Existence is merely a prelude to eternity.
--I don’t know where I read that.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
Morbid Misanthrope's Drunken Safety Tip for the Weekend
You can't fall in the shower if you wash yourself in the sink.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
California Court Rules Arresting Criminals Discrimination
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.
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.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
A Guest Post
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.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Little-Known Halloween Trivia
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.
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.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Fuck Proposition 86
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?
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?
Friday, September 29, 2006
Super-Happy, Feelgood, Power Metal Video of the Weekend
| 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. | |
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
A Story Worth Mentioning
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.”
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.”
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Deicide's New Logo
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?
Friday, August 25, 2006
The Feelgood Music Video of the Weekend
| 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! | |
Friday, August 18, 2006
The End of Dissection: What a shame
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.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Slayer, What the Hell?
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.
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.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Don't Hassel the Hoff
| 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. | |
Friday, July 14, 2006
Great Obituary, Great Fellow I Never Met
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.
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.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Religion of Peace?
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.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
A Cause That Matters
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.
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.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Oh Boy! Another Movie I Won't See
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.
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.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Viva Las Vegas
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.
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.
Monday, May 22, 2006
I Totally Fell
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.
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:
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
Cordially,
Morbid Misanthrope
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
The Da Vinci Code
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:
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:
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Abu Musab al-Zarqawi is a Pussy
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!
Saturday, April 22, 2006
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...
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
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!
"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!
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Saturday, April 01, 2006
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:
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:
Saturday, March 18, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
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?
Friday, January 20, 2006
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
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).
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).
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Happy New Year
Wouldn’t it have been funny if instead of a fiddle, Nero had played a tuba as Rome burned?
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
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!
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!
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