Morbid Misanthrope's Angry Rants

The Random Dialogs: Part Three

2008-09-05T01:21:00.000-07:00

Guy 1: Dude, you don’t look so good.
Guy 2: I know. I just got my hair cut.
Guy 1: No, not your hair. I mean you look physically ill.
Guy 2: Yeah, well, the broad that cut my hair had the worst breath on the planet—worse than anyone currently alive or dead.
Guy 1: You mean her breath was worse than a corpse’s breath.
Guy 2: Presumably, yes.
Guy 1: But we’re scumbags, bro. The smell of that black sludge I puked up that one time I drank a bunch of the blue-label Smirnoff vodka didn’t bother you at all. How could some lady’s breath have been terrible enough to make you sick? I mean, you look as if you just ate a bag of abortions from a leper colony dumpster.
Guy 2: Urgh … my lungs feel like the walls of an outhouse resting atop a tallow vat.
Guy 1: Don’t tell me you’re turning into a big girl, and foul odors are suddenly too much for your dainty lady nose.
Guy 2: I can’t even begin to describe the horror, dude. This stench transcends foul odor. Those Lovecraftian tentacle whisps of mephitic breath assaulted more than my nose. Those noxious, invisible stink tendrils hurt my soul … my soul.
Guy 1: Holy shit. What did this breath smell like?
Guy 2: What did it smell like? You can’t compare this breath to anything currently extant in this realm, dude. Inhaling that filth was like gazing into the abyss. It was gazing back into me, man. The abyss was fucking gazing into me!
Guy 1: Calm down, dipshit.
Guy 2: You just can’t understand.
Guy 1: I’ll try, though, because I’m beyond intrigued. What did this lady look like?
Guy 2: Well, physically she was a petit Vietnamese lady. That, I’m convinced, was only a disguise—a three-dimensional skin tarp, duplicitously masking the unspeakable horrors undulating endlessly into the depths beyond the boundaries of human understanding.
Guy 1: Enough of that metaphysical shit, dude, seriously.
Guy 2: Sorry. But, like I said, my soul has been wounded.
Guy 1: By bad breath? Heh. Pansy.
Guy 2: Take it easy, dick. I’m coming out of shock.
Guy 1: She probably just had some fucked up shit for lunch. You know, like cists scraped from cod cloacae, boiled in garlic broth or something.
Guy 2: I’m telling you, man: smells like that can’t be created. They have to be conjured … summoned or something.
Guy 1: Try to give me some kind of smell to compare it to.
Guy 2: I can’t. I mean, it didn’t smell like anything else. The best I can do is formulate some kind of comparison based on the severity of the odor as opposed to its similarities to common scents with which you’d be familiar.
Guy 1: Wait … what?
Guy 2: Okay, here’s an example: Although it didn’t smell anything like a syphilitic skunk ejaculating liquid Limburger cheese onto a pubic hair fire, I can safely—with a significant amount of presumption, of course—say that it was a far worse smell than that. Again, I must stress that it stank like nothing else I have ever smelled before.
Guy 1: Dude, truffle oil!
Guy 2: What?
Guy 1: My truffle oil precedent. Someone might ask, “What does truffle oil taste and smell like?” And my answer would be, as always, “It tastes and smells like truffle oil.” Truffle oil is a unique experience and can’t be compared to anything else.
Guy 2: Truffle oil sucks and is terrible.
Guy 1: Fuck you. You just have a pedestrian palette.
Guy 2: If by pedestrian you mean averse to the flavors one might find while probing the underside of a Parisian bus seat with his tongue, then, yes, I have a pedestrian palette.
Guy 1: Whatever.
Guy 2: Anyway, her breath was worse than if an aged Russian circus bear puked white pepper into her mouth, and that really obese cat that was on the news recently used her mouth as a litter box for, like, a month.
Guy 1: It was worse than that?
Guy 2: Based on my a posteriori understanding of the component odors present in that description, yeah, it was far gnarlier than that shit.
Guy 1: I’m noticing a recurring theme here. You seem to draw frequently from the animal kingdom when compiling gross smells.
Guy 2: Of course. This smell was entirely inhuman, so it makes perfect sense.
Guy 1: Did it burn your eyes?
Guy 2: It was suffocating my soul, dude. It went far beyond eye-burning. I don’t know if her hair dryer wasn’t working or something, but instead of using it to blow the loose hair from my shoulders, she blew on me with her heinous breath. It was like inhaling glass shards through the tubular offal from a mad cow while a proctologist ham-fistedly jammed a nine-volt battery into my sinuses.
Guy 1: A nine-volt battery?
Guy 2: You know how if you put a nine-volt battery to your tongue it sort of zaps you a little?
Guy 1: Oh yeah. I get it.
Guy 2: This sucks. My scent memory is like some kind of fucked up crime scene now.
Guy 1: Why the hell didn’t you just offer her a breath mint or something?
Guy 2: Yeah, because dropping a urinal mint into the Gangese River is going to make it smell like a Listerine spring on the shores of Lake Arrowhead.
Guy 1: Hey, at least it would have been something.
Guy 2: You’re familiar with the concept of the hopelessly futile, right? Because an Altoid wouldn’t make a shit volcano smell like toothpaste. That’s the definition of futility, homeslice.
Guy 1: And besides that, if you insulted the woman’s breath, she probably would have jammed scissors in your ear or forced you to play Russian Roulette with her refugee uncles in the alley behind the store. I saw The Deer Hunter. I know what’s up.
Guy 2: I’d be more concerned she’d fuck up my haircut.
Guy 1: Where’d you get your hair cut again?
Guy 2: Supercuts.
Guy1: And you wonder why you had a shitty experience? Way to go, tightwad. Why don’t you drop an extra five bucks and get a proper haircut instead of going to So-So Cuts all the goddamned time.
Guy 2: I seriously doubt that five dollars is all that separates a face full of freshly milked elephant seal flatus from a quality haircut.
Guy 1: Whatever, dude. Why don’t you go take a shower or something—wash some of the shame off of yourself. You’ve got the facial expression of a rape victim.

The Random Dialogs: Part Two

2008-08-20T00:39:00.000-07:00

Guy 1: What is it with women?
Guy 2: You mean, like, in general?
Guy 1: No. I mean like how they always refer to a boner as a hard-on when they’re trying to sound all sexy right before they blow you. You know?
Guy 2: No, actually. I’ve never found myself in that situation.
Guy 1: Heh. Fag.
Guy 2: Shut up, asshole. I am not.
Guy 1: Anyway, yeah, it’s like when they’re trying to sound all sexy they call your woody a hard-on, as if that’s somehow the inherently erotic term for your erect penis.
Guy 2: This has happened to you a lot?
Guy 1: Oh yeah, totally. Pretty much, like, every single time. And, of course, in the thousands of pornos I’ve seen.
Guy 2: Maybe all of those pornos were written by the same guy.
Guy 1: That’s a valid hypothesis; however, as I just said, it always happens in real life, too.
Guy 2: Pardon me if I find it difficult to believe you’ve been raking in blowjobs these last few months.
Guy 1: Hey, you don’t know. Alright, pal?
Guy 2: Please, continue. Because, seriously, I have no idea where you’re going with this—never mind what triggered this bizarre conversation.
Guy 1: Well, I was watching the Food Network just now, when I suddenly remembered how much I love it when chicks blow me, yet, at the same time, I was thinking how much I hate women because they’re stupid.
Guy 2: And that triggered your memory of their unusually consistent way of referring to boners just before they put them in their mouths.
Guy 1: Yeah, basically. Come to think of it, maybe I—hell, all men—like BJs so much because it’s the one time women stop saying stupid shit for, like, five seconds without having their jaws wired shut.
Guy 2: From when they fell down all of those stairs and then ran into the door?
Guy 1: Exactly. Anyway, I don’t know what they have against words like boner, but they always seem to use hard-on instead. Or cock. Sometimes they use the word cock, but then they sound all medical. Seriously, what’s wrong with boner?
Guy 1: I don’t know. It’s not a very graceful word. Like, I suppose no matter how breathy a woman says that word it still sounds like she’s referencing a mistake her drunk uncle made at the last family reunion.
Guy 2: So? A boner isn’t supposed to be graceful. It’s just a stupid piece of engorged meat. It doesn’t even do anything. I mean, maybe if it fucked the ladies for you—had some moving parts, a piston, a dimmer switch—then they could church it up a little. It’s like an idiot memo got sent out in sound waves only women can hear.
Guy 1: I suppose such a thoughtless redundancy can really spoil the mood.
Guy 2: Yeah! It’s like, for once, I wish a woman would say something like, “Just lay back while I try to wrap my head around your boner.” Or maybe even, “Hold still while I spread my face on your stiffy.”
Guy 1: That’s all class.
Guy 2: Women are just unimaginative, I guess.
Guy 1: Well, at least they don’t seem to mind blowing you.
Guy 2: Dude, you know what it’s called when you split a chicken open to prepare it for cooking? Spatchcock!
Guy 1: Really?
Guy 2: Hell yeah! How awesome is that shit?
Guy 1: That is pretty funny.

The Random Dialogs: Part One

2008-08-03T20:36:00.000-07:00

Guy 1: So, did you watch the Star Wars trilogy I let you borrow?
Guy 2: Dude, you didn’t LET me borrow them, you essentially forced me to take them home and watch them over the weekend. Seriously, it was like the crappiest homework assignment I’ve ever had.
Guy 1: I guess you didn’t like the movies, then?
Guy 2: Of course not. They were goddamned terrible.
Guy 1: Oh, why? Because the effects were crappy? It was the 70s, man. You can’t dismiss the greatness of the classics just because the special effects are archaic.
Guy 2: The effects had nothing to do with it. It’s actually kind of refreshing to see cheesy old-school effects from time to time. Unfortunately, you had to buy the remastered trilogy. Really, dude? I know next to nothing about the Star Wars universe, yet even I felt like I was getting kicked in the dick by a sniggering George Lucas when in the end of the third movie Hayden Christensen’s ghost was standing there instead of the original guy.
Guy 1: Just what did you hate so much?
Guy 2: It was just the whole thing. It was … it was fucking terrible.
Guy 1: No way! Give me one example.
Guy 2: Okay, right from the very beginning: “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.” Of course the galaxy is far, far away—it’s another galaxy. The closest galaxy to us is literally millions of light years away, for fuck’s sake! It’s like George Lucas thinks we’re all a bunch of assholes or something.
Guy 1: You’re saying Lucas purposely insulted his audience with a redundancy he thought they were too stupid to catch? What if it was just an accident?
Guy 2: If it was an accidental redundancy, then Lucas is the asshole. What kind of moron writes an entire movie about space without realizing the blatant, brain-fuckingly stupid redundancy in the opening line of the film? If he’s not being insulting, he’s just being lazy.
Guy 1: Dude, you’re thinking about this way too much.
Guy 2: You wanted an example, so I gave you one. It’s a big pile of fucking stupid from the beginning all the way to the end. And how can you say I’m putting too much thought into this? When you Star Wars fags obsess about the movie, blowing nerd loads all over each other’s Boba Fett avatars on the message boards, it’s all accolades and cheetos dust-coated ass-patting.
Guy 1: That’s totally different.
Guy 2: Sure it is. Urg. I feel like a mouth-breathing ultra-virgin just for discussing this shit right now.
Guy 1: Well, at least admit that Darth Vader was a total badass.
Guy 2: He was a pussy. A big, gay pussy smothered in sissy sauce.
Guy 1: How can you even say that? He strangled people without even touching them!
Guy 2: He probably didn't want to break a nail.
Guy 1: Well, what about …
Guy 2: Jedi—pussies. Dark side—pussies. Boba Fett, a guy who died because he fell into a hole even though he was wearing a goddamned jetpack—pussy. The Force, Jabba, ewoks—gay, gay, gay. What the fuck ever.
Guy 1: Come on now!
Guy 2: Seriously. What’s up with those movies? Like, if there were a special feature on the DVDs where you could watch Lucas directing as the movies were being filmed, it’d just be him sitting on a barstool with a bullhorn, screaming “Gayer!” after every take.
Guy 1: I’m going to ignore all of that. Is there nothing you liked at all about the trilogy?
Guy 2: Yeah, I liked it when Darth Vader was swashbuckling with Gandalf, and Gandalf was all, “If you leave me now, you take away the biggest part of me.” Then he teleported into space, went all Super Saiyan, and destroyed the Death Star and a whole bunch of those bad-guy space ships that look like photovoltaic ping-pong balls with a giant hadoken.
Guy 1: What the fuck are you talking about?
Guy 2: It’s adorable how you Star Wars fags get more worked up about inaccuracy than downright shit-talking.

Interesting MM Quotes from His Editor

2008-04-01T01:43:00.000-07:00

Morb has been very occupied with work as of late, and, in order to create the illusion of activity on this blog, asked me to post something. I asked him what, exactly, he’d like me to post, and I believe his exact words were, “I don’t know. Fuckin’ something, stupid.”

Since none of you, his readers, will ever get to meet him personally (be grateful, very grateful), I thought it might be kind of interesting to post some things that I’ve heard him say while interacting with people on a day-to-day basis. Yes, he really hates having to deal with people, but he’s accepted the fact that, short of growing a beard and living in a cave, he’s never going to escape the human interaction modern life demands. Also, because anything he’s written but decided not to post on this blog is utterly useless and unreadable, posting a few of his more coherent quotes was an easy way for me to fulfill my contractual duties with minimal effort.

Because Morb has resigned himself to the fact that he can’t escape dealing with people, he’s completely stopped censoring himself in any way. I mean, honestly, he just doesn’t care what he says to people; it’s like he has no indecency filter. While nearly everything he says is terribly hurtful, much of it is also very funny—or at least he thinks it is (as his editor, I sometimes agree). I was present for many of the following gems, some of them he text-messaged to me right after they happened (often prefaced by, “Hey, you’ll never guess what I just said to this retard who was bugging me”), and other phrases I learned of indirectly from the offended people at whom he initially spat them. The parenthetical italicizations are my simple situational explanations for the quotes. Enjoy … or don’t. I don’t really care as long as Morb agrees that I’ve done my job and lets my kitten, Mr. Camew (Get it? Camus + mew [kitten sound] = Camew. Adorable, no?), live one more day.

(To an annoyingly festive coworker on Saint Patrick’s Day)
“One, I’m not Irish; two, I can’t drink alcohol; and three, if you pinch me I’ll kill you.”

(To a coworker he had to ask for directions)
“Other than my personality, my only flaw is my terrible sense of direction.”

(To me during a discussion regarding something he was writing)
“Of course the crux of my humor is self-deprecation. If I went around deprecating everyone else all the time, people would think I was a total dick. By the way, that shirt looks crappy on you, tubby.”

(To a fellow metal musician at a record store)
“Anyone who tells you being a musician is only about getting chicks is a fucking asshole … he’s probably up to his lungs in pussy, but he’s still a fucking asshole.”

(To the pretentious, faux-intellectual lady clerk/artist at the book store who used the wrong words to say something really stupid)
“There’s a painfully obvious difference between ascetic and aesthetic, Miss, and if you don’t understand that, you ought to abstain from talking and just occupy yourself looking at pretty pictures in the dipshit aisle.”

(To a hoard of environmental activists protesting in the town square)
“When you hippy bastards immolate yourselves in protest of America’s use of fossil fuels, try not to use any gasoline. You wouldn’t want to look foolish or anything.”

(To annoyingly religious coworker reading about a conjoined twins operation in the newspaper)
“Don’t feel too bad about that twin not surviving the operation: she’s the one that didn’t love Jesus.”

(To me during a discussion regarding something he was writing)
“If you can think of a better non-scientific name for cystic fibrosis than cumlung, I’d certainly like to hear it … Are you seriously offended by that? Faggot.”

(To an old lady in the Marie Callender’s parking lot making loud coughing noises in response to Morb’s smoking)
“Oh, fuck off already. Look, if the fifth piece of banana cream pie you swallowed whole tonight didn’t stop the ramshackle hunk of baboon meat and chewing gum you call a heart, I seriously doubt a whiff of quality tobacco is going to free you of the mortal-fucking-coil.”

(To an old man at the supermarket checkout who was jamming his cart into Morb’s calves)
“I’m going to have to point out what a bad idea it is to fuck with a person who places absolutely no value on human life when you’re old enough to die from getting pushed down a stair.”

(This is an e-mail Morb got from someone asking him a stupid question and his response, which was sent but never posted here before)

Dear Morb,

I recently took a new job. Everything has been going great, but now I think I am falling for my manager. She’s really pretty—although I think cute is a better word to use to describe her—and I think she really understands me. We have the same sense of humor and she gets all my jokes. Maybe I fall in love too easily. I really am a hopeless romantic. Should I tell her how I feel about her? I’m worried it would cause problems at work, or, even worse, she wouldn’t have the same feelings for me that I have for her. What should I do?

Sincerely,

Anonymous Reader

Dear Anonymous Reader:

Dude, if you had ever read this blog before, you’d know better than to ask me a gay question like that.

Seriously, you have the spine of a washcloth. “Maybe I fall in love too easily.” How can you even say something so utterly epicene? Were you raised by a single mother or something? Did a little too much of mommy’s stray estrogen find its way into your undoubtedly pointy head? You’re probably the kind of priss that likes buying tampons for his heavy-flow girlfriend when she’s too crampy to budge ass off the couch and go to the store her own goddamned self.

Fuck, dude, I seriously don’t even know where to start making fun of you. “A hopeless romantic.” You’re like the Holy Grail of spineless, potpourri-scented, emasculated modern males. Just how much of your chemical makeup is low-fat, sugar-free Jell-O, anyway? Give me a close estimate, because I want to know how easily I’ll be able to put my foot through your torso when I try to kick the lisp demon out of you during what could only be compared to a hilariously violent blunt-force exorcism performed by a meth-spun Viking covered in rabid raccoons.

I could go on. Seriously. I could tear into your powder-puff emotional state like a 500-pound Cajun attacking a turducken after an especially long and fat-free Lent. But, because I’m feeling especially nice today, I’m going to let this pass. I’m not even going to post this crap. I’m going to spare your lady feelings and just ignore this chance to kick you around for a while.

I’m totally kidding. I’m not nice at all. The only reason you’re off the hook today, Sally, is because the 7-11 down the street just got a shipment of these coffee energy drinks that taste like they have vodka in them, and I’m going to buy them all so I can remember what alcohol tastes like. I do, however, suggest you try to grow some nads, though. Because if I ever see you and you’re still a little bitch, I’m going to kick you into traffic just so I can watch your ovaries get wrapped around some tires.

Cordially,

MM

Solving the Pube Enigma

2008-03-05T01:43:00.000-08:00

Guy 1: Dude, I think there’s a pube in my chicken strips.
Guy 2: A what?
Guy 1: A fuckin’ pubic hair, dude. I think there’s a pube on my chicken.
Guy 2: Are you sure it isn’t just a chicken hair?
Guy 1: Chickens have feathers, bro.
Guy 2: Yeah, but, like, they have some hair, too.
Guy 1: What?
Guy 2: Like, haven’t you ever had a chicken wing with, like, sort of bristly hairs sticking off of it?
Guy 1: No.
Guy 2: Really?
Guy 1: Really.
Guy 2: Well, they do have hairs sometimes, I guess. Usually just a few here and there near the pointy part of the wing.
Guy 1: Fuckin’ weird.
Guy 2: Yeah, totally.
Guy 1: But, dude, this hair is curly and shit.
Guy 2: Let me see … ewww, dude, that’s a fuckin’ pube!
Guy 1: I knew it!
Guy 2: You should take it back to the counter and get another order.
Guy 1: Yeah, right! Then they’d probably spit on the chicken, too, this time.
Guy 2: True. Or put, like, five pubes in there, hidden at the bottom.
Guy 1: Those assholes.
Guy 2: Can you, like, eat around it or something?
Guy 1: I don’t even want to look at it, bro.
Guy 2: This reminds me of that time Ryan found a pube in his French fries.
Guy 1: Well, what did he do?
Guy 2: He stood up in the middle of the restaurant and yelled, “There’s a goddamn pube in my French fries!” and then the manager came out and told him to leave.
Guy 1: Why? It’s not like it was his own pube he put in there or something.
Guy 2: The manager said he was making a scene or something gay like that.
Guy 1: Dude, I think I’m just going to pick the pube off of my chicken.
Guy 2: Fuckin’ gross! You’re going to touch it?
Guy 1: I think I kind of have to.
Guy 2: Sick!
Guy 1: I’ll just, like, use my left hand that I don’t eat with.
Guy 2: What if that pube gets stuck under your fingernail or something?
Guy 1: This is so nasty, dude.
Guy 2: Wait! What are you going to do with it once it’s off your chicken?
Guy 1: Fuckin’ throw it on the floor or something.
Guy 2: What if it lands on your foot, dude? You’re wearing flip-flops, so that pube would probably, like, get on your toes and you’d be walking in someone’s pubes all day.
Guy 1: I didn’t think about that. I should just wipe it under the table like old gum.
Guy 2: Fuck that shit, dude! You’d probably touch some, like, old hooker’s gum or something. Then you’d have pube residue and herpes on your hand.
Guy 1: Goddamnit.
Guy 2: I mean, you could just wipe the pube into a napkin, but then you’d be sitting here eating with a pube napkin sitting next to you. Something about that just seems weird.
Guy 1: This sucks so much, dude.
Guy 2: Can you just blow the pube off the chicken?
Guy 1: I’m not blowing on some strange pube, dude.
Guy 2: It’s probably stuck to the chicken ‘cause of the sauce anyway.
Guy 1: This is getting ridiculous.
Guy 2: We shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of thing when we’re trying to eat lunch, man.
Guy 1: You know what? I’m done. Fuck this. I’m just going to fill up on free soda refills and eat a hot pocket when I get home.
Guy 2: Good thinking, bro. Abusin’ the free refills. We’re not coming back here, though, I’ll tell you that right now.
Guy 1: Well, at least not for a while.
Guy 2: Yeah, we’ll come back when the other cooks are in the kitchen or something—the ones that don’t wipe their helmets on the chicken.
Guy 1: Do you really think the guy wiped his dick on this chicken?
Guy 2: How else would he get a pube in there?
Guy 1: Ugh … Dude, I am drinking—seriously—a gallon of free Dr. Pepper before I leave here today.

R.I.P. William F. Buckley Jr.

2008-02-28T00:04:00.001-08:00

A very well-written piece about WFB.

The Work Stress is Beginning to Show

2008-02-21T22:56:00.000-08:00

The excessive use of exclamation points makes me want to crawl into a dictionary and hang myself from the word insufferable.

Morbid Misanthrope Gets a DVR: A True Story

2008-02-18T18:57:00.000-08:00

MM: Hello?
Cable Guy: May I speak to Mr. Misanthrope, please?
MM: Speaking.
CG: (Impatiently) This is Jim from the Commercial Cable Company. I’m here to install your cable upgrade. Requesting access to your compound here.
MM: You want me to open the security door to the apartment complex, you mean?
CG: Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I just said.
MM: Okay. I’ll input the access codes, granting you entry through the external fortifications momentarily.
CG: Are you going to open the goddamn door or what?
MM: Yeah, dude. I’ll be right there. Shit.
CG: Uh-huh.
CLICK
MM: What the fuck?

MM opens the security door to meet a tall, disheveled black guy with long dreadlocks and muddy, untied boots.

CG: What took you so long, sir?
MM: I’m on the third floor. I had to get down here.
CG: Well, I’m working according to a point system. I don’t get paid by the hour, so I hope in the future when I ask you for something you comply in a timelier fashion.

MM and CG enter the building’s elevator.

MM: (Surprised) A point system?
CG: (Sigh) Yes, sir. A point system. For example, installing basic cable is ten points. I have a certain number of job sites to visit in a day, and I get paid by however many points I earn by completing different jobs. In fact, I just received word that I got another job across town I have to add to my route after this one. So, like I said, I don’t have time for games and nonsense.
MM: That’s rather unorthodox, isn’t it?
CG: Sir, have you ever worked for a cable company?
MM: No.
CG: Then you would have no idea, would you?
MM: I suppose not. But in the past I’ve dealt with a number of other cable guys, and none of them ever mentioned a point system.
CG: Well, sir, they were probably just contractors the company paid to take care of a surplus of jobs. I’m an actual employee so my situation is different. I’m in a hurry, so let’s not waste any more time.
MM: In that case, let me just put this elevator into overdrive so we reach the third floor a lot quicker. If I had known time was of the essence, we could have taken my teleporter.
CG: (Sigh) You fucking white boys.
MM: Excuse me?

Elevator door opens and CG rushes out, stomping down the hall in the wrong direction.

MM: My apartment’s over this way, actually.
CG: You think you’re pretty funny, huh?
MM: My sense of humor isn’t really something I’m thinking about right now, no.

CG and MM enter MM’s room.

CG: So what is it that you want?
MM: I’m getting a DVR installed.
CG: This television doesn’t look high-definition to me.
MM: That’s because it’s not.
CG: Well then I can’t help you. You can only have a DVR with a high-definition television.
MM: That’s strange. My brother, who lives in this very building, has the same TV I have, and he got a DVR about nine months ago.
CG: Why are you trying to make my job difficult, sir?
MM: I’m not trying to do anything of the sort.
CG: Then why did you request a high-definition DVR when you don’t have a high-definition television.
MM: I never requested a high-definition anything.

CG looks around MM's studio apartment, noticing the Cannibal Corpse and Mayhem posters on the otherwise bare walls. (See pictures at the end of the post.)

CG: Well, I have to go check my van for a non-HD DVR. Come with me, though, because I don’t want to have to wait for you to open the door when I come back up.
MM: Okay.

CG and MM enter the elevator and stand in silence momentarily.

CG: You fucking crazy white boys, haha.
MM: Yeah, about that: what do you mean?
CG: You one of those serial killers, ain’t you?
MM: No.
CG: Riiiight … that’s what you say now, but just wait until you be on the news, getting hauled off by the cops for cutting up 20 hookers and keeping them in your freezer. You fucking crazy white boys, haha!
MM: I assure you, I’ve never killed anybody.
CG: Yet, you mean. You haven’t killed anybody yet. You white boys always do, though.
MM: Well, I’ll try not to let my whiteness overwhelm me and kill anybody while you’re here.
CG: Uh-huh. Haha, crazy white boys!

MM and CG walk to the van and CG looks for a non-HD DVR.

CG: Well, sir, unfortunately, I don’t have a non-HD device for you. I don’t know why you would request an HD box without owning an HD television, but you’re in luck because I have to go back to HQ anyway, so I’ll pick one up and come back.
MM: I never asked for an HD anything, but I appreciate the fact that you’re going to do your job.
CG: I hope you appreciate what I’m doing for you here, sir. This is setting me far, far off schedule.
MM: I’ll call your boss immediately to nominate you for the Cable Guy Medal of Honor.
CG: I appreciate that, but it wouldn’t help me that much. Be here in exactly 14 minutes to let me back into the building.

CG arrives 20 minutes later.

CG: I hope you’re happy, sir. Now I’m so far behind schedule I don’t know how I’m ever going to catch up.
MM: Don’t lose hope, dude. Miracles happen.

MM and CG enter elevator again.

CG: So how many people have you killed, exactly?
MM: Not nearly many as you have, I suspect.
CG: You white boys is fuckin’ crazy, man. I swear to god!
MM: Yeah, yeah. We sure are.
CG: Seriously, I seen all that evil shit you got on your walls.
MM: So which is more likely to make me a serial killer: the music I listen to or the fact that I was born white?
CG: One affects the other, sir. Ain’t you never heard of casuality? [Editor’s note: We can only assume the cable guy meant causality.]
MM: Isn’t calling one of your customers a serial killer bad for business?
CG: Haha!
MM: Actually, isn’t asking a serial killer if he’s a serial killer bad for your health? I mean, suppose I really were a serial killer like you seem to believe. Wouldn’t that put you in some kind of danger? As a serial killer, if I didn’t call you here just to butcher you and turn your skin and reeking viscera into furniture, wouldn’t your constant accusations be reason enough for me to kill you just to ensure your silence and my continued freedom? Just what kind of stupid, lead-dense motherfucker goes around pissing off serial killers in their own homes?
CG: Haha! You crazy, white motherfucker!
MM: Dude, you are so incredibly lucky I only kill syphilitic hookers that remind me of my mother.
CG: (Nervously) Hehe … ahem.

From that point on, CG installed the DVR in almost total, nervous silence, occasionally muttering to himself about how late he was.

CG: Well, that will do it, sir. Again, I’d like to mention how much trouble this all was for me.
MM: Uh-huh. Do you want a tip or something?
CG: After all the trouble I went through to hook you up here today, sir, and you have to ask me something like that? I mean, look here: I used the good cable to hook up your DVR. Technically, we’re not even required to use the good cables, but I did. You know, that shit ain’t free. That wire’s about 20 dollars per foot, and to make sure your reception was perfect I used about a foot and a half of it. I didn’t have to—in fact, the guy the installed your cable here initially used the cheap stuff. I fixed his sloppy job and hooked you up good, sir.
MM: So, what do you want? 30 bucks?
CG: (Smiling) I did use the good cable, sir. And I’m so far behind now things are going to be difficult for me the rest of the day. I’ll probably end up working late and everything.
MM: I see. Well, I got something better for you. Something infinitely better than money.
CG: What do you mean, sir?
MM: (Walking over to the freezer in the kitchen) I got something much, much better for you, pal. Hahahaha.
CG: Uh, well, you know, I better get going, actually.
MM: (Pulling out a freezer bag full of ground beef) You like white girls, don’t you?
CG: (Already in the hallway) The paperwork’s on the floor, sir. Have a nice day.

R.I.P.

2008-02-03T21:03:00.000-08:00

Answering a Letter

2008-01-20T19:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Morb:

I read your blog a lot and have noticed a disturbing trend: You seem to hate Apple computers and all of their other products (iPods, iTunes, etc.). What gives, man? Apple is awesome! Apple computers are, like, hip and stuff—unlike those stuffy PCs and their lame-o grey cases. Dude, Apple computers come in different colors and stuff. Oh yeah, and the mouse only has one button! That’s amazing! Plus I’ve heard that Macs have better graphics or something, and when they break you just throw them away and buy a new one! Damn, that Steve Jobs is a genius. I wish he’s rub his hipster neck stubble on my naked balls. Anyway, PCs are for, like, conformist, unimaginative sheep. Macs are for all of us free-thinking nonconformists. You don’t seem like a conformist, Morb, so you should buy a Mac like the rest of us.

Anyway, with the recent Macworld came another mind-blowing announcement from the super-studly, turtleneck shirt-wearing man himself; and even you have to admit the new MacBook Air is incredible. Dude, it’s sooooooo small. It’s so small it can fit in a manila envelope. A manila envelope, man! That’s amazing! It’s so sexy I’d like to lube it up with my own saliva and cram it into my ass! It’s so sleek it would probably only hurt a little and make me bleed even less!

So, seriously, you’re going to convert and buy the new MacBook Air, right?

Sincerely,

Mac Fag # 1!

Dear Mac Fag:

No. No, I’m not going to buy a MacBook Air or any other piece of Apple trash, for that matter. I have Zippo lighters more technologically advanced than the MacBook Air. Call me a conformist, but I think I’ll stick with my custom-built PC that I can upgrade however I want whenever I feel like it.

The MacBook Air is just another inferior piece of computer technology with barely enough power to rival the broken Speak ‘n’ Spell the helmet-wearing retard down the street uses to induce the time-travel concussions he’s so fond of. But none of that really matters to you because the damned thing looks so cool and sexy and Steve Blowjobs is so hip. Why not save yourself a couple thousand bucks and slap an Apple sticker on a smooth river rock and cram that up yourself?

By the way, you know what else fits in a manila envelope? Love letters to Hitler. Just sayin’.

Cordially,

MM

A Merry Christmas Miracle: A Christmas Story

2007-12-16T23:13:00.000-08:00

From the desk of Morbid Misanthrope:

Because I’m very busy with work right now, I don’t have time to post much of anything new. Christmas is coming up, though, so I thought I would spread some holiday cheer with one of my favorite Christmas stories. I seem to recall my Grandmother reading me this story around the holidays as a child, when my mother got trashed swilling spiked eggnog and my meth-loving father started wailing on her with the cordless phone. Grandmother would read me this story and then hand me a sharpened Christmas tree branch, telling me to stab myself in the throat with it rather than burn to death in my locked room should the house catch on fire when dad’s meth lab exploded again. Or maybe I just made it up last Christmas shortly before getting rushed to the emergency room with a severe case of pancreatitis. Anyway, it’s a beautiful story, so please enjoy. Merry Christmas.

Cordially,

MM

Tim M. Throrpe stomped down the street as a cold winter wind blew through the bustling city of Settingsville, California. Though much smaller than urban metropolises like San Francisco or Los Angeles, Settingsville was a busy center of commerce in its own right, even being home to the state’s second- largest slaughterhouse and used plastic tarp emporium. Tim had recently relocated to Settingsville from another distant state to take an important job at the city’s premiere law firm. Tim was a very important person to be sure, but this important and high-paying job left him with little time for a personal life. His family all lived far away, he had no friends, and he spent more time at the office than he did in his fancy apartment.

As Tim stormed down the tree-lined streets, briefcase grasped firmly in his clenched fist, he screamed angrily into his cell phone.

“What do you mean the car needs a new goddamned engine?” he barked into his phone, a fine mist of angry spittle spraying from his gaping maw. “When was the oil changed last? How the fuck should I know that? I’m an important lawyer! I don’t have time for oil! I don’t even have time for Christmas!”

Tim was right about Christmas. In the few moments of free time he’d had in the last few weeks, he realized Christmas was quickly approaching. Whenever he mentioned taking a day off for Christmas, his bosses were fond of laughing and saying, “Tim, there’s no time for Christmas—not when you’re an important lawyer!”

Tim always shrugged and nodded in agreement, though he often thought to himself, “That’s easy for you to say, you all celebrate Hanukah!” And even though Tim was always very dedicated to his career, he couldn’t help but wish he would be able to take some time, just a day, to celebrate Christmas—his favorite holiday growing up.

“Listen, Pedro! You better get my car working immediately or I’ll have la migra kicking down your door and hauling your ass back to El Salvador before you can say Feliz Navidad!” Tim bellowed. “I don’t care if your name is Tony and you’re from New Jersey, just get my car working by tomorrow morning or you’ll be sorry. I’m an important lawyer!”

Tim hung up his phone in a huff and shoved it into his coat pocket. With his car in the shop and a flap of murders related to rogue cab drivers stalking the streets and picking up unsuspecting victims, Tim had no choice but to take the bus to work.

“How humiliating,” Tim thought, “to take the bus like some kind of commoner. I’m an important lawyer, goddamnit! The bus is for pregnant waitresses and video store clerks!”

Tim stomped along, muttering to himself and lighting an expensive cigarette. After all, regular cigarettes were for bus boys and unemployed musicians. He was an important lawyer, and even his cigarettes should reflect his high status.

Tim came to the first bus stop he saw and sat down angrily on the empty, graffiti-covered bench. There he sat alone for several minutes, smoking his fancy cigarette and grumbling to himself, until an old man hobbled up to the bench and sat down beside him.

“Oh, fantastic,” Tim thought. “This old guy will probably have cat-food breath. God, I hate old people.”

Tim took a long drag from his cigarette, threw the butt down, and exhaled the smoke in a long, audible sigh. Glancing over quickly to make sure the old man hadn’t died suddenly, Tim noticed the old man was smiling at him.

“Say there, sonny,” the smiling old man said, “those are some mighty fancy cigarettes. You must be a very important person to be able to afford cigarettes like those. You know, I smoke a pipe myself. Not so much these days, though. You might as well be a filthy Nazi the way people treat you if you smoke these days. Plus, my wife hates the smell.”

“Yes, well, I’m an important lawyer, you see, so I can smoke whatever I want,” Tim said coldly, hoping to discourage the old man from further conversation. Much to Tim’s dismay, however, the old man just continued smiling and making small talk.

“An important lawyer, you say? Well, young man, that’s mighty impressive. Hey now, why is someone so important taking the bus?”

“Well, old man, not that it’s any of your business, but my car is in the shop right now, so I can’t drive …”

“I see,” the old man interrupted, “and because of those rogue-cabbie murders going on right now, you’re too cautious to take a cab. Am I right?” the old man asked.

“Yes, of course,” Tim replied grumpily. “Normally I would never have to utilize public transportation, but this strange convergence of extenuating circumstances has really left me with no other option.”

The old man chuckled, his cheeks rosy with merriment. Although Tim usually hated old people, for some reason this pleasant old man seemed strangely familiar to him. Just making inane small talk with the jolly old fellow seemed comforting somehow.

A few moments of silence passed before the old man spoke again.

“So … what does a big, important lawyer do with his time off for Christmas, I wonder.”

“Well, if big, important lawyers are really as big and important as they’d like to believe they are, they wouldn’t have any time off for Christmas,” Tim snorted.

“Gee, sonny,” the old man said with a hint of regret in his voice, “you mean to tell me you don’t get any time off for Christmas?”

“Bah! There’s no time for Christmas—not when you’re an important lawyer,” Tim said, crossing his arms and turning up his nose in inflated self importance.

“My, my!” the old man exclaimed. “Do you really believe that, or have you just resigned yourself to it because you have no choice?”

Tim was surprised by the old man’s response. It was true. Tim really did wish he had more time to enjoy Christmas. He remembered all the Christmases of his youth, spent with family and friends: big dinners, blinking lights, and warm fires lighting the room as the family gathered around the festively decorated Christmas tree on Christmas morning.

“I … I …” Tim stuttered. “Hmmmph! Even if I wanted time off for Christmas and wasn’t so busy, all my family lives very far away and I have no friends in this city. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I used to love Christmas. But with my new job as an important lawyer and being so alone here, it just doesn’t feel like Christmas, anyway.”

“There’s nothing that I hate more than someone losing the Christmas spirit,” the old man said, shaking his head.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Tim said sadly. “I just remember how much I loved Christmas as a kid—the family gatherings, huge holiday dinners, snow, and Christmas decorations—and think I’ll never feel that way again. But, you know, we all have to grow up some time.”

The old man patted Tim on the shoulder.

“Now, Tim, just because people grow up and become hotshot lawyers doesn’t mean they can’t have the Christmas Spirit.”

Tim was surprised. He looked at the old man in disbelief.

“Hey, I never told you my name! How did you know my name was Tim?” he said in amazement.

“Everyone should be able to enjoy Christmas, you know,” the old man said, stroking his long, white beard. “I know it’s been many years since you really felt the Christmas Spirit, and I know you have to work alone on Christmas, but maybe, just maybe, it will feel a bit more like Christmas to you this year.”

Tim stared at the old man, who was now laughing boisterously with both of his hands patting his jiggling belly. The whole scene seemed strange to Tim, yet oddly familiar. As the old man continued laughing, Tim felt a cold sensation on his nose. That singular cold sensation on his nose was soon joined by other icy droplets on the surface of Tim’s skin. Tim couldn’t believe what was happening.

“Oh my god!” Tim gasped. “It’s … it’s snowing. It’s snowing in Settingsville, California. It never snows here. This is incredible!”

“Ho, ho, ho!” the old man laughed. “This must be a Christmas miracle. A white Christmas is a white Christmas, even from behind an office window at a big law firm, Timmy.”

“Who are you?” Tim asked the old man in shock as snow began to fall more and more heavily.

“Ho, ho, ho! That’s not important, Timmy,” the old man said, his cheeks rosy from the laughter. “Just have a merry Christmas!”

The old man got up and started to walk away, but Tim grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Wait just a minute!” Tim said. “I know who you are! You’re Santa Claus, and you came all the way from the North Pole to make it snow for me, didn’t you?”

The old man smiled knowingly.

“You know, Tim, I have to work this Christmas, too. I always work on Christmas and Christmas Eve. I really must be going, so you have a merry Christmas and enjoy the snow.”

The old man tried to walk away, but again Tim grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Did I not just get done telling you how I don’t have a car right now?” Tim asked.

“Well, yes …”

“Am I not sitting here at the bus stop, wearing nothing but an expensive suit, waiting for the bus to take me to work?”

“You are indeed, Tim, but I really need to get going …”

“Now you listen here!” Tim snarled angrily. “Thanks to you, now I have to wait for the goddamned bus in the goddamned snow! My suit is going to get ruined, you shithead!” Tim screamed at a surprised Santa Claus.

“Now, now, Timmy, it’s almost Christmas. Don’t you want to feel that Christmas spirit again, like you did when you were a kid?” Santa said nervously.

“All I’m going to feel,” Tim growled, “is cold and wet, you moron! I’m wearing an Armani suit and Berluti loafers, not a fucking Eskimo coat and fucking shiny, yellow galoshes! And what the hell is going to happen to the city? It never snows here. This snow is going to cause all sorts of problems! How am I supposed to get to the office if the bus is up to its axles in magic snow? This kind of climatological confusion will make that windbag Al Gore shit a polar bear! What then, prick? Another Inconvenient Truth? Nobody wants to sit through that crap!”

“How dare you talk to Santa Claus that way!” Santa gasped. “Such filthy language, too! I knew you were a naughty boy this year, but I wanted to do something nice for you since you’re so alone and pathetic. I give you a Christmas miracle and you just swear at me! You ought to be ashamed!”

“Just how the hell is a snow storm in California supposed to be a Christmas miracle or an accurate physical representation of an intangible concept like Christmas spirit? That’s just fucking stupid!” Tim yelled, lighting another cigarette.

“You ungrateful bastard! I don’t have to listen to this crap! I’m leaving. I hope those faggy cigarettes give you colon cancer, you prick!” Santa said, walking away angrily.

“Yeah, don’t stop the snow or anything, either. This day obviously isn’t going to get any better!” Tim shouted at Santa Claus. “And if I ever catch you coming down my chimney, I’m going to put so many bullets in your ass you’ll be shitting toxic paint that makes children retarded!”

“You don’t have a chimney, stupid! You live in an apartment. And I wouldn’t visit your place on Christmas Eve if a naked Jessica Alba with sugar cookie nipples and a gumdrop G-Spot was sitting on your sofa. You asshole!” Santa yelled back at the furious lawyer.

“Go fuck yourself with a reindeer antler, you creepy, antiquated holiday mascot!” Tim screamed, jumping up and down in the quickly accumulating snow on the ground.

And as the angry shouts filled the air, snow continued to fall from the heavens. A few days later it was still snowing, and everyone inside on Christmas morning, opening gifts with loved ones by their environmentally friendly space heaters, had a magical Christmas indeed. Everyone, that is, except Tim, who stole a dashiki and a bongo drum and celebrated Kwanzaa.
The End

Happy Thanksgiving

2007-11-22T17:09:00.001-08:00

Egads, I've been tagged!

2007-11-11T21:12:00.000-08:00

Much like the side of a building in the ghetto, where crack flows like screw-top wine, I’ve been tagged. (Whoooo! Three stereotypes in the first sentence—I’m off to a great start!) The whole concept of tagging on the blogosphere is interesting. Allow me to illustrate the abstract concept of the tagger–tagee relationship with the help of an Aristotelian dialog:

“Hey, pal! I’ve just tagged you!”
“Tits, bro. What do I get?”
“You get to answer all these questions!”
“You gave me a test, basically, is what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, when you look at it that way, I suppose I did.”
“Well, check this out. I’ve just pricked you, dude!”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I just injected you with a syringe full of baboon malaria. Now we’re even.”
“Can I blog about this?”
“Well, I sort of assumed you would.”
“Neat!”

And so it goes, from person to person, like a more horrifying version of that stupid tape from those Ring movies. What’s with that shit, by the way? Japanese people are afraid of pale, attention-hungry teenage girls? If that’s the case, we could have just dropped a chain of Hot Topic stores on them during WWII instead of those nukes. But I digress.

Prunella Jones—or Pru, as all the cool kids refer to her—tagged me a while back. Since I’m a fan of her blog, and I’m such a classy bastard, I decided to complete the tag rather than just ignore it like I’ve been ignoring all those dead Mormons someone’s been leaving at my door.

Since everyone loves lists (just ask the dildos in charge of programming at VH1), here’s a list of seven random facts about me. [Editor’s note: The veracity of Morb’s claims cannot be guaranteed.]

1: I’ve been in a lot of bands.

One of the bands I was in was fronted, unbeknownst to me, by an escaped mental patient. I only found out later when he disappeared and authorities from his institution showed up asking about him. Apparently he was violent and escaped after breaking a table over some people.

I was in a band, for a short time, with a guy who drove a hearse and made extra money participating in underground fights. He disappeared.

One of the bands I was in had a sort of joke mythology based around their various bass players, claiming they were all, once they joined the band, the reincarnation of a Tibetan monk. When I joined, I assumed that role. At one point I even signed autographs in Chinese.

2: I was a model student.

I graduated from college with highest honors, meaning I had a gpa of 4.0 and perfect attendance. When I graduated I got to wear two golden ropes. At the time I thought they just gave me those ropes because they were too cheap to pony up some Chucky Cheese tokens for my grades, but I later realized the gold ropes were to hang myself with when my awesome grades wouldn’t get me a decent job.

3: I like books.

I read a lot. In fact, the majority of my free time is dedicated to reading. I’m really just a book nerd, to be completely honest. Were I a rich man, I would probably have all kinds of first editions like that old Satan worshiper from The Ninth Gate. While my collection is humble to say the least, I have an out-of-print edition of Musashi’s Go Rin No Sho from 1974 that’s pretty sweet, and I just got a first edition copy of The Interrupted Journey (yes, that’s the book about the Hill alien abduction case from the 1960s).

I do like classic literature—everything from David Copperfield to The Canterbury Tales—but right now I’m really into collecting old, obscure occult and UFO/lost civilization/cryptozoology–related books. By the way, if anyone has a copy of Keel’s The Eighth Tower (1975) they’d be willing to part with for less than twenty-five bucks, please send me an e-mail. I could just order it from amazon.com, but I don’t want to spend the amount they’re asking. I’m a smart shopper, goddamnit.

4: It’s not about me, but it’s a fact.

It is always better
to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning.
For every one of us, living in this world
means waiting for our end. Let whoever can
win glory before death. When a warrior is gone,
that will be his best and only bulwark.

5: I like alcohol.

I used to drink a gallon of whiskey every weekend.

6: I think this is funny for some reason.

7: I accidentally conjured some spooky shit one time.

I was minding my own business, reading a copy of the Necronomicon I found in the discount bin at the bookstore. Some of the incantations in the book are so ridiculous, I was reading them out loud and having a good laugh. I mean, “zi dingir enmeshir raa kanpa” sounds like a retarded hairlip trying to order Thai food or something. But, suddenly, to my surprise and irritation, someone was in the room with me. I was able to snap a picture with my camera phone.

Azag-Thoth: You conjured me, mortal?
Morbid Misanthrope: Excuse me?
AT: Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you’re just another loser dabbling in the occult in his mom’s basement. Because, seriously, I’ve seen more of that action than I’d care to admit.
MM: Who are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?
AT: Your own apartment? Thank the elder gods! Man, if I had to face one more overweight, cheetos-huffing Dungeons and Dragons jerk-off in a felt cloak his mother made for him, I … I just don’t know what I would do.
MM: You, uh, have an irrational fear of twenty-sided die, do you?
AT: Enough of this. You have conjured me, mortal. From the blackest depths of sleepless aeons I have heard your incantations and answered with my presence. Before I lose my temper and rip your tongue from your head, tell me what you want whith Azag-Thoth, the Blind Idiot God!
MM: I summoned you?
AT: Yes, with that ancient and powerful tome you hold in your hands.
MM: Dude, this is the Necronomicon.
AT: Verily, the key to unlocking the door that holds the hordes of unspeakable evil at bay.
MM: Right. It sort of says that on the back of the book, right under the discount price tag.
AT: Three dollars? Goddamn. Seekers of the book’s ancient power used to have to scour the darkest corners of the earth, search the blackest depths of their souls, and brave the dangers of the secret realms of the universe to lay hands upon it. Wow. Things have really changed in the last few thousand years.
MM: I suppose that helps to explain why so many basement-dwelling mouth-breathers were able to conjure you, doesn’t it?
AT: To be honest, it’s all a bit depressing.
MM: I guess the dark arts just aren’t what they used to be.
AT: You know, it’d make me feel a lot better if you had me rain some fire, pestilence, and madness on the earth. I’d settle for the neighborhood, though. Can I at least rain down fire, pestilence, and madness on your neighborhood?
MM: Be my guest, but there’s a meth lab next door and a creek full of homeless junkies talking to themselves and surviving on nothing but urine and toenails. I don’t think anyone would notice.
AT: Well, I’m here. You conjured me. I ought to do something.
MM: You can explain to me how a fictional book written by H.P. Lovecraft enthusiasts less than one hundred years ago is ancient or powerful.
AT: To make a long story short, it’s kind of like that Lovecraft story, “Pickman’s Model.”
MM: You mean how the subjects of the terrifying works of art Pickman painted came from reality rather than his own imagination?
AT: Essentially, yeah.
MM: That was a fucking cool story.
AT: Wasn’t it?
MM: Well, I suppose you are magic, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to bypass all my dangerous ninja traps getting in here.
AT: You mean those empty soda cans tied together with dental floss hanging from your doorknob?
MM: Hey, if you’re real, does that mean all those other ancient gods are real too? Like, do you, Dagon, Cthulhu, and Shub-Niggurath have a poker night or something?
AT: Cthulhu's been a big-headed prick ever since Metallica wrote that song about him. You can’t even talk to that asshole without going through his publicist these days. Dagon, well, he’s a big, gay bitch—like Aquaman with tentacles and shit. And I haven’t seen Shub since the supreme court ruled she had to drop Niggurath from her name because it was offensive to black people. The last time anyone saw her, she was swilling gin and threatening to kick Jesse Jackson’s ass with Al Sharpton’s foot. She pretty much abandoned her thousand young—a fuckin’ tragedy, that’s what it is.
MM: Sounds like the realm of the ancient ones is a car crash away from being a shitty episode of VH1’s Behind the Music.
AT: Thanks, asshole. I’m not sensitive about it or anything. You wanna make fun of all the weight I’ve gained in the last thousand years, too? Hey, maybe you can call my wife and make fun of my limp dick with her. I bet she’d love that!
MM: Wow. Sorry, dude. I didn’t think a blind, mad god would be so tender-hearted.
AT: You know what? Fuck you, pal! Okay? Just fuck you! In fact: Barra Ante Malda! Bam! The milk in your fridge is now spoiled, and all your new batteries are dead. How’s that for evil, you prick?
MM: It’s more rude than evil, really.
AT: Whatever, ass. If my whore wife comes looking for me, tell her I’m at Boston Market, eating meatloaf that isn’t all dry and shitty for a change!

And then he disappeared and I haven’t heard from him since.

That completes my obligations as a tagee, and because I’m such a goddamned rebel, I’m not tagging anyone. How’s that for anti-social behavior? Random fact about me number eight: I'm a dick.

Making the News

2007-11-04T18:34:00.000-08:00

Crazed Man Terrifies Neighborhood
By Max Bojo
Associated Press (10-31-07)

Halloween is a magical day of the year, full of fun, harmless scares, and enough free candy to keep dentists in business for another year. When the sun goes down, costumed children hit the streets looking for nothing more than frightful fun and bagfuls of bite-sized candy treats. This year, however, in a small town about forty-five minutes away from San Francisco, one man bordering on deranged turned frightful fun into real scares.

At approximately 8:00 p.m. Halloween night, an as-yet-unidentified man verbally attacked and terrified tick-or-treaters prowling the neighborhoods just trying to enjoy the traditional Halloween festivities.

“He was screaming at my son like some kind of madman,” said Clara Padilla, mother of five trick-or-treaters present when the incident occurred. “He was flailing around and swearing like crazy. I haven’t seen anyone so enraged since my brother got deported when the police busted him shooting PCP into his groin.”

According to Padilla and other witnesses, as their group of trick-or-treaters crossed the street, someone in a car that had to stop for them began honking the horn repeatedly. Although it was too dark to tell what kind of car the man was driving, all the witnesses could clearly hear “blasting death metal” coming from the vehicle.

Suddenly, the man “leapt” from his vehicle “like some kind of demon” and started screaming at the group of costumed children. He was apparently impatient after having to wait for so many people crossing the street as he drove.

“The man was scary,” said little Jose Padilla, who was dressed like a vampire and was the first child the crazed man verbally assaulted. “He wasn’t wearing a costume, but he, like, looked all crazy. His eyes were all bug-eyed like my Uncle’s when he got arrested. He smelled like cigarettes.”

According to witnesses present, the madman screamed a string of obscenities and threats at the children, who were so terrified they could barely move.

“He said, um, ‘get out of my f—ing way, you stupid little candy beggars! Why don’t you buy candy like goddamned everybody else?’” said Lucinda Morales, another parent at the scene. “He was using such terrible language. I’ve asked everyone I know, and no one has any idea what a ‘twattergob-bobbing meat plunger’ is. I just can’t believe this guy was so mad at us for hanging around in the street. I mean, he could wait. We were just having fun, you know? It was Halloween and stuff.”

Witnesses say he also spent a good five minutes screaming about proper pedestrian-driver etiquette, including: “You a—holes look like you’ve never seen a car before. The concept is simple. I’m driving a two-ton death machine and you’re in front of me in the street. You pricks too good for the sidewalk, are you? It’s only by the f—ing grace of f—ing god that I even stopped. I could have plowed through you little DNA bubbles without feeling bad. In fact, I probably would have been laughing. I think that s—t’s funny as hell!”

He went on to insult the children’s costumes as well, reducing several of them to tears.

“He said I was the gayest power ranger he had ever seen,” said a nine-year-old present who wished to remain anonymous. “He told me I might as well just move to Vermont with my little homo vampire friend so my father can kill himself in shame sooner rather than later. He said they wouldn’t let gays into Clown College, so I had better keep it in the closet until the AIDS makes me look like a skeleton and everyone figures out what I’ve been up to. I don’t know what’s going on. I just wanted free candy!”

The unknown assailant also called a twelve-year-old girl dressed as a ballerina a “fat, sin-impregnated whore,” an eight-year-old dressed as a ninja a “f—ing poseur,” a ten-year-old in a wheelchair dressed as Frankenstein a “green gimp retard,” and a nine-year-old African-American child dressed as an NBA star a “racist joke too easy to make.”

Parents stood by in awe as the scene unfolded, all too shocked and afraid to move.

“I thought he was, like, on drugs or something,” said parent Charlie James. “It looked like his head was gonna pop.” In spite of his fear, however, Mr. James walked over to the screaming man and told him to shut up. At that point, the crazed man kicked Mr. James in the head, screaming “Look what he made me do? Anyone else want to get f—ed up? Huh? I’ve killed before and I’ll kill again!”

At this point, one brave child offered her bag of candy to the screaming, and now dangerous, man, hoping to pacify him. Surprisingly, this moving gesture only enraged the man further. He shrieked and kicked the bag out of the small girl’s hands, screaming “Trying to put me in a coma, huh? You’re not going to kill me that easily! I’ll kick you around like an organ-filled trash bag before I let you trick me! I’m a crafty diabetic with good eyesight!” [Editor’s Note: Sometimes diabetics lose eyesight due to the disease.]

He then hopped back into his car, tearing off at a high rate of speed, still screaming threats as he sped away.

“It was the worst Halloween ever,” said Clara Padilla, shaking her head. “What kind of person would threaten children like that? It’s just unimaginable.”

Crazed Man Strikes Again?
By Max Bojo
Associated Press (11-01-07)

After the neighborhood suffered a terrifying Halloween at the hands of a rabid madman, all anyone wanted was to try to forget about the horrible night and move on. Unfortunately, the scares weren’t over for the neighborhood just because Halloween was.

At approximately 12:30 p.m., lunchtime at the local middle school, a crazed madman—very likely the same man that terrorized children Halloween night—showed up and started attacking children as they ate lunch and played kickball.

School faculty was shocked to see a “grown man, wearing all black, and smoking cigarettes” hop over the playground fence and approach the playing children.

“Our first thought was that another pervert was after the kids, but soon it became apparent that he wasn’t a pervert—just a lunatic,” said Principal Blake.

The man was heard screaming obscenities and threats. School surveillance cameras caught audio of the incident even though the assailant was somehow able to avoid appearing on film. What follows is a partial transcript of that tape’s audio:

Crazed Man: (apparently grabbing the kickball) “Hey, you little bastards. It’s not so easy to play your little game with someone in the way, is it?”
Child: “What?”
Crazed Man: “Yeah, just like it’s not easy to drive home with a bunch of little retarded candy beggars in the middle of the street! How do you idiots like it?”
Child: “Leave us alone!”
Crazed Man: (apparently stabbing the kickball with a knife) “Suffer, fools!”

The crazed man then started kicking over lunch tables where kids were eating. He was heard laughing maniacally and saying, “Can’t enjoy your f—ing spaghetti without a table, can you? Well, I can’t f—ing drive with a bunch of imbeciles high on candy handouts blocking the way! This may be a public school, but you’ll learn something today, goddamnit! Even if you never learn to read! I’m talking to you, Jose Padilla!”

After breaking things, scaring children, and ranting for just under five minutes, the madman was gone as quickly as he appeared. The police are questioning witnesses, but so far have no leads.

Letter to the Editor
Anonymous (11-02-07)

This whole thing is just awful, really. Those poor kids. What a shame.

Anyway, I’m not excusing this "crazy" but undoubtedly handsome guy, but we can’t judge him until we understand his situation. Now, I wasn’t around when he was supposedly terrifying those kids Halloween night, but I was driving home from work at about that time. I did notice a lot of kids messing around in the streets. To be perfectly honest, it was infuriating.

Everywhere I drove I had to wait for caravans of people to cross the street. They were really taking their time, too. I mean, it wasn’t like they were just crossing and getting it over with. They were practically loitering in the street. (Loitering is a crime, so maybe this “crazed man” is really a kind of crimefighter—just a thought.) Some kids were even purposely walking in the street, blocking traffic because they think Halloween gives them a free pass to act like morons. It was maddening.

And the parents were no better. They weren’t watching their kids or anything. They were just walking around all slack-jawed and lackadaisical, letting Jr. do whatever he wanted. Man! How many kids did these people have? I counted seven or eight in some cases. That’s just irresponsible. (It’s like they bussed in a border town or something, but that’s beside the point.) Also, I doubt he called the black kid a “racist joke too easy to make.” He probably said something more like “Hey, try not to rape any psychotic girls out there tonight, Kobe.” I don’t know. Something clever like that. It seems like that would be more his style.

Anyway, perhaps this “crazed man” just had a rough day at the office and wanted to get home to watch TV. Let’s say, hypothetically, he wanted to catch the Ghost Hunters live investigation on the Sci-Fi network and enjoy a low-carb frozen dinner. These people, by rudely blocking the streets, were disrespecting him and ruining his schedule. I can understand being upset by that, I really can.

Who knows? Maybe he went a little overboard because he had just gotten a flu shot and was a little out of it, and maybe his blood sugar was low. We really just don’t know. He obviously had his reasons for doing what he did. And he didn’t hurt anyone. He did kick that one guy, but that guy started it really. It was self-defense.

And even though tearing up a school is an unorthodox way to do things, I’ll bet those kids never play in the street again. That’s worth something, right? If their fat, sweatsuit-wearing parents won’t teach them anything, someone should, right? And I don’t want to get going about the school system’s failures, but, come on, let’s be honest: those kids learned more in five minutes from the “crazed man” than they’ll learn at that school in the next five years.

Look, I’m not saying we should build this guy a statue or something, but when you really think about it, he probably did some good. And I really think we should all stop calling him “crazed,” “lunatic,” and “madman.” How does misunderstood genius sound? Revolutionary thinker? If it were up to me, the police would stop looking for the guy and just let the whole “incident” slide. It’s all over now. I’m sure he’s not going to do anything else (provided everyone respects pedestrian-driver etiquette). Let’s just all move on and let it go.

Taxicab Conversations

2007-10-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

CALL ONE

Phone Operator 1: Brand A Cab Company, how can I help you?
Morbid Misanthrope: Hello, I need a cab to pick me up again tomorrow at 9:30 am.
PO1: Uh-huh. What address?
MM: (home address)
PO1: And where are you going?
MM: Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium.
PO1: Are you, like, going to work or something?
MM: Yes, I’m going to work.
PO1: How will you be paying?
MM: With cash.
PO1: Well, we don’t take checks, so can you pay with cash or something?
MM: Yeah, I’ll pay with cash—just like I did this morning.
PO1: Yeah, well, actually, we don’t send cabs to your area, so you’ll have to call someone else.
MM: Excuse me?
PO1: We don’t send cabs to that area.
MM: Since when?
PO1: Since, like, forever.
MM: But a driver from your company picked me up this morning.
PO1: That’s impossible.
MM: It’s not impossible, because it happened—this morning.
PO1: Sir, again, we don’t—nor have we ever—sent cabs to that area. I can give you the number of a company that covers that area, though, I mean, if you really need me to or something.
MM: (Straining to avoid conflict) Ok, what’s the number?
PO1: (Impatient, drawn-out sigh) 555-0666 [Editor’s Note: On my advice, the actual number, and name of the company, has been changed to protect Morb from a lawsuit, even though he wants everyone to “call those donkey fuckers and hassle them with some prank-call bullshit.”]
CLICK

CALL TWO

Phone Operator 2: Brand B Cab Company, how can I help you?
Morbid Misanthrope: Hello, I need a cab to pick me up tomorrow at 9:30 am.
PO2: What address?
MM: (home address)
PO2: Sorry, sir. We don’t cover that area. Besides, it’s, like, pretty ghetto there.
MM: So I’ve heard. But I’m sure none of the criminals are up at that time of day.
PO2: That really depends on what they’ve been smoking.
MM: What?
PO2: Nothing. Anyway, you’ll have to call Brand A Cab Company.
MM: Are you kidding me? I just talked to them. They said to call you because they don’t cover my area, either.
PO2: Well, I don’t know what they’re talking about.
MM: So I have to call those assholes back?
PO2: Yeah, we aren’t licensed to cover your area. They should be, though.
MM: It’s just really weird. They sent a cab for me this morning.
PO2: Are you sure it was their cab?
MM: Yeah, I mean, unless a rogue cab driver just happened to be in front of my building at the exact time they were supposed to send someone over.
PO2: Do you think they’re just, I don’t know, playing a joke on you?
MM: Who? The phone operator?
PO2: Yeah. Was he snickering?
MM: What? Snickering when he told me they wouldn’t send a cab?
PO2: Yeah, snickering usually indicates something funny is happening.
MM: Do you people play jokes on potential customers very often?
PO2: Well, I never do. But some people are just weird.
MM: Yeah, I guess so. Thanks.
CLICK

CALL THREE

Phone Operator 1: Brand A Cab Company. How can I help you?
MM: I need a cab to …
PO1: Sir, did you just call here, like, five minutes ago?
MM: I did, yes, but …
PO1: I already told you, sir: we don’t send cabs to your area.
MM: Listen, I just spoke to someone at the company you told me to call, and she said they aren’t licensed in my area. She said you guys are, though.
PO1: Oh, like she would know where we send cabs better than I would?
MM: This wouldn’t even be an issue except someone from your company picked me up this morning.
PO1: I already told you, pal, that ain’t possible!
MM: Fuck you, it’s not possible! Who the hell picked me up, then?
PO1: I don’t know who it was; I just know it wasn’t one of our cabs!
MM: Really? Even though the goddamned cab was emblazoned with your logo and showed up the exact time your company said it would when I called you last fucking night!
PO1: It wasn’t our cab, you asshole!
MM: So I suppose someone is freelancing with one of your cabs, then?
PO1: That’s possible.
MM: Yeah? He listens to all your incoming calls from his secret hideout, and then he picks up your customers in one of your cabs that he must have stolen, right? After he murdered Ramesh, the cab’s legitimate driver?
PO1: It’s possible. There are some fucked up people out there.
MM: And after all that fucking trouble—slicing up poor Ramesh with a boxcutter to steal his cab—all he does is pick people up and drop them off?
PO1: Sure, why not?
MM: Because that’s motherfucking ridiculous, you dildo!
PO1: It’s still more likely than anyone from our company picking you up, because we don’t fucking service that area!
MM: Bullshit!
PO1: I’m going to hang up now, asshole.
MM: I’m going to kick your ass!
PO1: How are you going to get here? Do you want me to send a cab? ‘Cause we don’t send cabs to your area. Asshole.
MM: I’ll get the ghost of poor, murdered Ramesh to have his Hindu gods send me a laser-shooting Vimana, and I’ll divebomb your bullshit company and annihilate your cock-sucking ass! [Editor’s Note: Those unfamiliar with the Bhagavata-Purana, Mahabharata, and Ramayana and their significance to the field of Ufology should either, A.) Look it up online, or, B.) Be thankful they’re not nerdy enough to understand what Morb is ranting about.]
PO1: Keep on threatening me, prick, this call is being recorded! You’re on tape! You’re on tape, asshole!
MM: Fuck if I care! Are they going to arrest me for threatening you with a goddamned Hindu spaceship? You fucking cocksmoker!
PO1: I hope you like walking, asshole!
MM: I hope you like being a dildo, you dildo!
PO1: Fuck you, pal!
CLICK

When you make Latin food, which type of pan(dering) should you use?

2007-09-24T00:38:00.000-07:00

When you’re in the food-service industry like I am (see: Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium) there are a lot of government-mandated safety and sanitation regulations you must follow. This requires taking classes on proper food handling, followed by tests to prove you’re competent enough to provide the public with edibles that won’t leave them shitbarfing for a month. This training process tends to be a little on the lengthy side, but, thankfully, Yakov isn’t one to jeopardize profit-earning potential to satisfy another paranoid government regulatory department.

Instead of making his employees take all the normal food-safety courses, Yakov requires all new employees to watch a bunch of Food Network shows he recorded on his nephew’s Tivo. The list of shows looks quite daunting at first, but Yakov says it’s ok to fast forward through all of Rachel Ray’s excessive gesturing—that alone knocks a couple of hours off the overall time it takes to finish.

After you watch all the Food Network shows on the Tivo, Yakov comes in and says something like, “Right. So, you promise not to stick pecker in cow parts, right? Of course you won’t. Yakov doesn’t hire goddamned perverts. That’s why his brother still unemployed.” Yes, sometimes Yakov speaks in the third person.

Anyway, while I was completing Yakov’s training course, I caught up with all the controversy surrounding the most recent season of The Next Food Network Star. This shit all went down a while ago when the show first aired (you probably didn’t hear about it because the show is retard-pissing-his-pants dumb, and the only people that watch it are the people that have to watch it as part of their food-handler’s training) and revolved around a precocious and doughy contestant named Joshua Adam Garcia, or JAG, as he called himself.

Eventually, he was dismissed from the show—or quit the show, depending on who you ask—even though he was one of the finalists. The reason: he was a dirty fuckin’ liar. He said he was a marine, and he actually was, but he exaggerated the hell out of his rank and claimed he served in Afghanistan, which he didn’t. In fact, he was discharged for what the press has called a “hazing incident.” I don’t know what that means, but, based on JAG’s behavior on the show, I’m just going to assume it involved a rectum full of military-issue soap bars and a barrack full of marines pissed off that they had to watch JAG cram them up himself with a sheathed bayonet. Another one of JAG’s lies was that he finished culinary school. He never did—some bullshit like that, anyway, I’m not going to research this inane folderol.

So, with his head drooped in epicene disgrace, JAG walked out of the Food Network studio, losing the reality show contest to a curly haired broad hopelessly and irritatingly obsessed with Paris and all things French. Meh [Editor’s Note: “meh” is a word used to represent the sound one makes when he doesn’t care enough to use words to form complete sentences]. Life goes on, and nobody except bored trophy wives likely to buy Rachel Ray’s cookbooks and fantasize about Tyler Florence even knows anything so scandalous took place.

However, while watching the drama unfold like an origami swan made by an arthritic factory worker with a total of seven fingers, I noticed another controversy. (To be fair, it’s hardly a controversy, but if I said it was as boring as the rest of this crap, would you even continue reading?)

In one of the episodes near the finale, the three remaining contestants—JAG, the curly haired Francophile, and a blonde Yakov refers to as horseface—went on some radio show to see how well they would maintain composure under the pressure of being grilled [Editor’s Note: this terrible food joke was completely unintentional] by two zany DJs on live radio.

During JAG’s interview, the following exchange took place:

JAG: “I’m the one that’s going to bring out Latino Caribe cuisine to the world. It’s not really, uh, represented, you know, as much as I would like it to be, so … it’s either for two reasons: You can’t do it, or, you know, you’re not interested.”

Radio Show Host: “So you think that’s misrepresented on the Food Network?”

JAG: “Uh, you know, I don’t think it’s represented as much as it could be. Uh, you know, and I’m here to try and bring that out.”

Sweet disappointed Jewish mother of Judas! If there’s one thing network executives don’t want to be accused of it’s racial insensitivity/exclusion/misrepresentation/stereotyping/exploiting. Needless to say, the show’s judges—Food Network executives—were none to pleased with JAG’s comments and spent a good amount of time explaining how wrong he was and just how ethnically diverse the Food Network on-air personalities are.

Executive 1: “Goddamnit, JAG! We do so represent Latinos with our programs!”
Executive 2: “Yeah, we’re totally into all that racial stuff.”
JAG: “Come on, vatos. You know that no es verdad. Show me La Raza, or you can kiss my culo!”
Executive 1: “Look here, JAG, there’s enough ethnic diversity here to choke a goddamned Rainbow Coalition.”
Executive 2: “Goddamned right.”
JAG: “Que pasa?”
Executive 1: “Well, shit, Giada’s a hook-nosed Roman, Emeril’s half Bridge Troll, Paula Dean is inbred …”
Executive 2: “She’s right out of The Hills Have Eyes, really.
JAG: “Ay caramba!”
Executive 1: “Robert Irvine is a Brit, Sandra Lee is a WASP …”
JAG: “How is that ethnic in any way, cabron?”
Evecutive 2: “She’s a WASP robot built as an inside joke between a few African-American scientists.”
Executive 1: “Tyler Florence—or TyFlo, as the cool kids refer to him—is a Nephilim …”
JAG: “A what?”
Executive 2: “A hybrid being created during the sticky, unholy pelvic union of a fallen angel and a human woman, JAG.”
Executive 1: “Hell, I myself am a gay Jew, Mario Batali is a fat nerd, Cat Cora’s a hermaphrodite, Guy Fieri’s a time-traveling alien, Morimoto is some kind of Asian, Duff Goldman has been a chipmunk man since he got bitten by that radioactive chipmunk that escaped from Alton Brown’s dressing room, and Rachael Ray is, well, it’s better that you didn’t know the truth about her terrifying origins.”
Executive 2: “I wish I didn’t know. Yeesh!”
JAG: “But where (pauses to salsa dance) are all the Latinos?”
Exexutive 1: “Well, Bobby Flay is a Latino. I mean, technically he’s Irish or something, but he uses blue corn like a Mexican.”
Executive 2: “He loooooves blue corn, JAG.”
JAG: “That is not bueno enough. Bobby Flay may be my hero and the object of my secret homosexual fantasies, but he is not a Latino.”
Executive 2: “We stand by our previous claim that Latinos are well represented on our fine network. We appreciate your concerns, though.”
Executive 1: “Yeah, and you’re not getting eliminated from the show this round, so just keep your mouth shut, capice?”
JAG: “Arrrrriba!”

Several months later:

Settling In

2007-09-15T21:51:00.000-07:00

I haven’t posted anything for a while. That’s really not uncommon for me, but this time I have a legitimate reason—a legitimate reason other than a diabetic coma, I should say.

As my last post explained, I got a new job in a new city and had to relocate. Part of this relocation involved me staying in a motel for several weeks. The only computer I had access to was an old laptop I found in a dumpster behind a suspicious-looking pet shop (any pet shop located next door to a restaurant reeking of wok-fried hamster meat is suspicious). This particular laptop was powered by static electricity. I had to rub stray cats wrapped in tinfoil on the motel shower curtain in order to keep the computer charged, and nothing I had to say was worth all that trouble. I should also mention that, for some of this time, apparently, I was off on a fantastic and violent adventure with Captain Smack.

Anyway, I’m finally moved into my apartment and have my trusty computer back. Since it runs on the tears and humiliation of people I berate for my own amusement, I no longer have to worry about running out of juice. (Hey! You over there: Your mother’s a faggot and you smell like a hamper full of syphilitic skunk diapers.) Here’s what I’ve been up to in my absence from the blogosphere.

New Job
The new job is the only reason I moved. It was a lot of trouble, but you can’t put a price on job satisfaction. I am now the number-three sledgehammer operator/viscera scooper at Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium. It’s one of the few slaughterhouses left in the country that dispatches the livestock with actual human-operated hammers; although, some of us just use big rocks or backpacks full of auto parts to kill the cows because it’s less trite than using a big hammer (it’s a decision we stand by as artists). The pay is excellent, and every second Friday, I get to take home all the jowl meat, tarp scrapings, and udder tips I can carry, no questions asked. Every now and then, Yakov, the owner, gets wasted and tells us jokes from the old country. Most of them involve Catherine the Great blowing a horse, but his delivery is spectacular. Plus, if you mention communism, he spits on the floor and punches his wife, who then gets up and counts the toilet paper rolls in the office bathroom.

New Apartment
I concede that the new apartment isn’t as nice as the cave I used to live in, but it’s close to work and not without its charms. The building rests on the banks of an old creek where Californian Stink Ape (Bigfoot’s less civilized cousin) sightings are common and covens often gather to perform inverted bunny crucifixions. Technically the neighborhood could be called a ghetto, but I feel pretty safe because I’m heavily armed and the police usually show up three or four times a day to clean up after the gang-related massacres.

One thing I’m not used to is having neighbors. I’ve managed to introduce myself to most of them already, though, and they all seem pretty nice. They were mostly rude at first, but I think they warmed up to me when I showed them how to clean a machete blade with the sterile stomach acids of the recently deceased. That’s the kind of helpful information they don’t teach in schools any more, which is just a goddamned shame. The guy who lives in the apartment below me, Fritz, gave me a hard time for making too much noise when I first moved in. The encounter went something like this:

Fritz: “What the hell are you doing up here, asshole? Assembling furniture?”
Me: (Holding a hammer and a mangled bookshelf from IKEA) “Um, yeah.”
Fritz: “Well can’t you do it quietly?”
Me: “You can hear me hammering these tacks into Swedish particle board over that German techno you’re blasting down there?”
Fritz: “That’s not techno, you heathen. It’s my art!”
Me: “It sounds like Hitler taking a screaming shit in a gay discotheque.”
Fritz: “I combine the speeches of the fuhrer with industrial music to convey a message. My art suffers because of all your noise! Now shut up or I’ll tell the landlord.”
Me: “How about you get the fuck out of my apartment and go back to burning books, or whatever it is you’re doing, so I don’t have to kick you in the stomach until your eyeballs pop?”
Fritz: (Screaming in German and flailing around, threatening to take a shit on my floor.)

And that was the second time I jammed a claw hammer in a Nazi’s eye and threw him off a balcony.

Speaking of the landlord, he’s a nice Middle-Eastern fellow. He runs the apartment with the help of his three wives. He has a satisfaction-guaranteed policy when it comes to the apartment.

“If for some reason you unhappy with room, you can camel-whip one of my wives for five minutes. Then you eat goat meat and drink tea with me while she wash your feet.”

There’s also this guy in the building who everyone calls Dr. Jim. He comes by my door every couple of days and trades me free oil change coupons for my old insulin syringes.

“We, uh, can’t let kids step on these things, you know, or, like, let the garbage men poke themselves. I’ll, like, um, take these things to the hospital … where I work … with other rich doctors.”

I don’t know why a rich doctor would live in such a crappy neighborhood. Come to think of it, I don’t know why a rich doctor would wear plastic bags for shoes and drink swimming pool water, but a lot of rich people are rather eccentric.

Someone stole the Toyota emblem off the trunk of my car, which is really the only problem I’ve had so far. Luckily for me, the gang of kids that stole it tried to sell it back to me the next day. Had they known I’m not above beating the shit out of little kids, they probably wouldn’t have taken it in the first place.

The City
The city is not unlike San Diego in many ways. There are stupid people everywhere, for example. The city is smaller than San Diego, however, and it seems like more people here ride bicycles. In fact, so many people ride bikes, they basically control the speed and flow of traffic. They don’t obey traffic laws, either, and they seem to get some kind of perverse joy out of cutting off anyone earth-hostile enough to drive a car (even though the majority of other cars on the road are hybrids with obnoxious yellow stickers making that fact even more apparent). I don’t know whether the locals are just used to it or afraid of the helmet-wearing douchebags on ten-speeds, but they seem to take this abuse like a fatalist takes a twelve-baboon gangrape: with slovenly indifference or mildly disappointed acceptance. It has also occurred to me that these bicyclists have forgotten that no matter how wimpy a car is, it’s still a goddamned wrecking ball on wheels compared to a huffy with “Kucinich ‘08” stickers all over it.

I have been reminding the cycling-hippy population of this simple fact by knocking as many of them off the road as possible. At first I would sort of just nudge the really rude cyclists with my car until they wobbled enough to hit a curb and flip over, but since none of the authorities seem to give a shit about injured hippies, my vehicular assaults have become less inconspicuous. I’ve taken to throwing bricks at them and hitting them with lead pipes as I drive by. Sometimes I’ll even pull over and help them up just to steal their helmets. It’s not like I need any bicycle helmets or anything, but I’ve always wanted to be a poacher and I’m working my way up to elephant feet for trashcans and rhinoceros horns for, well, whatever the fuck people want to use rhinoceros horns for (Hindu monkey god erection idols?).

There’s not all that much to do for fun around here, but thankfully I’ve never done much of anything anyway. Sometimes I’ll go downtown and throw rocks at the Asian transsexuals with the landlord’s uncle, Amir; kick people playing acoustic guitars, pan flutes, and bongo drums at anti-war protests; wear a “God hates queers” shirt to services at the gay Methodist church down the street (What? It’s performance art—like Johnny Knoxville from Jackass taking a fart machine to a yoga studio); and I often hang out at a supposedly haunted Toys ‘R’ Us in a nearby town, hoping to see some ghostly activity. The walls haven’t bled or anything, but I often get reports of the ghost—who was an apple farmer before he died—grabbing ass in the ladies’ room. It’s hardly the Amityville horror, but I take what I can get.

All in all I’m adjusting rather well to my new surroundings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bait some stink ape traps with kitten meat. It’s a well-known fact that creek-dwelling Californian Stink Apes can’t resist kitten meat.

To Answer Stupid Questions and Bid a Fond Farewell

2007-08-17T03:42:00.000-07:00

It’s a well-known fact that I have an encyclopedic knowledge of painfully useless crap (for example, SPAM is made from ground pork shoulder, not porcine rectal tumors and gelatinized chicken sperm as some people have suggested). My capacity for asinine information and brilliant problem-solving abilities are so well known that I sometimes get random e-mails from people, asking me stupid questions. Since I’m really busy preparing to move across the state for a job and have no time to write something new, I figured I would share a few stupid questions I’ve received, along with my cordial responses. One thing I don’t know, however, is why all these slack-jawed, mouth-breathing retards keep e-mailing me their questions when they could just as easily look this shit up for themselves online. I don’t want to enable people to continue being lazy, but it’s just my nature to help others.

Dude, what’s the deal with Chairman Kaga from Iron Chef? Is he, like, a real guy, or just acting and shit?

Jack M. Duly

Yes, Chairman Kaga is a real guy. He became a Japanese celebrity when his Elton John impersonation and lipsynced musical act was featured on the variety show Super Lucky Happy Fun Time Smiling Sparkling Go-Go Bonanza. This moderate amount of fame led Kaga to become the ultra-cool spokesperson for the “Bedazzler” in Japan. His amazing, sparkly outfits helped increase the Bedazzler’s sales in Tokyo by 3000%. Seeking further artistic freedom, he resigned as spokesperson and was replaced by an effeminate bulimic man in a raccoon costume. This gave Kaga the time to become Japan’s number one Liberace impersonator, which is how he made the bulk of his massive fortune.

At the height of his success, he was so wealthy he had a home custom built for him on the top of Mt. Fuji. This home is legendary for having its own bank (dubbed “Rotta Money Kaga Roomaru Bring-Bring Banku Desu” by the media in Japan). This life of solitude and insufficient flamboyance prompted Kaga to build Kitchen Stadium and start the magnificent television show, Iron Chef. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

Unfortunately, when Iron Chef ended in Japan, it was due to Kaga’s liver--rich and bloated after 300-plus episodes of eating fancy food on the show--being mistaken for the theme ingredient and cooked into a three-course French meal by Iron Chef Sakai on the final unaired episode of the show, not diminished ratings.

Kaga’s legacy has been carried on by his nephew on Iron Chef America. On this new version of the show, Kaga’s nephew (who is only one-sixteenth Japanese and previously stared in the big-budget Hollywood hit movie, Double Dragon) honors his uncle by eating a bunch of rich food and backflipping around like a ninja squirrel on amphetamines.

Mr. Mordread Lycanthrope,

Someone told me one time that alcohol played an important part of history. You seem to drink a lot, so is that true? The history thing I mean. Thanks.

Skippy Putnam

Well, first of all, alcohol has played an important role in my personal history. Ever since my dad got a sexy nurse to put Manischewitz wine on my freshly circumcised baby pecker, alcohol has been my guide on the road to badass. When I was teething, my mother put bourbon in my bottle to shut me up—that’s when I grew my first chest hair. I learned how to drink heavily in junior high, and by my first year of high school, I was guzzling American whiskey and beating up the football team. In fact, if it weren’t for alcohol, I never would have gotten drunk enough to kick my drunken father’s ass. (Editor’s Note: This happened shortly before Morb’s father burned the house down trying to sear his cheating wife’s lady lunchmeat [see: vagina] shut with a superheated machete blade.)

Secondly, people around the world have been drinking various kinds of booze for thousands of years. It goes without saying that the consumption of alcohol has changed history countless times. For example, the Great Pyramid was supposed to be a cube, but the architect got all messed up on Nile Bill’s Wild-Crocodile Brew and screwed up the blueprints; this led to the creation of one of mankind’s greatest architectural achievements.

Alcohol has always been at least partially responsible for men standing up, throwing caution to the wind, and accomplishing great things. I believe it was George Washington who, after polishing off his sixth mug of ale, said, “Buuuurrrrrpppp! Hey, guys! England’s being a dick, let’s kick his ass!” He then sketched out a crude drawing of his butt and sent it to the king of England, starting the American War of Independence.

If my neighbor Scooter hadn’t gotten so drunk on cigarette-butt-filtered Jacuzzi gin, he never would have tried to blow out the fire his meth lab started when it exploded (R.I.P. Scooter). And if it weren’t for alcohol, Bill Fool never would have attempted to take a piss on Lars Ulrich from Metallica at a bar in Houston. Anyway, that’s the short answer. If you want a more in-depth response, send a case of Evan Williams Kentucky Whiskey to my cave, and pray that I don’t get drunk and try to kick your ass for asking questions in a lispy, nancy-boy voice.

Hey asshole! I think ur the guy that fucked up my car. Was it you? What the hell u fuckin prick?

Name Withheld

It wasn’t me, dude. Why would I run around in the middle of the night, wearing a ninja costume with a superman cape, kicking in people’s windshields, and leaving animal carcasses piled up in the passenger seats? That’s just not something I would do. I also wouldn’t drop my lucky Hello Kitty cigarette lighter in your backseat when I wasn’t throwing up in one of your cup holders. Incidentally, I’d be willing to take any Hello Kitty cigarette lighters you may have found on your property.

Hiya Morb,

My parents are making me see a shrink because I keep teabagging the cat. I’m nervous about it. What happens to you when you see a shrink?

Love,
Timmy Sanchez VIII

Basically, you have to lay on a couch like a gay Roman while some jackass in a tweed vest draws pictures of you naked on his legal pad. I had a psychology class in college, and, yes, that’s all shrinks actually do.

Hey, Morb, tell him that psychologists and psychiatrists can help you face your problems. Tell him that they’re just there to help you in any way they can, without judging you.

Shut the fuck up, Magnanimous Misanthrope, you wuss.

But, Morb, Timmy has reached out to you. The least you could do is reassure him a little.

I’m not here to make timid little perverts feel better about getting brainraped by educated perverts because their parents are tired of paying to abort the housecat’s human/feline-hybrids. And what the hell are you even doing here? I thought Murderous Misanthrope cut your guts out with a butterfly knife.

He did, and it really hurt. But Miraculous Misanthrope brought me back.

That holier-than-thou douchebag brought you back again? Jeez, I will be so thrilled when I figure out a way to get rid of all you idiots.

Hi y’all

I done everything I could to get attention. I shaved my head, had some kids, did some stupid shit with those kids, flashed my vadge a few times, et al y’all. No one cares any more tho. What can I do to get people to pay attention to me forever y’all?

xxxooo
B.S.

I tell you the same goddamn thing every time you send me this question.

There you have it, folks. I may not be as wise as King Solomon or Al Bundy, but I think I did alright answering those questions anyway.

As I mentioned earlier, I’m in the process of relocating in order to take a sweet new job. Since I have to start the job before I'm able to find a place to live, I’ll be staying in a motel for a few weeks. It’s not the fanciest motel, but they’re giving me a really good deal because I’m the first person ever to stay there without paying by the hour. That reminds me, I better cover that room in, like, three layers of plastic tarp. I’ll probably be blogging even less than usual, but I’ll be back once I’m living in a place with an internet connection instead of a heart-shaped bed and matching Spanish Fly dispenser.

Also, since I’ve lived in San Diego all my life, moving 500 miles away makes me feel a little sentimental (until I remember how much I hate every person in this town). Throughout history, people have commemorated such journeys by breaking champagne bottles on ships and reciting poetry that someone else wrote. I don’t care much for poetry, and the boat I bought from a crackhead for three dollars caught on fire the other night. I will now end this, the final post from my hometown, with a completely unrelated, translated haiku by the totally awesome Japanese poet Basho.

O bush warblers!

Now you’ve shit all over

my rice cake on the porch

Best Hair Ever

2007-08-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

Jayson: “Yo, guys, how fuckin’ sweet do we look for this photo shoot?”

Tiger: “Yo, dawg, we look totally slammin’. I feel like some kind of sexy cat.”

Randy: “I look hot in purple, yo. For real.”

Jesse: “Jesse loves the soft light glistening off of his highlighted hair.”

Tim: “I think the stylist went a little half-ass with my hair, you guys.”

Randy: “It looks fine, yo. It doesn’t look as good as mine, though.”

Jayson: “Yo, Randy, you know who you look like? You look like Rufio from that Peter Pan movie with Robin Williams.”

Randy: “Snap, Dawg! I totally do. Rufio was hardcore.”

Jesse: “Jesse concurs. Rufio was the man.”

Tiger: “I’m liking these braids. They’re crazy; like my hair got caught in a lawnmower. I’m pimp, yo. Ghetto fabulous all the way.”

Jesse: “If Jesse were a cab driver in New York, Jesse wouldn’t pick you up. Your look is the true epitome of street cred.”

Tim: “Wow, Jesse, that came off a little racist, didn’t it?”

Tiger: “No way, Tim. Your hair may not be as cool as ours, but don’t take that out on Jesse.”

Jesse: “Jesse does not like getting accused of bigotry when Jesse is merely paying one of his bandmates a sincere compliment.”

Tim: “Sorry, Jesse. I didn’t mean anything by it. I guess I’m just a little bummed out that my hair looks….”

Jayson: “Looks like you just rolled out from between two sticky mattresses after a three-day booze-and-pills blackout?”

Tim: “That’s a little harsh. I was just going to say….”

Randy: “That your hair looks like it was sculpted out of tree bark by a one-eyed geriatric with a case of bad medication shakes?”

Tim: “Ouch! I was going to say it looked a little plain, but I didn’t think it looked bad.”

Jesse: “Well, if there’s one thing Jesse knows for sure, it’s that Jesse’s hair is beyond trailer park chic. If Billy Ray Cyrus had his mullet created by homosexual German stylists in Milan, it still wouldn’t compare to Jesse’s current hairdo.”

Randy: “Yeah, it’s like a redneck’s meth lab exploded style all over your head.”

Tim: “I think you’re all going a little far with the compliments now.”

Tiger: “Jealousy is really unbecoming of you, dude. Seriously. If you’re upset that your hair looks like it was styled when you squoze your head out of the urethra of a bull elephant with gonorrhea, you should take it up with the stylist, not attack your bandmates.”

Tim: “Now I’m starting to get pretty upset.”

Jayson: “I’d just like to point out how hot my hair makes me look. I’m, like, ten times hotter than those rebellious punk rock-looking chicks they use in L.A. Looks hair gel magazine ads.”

Jesse: “If you were a woman, Jesse would not hesitate to pleasure you carnally. Jesse is also secure enough in his masculinity to admit the thought crossed his mind, even knowing full well you are a man.”

Randy: “Jayson is looking mad sexy, yo.”

Tiger: “I’m tempted to tap that ass myself, homie.”

Tim: “From the depths of narcissism to the heights of homoeroticism all in one photo shoot. Way to go, guys.”

Jayson: “That sounded a little like homophobia, Tim, and that’s not what this band is about.”

Tiger: “This band is not about blind hatred and intolerance, dawg.”

Jesse: “Word.”

Randy: “Double word.”

Tim: “I don’t need this shit. I’m a musician. I’m out of here.”

Jesse: “Jesse hopes your hairdo is not run over by any careless vehicles, because it is certainly pedestrian.”

Tim: “You’re guys are idiots.”

By the way, I did a guest post of divine significance on Neko’s blog. You can read that here. No pressure, but your souls hang in the balance.

From Recent Travels: This Market is teh 1337

2007-07-30T17:35:00.001-07:00

An Expert's Take on MySpace.com

2007-07-12T22:54:00.000-07:00

I hate MySpace. It’s stupid. Besides, what the fuck would a misanthrope want with a social networking site, anyway? At first I was just going to rant about how MySpace is nothing but a place for fat chicks with deceptively slimming high-angle photos to pick up internet boyfriends; a place for old perverts to prey on stupid preteens who believe every online profile they read; and a place where foreigners can meet American women desperate to get married, i.e., their ticket to American citizenship. But then I started thinking about how much productivity suffered at the magazine where I worked because all of the ditzy ad sales girls spent their entire working day fucking around on MySpace.

If MySpace could cripple a business in such a way, perhaps it isn’t just an innocent place for people to make friends/keep track of friends online. Perhaps it’s something more evil, more insidious. Whenever I have these kinds of paranoid thoughts, I start looking shit up on the internet—modern scholarly research, if you will. At any rate, I discovered quite a bit of information that blew my mind. Most of this enlightening information came from one source: a self-proclaimed genius and ancient civilizations/end of the world expert named Thadius H. J. Bandercatchum (AIM handle, XxCommander6669xX).

Since he knows more than I ever hope to know on the subject of MySpace (and something called “tentacle porn” that he offered to sell me a box of), I asked him to write a post for this blog, summarizing the major discoveries he’s made. So, anyone still reading this crap, please enjoy having your entire perception of reality altered by this great man.

Cordially,

Morbid Misanthrope

MySpace: Destroyer of Worlds
By Thadius H. J. Bandercatchum

In order for what I’m about to tell to make sense, I suggest all you plebeians just accept my immense genius and try to wrap your pin-shaped heads around the gobbets of information I’m going to drop before you. Judging by the intellect of Morbid Misanthrope (oh, how clever, alliteration—what a twat), you, his devoted readers, must be incredibly stupid. Who else but complete fools would consistently give a shit what someone calling himself Morbid Misanthrope has to say. That idiot writes like a 45-year-old ex-junkie working his way through Hooked on Phonics for the seventh or eighth time. That’s neither here nor there, however, because no matter how below me an audience is, it is an audience nonetheless. My message is what matters, so I don’t mind casting pearls before swine occasionally.

Before I “learn y’all something,” I think I’ll tell you a little about myself. The only thing equal to my genius is my awesomeness and ability to get hot ladies constantly. I’m so cool that I say things like, “My name’s Thadius, Thadius Bandercatchum. You’ve got big hooters. Now go over there and make out with that sexy nurse” and it actually works. I’m so pimp, as the kids like to say, that I’ve had sex with over 300 lesbians—the pretty ones, not those manly dyker bikers with plastic wieners sewn on. In fact, I once had three-hour-long sex with six lesbians on the back of a Harley Davidson while changing the bike's oil and rebuilding the engine. One super-hot lesbian actually called my boner “Thad’s third arm” because it’s got reach.

Anyway, aside from my poon-pounding prowess, I’m also a genius. I make over $200,000 a year just for being so goddamned smart. I don't even use my genius as a full-time job. I only freelance. Yes, I’m really that smart. So pay attention to what I have to say. I’m going to make this painfully quick so none of your heads explode.

Point 1: The End of the World Hexagram in the I Ching
There’s no way any of you can possibly comprehend the complexities of the I Ching, so allow me to just say this: The Hexagram in the I Ching that represents the end of the world can be translated to—if you also include its inner trigram—“ Mai Sczpace.”

Point 2: The Mayans and Their End of the World Predictions
These are the simple facts: The Mayans were very, very smart (even though their skin was a funny color and they didn’t speak proper English). Unfortunately for them, they were shit when it came to surviving, and they were all destroyed by Spaniards that came to the Americas by accident on their way to find the famous Chinese Opium Trade. However, before they were wiped out by lisping Europeans with silly pants and single-shot rifles, they managed to predict the end of the world. I’ll spare you their methods. For the sake of your fragile minds, we’ll just say they used magic.

According to their calendar, the end of the world will occur in December 2012. Pictured below is the Mayan Calendar Stone (sometimes called the Aztec Sun Stone—the Mayans stole it from the Aztecs as a revenge prank after some Aztec warriors greased the stairs of one of the Mayan pyramids and made a bunch of the human sacrifices fall down in a comical fashion). At the very top of the stone, where 12:00 would be on a clock, is a symbol that represents the end of the world. Look at the symbol the Mayans used to represent the destruction of the planet. If that’s not the Myspace logo, then I never banged Scarlett Johansson (I did bang Scarlett Johansson, by the way).

Point 3: Plato’s Pre-Atlantis Utopia
I have to assume that all of you have heard of Plato. If not Plato, surely you’ve all heard of his famous story about Atlantis. Disney made a cartoon movie about it, which I’m sure most of you have seen.

I have discovered a little-known story written by Plato that predates his Atlantis story by over three weeks. I shouldn’t have to tell you how significant this story is (although I’m sure some of you will miss out on its relevance entirely). Here is a copy of Plato’s pre-Atlantis story:

There once was a brilliant society, with technology like no other society on Zeus' flat earth. This society was called Mu-Nod, and was the envy of every other city on earth. While other societies reveled in goat sex and naked male-on-male wrestling, Mu-Nod shunned such nonsense and instead focused on progress.

They developed something called bathrooms, which were places where one, alone as opposed to a group setting, could bathe or drop a deuce on marble thrones. They also had flying chariots that could transport a person from place to place at an amazing speed. It was said that the very gods of Olympus vacationed there.

Then, one day, the scientists of this magnificent city created something called "ThyPlace." This system, which enabled citizens to communicate with each other through long cables suspended throughout the city, led to their very downfall.

Instead of working and inventing, the denizens of Mu-Nod sent each other vapid messages and manipulated photos of themselves. They updated their "ThyPlace" pages many times a day, virtually crippling their productivity. They spent all their time quoting ignorant celebrities and customizing their personal "ThyPlace" pages. Soon, however, the morally lacking invented fake personalities for themselves in order to "befriend" the youngest members of the society. Perversity ran rampant.

The less people worked and the more time they spent sending messages to each other led to severe economic decline. The city deteriorated and went to pot.

Soon, the gods themselves decided to punish the wicked, slovenly population of Mu-Nod. They called everyone on "ThyPlace" dorks, which is another word for whale dick, and destroyed the entire civilization for its wickedness. Thusly, this great city perished as it fell beneath the waves of the ocean, brought down by its inability to function because of a silly social-networking program.

This story is true; may the gods fornicate me with an olive branch if I tell a lie. Let this be a lesson to all of the other cities in the world—a warning, as it were. The entire world is at risk if they heed not these words. Thank you, and good night.

There you have it. MySpace is certainly a modern version of the “ThyPlace” that destroyed the magical kingdom of Mu-Nod. The same terrible fate could await us if we continue to use MySpace so recklessly. Also, Plato essentially called MySpace users dorks. So, unless you want to be a fucking dork, I suggest you quit screwing around with MySpace.

Point 4: Nostradamus’ Quatrains
Since most of you probably have no idea who Nostradamus is, I'll enlighten you. Even a genius like me can be charitable sometimes. Why, just the other day I bought a pencil from a deaf retard on the subway. This is the abridged version of Nostradamus’ history, written to make sense to cigarette-smoking chimps. I think you’ll all be able to understand it.

Nostradamus was born a long time ago in a land far away. He was a pissed off kid because his parents named him Michelle. That's why he started calling himself Butch. Since he lived in a salon, no one bought the "tough" name. That pissed him off even more, so he killed his wife and kid and blamed it on the plague.

Still desperate to look manly, he married a new lady named Anne. She was really stupid, but he only married her as a trophy wife so it didn't really matter. It was rumored that she spoke terrible French and couldn't cook for a damn, but she had huge tits and that was all ol' "Butch" needed to help his reputation.

He also grew a sweet beard and moved into a spooky-looking tower where he started writing poetry. Realizing a French poet would make people world wide question his masculinity for all time, he changed his name to Nostradamus and spread rumors that he was writing some spooky shit about the future, not fruity poems about wine and flowers.

Then, everyone was all mystified by Nostradamus and they read his terrifying poems, or quatrains as he called them. Quatrain is basically a word Nostradamus said the ghosts told him to use to describe his fortune-telling.

Anyway, he wrote a bunch of quatrains and people were afraid of the end of the world that he may or may not have predicted. You see, Nostradamus was a sneaky fellow, and many experts believe his quatrains weren't really predictions, but really bad jokes only he got.

Regardless, people have been scared of Nostradamus for hundreds of years now. They also call him a prophet and celebrate his birthday every year by wearing fake beards and silly hats.

I have found a few quatrains that predict the birth of MySpace and its terrible effects on humanity. It's pretty damned amazing, so hold on to your helmets and read on.

With a click and a blank stare
They speak to friends they've never met
Where the young are really old men

And the women are too

And another one:

Self-absorbed, empty-headed fools
Quote lines from bad plays and lyrics from mindless music at each other
Bright pink backgrounds blind the unprepared
Women much fatter than their pictures suggest

And, most ominously:

The system shall corrupt the world
Bringing mental-retardation and exaggerated self-importance
Name after name will be added to lists

Nyspice will bring social ruin

In the last line there, I interpret "Nyspice" to mean "MySpace"; much like other Nostradamus experts believe Nostradamus' "Hister" meant "Hitler." It couldn’t be more clear that Nostradamus predicated MySpace’s ability to bring about terrifying social ruin.

For any of you still reading along without understanding the big picture, I’ll spell it out for you: MySpace will bring about the end of the world. The proof is all there … in a condensed, blog-friendly kind of way. If any of you dare to learn more about MySpace ushering in the end of the planet as we know it, you can visit my website at ****************** and buy my books from **********. Also, if there are any especially sexy ladies who want to get nailed by a genius before the world comes to an end, you can call **********. That’s my cell. Hot ladies can also find saucy pictures of me on MySpace.

[Editor’s Note: All of Thad’s contact information has been blocked by the owner of this blog because Thad called him a twat.]

Independence Day

2007-07-04T17:44:00.001-07:00

The Birth of the iPhone

2007-06-29T23:38:00.000-07:00

The Summer Slaughter Tour: A Morbid Misanthrope's Humble Review

2007-06-21T23:41:00.000-07:00

At last a concert came to town metal enough to lure me from the sweet seclusion of my cave. As the name so eloquently implies, the Summer Slaughter Tour is the “most extreme tour of the year.” And although the year is far from over, the veracity of that statement probably won’t be compromised unless a bunch of pro skaters pack up their halfpipe and tour the country themselves (those skaters are so fucking extreme, they’re actually X-treme). Regardless of the tour’s superfluous extremity, the show promised nine bands for the low, low price of only $17.00. With a price like that, I couldn’t afford not to go.

The Venue
Unlike many of the metal shows I’ve attended in the past, this concert took place at an all-ages venue. I’m used to seeing metal bands in filthy little dive bars where you spend most of your time trying to avoid stepping on potentially hazardous piles or puddles of sticky god-knows-what. At this all-ages show, however, I spent most of my time trying not to step on any kids. The fuckin’ place was crawling with the little bastards. Watching these annoying, sideways-hat-wearing, trying-to-look-tough thumbsuckers pour through the doors of the venue reminded me of maggots crawling out of a freshly kicked hole in the side of a rotting animal. I think I prefer the maggots. They have more personality.

Being an all-ages venue, there was no alcohol on the premises; unless you count all the cool kids trading sips from tallboys of warm Budweiser in the parking lot bushes. From the looks of these little wimps, they were more accustomed to Zima and wine coolers, but, you know, it’s a metal show and they have to look tough until their minivan-driving mommies pick them up.

I had never been to this venue before because it’s pretty much just a hangout for screamo kids, punks, and various types of hoodie-wearing hardcore dumbshits. The venue itself is fairly large and has decent sound; although, some of the bands sounded rather muffled—like someone blast-farting into a couch cushion. If there was a designated outdoor smoking area, I didn’t see it. This drove a few unfortunate guys with shaved heads and prison tattoos to start punching people until security threw them out. Come to think of it, they were probably just skinheads. Those guys love punching people … and nailing their cousins … often both at the same time.

Overall the venue was good: plenty of parking, decent sound, large merchandise area, large stage area, etc. What the venue lacks, at least when I was there, is some airflow. Being in that place was like cramming your head up a bee hive and jumping into a kiln. Would it kill their budget to invest in a fucking ceiling fan or two? Crack a goddamn window, guys, you’re starting to attract wayfaring Italian cooks looking for an oven big enough to cook pizzas shaped like Italy. (I was going to make a Nazi oven joke, but my conscience threatened to sue.)

Bands
Here is a quick rundown of the bands that played.

Beneath the Massacre:
A tech-death(ish) metal band from Canada. They sounded like a group of speed freaks jackhammer fighting behind a liquor store while a robot kicks over trashcans. Sweet!

Ion Dissonance:
I had never heard this band before. I guess you could call them a hardcore band with grindcore tendencies. Their bass player was bald and thrashed around a lot.

Arsis:
Melodic, blackened death metal. I would have paid $17.00 just to see these guys play. I bought their “United in Regret” t-shirt because it’s way necro. When they played “A Diamond for Disease,” it was so fucking badass that three people exploded.

The Faceless:
I had never heard of these guys, either. Their keyboard player looked like someone who would have gotten beaten up by Moby back in Junior High School.

As Blood Runs Black:
“We want you [their fans in the crowd] to fuckin’ go crazy and tear this shit up!” They probably would have, but they were all too busy writing notes about their feelings to put on LiveJournal when they got home.

Cattle Decapitation:
A local gore/grind band that has become somewhat well known. I saw them back in the day with Nile and Impaled. Their singer looks like a cracked-out Jim Breuer. He flailed around a lot, poured bottled water on himself, and spat in the air and caught it in his mouth. I wanted to drop kick him. The band itself is cool, though.

Cephalic Carnage:
These crazy bastards are an awesome mix of death metal, grindcore, and other random types of assorted musical madness. Since I know that drug-free is the way to be, I can’t say I approve of their calls to smoke weed. During “Endless Cycle of Violence,” I punched a kid so hard it knocked the Billabong logo off of his shirt.

Decapitated:
A tech-death metal band from Poland. I’ve been listening to these guys for years. Back in college “Spheres of Madness” was practically my theme song, and I finally got to see them play it live. They were an unstoppable wall of brutal death metal battery.

Necrophagist:
The final and headlining band of the Summer Slaughter Tour took the stage and beat the shit out of the audience with complex tech-death riffing, time signatures nearly impossible to headbang to, and an eight-minute-long drum solo.

Highlights of the Show
Beneath the Massacre, Arsis, Cephalic Carnage, Decapitated, and Necrophagist.
“GORE not CORE” shirts. Goddamn right!

Things that Pissed Me off at the Show
For the sake of brevity, I’ll try to keep the unhinged ranting to a minimum.

Because there were so many bands on the bill, every band leading up to Necrophagist only had a four-song set. I’ve seen soundchecks last longer than that. If I had sneezed, I would have completely missed Decapitated’s performance. The simple solution is to put fewer bands on the lineup. Even with dirty metalheads, quality trumps quantity—unless you’re talking about alcohol, in which case more is always better. I myself would choose a dusty metal bucket of Jim Beam runoff over a clean shot glass of Maker’s Mark any day.

In any case, the Summer Slaughter Tour would have been no less extreme had Ion Dissonance, The Faceless, and As Blood Runs Black not been involved. In fact, the exclusion of As Blood Runs Black probably would have added to the tour’s extreme cred, as their absence probably would have cut down on the number of fifteen-year-old emo kids sniveling up the joint, reeking of expensive hair conditioner.

Speaking of emo kids, just what the fuck happened to the metal scene since I’ve been gone? I’ve been to all-ages shows in the past, and there always were a bunch of annoying punker and hardcore kids around, but never have I been to a metal show so full of tragically hip, senselessly pouty, emo douchebags with stupid haircuts. It was as if Junior Prom at the school for the extraordinarily angsty let out after an especially moving performance by My Chemical Romance. I went to take a piss but couldn’t get in the bathroom because the raging torrent of mascara-laced tears was impossible to ford without three pack mules and one-hundred feet of rope. At one point, the mosh pit turned into a moping circle, and all the emo kids just sort of shuffled around, flipping their feathered hair out of their eyes in melancholy unison. I didn’t know people on suicide watch were allowed to go to concerts.

This unholy mixture of clashing subcultures—emo/screamo, hardcore, punker, and metal—led to an unusual pit experience. Hardcore kids performing the ever-popular and totally not lame pit dance “picking up change” were inevitably kicked in the head by safety-pin-covered idiots jumping around karate kicking the air like spastic, uncoordinated Ralph Macchios. Fragile screamo boys and girls bordered the pit and looked sad when anyone ran into them, and metalheads just ran around, plowing through anyone in their way. Some jackass was literally doing cartwheels in the pit—the kind of cartwheels effeminate guys wearing lederhosen do while picking flowers and singing show tunes in a field somewhere. The last time I saw him he was getting his shit totally ruined by a big guy in a Morbid Angel t-shirt. He got hit so hard mid-cartwheel that his shoe flew off.

It also occurred to me that many of the younger, emo people at the show didn’t “get” the death metal stylings of Decapitated and Necrophagist. If I had a nickel for every emo kid completely baffled by the death metal legends, I could have bought the Hot Topic store at the mall, invited a bunch of screamo fanboys (and girls) in for a studded belt sale, and burned the motherfucker down. The great majority of emo kids in the crowd looked like wild turkeys drowning in the rain, slack-jawed and glazed over, when Necrophagist was playing. The confusion finally became too great, and they fled the venue in droves, looking for a band full of mascara-wearing pretty boys in tight pants to play some tired-ass harmonies in 4/4 that they could wrap their heads around.

I even overheard a guy saying, “What the hell’s with this band? They have no stage presence. This is, like, boring.” Really? You try jumping around on stage like a flaming monkey during a seizure while playing this. I know image is really important to you hip kids, but some people value musical prowess more than eyebrow piercings and choreographed jumping. If I just wanted to see a bunch of adults jump around, I’d go to the loony bin down the street and light off some firecrackers during story hour.

All in all, it was a great show, well worth leaving my cave to attend. It doesn’t beat the Anal Blast concert I went to last year, though. At that show, the bar’s toilets overflowed and flooded the club with two inches of putrid, hepatitis-rich sewer water. Because of that, all the drinks that night were half price. Score!

Friday Night Metal Show

2007-06-15T14:22:00.000-07:00

From the Desk of Morbid Misanthrope:

I'm actually leaving my house to go to this show tonight. It's the first metal show I've been to since I saw Anal Blast over a year ago. I'll probably write something about it when it's all over, so at least anyone reading this crap knows a legitimate post is forthcoming. Probably.

Staying totally necro as always,

Morbid Misanthrope

The iPhone Cometh

2007-06-11T22:31:00.001-07:00

Funny Metal Video: "Porn Store Stiffi" by Blood Duster

2007-06-08T22:08:00.001-07:00

Drummer playing kick drums wearing roller skates: best joke ever.

Helpful Hints for Diabetics

2007-06-02T03:19:00.000-07:00

Several months ago I got a case of the diabetes. It was a simple mistake, really. I was tired of filling up on beer so quickly (and I certainly wasn’t going to start drinking chardonnay like some kind of fruitcup), so I decided I needed some more room in my guts for beer storage. After looking through some old Carcass CD booklets for anatomical diagrams of the human viscera, I felt confident enough to do some remodeling; sort of like This Old House with blood and a few kidneys.

So, with a scalpel I bought off of this guy that sells drugs out of a boat parked in his driveway, I did a nice job removing this large organ that looks like a retarded corn cob. I thought, “Fuck, anything that looks this stupid can’t be worth a damn, and it’s taking up space that could be used to hold Old English. Precious Old English.” Had I been in a better state of mind, a state of mind of someone who wasn’t drunk and in the middle of removing his own ugly organs with a scalpel probably crawling with hepatitis, I would have realized I was taking out my pancreas. And if I had been in that better state of mind and actually knew what the hell a pancreas was for, well, I probably would have left it alone. Nobody’s perfect, right?

The next thing I know, I’m waking up in the hospital to a team of doctors slapping me around like a newborn that owed them money. I was pretty groggy, but I remember the conversation going something like this:

Me: What the hell, dude?
Doc 1: You stupid, stupid ass!
Me: Stupid? Me? Fuck you! I’ve turned myself into the perfect beer-drinking machine God never had the stones to create Himself!
Doc 2: Cripes! More of this shit. Hit him again, doctor.
Doc 1: You dumbshit! I’ll slap that triumphant-mad-scientist complex right out of you!
Me: Quit slapping me, you quack!
Doc 1: I’ll slap you all I like, asshole!
Me: Can you at least punch me? I hate getting slapped!
Doc 2: Sorry. Doctors are only trained to slap. Punching, kicking, and Muay Thai elbows are out of the question. Besides, in your condition, any trauma could kill you.
Me: Then why is this fuckhead slapping me?
Doc 1: Because you’re a goddamned idiot! That’s why!
Me: What … what the fuck? Sweet mother of Buddha butt-fucked upside down! There’s a tube in my dick! There’s a tube in my….

Er … that’s enough of that. (Editor’s Note: Tube = catheter.) Anyway, after I was sedated and the doctors finished uploading the video of them kicking my ass to YouTube, they explained that the pancreas, no matter how silly it looks, is necessary to live. Further, they explained it took them several hours of intense surgery to put it back and save my life.

Doc 2: Congratulations, moron. You’re alive. And you’ve won the hospital’s “Stupidest Patient of the Month” contest.
Me: Really? Who came in second?
Doc 2: That would be Timbo. He cut off his own penis with a Sonic Blade.
Me: And I’m still the stupidest patient here?
Doc 2: Yes. Timbo’s crazy and thought the devil lived in his pants. That’s why he cut off his penis. You, on the other hand, are just a moron. Also, Timbo got bonus smart points for using the Sonic Blade. It doesn’t slice, it sonically separates, you know.
Me: Well how the fuck do you like that?

After nearly a month of painful recovery and physical therapy (I had to learn to walk in hospital socks), I was almost ready to get out of the hospital. Because of the damage done to my pancreas, I was now a diabetic and had to attend a class on taking care of myself before I could be released. The class consisted of a short, cross-eyed lady sticking syringes into a Nerf ball and talking about glucose.

I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, but as I understand it, the pancreas sends out magic waves that regulate the levels of sugar, or glucose, in your blood. If the pancreas stops functioning properly, blood-glucose levels get out of balance like a clubfooted tightrope walker with an ear infection. If glucose levels get too low, you get all shaky and pass out until you eat some raisins; if glucose levels get too high, you have to shoot some insulin before they cut off your foot. Something like that, anyway. It was hard to pay attention—I really, really wanted to play with that Nerf ball.

Now, I’m not a very nice guy. In fact, I’m a real prick. But, since I’m lucky to be alive, I figured I’d do something nice for a change. I’ve decided to post a few things I’ve learned while living with diabetes. Perhaps someone new to the disease will read it and benefit from it. It might help someone—or even save someone’s life. Besides, this creepy night nurse that looked like the girl from Audition said if I didn’t write this, she’d find me when I felt completely safe, stick needles in my eyes, and garrote-saw my arms and legs off.

Check Your Blood Often
You’ll need to check your blood several times a day to be sure your glucose levels are balanced. The life of a diabetic is a life of constant chemistry. Thankfully, for those of us who never got the hang of diagramming Bohr Models in science class, modern devices make the blood-testing process very simple if not completely idiot proof.

Pictured below is the blood-testing device I was given when I left the hospital.

This technologically advanced device is used to draw a blood sample, the blood sample is read into the device via the testing strip, and then the device gives you a number that indicates your blood-glucose level. Your doctor will give you a chart, or sliding scale, that tells you what numbers are indicative of normal, low, and high blood-glucose levels. For example, my chart reads:

90 and below: Eat something with sugar in it, stupid.
100-150: Right on target. You’re doing pretty well for an imbecile.
151-200: You need four units of insulin. Try to avoid poking yourself in the eye.
230-300: What? Did you eat candy for lunch or something? Six units of insulin, Willy Wonka.
301 and up: You are so losing a foot if you don’t take eight units of insulin.

Obviously, the importance of maintaining proper blood-glucose levels cannot be overstated. If the levels remain high for a number of successive tests, you might need to go to the hospital. I suggest you take some sort of weapon with you to discourage the doctors from sawing off your feet. I don’t know why the feet are in constant jeopardy when you have diabetes, but I suspect the doctors have some kind of bet going where the M.D. that saws off the most feet gets a helicopter ride through the Grand Canyon or something.

Maintain a Healthy Diet
I’m on a low-carb, low-sugar, low-fat diet. This makes eating foods I used to enjoy nearly impossible; however, your new diet is based on the severity of your case of diabetes and how sadistic your doctor feels that day. My daily diet consists of the following:

Breakfast: Three cornflakes, a teaspoon of soy milk, and a white watermelon seed.
Lunch: A quarter-sized ham cube, one boiled broccoli stem sprinkled with no more than five sesame seeds, and as much water as I can drink in seven seconds.
Dinner: One natural hotdog casing wrapped in a lettuce leaf, two un-popped popcorn kernels, and a cup of any Asian tea that looks like urine and smells like a dirty bong.
Pre-Bedtime Snack: As much low-fat cottage cheese as I can balance on a low-fat goldfish cracker.

As I mentioned before, diets vary from person to person. One example of a diabetes-friendly diet I was given in the diabetes class consisted of a bucket of yogurt for breakfast; a piece of beef, chicken, or pork the size of a deck of playing cards for lunch; a toddler-sized pile of fish bellies and apple cores for dinner; and a tofu brick shaped like a Toyota Scion for a pre-bedtime snack. Whatever diet the doctor assigns you, be sure to stick with it. I once ate a chicken strip for lunch and a dietician showed up and kicked me in the stomach until I threw up.

Exercise Every Day
Regular exercise helps distribute glucose evenly throughout your system. Tae Bo is for Nancy-Marys who wanted to be butch Broadway dancers, and jogging is for perverted old men that like to get away with wearing short-shorts in public. I suggest taking brisk walks and karate-kicking any neighborhood pets that look at you funny.

Be Smart with Your Syringes
The typical syringe used for insulin injections is very small and meant to be used only once. Even if health insurance helps cover the cost of all the needles you’ll need, using them once and throwing them away is a waste. I generally use my syringes until the needles are so warped they look like the peyos on a Chasidic Jew. One man’s money-saving tip is another man’s dangerous misuse of medical waste, I always say. If you’re too fancy to reuse your needles, you might as well sell them on the cheap to the local junkies. You may not get much for them, but every little bit helps these days. And, hey, at least you know the next time Pinchy the one-toothed smackhead shoots up, thanks to your moderately clean syringe, he won’t be getting AIDS.

Wear a Medical Necklace/Bracelet
These fashion accessories are not only perfect for any occasion, they also serve a very important purpose. They come with a wallet card you fill out with the specifics of your condition. If you’re ever in a really severe car accident or just pass out somewhere, the paramedics will know your health is fucked up and coddle your sorry ass accordingly.

Here is a typical medical alert necklace:

They’re usually perfect for engraving as well. Here is my engraved medical alert necklace: I learned my lesson, you lab coat-wearing bastards.

See Your Doctor Regularly
It’s important to see your doctor often when you’re a diabetic. Regular checkups and fancy blood tests are necessary to ensure you haven’t been fucking yourself up too severely. These checkups are usually quick and non-invasive (except for the blood test).

Some people, however, have what are called “floating veins” or, in my case, “ninja veins” (see picture of one of my veins below).

These veins move around a lot and are very difficult for the nurses to draw blood from. The first time I had blood drawn, the nurse had to work the needle back and forth like a coked-up caveman performing liposuction during an earthquake to finally spear the vein. My arm was so bruised from that shit, it looked like I had been trading shots of heroin with Courtney Love in a Seattle dumpster.

If you have this condition, many hospitals are very accommodating and will give you plenty of alternatives to the standard blood-drawing method. The hospital I go to even let me invent a new way to give blood for testing. We affectionately refer to it as the Oath Method: I slice the palm of my hand with a sweet knife (like Kevin Costner did in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves), and then, with clenched fist, I bleed into a bucket I pretend is the grave of my ruthlessly murdered father. I’m currently kicking around an idea that involves a room full of broken glass, a slip ‘n’ slide, and a running start.

There you have it, folks. Doctors often say that diabetes treatment isn’t a science, and the best results come from careful trial and error. Hopefully, my experiences will help other new diabetics out there achieve stability without nearly so many errors. If not, at least I did my part and don’t have to worry about that scary nurse anymore.

The Hallmark Discount Bin

2007-05-28T21:30:00.000-07:00

Click to see inside of card

Stupid Bumper Stickers

2007-05-19T21:56:00.001-07:00

The only thing worse than a bad driver is a bad driver with an annoying bumper sticker. I always appreciate it when some minivan-driving, Jamba-Juice sucking soccer mom cuts me off and then teaches me a life lesson with her carefully selected bumper stickers; or when some douchebag balls-deep in a mid-life crisis driving a shiny new Jaguar lets me know how cool he is with his “I’d rather be golfing” sticker. Truly, nothing shows off an anonymous driver’s unabashed stupidity like a message on the back of his/her car.

It seems like everyone driving around these days has some trite shibboleth or earth-shattering dictum to share with everyone else on the road. Well, I’m sick of it. Here are a few that I find especially irritating.

So what? Everyone’s an honor student these days. If only the best students were given the title, all the paste-eating simpletons with the brain activity of a tree stump would feel bad and someone would get sued for discrimination. And I don’t even want to think about all the teachers, mostly female teachers these days, having sex with their students; however, parents should be concerned when Jr. comes home from grade school with a “My child is the best lay in class” bumper sticker.

Putting aside the nauseating politically correct reality for a moment, we can assume that honor students truly are sparkling gems of scholastic achievement. In this hypothetical situation, the “My beagle is smarter than your honor student” becomes, as scientists say, complete bullshit. Allow me to illustrate my point with a simple dialog.

Parent: “Smart dog, huh?”
Dog Owner: “Yes.”
Parent: “Can your beagle read?”
Dog Owner: “Well, no….”
Parent: “Fuck you, then.”

Honestly, I suspect people with this bumper sticker are just compensating for their inability to have children to be proud of with feigned enthusiasm aimed at their pets. They’re either
A. Physically incapable of producing human offspring
B. Too stupid/unattractive/annoying to trick someone into breeding with them C. Living an “alternative” lifestyle of which children are rarely a product
D. Puppy fuckers.
Either way, it’s a retarded thing to slap on the back of a car.

Researchers in a fancy laboratory somewhere have just released some interesting information about people who put 9/11 conspiracy bumper stickers on their cars. The following comes from a recent press release submitted to the associated press:

Our research, conducted in a totally awesome lab with all kinds of cool vials, beakers, and a really large computer with flashing red and yellow lights, shows that people with 9/11 conspiracy bumper stickers on their cars are, 95% of the time, anal babies. Anal baby is the scientific term for what laypeople know as ass children; i.e., humans incubated in and birthed from the ass as opposed to the womb. While we scientists aren’t certain how anal babies are conceived—Dr. Jim from the lab has a pretty neat theory involving bottle rockets, a Sir Mix-a-lot CD, a drug-addicted goat, and an electric fence—we do know that they all have unusually low IQs; bad breath; an inability to face even the most obvious of realities; an unhealthy, and often sexually compulsive, interest in all things ass-related; and a penchant for protesting in large numbers with comically idiotic and often misspelled signs.

However below average in every way these anal babies are, they generally only pose a threat to themselves. As for the other 5% of people with 9/11 conspiracy theory bumper stickers on their vehicles, well, they’re just fucking stupid.

Translation 1: “My stepfather bought me this expensive car so I wouldn’t tell my mother he’s been nailing me since I was fifteen.”
Translation 2: “I’m a spoiled, empty-headed, ditz, and I get whatever I want from my father. This will lead to selfish and immature behavior that only gets worse as I get older. I’ll pick boyfriends based on how much money they make, how much crap they buy me, and I’ll whine like an eight-year-old whenever I don’t get my way. I’ll probably end up destroying the lives of several decent men until one of them gets fed up with my nonsense and kills me with a shovel.”
Translation 3: “Pay attention to me.”

I’ve always hated this “daddy’s little princes” sentiment. Great, your father doesn’t hate you. Mothers often love their sons, too, yet the “Mommy’s little tit-nibbler” stickers are somehow less popular.

Thanks, sucker. Now, when I follow you home I’ll know how many people I have to murder in their sleep to rob your house in peace.

I expressed my hatred for this kind of sticker several years ago in a never-published letter to the editor. Here’s a snippet:

I saw this dumb bitch the other day who had all sorts of lame Wiccan bumper stickers all over her car. The stickers said stupid shit like, "Blessed be" and "Not all witches are bitches." This pissed me off. I hate bad bumper stickers and I hate Wicca, so you can imagine how angry this made me. So, in a fit of rage, I forced her car off the road and burned her at the stake. Staring at the dancing flames made me realize that the practice of burning witches at the stake was kick-ass and should be brought back as a common practice. Some people don't like the idea of burning witches at the stake, which leads me to believe that these people are witches too and should be burned at the stake immediately.

The whole thing (Wicca) is stupid. Cast all the spells you want, Sabrina, but my foot kicking your ass is the only result you can expect. And every time I see some stupid novelty Wiccan bumper sticker, I'm going to litter to fuck with Mother Earth, and I'm going to make several sexist comments just to piss off all the goddesses out there.

Why you’d want to tell the world you’re a superfan of computers so inferior they’re practically oversized Tamagotchi is beyond me. Hey, easy mark, try not to choke on your over-inflated sense of cool when you hop on the trend wagon.

Got an original thought in your head? Nope. I’d rather not be stuck in traffic learning what your hobbies are, Tiger Woods.

…at cooking and cleaning.

Come on, what did you expect me to say about a sticker so desperate to be taken seriously?

HIV Positive.

I believe in two-legged fish with DARWIN written on them.

Mentioning every bumper sticker that pisses me off is like trying to calculate infinity on an abacus. I’d try to mention a few more, but I think the pink mafia is here in regards to that HIV joke I just made. At least my cement shoes will look fabulous.

Morbid Misanthrope Buys an MP3 Player

2007-05-09T22:53:00.000-07:00

Thing I Learned About Japan from Japanese Horror Movies #3,267

2007-05-05T03:47:00.000-07:00

Hostility: Just a Few More Things Pissing Me Off

2007-04-28T00:53:00.000-07:00

Sheryl “One Square of TP Per Potty” Crow
I hate Sheryl Crow. I believe I’ve made that clear at least once or twice in the past. Her music sucks like a black hole, she gave Lance Armstrong nad cancer twice, and she has the mental capacity of an old potato with a pencil jammed into it. Every time I see her stupid “I’m so deep and interesting” face, I kill a small animal with an obsidian knife hoping some ancient, tentacled god of disease will receive my sacrifice and strike her down with leprosy.

Now she’s hoping to convince people to cut down on their toilet paper use to, you know, like, help the environment; one square per excretion should be plenty. Yes, because all the attempts we’ve made to separate ourselves from shit-anywhere animals and mephitic cavemen weren’t progress, but another way to kick ol’ Mother Earth right in her Marianas Trench (so to speak). And, as all well-informed people will tell you, walking around smelling like the laundry bin at a home for the criminally incontinent is a great way to save the planet.

Before I start taking eco orders from some rich celebrity retard, I think it only appropriate she start following her own advice. In order to help her conserve TP (instead of cutting down on all the environmentally unfriendly shit she requests and uses on a regular basis), I’m willing to visit her home and ninja kick her colon right out of her ass—free of charge.

Sheryl Crow has also railed against the use of paper napkins at meal time. Thankfully, she’s not suggesting our faces go un-wiped like our nether regions. That would be utterly barbaric. Her solution: wipe your face on your sleeves. Not just your every-day regular sleeves, though. Her new line of shirts happens to have detachable sleeves so you can wipe the tofurkey grease off your mug, remove the soiled sleeve, wash it, and reattach it. That’s so goddamn stupid I feel like hanging myself.

I think the earth would benefit more if someone skin-welded Sheryl Crow’s mouth shut. After all, stupidity is one of the leading causes of global warming, and all that hot hair escaping from her head is enough to melt three glaciers and ten medium-sized igloo villages. Speaking of which, if any Eskimos with newly melted homes wish to seek revenge, I’m sure it would only take a few harpoons to put her down … her head may be enormous, but she’s still human.

Whispering in Metal Songs
While this irritant isn’t very common in the metal I usually listen to, every now and then some band thinks it's being really cute and sneaks that shit in. A good example of this is Machine Head’s new song “Aesthetics of Hate.” Although it’s probably one of the heaviest songs Machine Head’s ever done—much heavier than that rap-rock shit they pulled on The Burning Red, anyway—near they end, Rob Flynn repeatedly whispers some silly shit while looking at the camera with the intensity of a cross-eyed sun flare. I think he’s saying “May the band of Todd rock them out,” but he could just as easily be saying something threatening. I don’t know, because as soon as he started with that whispering shit, I stopped watching the video.

Whispering menacingly, ominously, threateningly, knowingly, tellingly, creepily, etc. is always stupid in metal (and probably most other genres, but I don’t listen to them so they don’t count). You just spent five minutes yelling, slappy; if I haven’t gotten the idea by now, some dopey whispering ain’t going to help. And if I wasn’t alarmed when that glue-huffing alley dweller told me he was god and whispered “I will remove your soul with my incisors of the malevolent god light,” I’m sure as hell not going to be impressed when you whisper stupid shit in a song as an attempt to add some impact to your message.

Morons Who Don’t Know Where the Line at Blockbuster Starts
I’ve come across these drooling retards for years. I can only assume they’re the product of some kind of human cloning experiment and didn’t pass the chromosome test—i.e., they either ended up with too many or too few.

I shudder to think flawed science isn’t responsible, because if these are the kind of geniuses our public schools are churning out, this country is in even more trouble than I thought. Sure, these shallow potholes in the evolutionary highway can reproduce like a box full of speed-freak rabbits on Viagra and avoid getting killed while crossing a busy street, but point them toward a big-ass “LINE STARTS HERE” sign and suddenly they’re as lost as a quadruple amputee trying to do a cartwheel.

I was in line the other day, right next to the aforementioned big-ass “LINE STARTS HERE” sign, when I see these two asshats practically giving themselves brain tumors trying to figure out where they should line up. Seconds before the steaming blood shot out of their ears, their survival instincts kicked in and they bypassed the confusion of the line altogether and just walked up to the cashier.

Were I in charge, such thoughtless, rude behavior would result in a severe public beating and, depending on prior offenses, forced sterilization. Unfortunately, Blockbuster is yet another domain of which I am not overlord, and the cashier allowed their heinous transgression to go unpunished. In fact, she was quite nice to them, helping them find whatever stupid surfing video they were unable to find themselves. Apparently, they didn’t know their ABCs, so the whole alphabetical order thing really threw them.

“Duuuuhhhh … da moovee is called Endless Summer, so dat woooood be undurr … Aaaarrrrggghhhh! I ownlee up to letter D! D says ‘duh’ as in dump truck! Aaarrrggghhh!”

The Blockbuster employee couldn’t be faulted, really. She has to be nice to the customers. I, on the other hand, don’t have to be nice to anyone. So, upon leaving the store, I threw a large, metal trashcan through their sticker-covered truck’s back window. “I’d rather be surfing,” huh? I fuckin’ bet.

April 20th (4/20)
This is one of my least favorite “holidays.” It’s right up there with “Self-Administered Coat Hanger Prostate Exam Day.” This 4/20 shit all started decades ago, somewhere in California (fuckin’ California), when a couple of dope-heads started meeting by some statue at 4:20 pm to, obviously, smoke weed. 420 became their special little code for it, and soon every glazed-over stoner wanted in on the action.

Since then, 420 (4/20) has become a sort of international pothead holy day. And no stoner holy day would be complete without mountains of crappy merchandise emblazoned with all manner of insipid slogans and weed-related witticisms.

“Huh-huh! ‘I heart 420.’ I get it, dude. Sweet! Haw-haw! ‘Highway 420,’ hilarious!”

It’s so fucking clever my mind is blown. The stoners that get really excited about celebrating 4/20 really have no reason to.

“Dude, tomorrow’s 4/20. We, like, totally get to smoke out!”
“Oh yeah, man! You mean, like, how we do every other day?”
“Hells yeah, bro! 420, whooooooooooo!”
“Cool, man. Now, pass that J over here. If I have to go five more seconds without smoking weed, I might be motivated to read something unrelated to pot and have to kill myself!”

Since harshing the buzz of stoners is one of the few things in life I actually enjoy, I, Captain Buzzkill, have created a new piece of merchandise to dampen the spirits of 4/20 revelers everywhere. The only flaw in my brilliant plan is that some stoners are so stupid they don’t know who Hitler is. Oh well. Happy 4/20, you cannabis-huffing dipshits.

DVD Reviews: It’s Not Like the Internet is Rife With Them Or Anything

2007-04-10T21:22:00.000-07:00

Warning: This Shit Contains Spoilers

As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I hate going to movie theaters. It costs too much, it’s usually too crowded, teenagers and their goddamned laser pointers piss me off (Oh, wow, Hannibal Lector suddenly has a fuckin’ bindi. You’re one hilarious little shit.), sticky floors make me uncomfortable, and if I wanted to spend twelve bucks to listen to a bunch of morons talk on their cell phones in the dark, I’d go to a restaurant.

While I hate going to movie theaters, I happen to enjoy watching movies. I’ve spent a large percentage of my time on earth watching DVDs while swilling whiskey like a fed-up husband gathering the courage to push his mouthy wife down the stairs. Most of the movies I’ve seen I’ve rented from various video rental stores. And while the process of visiting these rental stores—video libraries, if you will—is slightly less annoying than licking splintered wood, I do it at least once a week.

Sometimes I rent a movie that is so good I end up buying it, and other times, most times, I rent movies so bad they’re more likely to cause cancer than entertain. The major problem with renting videos is their deceptive package design and misleading, professionally written descriptions. It happens to the best of us: the movie promises to be a terrifying, gore-filled descent into hell, and ends up being a love story between to boyhood friends who diddled each other at summer camp. By the way, if any video boasts of winning awards at the Cannes Film Festival, it probably involves gay minorities overcoming adversity.

The most deceptive and misleading movie I’ve had the misfortune of renting recently is The Groomsmen. The movie description promised zany antics and non-stop laughs when a bachelor party gets out of hand, but what the movie delivered was a tear-soaked wad of pointless angst glued together with a sticky mess of whiny, clichéd psychoses. Renting this movie was like going to see a hilarious stand up comedian only to arrive at the venue to find out it’s actually Fat Lesbian Beatnik Poetry Night.

From “I’m a drunk because my penis doesn’t work right” to “I’m a homo and my caustic childhood friend hurt my feelings because he was insensitive, oh yeah, and my dad doesn’t like me because I like to poke guys,” all the epicene complexes were there. It was about as hilarious as a Jeffrey Dahmer therapy session. I’ve seen more testosterone on Martha Stewart's TV show.

Jay Mohr was funny occasionally, but that hardly makes this movie a comedy. The movie was so dramatic and unnecessarily emotional, about halfway through I felt like I needed a tampon. Or perhaps a soothing cup of tea and a kitty cat to pet. You can save yourself the time it takes to watch this movie and just have a friend punch you in the testicles; it’s painful but it’s over quicker and there’s less crying.

I would have called the movie Grow Your Own Vagina Kit and covered the box with pictures of the stars of the film crying all over each others’ shoulders.

Sometimes a movie will pose as an interesting, psychological thriller/horror movie, while actually being nothing more than an outlet for a writer and director’s various sociopolitical views.

Sublime is a series of political messages, all expressed and represented with the subtlety of a ten-clown gang rape. If anyone fails to catch the finespun symbolism, the makers of the film discuss it in length as one of the DVD’s special features. Here’s a rundown—infomercial style—of what to expect from this movie:

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, when you watch this movie you get more than just a few clichéd horror movie devices for your money. You get metaphors, allegories, similes, and political messages so guilt-soaked you’ll have to wring out your brain to keep from donating large sums of money to NAACP! Do you even know what an allegory is? Does it even matter? People these days don’t care about fancy words. They want everything in soundbytes and bulletpoints. When you buy this movie, you get the following political/sociopolitical issues and awesome features:

Fear

Chills & spills

Guilt

White guilt

White male guilt

Upper-middle class white guilt

Hidden, or buried, racism

Islamophobia

Xenophobia

America: Europe’s retarded little brother?

Those poor, poor minorities

The Terry Schiavo equation

George Bush is a bad, bad president

Stereotypes, stereotypes, stereotypes

Your wife might leave you, and your daughter’s a little lesbian slut

Multiculturalism and understanding

And, just so you don’t forget it’s a horror movie,

That record-scratching sound used in every horror movie since the mid 1990s

Buy now! Because even if you miss all this and more, it’s still kind of a spooky movie, and dumb girls will probably think you’re kind of deep for owning it!"

I just saw Black Christmas, yet another horror movie remake. Honestly, the film wasn’t that great. But it turned out pretty well considering the script was only one page long. Here is the original script in its entirety:

Girl 1: "Oh my gawd, I hate Christmas."

Girl 2: "That's very interesting. I hate my real sister, but I love all my sorority sisters. Well, not that plain-looking girl. I forgot her name, but she smells like cat pee."

Girl 3: "I hate my whole family. In fact, the only thing I don't hate is being annoying and drinking a lot to look tough. I'm going to brood and drink until I throw up."

Girl 4: "It seems as though my sorority sisters have complained about everything already, which means I have nothing to say. Drat! Oh, I know. Hey, girl with seemingly religious beliefs and an implied redneck father, you are lame."

Girl 5: "I am not. I am going home because you are mean."

Girl 6: "Here is a newspaper-wrapped Christmas present for you. It is a glass unicorn head. Nothing says Christmas like a glass unicorn head. I must go now, I'm only in this movie for ten seconds, but I do smell remotely like cat pee and may be related to the killer in some way. Homely sorority girls usually are. Bye!"

Girl 7: “Christmas reminds me of … wait a minute. How many of us are there?”

Girl 7.78: “It’s impossible to say, really. We, as characters, are about as deep as flea spit. At least none of us are clichés in any way.”

Girl 8: "I never had a real sister. I wonder why. Oh well. I'm just glad to have all you, my sorority sisters. My boyfriend sure is nice. And honest. He would never do anything to hurt me. And he would never hide anything from me."

Girl 7.78: “Oh dear. I recant my previous statement about clichés.”

Killer(s): “You are all my family now. This reminds me: which of you will act as my mother. She had sex with me, so I’ll meet one of you in the attic in five minutes. Please remember to call me son and pinch my yellow butt. The rest of you would do well to remove contact lenses if you wear them. I can’t handle the indigestion.”

Killer(s)2: “I truly am an abomination. What hath my brother/father and mother wrought? Arrggg! The confusion! The turmoil! So many societal mores trampled upon! If not inbreeding and a horrific mug, surely my downfall is lack of depth perception!"

The end ... or is it?

Lately I’ve been renting a lot of Asian horror movies. I think they’re generally more interesting than the American movies being released (especially the American remakes of Asian horror films), and they’re easier to watch knowing the actors aren’t getting paid millions of dollars to play make believe.

One of the more interesting of these films I’ve seen in the past few weeks is Marebito. If nothing else, the movie is downright strange; however, many people think the movie is rather confusing. I, on the other hand, think the movie is quite clear. Briefly:

The old fellow in the subway killed himself because he had an eyelash stuck in his eye that, try as he might, he couldn’t get out. He wasn’t terrified, rather super annoyed. This is why he killed himself—much like someone with a gnarly case of long-lasting hiccups might.

The protagonist of the movie went crazy due to some seriously expired Pocky combined with an M. Night Shyamalan movie marathon. He made it through The Village okay, but after Lady in the Water he completely lost it.

F, as the protagonist called her, was actually a rare type of humanoid-looking amphibious lamprey that can be found off the coast of Indonesia. Only the most skilled Asian fishermen/wizards are able to capture them. Very few people know the ritual required to summon and trap this strange and deceptively naked-chick-looking creature, but some scholars believe it involves chanting the lyrics to the song “Afternoon Delight” backwards, ritual Mayan penis blood rope, and an ant farm full of mosquito larvae.

That really was the protagonist’s ex-wife he killed. And although he was nuts by that time, this action could be considered his “moment of clarity.” Initially he was just going to kill her and use her blood for lamprey-lady food, but then he remembered what a nagging harpy she was and how she got the house in the divorce (and his comic book collection, which she only took because she knew he loved it). This snapped him out of his insanity long enough to enjoy killing her.

The protagonist was all scared at the end because he realized he left backup batteries for his video camera at his apartment. His look of sheer terror was more of a dawning realization that he would have to walk back up all those stairs to get the batteries. It’s really rather anticlimactic, but therein lies the horror and mental anguish.

Another Asian movie that confuses many people is Pistol Opera. I may not have enjoyed this movie, but I certainly understood it (even though it’s abstract enough to give Wassily Kandinsky a headache). A brief explanation:
You see, purple monkey pringles can. Who let the shampoo out, dogs? Hamhock flonaise; Mary had a little lamp post. Flim-flam and shim sham. Flibberty jibbetts. Bee-dee bee-dee bee-dee. Hotdog, freetos, chilimac. Slap the watermelon. Paella.

Kick-Ass Friday Video: "The Chondrin Enigma" by Aborted

2007-04-06T20:13:00.000-07:00

Much like a Planned Parenthood employee, I like everything aborted. Aborted’s new CD, Slaughter and Apparatus: A Methodical Overture, is a heaping pile of puke- and puss-covered viscera. Since Aborted is a gore-grind/death metal band, I have to assume that's what they were going for. I’ve been listening to this CD nonstop since it came out (actually, this CD with brief interludes of War of Attrition by Dying Fetus). This CD is as brutal as a rabid ape cannibalizing himself while sexually assaulting his mother. That’s pretty brutal, yet not the absolute peak of brutality. Higher levels of brutality usually include a T-Rex slamming a mad-cow crazed bull’s nuts in a metal slaughterhouse door as Thor annihilates Loki’s colon with Mjolnir.

This CD is pretty awesome. So awesome, in fact, I have come to the conclusion that if you’re not rocking out to it, you probably have several vaginas (or some kind of strange multiple buttgina). If this band is too manly for you, you can work up to being cool enough to enjoy it by kicking orphans in the teeth and dissecting neighborhood pets.

If you’d rather keep up on your current events, Max Bojo has a new article here.

An Interview with Rosie

2007-03-17T00:43:00.000-07:00

Max Bojo, Associated Press

Rosie O’Donnell is famous for many things: having a voice grating enough to make even Fran Drescher suck a bullet out of a gun barrel; the ability to strip the meat off a roasted camel leg in one slobbery, toothy, obstreperous bite; sexually stimulating only the most self-loathing, most horrifyingly masculine, suicidal bulldykes; and having an understanding of complicated social and political issues which rivals that of history’s greatest minds. Yes, Rosie is a quite a woman (technically).

Due to her outrageous feud with “The Donald” and various incendiary comments she’s made on television’s most intellectual show, The View, Rosie has been all over the news. Rosie’s tumescent face has been on television so often as of late, the national revulsion rate has increased by thirty-eight percent. In fact, one disgusted viewer polled said, “If I had a penny for every time I seen that sow on TV in the last month, I’d be able to pay a limousine driver to run me over. To, you know, get her fuckin’ image outta’ my head.” Love her or hate her, Rosie isn’t going anywhere (without the help of a flatbed truck, anyway).

Rosie O’Donnell’s recent comments regarding terrorist leader/butcher/tick bait, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, have angered sensible people everywhere (fortunately for Rosie’s career, sensible people generally avoid The View like Democratic presidential candidates avoid debates on Fox News). On the other hand, people without the common sense necessary to keep them from ingesting their own waste don’t know what all the fuss is about. In fact, many of these people actually claim they learned something from Rosie.

“Well, I was at home, and I had accidentally started eating my own poop again, when all of a sudden, The View came on. Rosie and the gals—that’s what I call them because I feel like I know them—were talking about this guy named Kally Momed and how the government imprisoned him for no reason at that compound by Guam Bay. It’s really terrible what they did to the poor man. They made him wear a funny hat or something, and, well, you should see his picture. He’s all dirty and hairy. If it weren’t for Rosie and the gals, I just wouldn’t be aware of the world around me. Ooops, I’m eating poop again! Oh well—at least I’m recycling!”

Rosie O’Donnell has once again proven to be nothing if not polarizing (and, physiologically speaking, two-fifths pork gravy). As an important and well-regarded member of the press, I was able to meet with Rosie in her dressing room on the set of The View to get some answers from her.

As I entered the doorway leading to Rosie’s dressing room, her assistant gave me gas mask. I began to ask her what it was for, but before I could finish three words I began to gag. The smell emanating from Rosie’s dark dressing room was reminiscent of what a ranch for cattle with leprosy might smell like if it were bombed with overstuffed toilets from a Tijuana Taco Bell. As a hot blast of reeking air blasted past my newly protected face, I could hear Rosie guffawing violently, obviously very entertained by and enamored with her own flatulence. As I entered the room, she noticed me and waved me over, spitting what looked like a warthog skeleton on the floor.

Max Bojo: Good afternoon, Rosie. I’m here to ask you about some of the comments you made recently about Khalid Sheikh Mohammed.

Rosie O’Donnell: Oh yeah. Another victim of President Bush’s torture squad. I suppose all those filthy conservatives are mad that I shed some light on their evil plans.

MB: Actually, many people, not just conservatives, are rather upset that you are sympathetic to Khalid Sheikh Mohammed (KSM), the man who helped plan the 9/11 attacks and personally beheaded Daniel Pearl.

RO’D: First of all, KSM only admitted those things because our government tortured him.

MB: So you’re saying KSM is completely innocent?

RO’D: I’m saying our government tortured him to get him to admit he did things our government is responsible for. Our government blew up the towers. Duh!

MB: Wow, there is so much wrong with that statement, I don’t even know where to begin. Um … my head sort of hurts right now. Sorry. How do you explain this quote from KSM, then?

“I decapitated with my blessed right hand the head of the American Jew, Daniel Pearl, in the city of Karachi, Pakistan. For those who would like to confirm it, there are pictures of me on the Internet holding his head.”

RO’D: Torture, obviously.

MB: But the pictures KSM described exist.

RO’D: More government trickery. I mean, there are pictures supposedly of me on the internet with an entire raw horse’s head in my mouth.

MB: Those are real, though. In fact, before this interview you sent me an autographed copy of one of those pictures.

RO’D: Well, goddammit, just because you call a man a terrorist he’s no longer human? That gives the government the right to torture him all they want? Have you seen the picture of KSM, all disheveled and ragged? That is evidence of torture.

MB: Surely you’re aware that picture is nearly four years old and was taken when our troops captured KSM—not a recent photo taken of him after he was “tortured.”

RO’D: The Government is evil! Bush is evil! 9/11 was an inside job perpetrated by our government and the Jews that control the entire country! I’m so depressed about Columbine that I have to take antidepressants and hang upside down just to keep the sorrow at bay! Donald trump can suck my black dick! Christians are evil! Allahu-fucking-akbar! I’m three times the woman Nathan Lane is!

At this point of the interview, Rosie’s assistants entered the room and began pouring buckets of iced fish in Rosie’s mouth and brushing her tongue with a large brush. While Rosie couldn’t say much right then, her gesturing made it quite clear that our interview was over.

Random Shit Pissing Me Off

2007-02-26T15:35:00.000-08:00

New Shows on Adult Swim
I was a loyal Adult Swim viewer until shows like Tom Goes to the Mayor started stinking up the AS lineup. The awful shows AS continued to air and debut were numerous and more disappointing than a BJ from a hooker with cottonmouth (so I’ve been told). For example, The Boondocks, 12 oz. Mouse, Squidbillies, and Moral Orel: These shows are so bad, when I first saw them they made me doubt the existence of a divine being. Countless times throughout the centuries, philosophers have asked “If there is a god, how can he let such terrible things happen?” Usually because it’s funny. This time, though, it wasn’t funny. These shows stunk more than a ten-year-old trunk full of used porno magazines in a hobo encampment.

As with everything else in life, things just got worse. AS’s latest batch of shit cookies—i.e., new shows—are possibly the worst yet.

Tim and Eric of Tom Goes to the Mayor infamy return with Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job. Who the fuck keeps giving these assholes TV shows? Tim and Eric suck harder than a desperate junky trying to fellate a fix out of Kurt Cobain’s corpse. And, as always, anyone who doesn’t like the show just “doesn’t get it.” Bullshit. The show is an insult to anyone with a sense of humor. Although, if I ever have a shaman high on jungle drugs remove a large portion of brain through my nose with a chicken bone, I’m sure I’ll suddenly think the show is hilarious. At that point, I just hope I’m able to laugh like an imbecile without drowning in my own drool.

Saul of the Mole Men is a new show about as appealing as a fat baby with pinkeye. Overall plot: A boneheaded, mustachioed, Midwestern geologist ends up at the center of the earth (or something). He walks around for a while. There’s a queer Brit with a tambourine in there somewhere. The geologist fucks around with some retarded muppets. The viewer feels like a schmuck for watching and contemplates sending a box of dog turds to Adult Swim headquarters for revenge.

Assy McGee is about a talking ass that is also a cop…. Watching this show will give you Down Syndrome.

X-Treme Products/Marketing for Kids
“Hey, kids! Look at the sick packaging on our latest product! We used so many bright colors it could give a colorblind dyslexic a goddamn seizure! Can you read the text we used? Shit yeah, you can! It’s so big even a dumb kid like you can read it! Sound it out, stupid! Now get on your radical skateboard and ollie like a motherfucker over your baby brother! Hey! You know what’s really cool? Sucking the shit out of an electric eel’s ass! Hey! You know what else? If you eat food that can’t be crammed down your throat hole on the go, you’re obviously a little faggot on his way to fat-ass town! Now, squeeze the yogurt out of this tube, put on the latest Kidz Bop CD to hear the ‘kid friendly’ version of your favorite Good Charlotte song, and tempt fate by streaking through public restrooms in bad areas of town! Extreme! Killer, bro!”

Anna Nicole Smith-Related “News”
Am I the only one that finds it just a bit ironic—or stupid, I’m not quite sure which—that more people want Anna Nicole Smith’s body now that she’s dead? Sure, her life was like three train wrecks getting blown up by a dirty bomb, but I still don’t care what they do with her corpse. They could trebuchet the motherfucker into the ocean and it wouldn’t change my life in any conceivable way. I’ll just be glad when the E! network is the only channel covering the aftermath of Anna Nicole’s passing, and all trials related to her are consigned to special episodes of The People’s Court.

Britney Spears
It’s obvious she shaved her head so her hair couldn’t be tested for traces of drugs she smoked out of a round, glass pipe, but if she wanted more attention, she should have just posed naked for something. You know, do some classy pictorials to make up for her low-brow beaver flashing. Trailer Trash Ass magazine probably would have featured her. It’s no Playboy or anything, but it did wonders for the career of Missy Burke. Missy was a poor girl from a poor family in Alabama, but after she posed for Trailer Trash Ass, her confidence was boosted so much she finally had the guts to start stripping. She was a smash hit and made enough money to trade up from a meth addiction to a classy cocaine addiction. She then had a number of operations to fix her many physical flaws. After some additional dental work and a lot of recovery time, Missy was ready for Hollywood. She auditioned for every role in Hollywood. She did a few “art films” and then had to take some time off to let her jaw heal after an embarrassing accident during a casting session. Shortly thereafter she was picked to star in a little movie by the name of Fast Times in Ridgemont High. That movie launched her illustrious Hollywood career. Of course, now you know her by her new name: Sean Penn.

(Insert Ethnicity Here) Time
I’ve heard myriad tardy-due-to-ethnicity excuses in my day: people on Brazilian time, Indian time, Filipino time, Mexican time, Pygmy time, Hobbit time, etc. Here’s an example:

Me: “Dude, why are you so late?”
Person in Alternate Time Zone: “I’m not late. I’m on Mexican time.”

That’s really cute and all well and good, but I’m on white time, i.e., on time (because, apparently, we crackers don’t know any better). I’m sick of showing up to events unusually early because I was unaware the host expected everyone attending to be running on Inca time or some shit. Unbeknownst to me, the last event I attended was scheduled in Mongol time; I was so early, they hadn’t even tuned the Morin Khurrs and the Airag wasn’t fully fermented. I looked like such an ass.

So for fuck’s sake, on the invitation specify which time we’re going by so I can synchronize my watch with the sundial on the Temple of the Sun in Machu Picchu … or wherever these ethnically esoteric time zones have their origin.

Who am I kidding? I never get invited to shit, so this really isn’t a problem for me.

Reggae
I swear to Odin, the next time I hear the lyrics “legalize it” accompanied by repetitive, wah-pedal-tinged guitar strumming, I’m punching an irie motherfucker in the throat.

The Academy Awards
Wow, a bunch of pea-brained celebrities blowing ego loads all over each other. It’s even worse than all of those geriatric orgies Susan Sarandon throws in the bushes by the big Hollywood sign on Mt. Lee.

Crappy Cell Phone Ringtones
When I worked at ****** & ****** Magazine one of the ad sales girls had a ringtone of a baby laughing. Who the fuck intentionally picks a ringtone of a baby laughing? That’s creepy as hell. This particular girl would often leave the office for long periods of time and forget her cell phone. So every time one of her equally stupid friends would call her at work to talk about how many teachers they had to fuck to get through high school, it sounded like someone was tickling an infant in the other room. Not that I advocate violence against women, but I wouldn’t have been upset if someone crammed that cell phone up the bitch’s uterus and kicked her out a window.

Kick Ass Friday Videos

2007-02-16T22:21:00.000-08:00

These videos aren't new, but I saw them for the first time recently. This guy takes songs (usually songs he hates) and rewrites the lyrics to what they sound like, pairing them up with fitting imagery. It's one of the funniest things I've ever seen.
He has several more on his YouTube profile, but I just picked my two favorite…

For a band and song that suck:

(Trivium does suck. Opeth, on the other hand, kicks ass.)

For a band and song that kick ass:

Surprise, Surprise

2007-02-13T15:46:00.000-08:00

If you're more perceptive than a sun-damaged garden hose, you called this shit. I know I did.

UPDATE

"Hell Yeah, Bitches!"

2007-02-08T20:08:00.000-08:00

(Make sure to watch this video with sound.)

The Superbowl is Stupid

2007-02-03T20:02:00.000-08:00

Shit, football is stupid all on its own. Then some moron came up with the idea to give football a special day for everyone to revel in all of its pointless, ass-slapping anti-action. Every time something happens on the field, they stop the game. It’s like watching a severe narcoleptic strangling a baby seal. Even the athletes know football is stupid; it’s just something they do when they’re not taking drugs and slapping around their girlfriends. About the only good thing about football is that it confuses foreigners who think football is another word for soccer. So while the rest of the country is whipped into a foamy frenzy during the Superbowl, for the players involved it’s just another work day full of plenty of ball handling and homoerotic poses, tackles, and celebratory jock strap sniffing.

Even though I hate the Superbowl, I must admit it is good for the economy. Every year, multitudes of excited football fans buy big-screen, high-def televisions for the big game. Unfortunately, to pay for these unnecessarily large TVs, superfans usually end up whoring their children to the clergy. “Sorry, son. Best Buy has a shitty return policy, so you’ll be spending some time camping with Father Smith.”

Superbowl Sunday is also the biggest day of the year for pizza delivery and strippers, proving once again that nothing goes better with greasy food than greasy women. Although I imagine it might be hard to watch the game while the gyrating piece of damaged goods tells you about how her stepfather took her virginity when she was 12. Remember, gents, playing connect the dots with the striper’s trail marks costs extra. Speaking of greasy strippers, I’m just thrilled to hear that Paris Hilton has herpes. There is a God after all.

A lot of people like to bet on which team will win the Superbowl. If you’re planning on making some bets, go with a sure thing: the Superbowl sucks and I hate it. And don’t give me any shit about only watching it for the advertisements. I’m in the ad biz and even I don’t give a shit about the commercials. A 30-second spot during the Superbowl costs over 2 million dollars. Do you really think any commercial can live up to that? I love funny monkeys too, but is any monkey truly 2.6 million dollars funny? Not even that one on the internet that pisses in its own mouth. “Oh, but this year Kevin Federline will be in a commercial!” Fuck K-Fed. Unless they’re shooting the son of a bitch full of poisonous cancer I’m not watching.

And until they start executing criminals with wild apes wielding chainsaws during the halftime show, that’s a waste of time too.

This year I’ll be watching something a million times better than the Superbowl: the neighborhood retard chasing his imaginary tail in circles for six hours. Every time he gets dizzy and throws up I toss breadcrumbs at him. That makes him quack like a duck and struggle with his leash until he remembers he has a tail to catch.

Fun with Anime Catch Phrases: Naruto

2007-01-29T17:35:00.000-08:00

Another Article of Interest

2007-01-23T16:49:00.000-08:00

More of the Same: Outrage in the Muslim Community
By Max Bojo, Associated Press

Not long ago, more controversy erupted as a group of Muslims were not permitted on an international flight because they were late. The Muslims, as they are prone to doing, claimed they were kept off the flight due to religious discrimination.

“It’s another clear-cut case of attempting to ‘fly while Muslim.’ Well I’ll tell you something: I’m furious! This discrimination makes me so mad I could cut the heads off the airline infidels, shove bombs down their necks, and praise Allah as they are blown to bits!” said one of the grounded Muslims shortly before he popped Islamic wood and ran around in circles screaming “Allahu Akbar.”

Although Muslims and Muslim groups everywhere are crying foul, airline officials insist that they were just following airline protocol for late passengers attempting to board an international flight. We spoke to one of the airline officials present when the incident occurred. He wished to remain anonymous.

“It’s a very simple matter. We require all passengers of international flights to be present one hour before takeoff. These Muslim jokers showed up, like, twenty minutes before takeoff demanding to be let on board before anyone even told them they were late. It was like they showed up outraged. Then they start bitching about discrimination. God, it was incessant. They didn’t let up for one second, even when I pointed to a couple of drunken businessmen who weren’t allowed on the plane either. They never said why they were late, but I think it was because it took them longer than they planned to sneak their bombs through security. Wait! I didn’t say that! Shit….”

Due to pressure from such Muslim groups as CAIR (Crazy Arabs Inciting Riots), the airline has since issued an apology and caved in to Muslim demands. Not only will the grounded Muslims fly free for a year, but several airline employees will have to lick a sacred Islamic camel’s nuts in order to make their tongues halal so they can speak to Muslims without insulting them. CAIR founder Bosama bin Baden is encouraged by this victory and is urging Muslims everywhere to fight discrimination the same way the grounded Muslims did. Needless to say, Muslims everywhere are now brutally fighting discrimination.

In Palo Alto, California, Abu Hibjab sued a McDonald’s for discrimination after employees refused to serve him breakfast at 3:23 pm. The court awarded him 3.6 million dollars. When asked what he was going to do with his winnings, he said “I’m going to flight school!”

A group of Muslims in North Carolina are suing Home Depot for discrimination because when they attempted to enter the store well after midnight, they were kept outside by locked doors.

“The lights were off and the doors were locked. It’s obvious the store’s employees saw us coming and closed because we were Muslims!” said alleged discrimination victim Tariq al Karzai. “All we wanted was a few bags of fertilizer, some gasoline, maybe a few gallons of pesticide, and some propane, but those bigots kept us out. I think we will be vindicated in court. Praise Allah for the American legal system.”

All over the country Muslims are now actively and relentlessly fighting discrimination no matter how imaginary it may be. From the Muslim in Texas suing his cell phone company for charging him more during peak hours to the Imam in Maine suing his cable provider for charging him for pay-per-view porn, American Muslims will no longer be discriminated against.

Sorry for the Wait

2007-01-22T13:50:00.000-08:00

Morbid Misanthrope had a serious health problem—probably having something to do with a ninja attack—and has been in the hospital since December 28th. He almost died (seriously) but is now out of the hospital continuing his recovery. When he is well enough he will continue posting whenever he gets a chance. We apologize for the holdup. Thank you for your patience.

--The Management

Merry Christmas

2006-12-24T12:44:00.000-08:00

Way to Go, Bonaduce. Kick Ass.

2006-12-20T15:45:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the funniest thing about these anti-American government wingnuts is that they’re so paranoid, full of shit, and unhinged they even mistrust people from their own ranks. For example, if you search google video for “Danny Bonaduce,” another version of this video comes up, created by some other crazed conspiracy rimjob, claiming:

John Conner is obnoxiously rude, and hinders the propagation of truth; I believe intentionally. He’s promoting mind controlling Christianity, promoting one of the worst 911 documentaries, and perpetuating the stereotypical image of a whack-job conspiracy theorist.

Riiiggghhhtt…. And you’re not adding to the problem by espousing even more far-fetched beliefs. (By the way, this guy’s website—www.opposingdigits.com—has interesting topics such as “The Holohoax,” “Master List of Jewish Influence,” and “David Duke on the Holocaust Conference CNN.” Need I really explain why these people are screwballs?)

How do you fucktards get your ideas? I swear there’s a conspiracy nut somewhere in the country right now with his head in the microwave, his dick in a jar of chunky peanut better, and his greasy thumb jammed up his ass dreaming up the latest clusterfuck of an anti-Bush, anti-America, anti-Jew conspiracy theory. I hope these lunatics bleed to death trying to cut off their own fingerprints or have some sort of electrical accident involving a tinfoil condom and a light socket.

Rest Stop, EXPLAINED!

2006-12-19T13:47:00.000-08:00

I saw the movie Rest Stop a few weeks ago. It was pretty cool and kind of weird, so I decided to hit up the ol' http://www.imdb.com/ to see what other people were saying about it. Unsurprisingly, many people were rather flummoxed by the movie. At any rate, I did my good deed for the day and explained the possible meanings of the movie and some symbology hidden in the film to the folks on the imdb message boards. Hopefully this will help some of the confused. I would like to complain, however, that imdb censors profanity on their boards. What kind of bullshit juvenile nonsense is that?

Spoilers Ahead

So who was KZL?
By goodrem-delta

Of all the theories:

1. she was dreaming
2. it was the ranger
3. it was the mobile home old man that proclaimed the angel of death

who was it?

soo confused

what a random movie, im currently planning a horror movie night and this is definitly in the no pile. altho we might watch it drunk, that wud make a whole lotta sense to see it then lol

thx

So who was KZL?
By morbid_misanthrope

In the DVD extras, there's a clip of the father of the religious freakshow burying the trucker, talking about taking that secret to the grave. There's also a scene where the trucker kills the religious family while they enjoy a picnic (the fucked up midget with the camera seems to be spared). Of course, there was also a scene of the twins jerking off in a dark room, so who knows what the hell any of this clusterfuck of a movie is supposed to mean. Here are a few possibilities:

1.) KZL 303 was the trucker's license plate number because KILL666 was already taken by Glen Benton from Deicide.

2.) The identity of the trucker is none other than Azazel, the fallen angel of iniquity, over-aggressive driving, and plot holes (which, interestingly, he can drive his truck through).

3.) Everyone in the entire movie was really just dead and fucking around the whole time--even the cameraman was dead, as were the director, writer, three producers, and the key grip guy who kept making "grip my dick" jokes during production.

4.) The whiskey the girl was drinking in the ranger station was 31% pee.

5.) O.J. Simpson says he totally had nothing to do with the killing, but he has a few suggestions for the trucker.

6.) The whole point of the movie was to make Christians from the South look bad by exaggerating stereotypes. The director felt it was a little too obviously a jab at religious types, so he added the trucker, the girl, her boyfriend, and Joey Lawrence. He also deleted a scene where the family whips each other with handfuls of rattlesnakes while Mel Gibson's "Passion of the Christ" plays from a projector.

Anyway, I'm no expert, but I believe I was drunk enough while watching this movie to catch all the hints the director left to reveal the terrible truths in the film. If none of those explanations work for you, feel free to consider the whole movie one long advertisement for Southwest Airlines. "Southwest Airlines: If you would have flown with us, that crazy bastard in the yellow truck wouldn't have stuck a drill in your leg and cut your tongue out."

A Statement from One of the Followers of the Religion of Peace

2006-12-08T13:11:00.000-08:00

From www.abcnews.go.com:

Dec. 8, 2006 — ABC News has learned a Chicago-area man has been charged with plotting a terrorist attack at a Rockford mall during the holiday shopping season.

Derrick Shareef, of Rockford, Ill was arrested Wednesday by the Joint Terrorism Task Force when he met an undercover agent to trade hand grenades and a 9-millimeter handgun for a set of stereo speakers.

Shareef is accused of planning to use firearms and explosives to attack the CherryVale shopping mall in Rockford. The alleged plan was to target the 130-store mall on the Friday before Christmas.

In September, Shareef became acquainted with a confidential witness who was cooperating with the FBI and confided to him that he wanted to commit acts of violent jihad against civilians.

On December 2, Shareef and the confidential source made video tapes of their last wills and testament.

On the video, Shareef again mentions jihad and says, "This is a warning to those who disbelieve, that we are here for you and I am ready to give my life."

From Shareef’s affidavit (from www.michellemalkin.com):

7. A few minutes after SHAREEF and the CS discussed shaving their body hair and meditating, SHAREEF stated: “I’m ready, man, these kafirs [a term translated as “infidel”] don’t give a damn about us, niggers don’t care what happens to the Umma [an Arabic word meaning community or nation that is commonly used to mean the collective nation of Islamic states], about sisters getting raped, about brothers losing their (UI). They don’t care, man. All they care about is (UI)… I probably would have eventually ended up just stabbing the shit out of some Jews or something. Just stabbing them niggers with a steak knife. Dude, I ain’t gonna lie. Because during that war with Hezbolla, man, I had already started to look at synagogues out here in the DeKalb area and everything. I was looking at synagogues, I was doing mapquest…. One of them was down the block from the masjid [mosque], I knew they do their thing on Saturdays, right. I was like, I’m gonna lay low out here, I’m gonna camp out overnight, be out there on Friday night after jumma [Friday prayer] or Saturday morning about 12:00 or 1:00 o’clock. I be there. And as soon as I see them fools going in the building, I had planned on trying to grab one, depending on how it was, niggers trying to run in the building all at once and open up shop, I was just going to go over there and shank one or two of them.” A few minutes later, SHAREEF stated: “They definitely gonna know that this shit ain’t over and they not as safe as they thought.”

Wow. Somebody get this guy a Nobel Peace Prize.

Just for the Halibut

2006-12-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

I just saw a commercial for Britney Spears perfume. Because of the recent underoo-free pictures of Britney, I have decided not to make any obvious jokes about the perfume or what it might smell like … I’ll just suggest that retailers stock it in the seafood section.

Sweet Mental Powers

2006-12-04T14:44:00.000-08:00

I’ve posited previously that my life would be vastly more enjoyable if I had the power to make people’s hearts explode with crazy mind powers. To that I would like to add that it would be pretty sweet if I could make people catch on fire with thought. And while I’m at it, I’d give myself the power to give people cancer shaped like ninja stars. Why the fuck not? Presumably, if I possessed one supernatural power, many others would also be possible. At any rate, I wish I had those powers. It’d be like “Damn. The liquor store is full of illegal aliens cashing their checks; it’ll take, like, twenty minutes to buy my whiskey. I don’t want to wait that long to get drunk. Oh, wait a minute, I can move to the front of line because everyone else in the store is on fire.” Or when I’m renting a movie and some peon is blocking the fucking aisle—yammering into her cell phone and staring into space like a wild turkey drowning in the rain—I wouldn’t have to punch her. Instead, I would tap her on the shoulder and say, “Ma’am, you need to get yourself to a hospital because you now have brain cancer shaped like a ninja star. So, please, get the fuck out of my way.” Every day would be like Christmas morning.

I can think of at least eighty-three times I would have used those badass powers today. While waiting in line to buy alcohol, this smelly old lady was in line behind me. Well, not so much behind me as practically on me. She was so close behind me I felt like I was visiting Barney Frank’s house. As you might imagine, I was displeased. So, politely, I said, “Shit, lady, do you really think you’re going to get to the register any faster with your finger up my ass?” She didn’t say anything or back up at all. She just kept scowling at me and breathing old lady pill breath on me. I thought that perhaps she didn’t hear me, but I know the lady at the register did, because after I said it she made a face like she threw up a little or something. There I stood, getting breathed on by the Grim Reaper’s 5:30 appointment, imagining how sweet it would be if I could make her heart explode like an overstuffed haggis in the microwave.

At that point, I began to wonder why it was taking so goddamned long to get to the register. It turns out the old lady in front of me was fucking around, holding up the line. I don’t know exactly what she was doing, but there were two employees ringing her up. I guess she was using coupons from the store’s newspaper inserts—she had a pile of them and was tearing out one coupon from each. Being the asshole that I am, I have to assume she was using the same cat food coupon from each insert because she’s poor and has to eat discount Frisky Feast (it’s a well-known fact that 93% of old people are forced to eat cat food because they blew all of their money on telemarketing scams). One, I don’t care; two, she’s still holding up the line with this bullshit and writing a check for seven dollars and thirty-two cents. You can bet I was wishing for some old lady flambé.

Just so you don’t think all of my anger is directed at old ladies, there was this little kid I saw that deserved some cancer. This little shit was one of about twelve of Pedro and Maria’s brood of illegal refugee children, probably all of them from some South American country I’ve never heard of, ruled by a small-prick dictator who has people shot for catching malaria. This future criminal, certainly no older than three, purposely knocked over a big display in the video rental store. While the one employee present at the time cleaned up the mess, that little shit stole a bunch of candy and walked out of the store. (I wonder if he’s related to those fuckers who keep stealing my trashcans.) His mother caught him a few minutes later and tried to make him apologize, but he didn’t. Maybe he hadn’t learned to talk yet or, more likely, he didn’t speak any English. At first, I was thinking immolation or cancer, but then I decided drop-kicking the kid into traffic would be more hilarious.

With my amazing powers, I would also dispatch Britney Spears. I may never have met her, but I’m sick of hearing about her worn-out twazzer. Honestly, if I gave two shits about Britney’s pooter, I’d pay K-Fed the two dollars he charges to smell his fingers. I’m serious—he’s standing on the median at a busy intersection near my house; he has a cardboard sign and everything. “Smell my Brit-Rich Fingers. Two Bucks.” He may not be a good rapper, but he’s a great entrepreneur. Anyway, Spears, Hilton, Lohan, Federline: flaming, ninja star-shaped cancer for all of them. The same goes for Madonna. I’ll take care of Gwyneth Paltrow while I’m at it. We’ll call it a twofer.

And this is just the tip of the asshole iceberg. I’d get rid of so many people, commies like Lenin and Stalin would look like failures. At least I’d have a good reason for killing everyone: they pissed me off. If I ever do develop these powers, I’m sure you’ll see it on the news … unless, of course, you pissed me off.

I Can Be Poetic, Too: Goodbyes

2006-11-28T00:37:00.000-08:00

Existence is merely a prelude to eternity.

--I don’t know where I read that.

From My Home to Yours: Happy Thanksgiving

2006-11-23T01:54:00.000-08:00

Morbid Misanthrope's Drunken Safety Tip for the Weekend

2006-11-17T16:37:00.000-08:00

You can't fall in the shower if you wash yourself in the sink.

California Court Rules Arresting Criminals Discrimination

2006-11-15T13:45:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted much lately, because I'm very busy; however, I read this story on the internet and figured I'd post it.

California Court Rules Arresting Criminals Discrimination
By Max Bojo, AP

In a move that shocked many Americans who don’t pay attention, a California court ruled today that arresting criminals is discriminatory and therefore unconstitutional.

In the case of De Santos v. McKinney, presiding Justice Sandra J. Pelosenstein ruled in favor of De Santos, a man accused of breaking into the McKinney’s house and murdering the family of six in their sleep.

According to the police, Juan De Santos smoked several ounces of what he believed to be homemade crystal meth (further tests show it was really just crushed mothballs mixed with bobcat urine), wandered the neighborhood the McKinneys lived in, and scaled the side of their two-story home. Police reports say that De Santos then proceeded to bludgeon the entire McKinney family to death with an old shovel.

De Santos then tried to make the murders look like suicides by emptying several bottles of Tylenol around the slain bodies, apparently unaware that no investigator in his right mind would mistake six brutal murders for a group pain-killer overdose. The poorly written suicide note De Santos left, written in Spanish and signed “not Juan De Santos,” also made a group suicide look less than likely.

When asked by detectives why he killed the McKinneys he said, “I was having a bad day,” and “I think they may have looked at me funny or something.”

Although the police have called this “the most open-and-shut case of our time,” the Justices decided to take the trial in another direction. After a long deliberation that surprised myriad reporters waiting to report the outcome of the trial, the Justices emerged with a long statement and decision.

“It seems obvious to me,” read Justice Pelosenstein, “that punishing this man simply because he broke the law is both unfair and illegal. Punishing people for breaking the law does nothing but single out an entire group of people to be treated less fairly than others. It’s a clear-cut case of discrimination; and just because existing laws permit it, that doesn’t make it right. Oh yes, and boodely-doodely, whickety-wackity Gondwanaland.”

In addition to ruling that putting criminals in jail is an unlawful act of discrimination, the court also ruled that criminals already serving time in prison must be released within twenty-four hours. Legal analysts are already predicting thousands of lawsuits filed by prisoners who, thanks to the court’s newest ruling, were imprisoned unfairly. And, they claim, that's the least of Californians' worries.

“Goddammit!” said Tobias James, a legal analyst interviewed by Fox News. “Do you know what this means? I mean, do you have any idea? On my way home from this interview, I’m stocking up on attack dogs, rape whistles, and automatic weapons. I’m outta here, bitches!”

Legal analysts are also predicting that laws keeping felons from voting will be changed in light of the court’s latest ruling. Ideally, these new laws would be put on an emergency ballot and voted on by Californians, but Justice Pelosenstein sees things differently. “It’s allowing people to vote on such matters that led to the discrimination of thousands of innocent criminals. We’re judges. It’s our job to make sure things are being run the way we see fit. And I run things the way the disembodied voice in my closet tells me to. Sometimes he’s very nice and sings nursery rhymes, other times he says he’s the devil.”

This decision hardly shocked many of the more politically observant members of society. In the most recent election, Jessica’s law was supported overwhelmingly by voters, yet Judges overturned the passing of the law. “Just because over seventy percent of Californians voted to discriminate against innocent child molesters doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do,” said another judge who wished to remain anonymous. “Let’s face it: we’re judges. We know better than everyone else. If anyone disagrees with me, I’ll just pass some law to have them locked away in a small cave. See? I made a map to the cave with my crayons and this Starbucks napkin. All aboard! Chuggah-chuggah, chuggah chuggah, choo-choo!”

As the denizens of the state of California lock their doors, stockpile weapons, and prepare for what could be the end of life as they know it, only one thing is certain: Judge Pelosenstein has stripped naked, climbed up a tree, and gorging herself on tree bark, speaking what sounds like a mix of Tagalog and Klingon.

A Guest Post

2006-10-29T22:57:00.000-08:00

In order to reach less literate readers, the good folks at A Moment Shared asked me to do a guest post. At least I think they asked me to do a guest post. I once thought Jesus told me to go to Bartender College, but that was just a bearded guy at a Cannibal Corpse show. Anyway, the afore-mentioned guest post can be found here.

Little-Known Halloween Trivia

2006-10-27T22:51:00.000-07:00

Another year, another pointless holiday I hate: Halloween. I’ve written about how much I hate Halloween before, so I don’t feel the need to do so now; besides, I’m really busy and I’d like to get trashed tonight—it’s Friday, after all. But, before I check out from my usual reality and enter Bingedrinkingville (population me), I figured I’d note some interesting facts about Halloween.

Contrary to popular belief, Halloween is not Satan’s Birthday. It’s actually the anniversary of the first time he speared one of the damned in the ass with his hell-spork. That’s right, Satan doesn’t use a pitchfork. It’s really a humorously oversized, fire-retardant spork.

Kids don’t really trick-or-treat just for the free candy, or at least that wasn’t the original intent of the Halloween tradition. Back in the early days of Halloween, parents would send their kids door to door to collect goodies to test their luck for the following year. You see, if the kids were given poisoned food, stuff with razor blades or glass shards in it, or excrement wrapped in cellophane baggies, they’d know their luck was shitty because their kids would die. If their kids lived, they knew their luck was tits, and they’d let their children play with the family groundhog.

Sacrificing small animals to the dark lord on Halloween makes your offerings no more effective than they would be any other night of the year; except, of course, for Christmas Eve. Satan digs it when people pay more attention to him than the Baby Jesus (Although, Baby Jesus doesn’t give a damn).

Druids and witches only celebrate the solstice, or what-the-fuck-ever, on Halloween because any other time of the year, they’d get their asses kicked for walking around in public, looking like lunatics and performing stupid, gay rituals.

Jack-o-lanterns used to be made out of turnips because it was harder for thugs to break them on Halloween night. Unfortunately, as dumb as common thugs are, they still figured out turnips were perfect for throwing through windows. After that, people tried making their Jack-o-lanterns out of bear traps baited with little bottles of Cinnamon Aftershock to fuck with the thugs. Again, however, even with their unusually low IQs, the thugs used trick-or-treaters and unlucky raccoons to trip the traps and take the booze. That’s when the mayor of some New Hampshire town was heard to say, “Aw, fuck it.” The next day he signed a local law that required all Jack-o-lanterns to be made of pumpkins. Word spread around the country, and Jack-o-lanterns have been made from pumpkins ever since.

People toilet paper houses because they think it’s a mean prank, when in all reality it’s a grand, albeit wasteful, tribute to America. This papery prank was started by Pierre Jacques Pierre of the French Bidet Company of Paris during the 1900s in order to make Americans switch to bidets from good ol’ TP. In a resourceful act of American kickassery, the toilet paper manufacturer Johnny “Tabula Raza” Smith paid Steven Seagal to go to Paris and throw bidets at all the cafés and ass-flatten every pastry he could sit on. Soon, a large number of Parisians switched to TP, and Americans everywhere scoffed at the idea of water spraying their asses and used toilet paper instead. Houses are still toilet papered today in honor of Johnny “Tabula Raza” Smith.

According to most State Constitutions (check your own to see if your state is included), killing people in scary costumes on Halloween is self-defense. Here’s the clause in my state’s constitution: “…and because on the darkest and blackest of nights known to man, any spectre, goblin, hobgoblin, Dracula, undead, member of the legions of hell, witch, or the occasional mummy may be indeed what it appears to be, slay them with sticks, torches, arms, or whatever you may possess, lest you should fall into evil’s meaty fists. Should the apparition be merely a costumed citizen, the maximum fine faced by the murderer shall be one dollar seventy-five because he murdered in terrified self-defense. Beside the point, grim reapers are spooky, and anyone dressed as one deserves whatever he gets. Bastards.” Last year, I had a pile of little dead Power Rangers, Spongebobs, pirates, and ballerinas three feet tall stinking up my front lawn.

Speaking of shitty costumes, I’ve noticed a severe lack of creativity in Halloween costumes as of late. Granted, dressing up like anything—unless you’re undercover, possess super powers, or have a severe yet hilarious mental disability—is stupid. At any rate, in order to encourage people to look less idiotic in their Halloween costumes, here are a few interesting costumes.

1. Anti-Bush/Iraq War protester with a protest sign absent of obvious typos.

2. The guy who plays “PC” in the Mac commercials beating the shit out of the guy that plays “Mac.”

3. A Muslim that doesn’t get pissed off if you insult Allah.

4. A predominantly black 11x17 printout on high-gloss paper that doesn’t just look really, really dark green.

5. Barak Obama Bin Laden.

6. A famous hip-hop mogul/rapper drinking tea and reading feminist poetry.

7. That fucked-up-looking midget in the red hood and cape that kills Donald Sutherland in Don’t Look Now.

8. A starving, AIDS-infested African child, recently adopted by a rich, Hollywood celebrity.

Fuck Proposition 86

2006-10-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

In the state of California, people will soon have the chance to vote whether or not they want to piss me off. No, this doesn’t refer to the jury of The State of California v Morbid Misanthrope, which, by the way, doesn’t even go to trial until next year. And no matter what the media says, the state of California deserved it.

Regardless of my innocence or so-called guilt, the vote to which I’m referring is the upcoming general election. This election is full of new propositions—much like Rosie O’Donnell’s boxer-briefs are full of critters of indeterminate species—that the dumbass masses get to embrace or reject. While several of the propositions anger me in ways I can’t even begin to describe coherently, the one that’s really proverbially kicking my proverbial bull in the proverbial nuts is proposition 86.

Proposition 86, Initiative Constitutional Amendment and Statute, is basically ANOTHER tax on cigarettes. Currently, every pack of cigarettes sold in California is taxed 87 cents. The money collected from these excise taxes goes to fund a variety of things I don’t give two shits about: early childhood development programs, tobacco education and disease-research programs, and health-care services for uninsured people, etc. So not only am I paying for my own insurance, but if I want to smoke I’m paying for uninsured fuckers, too. Goddamn socialism. I mean, what the hell is this, Nazi China?

87 cents per pack is bad enough, but proposition 86 would enact a 13-cents-per-cigarette tax in California. And although my math is almost as bad as my language, I can tell with little difficulty that this bullshit proposition will cost smokers an additional $2.60 per pack. That’s like getting prison raped and shanked at the same time while a rabid vampire prison guard drinks the blood.

The reason they want to tax the hell out of cigarettes (and tobacco products) is, again, to give that “extra” money—$2.2 billion annually, for the first year, anyway—to causes I don’t care about. Basically, most of that money will go to hospital corporations and HMOs, not to mention that section 9 of the proposition gives hospitals exemption to antitrust laws.

If the dickasses behind this proposition would just walk up to people, kick them in the nuts, take their wallets, and rape their beloved housecats and other various comically undersized pets, at least everyone would know what they were up to. But proposition 86 is being paraded as a means to keep people (especially those poor, misguided minors) from smoking. Presumably, if cigarettes cost enough to finance a medium-sized expedition to South America to find the lost city of gold, people won’t buy them anymore. Bullshit. I know people who would use their genitals as wolverine bait to get a cigarette. People are going to keep smoking, they’ll just be more pissed off and have another reason to kickstart a politician’s head up his/her ass. And if minors want cigarettes, high prices aren’t going to stop them either.

These assholes are acting like they’re doing smokers a favor by trying to get this proposition passed.

“You poor, poor fools—we’re doing this for your own good. This will help you quit or keep you from starting.”

Wipe the single tear off your face and shut the fuck up. You seeping anal boils know people are going to keep buying smokes, and you’re drooling like retards over all the money you’re going to rake in. Shit, smokers are already killing themselves. Don’t try to bankrupt them, too. If you’re a Californian, go here to learn more about proposition 86.

Why is it whenever more tax money is needed in this state, they tax alcohol and/or tobacco? I have to work three jobs and mortgage my DVD collection just to buy a bottle of rotgut and a pack of smokes. I’m not running for any political office, but if I were my platform would be …

That’s right: tax porn. I knew people that would spend over 40 bucks for a porn tape (tape, not DVD) on a regular basis. Do you really think these wrist-ready perverts, so eager to prime the rhino they’ll pay anything for porn, are going to care or even notice an extra tax on their smut? Probably not, but even if they did, it’s time for the government to tax a vice other than alcohol and tobacco. If they don’t want to pay the porn tax, they can resort to the internet; however, I can’t have a virtual drink or smoke. Besides, isn’t it time these porn-buying self-manipulators actually get fucked by someone else?

Super-Happy, Feelgood, Power Metal Video of the Weekend

2006-09-29T15:17:00.000-07:00

This has to be the coolest music video I've ever seen. Everything about it is so over the top it's simply amazing. The band, Dragonforce, has claimed they're so metal they'll melt your face off (or something to that effect, anyway). They didn't melt my face off, but they warmed my heart with their insane power metal posturing and posing.

I usually never listen to this kind of music, usually because of the cheese factor and the squealing vocals, but after watching the mind-boggling dueling solo at the end of the video I was sold. Holy Merlin's pointy hat, if I could play like that I wouldn't have to sit in front of a computer all day. Instead, I'd be touring the country in a frilly blouse, twirling a pointy guitar around my dragon-slaying sword.

This song is so hilariously uplifting, it could cheer up Edgar Allan Poe's depressed corpse. I mean, the guy's playing a keytar for shit's sake. And he's actually rocking it! These guys obviously don't take themselves too seriously and are just being goofy. What's not to love?

Anyway, enjoy the video--especially the dueling solos near the end.

J Holden (oneunknownman.blogspot.com), I hope this cheers you up a bit. It couldn't hurt.

A Story Worth Mentioning

2006-09-19T16:22:00.000-07:00

As has been happening quite frequently lately, Muslims around the world are furious and fucking shit up like retarded toddlers throwing temper tantrums. While many experts believe these “protests”—and all around bad behavior—were caused by Koran-sanctioned man panties riding up cracks simultaneously throughout the Middle East, others claim the pope is to blame. His holiness under the silly hat made statements that many Muslims consider offensive, incendiary, or at the very least, historically accurate.

In all his mighty popeitude, the leader of the Catholic Church quoted an earlier Byzantine pope—Pope John James Dingus the Mellow—who had the following to say about Muslims:

“These crazy fuckers, man. I swear, I’m just sittin’ here, lookin’ at this sweet painting of Jesus I commissioned, and all of a sudden there are, like, thousands of these sheep-shit-smelling bastards cutting people’s heads off. Yeah, I know, what a bunch of dicks, right? Anyway, then they start saying Jesus was a messenger of Allah, when all of us educated types know Jesus was a white guy.

“You know, I’m a merciful fellow, completely willing to let bygones be bygones, but Joe Blow Hibjab-al Shamar won’t be happy until he kills all the infidels; which, I’m told, is me and all my holy homies. Plus, my friend Mike says he saw one of those barbarians shitting on a cross. I mean, not only is that gross, it’s fucked up.

“They start offing all my followers, so I realize something has to be done. I make this sweet decree about their [Muslims] ‘spreading Islam with the sword,’ ‘being afraid of pigs,’ and generally ‘smelling of beefy curry farts.’ That last part is really just my opinion, but, hell, I’m the pope and therefore infallible and totally sweet. Bottom line: these fuckers are loonier than a whorehouse full of possessed lepers on fire. It’s like they pop wood when they behead someone. By god, I’m going to put a stop to it.”

Pope Benedict XVI quoted snippets of this historical speech which instantly angered Muslims all over the place. It is worth mentioning, however, that even Muslims who don’t speak any English were furious with the pope before they even knew what he said. While thousands of rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth protesters struggled to find the words to express their animalistic ire, the three literate Muslims in the Middle East made protest signs for everyone else.

After a short time, angry protesters began burning effigies of the pope, American flags, and, just so people don’t forget how much Muslims hate the Jews, Israeli flags.

When Pope Benedict XVI was asked to comment or apologize for what he said, he mumbled something in German which sounded suspiciously like Rammstein lyrics, sighed deeply, and said:

“I never meant to offend anyone. I was simply making an observation about the behavior of Muslim extremists today and the conquering Muslim armies of the past. It’s not like secret information or anything. You can read all about it in books at your local library or even on the internet. In fact, I’ll be posting some relevant links on my MySpace page later this evening after the Sex and the City marathon. Also, way to prove my point, Jerks; you know, with the violence, rioting, and church vandalism. Take a chill pill already. Sheesh!”

The pope’s comments led to more anger in the Muslim community for several reasons, according to Ali Shabaz, a Muslim scholar who is admittedly hooked on phonics.

“Well, for one, the pope is an infidel and will burn in Allah’s hell,” Shabaz said while spitting on the floor. “Secondly, the women in Sex and the City are infidel whores with their genitals intact. The fact that the pope believes women should be allowed to keep their clitorises in order to derive pleasure from fornication shows he is just as decadent as Americans.” Shabaz then went on a lengthy rant about the internet being evil and the sanctity of throwing rocks. The pope is expected to respond after he finishes watching TV.

It has been reported that some Muslims became so angry during the riots their heads exploded. This has terrified the Department of Homeland Security, because Muslims exploding without actual bombs can’t possibly be a good thing. During the last Muslim riots—caused by Danish cartoons of Muhammad reading a book and being conscious of personal hygiene—Muslims were angry enough to melt, but no head explosions were reported.

Bjorn Viking, a noted Scandinavian scientist, has calculated that Muslims are getting madder and madder at smaller and smaller offenses to Islam. The mathematical formula M + MM @ SSOI = OHSHIT proves that Muslim indignation leading to stupid violence and endless media coverage is becoming more common and completely inevitable. Viking believes that in the near future, almost anything will cause Muslims to riot. For example, Viking predicts that soon anyone singing “Old MacDonald had a Farm” containing the verse where the pig goes “Oink, Oink,” clean-shaven men, various foods supposedly bearing the image of Muhammad, buildings made from anything other than sand, and the use of toilet paper will be enough to cause Muslims to riot.

Since the pope has not yet apologized for his comments, the violence continues. An alarming number of protesters and rioters believe that, with his comments, the pope has started another crusade against Islam. The pope’s friends and underlings in silly outfits have repeatedly pointed out that there is no crusade in the works. Rioters say they are calling “bullshit” on the pope and will continue to cause trouble until the pope apologizes and converts to Islam. “It’s a simple compromise,” Shabaz said grinning. “Just conform to our beliefs, our way of life, and our sacred laws and we will stop making a fuss. It’s as easy as pie.”

Deicide's New Logo

2006-09-02T18:28:00.000-07:00

Deicide, a band fronted by Glen Benton that has been pissing off Jesus and the Virgin Mary for several years, has finally released their new music video along with their new and spectacular logo. Since this band is so anti-Christian and therefore terribly terrifying, I’ve decided to post their new logo.

A Few Facts About Deicide:

It’s a little known fact that Glen Benton is so Satanic, he actually had Anton Lavey and the devil himself in the form of an anti-Christian mosquito light their collective cock rings on fire to brand an upside-down cross on his forehead. When asked why he went with an upside-down cross instead of 666, Glen Benton said, “Because 666 is for posers. Besides, Crowley couldn’t make it to the forehead branding.”

Glen Benton is a fat, drunken slob with dorky, yet Satanic, facial hair.

The true meaning of 666 for all the true believers in the know, according to Benton, is “69ing with Satan, which makes Satanic sense because the Devil is a double inverted dyslexic.”

The stupid but utterly Satanic BMX “armor” Benton used to wear on stage was actually made from Asian Baphomet plastic crystals mined in South Africa. Thusly, it was ultra blasphemous.

Jack Owen kicks ass.

When Deicide played a show in my hometown a few years back, one of the guitar players—who left the band with his brother recently—was wearing a leather S&M mask with the zipper shut. When asked why he wore that mask on stage he replied, “I’m tired of Benton making me lick the ass of a plastic effigy of Satan before every show. This was my protest. You know, like those guys in China who licked tank treads a few years ago.”

When Deicide played in Las Vegas a few years back, Glen Benton told me candidly that “My wiener is the handle and my ass is the slot machine. I hope Satan pulls my handle and hits the jackpot.”

As Glen Benton gets older, he seems to have a larger and larger bald spot. This, he says, is where Satan and Satan’s pope rest their nuts when they give him lyrics for new Deicide songs.

The song “Dead by Dawn” is about Glen Benton’s ill-fated sea monkeys.

There you have it, Deicide’s new logo and a few little-known facts about the band itself. Don’t forget to buy the band’s new CD, The Stench of Redemption, which got its name from the smell of Benton’s unwashed, Satanic leather pants after Deicide’s last tour.

P.S. "Homage for Satan" is improperly titled. It should be "Homage to Satan." This just goes to show that Satan sucks at speaking English. I think he's too used to speaking backwards Latin. I mean, grow the fuck up already, right?

The Feelgood Music Video of the Weekend

2006-08-25T15:41:00.000-07:00


yalla ya Nasrallah - song from Israel It's not death metal, but it has great visuals and hilarious lyrics. Right on, Israel! Take that, you terrorist dickberries!

The End of Dissection: What a shame

2006-08-18T15:45:00.000-07:00

Story
Official Statement (It’s pretty hard to argue with that; it makes little to no sense.)
Update
Update, Aug. 23

It’s a pity that I never got to see them live. Stupid Luciferian fire, dark gods, and wrathful chaos. I blame them for this shit.

Slayer, What the Hell?

2006-08-03T17:25:00.000-07:00

Slayer has been around forever. They’ve kicked ass around the world and released some of the best thrash metal albums in history (not THE best in my opinion, but that’s hardly here nor there). In fact, Slayer has become so synonymous with metal you can’t even go to a metal concert without someone screaming “Ssssslllllaaaaaayyyyyeeeeerrrr!” Granted, it’s usually some shirtless drunk guy with shitty tattoos hanging from the balcony trying to take his pants off, but at every metal show someone has to pay screaming homage to Slayer.

I remember being a little morbid misanthrope, drinking cheap beer and whiskey (much like I do today), thrashing around in my room, blasting Slayer’s Reign in Blood. Hell, one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to was a Slayer show—they played with Morbid Angel and Pantera. When Slayer played “Angel of Death” the crowd went so red-assed-baboon crazy people were being carried out on stretchers every few minutes.

My point is Slayer has quite a reputation for ass kickery; however, their last album, God Hates Us All, was kind of catchy but also a bit of a letdown to a lot of fans. I’ll admit I still listened to it quite a bit, but its nu-metal elements really started to piss me off. If I wanted to listen to nu-metal, I’d put on a Slipknot CD, but than I’d have to kill myself because for being a pussy.

Slayer’s lyrics have never been awe-inspiring, but some of the lyrics on God Hates Us All were so butt-fucking, ball-slappingly retarded even the kid that came in last place in the nose-picking event of the Special Olympics would be insulted by them. Here’s an example:

I keep the bible in a pool of blood so that none of its lies can affect me!

I don’t understand how that would help. I mean, if you don’t like the bible, throw it away. Or even easier, just don’t read it. I can’t help but picture an inflatable kiddy pool with a little blood in it. For this to work, you’d need access to fresh blood twenty-four hours a day to refill the kiddy pool as the old blood congealed. After all, congealed blood is hardly an adequate “pool of blood.” I think they were just trying to be overly blasphemous to the point where it became silly; you know, like Deicide.

Perhaps I’m being overly critical. But I’m just in a shitty “what the fuck, Slayer?” mood after hearing one of the songs off their soon-to-be-released CD. It’s been five years since Slayer released a new CD, and after hearing “Cult” on www.slayer.net, I’m rather disappointed. I know I should hear the whole album before passing judgment, but “Cult” was so weak I doubt I’ll buy the CD. Shit, I feel like a traitor for saying that. I’m going against the rules of metal by criticizing Slayer, but I never liked Black Sabbath so I don’t think the rules apply to me anyway. I’m such a rebel it’s adorable.

Slayer’s new CD, Christ Illusion, lost points with me as soon as I saw the cover. Slayer’s covers are notoriously scary, blasphemous, etc., but much like the lyrics I mentioned earlier, this cover is just trying so hard it becomes goofy. Also, one reviewer said the Jesus on the cover looks like a pirate. I’d have to agree.

The lyrics for the song “Cult” are silly, too. “Grrrrr, we don’t like Jesus! Religion is for stupid heads! 666! Wheeeee!” I’m obviously not the most mature person alive, and most of the music I listen to has goofy lyrics, but these lyrics are beyond laughable (especially the lines about the war, but I needn’t get into that right now). Maybe on their own they wouldn’t crack me up so much, but combined with the song itself … it’s just dumb.

I’ve always kind of laughed at Slayer’s guitar solos. I think pretty much everyone has. The solos on “Cult,” however, are so bad it’s hard to put into words. Some solos sound like someone is ball-fucking the whammy bar and flossing with the guitar strings, while other solos sound like a hoarse banshee drowning a cat afflicted with feline Tourette’s Syndrome. The song itself is pretty boring, although I must say Dave Lombardo’s drumming is pretty fucking good. Some nu-metal elements are present again, which makes me want to go to Hot Topic and punch all the customers. And aside from all that, the song is the same old same old but worse. Dammit….

My brother has likened Slayer’s direction over the last few years to “watching your dad fall down in the shower.” Sad to say, it seems to make sense. FYI, Metallica’s direction over the past few years is like watching your grandmother fall off the toilet.

Could it simply be that I’ve outgrown Slayer? No, couldn’t be. I still like their old stuff, and they still rule live. Besides, they’re Slayer.

I suppose I have to hear the entire album before I come to any real conclusions.

Don't Hassel the Hoff

2006-07-21T16:06:00.000-07:00

I ... I just don't know what to say.

Is David Hasselhoff the reason black folks think white folks can’t dance? I mean, I’ve seen meth-addicted Parkinson's disease patients pogo-sticking down steep cobblestone hills with more rhythm than Hasselhoff. There’s so much to make fun of in this video—from the come-hither looks Hasselhoff shoots the camera, to the “special effects” and editing that look like they were done by a guy with cerebral palsy having a seizure—my sense of humor has literally just been overloaded.

I can’t get the song or images out of my head, either. I’d be worried if I weren’t going to be numbing my senses with cheap booze in a few hours. Have a great weekend, all. Cheers.

Great Obituary, Great Fellow I Never Met

2006-07-14T15:21:00.000-07:00

Frederic Arthur (Fred) Clark, who had tired of reading obituaries noting other's courageous battles with this or that disease, wanted it known that he lost his battle as a result of an automobile accident on June 18, 2006. True to Fred's personal style, his final hours were spent joking with medical personnel while he whimpered, cussed, begged for narcotics and bargained with God to look over his wife and kids. He loved his family. His heart beat faster when his wife of 37 years Alice Rennie Clark entered the room and saddened a little when she left. His legacy was the good works performed by his sons, Frederic Arthur Clark III and Andrew Douglas Clark MD, PhD., along with Andy's wife, Sara Morgan Clark. Fred's back straightened and chest puffed out when he heard the Star Spangled Banner and his eyes teared when he heard Amazing Grace. He wouldn't abide self important tight *censored*. Always an interested observer of politics, particularly what the process does to its participants, he was amused by politician's outrage when we lie to them and amazed at what the voters would tolerate. His final wishes were "throw the bums out and don't elect lawyers" (though it seems to make little difference). During his life he excelled at mediocrity. He loved to hear and tell jokes, especially short ones due to his limited attention span. He had a life long love affair with bacon, butter, cigars and bourbon. You always knew what Fred was thinking much to the dismay of his friend and family. His sons said of Fred, "he was often wrong, but never in doubt". When his family was asked what they remembered about Fred, they fondly recalled how Fred never peed in the shower - on purpose. He died at MCV Hospital and sadly was deprived of his final wish which was to be run over by a beer truck on the way to the liquor store to buy booze for a double date to include his wife, Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter to crash an ACLU cocktail party. In lieu of flowers, Fred asks that you make a sizable purchase at your local ABC store or Virginia winery (please, nothing French - the *censored*) and get rip roaring drunk at home with someone you love or hope to make love to. Word of caution though, don't go out in public to drink because of the alcohol related laws our elected officials have passed due to their inexplicable terror at the sight of a MADD lobbyist and overwhelming compulsion to meddle in our lives. No funeral or service is planned. However, a party will be held to celebrate Fred's life. It will be held in Midlothian, Va. Email fredsmemory@yahoo.com for more information. Fred's ashes will be fired from his favorite cannon at a private party on the Great Wicomico River where he had a home for 25 years. Additionally, all of Fred's friend (sic) will be asked to gather in a phone booth, to be designated in the future, to have a drink and wonder, "Fred who?"

Needless to say, I'll be drinking more than a few glasses of whiskey for Mr. Clark tonight.

His personality reminds me of a poem by Moriya Sen'an:

Bury me when I die
beneath a wine barrel
in a tavern.
With luck
the cask will leak.

Of course, we all know it's better to drink at home.

Richmond Times-Dispatch obituary.

Religion of Peace?

2006-07-13T16:23:00.000-07:00

Q: How many Imams does it take to beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of a six-year-old girl?

A: One … provided she accidentally steps on his prayer rug.

Those crazy Muslims! Always doing funny stuff like this. Now I feel silly for questioning the whole religion of peace claim. My bad!
Brief story here.

New angry post about something stupid on the way.

Happy Independence Day, America!

2006-07-04T12:20:00.000-07:00

A Cause That Matters

2006-06-23T18:34:00.000-07:00

The world is a messed up place. A lot of people need help, and there are a lot of good causes that need monetary support. I know what everyone is thinking. “I’m just one person. What can I do to help?”

Well, there are plenty of things you can do to make a difference. For example, organizations like PETA are always looking for members and volunteers to go out and blow animals. They hate it when animals suffer, so they send out dedicated, loving people to suck animal genitals. It shows the animals that they are loved and equal in value to human beings.

If animals aren’t your thing, certainly you’re willing to do everything you can to save the environment. I mean, if you don’t care about the environment, you’re a fucking monster and that’s all there is to it. There are many SUV-burning organizations you could support with your hard-earned money. Or, just to help the environment yourself, you could shit in paper bags instead of wasting water crapping in the toilet like a human being. Just burry all those bags in your garden—instant fertilizer!

Even though Hurricane Katrina happened quite a while back, and even though the federal government and caring people everywhere gave New Orleans billions of dollars to repair their mismanaged, destroyed city, they still need your help. You can always send money to help the Katrina victims. In fact, Mayor Nagin lost a game of dice last night and needs some pocket money. Please, people, give till it hurts.

You see, there are plenty of ways to make a difference. Whether it’s taking a face full of animal DNA; covering your property in bags full of your own shit; or drinking ten gallons of water a day so when global warming melts all the ice on the entire planet, maybe, just maybe the water levels will be slightly lower, everyone can help.

While these causes are all worthy of support in their own way, a new cause has come to my attention that is possibly the most worthy cause of all.

Dustin Diamond, Saved by the Bell’s Screech, needs our help. Unless he is able to raise $250,000 he is going to lose his house. As someone who was entertained by Screech’s wacky antics for years, hell, and still is to this day, I want to do my part to help this American treasure. In the past I posted Saved by the Bell haikus I wrote while drunk in Las Vegas. Today, I have written a special haiku for Dustin Diamond:

Screech is fucking cool
Dustin really needs our help
We can save his home

While this humble haiku won’t help Mr. Diamond directly, I think it will help people understand the severity of his situation. I know there are a lot of other charities out there, but this is Screech, people! Motherfucking Screech from Saved by the Bell! He had a robot and was fascinated by bugs and shit. Regardless of what anyone else ever says, Screech owned Bayside; not crafty Zach, not mullet-headed Slater—Screech was the man.

Like, remember the time Screech was helping Kelly out with science so she would pass the big test? Godamn right you do. Or how about the time he got struck by lightning and could see the future? And, of course, we all remember the time that Screech beat that fucking commie Russian at the big chess tournament. It’s simply a fact: Screech is the man.

Unlike all those other chintzy charities, when you help Dustin Diamond—also a talented stand-up comedian—you don’t come away empty handed. To help save Dustin’s home and give back to the man that brought Screech to life, all you have to do is buy a shirt. And let me tell you: It’s a sweet fucking shirt. Not only is the shirt cool as hell, it also shows that you support Dustin Diamond’s right to live in a house. Plus, it’s only $15.00! But wait, there’s more! For an extra five bucks, Dustin Diamond, a.k.a. Screech, will sign the shirt!

It’s only $20.00, folks. I have a drinking problem and even I can afford this killer shirt. If you’re like me, you’d punch a nun in the mouth and kick a baby in the head to help Screech. Unfortunately, that won’t do any good right now, but getting a shirt will. To help Dustin Diamond keep his house, please click on the "Save Screech's House" banner in my links section. Thank you, and God bless America.

Oh Boy! Another Movie I Won't See

2006-06-16T14:54:00.000-07:00

I was watching Attack of the Show yesterday, much like I do Monday through Thursday, when, unfortunately, I was exposed to some of the “plot” from The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Lately, the movie has been getting plenty of hype from AOTS. Thanks to such thorough coverage, I now know what drifting is; in turn, I also now know that I don’t give a shit about drifting.

Making an entire movie about drifting is like trying to make a two-hour epic about something you coughed up a week after you quit smoking: It may look cool, but it’s not nearly interesting enough to make a movie about. Well, that’s what I thought until I was bombarded with Tokyo Drift’s storyline. I didn’t bother watching most of G4’s coverage, but I’ll give you the gist of what I heard.

Some American guy gets shipped off to Tokyo to avoid jail time for illegal street racing. Great idea, brainiacs! Sending an illegal street racer to Japan—where a lot of this modified car racing got started—is like sending a baby rapist to the maternity ward.

Needless to say, he gets involved in the underground racing scene. Except the racing is different than what he’s used to. In Japan, drifting is all the rage, and that shit’s hardcore, yo!

As I understand it, the American guy thinks he’s hot shit, so he challenges a guy to a drift-off (or whatever the fuck they call it). I’m guessing the American guy loses and some rice rockets get all smashed up. Not only does he lose the race, he also makes a powerful enemy: D.K., short for Drift King (god help us, I’m not making this shit up). And like everyone else in Japan, Drift King has ties to the Yakuza (Oh snap, dog! Gaijin done fucked up now).

At this point, I realized that watching Tokyo Drift will make your brain commit suicide unless you take a break to read a book halfway through.

I’m guessing the movie is a whole mess of drifting until the end of the film, at which point the two rivals—American guy and Drift King—have to either drift race each other or someone else to avoid getting killed by the Yakuza. I think the Yakuza boss is also Drift King’s uncle or something. There might be a love triangle involved, too; I don’t know. This movie looks even worse than the first two films, which, in all fairness, I admit I never saw, either.

These movies just aren’t aimed at my demographic. These movies are made for the Asian kids in sideways hats who hang out at the open-all-night Mexican restaurant by my house saying shit like, “V-Tech, Dog. V-Tech. Let’s race, bitch. I’ll take you out!” These creatures of the night eat burritos and compare spoilers in the parking lot, talking plenty of shit and trying to organize illegal street races. I’m not sure that any of these kids ever actually race or not, but I’m pretty sure they’ll all see this movie…three times. I, on the other hand, will not see this movie because it looks more retarded than a flipper baby with a hairlip and a snaggletooth.

Fuck Yeah!

2006-06-08T02:09:00.000-07:00

Story Here.

Viva Las Vegas

2006-06-07T18:56:00.000-07:00

Much to my readers’ disappointment—yeah, I’m real sure—I haven’t posted anything for a while; fact is, I’ve been out of town.

After quitting a job I would compare to shoveling flaming sand on sodomites in the inner ring of the seventh circle of Dante’s hell (and, of course, instead of being guided by Virgil, I was bossed around by a yappy, incompetent Frenchman) I decided to head to Las Vegas. Las Vegas is the perfect place for someone like me for a number of reasons.

For one, you can drink and smoke damn near anywhere. This always amazes me, because in California people are so anti-smoking, they literally walk around in bands of four or five, waiting to crucify anyone who lights up—bastards.

And don’t even get me started on the anti-alcohol fascism in California. The last time I was at the beach—where a new law had just been passed prohibiting alcohol consumption on said beach—I witnessed a policeman giving a homeless man a ticket for drinking a beer. That’s right. They were fining a homeless guy. In Las Vegas, however, I spent most of my time walking around swilling Wild Turkey, and no one looked at me twice. Even playing Metal Slug in the Luxor arcade while as drunk as a Massachusetts senator didn’t phase anyone.

I must admit, I have quite an affinity for video poker. Sure, most guys play poker at the tables, but I try to avoid human contact as much as possible. Besides, I won over two-hundred bucks playing video poker while enjoying six or seven double scotches. It doesn’t get much better than that.

It was a great and highly successful trip, and I’ll try to post something angry and virulent soon. In the meantime: viva Las Vegas.

I Totally Fell

2006-05-22T17:04:00.000-07:00

It’s not often that I write about my personal life on the ol’ blog. In fact, you’re more likely to see a chupacabra butt-fucking Bigfoot on the side of the extraterrestrial highway than to read anything about my personal life on this blog. If I wanted people to ask me how my day was when I got home from work, I’d get married, let my wife’s sister move in, and beat the shit out of both of them for asking stupid questions every night.

Anyway, over the weekend I did what many uninformed people would consider pathetic. I, however, strive for greatness in everything I do; so I was quite proud when I got so drunk, I fell down and hurt myself.

Let me just preface this by saying I barely remember anything that happened. I remember doing my absolute best to drink enough alcohol to black out a blue whale, and I remember mental snapshots of what it looked like to fall over while being drunk enough to make Ted Kennedy look like a straight-edge kid.

Thankfully, a buddy of mine was there to try and help me stand up. I mean, I think he was. I guess I can’t really be sure. For all I know it could have been a raccoon. I must again state that I was drunk enough to have the belligerent balls to challenge an entire country to a fight—I’m talking to you, Venezuela.

The point is, I like to drink. And I damn near outdid myself over the weekend. Of course, by “outdid” I mean nearly killed myself. It began with Steel Reserve and ended with the better part of a sixty-four-ounce bottle of Early Times whiskey. I don’t say it often, but, dude, I kick ass.

At what point did I realize I was too drunk to smoke a cigarette and stand at the same time? About the same time I hit the ground and nearly broke every bone on the right side of my body. I’m not even joking when I say the entire right side of my body is black and blue. This includes the side of my head, which, very possibly, was quite concussed the night in question. I could have had a car battery attached to my left nut, shocking the hell out of me, and I still wouldn’t have been able to stay awake. Fuck, I was practically embalmed.

I wasn’t the only casualty of excessive drinking that night. When I fell, I broke a chair. From what I remember, it was pretty funny. I certainly remember laughing. I think my friend tried several times to help me off the ground before finally succeeding. I can’t be sure, though. I’m lucky I remember my own name.

Writing this (Editor’s Note: 5-21-06), I’m still pretty drunk. I look like Dante’s hell, left-over, frozen, thawed, and microwaved. Do I regret it? Fuck, no! I only wish I would have been sober enough to use my breathalyzer to see just how drunk I was. I think I would have short-circuited the damn thing.

It’s rare that I get that drunk even though I drink all the time, and I’m quite proud of it. Even though I’m in pain—everything from my ankle to my earlobe is cut and scabby—I’m pretty proud of myself. I know I only fell over, even though it looks more like I ran, jumped, and then slid on the ground for twenty feet. “Achieving greatness in drinking” is probably what my tombstone will say. Then again, I’ll probably just be cremated. God knows I won’t have a difficult time burning.

To the People of New Orleans:

2006-05-22T14:24:00.000-07:00

Congratulations, you stupid, butt-fucking retards. You re-elected one of the most incompetent jackasses in history. Do you morons want to die? You deserve whatever happens to you from now on. And I, for one, will not donate one cent to save you from whatever disaster Nagin does nothing to protect you ingrates from. Enjoy your chocolate city. Fuck you.

Cordially,

Morbid Misanthrope

The Da Vinci Code

2006-05-17T18:11:00.000-07:00

The Da Vinci Code isn’t even out in theaters yet, but religious types—Catholics in particular—are already pissed off about it. Many Catholic leaders in silly outfits are urging their respective flocks to avoid the blasphemous (or heretical depending on who you ask) movie like the French avoid bathing and manners.

Speaking of the French, they’re hardly raving about The Da Vinci Code at the Cannes Film Festival. Most of the Frenchies who saw the movie were blasé about the film at best. Clearly, the French are not impressed. The movie must not have contained any mimes or anti-American snootiness.

While all the brouhaha the movie is generating is mildly irritating, I am more irritated by the dumb-fucks out there who believe all the claims the book/movie makes. Yeah, it’s kind of an interesting idea, but it’s a fictional story for fuck’s sake. It’s a made-up story based on stuff that kinda’ sorta’ happened but not really. And, of course, the rest is purely conjecture, or as I call it in this case, fiction.

I remember when the book first came out. Many of the brainless simpletons I had to go to college with were saying stupid shit like, “Ohmygod! I can’t believe this. Jesus was married and had a kid!” and “Well, I knew all along that the Catholic Church was hiding shit from the rest of us.” If you’re referring to pedophilia, you’re right. If, on the other hand, you’re referring to a bloodline started with Jesus and Mary Magdalene, you’re probably nuttier than Elton John’s breath.

A lot of the stuff in the book is bullshit. For example, The Dossiers Secrets, which supposedly contain a genealogy of Merovingian royalty and a whole mess of secret information about the Priory of Sion, are phonier than a Bill Clinton apology. Pierre Plantard, an anti-semitic, French wingnut who believed he was the true king of France, made it all up (with the documented help of a few other people). The Dossiers Secrets was a major source of information for the book Holy Blood, Holy Grail, which, in turn, was one of Dan Brown’s sources when he wrote The Da Vinci Code.

Don’t even get me started on Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. Mary Magdalene is not in the painting. Anyone who has taken even a remedial art history class can tell you the figure in the painting is John; he is often portrayed looking more feminine than Boy George on heavy doses of estrogen (see Fra Angelico's The Last Supper). And all that claptrap about the “V” or “sacred feminine” between Jesus and “Mary Magdalene” in the painting is rubbish only female scholars desperate to validate their silly feminist views through “strong women” in history would blather about.

I appreciate conspiracy theories as much as if not more than the next guy, but I’ve read about alien abductions and Chupacabra attacks with more credible evidence than The Da Vinci Code. It’s a work of fiction. There’s no mystery about it.

And while there is plenty of evidence to prove this, many people—probably because they’re jackasses—still hold on to the idea that The Da Vinci Code reveals some great secret that has been covered up by the Catholic Church for thousands of years. All in all, The Da Vinci Code holds about as much water as a broken dime-store quirtgun.

But for all the doubting Thomases out there that still think The Da Vinci Code is more than a work of fiction, I went to the source and asked Jesus if He married and conceieved a child with Mary Magdalene. Here’s what He had to say:

Abu Musab al-Zarqawi is a Pussy

2006-05-04T18:46:00.000-07:00

A video has just been released that features the confused, bearded bitch, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, trying—and failing—to properly operate a gun. The video also shows Zarqawi wearing “American tennis shoes.” Apparently we’re decadent Western infidels that deserve to die, but our tennis shoes are good enough for cowardly terrorists who know more about making stupid little videos than firing guns. Zarqawi is such a pussy.

Anyway, I’ve seen the video a few times, but I couldn’t understand a word Zarqawi was saying. It’s obvious he couldn’t fire his gun without the help of one of his butt buddies, but I wanted to know exactly what was being said. So, in the interest of good journalism, I tracked down a transcript of the video.

Video Transcript
Zarqawi: You sinful American pig-dogs will face my wrath! Through me, Allah will express his mighty vengeance! You will feel my righteous indignation with each bullet that rips through your infidel flesh!

Gun: BANG…click…click…click, click, click…

Zarqawi: What the…which one of you mask-wearing camel fuckers touched this gun? Huh? Which one of you?

Others: (Silent)

Zarqawi: Somebody better speak up otherwise I’ll chastise all of you! That’s right; you better be scared. I will strip you all naked and whip your bare asses with piss-soaked palm leaves while tickling your nuts with my beard! Well, not you, Amir; don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Tariq when he’s cleaning his gun.

Amir: (loosens his burgundy-colored ascot nervously)

Zarqawi: Okay, look, whatever, guys. Forget it. We’re trying to make video gold here. Allah, help us. We must focus. You (points), Jamal Hakeem al-Jafar, come over here and fix this thing!

Terrorist: (confused) Are you talking to me?

Zarqawi: No, I’m talking to Mohammad’s nine-year-old wife, Aisha. Of course I’m talking to you!

Terrorist: I am not Jamal Hakeem al-Jafar. I am Haroud Hazi al-Bin.

Zarqawi: (surprised) No shit? Then who in the infidel’s hell is Jamal Hakeem al-Jafar?

Terrorist: (waves) That would be me.

Zarqawi: I thought you were Iago Aghoul al-Ayam.

Terrorist: No, we killed him last week. I can’t remember why. Did he piss the name of god into the desert sand? No. Maybe he wiped his ass with his right hand. Is that sin punishable by death? I can never remember.

Zarqawi: Shut up! Shut up, all of you! This is too confusing. Does everyone here have al- in their names?

Terrorists: (all nod)

Zarqawi: (sigh) Here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to call all of you al. If you’re the al I’m referring to, I will point at you. Does everyone understand? Okay, good. Now, someone get the fuck over here and help me fix this gun!

Terrorist: (fixes the gun) Dude, have you ever even fired one of these things before?

Zarqawi: For the sake of this video I’m going to ignore that little comment, Jamal.

Terrorist: I’m Haroud, sir.

Zarqawi: Shut up.

(Zarqawi fires gun, yells a bunch of unintelligible gibberish about infidels, Allah, Jihad, etc. You know the drill. They finish up the video and begin walking away.)

Terrorist: Whoa, Zarqawi! Those sneakers are tits, man!

Zarqawi: I know. With these radical kicks, I will surely score with eighty virgins when they see me in paradise!

Terrorist: You know you have to be a martyr before you can enter paradise, right?

Zarqawi: I know, I know. I’m building up to it. Now come on! For tonight, we eat couscous and dirt!

All: HOORAY!

Stupid is Funny

2006-04-22T14:28:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, but this shit is just funny. Also, I'm well aware that "masterbate" is misspelled, but I didn't make the damn thing, so I'm not going to fucking change it. Enjoy; at least until I have the time to post something original...

I Want My Country Back

2006-04-12T19:08:00.000-07:00

The following is an excellent rant by 760 KFMB's Rick Roberts. It's a lot more succinct and a lot less vulgar than anything I would write. For example, I would have called this speech "I Want My Country Back, Motherfuckers," and it would have been peppered with lots of filthy words like "dicktard" and "orally stimulated spasming assgasm" to describe certain people and organizations. Anyway, it's a good rant, and if you agree with it, you can go here, sign an online petition, and get an "I Want My Country Back" bumper sticker.

"I Want My Country Back"
Rick Roberts

I don’t mean to go off on a rant here, but here’s the bottom line, I want my country back.

I want my kids to be able to walk to the store or walk to school without being abducted by some 3-time convicted child molester. And the politically correct powers that be in this country just can’t seem to get over themselves with “CAN’T WE JUST HELP THIS PERSON!” No! You can’t. But they’re let loose to prey on more children.

I want my kids back. I want my country back.

I don’t agree with everything this President does. I’ve never agreed with anything 100% that any President has done or said.

You know, I was very young during the Vietnam War. So I probably missed that thing by a hair. I don’t know whether I would have agreed with that or not at the time. I was too stupid to have an opinion at that point and time even though I thought I did.

I want my country back.

I want some semblance of respect for authority, whether I agree with it all or not.

I want the Boy Scouts to be “boy” scouts, not boy and “we think she’s a girl” scouts. I want Girl Scouts to be “girl” scouts not Girl Scouts and “Bruce.”

I want my country back.

I want to be able to wake up in the morning knowing that I can walk outside without some gang-banger on parole taking my life.

Or being able to go down and purchase a car without having to worry about you know 90% of the parts being made overseas in some sweatshop.

I want my politicians, when they finally do get my vote, to do what the hell they said they were going to do in the first place.

I want the Abramoff’s of the world to be labeled what they…nothing more than organized crime in a better suit.

I want the Hollywood elite to make movies to entertain me. Not use their celebrity to sway me politically one way or the other.

Quite honestly, if you’re a has-been-pseudo-celebrity I want you to go away quietly, so that I can remember you fondly through your “artiste work” that’s left in the archives.

I want people to say something and when they say something look at me in the eye. And mean what they say. Not say what they think I want to hear. And then do what they want to later politically or any other way.

I want to be able to go out and work and make a decent wage and buy a home. Half the people that are listening to me right now can’t even afford to buy a house unless they’re working three jobs.

And I want America to be America. All of those opportunities, all of those things that made her great, I want those returned to the forefront. If you want to come to this country we welcome you with open arms. We simply ask that you abide by our laws. I don’t want you to snub your nose at our laws, then take advantage of our opportunities, and then cling to the constitution most of which you can’t even read because you don’t speak the language.

I want us to secure our borders because the country is worth securing. The people that live here are worth protecting.

I want my country back. I want my children back.

I want some semblance of what this country used to be.

It’s worth protecting. It’s worth defending.

I don’t recognize this country anymore.

Not politically, not philosophically, not spiritually.

Whether you like it or whether you don’t God was a part of building this great nation. To remove him is to take away the very foundation of what this country was all about.

I don’t care about your political correctness!

I don’t want to know your sexual preference!

I could care less about all of that. Stop making it the headline of the day!

That’s not America.

I want my country back!

And the only way I’m ever going to be able to get this country back is if I reach out to the brothers and the sisters that all feel the same way and we say “Hell No! You can’t have our country.”

It’s not for sale! Take the price tag off this country!

Take the price tag off the heads of our children!

Stop it already!

The politically-correct-psychobabble-hug-a-tree-experts ; You are not qualified to release sex offenders back into our neighborhoods.

The southern border, more than any other border, needs to be secured tomorrow. For all those that wish to come to this country to take advantage of her opportunity, to live under a constitution a living document that breathes in and out just like you do, this country is not for sale.

I should know. I’m one of the owners. You can’t sell it without my permission.

I want my country back!

From My Inbox

2006-04-11T16:41:00.000-07:00

I've Been Tagged

2006-04-01T21:18:00.000-08:00

Okay, I’ve been tagged by polyman2. Where I come from, tagging means someone spray-painted their name on you, but in the blogosphere it means I get to answer some nifty questions about myself. At first I wasn’t going to do it – I’ve never been a team player – but since I had whiskey for breakfast, I think I can manage. I probably won’t remember any of this shit later, so it really doesn’t matter anyway.

Accent: You know, it depends, really. Sometimes I’ll be like, “Fuck a mutated monkey cunt, you dick!” Other times I’ll say, “Fuck a mutated monkey cunt, you dick!” I suppose it really depends on my mood.

Booze of choice: I have quite an affinity for scotch – particularly Glenfiddich; however, my usual drink is good ‘ol American whiskey. I would wager I drink over a gallon of Evan Williams in two weekends. I’ll also drink vodka, gin, tequilia, rum, or even appletini-infused blood from a freshly murdered Girls Gone Wild video slut. When you have an addiction, you do what it takes to satiate the monkey on your back. Don’t fucking judge me. By the way, I really like absinthe, but that’s another story all together.

Chore I hate: Living.

Dog or cat: Depends on if you plan on making chow-mein or tamales.

Essential electronics: My electronically controlled cyber kidney/liver. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to piss or live or something – I don’t know.

Favorite cologne: The one on the Rhine River, north of Bonn. Duh.

Gold or silver: I takes what I can gets.

Hometown: The third circle of Dante’s hell.

Insomnia?: Only when I can’t sleep, but that could be caused by all the random ninja attacks.

Job Title: Commander-in-Chief and sole member of the misanthropic army. I also write articles for and edit ****** * ****** Magazine with a few advertising/graphic design jobs on the side. When I really need some money – usually for buying alcohol – I dispose of the corpses of elderly folks that died in nursing homes. Another completely unrelated job I have is providing chili meat to inner-city schools … completely unrelated.

Kids: Haha! Like a virgin could ever have a kid! Um, forget I said anything.

Living arrangement: Between jail time and rehab, I usually live behind a liquor store.

Most admired trait(s): None that I can think of.

Number of sexual partners: Again, none that I can think of.

Overnight hospital stays: None. I fix my own problems. Like, one time, I broke my thumb, so I watched a bunch of old martial arts movies and learned how to pop the bone back into place. I guess I did it wrong, though, because now, on my right hand, I have two thumbs.

Phobia: My greatest fear is that, one day, all the crappy songs I hear at work – like Dirty Little Secret by All-American Assholes, or whatever they’re called – will grow on me until I actually like them … Fuck, that’ll never happen: I have good taste.

Quote(s): “The best defense against usurpatory government is an assertive citizenry.”
– William F. Buckley Jr.

“What’s the story with your face, son?”
– Jimmy James (if you get this reference, you get five cool points)

Religion: Does alcoholism count as a religion if you worship an empty bottle of Evan Williams wiskey with a picture of Jim Varney on top of it?

Siblings: One younger brother. But he looks older than me, and people actually like him.

Time I wake up: Depends on what day it is and how much alcohol I drank the night before.

Unusual talent/skill: I totally know all my ABCs, and I can almost count to 100.

Vegetable I refuse to eat: Aborted fetuses.

Worst habit: Being prefect in every way and never making misstakes.

X-Rays: Once, at the dentist’s when I got x-rays, they forgot to put the lead bib on me, so I grew a third head and jumped out of the window.

Yummy foods I make: The only thing I can make is a shot of whiskey. And for the record, I would never call anything “yummy.”

Zodiac sign:

My Bad

2006-03-18T21:58:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. It’s been a long time since I posted anything new. First of all, for anyone wondering, I’m not dead. I didn’t drink myself to death or get beheaded by an angry Muslim. I wasn’t abducted by aliens or thrown in jail for assaulting George Clooney with an Ann Coulter book (I’ll get you one day, Clooney!).

I’ve just been very busy, so as the kids say these days – my bad. Excuse the fuck out of me for working. I’m well aware that many bloggers – most likely the majority of them – also work while actually maintaining their blogs. Big deal! They’re able to work and update their blogs on a regular basis instead of coming home, getting stinking drunk, and pointing a gun at their heads for an hour before finally blacking out. They’re all better than me. So what?

Anyway, since I’ve probably pissed off or at least bored all of my readers, there’s a good chance no one will ever read this; however, I have not given up on blogging. I’m no fucking quitter: My longtime drinking problem has already proven that. When I have the time, I need to write stuff for this blog. Why? Because when I write at work, I’m not allowed to swear or refer to anyone as a butt-stuffing cock goblin. I have to write articles people actually want to read instead of writing scathing rants about whatever’s pissing me off at the time. Needless to say, this censored form of writing isn’t cutting it in the self-expression department.

I will continue to blog, but only when my schedule permits. Blogging will, of course, have to take a back seat to work, any concerts I want to attend, drinking, and playing Mortal Kombat: Shaolin Monks on the PS2.

Speaking of Mortal Kombat: Shaolin Monks, I have a few issues with the game. This game – possibly only my copy, I don’t know – has more glitches than a robot made in Tijuana. Some of these glitches were so bad they actually made progressing in the game nigh impossible. If anyone reading this has played the game, let me know if your copy went glitch crazy during the Scorpion boss battle on ko-op mode. Holy shit! The glitches were so infuriating I had to cut my wrists so my blood pressure would go down enough to keep my head from exploding.

And what’s with all the lag? It doesn’t just lag when there’s a metric shit ton of enemies on screen, sometimes the damn thing lags for long periods of time for no real reason, suddenly snapping out of it at random. It’s not a moderate lag either. It’s slower than a retard with head trauma trying to go uphill in a wheelchair.

And another thing, you spend the entire game earning experience points to upgrade your combos only to discover they’re utterly useless against the last two bosses. What the fuck is that about? There needs to be a shove-Shao-Kahn’s-hammer-up-his-ass-sideways combo. Not that it would actually work considering getting close enough to him to initiate it would get you killed faster than a bill to increase border security. It’s a sweet game, but these problems piss me off to the point that it’s bad for my health.

You know what else is pissing me off? G4 – the supposed video game channel. “Here’s an idea: Let’s cancel all of our original, game-related programming and replace it with, oh, I don’t know, hours and hours of Star Trek reruns, The Man Show reruns (good show, wrong channel), and reruns of a show that’s already been cancelled by, like, three or four other networks – Banzai. That’ll get gamers to watch our network!”

Assholes!

“Star Trek already runs constantly on every other network, so why not air it all day on the video game channel?”

Because it’s the dumbest, most frivolous thing you could do in this case, dickheads. Don’t get me wrong, The Man Show was a good show, but I don’t need to watch it on G4 – I’ll watch it on DVD. Banzai is an ok show, too, but there is no reason to run it on G4 like it’s a new show. Anyone who gave a damn about it has already seen it – new and in syndication – and the people who’ve never seen it probably won’t watch it now.

With all the good gaming shows like Icons, Filter, Cheat, and Judgment Day cancelled, what are we left with? X-Play and Attack of the Show. Fuckin’ wonderful.

Attack of the Show is good, but I’ve just about had it with X-Play. I don’t need two, smarmy, pretentious assholes spewing puerile political commentary at me when they’re supposed to be reviewing video games. These twats act like just because they know a few “big words” they’re better than everyone else. Hey, Morgan, Adam, are your egos proportionate to the number of unnecessary adjectives you squeeze into your reviews, or do you just masturbate to a thesaurus? Fuck you!

At any rate, I’ll try to post more regularly. No promises, though.

Skin Cancer

2006-02-25T23:08:00.000-08:00

The light from the sun takes about 8.4 minutes to reach earth. That means the light is going over 186,282 miles per second and travels 93 million miles in under ten minutes. Pretty impressive right?

Then can someone tell me why the fuck two, fully clothed broads would sunbathe on their roof? Like those UV rays are going to hit them significantly sooner because they’re ten feet off the ground. That’s like saying an atom bomb is going to blow you up better than a person a foot away because you shoved the bomb up your ass.

I hope you morons get pubic skin cancer.

Who's boycotting what now?

2006-02-15T23:12:00.000-08:00

Oh, for fuck's sake!

Stephanie Tanner, NOOOOOOOOO!

2006-02-08T19:03:00.000-08:00

I just can't believe one of the Tanner girls was on the meth.
Where the hell did Danny, Jesse, and Joey go wrong?

Brokeback Mountain

2006-01-20T17:42:00.000-08:00