The “C Word” (Not THAT C Word…)

Sometimes the only way to state an opinion, a view, is to just flat-out say it. No covering it up with rhetoric and cute sentiments. Just saying it. So here it goes…

Cancer isn’t funny.

At all. Got that? However, things RELATED to cancer, such as trends surrounding the disease, are fuckin’ hillarious. Case and point:

The other day I was walking past a vehicle in the parking lot, when out of the corner of my eye, I happened to glance upon a sticker. A tiny, insignificant sticker that would shatter my day and leave me a broken, helpless sack of flesh. As most of you know, bumper stickers have had a tendency to send me into a fit of rage on more than one occasion. Which can be seen here and here!

However, this one may have crushed my very spirit. A vice on my brain that is clamped down, holding me in place, while it tickle-tortures my senses into wishing I was dead. All it said was this:

“I Love My Big Ta-Ta’s”

Well son of a bitch, really?!

It also had one of those little pink ribbons on it, just so you knew that it was somehow Breast Cancer related. Otherwise, that woman would probably just look like a conceited asshole. But with the ribbon in place, we can be assured that that woman looks like… a conceited asshole.

My first complaint is about the wording itself. Let’s just assume for a moment this is a classy idea. A touching sentiment towards the fight against Breast Cancer. Assume, alright? Now that we’ve tweaked the common sense out of our brains long enough for this to make sense, let’s just look at the wording.

“Ta-Ta’s”

Out of ALL the nicknames for tits, that may very well be the most inane and tasteless. It’s certainly a far stretch from classy. At least in my mind. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe that’s what the Queen of England calls her breasts. I mean, if Missy Elliott was the Queen of England. Which she is not. Unfortunately.

If you want to be taken seriously, use a better word. Tits. Boobs. Cans. Shit, even Sweater Meat is less obnoxious than “Ta-Ta’s”. But that thought was quickly pushed aside by my next. This person likes their BIG Ta-Ta’s. Not their decent-sized ones. Not their practical, non-back destroying sized ones. But their BIG ta-ta’s. By who’s standards? And what a mean thing to say in regards to breast cancer anyway. “Sorry your chest is broken, but aren’t mine FABULOUS?!”

I don’t think throwing a tiny pink ribbon behind a massively pretentious, vain statement such as this really makes it any good. It certainly doesn’t do anything to help fight Breast Cancer or aid in the happiness of people with Breast Cancer. Not even a little.

Things like this bother me about the “Fightin’ Cancer Trend”. Weird things people WITHOUT cancer do in order to “help” those who DO have cancer. Like multi-mile walks or runs or bikes or canoe trips or unicycle events. What does that really achieve? You want me to pay you money to run thirty-six miles for cancer research? Really? Can’t I just GIVE you the money for the research, and you can sit down and have a cup of coffee and fuckin’ relax? Of course not, because how would people KNOW you were involved if you don’t slap on a mass-produced slogan tee and run around downtown so the news will film it?

Isn’t that interesting? You get attention from it. That’s all that is. Sure, these people care, but they need to be SEEN caring for it to matter to them. I care about people with cancer too, but I don’t give two squirts if you put me on the news for it. And I’m sure as hell not going to run around in ugly shorts for an entire afternoon just to get some attention for my caring. My ego isn’t that fucked. Well, it is, but that’s what this blog is for!

I’ve seen that whole run thing taken to a horrible level. One time I actually witnessed a poster for a 10k run for quadriplegics. Wow. Just wow. That’s fantastic. We can just line them all up by the finish line, in their fancy wheelchairs. And you can run by them with your functioning legs at top speed, and hell, why not hold out one of those functioning arms and give them a good ol’ fashioned flip of the bird while you’re at it. I can’t think of any better way to make it about you and not about them. Here’s an idea. How about you stop being a show-off and give them the care they need? Is that so damn hard?

We have to attach a fundraiser or an event to EVERYTHING related to diseases. It’s terrible that the vast majority of this nation needs to get something in return in order to give money to a charity. Bake Sale for Cancer Awareness. “Well, I don’t know about given money to a cancer charity… but I do know about given money for chocolate cake.”

It gets worse from there though. There are also the things people do for “moral support”. You’ve seen it, all over the place. Your cousin has to get chemo therapy and loses all his hair, so the whole family goes out and gets their heads shaved to “make him feel better”. Imagine what he must be thinking when you show up in his hospital room bald.

“Oh, I see what you did there. Because I… so you… and yeah, you do know I still have CANCER RIGHT?! You think I’m bummed ’cause I lost all my hair? Yeah, not so much. The hair thing is sorta the LEAST of my concerns right now. I’m a little bit more pre-occupied by the whole ‘Life-Sucking Tumor’ thing. The hair is kind of an after thought…”

If this is where you are willing to go, why not go all the way. Perhaps your friend gets testicular cancer and has to have a ball removed. Why don’t you head on over to the plastic surgeon and have ol’ Lefty lopped off. You DO want to be supportive, don’t you?

I’m also sick of all the “support” that is given to people who simply KNOW someone with cancer. Family of Cancer Victim’s chatrooms. Forums. Books. Whole books written on how to live with someone who is living with a terminal disease. Listen, and I’m going to be as blunt as possible about this, it is a LOT harder to HAVE cancer than to know someone who has it. I know that seems harsh, but it’s the truth. Cancer sorta makes you feel a bit crummy. Sure, you may feel SAD when your dad gets cancer, but you aren’t in the horrible physical agony that he is. Not only is he dealing with the emotional strain of, you know, being handed life’s Shit Card, but he’s also sorta dying and stuff. The only time the having cancer thing is less difficult than the knowing someone who has it thing, is when the person with cancer dies. They’re dead, so they can’t really suffer anymore. You, however, now can suffer.

This is all coming across as bitter and cynical, no? A little anyway. But the fact remains: If you’re going to care, care. Don’t cover it in a bunch of attention-grabbing sentiments. Don’t try to play it off like you’re being fucked over as bad as the person with the actual disease. Because you are not. I’ve known people with cancer. And they got fucked over hardcore. I, however, am still alive and well. Sure, it’s sad to watch people die. But ultimately, it doesn’t help them one bit for YOU to play victim. I’ll give you a scenario to help emphasis my point.

Let’s say you’re with your buddy, and someone shoots him in the face with a staple gun. I don’t know why, just roll with it. You have two choices. You can curl in a ball and cry because you just witnessed something that was undoubtedly disgusting. Or you can run and get the medical help he no doubt needs. Which one do you think helps Mr. Staple Face? Exactly. Maybe if we started really getting serious about caring and research and working towards a cure, we’d have fuckin’ found one by now.

We have a million ways to raise money for it, now let’s put that effort into actually stopping it. Dammit!

By the way, if you have cancer and this offends you: Tough shit. Because this is the first time you’ll see someone call for cancer research and have it be totally selfless. I want you to get the treatment and care you deserve. Life gave you lemons (in the form of cancerous growths), and the least I can do is give you the sugar to make that shit into lemonade. And then we can sell the lemonade to rich, white people who want to feel like they’re “doing something to help.”.

I don’t want to discourage anyone from participating in the cancer research fundraisers and stuff. I know it sounds like I am, but I’m not. I just want you to think for a second. Just stop, for just a moment, before you slap on that big pink ribbon, and consider the people with the cancer. Think of your loved ones and hold that in your heart. Don’t pose for pictures, don’t bask in the glow of people telling you you’re doing a good thing: Just give a shit! It’s not that difficult. I give a shit, and I’m a resentful asshole.

One final note: One of your big Ta-Ta’s is bigger than the other and it looks funny. Enjoy the rest of your life!

Thank THIS!

It can’t all be negative here at FiS. Well, it can, and it probably will be, but I can attempt making something positive here, right?

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I believe I will let you all in on what I am thankful for this holiday season.

I Am Thankful…

• For Gummy Worms! Or bears, or fruits, or anything in the gummy family, really. Hell, you could throw a bag of gummy penis’ in front of me and I’d probably be willing to nom on them.
• That I Am Not One Of John And Kate Gosselin’s Shitty Children! I’m not kidding. If I was I’d be forced to shoot myself. Not only because my childhood would have been stolen by my over-zealous attention hungry shit-for-brains parents, but also because I’d have a chance of growing up to look like THIS GUY:

Can you say stupid looking Goober?

• That I Have Gone 22-Plus Years On This Planet Without Being Fully Engulfed In Flame. I can’t even begin to express my thankfulness for this one. If there is one thing I’d like to avoid being for the duration of my time on this planet, it’s a human inferno.
• They Can’t Censor The Internet. Because if they did, I’d have no vessel for my colorful language. Where else can I put words such as “Fucktardation” and “Fuckilution” into the public eye? I do, however, believe that BECAUSE the internet isn’t censored, we have a lot of fuckilution clouding it up. But that’s what you get when you have a bunch of people running around screwing things up with all their fucktardation.
• My Radio Has An Off Button: I mainly feel this way because Sheryl Crow exists. I’d be REALLY thankful if gravity reversed in the small patch of land she occupies and then she flies away into the sky and burns up in the atmosphere on her way out. I swear, I didn’t hate the word “Sun” until she started writing music. Sheryl, babe, do you have to use it in EVERY damn song?! No one is that happy all the time. And if you are, you need medication. Also, I call you babe simply to be facetious, because you are hideous to look at as well as listen. Something is seriously wrong with your face. It’s too fake to be fake. It’s as if they carved a statue of your face, then beat you with it repeatadle until shards of your own face stuck in your face. This stopped making sense a few sentances ago, but it’s still making sense. Does that make sense? Sheryl Crow ruins all sense. “IIIIII  wanna soak up the sun!” Fine, then get in a rocket and shoot yourself at it, you obnoxious lunatic.
• I Don’t Have Barophobia. That’s fear of Gravity, in case you’re wondering. Wouldn’t that be a bitch!
• We Made A Holiday That Celebrates The Wonders Of Pie. That’s something we can all be thankful for this Thanksgiving. Pie. And usually multiple kinds of it. In fact, someone brought pie into work today. Which means in a little bit, I’ll be shoving pie in my face. Be jealous, fuckers! The only way it could be better is if it was pie with gummy worms on it. MMM Gummy Worm Pie! OM NOM NOM.
• I Haven’t Gotten Anyone Pregnant Yet. If only because I’m not that big a fan of watching a girl fall down the stairs…
• I Haven’t Had To Kill Someone Yet. Basically, it’s somewhat of a minor miracle that I haven’t. I mean, everyday the thought crosses my mind. Guy on the bus tries to “Axe” the bus driver a question. I want to murder him. With an axe even. Several co-workers simply open their mouths and it makes homicide seem like a viable option. One time, I actually just SAW a person on the street and wanted to push them in front of a SUV. Why? ’cause they kinda looked like a douche, that’s why. I’m also thankful I haven’t killed someone ’cause then I’d go to prison. And for those of you who don’t know, I’m a tiny fucker. Which would make me a wonderful candidate for wife.
• I Was Born A White, Male In America. It’s like winning the fuckin’ universe PowerBall man. I’m not saying White Men are BETTER, we’re just not ever on the shit end of bigotry. Unless we’re gay. Or fat. Or non-Christian… FUCK! Nevermind…
• “Touched By An Angel” Was Taken Off The Air. BEFORE the priest molestation scandals.
• Women Dig Guys With A Sense Of Humor. Oh wait, that’s completely bullshit. Nevermind that one either…
• The Nintendo Wii Has A Wrist Strap. ‘else there would be a pretty fair chance I’d have flung the controller through the TV while pwning bitch-ass goblins in Legend of Zelda. That, and there is also a good chance I’d have thrown it through the TV just trying to keep up with how quickly it tears through batteries. What the fuck, Nintendo, you don’t even SELL batteries so this doesn’t benefit you one bit! Does Mario and the Energizer Bunny have some kind of pact I don’t know about.

Ultimately, these are obviously meant to be a bit on the oddball side, so I figured I’d end this with some serious things I’m thankful for.

I’m thankful I’m still here, despite the fact that I sometimes wish I wasn’t. This place is fun, Earth I mean. It’s like one giant ball of things to make fun of. It’s wonderful in it’s total and utter shitty-ness. I’m also thankful that this blog has given me a medium not only to vent this shit out before I explode, but also to use it to make a couple people laugh. Which brings me to you, you crazy bastards, who are reading this. I’m thankful you fuckers are still around, reading my ranting and raving and considering it mildly amusing. Without your constant ego-boosting compliments, I wouldn’t be the ego-maniacle son of a bitch I am right now. In all seriousness, the last couple of months I’ve managed to become more active, and have also managed to read a ton of hillarious shit. I love you guys, all of you. You’re a bunch of lunatics and weirdos, and it makes my day better. Thanks for putting yourselves out there and saying what needs to be said. And hey, let’s keep  it up. Maybe someday we’ll become so well known that a few pre-teens will occasionaly leave horribly written comments on our blogs with shitty grammar and terrible spelling! We can always dream.

Anyway, now that I got all that positive bullshit out of the way. I’d like to end it with one more thing I’m thankful for:

• I’m Thankful That I’m STILL Not Engulfed In Fire.

Thank you, and enjoy your Day of Over-Eating And Sleeping For Extended Periods Of Time While Not Working.

~Bob

Back In Black (Friday)

Sin Season is in full swing now, my friends. And the turkey-shit is about to hit the fan.

This Thursday, Thanksgiving will cause a good majority of us to completely lose feeling in a few of our extremities. This may either be the result of over-consumption of foodstuffs, or perhaps a relative will get sick of your shit and kick you in the spine. Either way, Turkey Day is coming, and it’s lookin’ for blood.

Then, just shortly after Thanksgiving, comes Black Friday. A day named after the color of darkness for a very good reason: It’s pure fucking evil.

For those of you who don’t have the need to shop for Christmas, perhaps you don’t know what Black Friday is. Maybe you’re a non-believing heathen like me, or maybe you’re a Jew and don’t get cool shit during the holidays.

Or perhaps your family believes in giving out those “We Just Donated Money To A Charity In YOUR NAME!” gifts. If you know people that do that, do the world a favor would you: Kill them. Please? If you’re going to donate money to charity, just do it please. Don’t involve me. I don’t want my name to be associated with charity work. Next thing you know people will be thanking me for being a good person. And that’ll just muck up my reputation for being a total douchebag.

Anyway, I digress, the topic of this is shopping on Black (African American?) Friday. For some reason, Black Friday is starting to take the form of a legitimate holiday. And by that I mean it starts a few weeks before it actually starts. Halloween starts in July. Christmas starts in October. And Black Friday starts just shortly after it fuckin’ ENDS!

I understand the appeal. Who doesn’t want to go to the local electronics store and buy a battery-operated potato peeler for half price? Who doesn’t want to get sucker punched in the spleen by a mother of three who wants the last “Isn’t It Cool To Get Pregnant And Have A Baby” doll? Who doesn’t want to head over to the discount DVD bin at the store and sift through forty-three copies of “Made Of Honor” staring Patrick Dumb-sey?

Only TWENTY FIVE CENTS! I would have payed THIRTY for this! What a deal!!!

It starts out much like a scene in Braveheart does. The store manager hops up on a cash register and starts moving back and forth in front of an army of his best minimum-wage paid cashiers and customer service “experts”. He gives them a pep talk about the end of the world most likely falling on a Black Friday. He tells them of the horrors of Black Friday 1996, when Susan from Shoes was killed in a tragic accident involving a cheap pair of pumps. They then pray. Even those that don’t believe in a higher power figure “What the hell, might as well cover all my bases…”

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a collection of people is gathering, giving a very similar speech. These people are called…

…I have to pause for a second to let out a HUGE over-exagerated sigh…

…Bargain Hunters.

Let it be known that anyone that claims to be a “Bargain Hunter” is no longer allowed to breath the same air as me.

These BH’s are standing in the living room, strapping on elbow and knee pads, as if they were heading to the roller derby. For you see, it is this day that they have trained all year for. Clearance-Rack jumping is nothing compared to the wonders they are about to discover at the local Wal-Mart. The room smells of sex, probably a result of the various advertisements on tv and in the news papers that they have pinned up to the walls like naked lady posters.

They walk out to the lawn, their ugly-ass Mini Van already cleared of it’s back seats for extra room for crap, and they let out one last Braveheart-esque battlecry:

“They may take our paychecks… but they can never… take… OUR FREE COUPONS FOR HALF OFF NINTENDO WII GAMES FOR OUR ANNOYING COUSINS!!!!!!!!!”

And then, they are off.

This, of course, is actually taking place Thursday after dinner. Not on Black Friday itself. You obviously have to camp out in front of the local stores for twelve hours so you can get in first. You see them on the news, lined up outside Best Buy and Target, in sleeping bags. Tents. Hell, I’ve even seen one guy actually air-lift his house into the parking lot to avoid the drive home. They wait, like vultures over the corpse of a poor fuck who wandered into the desert, and they scheme.

“First, I’m going to have this latte. Then, I’ll go buy one of those TV’s that’s marked down from $1300 to $26 dollars. Then, I’m going to have a latte. And then it’s off to the clothing section to buy my husband a really ugly sweater, before they’re all sold out. Then, I’ll drink a latte. And then… ooo I should get Maggie that new Jonas Brothers vibrator, that’s the big seller this year! And then it’s time for a latte!”

It continues like this, all the way up until the guy who drew the short straw heads out to open the doors for the day. People set up their starting blocks and await for the Gun… er… lock to click. And when it does, no one is safe.

Elbows and hair pulling, punches and man-splitting swords being driven through people. It’s chaos. In fact, I believe Black Friday was the third layer of Hell in The Divine Comedy, wasn’t it?

I’m not knocking the deals, I’m really not. It’s cool and all that I can get shit for cheap, but like all good things inevitably do, it’s gotten the FUCK out of hand!

Every news paper, magazine, website, news program, and fuckin’ morning tv program have put out some kind of “Black Friday Survival Guide”. They actually USE the fuckin’ word SURVIVAL! Does that scare anyone else! They’re actually TELLING YOU that your life may actually be in danger when you go to the store. Well, fuck that. I’m staying in. I’m going online. I’m paying the difference in shipping and handling, like a SMART person!

Let me back up again, and explain that I am not buying SHIT this Friday. Not because I don’t want great deals. Not because I hate going to the stampede that is a shopping mall. I’m not buying anything because everyone else can blow me.

That, and I’m really, really broke. Really broke. Seriously. Anyone want to bum me like… five bucks?

It’ll just get worse. Because after Black Friday, people will just keep spending. Money they saved. Money they earned. Money they stole. Fuck, money that doesn’t even EXIST in a physical form will be spent this holiday season. And for what? The illusion of happiness that Christmas morning brings? I don’t buy it.

A solution is necessary to this problem. And I believe I’m just the guy for the job. Alright, I’m probably the LAST guy for the job, but I’m going to provide my answer anyway.

Let’s go old school, folks. Let’s ALL build Christmas presents. For one year, let’s have EVERYONE in the entire nation BUILD their presents. From scratch. Just household items and shit you find in the trash. That way, when the stores make ZERO dollars on Black Friday, maybe they’ll see it as a sign. A sign that the people are tired of the crazy bullshit that comes with getting 25% off edible underwear and a BOGO coupon for summer sausage shaped like the Statue of Liberty (real product, saw it at a store once, almost killed myself right then and there.).

So here is my list, of the things I will be giving my family and friends this holiday season:

For My Mom: I have made a… blanket. Yeah sure, it’s a blanket… out of the lint I’ve pulled from the little basket in the dryer. It’s warm and fuzzy and smells like moutain rain. Also, if you touch it… it’ll probably fall apart and make the room dusty. So uh… it’s a SHOW blanket…

For My Sister: Look it’s… it’s… a dollhouse. Made of old cereal boxes stuck together with what I REALLY hope is chewing gum.

For My Roomie: Remember that squirrel that got in our wall? Well, I found it. Or what’s left of it. So here, from the bottom of my heart, I have given to you a Stuffed Squirrel Torso. It’s soft (if you pet around the rot), and you can put pencils and stuff in the holes the maggots ate in it’s face.

To All My Friends: I cut down a tree in a backyard of some house down the street, and have cut it up into firewood. Now you can all stay warm. Also, if anyone in a police uniform shows up at the door asking for me, you can throw them in the fire! It’s the gift that keeps on giving!

For those of you that sounds like this is just a way for me to be a cheap-ass, you’re missing the whole point of the holiday seasons.

“It’s the thought that counts”

And it’s wonderful to know that the thought is “Hey, I love my Wife enough to buy her the necklace she always wanted… as long as it’s 70% off!”. This whole thing feels fake. Our economy is in the shitter, and we just keep getting more and more greedy. Shopping is a game to us now. And Black Friday is the sum of it all. The means to a bargain and to an end.

This all is a bit cynical, bitter if you will. But it’s a point that needs to be made: The more this escalates, the harder it’ll get for anyone to enjoy it. I urge you to go out, enjoy the sales, save a bundle. But just consider one thing while you do: There are a LOT of other people out there doing the same thing. Don’t fuck it up for them. Just get in, get your shit, and get out.

Also: I want a Playstation 3.

OOO, and one of those Jonas Brothers Vibrators! Those are supposed to be really big this year.

Look Out New Zealand!

There are icebergs headin’ your way.

I love when huge masses of inanimate crap decides to start some shit. Apparently, ice has a personal vendetta with New Zealand.

That’s right, huge giant mother-fuck chunks of frozen shit is apparently making a journey to New Zealand to enjoy the weather. Maybe next they’ll stop at Australia to pick up a little Vegemite iSnack 2.0!

Let’s look at this article one piece of iceberg-news at a time, shall we? Yes, yes we fucking shall ’cause it’s MY blog.

It starts out innocent enough:

“More than 100, and possibly hundreds, of Antarctic icebergs are floating towards New Zealand in a rare event which has prompted a shipping warning, officials said on Monday.”

Alright, the main concerns here come from the difference between “100″ and “possibly hundreds”. That’s a difference of… well… hundreds. So what, giant masses of ice are moving hundreds of miles off course to apparently attack a small island country, and you’re just gonna ballpark it? “Meh, a hundred, a few hundred, what’s the difference?” Big fucking difference. 100 icebergs coming at your ass is a cause for alarm and all, but not that huge of a deal ultimately. If a fucking onslaught of 700 of those icey mo-fo’s are heading to meet you at the beach, you may need to go into a bit of a panic mode. Just a thought.

Also, if you think about it, it’s someones job to count those. Fun.

“An Australian Antarctic Division glaciologist said the ice chunks, spotted by satellite photography, had passed the Auckland Islands and were heading towards the main South Island, about 450 kilometres (280 miles) northeast.”

There are a few things I love about this part. I am quite a big fan of the term “Glaciologist”. For those of you who can’t figure it out, that means Big-Fuck Ice Mass Guy. I bet that jobs a total panty-peeler.

However, the main focus of this paragraph should be directed at “Spotted by satellite photography”. That paints an image, doesn’t it. I can picture the scene in my head. Close  your eyes, you too can picture it with me.

…Ok, open your eyes so you can read this. THEN close your eyes and picture the following:

Glaciologi… Big Fuck Ice Mass Guy’s Assistant, We’ll Call Him “Ted”: Hey, Jim. you… you should come here and look at this.

Jim, the Gla… Big Fuck Ice Mass Guy: …failblog.org?

Ted: Oh no, sorry, I meant this!

Jim: …Well, I think this merits a “WTF”, don’t you?

Ted: Shouldn’t we be concerned that that much ice is just… on the fuckin’ run?

Jim: I don’t know, Ted. Let’s wait for Bob to finish reading the article and blogging about it before we make a decision.

Jim’s right, of course. So, let’s continue the article and find out if we’re all fucking doomed or what.

“Scientist Neal Young said more than 100 icebergs — some measuring more than 200 metres (650 feet) across — were seen in just one cluster, indicating there could be hundreds more.”

You mean this guy said so:

Well, it appears the great American song writer thinks it’s TWO hundred icebergs, you fuckers. (I know the first name is spelled differently, go fuck a goat if you care enough not to laugh and point that out.)

But on a serious note, those are pretty fuckin’ huge chunks of frozen doom, don’t you think? Whatever could cause so many to just up and leave like this?

“He said they were the remains of a massive ice floe which split from the Antarctic as sea and air temperatures rise due to global warming.”

Of course, Global warming you sneaky bastard! As our President would say:

“Global Warmin’, Why you always up in my grill, bustin’ an ice-cap in our ass and raisin’ them water levels all up in hurr?” – President Barack Obama

The article goes on with a bunch more boring shit about history of ice bergs and land mass sizes, things no one else but a Glaciologist (that sounds like a pokemon to me…) would care about.

It also talks about warning the boaters of New Zealand:

“New Zealand has already issued coastal navigation warnings for the area in the Southern Ocean where the icebergs have been seen. ‘It’s really just a general warning for shipping in that area to be on the alert for icebergs,’ said Maritime New Zealand spokesman Ross Henderson.”

Warnings such as “Look Out For Huge Ass Ice Clusters”? Good advice, I think.

However, the article takes a turn for the fucking weird at the very end. You think it’s over, talked about the ice, the why’s and the what’s. The when’s and the where’s. History, and what they’re doing about it. It’s all covered. Article done, right?

Fuckin’ wrong.

It ends on this note:

“When icebergs last neared New Zealand in 2006, a sheep was helicoptered out to be shorn on one of the floes in a publicity stunt by the country’s wool industry.”

I tell ya, it’s the little things. Life just drops fun little presents right in your lap. Oh New Zealand, you crazy mother fuckers. Air-lifting Sheep onto icebergs? A publicity stunt for the… wool industry. Who’d have thought the wool industry workers were such masterminds for advertisment.

The genius of this whole article is the lack of concern that is really shown. And how little the scientists actually know. When a possible Planet-altering change is occuring, the following lines should never be said by the people that you’re looking to for information or help:

• “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
• “It’s difficult to tell.”
• “We can’t know for sure until we get more information.”
• “…we’re fucked”
• “I’m sleeping with your wife”
• “I’m sleeping with your publicity stunt sheep”

That about sums up all the things I don’t want to hear. And professionals have pretty much said all of those towards this event.

I just can’t tell you to be concerned. I’m not. I just watched “2012″ this weekend, and a few blocks of ice are not that big of a concern. If that movie has taught me anything, it’s that the biggest threat on this country isn’t global warming or huge blocks of ice…

…it’s letting Roland Emmerich write fuckin’ movies! You son of a bitch! Give John Cusack his soul back immediately! I seriously hope you get hit by an Iceberg. Even if you’re on main land, I just hope an iceberg sprouts big ass ice-wings and dive-bombs the Emmerich household. Stop making disaster movies with shitty scripts, idiot.

…What was I talking about again? Bah, fuck it. If you’re planning on boating off the coast of New Zealand, make sure to keep an eye out for these glaciers. They should look like… well… glaciers.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go outside and spray aerosol cans at the sky for an hour or so. That’s right, the ozone layer can kiss my ass.

Cycle Of Hate (What IS Rant Therapy?)

Let’s be clear on one thing: I’m a dick. Douchebag. Asshole. Fucker. Whatever it is you call it, I’m that. But, as can be seen by me using it here for entertainment purposes, I’m unapologetic and, in a way, proud of it.

It’s really the only thing left in this country. Everything else is being censored and watered down, pushed under some shit laws or crushed by some protest group. Being a total asshole is the only thing that has been left totally alone. There are no laws against being a d-bag. And thank your useless imaginary higher power for that one, folks.

Not only do I claim myself as a dick, but I can claim a good chunk of the people I meet on a daily basis as dicks as well. And you know what: Good for you, shithead! You’re a fucking piece of crap, and I’m happy for you! The world would be a better place if people dabbled in douche-baggery from time to time. Everyone. Even Father Henry would benefit from being a total cock to his congregation from time to time.

Let me get something straight here, before we get too far into this: If you’re a dick all day, every day, you can die. Just go on out and get hit by a bus. Or toss yourself off a cliff if you happen to be near one. I am not saying it is ok to ALWAYS be a fucker. Like any good thing, you have to take it in moderation.

I’m working on a new therapy plan, and it involves everyone on the planet being a dick for AT LEAST an hour a day. Be a totally shitty person for at least an hour, possibly three or four. And I don’t mean a TOTAL dick either. I’m not saying start smacking your kids around (unless they deserve it) or beating the shit out of your wife. I’m not talking about taking a piss on a homeless person or eating someone bicycle. I mean small things. Be a tiny dick for a little while, and life will be better for everyone.

Everyone you pass on the street, for just an hour, greet with an emphatic “GO FUCK YOURSELF!”. Sure, it’ll probably fuck up their day somethin’ fierce, but without a doubt you’ll feel a bit better. But then what happens is, they’ll in turn take it out on someone else who doesn’t deserve it, hence getting rid of their anger. And so on and so forth, the small outbursts of dickery shall continue to heal everyone they touch. The cycle of hate will cure us all!

All throughout life, you hear of the concept of “Random Acts of Kindness”. But what good does that do? That doesn’t fulfill the dark needs within you. That just adds more happy and good cheer to the world.

And who needs that shit!

It’s time for “Random Acts of UNKindness”. See someone who’s enjoying a delicious ice cream? Smack that sum-bitch out of their hands! Then offer to buy them a new one afterwards. Maybe you see someone on the side of the road attempting to hitchhike , or maybe they have a flat tire? Hit a rain puddle on purpose and splash water on them. Then give them a ride. Maybe you bump into your local Mayor or Governor. Punch them square in the ballsack.

…

That’s it. Just punch them in the balls. Fuck politicians.

But listen, do not discriminate! I don’t mean DON’T be a dick to black people or gays or Jews. No no, by all means, treat a Fat Jewish Girl like total shit. But also treat a rich white guy like shit. Be an equal opportunity destroyer.

That’s when it gets most deadly, you know. Hate is at it’s worst when it’s funneled at a particular group. That’s what I’ll deem “Unhelpful Hate”. When it’s focused on a group of people. For example, Hitler was a douchebag most of the time, but he directed it all at the Jews and gypsys and whores. And the world needs Jews and Whores. Fuck the Gypsys, free loading idiots, but the world needs Jews and Whores.

All I’m saying is: Spread your hate around! You’ll feel much better about yourself, and you’ll feel like you’re doing a good thing! You’re being P.C. with your asshole-edness.

In customer service, a problem exists. Or does it? The “problem” as it is, is that sometimes consumers get mad at the customer service people and yell at them for things that don’t really have any say in. Like yelling at the bank teller: “WHY DID YOU MAKE ME BROKE, YOU STUPID BITCH!”. Yes, because it’s her fault you spent all your money on that sex swing that doesn’t work right and fucked up your back. People say this isn’t a good thing. I beg to differ.

Blame is an effective part of the Cycle of Hate. Hit someone with your car? Sure, it’s your fault because you were too busy putting on your makeup or drinking your vodka, but why don’t you go ahead and blame the person you just plowed over. Get out of your car and walk over to his or her barely breathing soon-to-be corpse and just start screaming in their mangled bloody face: “Why the fuck were you on that sidewalk! Didn’t you see my car coming mother fucker. I drive on this sidewalk every day, why did you have to be a law-abidding citizen!”

And why focus this all on people? Sometimes inanimate objects need to be bitched out too, no? When you stub your toe on a piece of furniture, you get mad at it, don’t you! Of course you do, you’re an irrational idiot just like everyone else. You try to blame it on the stationary object.

“Fuckin’ God Damn mother Shit end table! Why did you have to sit on the floor without moving and let me walk into you like a dumb ass!”

Let’s move this into my “Rant Therapy” concept. Here it is in a nutshell: The more you bitch and yell about the stuff that’s not THAT important, the stuff that doesn’t really fuck up your life, the more likely you’ll have a clear head for the REAL crisis moments.

Take for example, my last blog. I wrote about muskrats. Now, come on, do you really think I’m inconvenienced or harmed by muskrats at all? Nope. But yet, I went on a total tirade ripping them a new one. Why? ’cause it fuck-damn felt good, that’s why! Now that I took out all that pent up anger on something like that, I can go through my day here at work without stabbing a co-worker in the face with an unfolded paper clip. And believe me, the thought has crossed my mind on a few occasions.

Do it, today, when you’re in the middle of the shit storm that your life is, just start riffing about something that has no business being pissed on. “I really fuckin’ hate beige. Not the color, the WORD! What the fuck is that about! It’s such a stupid sounding word, it just sorta… sinks. It sounds like a fuckin’ Batman sound effect from that stupid old Adam West tv show!

“Holy Fuck Batman, I’m going to punch this guy square in the kidneys!”

BEIGE!

Who wants something stupid like that in their lives?

I’d love these kinds of concepts to be accepted by the world, I really would. In fact, I had an idea for a law: One legal punch a week. That’s right. You’re allowed to punch one person, anyone, ONCE per week, and have no negative consequences. No matter who it is. Clock your boss. Smack a police officer. Hell, if you feel like low-blowing the fuckin’ Pope, go right ahead. Just one punch a day, for everyone. I don’t advocate punching children or retards or anything, but just about anyone else is fair game. Kick a midget? I’ll allow it. Smack a wheel-chair bound dude upside the back of his wheel-chair bound head? Sure. But they could hit you back.

Also, you can get an extra punch if you have a REALLY good reason. But you’ll have to present your case afterwards. “Well, your honor, the guy fucked up my damn latte!” “That’s clearly reason for an extra punch this week. I’ll allow it!”

I also have a theory to help relieve the tension at work places. If you’re working at a place long enough, you grow to hate your fellow co-workers. Not all of them, but a good deal of them. Some of them just make you wish that murder by stapler was legal in your state (and it’s not, I’ve checked). So, that’s why I believe if you work at a place for more than ten years: You get to legally kill one co-worker. That’s right. Population control and stress relief.

“You see that ten year plaque they’re putting up in my cubicle, Keith? That spells your end. Now why don’t you get on your knees and let me put these scissors in your face. That’ll teach you to steal my fuckin’ tape!”

Alright, so this thing is getting a little bitter and angry. But I’m not just fighting for the right to irrational anger. I’d also pressure you to spit out some irrational happiness as well. Get excited or joyful about something that flat-out doesn’t merit it. “What, I’ve got herpes! That’s… EXCELLENT!”

I bet if you tried really hard, you could actually blend the Unnecessary Happiness with your Random Act of Unkindness.

“You’re mom died? HAH! That’s such wonderful news! I’m so happy for you!”

Now tell me that wouldn’t make you feel better!

Anyway, it’s time for me to go and get super pissed about some random something-or-other and rant about it for thirty minutes without purpose or direction.

Also:

FUCK YOU!

Just Because You Can…

…Does not always mean you should.

A statement most of us believe to be true. Just because you CAN stick you face into an active lawn mower blade, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.

The same thing applies to things we stick in our face.

This whole idea started when me and a work peep decided to randomly look up “Mongoose” on Wikipedia. Don’t ask, just know it’s not the strangest thing we’ve looked up. I was curious to the plural of the word. Is it Mongooses, or Mongeese? Interestingly enough, both are acceptable, but Mongooses is the general term. A completely irrelevant piece of information, compliments of FiS.

Anyway, back to the point. Through this, we moved on to other critters that were similar. And the next stop was the always delightful Muskrat.

Alright, so it’s not that fuckin’ delightful. In fact, it’s flat-out ugly and useless. Or so I thought. It seems it may have more use than we thought. Like making hidious coats. Or, and this really depresses me, EATING!

That’s right folks, you can actually chew THIS fucker for sustanance:

ZOMG WTF?!?!

Yeah, that looks fuckin’ scrumptious, don’t it?

Clearly this is a southern thing, right? They’ll eat anything with legs down there. Right? WRONG. This shit takes place in Michigan. That state that sits around and acts like it’s all innocent. But we’re on to you Michigan, you sneaky lil’ bastard. Hiding up there in the “Great Lakes” pretending you’re just another Midwestern state, but in truth… oh in truth… you’re harboring a lot more than ships. You’re also hosting a feeding frenzy on something that should be shot and then disposed of, not shot and then put into a stew.

Why do they eat it? Oh, it gets better. Wikipedia provides THIS tidbit of information:

“Muskrats have sometimes been a food resource for humans. Muskrat meat is said to taste like rabbit or duck. In the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit, there is a longstanding dispensation allowing Catholics to consume muskrat on Ash Wednesday and the Fridays of Lent (when the eating of meat, except for fish, is prohibited): because the muskrat lives in water, it is considered equivalent to fish”

So much fail went into that paragraph, I don’t even know where to start. Let’s start with THIS sentance:

• “In the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit…”

Excuse me, the WHAT now?! Archdiocese of… Detroit? Of DETROIT!? This basically means it’s a important building to the Roman Catholic religion. Now, I don’t know too much about Detroit, but I’m pretty sure I do know that the Catholic God hates it. I mean, how else do you explain the Lions? Detroit is not a place I’d ever go to have a religious experience.  The only way I can describe Detroit’s existance is, it’s sorta like a piece of shit took a shit. Detroit is a Shit’s Shit!

Let’s keep going, shall we. So the very important Roman Catholic establishment in the shittiest shitty city ever to be shitty has dictated THIS about the lovely Muskcrap (see what I did there! Clever, eh?):

• “…dispensation allowing Catholics to consume muskrat on Ash Wednesday and the Fridays of Lent”

PRAISE JESUS! You mean to say we can eat MUSKRATS! Oh, thank you O God of all things beautiful and tasty. I can’t wait to shove this overgrown furball into my mouth one delicious morsal at a time. But why, why are we allowed this blessed piece of meat during a time that usually does not allow us to consume such tasties? Well, because the logical and scientific minds of the Catholic church came up with this fact:

• …”because the muskrat lives in water, it is considered equivalent to fish”

I hate you. It’s as simple as that. That makes SO little sense, it’s actually causing me a great deal of strain just to read the words. My eyes may actually begin bleeding at any moment. We don’t know for sure what causes brain aneurism, but I’m pretty sure ideas like that are a good place to start. That’s brain-bleeding stupid right there, folks.

So they think it’s a fish, huh? Anything that happens to exist in water, is a fish? What about Mermaids, can you eat them? Or Aquaman? Don’t tell me the Detroit Roman Catholics condone eating HIM:

…

OM NOM NOM AQUAMAN. I’d actually much rather eat a fictional failure of a superhero than knaw on a Muskrat-ka-bob anyday!

I have decided to take this investigation even further. Like finding me some delicious ways to prepare the muskrat. Oh, Google. Could you please show me the search results for “Muskrat Recipes”?

Yes, Google most certainly CAN.

And the first results? EVERYTHING MUSKRAT! A wonderful website dedicated to this failure in Darwinism. Survival of the fittest my ass!

The top of their recipe page provides this plea to all readers:

 ”If this sounds gross to you, let me assure you it really isn’t. Although the muskrat is a rodent, it is not a rat. Eating muskrat is like eating rabbit or squirrel. It’s not common in most North American cultures today, but muskrat is reported to be very tasty.”

Heh, could it be that it’s not common because… IT’S A FUCKING MUSKRAT?! Naw, I bet it’s just dandy as a meal. You can apparently braise it. Fry that sumbitch. You can also make it into a lovely soup. Cambells doesn’t carry a Muskrat Soup, do they? Maybe Cream Of Muskrat?

Holy fuck, anyone else just puke a little?

It gets better. There is a link below for… wait for it…

MUSKRAT CASSEROLE

Well fuck me sideways boys and girls. Seems this really is a Midwest thing. You mean to tell me a can of Green Giant green beans and some tatter tots in a pan with Muskrat can actually happen? What did I do to deserve such wonderful news?

Unfortunately, the link no longer works. It appears the recipe for Muskrat Casserole has been taken down. Probably by the Federal Government, because something like that should classify as a terrorist attack on this country.

I’m just not convinced about the Muskrat. I want to know MORE about our friend. Let’s head back to Wikipedia and find out about it’s Conservation Status.

“Least Concern”

I love Wikipedia simply for this two-word sentance. The use of the word “least” makes me happy. Not only is it of LITTLE concern of going extinct, they’re pretty much saying it is the LAST animal  you should be concerned about. This doesn’t even necessarily mean that it’s NOT going to go extinct. It just means no one gives a leaping dick if it does or not. We’re more concerned about the extinction of EVERYTHING ELSE THAT IS ALIVE ANYWHERE, EVER! It’s almost as if conservationists are actually TELLING the muskrat to fuck off and die.

And that’s why we put the mother fucking in a pot with some carrots and celery and watch it slow-boil until dinner time.

In summary:

FUCK YOU MUSKRAT. I don’t want to see you, I especially don’t want to eat you, and I’d rather be hit in the face with a double-donger until I look like Rocky at the END of one of the movies than wear you as a coat. You are a useless creature, and I hope you go extinct faster than Molly Ringwald’s career.

Also, Mongooses… Mongeese? Mongi are fucking adorable. Just see for yourself:

O HAI!

Tag, You’re It!

Stunned.

That’s the only way I could describe the way I felt at that moment. What lay in front of me made less than no sense. How can something be less than nothing at all, you may ask. It’s as if logic itself had imploded, creating a blackhole, swallowing all around it. A less-than-nothing void of logic that had caught me in it’s vacuum.

This feeling of utter emptiness, of total annilation of all common sense, was brought upon me by a simple act of vandalism. Someone etched something into the bus seat in front of me. That’s it. But that one tiny portion of fuckheadedness sent me into a spiral of doubt. Doubt that the human race could exist much longer. Doubt that I, myself, was even alive anymore. As if I had died, and caught the Express bus straight to the depths of my own personal hell. A hell where people carve random shit into bus seats, without any regard for sense at all.

“A Drunk”

That’s all it said.

A Drunk? Really, you fucking dillweeds?! What does that even mean! If you want me to read your shit, you need to supply a context. Now my over-thinking brain kicks into high gear: “Hey Bob… I’m going to go to work figuring that shit out. Why don’t you sit there and drool on yourself for awhile. Unfortunately, I can’t provide basic motor functions, ’cause I’ll have to bring in the whole brain trust on this one. I’ll need all of your gray matter to figure out what in the name of Vishnu that means. Sorry. Hopefully your bowels don’t release while I’m working. That’d be embarassing.”

And so, my brain goes to work. First, it takes it upon itself to analyze the words involved. “Drunk”, as in someone who drinks too much. And “A”, which at this moment makes the word “Drunk” singular. So it’s only one drunk. Well that’s a fuckin’ relief isn’t it? Wouldn’t want an entire army of drunks riding the bus now would we?

Alright, now we have to start thinking about WHO wrote this. Was the person writing this the aformentioned drunk? Or was the person who wrote this discussing another public transportation patron? Or maybe this was in the context of a story, being told to another passenger?

“My mom is… well… she’s…”

*scrap scratch scratch carving-sound-effect*

A Drunk

“…I don’t give a flying turd burrito, Jim.”

Or perhaps there is more to this. Maybe something on a deeper level than I had originally thought? Now my brain is seeking out the existential, the metaphysical, the… whatever the fuck Stephen Hawkins does. My brain is looking into this random act of wordsmithery as a philosophical musing. Perhaps this was meant as an abstract statement of the American culture. We’re all just mindless drunks, staggering through the streets from drink to drink.

Alright, probably not. It’s probably just someone being a shit-cock.

There is a point to this. I am about to get to that point, but first, I need a short nap. My whole body hurts just processing the events that have unfolded in my psyche after reading this.

—————————————————————————–

I’m back. Now to the point.

Folks, if you’re going to be a punk and put graffiti on things: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER! So many times over the years have I seen graffiti on walls, buses, buildings, that just isn’t worth putting there. Writing “Cuntface” in huge white letters on the side of the Public Library serves zero purpose. And you spelt “Cuntface” with a K, you dumb ass.

Look, what I’m saying is: Graffiti is a form of art. And as such, there are a few people who are excellent at it. And a WHOLE LOT OF PEOPLE WHO AREN’T. Not even one tiny bit. Poorly executed words are unimpressive and a waste of resources.

This, this is fucking cool. Creative, interesting. Fun to look at.

Writing “Thug 4 Life” in horribly disfigured letters, not fucking cool. Not creative. Not interesting. And certainly not fun to look at. Nothing is more Thug than being a total fucktard.

The worst comes when someone brillant does their thing. Let’s say you’re walking under an underpass and you see something like this:

Pretty damn epic. Took someone with real talent some time and effort to make that. However, as you look closer, it appears some dimwith with a five dollar can of spray paint wrote “Poop Monster” over it in shitty letters. Totally ruining the entire picture.

You, Poop Monster, are a fucking asshole on a level that warrants death. I want you to take that can of spraypaint, give it to someone near you, and tell them to beat you in the head with it repeatadly until you cease to live. Please? And make sure they make it slow. You deserve the worst kind of torture a can of spray paint can deliver unto you. You deserve a dose of Spray PAIN(t).

However, there is something even LOWER than the asshole writing dumb words over works of art. And that is the person who spray paints shit like THIS:

I hate you. You know that. Penis’. Really?

I give up. I can’t even come up with a witty end to this. Only a desperate plea.

Please, for the love of all that is holy, if you suck ass at art: don’t tag buildings. It’s just unnecessary crap. You’re a scumbag hoodlum and I hope you bleed from your ass tonight. But, BUT, if you are good at it. If you’re a decent graffiti artist, than by all means, go down to the local government building at 3am and paint an epic mural all over the wall. I don’t care if it’s illegal, it’s expression. And expression is more important than stupid abitrary laws about buildings being bland and boring.

“A Drunk”, my ass.

…And now I feel fuckin’ tiny!

Alright, so clearly some shit went down. A massive shooting at an army base. And now a shooting in a Florida office building. Basically, people are killing other people for the fuck of it. If you haven’t heard about these stories, than get on that. I’m not really going to bother telling you about them. I’m just not funny enough to make racism, dead soldiers, and horrible massacres funny. I’m just not. Well, I probably am. But I won’t.

Instead, I decided to look for something more uplifting. And, thanks to Yahoo!, I found this sports article.

Meet Brendon Adams. A local football player hittin’ in at 7 feet 4 inches tall. The catch: the lil’ fucker is FOURTEEN!? Obviously, I just used the word “lil” to be ironic.

Ladies and gents, here’s the thing. I’m MAYBE 5’4″, if we’re being generous and I’m wearing my heels. That makes this dude TWO FEET taller than me at 8 years younger. He was taller than me at age 11! Never in my entire life have I felt so damn short. Brendon, if you’re reading, fuck you for making me feel inadequate! Alright, Brendon my friend, I’m just kidding. I know it’s not your fault, and you’re having horrible health problems because of your height, but still: Fuck you. Now I feel midgit-esque ’cause of your tall ass.

And now he’s playing football. He can’t run. Can’t jump. Just takes a few steps, catches the football, and then… well, the article doesn’t say what happens next. Hopefully they don’t make the other kids tackle him. That’d be tragic. Hillarious. Worth paying to see. But tragic.

On second thought, I’d give my whole paycheck to watch a gang of lil’ 14 year old kids bring that dude to the ground! That shit is Pay Per View worthy. It’s Hulk Hogan vs. Andre the Giant all over again. Only real.

The article goes on to say that they are feeding him hormones to stop his growing. STOP THAT, YOU BASTARDS! The kid is only 9 inches short of the tallest man ALIVE! If he’s going to be tall, awkward, and die early, at least give him a chance to gun for the title! This kid’s life is going to blow. Hard. He already has fuckin’ arthritis for shit’s sake. And now you’re going to take away his chance to be immortalized as the biggest dude on the planet?! That’s just cruel!

Whoever you are, if you’re reading (because highly advanced doctors usually read my blog, it IS full of relevant information in the field. Just see my blog on the the biggest threat human health has ever faced. ), then heed my words: Stop stopping my homie Brendon’s growth! You’re big, mean poopie-heads and are ruining his dream! Well, it’s my dream FOR him, but still.

I’m not saying I’m not concerned about his health. I mean, I’m not. But I’m not SAYING that I’m not. I’m sure you have some medical reason for stopping his growth. Maybe when he hits 8’3″ his heart will explode out of his ass, I don’t know. But the fact of the matter is: That’s a small risk for him to take for my entertainment!

Sadly, this is for people’s entertainment. It’s another case of explotive public interest news stories. They can’t SAY it’s for entertainment purposes, because that shit isn’t P.C.

Back in the day, if you were that friggin’ huge, you’d be in a freakshow. You’d have your ugly mug plastered onto posters everywhere, and some douchebag in a top hat would charge five bucks a pop for other douchebags to poke you with sticks and throw popcorn at you. This is what nature intended when they created these people!

All the freaks in the world are here for a reason. Every one of them! The world’s smallest man. The Bearded lady. Mr. Testicles-For-Eyes. The lady with fourty-two faces. Barbra Streisand. All the freaks are here for a reason! To be exploited by the Normies!

But no, the politically correct culture won’t let that kind of shit fly anymore. We can’t even call them freaks, we have to call them “People With A Severe Normality Deficiency”. Or “HandiCapabnormal”.

I call shenanigans! Shenanigans on you, P.C. culture! You’re taking away the one chance this people have at fame (if we take porn out of the equation, that is), and that’s just mean. Scientists try to hault their growth. Politicians try to strip them of their fame. The whole thing is a horrible form of bigotry (heh, BIGotry), and bigotry is wrong.

Obviously, this is all meant as a joke. I don’t want Brendon to be forced into a freak show, or to put his life in danger. He’s a normal kid who wanted to play football. He didn’t want his life to be thrown on the damn news! This explotation shit needs to stop. How would you like it if I showed up at YOUR house, Mr. News Reporter, and started filming everything you do. I can see the headlines now!

“World’s Biggest Douchebag To Be News Reporter”

So, in summary:

• Stop the “public interest” explotation stories.
• Kudos to the doctors and wonderful coachs who let this kid play football and be normal for once in his life
• And fuck Barbra Streisand!

Weird Things Found On eBay: Cocks!

In an effort to add some more features to this blog, I have decided to do a “Weird things found on eBay” section from time to time.

Today’s item up for bid: CHICKENS!

That’s right, folks. eBay now specializes in unhatched chicken eggs. Currently, the bid is only at $5.50! Who’d have thunk that chickens were so affordable. They’d make the perfect gift this holiday season. They’d also make a great omellete.

My favorite part of this is the description that has been posted. I know this is meant to be serious, but how the fuck do you NOT laugh at this:

“Cocks grow to 8 lbs”

I’d like to thank this person personaly for making my entire week. That’s one HUGE fucking cock!

“The rooster in the picture is my rooster.  If you’d like to see more pics I’d be glad to send them to you.”

Yes. Please send me more pictures of your fuckin’ chicken. So what is his name? Is he a nice chicken? I don’t like those big, mean cocks that attack you when you’re near them. Does he make any noises?

eBay. Selling weird shit since… actually, I have no idea when eBay started, but they’ve been selling weird shit since then!

There will be more, weirder things to come I’m sure. If you find anything, be sure to drop me an comment or e-mail!

We Are Vegemighty!

It’s official. Australia is just as fucking stupid as we are in America.

Australians, if you’re reading this, which you’re not, let me say one thing to you: It’s Just FUCKING VEGEMITE!

That’s right. Kraft Foods Australia has decided to rename the iconic brownish sludge foodstuff. They even made a contest out of it. And of course, the Aussies went fucking ballistic.

I can see why. The name that WON the contest is fucking demented. Vegemite iSnack 2.0.

iSnack? Shit, did Apple get it’s grubby paws on Vegemite! They already have the music industry, and they managed to make cell phones more obnoxious, now they got their grubby paws on toast toppings?! Nope, not even Apple is that stupid. And 2.0? Doesn’t this imply that there is a Vegemite iSnack 1.0? Perhaps even a Beta version? It’s not the latest edition of Windows, it’s a mother fuckin’ condiment!

You know what they did? They added cream cheese. Holy shitballs. I don’t know what Vegemite tastes like, and I’m not too eager to try it (come on, it isn’t exactly pleasant looking). However, I’m pretty sure Cream Cheese is probably an improvement. I mean, cream cheese improves everything. Just ask the Jews.

But I guess in Australia, you just don’t screw with Vegemite. Or else you screw with the lyrics to Men At Work’s “Land Down Under”, and that’s just not ok:

“Buying bread from a man in Brussels
He was six foot four and full of muscle
I said, “Do you speak-a my language?”
He just smiled and gave me a Vegemite iSnack 2.0 sandwich
And he said,

‘FUCK NO! They put CREAM CHEESE IN THAT SHIT! That’s WRONG. You come back when you’re not such a doucheface, mate’ “

Yeah, somehow it just doesn’t work right…

So, Kraft isn’t stupid. They went back to the drawing board and put the name BACK up for vote. And they came up with: Cheesybite. Which is in absolutely no way better. But at least it wasn’t Cheesybite Version 3.1.

This article does not paint a very favoring picture of Aussies. They actually go into detail about the “importance” of Vegemite in their culture.

“Babies are weaned on it. Schoolchildren eat it on sandwiches. Adults revere it as a hangover remedy, a vital source of Vitamin B and a staple breakfast food”

Babies are weened on it?! “Hey, get the kid off my tit and get him some Vegemite!”. And it’s also a hangover remedy? Perhaps even hungover babies can eat it on sandwiches?

“Similar versions of the product exist elsewhere. Britain has Marmite, for example, but many Australians consider that an inferior substitute.”

Marmite? Isn’t that what this thing is:

The British eat this thing? That’s just mean.

The article continues to make me hate everything that ever will, does, or has existed:

“Simon Talbot, the head of corporate affairs at Kraft Foods Australia, said the company had taken only 72 hours to decide that the iSnack 2.0 name was “not worth defending,” given the level of outrage. 

 

Really? It took three days to realize it isn’t worth defending? I figured that shit out in -2 seconds. I actually somehow went BACK in time and GAINED two seconds figuring out it was a dumb-fuck name and not worth defending.

The worst part is, as the article goes on to tell us, the product is a smashing success! They sold an obscene (and that’s the best word I could think of to describe it) amount of it.

“That success has led some to wonder whether the campaign was a carefully crafted publicity stunt”

Nope, pretty sure it was just fucking dumb luck. You don’t call something a name THAT stupid on purpose. And if you do, you’re an asshole.

The article ends with this sentiment:

” ‘If people like the taste of it, they’ll keep buying it — if they don’t, they won’t,’ Mr. Harrison said. ‘Ultimately, you don’t want people thinking too much about your brand, you want people to become habitual about it.’ “

Habitual? You’re trying to get people addicted to Vegemite Cheesybite iSnack 2.0 Spreadtacular Classic Super Awesome Foodstuff Product? Skip the cream cheese, and add some crack! That’s what White Castle does! How else do you think people actually WILLING put THIS in their face more than once in a lifetime:

I’m on to you bastards! Gettin’ kids hooked on crack, and giving them horrible gas to boot! You’re the worst creton this planet has to offer. You’re like the Nazi’s of the cheap hamburger industry! You should be ashamed!

In the end, it all comes down to this: It’s just Vegemite. They didn’t rename the entire country “Land of Stupid Fucks”, so there is no reason to get that pissed off. In fact, since so many Aussies did get that pissed off… perhaps that IS a good name for it now.

So, I shall end this by saying goodbye and enjoy your Vegemite iSnack 2.0 or Cheesybite whatever,  you Stupid Fuckions!