It's the Return of...

Take a moment.

Breathe.

Hold that breath.

Just a few seconds longer.

Okay, exhale.

Now, bear with me. It's been a long time since I played this game, and there's bound to be some rust. That being said, I've sufficiently pumped myself up with a light workout session and a cool drink of water. From here on out, all I can offer you is my best. If that's not good enough, I'll go back to the bench, serve my time, and work on my jump shot. And coach, I know that if you stick with me, have a little faith, I'll be logging major crunch time minutes again in no time.

Wait, what are we talking about here? My bad, I was having my Michael Jordan dream again.

(ahem)

Okay, here's the situation.

As I stare at this little flashing cursor, and the preceeding line, a thousand memories flutter around my fragile little brain. Like tiny phantoms, Ghosts of Pissings Past, if you will. All of the fallen rants, sent away to die a slow, agonizing death on the back pages of this blog, presented in a loosely memorialized manner, much like fallen soldiers whose numbers far outmeasure the amount of available plots in the cemetery; I shall play the part of the uncaring, unfeeling dictator, dumping them recklessly into a crudely constructed mass tomb and leaving them to rot in the slow burning sun. Such is the fate of these poor, condemned souls. Sadly, their sacrifice shall be forgotten long before this sentence is over.

When I made the decision to bring back the old Crowd Favourite, I scared the shit out of myself. As soon as I published that blog entry, I thought to myself, "What in Sweet Baby Jesus' name were you thinking?"

Here I was, making another empty promise. Hell, I had already given ample reason for the lack of these rants, and had happily gone about my miniscule, vinegar-free existence. I was certain that I'd be crawlng back to this place, begging for your forgiveness in no time. After all, this wasn't the first time I'd failed miserably when it came to following up on my word. Granted, one can never tell when circumstances will prevent said promise to be fulfilled. However, it was my own laziness that dealt the death blow, at least originally. Little procrastinations turned into huge derailments and, before too long, it had been an eternity.
You know the rest; I posted about my happier life, and bid adieu to all things Pissing. Only to pimp the comeback (which I regretted doing, knowing how these things have tended to jinx themselves).

But then, something unexpected happened. Which got me thinking. Which got me angry. Which made me happy. Because now, my friends, we can move forward in pissed off harmony.

Let's begin.

I'd like to play a little game of "picture this" with you. I know, we've done this before, but don't worry; this visualization does not end with scary monsters or severed genetalia. I promise.

You're sitting at home on a Saturday night. There's nothing to do, and Facebook is failing to entertain you at this particular moment. You consider ordering a pizza or maybe some Chinese food; maybe later, you'll pop in one of your DVDs and watch an old favourite for the eighteenth time. Then, the weirdest thing happens. Just as you pick up the phone to call in your order, it rings. You answer and, to your surprise and delight, it's an old friend. You come to know that this particular friend has moved back to town, and you're invited to the housewarming party (which, for the purposes of this story, is conveniently being held tonight).

You jump in the shower, throw on your cleanest clothes, hit up the drive-thru and the liquor store, and land at the house. You walk inside, and all of your friends are there, greeting you emphatically. You have a few drinks and start to reminisce, recalling all of the best times you've shared with this outstanding and unique group of people. All the fondly retold tales of drunken debauchery, flings, ex-lovers, teachers, family... whatever the conversation leads to. It's one of the most awesome times you've ever had. After a few hours of cheer and free flowing good tidings, the doorbell rings. Your host answers the door to reveal someone whom no one in the room has ever seen in their lives. He proceeds to barge into the house, not even bothering to take his shoes off as he tracks mud over the previously clean carpet. He pushes you out of the way and beelines for the fridge, where he helps himself to a beer. Despite everyone's objections, he proclaims that he's going to hang out for a while. He grabs a girl by the hair and pulls her out of her seat. Taking her spot at the kitchen table, he smiles defiantly at everyone. Then, screaming so that his voice can be heard above the protesting masses, he informs us all about the benefits of albuterol and hydroxyzine.

Finally, the host has had enough of this random person's foolishness, and gets you and a couple of other guys to physically remove this nonsensical asshole from the premises. After tossing his sorry ass out the front door, you return to the kitchen where, astonishingly, three other people you don't know are harassing the guests about why they should be enlarging their penises (including the girls). One of them walks over to you and pins you against the wall. Pressing his nose against yours, he roars at you with rancid breath about how much he enjoys being naughty with cherries and a curling iron. You get the picture.

If you look at most of my entries, the comments section is bare. For a very long time, I wondered if anyone read this thing. Sure, a few popped up here and there, just to let me know that it wasn't just me I was writing/posting for. But then, the other day, I met Alex. For those who don't know who Alex is, allow me to bring you up to speed. Alex is the douchebag Russian bot that decided to post completely incoherent and hotlink infested comments in response to my last post. If you look at the comments, they're copy and paste jobs of various passages from various literary works interspersed with unrelated words which link to websites, most of which I assume are like Hepatitis C, where the C stands for Computer, and Hepatitis stands for Will Anally Rape Your. I haven't clicked any of the links, and I hope to Christ that you aren't dumb enough to.

So anyway, here we have it. My comments section corrupted by fucking bullshit spam. All because some slack jawed Vodka swilling fucktard is getting paid a couple of rubels by some batshit pharmaceutical company for ruining perfectly good websites. Seriously, does this kind of advertising work? Has anyone ever seen this shit and thought to themselves that now would be a good time to get on the old phenlpypertoxamine train? What, am I supposed to just disable comments and let this jackass move on without notice that he's seriously cheesed the creator of Pissing Vinegar?! Fuck that shit! He put four comments on my website, so I'll put forty on his. And, even if nobody actually is there to read them, something out there in the Interweb will know that Willie was spammed by some cyberfuckhead, and Willie spammed back. As a matter of fact, as soon as I finish this, I'm going to march right over to Alex's comments page and spam the ever loving shit out of him. I'll spam his bitch ass so hard, he'll think he's died and gone to some hellish Monty Python purgatory.

I'm no fool; I know this isn't going to do any good. The way I see it, sometimes you've got to walk a mile in a bot's shoes before you know they're/it's a fucktard. If the only way to do that is to post the word "fucktard" forty times in someone's blog, so be it. This is for your battered inbox. This is for the gNosh guestbook. This is for the companies that aren't paying me to annoy you, even though I can think of no sweeter existence than to be paid by the fucktard. This is for your freedom!

Here endeth the ePISSle.

Edit: Apparently, it's my computer who's really the fucktard. My javascript isn't letting me post on Alex's blog. Oh well, I guess I can always report him as a spammer (like many others who have left quite colourful comments in his blog already) and hope that somebody pinpoints his exact location, boards a plane, knocks down his door, barges in and throws him through a window before inserting shards of glass into his scrotum. Unless, of course, Alex turns out to be a she. In which case, we jam her box with spam of course.

Edit 2: Okay, I've flagged this douche's blog and set my comments for word verification. Believe me, I wanted to keep it as easy as possible for you to comment on my shit, but if you're a spammer, you're going to have to actually be at the keyboard to do it. Carry on.