Stupid is Funny

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

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

I've Been Tagged

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

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

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?

Oh, for fuck's sake!

Stephanie Tanner, NOOOOOOOOO!

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

An Old Experiment

Here's another one of my old posts. What can I say? I like science and hate gothic kids.

This is a question that has been wracking my brain for quite some time. I've beaten up plenty of gothic kids in my day, but I never pay much attention when I'm hitting them. Honestly, it's like I'm on auto-pilot. For example, one day I was walking along, minding my own business, when I noticed a wimpy looking gothic kid in a long black trench coat. I thought nothing of it at first; I mean, I chuckled a bit when I saw him because he looked so fucking stupid, but other than that, it was no big deal.

As we passed each other he looked at me, bared his stick-on fangs and hissed at me. Without thinking, I instantly reacted by punching him right between the eyes. I just kept walking too, there was no need to stop. As I walked away, I heard him whimpering (that'll teach him to come out in the daytime I thought). I heard that, but I don't remember the sound he made when my fist connected with his face. Could it have been a squeak? That is what I plan on finding out.

TEST SUBJECT 1: A skinny gothic guy, with his head shaved except for his bangs, wearing a trench coat, and Marilyn Manson shirt with torn pants and knee high leather boots.I approached him, ready to aid science yet again. I had to make sure to listen carefully and not start laughing until a few seconds after I hit him. As we passed each other going in different directions, I extended my arm to neck-level, brutally clotheslining the wimpy goth right in the throat. RESULTS: There was a definite cracking sound, as well as a shocked gagging noise expelled from the test subject's throat. No obvious squeak was heard, but a clear squeak could have potentially been muffled by other sounds caused by the violent forearm to the throat. ANALYSIS: Unclear. More tests to follow.

TEST SUBJECT 2: A big, stupid-looking guy with black jeans, black t-shit, and black lipstick.For this test I decided to be more direct. I walked up to the lumbering, effeminate buffoon and kicked him in the shins. When he fell to the ground, I kicked him in the gut three times, followed by a quick stomp to the groin, just because I thought it would be funny. RESULTS: Many sounds were clear in this test. The most prevalent sound was crying and begging for mercy. I ignored all of that and tried to hear the more subtle sounds. I heard no squeaking, but there was some wheezing that could have been mistaken for squeaking to an untrained scientist. ANALYSIS: Unclear. The next test's results will provide a conclusive answer.

TEST SUBJECT 3: An ugly, fat broad, wearing a shitty black dress with fishnet sleaves, sporting a gnarly, dreadlocked mullet and thick black makeup.Considering this subject is a female, I decided to try hitting her open fisted. The ol' bitch slap beating for this tub-o-depressed-lard. I walked up to her smiling, and proceeded to repeatedly slap her across her fat face. The slapping sound combined with her pathetic whimpering was so loud that any squeaking present would have been inaudible. So I changed my attack by punching her several times in the stomach. RESULTS: When slapping the subject, if there was any squeaking, it was hidden by the loud smacking noise. While punching subject 3 in the stomach several noises similar to squeaking escaped her mouth, but it was later determined that noise was wheezing caused by the subject trying to catch the wind knocked out of her by my relentless blows to her gut.

ANALYSIS: After extensive testing, it would appear that goths do not squeak when you hit them.

There you have it. Another one of life's mysteries solved. Science has progressed and new knowledge is being spread. It is a great day for science, and a great day for me.

Another from the Vault

Here is yet another old post because I'm too busy to write something new. This is pretty damn old. In fact, I wrote this long before I was on blogspot.com or geocities or any other website. I posted it around the seven internets way back to see what people would think - big surprise, they were fucking pissed. I got a lot of hate mail for this one. Interestingly enough, I got more hate mail when I called the Deftones nu-metal. Go figure. Anyway, here it is (completely un-edited even though the errors torment me like splinters under my fingernails). One of my favorites - Helpful Hints for Aspiring Stigmatists.

Want to be a Saint? Want to be considered a living miracle? Are you incredibly stupid? If so, the stigmata is for you. Stigmata is defined as bodily marks, sores, or sensations of pain corresponding in location to the crucifixion wounds of Jesus. Stigmatists often suffer open, bloody wounds that cause them pain and inconvenience at the very least. It's ok though because it is supposedly a blessing from God. Before you go on your way to becoming a stigmatist, I'd like to give you a few helpful hints that will make the experience all the more believable and enjoyable.

STEP 1: COMPLETELY DISREGARD HISTORICAL ACCURACY-- The most common stigmatic appearance is of holes, or bloody marks through the palm of the hand where Jesus was nailed to the cross. Historical accounts have shown that people were not nailed to the cross by their palms, the nail was driven between the small bones of the wrist, the radial and ulna bones, because the hand cannot support the weight of a human body. So remember, when you first decide to become a stigmatist, poke holes in your hand. Were you to be historically accurate, it would be obvious that you were a fake.

STEP 2: BE A GOOD FUCKING LIAR-- It is a common misconception that the stigmata must be visual. Well, if you're too much of a pussy to put holes in yourself, I have good news for you. If you're a really good faker, you don't even have to have visual proof of the wounds of Christ. In 1373, St. Catherine of Sienna claimed to feel the pain of Christ's crucifixion in her hands and feet but never bled or showed physical signs of the wounds. Thousands of people bought it; they called it an invisible stigmata. If you're going to try this, you should practice lying into a mirror. Practice saying things like, "ow", "ouch", and "Oh, the pain, the wonderful blessed pain". Make it convincing.

STEP 3: HAVE A VAGINA-- Throughout history, there have been more female stigmatists than male stigmatists. At one point, for every male stigmatist, there were seven female stigmatists. Most people chalk this up to the fact that women are more open to spiritual activity because they are more in touch with their emotions. I think the truth is obvious. Women are good liars (See STEP 2). They also tend to crave attention much more than men. What better way to get attention than to walk around with bloody, open wounds. When Britney Spears' popularity wanes, she could easily follow St. Catherine's example to raise her level of popularity.

STEP 4: TAKE A SHIT LOAD OF DRUGS FIRST-- In many cases of stigmata, the wounds of Christ appear on the stigmatist after they experience states of religious ecstacy or hysteria. So, if you're not a good enough liar to fake a seizure, you still have a shot at becoming a world famous stigmatist. Simply ingest a shit-load of PCP, LSD, Angel Dust, or any combination of these or other crazy drugs. This should lead to some sort of bizarre behavior which idiots will believe is religious hysteria. When you start coming down from the zany high, start staring at your hands and feet saying, "Oh man, does this look like a nail-hole to you guys".

STEP 5: SURROUND YOURSELF WITH RELIGIOUS IDIOTS, ESP. CATHOLICS-- Catholics are usually the people to receive or at least revere the stigmata. They like to endure pain and suffering for God. They are also prone to believing any stupid thing they see. Hell, you should get an idea of how stupid they are just based on the fact that they listen to the pope. Anyway, Catholicism is like an incubator for suckers, so head to a catholic church and start making friends.

STEP 6: ACT REALLY PIOUS-- When you're a stigmatist, you have to act really holy and afflicted. Try to look really tired and feeble but still make lots of public appearances where you bless everyone in sight. Try to sound kind of deep or cryptic when you speak. Constantly mention your visions of Christ's death on the cross, catholics love that.

STEP 7: BE VERY THOROUGH-- If you want to be really convincing, you have to make your wounds look really good. The catholic church is really anal about this kind of thing and they'll check your wounds for things like puss, and signs of healing. Your wounds must look fresh at all times. This requires being really deicated because you have to keep re-injuring yourself. It might even require driving a nail through your hands every morning. Make sure there is a lot of blood too; a blood-free wound screams fraud.

STEP 8: TIE UP THE LOOSE ENDS-- If you can pull off the stigmata for the rest of your life, you're pretty much set; BUT, the catholic church will probably check your stigmata when you're dead because they don't trust people very easily. One way to deal with this last test, is to let your wounds heal completely near the end of your life (do whatever it takes to minimize scarring). You'll have to hide your hands, feet, side etc. but if you've been a stigmatist long enough people will believe you have Christ's wounds even if they don't see them every time you make an appearance. After your death, when the catholic church checks your hands and feet and see that there is no stigmata, you'll be golden. They assume that after death, the stigmata is taken off of the individual because he/she can no longer use it (Like taking expensive jewlery off of a corpse).

Congratulations, you're an asshole who spent his/her entire life lying to people for the attention and adoration you think you deserve. I hope you feel good about yourself you dick head, you've perpetuated a disgusting farse that should have died a long time ago. Thanks to people like you, the catholic church can easily continue its corrupt mission, enslaving and robbing millions of people too stupid to see the ridiculousness of the situation. You're a bastard.

Happy Friday the 13th

Today is the luckiest day of the year.

The Return of Foods I Won't Eat

Due to my busy schedule as of late, I haven't really had much time to post anything new. So, until I have time to write something new, I'll post something from the ol' archives from time to time to give my kindly readers something to look at. There's a whole mess of shit from back then that most people have never read, and it's probably a good thing - I get enough death threats as it is. Anyway, back by popular demand (of one person), please enjoy the following --

Foods I Won’t Eat

There are a lot of disgusting foods out there. Oftentimes swill is passed off as a delicacy, but I’m not dumb enough to fall for that shit. Somewhere in the world I’m sure there are people that consider fermented goat dingleberries the finest of cuisine. Sorry you back-asswards retards, I’m not playing along. Food is often a cultural thing, for example that one African tribe that eats mud, and most likely my taste will offend some people. If your culture includes eating something nasty, national relations take second place to good taste.

And then there’s the whole trend factor. Sometimes high society deems something gross as the newest hot food for people in the know. I don’t care how much chicken tumors are lauded as haute cuisine, in reality it’s medical waste and you can’t do anything to convince me that I should eat it. If I go to a restaurant and they want to charge me ungodly amounts of money for some food that was choked down on Fear Factor the night before, I’m going to call bullshit even if some uppity dick-weed turns his pointy nose up at me. Here’s some shit I’ll never eat because I have enough sense not to ingest garbage.

Caviar: This shit has been considered fine cuisine for years. I’ve never understood why people willingly pay good money for fish eggs. Have you tasted this shit? It tastes and smells like fish pussy (or whatever genitals those slimy bastards have). Hey buddy, smear this filth on a cracker and enjoy. Who started this trend? This stuff is near excrement and it costs more than my life is worth. I’m insulted.

Sushi: I’ve got nothing against the Japanese. They’re a very hardworking people that will kill themselves if they fart in front of their boss. I like some Japanese food and I love sake, but I hate sushi. Sushi is ultra hip in California. It’s all the rage to head to a sushi bar to spend tons of money on raw fish. Sorry if I prefer fish sticks, but there’s something about eating raw fish that turns my stomach.

Roe: Again, fish eggs. Salmon roe, mullet roe, uni, it’s all gross. In this day and age, don’t we have enough shit to eat that we needn’t resort to eating roe?

Soft Roe: Fish jizz. There’s no excuse for eating this crap if you know what it is.

Tripe: Not that tripe is particularly bad tasting, but I had it in menudo one drunken night and it was absolutely flavorless. I just can’t see eating something so weird if it doesn’t at least taste great. Save yourself some time and just gnaw on some rubber tubing.

Escargot: When I was younger I knew a kid who would lick snails for attention. He was a dirty little sumbitch and I cannot justify spending money on a food that weird kids lick to make friends.

Rocky Mountain Oysters: Enjoy your bull nads Liberace, I am heterosexual and therefore do not need to put testicles in my mouth.

Foie Gras: French for bloated goose liver. It’s rare that I see a liver in a worse state than my own, and I certainly don’t want to eat one.

Whale Tongue: I’ve never eaten this before and I never will. All I know is it was so heinous it actually made one of the tasters on Iron Chef uncomfortable. When something can nauseate a taster on Iron Chef, I know I shouldn’t eat it.

Balut (Balot): A fertilized egg with a partially developed duckling. How this ever became a legitimate food I’ll never know. All I can say at this point is, fucking foreigners.

Bugs: People eat all kinds of varmints but I refuse to. I’m not eating crickets, caterpillars, spiders, scorpions, roaches, worms, beetles, or any other bullshit. That’s frog food. People say stupid shit like “It tastes like chicken.” My response - eat a fucking chicken asshead. Resorting to eating bugs is fine if you have no choice, but I can go to the corner and get a burger for 99 cents; looks like Jimminy Cricket is going to live another day.

Roadkill: This food is fine for some people and I have no problem with that. When your name is Cletus and you’re married to your cousin, roadkill is good eats. When you’re an educated city boy, roadkill is pretty much out of the question. I’m not saying I’m better than rednecks, I just prefer food killed with an air hammer over food killed by a pickup truck.

Nasty Cheese: I’ve tasted Limburger and I’m ashamed that I have. Eating Limburger cheese is like licking the armpit of the fattest, nastiest, sweatiest, French chick you can find. Some people might go for that but I am disgusted by it. I’ve had more appetizing crud growing on the underside of my nutsack. I even saw a cheese on TV that has maggots in it. Yeah, that’s the cheese I want, the one with little shitbags writhing around in it. If you don’t have enough sense to know that eating something with maggots all over it is gross, you might as well just kill yourself now because sooner or later you’re probably going to eat something so horrible it will kill you.

Blood Anything: People eat blood pudding, blood sausage, and there are even people that drink cow blood fresh from the cow (You’ll have to excuse them, they’re African). I’d rather lick Scott Weiland’s trail marks than eat any of that rubbish.

There you have it; a list of foods that I hate. If you want to impress me at a dinner party (I’ll be honest here, I’ve never been invited to a dinner party) make sure you have plenty of booze. Chances are I wouldn’t eat anyway. To impress me, have a couple of 40s of Old English in the fridge – that’s a classy drink, much better than fish DNA. After that, have some Evan Williams whiskey or Everclear 151 handy and I’ll be impressed. If you want to impress the hell out of me, get ahold of some authentic, high gravity, moonshine that’s reasonably safe (I don’t want to go blind thanks).

Happy New Year

Wouldn’t it have been funny if instead of a fiddle, Nero had played a tuba as Rome burned?

Merry Christmas!

For My Brother

A cancelled flight (damn fog) and having to spend the night in an empty airport: This is a mild irritant.

Going outside the airport for a relaxing smoke (around 11:45 p.m.) only to return later to find the security area closed until 4:45 a.m. and having to spend most of the night outside the terminal: Son of a bitch!

Finding the only open “eatery” outside the terminal and getting a barely edible BLT from Subway: Salmonella sounds good right about now.

Finally boarding the plane at 6:10 a.m. (Christmas Eve morning) only to discover at least an hour delay on the runway: Hey, at least I get to breathe warm recycled air while some flipper baby cries like an apologetic politician after getting caught with three midget hookers and a transsexual bull fighter.

Still on the plane but getting delayed on the runway for another hour: If airport security wasn’t so tight, I would have already put a bullet in my brain.

Getting home at last: Almost as painless as getting your wisdom teeth pulled out of your ass while stabbing your scrotum with rusty hypodermic needles.

Spending Christmas with the family: Meh…

Merry Christmas, Bro!

Crazy Bitch Needs Medication, Not Restraining Order

Restraining Order: an order of a specified duration issued after a hearing attended by all parties that is intended to protect one individual from violence, abuse, harassment, or stalking by another esp. by prohibiting or restricting access or proximity to the protected party.

Everyone knows what a restraining order is for. It’s what you get when your ex-husband follows you home from work every day, jerks off in your rose bushes, and threatens to slit you from cunt to cleavage if you don’t come back to him. Or, say, if a crazy stripper you’ve never seen in your life claims to be pregnant with your baby – who she also claims to be the antichrist – and leaves dead sacrificial gophers on your doorstep next to the newspaper every morning. These are two situations that call for a restraining order (or a gun and lots of ammo if you ask me).

But what if you’re just some crazy bitch from Santa Fe, New Mexico claiming that a late night talk show host in New York is sending you secret messages through the TV? Well, duh! Get a restraining order! Why the fuck not? It seems like the judicial process is shit on every day anyway (don’t get me started on Saddam Hussein’s trial).

Colleen Nestler filed a request for a restraining order against David Letterman who she claims forced her to go bankrupt and caused her “mental cruelty” and “sleep deprivation” since 1994. She claims Letterman used code words, gestures, and “eye expressions” to convey his desires for her.

Nestler says that when Letterman said “Marry me, Oprah” in a teaser for his show, he was really asking her to marry him – in code, apparently. This is only one of many secret codes etc. that Letterman used in an attempt to lure her to New York.

Yeah well, I’m sending Nestler a secret telepathic message right now. For those of you sane people out there who can’t hear imaginary telepathic messages sent from people you’ve never even met, the message I’m sending to Nestler is “Get bent, psycho.”

The worst thing about this whole situation is a state judge actually issued this crack-pot a temporary restraining order.

Temporary Restraining Order: an order of brief duration that is issued ex parte to protect the plaintiff's rights from immediate and irreparable injury by preserving a situation or preventing an act until a hearing for a preliminary injunction can be held.

What the fuck? Who the hell are these assbag judges? Any judge that would issue a kook like Nestler a temporary restraining order needs to be under psychological evaluation. For fuck’s sake! I bet that judge wears pasties and clown pants under his robes because he is certainly not right in the head.

If I were a judge – and damnit, I should be – I would have laughed her bitch ass out of my courtroom, had her smacked around for wasting my time, and then had her committed for being an obvious screwball. She needs to be heavily medicated, and possibly subjected to electro-shock therapy to zap the crazy out of her.

Shit, she’s a borderline stalker. One day she could decide to emerge from her apartment, which is probably full of old newspapers and cat piss, drive her pinto from New Mexico to New York, and attack David Letterman with knitting needles or an ice pick. That’s certainly a more likely scenario than Letterman actually sending her secret messages through the TV.

Plus, she’s been putting up with these secret messages and shit since the early 1990’s. What did Letterman do recently to make her so upset she just now filed for a restraining order? No one knows because she didn’t mention that in the paperwork. And what good would a restraining order do anyway? Letterman is supposedly destroying her life through the TV, not sneaking into her house at night, moving furniture around, and leaving scary messages in backwards Latin on her mirrors.

The whole thing is a joke. My advice to Colleen Nestler is, if you really believe David Letterman is fucking with you through your television; quit watching his fucking show, dipshit. If that’s too much for you to wrap your inflatable head around, why don’t you save some time and money and just jump out of a window?

Olaf and his Magical Spear, Ansgar!

Blabbermouth.net recently reported that a woman in Norway was attacked by an enraged neighbor wielding a spear.

In May, a female student was having a hard time studying for an upcoming exam due to a neighbor’s blaring metal music. I’m not sure what band the guy was blasting, but because they rule, I’m just going to say he was listening to In Aeternum.

Anyway, she decided to go over to the guy’s place and bitch at him until he turned the music down. Well, I bet she just about shit her knickers when the guy responded by grabbing a nearby spear. There were no direct quotes from anyone involved included in the Blabbermouth.net article, so any direct quotes refer to what I heard in my head when I pictured this incident.

The spear-brandishing metalhead then growled, “By Odin’s nut-sack! You have no right to address the mighty Olaf and his magical spear, Ansgar!” At this point, the shocked and terrified female student screamed “Fuck me with a frozen turnip,” and took off running like a naked lesbian at an erection parade.

Of course, Olaf chased after her, cutting her finger with the spear in the process. Fortunately for the mildly wounded lady, she was able to get into her room and lock the door before Olaf could do any more damage.

The police arrived on the scene and found Olaf sitting on the steps still holding his spear. For fuck’s sake Olaf, haven’t you ever heard of getting rid of evidence? I guess, however, it would be somewhat difficult to effectively get rid of a spear by chucking it into some bushes. At this point things get interesting (or continue being interesting, really). Good ol’ Olaf can’t go quietly. According to the Blabbermouth.net article the police were forced to use a police dog, clubs, and pepper spray to disarm and subdue the maniacal metalhead.

Since then, our friend Olaf has been sentenced to forty-two days in prison. He has also attributed, at least in part, the eighteen beers he drank to his violent behavior. I wonder if he was drinking the beer out of the hollow skulls of his vanquished foes.

Frankly, I’m surprised Olaf’s weapon of choice was a spear. I kind of figured he would have had a spiked club or a battleaxe. Also, I kind of picture him wearing a Viking helmet and a large Mjolner necklace.

Another Year

Don’t Fuck with People Trying to Drink

The other night around 10:30 p.m., some thugs thought they’d make some easy money robbing a pub. Mostly, these three assholes were no strangers to law-breaking. In fact, two of them – aged 21 and 27 – were parolees. The other culprit, a shit-bag in training, was only 14. By the way, he was the one carrying the gun.

These three genital warts on society’s collective nutsack marched into the pub whereupon the gun-toting 14-year-old – we’ll call him Pud – pointed his gun at the patrons, and made his way behind the bar where he demanded money.

Thankfully, and much to the surprise of Pud, an off-duty employee snuck up, put Pud in a headlock, and took the gun away from him. I’m sure the other two crooks – Fucknut and Dickbrain – were pretty shocked too; especially when some of the pub customers got up and attacked them. They don’t call alcohol “liquid courage” for nothing. Also, I’m sure the pub-goers were pissed that some stupid fuckwits were on the verge of screwing with the sanctity of their local watering hole.

The feisty pub patrons managed to subdue the would-be robbers until the police showed up a few minutes later. So riled up were the sauced bar warriors, that the first officers on the scene requested backup because “the patrons are out of control.” Eventually, when more officers arrived, the patrons calmed down and the three criminals – Pud, Fucknut, and Dickbrain – were taken into custody.

This, I believe, is justice at its finest. A few beer-swilling locals saw that their pub was in danger and saved the day. While many crooks are able to get away with their illegal activities, these fine citizens put their foot down and kicked some ass. Recently, a bank was robbed in close proximity to the Blarney Stone Pub. As far as I know, the culprit was never apprehended. In the parking lot, a few hundred feet away from the pub, and old woman’s wallet was stolen. To my knowledge, the scumbag that ripped her off was never apprehended. If not for the brave actions of the patrons of the little Irish pub that could, some other jerk asses would have gotten away with breaking the law again.

It’s like Edmund Burke said, “evil prevails when good men do nothing.” In this case, the good men happened to be pub patrons not willing to take shit from criminal assbags.

It's Been a Year Today

The Funny Alternative to Lethal Injection

An Interesting E-Mail

Someone sent me this e-mail the other day, and I thought it was pretty interesting. Also, I don’t have the time to post much else right now.

Interesting thought for the day:

If you consider that there have been an average of 160,000 troops in the Iraq theater of operations during the last 22 months and a total of 2112 deaths, that gives a firearm death rate of 60 per 100,000. The rate in Washington D. C. (among others) is 80.6 per 100,000.

That means that you are about 25 percent more likely to be shot and killed in our Nation’s Capitol, which has some of the strictest gun control laws in the nation, than you are in Iraq.

Conclusion: We should immediately pull out of Washington D. C.

This would probably be a good time to mention a very informative book called Shooting Straight: Telling the Truth About Guns in America. At the very least it contains some interesting statistics and case studies, and dispels some gun and gun control myths the media is fond of bandying about as fact. It’s definitely worth reading.

Happy Thanksgiving

My Superhero Rating

I’ve noticed that a lot of my fellow bloggers have been doing this online superhero test. While I’m not interested in wearing any cherry-smuggling tights and running around the city looking like a complete tool, I was a bit curious to see which superhero the test would say I am most like.

Considering most of the quiz results for other bloggers likened them to Superman and other beloved characters, I was a bit surprised to see my quiz results. Honestly, I’ve never heard of this superhero. Oh well, anything is better than being Namor: the Submariner – that guy sucks.

You are Wine-Oh the Magnificent.


















You are an inebriated, fowl-smelling, Viking warrior. You are prone to lewd behavior, sudden mood changes, and pawning your belongings to buy bottles of George Dickel whiskey.

You don’t care about helping people and even if you did, most of the time you’re not coherent enough to do much of anything.

Wine-Oh the Magnificent: 100%

Surly: 80%

Unreasonable: 80%

Violent/Abusive: 75%

Nauseous: 70%

Viking: 60%

Sloppy: 50%

Belligerent: 50%

Unconscious: 30%

Bearded: 20%

Smelly: 20%

Disheveled: 20%

Oafish: 20%

Superman?

Finally Some Art that Doesn’t Suck

This blogger often does a great job pointing out art that sucks, which is why I’ve decided to mention a piece of art that doesn’t suck. This painting was created by the German painter Cornelius Quabeck. This masterpiece measures 160x100 cm and is coal and cloth paint on coarse cotton. And while it would have been more badass if Cornelius would have painted it with blood, he still gets credit for making a painting of Kerry King that actually looks like Kerry King; none of that postmodern art bullshit.

The painting, simply titled “Kerry,” was displayed at this year’s Art Forum Berlin; some fancy-pants art show that probably sucks. Undoubtedly, “Kerry” was the best thing there. This kick ass painting probably scared a bunch of stupid, pretentious art-snobs so much they dropped their cheese into their wine. Slayer kicks ass.

Crazy Will Rahmer

Blabbermouth.net recently reported that Will Rahmer from the death metal band Mortician went nuts in a taxi cab in Poland, threatened the driver with a knife, stole the cab and drove to the Polish/German border in Swiecko where he was apprehended by authorities. Now he’s facing three to fifteen years in prison.

They don’t fuck around in Poland. The band Gorgoroth already got in some trouble over there for shooting a video with some topless broads crucified upside down, drenched in blood, and surrounded by severed animal heads.

Mortician kicks ass. I hope Rahmer doesn’t end up doing time. So far, I haven’t read anything about what caused Rahmer to wig out. Hopefully, he has a damn good reason and a damn good legal team. Good luck, Will!

The Devil's Rejects: An Immature Review

I didn’t see this movie in theaters for two reasons: 1.) I hate leaving my house and 2.) I was permanently banned from the local movie theater for punching out the six year old girl that spilled her slurpee on my leg. I kicked her Grandfather’s ass too, but that was in the parking lot.

Anyway, House of 1000 Corpses was killer so I was pretty sure The Devil’s Rejects was going to kick ass too. As usual, I was right. The movie kicked ass. Whereas House of 1000 Corpses was pretty much a rip off of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (minus one fat cripple in a wheelchair), The Devil’s Rejects was more original yet still somewhat reminiscent of The Last House on the Left

The movie was really violent, full of profanity, and Otis was rocking a sweet beard.


Also, E. G. Daily – the voice of Tommy from The Rugrats – played a filthy hooker in the film. I’m not sure if that’s cool or kind of weird but to her credit, she was a really convincing whore. Even Brian Posehn was in the movie and he had a sweet beard too.

Captain Spaulding was kicking ass as usual. At one point he carjacks this lady and her kid. There’s nothing quite like watching a psycho clown punch out some kid’s mom. Then, he gets in the car and the little kid is all scared.

Spaulding: “What's the matter, kid? Don't ya like clowns?”
Kid: Shakes head crying like a wuss.
Spaulding: “Why? Don't we make ya laugh? Aren't we fuckin' funny? You best come up with an answer, cos I'm gonna come back here and check on you and your momma and if you ain't got a reason why you hate clowns, I'm gonna kill your whole fucking family.”

Yes! That part kicked ass!

Even though Otis and Captain Spaulding are crazy and kill a bunch of people, this guy is even crazier.

He’s the sheriff and his brother, also a sheriff, was killed in the first movie. So now he’s all obsessed with killing the devil’s rejects. He starts out being pretty normal, but then he snaps and goes so mental even Otis probably peed a little when he was nailed to a chair and the sheriff was ranting. You have to be a hard ass to say shit like “I'm going to kill you and drink your fucking blood!”

The Devil’s Rejects kicked ass. Just make sure you see the unrated version. Unless you’re a wussy, in which case, watch the censored version so you don’t get nightmares.

Veterans' Day

Fuckin' People

I hate a lot of things; this has been thoroughly established. But something new has been pissing me off lately. Well, not new, really, but apparently I have much less patience for it these days.

Have you ever been somewhere, minding your own business, when someone you haven’t seen in a long time spots you and decides to talk to you? Usually the reason you haven’t seen them in a long time is because you didn’t want to see them. Yet, for some reason, they feel compelled to approach you and make inane small talk.

“Yeah, since you last saw him, Jake’s lost, oh, I’d say fifty pounds. Well, maybe not fifty pounds, but he’s lost weight. Hey, remember that time a few years back? I think it was May…no it must’ve been July because, remember, Tom got sick from eating all those Fourth of July hot dogs…although, it could have been November because my Uncle Toby had that Veterans’ Day barbecue. Oh well. You remember that time right?”

Then you nod politely, slowly edging backwards toward the register at the market, just praying you’ll be able to get out of the store without having to exchange phone numbers with some peon intent on explaining the intricacies of your old pal Ted’s last colonoscopy.

This crap has been happening to me a lot lately. Not just when I’m out on liquor runs either, mind you. People I haven’t seen in years have actually just been showing up at my door. Did I suddenly become a jackass magnet?

For example, the other night I was sitting by myself drinking heavily when the strangest thing happened: my phone rang. I hate when that happens. When I answer, the voice on the other end is that of a slurring, drooling, shit-ass-drunk South-Pacific Islander I used to know.

“Heeeeeyyyyy man! Guess who zis is?”

I haven’t seen this butt nut for over a year and suddenly he’s calling me up in the middle of the night trying to be all friendly. This leads me to believe – and rightfully so – he needs something. Some shit never changes. He blathers on about what he’s been up to lately, and what the rest of the other guys I used to hang out had been up to since I saw them last. Try as I might, it is very difficult to end a phone call from a nostalgic drunk.

“Dude, let’s hang out, ok?”

Fucking great. Now he wants to hang out. Coming from him this loosely translates to “Can I come over, drink your alcohol, whine about stupid shit you don’t care about, piss all over myself, and then crash on your floor.” At this point, I could have just hung up on him, but when I heard a car door slam outside, I remembered he knew where I lived.

“Dude, I’m like, right outside.”

Goddamnit.

In order to keep this guy out of my house, I go outside and talk to him. He tells me this story about how he was driving drunk and crashed into a bunch of parked cars.

“That changed my life, man. I don’t do that shit anymore,” he said, wobbling drunkenly next to the vehicle he just drove to my house. Then he gives me the “Man, we should hang out more, man. Like old times, man,” speech. Yeah, that’ll happen. He finally left, promising to call me sometime. Thankfully, he never did.

Some time after that, I was out buying alcohol. Damn me for shopping at a store in an area of town I usually avoid. And damn that store for having Evan Williams on sale that weekend.

Suddenly, this old lady that says she knows my parents starts talking to me. She begins talking about a slew of other people my parents used to know and what they had been doing for the last twenty years.

“John Thomas, he knew your Dad from work, just got a promotion. Perfect timing too because his wife just got laid off from the greeting card factory. Well, their oldest son, Chad, recently got a degree and moved to Namibia to teach starving Namibians trigonometry. Oh! Do you remember William?”

No.

“Well, he’s doing great. He helped me program my VCR just the other day. Did you hear about his poor daughter?”

No.

“She’s in quite a predicament. It seems her husband Alexander is back on the crack cocaine. Lost another job too. She came home one night and Alexander was in a drug rage and he threw that antique radio straight out the second story window. Terrible. Terrible. She should have known what she was in for when she married a Russian. Proud people those Russians.”

What the fuck?

“Tell me, how’s Sarah doing these days?”

Who in god’s name is Sarah?

“Remember Sarah? You and Sarah used to play the Nintendo with Laura.”

I’ve never heard of any of these people.

“You three were inseparable. We used to call you three the Mario Brothers.”

That doesn’t even make sense.

“Speaking of Laura, do you remember Ling Liu? She’s a ballerina now. Look, I have these tickets for The Nutcracker. She’s in that ballet. Performing downtown and everything. The tickets are only eighty dollars. Why don’t you buy one?”

Why don’t I just give you five bucks to kick me in the nuts right now so I can save some time and money?

“You always were the funny one, you know? You should have been a comedian instead of a doctor. That’s what I always tell your Aunt Beatrice anyway.”

Ok, to be fair, this lady wasn’t really someone who I knew and hadn’t seen for a while, but she ran her mouth off like she was. I don’t know who she was, but her friends and family sounded nice.

A few days later, I saw a familiar face as I drove to work. It was Chester, the friendly neighborhood crack fiend. When I was thirteen walking through the neighborhood, this guy tried to sell me a boat for three dollars. I was pretty sure the boat wasn’t really his because he was trying to break into it as he offered to sell it to me.

I guess he’s out of prison now, because he’s back in town riding his bicycle all over the place in search of rehabilitation, or more likely, crack. And while he managed to get a few more prison tattoos, he still doesn’t seem to have a shirt. He hasn’t really talked to me yet, and he probably wouldn’t remember me anyway, but it’s just a matter of time before he tries to sell me something really crappy so he and his old lady can get their fix.

I’ve run into a bunch of other idiots I used to know too, and it pisses me off. Doesn’t anyone die anymore?

Take That Clooney!

Ann Coulter makes George Clooney look like a tool again. (Not like he really needs the help.) Plus, if you weren't sure by now, there's no reason to see "Good Night, and Good Luck."

Read the article HERE

I Try to Stay Away from Politics but...

Here is a quote from Ted Kennedy back in 1990 when Samuel Alito was confirmed to the appellate bench:

"You [Alito] have obviously had a very distinguished record, and I certainly commend you for long service in the public interest. I think it is a very commendable career and I am sure you will have a successful one as a judge."

Here’s another quote from Sen. Kennedy, this time from Monday:

"If confirmed, Alito could very well fundamentally alter the balance of the court and push it dangerously to the right, placing at risk decades of American progress in safeguarding our fundamental rights and freedoms."

That’s quite the 180 degree turn. I wonder why Kennedy’s opinion changed so drastically... Hey, I’m just saying.

Halloween: Bah! Humbug!

A lot of people think I ought to love Halloween. Someone will come up to me and say “Hey there, guy. You’re morbid, you listen to devil music, your shirt is black; you must love Halloween.” Then, he’ll stand there all dopey-eyed and grinning, like he’s waiting for me to sing a fucking song about how much I love Halloween.

Of course, being the prick I am, I can’t just be polite; I have to rant feverishly about how stupid I think Halloween is. Then, the poor bastard gets this look on his face like I just killed his dog.

The fact is, I fucking hate Halloween. It’s a dumb holiday; shit, I don’t even know why it’s a holiday at all. “Oh wow, it’s October 31st, let’s dress in really stupid costumes and prance around like retards.” No thanks, I’d rather cut out my uvula with a Swiss Army Knife. And what the fuck is the deal with guys dressing up like women? I swear, every Halloween, I see at least one frat-guy dressed in drag. Congratulations, butthole. One day out of the year you’re free to act like the homo you are without people calling you a fruit.

“Dude, you’re just being a party-pooper! Lame!” What adult uses the term party-pooper? Rabid fans of Halloween apparently; I’ve been accused of being a party-pooper by adults ever since I was a little misanthrope.

Every Halloween I sit at home while ratty children ring my doorbell every five minutes expecting me to give them candy just because they put on costumes and came to my door. You want some candy? Go clean the oil stain off of my driveway and I’ll give you some money and you can go buy some candy like everyone else.

That’s another thing. After Halloween, gigantic bags of candy go on sale. Instead of pestering me, why don’t you dumb kids just wait a few days and go buy some discount candy. You can get a seventeen pound bag of candy corn for three cents the day after Halloween. I’d rather hide in the bushes all night spraying trick-or-treaters with a garden hose than give away any candy. In fact, that’s probably what I’ll end up doing.

Then you have modern day druids and witches that like to get together in fields dressed in stupid robes and sing crappy songs about Mother Nature on Halloween. What a bunch of dorks. I wish they’d all get mauled by bears or something.

Back in college, the faculty encouraged students to dress up on Halloween. Some dickweed even dressed up as the DJ from Slipknot one year. Holy fuck, if you’re going to dress up like one of the guys from Slipknot, why on earth would you dress up as the DJ? He’s like the lamest guy in the band; he’s not even a real musician. I never dressed up yet every year I was asked the obligatory “Dude, what are you dressed as?” I’m not dressed as anything you silly bastard! Don’t you have a class to flunk out of? Leave me alone.

I’ve always hated Halloween. I’ve never trick-or-treated, I’ve never dressed up, and I’ve never carved a pumpkin. Halloween: Bah! Humbug!

The World's Sappiest Pillow

If you love your cousin enough to buy him this pillow,
your kids are probably deformed.

White People are Planning to Do What?

I have a pretty simple life. I wake up, go to work, come home, and work at home. Generally, I lie awake all night wishing the world would come to an end, get in about 20 minutes of sleep, and do it all over again. I’m a pissed off insomniac that lives one day at a time with nothing to look forward to except getting wasted on the weekend.

Recently, however, it came to my attention I was shirking one of my duties as a white person. I’m supposed to be plotting – with every other white person on earth no less – to kill all the black people. Yeah, it came as a surprise to me as well. I’m 22 and I’ve never gotten the memo.

For nearly 23 years I’ve lived my life without even once plotting to kill any black people. In fact, I’ve even fraternized with black people! Now though, thanks to Kamau Kambon – an activist and bookstore owner who recently addressed a panel on “Hurricane Katrina Media Coverage” – I know what I'm supposed to do. I have to become part of the mass conspiracy among the whites of the world, to secretly enslave then exterminate the blacks of the world.

Sounds pretty fucking ridiculous doesn’t it? Any sane person should think so, but Mr. Kambon believes white people are planning to kill all the black people on earth.

As ridiculous as that sounds, Kamau Kambon said a lot of other equally ridiculous things. For example, he went on to say that white people created an “international plantation” for black people, which makes “every white person on earth a plantation master.” He even went as far as saying blacks are "at war."

He also said white people “have retina scans, they have what they call racial profiling, DNA banks, and they’re monitoring our people to try to prevent the one person from coming up with the one idea. And the one idea is, how are we going to exterminate white people, because that in my estimation is the only conclusion I have come to. We have to exterminate white people off the face of the planet to solve this problem.”

So, according to Mr. Kambon, the problem: whites are planning to exterminate all the blacks. His solution: the blacks better figure out how to exterminate all the whites first.

Either Mr. Kambon has been drinking excessive amounts of chlorinated pool water and eating strange mushrooms in his backyard, or he’s certifiably in-fucking-sane. I mean, how delusional and paranoia-riddled does a brain have to be to make up this shit?

It wouldn’t matter very much if he was just some random wacko, but he used to be a professor of education at St. Augustine’s College in Raleigh, North Carolina! And people wonder why their kids come back from college with all kinds of crazy ideas championed by the lunatic fringe. They’re letting wing-nuts with crazy ideas run the colleges when they shouldn’t even be allowed on the property.

Anyway, in order to ease Mr. Kambon’s seemingly frazzled mind, I am going on record right here to promise I will never kill all the black people in the world. You have my word as a gentleman. I can assure you, I am neither planning, nor part of, any white conspiracy to harm the black populations of the world in any way.

What I suggest you do, Mr. Kambon, is go back to the home, take your meds, mellow down easy, and rethink your conspiracy theories. Try to come up with a more plausible theory; maybe a theory about the gray aliens forcing the species known as Bigfoot to do grunt work in their underground bunkers where bizarre experiments involving hybrid human/alien life forms are performed. More plausible indeed.

The article about Mr. Kambon’s interesting ideas can be found here.

Re: Some Kind of Menstrual - or - Metallicunt

Ok, I posted this shit before, but that was quite a while ago. In fact, I think it was almost six months ago. The fact is, I was reminded of how much Metallica sucks now after mistakenly catching a few minutes of Some Kind of Monster. It pisses me off, so I decided to re-post this rant. Besides, I'm too busy to write something new right now.

I was recently on a trip to the bay area. It was lovely San Francisco, where gays hold hands freely in the streets, and smoking near a federal building is a crime. What a great city. Well, not really, but I was stuck there for a number of days and I had to deal with it. Needless to say, I stayed in my room most of the time. I didn't get many cable channels in my room but I did get VH1. Yeah, I know, that's not good news, but it was something to watch when they aired Some Kind of Monster.

Don't get me wrong. I've been a Metallica fan for years. I've got all the CDs (including plenty of bootlegs), I've got the Live Shit Binge Purge box, I've got tons of their shirts, a program from a live show, posters, and stickers. I've got it all. I've been a fan for years. When Load and Reload came out, I forced myself to enjoy the CDs for what they were - they were decent CDs, I'll give them that, but they were hardly Metallica.

Honestly, if that was the way Metallica wanted to go, good for them. It wasn't the Metallica I knew and loved, but it was still listenable. Who cared if their hair was short, they cold still kick ass. Then the whole Napster thing happened. Honestly, I don't blame Lars, et al. That's a whole other story though, so forget about that for now. All I'm saying is, I've been a fan of the band - thick and thin - for a long time. Then I heard St. Anger.

The production was bad, and the majority of the music was bad. I bought the CD at Target for $9.99 and I still felt ripped off. Granted, the additional DVD that came with the CD was cool, and sounded a lot better than the CD, but that couldn't make up for an overall crappy record. I've listened to St. Anger plenty of times and it does nothing for me. In fact, it's almost nu-metal. If there is one thing I cannot tolerate, it is nu-metal.

Even through all of this, I still insisted that Metallica kicked ass. St. Anger was a fluke, everyone has off days (or months in this case), and I could overlook it. Metallica would eventually make up for it by kicking ass on their next record. I truly believed this until, in my hotel room in San Francisco (where Metallica's reign began), I watched Some Kind of Monster.

I've never seen such emasculating footage. These guys, who at one point were the pinnacle of badassitude, were now sniveling, whiney, epicene old men who argued like menstruating bitches fighting for attention. It was shameless and pathetic. Metallica was actually sitting in a room with a wimpy psychologist telling them how to feel and they were listening to him. The old Metallica would have shoved a vodka bottle up his nose and punched him in the face, but this, nu-Metallica, was sitting there, teary-eyed talking about their feelings.

The whole movie was one big bitchfest, complete with pointless drama, needless emotional breakdowns, and six months of rehab for James Hetfield. Since when did men, not just men - fucking Metallica, need wimpy shrinks to make them cry in order resolve their problems? Now I can see why Jason Newsted left the band. He was probably like, "Dammit, this is Metallica. We should be kicking ass and busting balls, but all the other guys in the band want to do is cry and exchange tampons." Most of Newsted’s new bands suck, but still, Newsted was smart to leave Metallica.

Men don't solve their personal problems by crying and talking about their feelings. Essentially any problem between guys can be solved with a fight and a drink. Here's an example of what I mean:

Guy 1: Hey asshole! I heard you were talkin' shit about me.
Guy 2: Yeah? What are you gunna' do about it?
Guy 1: I'm going to beat the shit out of you.
Guy 2: Is that so. Well, fuck you, let's see you try!
Fight ensues and both guys take damage. Bloody nose is wiped clean, teeth are spit out, and they help each other off the floor.
Guy 1: *Sniff* Good fight bro.
Guy 2: You too man. Sorry about the shit talking.
Guy 1: Yeah, no biggie.
Guy 2: Wanna' get a beer?
Guy 1: Why the fuck not?
Guy 2: No hard feelings right?
Guy 1: Fuck no! What am I, a girl?

That's just how it works with guys. I've been shanked by a guy and then drank a beer with him ten minutes later when he let me use his sock to wipe the blood from my wound. Holding a grudge and bitching about it all the time is what happens with women, or men who go to a shrink. Seriously, Metallica should just be thrown in a small, poorly lit room and be forced to duke it out until they knock all the pussy out of each other.

It seems that Metallica have gotten old and wimpy. It's sad really; they used to kick ass. Some Kind of Monster does a good job of explaining why St. Anger sucked so much. How the hell are you supposed to record a decent metal CD when you're busy crying to your shrink? It is my hope that Metallica will stop bleeding out of their genitals, grow some balls, and kick ass once again. If not, I've got plenty of death and black metal to listen to - no skin off my nads. It's just a shame to see a once badass band turn into a bunch of bitchy old men who'd rather talk about their girly feelings than beat the shit out of each other and then get drunk.

International Cursing!

I’ve watched a number of Japanese horror movies over the past few months. These movies are usually pretty gruesome, often with sick and twisted endings, and full of graphic violence and language. Since I am prone to immature Beavis and Butthead like fits of laughter brought on by filthy language, I decided to go online and look for some more Japanese insults, swear words, and phrases.

Below are a few of the more interesting phrases I found. Some of them are pretty funny too. Some of the following phrases are so humorous – to me anyway – they’re less insulting and more entertaining. Feel free to look at this list not as more senseless filth on the internet, but as an exercise in ethnic and cultural diversity.

Note: I don’t speak Japanese at all so don’t give me a hard time if any of the words are wrong. I got them off the internet and have no real way of knowing if they are accurate or not.

Mattsu! – Oh crap!
As in, “Oh crap! I just found out all that soft roe I was eating was fish sperm!”

Hara guzuchi o tataku na – Shut the fuck up
Very important to know when you’re in a Japanese karaoke bar and some drunkass businessmen start singing the Spice Girls’ greatest hits or that fucking Chumbawamba song.

Kisama – Lord of the donkeys
I’m not sure if that’s really an insult. I mean, lord of the donkeys is a more impressive title than the one I have at work.

Kisama Tama – Lord of donkey’s balls
I’d be amazed if someone was capable of using this insult in anger, with a straight face. I know I couldn’t.

Issunboshi – One inch boy (refers to penis size)
There are a lot of small penis insults out there, and this is by far the least threatening.

Chinkasu – Dick cheese
An oldie but a goodie.

Benjo Mushi! - Shithouse insect!
Filthy, poo - bug is a pretty good insult as far as I’m concerned.

Anatano ohkaasan wa kuso desu! - Your mother is shit!
This insult sort of bypasses that whole clichéd “your mamma is so fat” stage. Saying this to someone is kind of like asking to be punched in the face.

Curry aji no unko ka unko aji no curry ka docchi ga ii? - Which is better, curry-flavored shit, or shit-flavored curry?
A question for the ages, really. Although, I think most people prefer curry flavored curry.

Anata no ketsu wa kusa da oyobi ore wa shibakariki da! - Your ass is grass, and I'm the lawnmower!
This could well be the world’s coolest threat. It’s only cool, of course, if after you say it to someone, you beat their ass royally. Otherwise, you’re going to look like a tool.

Slipknot One Member Short

It was reported on blabbermouth.net recently, that Jim Root, one of Slipknot’s six guitarists, broke his wrist and would have to sit out the early part of the Subliminal Verses Tour. However, blabbermouth.net didn’t mention how Mr. Root broke his wrist. At first, I was just going to say he was injured while giving free hand-jobs at a drag queen convention, but I decided to meet with him and get the truth instead. What follows is my completely fictitious interview with Slipknot’s Jim Root.

Me: Hello, Mr. Root. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to talk with me.

Jim Root: No problem, I’d do anything for my fans.

Me: Anything, huh? Would you eat a big bowl of hyena buttholes for your fans?

Jim Root: Shit, I’d do that just because I love buttholes.

Me: No surprise there…anyway, I probably should point out that I’m not a Slipknot fan. In fact, I’m resisting the urge to shove that stupid mask up your ass and laugh right in your face.

Jim Root: You know what? My mom said the exact same thing last week. Just don’t hurt me.

Me: No promises, but I’ll try to be civil.

Jim Root: So what did you want to talk to me about?

Me: How did you break your wrist?

Jim Root: Well, me and the guys were horsing around in the shower after a show, and Corey was trying to put his finger in my ass, and – long story short – I slipped on the soap.

Me: So you broke your wrist in a homoerotic shower accident?

Jim Root: Come on! When you say it like that it sounds pretty gay.

Me: Dude, you fell while playing grabass in the shower with eight other guys.

Jim Root: I suppose it’s too late to say I broke my wrist fighting a bear, huh?

Me: You think?

Jim Root: Damn!

Me: Here’s another question. What’s with Stonesour? Being in one shitty band wasn’t enough for you?

Jim Root: Now you’re just being hurtful. I think you should leave.

Me: You are such a wuss.

That pretty much ended my interview. Before I left Mr. Root’s property, I took a moment to throw a rock through the driver’s side window of one of his cars and take a piss on his front seat. That was a pretty sweet day.

Another Movie I Refuse To See

Below is a link to an article written by Debbie Schlussel about the movie "The War Within." Now, since I have not seen it, I can't write anything about it. But after reading Schlussel's article - she DID see the movie - I know I don't want to see it, and I know I would be furious if I did.

Here's the article.

Sound Advice

I haven’t had much free time to post lately, and today is no different. But, I stumbled upon a bit of advice I received years ago and it still makes perfect sense.

When someone annoys you it takes 42 muscles in your face to frown. But, it only takes 4 muscles to extend your arm and bitch-slap the motherfucker upside the head.

Of course, for every bit of sound advice I’ve gotten over the years, two or three idiots thought they could be really cool and give me some bad advice. As I’ve noticed, most bad advice is disseminated by way of crappy bumper-sticker. Here is one such bumper sticker someone thought I would appreciate.

Life is short. Don’t be a dick.

Nice try, buttmunch; but life is too short and irritating to go around being nice to everyone. Which is why instead of graciously accepting the dopey bumper-sticker, I followed the good advice I was given previously and bitch-slapped the misinformed motherfucker. He’s lucky I didn’t tie the long hair on his head to the short hair on his nuts and kick his ass down the street.

You’d think he would have learned his lesson, but a few short weeks later, I noticed this gem on his bumper.

Stop pissing me off. I’m running out of places to hide the bodies.

It is my long-held theory that if you have to go around telling people how crazy and dangerous you are, you’re probably not that crazy and even less dangerous. The principle is the same when it comes to nu-metal bands. I can’t even count the number of these shitty bands who sing about how mentally unstable they are. Really? You’re crazy? Is that why you got that shitty tribal tattoo on your face, or are you really just a stupid asshole?

Point is, if you’re really fucked up in the head and dangerous to your fellow human beings, the only advertising you need is the live news coverage after you get arrested for eating three people and dry-humping corpses down at the cemetery. Chances are, no one who’s ever gone batshit crazy and murdered a bunch of people had a stupid bumper-sticker like that on his car. And if he did, it was partially acceptable because of the irony.

In summation, there’s no point fucking around when kicking someone’s ass would do the trick. Then again, there’s no point in going to jail for aggravated assault when you could just as easily call someone a dickless pansy and walk away. Or you can provoke someone until they hit you first; then it’s self-defense. Actually, in the lawsuit-happy society America has become, you’re probably just better off staying home and yelling at people on TV.

Random Stupid Asses

There are a lot of stupid asses out there. I just want to point out a few that have been pissing me off lately.

Jackasses that rave in the convenience store parking lot near my house: This is probably the dopiest thing I've ever seen. These clever fellows have found a way to have fun even though they're so lame they couldn't get invited to a rave. They decided to pack the rave up (them, their mom's shitty, old, faded, red Honda, and a tape with gay trance music) and take it with them to a stupid parking lot. Congratulations, you're hanging out in a parking lot on a Friday night. These three geniuses actually play their trance tape with the windows rolled down and dance around next to their car; twirling glow sticks around like a bunch of fairies for several hours at a time. They must have some idea of just how fucking ridiculous they look; but then again, they might just be idiots.

Stupid group of guys that rap to a beat CD in the convenience store parking lot near my house: These shit-eaters should meet up with the raver kids and have a parking lot party. Hell, they’re already hanging out in the same damn parking lot. These guys hang around their "pimped-out rides" (old trucks and SUV's with shiny rims) and take turns "free-styling" to a CD full of random drumbeats. It's terrible. "Professional" rappers suck as is, but there's something about a bunch of white guys struggling to rhyme "fo-shizzy" while flashing gang signs at each other in a parking lot that is especially awful.

Kids that hang out in front of the liquor/grocery store and try to get me to buy them shit they’re not old enough to have: Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for underage drinking and smoking, but I’m not going to put my ass on the line so some dipshit fourteen year old dressed like one of the morons from Good Charlotte can impress his girlfriend with wine coolers and Black & Milds. Lots of people have been busted in this area for buying for minors. It may have something to do with how they go about asking adults to get them liquor/smokes.

These stupid kids hang around in front of the store and watch you when you walk into the store. I go the back of the store to get my usual bottle of Evan Williams, and when I pay at the register I see two or three of these little idiots, looking in the window and pointing at me. That’s about as subtle as punching a cop in the mouth.

Now they know I’m old enough to buy them stuff, so as soon as I emerge from the store, barely before the automatic doors have had a chance to open, these overgrown fetuses swarm around me like I’m a pile of raw hams and they’re Rosie O’Donnell.

Kid 1: “Yo, Homie. Can you go in and buy us some booze and smokes?”
Me: “I thought being straightedge was in these days.”
Kid 1: “What?”
Me: “Never mind.”
Kid 2: “Dude, come on!”
Me: “Fuck off kid.”
Kid 3: (summons up some courage) “You’re a dick man.”
Me: “Yeah, and you’re a little shit. Get lost.”

Then they usually leave me alone, or they’ll follow me to my car threatening me until I threaten them back. What the fuck is it with kids these days? Back in my day, we minors were smarter than that. We’d either drink with some hobos, or crash some college party when all the college kids were too fucked up to know – or give a shit for that matter – who we were. We used to walk out of these parties with backpacks full of liquor. But kids these days, they’re a bunch of tactless nimrods.

Anti-smoking Nazis: Some of the anti-smoking people are loony-toons. I’ve actually seen someone driving pull over just to bitch at someone minding his own business smoking at the bus stop. Insanity. And if they’re not spending a fortune getting anti-smoking laws passed and pissing everyone off, they’re shooting dirty looks at smokers followed by snide comments about the evils of smoking. I myself have encountered a number of these people, even though I rarely leave my house. Here are a few of the things I’ve been told, followed by my smartass response.

Guy: “Smoking will kill you, you know?”
Me: “So will stress, so don’t worry about it.”

Guy: “Smoking kills!”
Me: “So does drinking gasoline. Fuck off.”

Lady: “Smoking causes cancer!”
Me: “For most people maybe, but my physiology is different from that of normal humans. What causes cancer in normal humans actually prevents me from getting cancer.

Lady: “I used to smoke you know, it is really bad for you. It will kill you. It would've killed me but I beat big tobacco and quit.”
Me: “Really? It'll kill me? (Take a smooth and satisfying drag on cigarette and exhale smoke happily) Boy that's smooth. I bet you miss that. How long has it been since you last smoked a cigarette? Gosh, one of these in the evening makes the stress from a busy day at work just disappear. Hey bitch, stop drooling and get off my lawn

That ought to shut them up, or at least piss them off. Maybe next time they'll think twice about fucking with a smoker minding his own business. Next time you're somewhere with no laws against smoking in public, and someone near you fake coughs to let you know they are an anti-smoker, light up five or six smokes at once, and blow all that smoke right in their face. It's not as satisfying as punching them right between the eyes, but it still works.

These are just a few of the random stupid asses pissing me off at the moment. There are plenty more, and I’m sure I’ll mention them at some point in the near future.

A Losing Battle

I just returned from a short vacation. By short, I mean a day and a half. While 36 hours is usually plenty of time for me to get thoroughly blitzed, this time, as that bitch Fate would have it, I got sick. Usually when I get sick I use it as an excuse to drink heavily. After all, alcohol kills germs, so turning myself into a human oak barrel should kill the sickness-causing germs. I know this argument goes completely against science, but I maintain it anyway purely for exculpation.

As a further kick in the cherries from Fate, Murphy’s Law, or just another random evil deed done by the universe, the particular illness I was afflicted with wouldn’t allow me to keep a damn bit of anything down. In a few moments a perfectly fine shot of whiskey became nothing more than worthless puke. I hate throwing up when I didn’t drink enough to deserve it in the first place.

Being a stubborn guy with a brutish temper, I refused to give up my 36 hours of drunkenness. I assumed if I chugged large amounts of alcohol in short amounts of time, and tried to resist the tremendous urge to vomit caused by illness, I might be able to keep some alcohol in me long enough to eventually get wrecked. I was determined as hell, and gave it the old college try.

What followed was the epitome of pointless endeavors. While my spirit was more than willing, my flesh was weak and urpy (+5 cool points if you know what cartoon show I’m referencing by using the term urpy). The longest I was able to keep any amount of alcohol down was most likely under five minutes. It was a furious whirlwind of courageous drinking and projectile vomiting.

I’m not a fool, and soon realized I was fighting a losing battle and wasting perfectly good alcohol at the same time. Damn this mortal coil. All my heroic efforts were for naught and after a brief soliloquy admitting defeat, I spent the rest of my short vacation playing Mortal Kombat: Shaolin Monks, and watching movies. That Korean movie “Old Boy” is seriously fucked up. Seriously. If that’s not a reason to see the movie, I don’t know what is.

Congrats John Roberts

Congratulations to John Roberts who after weeks of inane mostly partisan questioning, bitching, protesting, stalling, and vehement, slobbering screed, was finally sworn in as the 17th Chief Justice of the United States.

Some Teenage Girls Killed Themselves! Let's Blame Music Again!

Blabbermouth.net recently posted the story of two, 14 year-old, French girls who committed suicide in Paris. They bound their wrists together and jumped out of a 17th- story window. Sounds like pretty normal behavior for overly-dramatic teenage girls looking for attention. They should’ve just written shitty poetry instead; at least then people wouldn’t be blaming the suicide on music again.

Of course certain groups are blaming the French black metal band Anorexia Nervosa and their “violent and death-obsessed lyrics that can tip the sensitive into self-destruction.” Am I ever sick of hearing this bullshit excuse. These girls were essentially depressed gothic chicks with low self-esteem who wanted more attention, most likely from their snotty French parents. So when acting out by wearing all black and listening to scary music didn’t make their parents pay more attention to them, they had a pity party and jumped out of a window. Incidentally, if they would have learned how to mime I’m sure their parents would have paid plenty of attention to them.

Now, as most other people on the planet, one of the girls had a weblog. Here are a few things she posted there. I’m not sure if they are Anorexia Nervosa lyrics or her own lyrics because the article on Blabbermouth.net didn’t do a great job making it very clear. I could have just looked up Anorexia Nervosa’s lyrics, but I have better things to do.

“I hate you. I vomit on your soul and your family. Death to your parents. Torture and rape to your children. I hate you to death." Scary. It’s nice to know that 14 year old French girls are infinitely more threatening than the entire French army.

"You are the whore of human weakness. Tepid and obscene. Blinded by the sweaty desire of vanity. Worthless." Translation: That bitch across the schoolyard looks so good in her skirt and I feel fat today. What a stupid stuck-up whore she must be. Damn, why did I wear JNCO’s today? They make my ass look so fat! I bet that stupid, vain whore can eat rich food all day and never gain weight, while I have to eat nothing but yogurt or I look like the Michelin Man. That Bitch!

"I can't take any more. I have had enough. I have burned my eyes and I am afraid." Translation: If I kill myself then they’ll miss me. Yeah, how would they feel if I was gone? I’ll show them!

Of course, if these are Anorexia Nervosa’s lyrics, you’d have to be a real drama-queen to take them seriously. Which is funny because the band is composed of a bunch of dudes…oh yeah, they’re French. Nevermind.

The fact is, music did not make these two teens kill themselves. If the lyrics could make people kill themselves there’d be a lot more dead Frogs about. If the lyrics can make people commit suicide, wouldn’t the members of the band have killed themselves by now? After all, they wrote the lyrics, and they must have meant what they wrote. Sorry, no. Their dark lyrics are purely theatrical and written to sell CDs and sound scary. Which reminds me, it's been a while since I beat up someone wearing a Cradle of Filth shirt.

Whenever someone who happens to listen to metal (and many times even pussy rock like Marilyn Manson) commits suicide, people are quick to blame music instead of parental neglect or abuse, psychological conditions, or just plain-old gothic-teen-girl attention-craving angst. Some people just want to die. Shit happens. But blaming music takes the blame away from the real issues, and generally pisses me off. Hell, some of the bands I listen to have burned down churches and murdered people. I’ve never done either of the two (By the way, I’ve never asked Satan to rain down fire on the Christians either, and I’m fairly sure you don’t even go to jail for that). Blaming music for suicide is like blaming aliens for crop circles. Either way you’re out in left field while the real culprits are skulking away just out of sight.

UPDATE: Today on Blabbermouth.net more information was posted about the teen girl suicide. It turns out, “Both girls — it transpired — were heavily influenced by the so-called goth movement. They wore black clothes and body studs.” I called it.

I also surmised they were both desperate for attention. The circumstances surrounding their suicide backs up this assumption:

Last Friday afternoon (Sept. 23) Marion and Virginie, both aged 14, visited a friend's apartment at the top of a tower-block in the middle-class suburb of Ivry-sur-Seine. After telling him to wait in an adjoining room and expect a "surprise", they bound their hands together. "Then they said, 'Come in.' And I saw them on the window-ledge. I couldn't do anything. They just jumped," the friend Benjamin later told the press.

They just had to get that last bit of attention didn’t they? Also:

“Jeff Veillet, of leading French rock magazine Rock One, agreed: ‘Yes, there is a provocative side to groups like ANOREXIA. But just because they talk about death in their songs, it does not mean they want people to commit suicide. It is an act — a way of getting through to adolescents. They are not aggressive people at all.’"

Shit, they’re French. Of course they’re not “aggressive.” This shit happens from time to time yet the first thing people blame is music when, as I as well as many others have said, music isn't what did it. I'm sure this isn't the last time this kind of thing will happen, which is too bad because I am rather sick of hearing about it.

Sculptor of Flesh

1349 just released a video for the song "Sculptor of Flesh." It's a damn good song and a cool video. Since I don't have time to post much right now, here's a link to the video (it might take a bit of time to load). Enjoy.

"Sculptor of Flesh" off of the album "Hellfire" by 1349

You're Still a Tool

Osamahatesu is a tool. Yeah, I know this is immature, but the sheer amount of alcohol residue in my bloodstream coupled with the huge number of freelance jobs I have right now leave me little enthusiasm or time to do much better.