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February 26, 2007

Peter Popoff's Miracle Spring Water

This past summer, Rev. Peter Popoff touched my heart through the TV screen. On his exciting, and educational TV program he explained to meet that God wanted to make me rich, and heal me off my suffering. How?

Well, through a little prayer, and miracle water. I called, and Rev. Popoff told me he'd send me the Miracle Water.

I'm not sure what happened, but I never got it. So, a few weeks ago I remembered and tried again. Today it arrived.

I didn't expect to get so much literature with it. In total there were THREE letters. There are steps to this miracle water. None of which I have followed. So, I guess it won't work now. Crap...

Anyhow, the majority of the letters talk about how God "wants us to be wealthy", after all, Job, Jacob, Issac, Moses and Abraham were all very wealthy. Duh! Of course, God wants me to have my every desire.

In order for me to acquire these "great riches", I must first accept Jesus (check..kind of?), Drink the Water, Send EXACTLY $17.00 dollars, and mail back this SILVER AND GOLD BRACELET:

I made a collage of the highlights from the letters:

I'm not sure what I'll do with the water yet (I'm sure as heck not drinking it). I'll videotape whatever I do use it for, and show you. Right now, I'm thinking about ridding my dog of his "bumps" (cysts, maybe?).

Thank You, Peter Popoff. Amen.

P.S. If you want your own water, visit here: http://www.peterpopoff.org/miraclespringwater.phpmiraclespringwater.php
Then, show me what you did with YOUR Miracle Spring Water.

- - - - - -

Financial details on Peter Popoff Ministries
- As of FYE 2004, Peter Popoff received $548,167 as President of his organization.
- 36.7% of the organization's total expenses go towards fundraising and administrative expenses.
- In total the Peter Popoff Ministries raised $16,220,066 in revenue in FYE 2004. See Charity Navigator [1]

Posted by cory at 8:02 PM

February 15, 2007

"David Bazen"

Last night, David Bazan played the Ladies Literary Club. I didn't go, because I was watching Four Eyed Monsters. But afterward, I walked to our car in front of Ladies Literary Club, and saw the man sitting in front of the big front window. It was really strange.

I idolized Mr. Bazan for 2 1/2 years of my life. He was, and still is, one of my favorite musicians. To be so close was surreal. Especially since he didn't know I was starring at him through the window.

I should have said something. I should have walked in and said, "Thanks for putting my thoughts on christianity to music, dude.", and then I would awkwardly tell him I covered "Secret Of The Easy Yoke" for the new States Rights Compilation, Grown Zone. Then I would have ran out.

Since I didn't tell you in person, Thanks Mr. Bazan, or Mr. Bazen, as it was spelled on the sign outside Ladies Literary Club.

Posted by cory at 9:20 PM

February 12, 2007

Thank You For Subscribing to Playboy Magazine!

About a month ago I received a letter from College Mags, thanking me for ordering Playboy magazine. It looked pretty legit, and so I was going to go online, and see what was up. But, Karen (my girlfriend) told me it was junk mail and that if I went online I would sign up for it. So, I trusted her, and bet her that I would get the magazine in 6 weeks, like the card said.

6 Weeks later, I check the mail and see a magazine in the box. My first reaction is, SWEET A NEW GIANT ROBOT OR XLR8R, but I pull it out and it's wrapped in black plastic, with just my name on it. It wasn't junk mail. I brought it inside and laughed about it with Karen who was cleaning up after dinner. The plastic stretched, and I saw a boob. I pull it away, and I see Ms. Mariah Carey.

Thank You Cory Weaver For Subscribing to Playboy Magazine!

Did my Dad or someone I know get me this for christmas? What the heck?

...and it's a sweet, sweet fantasy baby...

I have to say, the excitement of the magazine has gone away. It was amazing when I found my Dad's when I was 6, and then again when I was 14. Now, it's just sort of weird. The women are very polished, and have very round breasts. Oh well. I'm going to go read the erotic story titled, Zombie Dan.

p.s. There are no nude pictures of Mariah. Big Disappointment. That would have gone on my door.

Posted by cory at 7:25 PM

February 11, 2007

My Mom...

My Mom just sent me this.

Hey Cory, Whazz up?? I took some pictures of myself and I wanted to know if you liked them I will put them on the bottom of this page. Email me back so I know you got them. I Feel pretty, Oh, so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright! And I pity Any dogg who isn't me tonight. Xoxo, Toby AKA Boo-Boo's

Posted by cory at 7:13 PM

February 8, 2007

"If My Uncle Mark were an Action Figure..."/Going All Live Journal

It feels like I don't have anything to blog about anymore. So, I'll post this piece of writing I did for class that I like. IT WON'T INDENT!

If My Uncle Mark were an Action Figure, He would come
with an Electric Guitar, Homemade Guitar Picks,
and cases of Miller Beer.

His body rocks side to side. His glassy eyes wobble as they try to focus on mine. He takes the piece of a plastic credit card, in the shape of a guitar pick, out of his mouth.

“Do you…know this one...?” he trails off.

He hunches over, trying his best to connect; to become one with the instrument, like the great guitar gods he idolizes. But, it’s no use. His fingers miss the notes. Strange plucks and plinks resonate out of the amp. Just like the rest of his body his hands are drunk.

“Come on, you can play to this! Give me a 4/4 beat!” he commands.

I pick up the sticks, and tap the cymbals, the snare, the toms, and the bass. I try to keep steady time, but his fingers fall out of sync.

“You’re pretty good.” he tells me.

I’m not a drummer, nor do I aspire to be one. The set is my brothers, and he can play circles around me. But, even if he is missing the compliments, he is the lucky one; he’s upstairs. He has escaped Uncle Mark for now.

“What about this one?” he smirks. Iron Man. “What about this one?” Smoke On The Water. “This One?” Stairway to Heaven. T-N-T. Back In Black. Bark at The Moon.

The basement has become a classic rock radio station.

Distorted power chords, and electric noodling reverberate off the concrete walls. Between these bursts of noise, Uncle Mark tells me stories, and gives me “great” advice.

“You just got to go all the way, Man.” He advises.

Uncle Mark is positive that, like him, I dream of becoming a Rockstar. But, I believe Rockstars are passé, and worse, MAINSTREAM.

Yes, we both play the guitar, but the way we view the instrument is entirely different. Uncle Mark looks at it as if it’s a beautiful woman, with luscious curves, which have the ability to save a life. He once explained to me about the curves resembling a woman. I laughed, but in the way we have been taught to laugh at Uncle Mark, inside.


Uncle Mark is a drunk, and likes Heavy Metal music. Unfortunately, that is the one-dimensional character he has become to most of the family. My cousins fear him. My Uncle scolds him. My Stepfather teases. My Mother asks spiritual questions, which usually end up littered with heavy metal lyrics about hell being “a party”, or how the devil is a “cool dude”. My siblings and I simply pretend to listen, and understand everything he says. Whatever Uncle Mark says and asks, “yeah” or “okay” usually will answer the question, mostly because every statement eventually becomes a question. Every declarative ends with “do you know what I mean?”

It may sound like we have no compassion for him, and it’s true. We had compassion. But after almost 30 years of alcoholism it’s hard to feel sorry. He has been in rehab dozens of times, been homeless (by choice, he brags), and hospitalized. Recently, the doctor informed him if he continues to drink, he will die, and his dying has started.


“Are you okay?” I ask.

His eyes are closed. Saliva dribbles over his ham, mashed potatoes, and small garden salad. I watch it form into a small puddle on his plate. He coughs. A milky white liquid oozes from his lips and on to his black t-shirt. It drips down over the green dragon’s necks, and on to the word “Savior” of his thrift store t-shirt.

“Do you need to go outside?” He raises his head, and smirks.

“No, I’m just not feeling well right now. Some people say it’s the alcohol, but I don’t believe it...” he pauses, and a giant smile forms on his face, “well, maybe it is the alcohol.” He laughs with his distinguishable crusty laugh, that if you had to compare it to anything it would be the voice of “Krusty, The Clown” from The Simpson’s. Oddly enough, my Uncle’s favorite television show.

None of us laugh. We already know it is the alcohol. We all know his body is on its way out. Months ago it was his bladder, now it’s his esophagus. This is usually how an alcoholic dies. Their organs slowly fail, and create a chain reaction in the rest of the organs.


“I should really start my homework.” I say.

“Not now, lets play a few more songs.” he says, with my guitar still strapped over his shoulder.

“How about later?” I ask.

His stare increases, and there is a fiery glare in his eye. Immediately, I believe he’s going to stab me with his pocketknife. He’s shown it to me numerous times, advising me to get one myself, because “you never know”.

“It was a grotesque scene yesterday in the home of this 17-year-old boy, as his drunken Uncle stabbed him to death with a small pocketknife”

“Okay, but before you go, I have something for you…”

He reaches into his pocket. My heart quickly beats; my head pulses.

“I want you to put this on your keychain.” He hands me a Sacagawea Dollar with a small hole through it.

“Thanks.” I say. I go to put it in my pocket, but he quickly forces me to put it on my keychain in front of him.

“You know. You’ll never know when you’ll need that. You can always use a dollar, you know what I mean?”

I walk up the basement steps to the soundtrack of a clumsy renditionSmoke On The Water, knowing that I have escaped death and Uncle Mark.


Posted by cory at 8:05 PM