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About Me

Real name: Mike

Amazing gif!



bleh, man
Age:29
Lives in: Dallas, Tx
Occupation: Mayor of Metro City
Member of: Official Destructoid Beard Club
Consoles: 360, ds, snes, ps2
Hobbies: Games, reading, guitar, drinking

Because The GHost is teh awesome, my dtoid playing card:


Wanderingpixel is also awesome.


Current Games:

All of the things


Old Blogs:
Teh Randomtoid Linktoid (This is all my randomtoid blogs in one spot)
My Dtoid Thank You Note
One year w00t!
Avatar Chat
My Feelings On "Next-Gen"
Bleh-views:
Star Wars: The Force Unleashed
Lost: Via Domus
Community Discussion Time!
Gaming Journalism
Oh snap! Front paged!
Playing with Others: The Death of Split-Screen



My Hero:



My Left 4 Dead Dream Movie



Longcat:



Myspace profile: what the fuck is a myspace and when did this get here?

To e-mail malicious hatemail: blehman646@gmail.com

To whomever drew my header: Awesome
Note: old header link here

For Wiisucks:
Hi! My name is Jack Klassen.! I'm a completely ordinary teenage boy from San Diego, California. My interests include soccer, surfing, writing poetry, and luge. I am homeschooled by my father who fought in the Korean War and was exposed to nerve gas. He is kind of crazy but I still love him. We got the Internet two years ago and I started making new friends on Yahoo! messenger. Surprisingly, most of these new friends were older men who wanted to have illegal, underage sex with me. Needless to say, I got a boner like a rocketship and cybersex quickly became my favorite thing in the entire world. Wait, did I say boner like a rocketship? I meant my vagina got as wet as Lake Titicaca. I started saving all of the hot chat sessions I was having with the Pakistanis, lesbians, child molesters and other monsters who were instant messaging me all day and all night, and I decided to put them up here on this website so you can see exactly how disgusting the entire human race is. Since then, I have been in a waterskiing accident that mangled my genitals beyond repair, been diagnosed with cerebral palsy, brain cancer, and Crohn's disease, learned to speak Urdu and French, covered my naked body in superglue, went to French lesbian camp, made a Hindu eat a roast beef sandwich out of my vagina, and ruined perfectly good cybersex for at least one hundred people. Use the menu above to find out more about me and start reading my sexy adventures,





Also, I make people from Pheonix Wright cry:


Also, also, sparkle:


Also, also, also, jiggles:


Also, also, also, also, Trent!


Alsox5, kitteh:


Also, X-mas Shake(a.k.a. itemforty is teh sex)

Gamer Profile

3DS friend code:
Steam: blehmeng
Battle:
PSN:
Mii:
Gamertag: blehmeng

Following (112)

The Fear: Inventory Management blehman | 8:49 AM on 10.02.2008 10 comments

You are likeeeely tooooo be eeeeeeeaten You are likely to be eaten by a grue. If this predicament seems particularly cruel, consider whose fault it could be: not a torch or a match in your inventory. It got narrated at you in the second person. Every time you booted up, it seemed you got another version of your life told to you by a status line blinking, the impossible people you could be without thinking yourself insane of personality problems, with a mop on a drop ship or trying to stab a goblin. That don’t play in public life. You get arrested, psychoactive medication daily in your big intestine and attesting that the voices in your head said the dwarf shot first, embedded arrow then you bled. But doctors with needles posit repeatedly that you knocked down that midget in the park unneededly. This has seeded the idea that you should never venture from the house, never get misunderstood by the non-player characters inhabiting Earth, none of whom are too concerned about Nord & Bert, not one of whom ever aimed a fish around the room, trying to get it in the ear canal because doom beset the last planet they were on, or near the verge of a set of poetics they wouldn’t hear. Never peered at the clues with invisible ink. No SM goddesses ever gave them pause to think. Never piloted six robots, each distinct. Don’t matter how many 2-liters they drink, they’re not gonna follow what you’re saying at all. They impugn and appall in the scope of their gall, as you hide in your room in disgust with the lights turned out. Turn ‘em on in a turn. Leave ‘em off for now. You are likeeeely tooooo be eeeeeeeaten You are likely to be eaten by a grue. If this predicament seems particularly cruel, consider whose fault it could be: not a torch or a match in your inventory. You read a pamphlet from a mailbox that urges low cunning, offers cursor and prompt: type >run and you’re running, and parses what you tell it, pronouns intact, abbreviations if you need ‘em (better keep it gramat.). Better punctuate your sentences and never redact the name of anything ambiguous. You’re about to get asked, do you mean the red one, the round one, the crooked, or the blue? Better keep that in your pocket, don’t know yet what it could do. Could be the spray for the grue; you’re gonna need it if it is — a situation that reloads, restarts, or quits. Wonder how many points out of how many points you’ve got to get before you’re done. Endeavor then to rejoice, when you wish more ardently, identities shed, for continuance, the rhyme forever voyaging. Fled from all lights and colors, from all smells and sound: just the lyric on the monochrome display and you’re proud to make another verse appear by solving riddles. If you didn’t have to sleep, you know you’d never seek acquittal. You’d be ever in the middle and the midst of quest. If it weren’t for >don the gown. you’d never get dressed. In your underwear typing, just like Front, keyboard attached up to my fingers — wrists bear the brunt — as I seek to do stunts simply through their descriptions. I think I went once to some sands that were Egyptian. And I retain plane tickets, snapshots, receipts, yet I stand unconvinced that this has happened to me. I wouldn’t want to misremember or get confused. Recall of crawling towards a pyramid appearing over dunes. Recall of entering the thing and descending stairs. Does it descend from there, adventure to nightmare? Did I battle a snake? Was the treasure intact? Or did the TRS-80 in my brain get hacked? Thanks, Grampa, for buying it. Now my life’s ruined. Twenty-two years later, head’s infested: got the grue in. PLUGHing, XYZZYfying, trying to escape, but I can’t ‘cause I’m up and around and awake. You are likeeeely tooooo be eeeeeeeaten Attached photos: