horror movies, and animations most people haven't seen. It's not plagiarism, it's an honor. I honor you with my blatant thieving.

Q: What kind of fool do you take me for?

A: A pretty one. No one is as smart and good looking and sexually virulent as my readers. *pet*

Q: Finally, why a zlog, and why now?

A: I was always a zlogger, I just never had a zlog.

Welcome to the kingdom of Toasty! You have entered the zlog, are you brave enough to stay? We'd love to have you over anytime. Come back real soon, ya hear!

...did I mention how pretty you are? Yes? Good. Because you are. And funny. And interesting. And smart. It's no wonder you are completely irresistible to the gender or genders you prefer. Wanna be my new bff? No pressure.