Energy Drunk (aka A Big Ol’ Can Of Fail!)

In my youth, I was like most kids. Full of optimism and ignorant to the horrors of the real world. I watched morning cartoons and played video games. I ate sugary cereals and played with potentially life-threatening toys. And eventually, I discovered my penis. And boy did I discover it A LOT.

But there comes a time when you must grow up, and you must move out into the world and take a handful of feces right to your senses. The optimism is soon squashed down by despair. Your child-like ignorance and innocence is raped out of you by harsh realities and terrible discoveries. Terrible discoveries such as what I stumbled upon in a gas station earlier today.

Ever seen something that simple stops you dead in your tracks. Imagine, if you will, you are walking down a peaceful suburban neighborhood. You see white picket fences and little kids playing in sprinklers. A lady with a dog walks by. Two beautiful teen girls roll past on a bike. And then suddenly, you turn and see an all-albino wheelchair roller derby in the driveway of the next house. Your mind is kicked right in it’s testicles. The sudden realization that everything you thought you knew was nothing hits you like a ton of bricks. You’ve just seen something that doesn’t seem real. You even have to pinch yourself to make sure you’re not in some horrible nightmare.

That’s what I experienced today while walking through this gas station. Right there, in the beverage cooler, sat THIS monstrosity:

 

For those of you who are wondering, that there is a 32 fluid ounce energy drink. 32. If you tipped the can over while it was open, it’d dump out so much toxin you’d think it was produced by BP. 32 ounces. And I drank the whole thing in about ten minutes. Why? Because I’m an adult and I make good fuckin’ decisions!

After I drank it, I proceeded to draft up a formal apologize letter to my heart. Not the first organ I’ve apologized to, but perhaps the one I’ve wronged the most.

Glancing at the back of this can, I can’t help but notice that it contains 95% of my daily recommended amount of regret! If I didn’t already get over 100% of my daily regret just by waking up every day, this would be useful I guess. And, it appears to have more sugar in this one can then the entire country of Brazil (which is eh… the world’s leading exporter of sugar, in case you don’t hold that kind of useless information in your gray matter).

Energy? You could say I have energy. Hell, there is so much adrenaline running through me now that when your mom swallows my load tonight, it’ll replenish all the energy she spent riding me reverse-cowgirl all night. She’s a real classy lady, your mom.

Much to my surprise, there is no liquid in the can. You open it up and a midget (that’s right, I said midget. Suck my nuts, that word is NOT the same as “Nigger”!) jumps out and yells at you to get your ass in gear. It’s energizing, alright!

The entire concept of energy drinks is lost on me. It’s sudden impact on our society has both appalled and amazed me. It’s a phenomenon much like skateboarding or iPods: it lends itself to nothing but a huge collective of douche-for-brains people trying to be hip and cool.

You can tell energy drinks are full of bullshit simply by listing off all the “extreme” names that people give them. Names that have to be typed in all-caps, or they don’t have the same impact. In fact, “All-Caps!” And “Impact!” are probably drink names themselves. You recognize the names: MONSTER! AMP! ROCKSTAR! FULL THROTLE! What you don’t recognize, is the society-splitting repercussions of their very existence.

Allow me to explain. As I said before, a whole rectum-load of giant tools drink these beverages the most. And what do they do? Get energized. That’s right, now we have a whole fuck-all load of high-energy assholes. And what happens when assholes get out of control? You get shit EVERYWHERE!

These people do not need more energy. They’re always the ones that “woo!” shit.

“Dude, let’s go piss on that wall over there!”

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“Hey, you wanna go light farts on fire?”

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“I’m sorry to say, but you have leukemia…”

“WOOOOOOOOOO… wait… dude, that blows!”

As I stared at the can, I began to wonder why someone would buy an energy drink in the first place.

I don’t think anyone buys them for the taste, because they taste like garbage water with a hint of citrus. As far as I can tell, energy drinks come in three flavors: Professional Wrestler’s Swamp Ass. Six Week Old Bacon Grease. And Grape.

I’m pretty sure no one buys them for the energy content. Not when you can easily wake yourself up with things that are less horrible, such as stabbing yourself in the scrotum with a toothpick, or sticking your penis in a wolverine’s mouth.

So, that means one thing: people simply consume them because they’re there. You put anything in a “cool” looking can and talk about it’s “positive” effects, and someone will buy it and put it in their mouth crevice. If I bottled up my urine, slapped a picture of a bull goring someone in the face, and wrote “Bob’s urine causes your penis to grow six inches INSTANTLY!” that shit would be flying off the shelf.

I’d like to end this blog with my great idea for the day. In an effort to cash in on this energy drink fad, I’ve decided to go into the energy drink business myself. The Counter Culture Clown is going to become the Counter Culture Energizer. Not as catchy, but fuck it. I’d like to introduce you to my first product:

HOLY FUCKIN’ SHIT DUDE

Special Soul-Molesting Bin
2 Gallons Of Straight-Up-Your-Ass Energy!

Why be full of energy for just one day when you could never sleep again!

Disclaimer: Holy Fuckin’ Shit Dude will give you diabetes as soon as you open the can. Not recommend if you’re pregnant, a recovering crack addict, or planning on leaving your home this month. Holy Fuckin’ Shit Dude cannot be held responsible for any physical harm done to yourself or your loved ones due to use of our product. Once emptied, do not throw this can in the garbage, for it may upset the ecosystem and kill off all the animals within 300 miles of your local dump. Product not intended to cure, treat, or diagnois any diseases, though there is a decent possibility that it cures throat cancer. Or at least burns off all the tumors. Product illegal in Alabama, something about a massive incline of mule fucking.

Curry’d Away

“Curry is a generic description used throughout European and American culture to describe a general variety of spiced dishes, best known in South Asian cuisines, especially Indian cuisine. Curry is a generic term and although there is no one specific attribute that marks a dish as “curry”, some distinctive spices used in many curry dishes include turmeric, cumin, coriander, fenugreek, and red pepper. The word curry is an anglicised version of the Tamil word khari, which is usually understood to mean “gravy” or “sauce” rather than “spices”. In Urdu, an official language of Pakistan and North India, curry is usually referred to as saalan. In most South Indian languages, the word literally means ‘side-dish’, which can be eaten along with a main dish like rice or bread.

Curry’s popularity in recent decades has spread outward from the Indian subcontinent to figure prominently in international cuisine. Consequently, each culture has adopted spices in its indigenous cooking to suit its own unique tastes and cultural sensibilities. Curry can therefore be called a pan-Asian or global phenomenon with immense popularity in Thai, British, and Japanese cuisines.”

However, what Wikipedia fails to tell us about Curry is: It makes your shit SMELL LIKE A MORGUE!

Now, I’m not going to really get into the concept of outsourcing. I’m not going to bitch about how you call a tech support hotline and have to decipher what the mother fucker on the other line is saying. I don’t care about stolen jobs or any of that jazz. I’m just tired of the bathrooms at work smelling like someone just turned inside out.

As you all know, I’ve had my fair share of terrible experiences with shit and bathrooms. Need I remind you of the Phantom Pooper? That was pretty gruesome, but a few episodes at work may very well top it.

We’re currently training a bunch of people from India in my area of the building. By “my area” I mean the basement they shoved our department in. Me and “Teh Co-Worker” are quite friendly with the sewage pipe that carries over our heads, sounding like a river rapids. It’s calming. Or, it would be, if… you know… it wasn’t a river of shit-water.

There have been moments where I, an unsuspecting nose-bearing man-child, have stumbled into a situation that is beyond explanation. I have walked into the Lil’ Dude’s Relief Room, and have had to turn RIGHT THE FUCK BACK AROUND. It’s as if I opened a door into Narnia, and Narnia is filled with dying walruses.

Ever since they came here, they eat their curry, and then they participate in bio-terrorism. Not a threatening kind, just a really, really stinky kind. Have you ever opened up a can of paint thinner. A brand new, factory sealed can. You know that split second when the smell nails you in the face, and you physically have to recoil to avoid your eyes evacuating your head? Yeah, it’s like that. Only it’s not your eyes, it’s your SOUL that makes it’s exit.

I’ve actually had to resort to using that bathroom too. Ever held your breath while taking a piss? It’s a dangerous operation. In fact, I’d rather be put in charge of finding the Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq. It’s easier. And a lot less likely to end with me peeing on my own leg by accident (hasn’t actually happened… yet…). The real trouble comes when I realize I have a very low lung capacity. Now we’ve reached a dilemma. There are two options:

1) Take a breath - One of those BIG, holding-your-breath breaths. That’s a whole lot of curry-shit-stench to inhale all at once. I’m pretty sure that could cause permanent brain damage…

2) Find some way to either finish, or post-pone the piss – Yeah, like that’ll happen. Once you start, you can’t really stop. It’s like your cock turns into a ketchup bottle. And forget about forcing it, that’s how you get testicular cancer, I know it.

It’s a race against the clock. It’s like the movie Speed. If I start peeing under 55mph… well, you know. Let’s just say even Dennis Hopper can’t unleash a terror quite like this. Well, that is unless Dennis Hopper eats curry everyday. Which, I suppose, is a possibility… that diabolical bastard! I’m onto you Hopper! You’re going down!

Please ignore the fact I just called out Dennis Hopper in my blog for no reason…

Let me get one thing straight though: I like curry. I think it’s delicious: ON OCCASION. But everyday? It turns your body into a nightmare factory. It causes your colon to become a vassal of pure evil. I’m about ten seconds away from sending an exorcist up your ass, in hopes of exorcising the demons that now reside in your poop chute.

So, I’ve decided it’s time for drastic measures. That’s right: Time to close the fucking borders!

I am officially not letting anymore people from India into our country. Until you stop making stinkies in my bathroom, you’re not allowed in. Sorry, those are the rules. Now… can you tell me how to get Windows Vista to stop being a bitch?

Obviously, I’m being facetious. I’m not ACTUALLY suggesting we kick Indians out of our country. I’m not even really that angry at them for enjoying their culture’s delicious (and it is REALLY fucking delicious) food. I guess I’m just venting. Trying to get it out there, so hopefully some visitors from India will think next time they decide to pinch a loaf of curry into a public toilet. Think of the children! If the smell almost obliterates me, imagine what it’ll do to a child! They’ll be afraid of going to the bathroom for the rest of their lives! That’s almost as bad as my all-time favorite phobia: Barophobia. That, for those of you who don’t know, is a fear of Gravity. That might suck just a BIT more than a bathroom phobia, but only a little bit.

Like most of the problems I bring up in my blog, I have no real solution. I’m just blowing steam at this point. I mean, we can’t have a “Curry Eaters Only” bathroom, can we? That’s just not going to fly. I mean, we could make them take a dump outside, but all the Green Peace mother fuckers will be up their ass (figuratively, as physically would cause them to instantly be vaporized).  And I certainly don’t recommend lighting a match. I’m still waiting for my eyebrows to grow back after that inferno…

Oh well… I guess I’ll have to hold it.

Edit: Since writing this blog, Dennis Hopper has passed away. He was a great character actor and seemed to be a well-respected man. May it be known I was taking a shot at him in jest. Pop quiz, hotshot!

Culinary Culling

So, in blogs past, I have pointed out that I am not exactly a big guy. I am, however, an avid food lover.

And as such, I also take it personally when tragedies happen in the food industry. Need I remind all of you of the Krispy Kreme Bacon cheeseburger that is in existance somewhere on this planet? Or my tussle with the Mexican TV Dinner? And don’t even get me started on “You-Know-What-imite”.

However, today I’d like to look at a few other terrible food products that have stumbled into the world. These are things that should be removed from the face of this planet. Let’s begin with one that is the sum of all things frightening:

“Here you go, one salisbury steak”

Mary, Mother Of Jesus And Bill Christ, what did you just put in front of my face! Oh god, KILL IT, KILLLLLLLL IIIIIIT!

I am going to talk in caps here, prepare your eyes: THIS IS NOT FUCKIN’ FOOD!

That is what food looks like AFTER it has been eaten. Salisbury (pronounced “Salz-Berry” for no apparent reason) is the only thing on this planet that elementary schools and prisons have in common. Well, unless it’s a Catholic school, in which case there is also rape. Why do I say that? Because they are the only two places such a food is eaten as if it’s normal. If it was served to you at a fancy restaurant, you’d stab the server in the head with the salad fork and run from the place screaming.

Salisbury steak is basically taking the least-desireable piece of meat, and covering it in “onion soup”. Which is what happens when you leave an onion sit near high levels of heat for so long that it melts into something that resembles “Swamp Ass”. If you don’t know what swamp ass is, google it. See also: “Mud Butt”. Basically, they took chunks of leather, and covered it in gravy. Yes, that sounds delicious.

Of course, it is beaten out by what is known as the Fish Stick. Fish stick. What kind of fish, is a fish stick? Hmm? Google it. But be careful, the CIA may black-mark you for googling “Swamp Ass” and “Fish Stick” in quick succession.

A fish stick is actually made of cod, according to this wikipedia page. Wikipedia, oh wikipedia, you really have a page on fish sticks? That is both wonderful and heartbreaking, all at the same time. I didn’t know this, but at some point, they were also known as “Fish Fingers”. Which is a nonsensical term, seeing as fish… don’t have fingers.

Scroll down. I dare you. To the “See Also” section. Do you see what I see? Why yes, that does say CRAB STICK! That’s it. That’s the phrase. I’ve officially snapped. I didn’t know such a thing existed, and now that I do, hundreds of people may die today.

Crab stick? Really? All my common sense and self-preservation skills are telling me not to click that. Not to read about it. But when the hell have I ever listened to my self-preservation skills?!

“Crab sticks (also called imitation crab meat, seafood sticks (UK), or labeled as krab) are a type of processed seafood made of surimi, or finely pulverized white fish flesh, that has been shaped and cured to resemble snow crab legs.”

Does any part of that sound good? Krab? White fish flesh? Shaped and cured? And my favorite: FINELY PULVERIZED?!

What an awesome phrase that is, finely pulverized. You know who’s about to be finely pulverized? Whoever the fuck came up with the idea for damn Crab Sticks!

I love how they actually actively seek making it LOOK like crab legs. As if that was the problem. They molded it, much like clay, to look like crab legs. Why not something more awesome? How about shaping that finely pulverized fish flesh to look like the Eiffle Tower. At least then you’d be too distracted to eat it.

Let’s just put this all behind us and move on, to something more light-hearted. Like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches! Delicious, right? Brings you back to your childhood when momma used to cut the crust off for you with one hand and drink a bottle of scotch with the other. Ah, childhood memories. I still have the scars from when she thought my hand was the sandwich and tried to cut the crust off of that. Oh, jolly times indeed. They can’t possible be ruined, can they?

How about with THIS disgusting product from Smuckers:

That’s funny, it looks like someone put peanut butter in the jelly! Hah… hah… wait. Oh dear fuck, someone DID put peanut butter in the jelly?! Why?! Why would you do such dirty, dirty things to jelly?! Jelly was all innocent, happy on it’s own in it’s personal space. And now you’re just going to jam peanut butter all up in there?! Do you have NO moral backbone?! You sick, perverted jelly fucker!

No, this does exist. It’s called “Goober”. Why is it called that? Because they don’t want you to eat it, or maybe because that’s what you are if you actually eat this.

Listen, two jars: No problem. Really. I was plenty capable of opening two jars. And besides, everyone knows that as you continued to use the jars and made more sandwiches, the transfer rate from the knife made you end up with two jars of Goober as is, we didn’t need Smuckers to help us out.

Now, moving right along, let’s discuss the Minnesota State Fair for a second, shall we? Do you know what a State Fair is? It’s like the Obesity Super Bowl. And Minnesota’s is notorious for it’s “food”.

Mainly because we deep fry whatever we get our sausage fingers on. Mmm, sausage fingers, I wonder if we could deep fry those…

Let me just give you a short list of deep fried foods that I have consumed at the Minnesota State Fair in my 22+ years in this state:

-Deep Fried Candy Bars (Snickers, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup)
-Deep Fried Mac ‘n Cheese
-Deep Fried Oreos
-Deep Fried Twinkie (might as well just call this: death)
-Deep Fried Fruit (for that illusion of eating something healthy)
-Deep Fried Alligator On A Stick (most things at the Minnesota State Fair are on a stick, ’cause we’re just that fuckin’ classy)
-Deep Fried Self-Hatred Coated Loathing

These foods, mixed with a pork chop on a stick, a giant pickle, some cheese curds, and a epic sized root beer float is known as a Coroner’s Cocktail. If you can survive a day eating at the Great Minnesota Get Together, then you can survive anything. Even AIDs!

At this point, my stomach hurts. And this is really just the beginning (perhaps I can turn this into a re-occuring piece at FiS). There are so many things out there that shouldn’t be put in your mouth. Just click on my “Foods” catagory and read some of the ones I’ve already found.

I want to end this with a plea. People: Think before you stick it in your face. That’s good advice for sex, and it’s good advice for eating.

Two Words: Chili Grenade

Move over mustard bomb, the geniuses in the Indian military (that’s red-dot Indians, not don’t-hit-on-20 Indians) have decided to turn peppers into weapons.

Don’t believe me? See for yourself: Indian military to weaponize world’s hottest chili.

It just makes me want to cry. And for once, not tears of disappointment. Tears of joy. Joy for the fact that such an idea came up.

“The Indian military has a new weapon against terrorism: the world’s hottest chili.”

I wasn’t actually aware India had a military. Nor did I really consider them much of a partner in the war against Terrorism. But hey, maybe they take all of Al-Qaeda’s customer service phone calls and cause them all to die of brain aneurysms? Wow, they really are top notch military intellectuals.

“After conducting tests, the military has decided to use the thumb-sized “bhut jolokia,” or “ghost chili,” to make tear gas-like hand grenades to immobilize suspects, defense officials said Tuesday.”

Tests? Did those by any chance include the “turkey club sandwich” test and the “green pepper and olive pizza” test?

And wow “Ghost Chili” ! That’s some serious shit right there. Ghost Chili is pretty hardcore, but I feel like we could make it even more intimidating. Why don’t they just call it the “It’ll Fuckin’ Kill You Chili”. Killi? The “Rape Your Mom Chili”? I don’t know.

“The bhut jolokia was accepted by Guinness World Records in 2007 as the world’s spiciest chili. It is grown and eaten in India’s northeast for its taste, as a cure for stomach troubles and a way to fight the crippling summer heat.”

Hmm, a CURE for stomach troubles? I’ve had some pretty spicy chilis in my time, and none of them IMPROVED my stomach condition. Most gave me acid shits. Which, also, doesn’t help beat the heat either. It just caused me to sweat more. Partially out of fear that I was about to pass my own colon out of my ass. You know what else beats the summer heat? Shade. And shade doesn’t kill your taste buds for a week.

“It has more than 1,000,000 Scoville units, the scientific measurement of a chili’s spiciness. Classic Tabasco sauce ranges from 2,500 to 5,000 Scoville units, while jalapeno peppers measure anywhere from 2,500 to 8,000.”

Hey, hi, um… excuse me one second please. SCIENTIFIC MEASUREMENT OF A CHILI’S SPICINESS?! Really?! We have a unit of measurement for SPICINESS?! Does that alarm anyone else? Why would you need that? Science, you’ve once again proved my theory about the Smartards.

Essentially, they’re going to use it as a gas bomb. The sheer heat of the pepper is going to choke terrorists out of their holes. The “chili grenade” is only one use. They also want to make pepper spray for women to fend off attackers. So maybe I should change my suggested name to the “DON’T Rape Your Mom Chili”.

I like this idea. I’m all for delicious foodstuffs being turned into vicious weapons. In fact, I’d like to offer up a few of my own suggestions for other foods we can turn into objects of destruction.

Fruit Cake - Sure, why not? Instead of using battering rams to break down doors, we just load this rock-solid bad boy into a launcher and fire it at the door. Not only will the door come down, but then everything will smell like glazed kiwi fruit. Delicious, and destructive.

Ramen Noodles – Cheap, easy to get a lot of, and a great netting to slow someone down. You’re after a fugitive, and he’s out-running your over-weight out of shape police force? No problem. Just fly over and drop a ton and a half of Ramen Noodles over him. Blanket him in the shit. Let’s see him try to run with thirty pounds of Beef Ramen weighing him down. Plus, we can follow the trail of brown salty liquid to his hiding place.

And perhaps the most deadly of all:Vegemite

Seriously, does that one even NEED an explanation? Think of all the ways you could use it. You could sneak it into their food supply, and while they’re gagging, you could bust in and kick their ass. You could spray it on them, and the heavy sticky qualities would pin them in place. Or you could simply hide all the jars in their caves, and tell the Australians they stole it. No one wants to fuck with an army of rioting, hungry Aussies.

You know what’s wonderful about a bomb made of food? We can use the ol’ phrase “EAT THIS!” more often. And who doesn’t want to see soldiers screaming “EAT THIS!” while bombing the hell out of brown people?

I would like to leave you with a military name for our Chili Grenades: Weapons of Mass Consumption. OM NOM NOoooooOOOOOWWWWW that’s hot!

The Out Of Context Collective

Let’s play around with my blog a bit, shall we? Today, I am going to go through every blog I’ve done so far, and take one line or piece of every one of them that I consider funny. I’m going to just put them here, in a list, with no context. We’ll see if things are more funny, or less, with nothing else to go on.

This also makes up for my lack of wanting to do a real blog today. Here we go.

How many times has the world ended in my lifetime now… five… six?

My Liberal Arts degree will no longer be impossible to achieve.

Keepin’ JIZZ OUT OF YOU!

Then just look at them with meat-juices pouring down my face, and smile.

But when a grown man talks about how one time he “ripped a big one while we were in the elevator, and it brought tears to his eyes”… I have a tendency to quiver a little bit.

He lines the halls of his mansions with your douche-baggety pictures of you pulling your shirt up and showing your abs.

I am no less a man because of the fact I can play my rib cage like a Xylophone.

So your baby was born without a head, your sister has a 300-pound tumor growing out of her 400-pound tumor, and your war-veteran brother-in-law has a piece of shrapnel in his left testicle that looks oddly like Ned Beatty.

A bus is a giant metal device filled with assholes, idiots, weirdos, cripples, old people, cheap businessmen, hippie college students, and a lot of guys named “Stewart”.

How in the name of Fuckity F. U. Fuckworth are those supposed to pierce the necks of unsuspecting villagers in the middle of the night?

I’m all for women’s rights, African American rights, Latina rights, Minority Female rights, Gay rights, Czech Transexuals rights, Half-Woman/Half-Echidna rights, hell, I’ll even support Invisible Skinned Peoples Rights!

That’s a potato with a ton of nails sticking out of is!

Not to mention the fact that I could finally use the little horsey ride outside of Wal-Mart without waiting in line!

If we drained just Rosie O’Donnell we could run a 747 to Europe.

A Hamburger with some 2-week old Seasame Chicken on top, and some of what we BELIEVE was that cassarole from last March. Tuna, perhaps?

Like hideous footwear, and things to stab into our faces to end the pain.

I have to be CAREFUL while removing the film, or else the trapped souls will escape.

It’s a human appendage going up your poop chute like some twisted Jim Henson porn video.

You want to be covered in I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter and have twenty six midgets in little dominatrix outfits lick it off?

Then you introduced me to mental stimuli and erections, and things got awkward for awhile.

And can that little guy stop peeing on things already?

And of course Space Hookers… er… I mean “Space Escorts”

OH man… I would FUCK that toaster, turn that bitch all the way to DARK.

The Hoff, is clearly displaying his man-nipples.

All that is left is to actually cover the thing in fatback and lard and call it a day.

You are delicious and nutritious, but more dangerous to eat than a cheap hooker.

Of course, the Pot-Fairy may go to prison for it, and you’ve seen Oz, you know what they do to fairies in prison!

This is going straight to Admiral No-Shit.

Ghandi was a trend-setter.

Sorry sir, we’ve discussed this with Anal Sphincter, and he see’s no way we can contain the blast.

Don’t use innocent Snicker’s bars for your evil half-assed schemes!

Sexy Professional Bowler.

Skip the cream cheese, and add some crack!

Please send me more pictures of your fuckin’ chicken.

I’d give my whole paycheck to watch a gang of lil’ 14 year old kids bring that dude to the ground!

And you spelt “Cuntface” with a K, you dumb ass.

Don’t tell me the Detroit Roman Catholics condone eating HIM

Now why don’t you get on your knees and let me put these scissors in your face.

I’m sleeping with your publicity stunt sheep

So here, from the bottom of my heart, I have given to you a Stuffed Squirrel Torso.

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.

Maybe I’m wrong, maybe that’s what the Queen of England calls her breasts.

So now I’m sticking charcoal in my pants?

You see, they are forced to trudge forever through a vile pile of their own fecal matter.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go light one of my makeup artists on fire for warmth.

The thought of something so beautiful and delicious like cream cheese being mixed with something that closely resembles the black pus that came out of the victims of the Bubonic Plague sends me into a dark place.

Then they have to spend the rest of the “ride” butt-scooting the way down while a fat kid leaps in and kicks them square in the back.

Giant mounds of butts on every corner, on every street.

I’m shocked we haven’t just started BOMBING the homeless.

I.O.U. one mentally-crippling fact that’ll leave you weeping like that did to me.

In fact, if a dude mouths off on his 18th birthday, feel free to kick him straight in the spine.

I saw Mommy doing something to Santa that involved beads and two of his reindeer

Perhaps they have their guts ripped out for eternity while wearing silly hats?

Just once I’d like to see a vasectomy on the sidewalk.

It wasn’t a picture of someone going up inside a girl with a coat hanger and repeatedly stabbing it in the head and tearing it out like a dead squirrel in a rain gutter.

Even Mr. Christ would have to kiss his Holy ass goodbye if a nuke came his way.

Unless it went something like “Hallelujah…. TORPEDO!”

I better get out of the bottom of the ocean or I’ll miss Ugly Betty

It ranks just under “having a pickle shoved in my anus”

Eat my frozen ass with a spoon you wimp!

Sometimes it’s just a giant purple foot sticking out of a toilet.

Toasters are better technology than the human brain.

I’m really surprised it wasn’t a Nazi Condom.

You’d never guess he was the type to invent a robot sex slave, would you?

It’s supposed to be like ExLax for your crotch

She is here today, wearing a vagina emblem on her helmet as a special homeage to her mother and her disorder.

I do not want Green Eggs & Ham, I do not want them Sam I Am. I’d rather have fried chicken and watermelon because I’m a negro, I am I am.

NO LIGHTBULBS FOR YOU!

I think I speak on behalf of handicapped ducks everywhere when I say that you are less useful than a duck that is lame, so it’s a little late for that.

I have this boil on my vagina that is shaped like President Hoover.

I thought maybe he was talking about that one time I ate some bad Mexican food, and I “went Green” for like a week, if you know what I mean.

Squirrels being swallowed up by a black hole is the definition of hillarious.

Well, out of context that all makes me sound like a psychopath. In context… it makes me sound like a psychopath. So, is this stuff more funny or less funny without anything else? And what the hell is your favorite? Not that I care, just askin’ to be nice. Now piss off.

Food For Over-Thought (aka The Menu Mind Fuck Game)

Here’s an article for you, recently put up by the New York Times. An article about what they deem “Menu Psychology”. In other words: Restaurants are fucking with your head!

Let’s just kick right in with the opening sentence. One of which I hate with all my heart: “CHICKEN liver is what the restaurateur Danny Meyer calls a torpedo. “

First of all, “restaurateur” is the worst word ever. It’s right up there with pus and bologna. You’re a restaurant owner, not a “restaurateur”. What kind of self-righteous arrogant shit is that?! It’s just like the fact the Liberal Arts major who serves me my over-priced latte has to carry the job title “Barista”. Who the fuck knows what that means?! I sure as hell don’t, and neither does this poor fuck. How can he BE something and not know what it is at the same time?! That defies logic, and it’s all because of our need as a society to sugar-coat everything with fancy language that makes the people using it look like fuckweeds.

Not to mention, if someone goes by “Danny”, they probably shouldn’t also go by “Restaurateur”. That kind of word is held only for people who don’t shorten their names. If his name was Daniel, I may buy it. But “Danny” sounds like the name of the 16 year old pie-faced kid spitting in my onion rings at Burger King, not the name of someone running a restaurant that serves chicken liver.

“Left to its own devices, it may be unappetizing and unpopular (MAY be unappetizing and unpopular?! What makes you have that idea, is it ’cause it’s a fuckin’ ORGAN?!), but when paired with what he calls an enhancer — applewood smoked bacon in the case of the chicken liver on the menu at Tabla, Mr. Meyer’s Indian fusion restaurant in the Flatiron District — it not only excites the taste buds but goes to work on the mind.”

Why does that paragraph exist in this article? A precursor to help you get the idea of what the whole thing is about? No, it exists only to piss me off. They wrote this article with one thing in mind: Send Bob Around The Fuckin’ Corner!

Where do I even start? How about “Indian Fusion” restaurant. Do you know what that means? Right: Not real Indian food. Fusion?! That is NOT a word that is appetizing in the least. That’s a word you MAYBE use with juice: Banana-Strawberry FUSION, but even then it’s really forced and obnoxious. However, what this seems to imply is that it’s Indian food PLUS other shit. Basically, American’s are bastardizing another type of food. We’ve done it with many other types. For instance, Italian and Mexican fused to make a Mexican Pizza, which looks oddly like a taco that didn’t get folded up. American bullshit with extra cheese!

Indian Fusion is one of those trendy-terms. For pretentious indie fuckers who like to think they’re hip. These are the ones who buy clothing at thrift stores, drive hybrid cars, and sit around coffee shops silently judging (and not in the funny way like I do) everyone that is different than them. They like Wes Anderson films (which no one with actual taste does), and they enjoy Co-Op food stores. Why? Because they like paying thirteen dollars for guilt-free milk.

This same mindset is why, at the Mall of America here in Minnesota, we actually have something called an Oxygen Bar. An idea that makes me reconsider my stance on genocide.

My next complaint about that paragraph is his use of bacon. Listen, bacon is basically the reason why happiness exists. Don’t go shovin’ it into stuff that shouldn’t have it in it. Like other animals. Chicken and pig do not work together. They are meant to be eaten separately. Bacon isn’t an “enhancer” either. Viagra is an enhancer. Bacon is food, fucker. It doesn’t “enhance” anything. It just makes it taste better. Enhancer is another one of those buzz words, like fusion. It’s strong, it’s scientific. As if this was a genius idea. No, you just put bacon, which is pretty much universally loved, on top of something else. You’re not a genius for doing something that high college students have been doing for years. How about I give “Danny” a vasectomy, and “enhance” society by making sure he can’t reproduce.

The worst, however, comes right at the end: “it not only excites the taste buds but goes to work on the mind.” Holy shit! It EXCITES the taste buds. I didn’t know my taste buds could get excited. Now this whole thing is starting to sound like sex. After we use the ENHANCER, we get EXCITED. MMM, this sounds fantastic. I assume when I digest this food, it’ll be like a climax for my stomach, correct? Why not just say: Bacon, it’ll make you jizz.

Then they say that it’ll GO TO WORK on my mind. Go to work on it? What are you trying to do here? Charles Manson “went to work” on the minds of some young girls. I don’t want my food to get involved with my mind. Stomach, yes, mind, not so much. This plate of food isn’t Hannible Lecter, fucker, it’s just a damn meal!

“And the name of the Tabla appetizer, Boodie’s Chicken Liver Masala, draws even deeper from the growing field of menu psychology because Boodie is the mother of Floyd Cardoz, Tabla’s executive chef. People like the names of mothers, grandmothers and other relatives on their menus, and research shows they are much more likely to buy, say, Grandma’s zucchini cookies, burgers freshly ground at Uncle Sol’s butcher shop this morning and Aunt Phyllis’s famous wedge salad. “

Boodie? Again with the sexy talk! Come get yourself some Boodie…’s Chicken Liver Masala. So, they named it after the cook’s mother? I mean, I wouldn’t really know that just flippin’ through the menu, but alright. It’s not even important. You could name the sandwich after some hooker you fucked three weeks ago, and I’d care just as little.

“People like the names of mothers, etc.”. Do they now? Is that a selling point to you guys? If I were to name a big bag of crap “Nancy’s Bag O’ Crap”, would you be more inclined to buy it? Has your mind EVER been swayed by the inclusion of the name of someones mother? Research says though. Research says people are more likely to buy the stuff with family names on them. Isn’t that sad? Research. Who has the time to research something THAT unimportant! Advertisement people are so full of shit it makes me want to puke up the plate of Auntie Jane’s Mexican Pizza Fusion Surprise that I ate this afternoon.

The article continues by explaining that, after combining with the BREAD BAR (or “Bakery” if you’re not a new-age hipster dumb fuck) that was downstairs, they spent “months” pondering this stuff. Wow, really? Months? Don’t you have something better to do with your life? You know, like… fuckin’ ANYTHING! I understand you’re working on making your business better, but not even Rembrandt spent that much time thinking about… whatever the fuck it is that Rembrandt did that was so special. Your restraurant probably sucks, it’s not worth that much effort “Danny”.

“The price of Boodie’s chicken livers, for example, is $9, written simply as 9. This is a friendly and manageable number at a time when numbers really need to be friendly and manageable.”

Oh it just doesn’t QUIT does it?! This blog is going to be about thirty chapters long at this rate!? Every fucking sentence makes me more annoyed than the previous one! Son of a bitch. “Friendly and manageable” NUMBER?! How can a number be FRIENDLY?! Does that mean other numbers aren’t so friendly? “8″ rhymes with “Hate”, so it’s clearly an unfriendly number. When you’re attaching personality traits to NUMBERS, you’ve now breached the border between “annoying” and “fucking nutcase”. When you’re trying to get people to go all buddy-buddy with the price of their food, you’ve gone completely psychotic. It’s not even up for debate. No psychologist need be brought in, you’re a fucking lunatic “Danny”.

And then it gets more depressing when they say that we live in a time where numbers “need to be friendly and manageable”. I didn’t know that was an issue, did you? I mean, I know we live in a time where we need more funding for schools. I know we live in a time where we need to seek out a revival of common sense. I know we live in a time where understanding and togetherness will get us through the biggest of problems. But we also live in a time where we need to make sure our numbers are friendly? If that’s the time we live in, it’s time for us to go. Pack your shit, friends, it’s time to down the cyanide-laced purple Kool-Aid and go meet our fuckin’ makers. Life isn’t worth living if my numbers need to be “manageable”.

“In the world of menu engineering and pricing, a dollar sign is pretty much the worst thing you can put on a menu, particularly at a high-end restaurant. Not only will it scream “Hello, you are about to spend money!” into a diner’s tender psyche, but it can feel aggressive and look tacky. So can price formats that end in the numeral 9, as in $9.99, which tend to signify value but not quality, menu consultants and researchers say. “

“Menu Engineering”. Nope. I didn’t just read that. I made that up in my mind, as a cruel joke. Clearly no one would refur to making a menu as “engineering”. Would they? Of course, these are the same people that have used “Fusion” and “Restaurateur”. I guess we can’t let anything slip past them.

Don’t use dollars signs? Fine, I’ll let it slide. But only because they’re pointless. That’s the only reason you don’t use them on a menu. Not because they’re verbally assaulting you! And what the fuck does “diner’s tender psyche” mean?! My “psyche” wasn’t tender up until just now. And that’s simply because of your article, not a fuckin’ dollar sign! Your article has crippled my psyche, and pushed me that much closer to my inevitable breakdown.

Also, note the term “Menu Consultant”. So first it’s “engineered” and then we need to “consult” people. All this just to make a list of what shitty food you’re serving?! Listen. If anyone ever tells you that America has a job shortage, this article is your counter-argument. If a “menu engineer” and “menu consultant” are both real jobs, there is no such thing a job shortage.

” Mr. Meyer said. ‘The chefs write the music and the menu becomes the lyrics, and sometimes the music is gorgeous and it’s got the wrong lyrics and the lyrics can torpedo the music.’ ”

I sure hope he didn’t say that OUTLOUD! And what the fuck is with “Danny” and the word “torpedo”. It’s the second time he’s used it. Apparently, he’s really eager to blow up his diners. Which, considering what happens to your bowels after eating Indian food, isn’t exactly far from the truth.

By the way, a menu is not music. A menu is a menu. Music is music. Music takes actual talent and artistry, a menu is just a FUCKING MENU! Leonard Cohan could write a menu, without breaking a sweat, “Danny” could not write the song “Hallelujah.”. Unless it went something like “Hallelujah…. TORPEDO!”

“The use of menu engineers and consultants is exploding in the casual dining arena and among national chains, a sector of the business that has been especially pinched by the economy. In response, they are tapping into a growing body of research into the science of menu pricing and writing, hoping the way to a diner’s heart is not only through the stomach, but through the unconscious. ”

Science of menu pricing. Yes, I remember taking that course in High School, right after Chemistry and Physics. If these people who write “Hamburger: Five Dollars” call themselves scientists, they deserve to be shot. Or worse: Forced to eat the food they’re serving!

“Huddle House, the family-dining chain with more than 400 restaurants in 17 states, is rolling out a test menu at 20 restaurants next week. The company hired Gregg Rapp, a menu engineer and consultant who holds ‘menu boot camps’ for restaurants around the country. He said he had been ‘taking dollar signs off menus for 25 years,’ ”

I’m just going to go ahead and say it: FUCK YOU GREGG RAPP! I hope you vanity-Google your own name and come across my blog. Just so you can read this paragraph. I hope you get AIDs, you stupid ass. Menu Boot camps? Holy fuck, that’s a really powerful way of saying “Lesson on Writing Menus”. You’re not a drill Sergeants Drill Sergeants are tough, intimidating. You’re a fucking toolbag. You couldn’t intimidate a pack of 6 year old Girl Scouts with a title like “menu consultant”. He actually even says that he’s been “taking dollar signs off menus for 25 years”. Woop-de-fuckin’-do. Aren’t you special. I really hope a giant dollar sign falls of a big sign and crushes you today, Mr. Rapp.

The article jumps to another page. Imagine that, more than one PAGE of this shit!

A new person is talking at this point, someone who’s a something for somewhere, I don’t really care anymore. But she does say something that hurt my eyes to see.

“She said the chain took dollar signs off the menu in 2007, and now on the test menu, instead of an omelet and orange juice, there is ‘the light and fluffy Heavenly Omelet’ and ‘Minute Maid orange juice.’ “

Heavenly Omelet. And just when I thought Mr. Rapp was the worst thing to happen to me, I have to witness someone call a fuckin’ egg HEAVENLY! I don’t even believe in Heaven, and yet I still find this unbelievably dumb. If there was a heaven, I’d certainly hope it was more exciting than a fucking omelet. Why not just go for what you’re really trying to say: Orgasmic Omelet. Eggs so scrumptious they’ll make you bust a nut right there in the restaurant. I bet you’d sell a thousand more omelet’s a day than you ever could calling them “Heavenly”. Maybe I should become a “menu engineer”!

They then dive into the tricks of the trade. Talking about “decoy” items, really expensive items placed at the top to make customers think the rest of the dishes are more “resonably priced”. They begin to explain how customers don’t order the cheapest or the most expensive item on the menu. This is not true. If I’m with a date, and I can already tell I don’t like her: she’s getting the cheapest item. If I’m with someone who is offering to pay for my meal, I’m getting the most expensive. I have proven you WRONG, menu-consultants. So spare me your dumb-ass decoy.

After they list a series of other tricks, they throw in this stand-alone thought:

“Unless a restaurant wants to frighten its customers, the price should always be at the very end of a menu description and should not be in any way highlighted. “

“OH GOD IT’S THE PRICE!!!” Nothing scarier than the fuckin’ price. Give me some credit, I’m not scared of a number. I mean, it’s such a friendly number, right?

“Mr. Rapp, of Palm Springs, Calif., also says that if a restaurant wants to use prices that include cents, like $9.99 or $9.95 (without the dollar sign, of course), he strongly recommends .95, which he said “is a friendlier price,” whereas .99 is “cornier.” On the other hand, 10, or “10 dollars,” has attitude, which is what restaurants using those price formats are selling. “

Mr. Rapp is back again. I thought I told you to die, fucker. And he’s hit me with another moronic barrage of stupid. Now 95 is the friendly number. And 99 is CORNIER. It’s not a fuckin’ romantic comedy, you numbnuts, it’s the price of my food! And apparently, 10 has attitude. Again with assigning personality traits to numbers. While we’re at it, why don’t we avoid putting 1.36 as a price, because “36″ is a bit of a whore. And don’t get me started on that douchebag 73!

We keep going, now on to the adjectives used to describe food. Apparently, words make you more full after meals:

“Vivid adjectives can not only sway a customer’s choice but can also leave them more satisfied at the end of the meal than if they had eaten the same item without the descriptive labeling. “

That makes no sense. If that was the case, why not just try that shit at home. Sure, when you give a homeless guy a sandwich, don’t say it’s a sandwich, say it’s a “SUPER FUCKING AWESOME SANDWICH OF FULLNESS”. Sure, he’ll think you’re crazy and give you his change, but at least he’ll be more full from that sandwich. Just don’t buy the sandwich from “Danny”, because he’s a moron.

Why is he a moron? How about this:

“In contemplating the Tabla menu, Mr. Cardoz said he and Mr. Meyer decided there were too many unusual Indian terms that were alienating customers, so they kept only the most recognizable words, like tandoori, paneer and tikka. “

Tandoori. Paneer. Tikka. Nope, never heard of any of them. Are they the name of characters in Lord Of The Rings? So, Indian Fusion means “Indian Food… Fused with American Idiocy”.

Now “Danny”‘s partner is getting in on the mix. He has this to say:

” ‘I feel most guests want to know what my inspiration was for any dish, and when they realize there is a connection for me doing something, they want to try it and they want to know it,’ he said. “

No, I really don’t. I don’t want to know SHIT about you or your meal. I just want to stuff food in my face because I’m hungry you idiot. That’s why I’m in your restaurant. For food! Imagine that! I’m not here for a history lesson or a Inside-The-Douchebag-”Restaurateur”‘s-Studio discussion. I just want to put something in my face that’ll make me not as hungry as I was before.

“And there was one connection he was definitely not going to take off the menu, whether it was on the chicken liver or the onion rings, which come with “Boodie’s Ketchup”: his mother.”
Alright, “Boodie’s Ketchup” is the single most unapatizing thing I’ve ever heard. It really sounds like it’s in the same boat as “Butt Gravy”. I will never, in a million years, buy something with Booty Ketchup on it. Your mom needs a different name, man…

That was, without a doubt the second most painful experience of my life. The only way it could be worse if I had to eat a jar of vegemite while reading it.

The article has taught me two things:

1) The New York Times is fucking stupid

and

2) I shouldn’t go to restaurants, because they’re trying to fuck with my head.

So, there you have it folks. Next time you go out to eat, you’re now armed with the knowledge to beat the “Menu Engineers” at their own game. Now: Happy Eating!

The Big 5-0 (In Hindsight…)

It’s been 22 years and some change since I popped out of my mum’s uterus and onto this cold, dark blue-green ball of crap.

Today marks a milestone. A fictional one I invented just for myself, but fuck you it’s a milestone now! That’s right: This is the 50th blog. 50 times now I’ve managed to sit down, type up a bunch of really angry shit, and not have to be commited to an institution.

I’m going to attempt a little retrospective of all the shit that’s gone down. Really, this whole thing is just an example of a miracle. A miracle that I have yet to murder someone. A minor miracle, perhaps. But it’s still a miracle. This little collection of rants to keep me stable has hopefully been amusing in the last few months, and as long as someone laughs, it’s worth the time. Well, sorta. I guess. Not really, but I have nothing better to do.

This whole thing started on Facebook. Where I, much like the rest of the mindless lemmings that occupy the collective that calls itself the “World Wide Web”, have gone to waste time that could be spent doing something more productive. Like putting paper clips together to make a chain, for example. I managed to load up the “Notes” section with various levels of rants. Some funny, some dead serious, some just about shit that happened that day.

You’ll notice in May, a series of blogs appeared. That’s when I realized some of them were kinda funny. So I stripped the ones off Facebook people had laughed at, and slapped them on a blog site. A blog site I hoped to fill with funny blogs and build a little website for myself. This, as you can see by the next few months: Didn’t happen overnight. I did an average of ONE blog a month for the following few months. Things moved slow.

Eventually, I was letting someone read the blogs, and their positive reaction sparked something in me. I began to feel that writing it may be worthwhile. Not having readers sorta leaves you unmotivated to write stuff that drains this much out of you, ya know?

So, in the last few months, I’ve managed to churn out quite a few blogs. Most of which make me look like a narcissistic, over-zealous, out of control douchebag. But fuck if they’re not somewhat funny.

The development of a blog roll helped actually get me readers. Which to me, is a huge-fuck-shock. People are willinging reading this crap?! That’s simply astonishing. That seriously baffles me. Why… fuckin’ WHY do you put yourself through it. Other than the fact half these opinions probably make you wish you could bitch-slap someone through means of email, it’s just a bunch of angry jibberish anyway! Ok, occasionally I stumble upon a point, but most of the time it’s just me complaining about shit that’s barely relevant to you or to ME even! It’s not even well-written most of the time. Perhaps the occasional “LOL” justifies it, but probably fuckin’ NOT!

You know what “Funny In Shadows” is supposed to mean? It’s a representation of me as a person. I use comedy as a coping mechanism. To keep me from doing serious harm to society. The world is loaded to the brim with total, undiluted shit. And it’s difficult for someone like me to deal with. So, I crack jokes about anything and everything. I find humor in dark places, and use it to get by. Hence, being funny in the shadows.

Has it been fun? Certainly. I enjoy doing this, and someday hope to take this to the stage. I’ve only done stand up four times on stage, but have written for many years. Some of this stuff is material I wrote for the stage, while other stuff is either on-the-fly ranting, or brought up during the day and molded into something tangible to put up here. Either way, anything that’s funny here has a chance of being refined and puked out into a microphone in front of a room full of drunks who don’t give a damn what I have to say. This is the hobby I choose for myself! Ain’t it fuckin’ glorius.

With that said, recently the activity has picked up here. I’ve gotten a lot of hits and readers, and a little random publicity as well. My last blog, about homeless people sparked another blogger to write a blog that seems completely dedicated to what I had to say. If you want to see what I’m talking about, check it out Here. Cristina Cordova apparently liked what I had to say. And thank her for it. Even if it proved one thing: When an opinion is stated on the Interwebs, assholes will crawl on up outta the fuggin’ woodwork and piss and moan and bitch about what you had to say. Sometimes they won’t even READ what you said and bitch about it anyway. Staggering level of douchebaggery. More so when they bitch about things I wasn’t even talking about. But hey, that’s what the interwebs is, and I’m hollerin’ about shit I’m ignorant to just as they are. Only I’m fuckin’ funnier.

The other obvious crossover came at the expensive of not only my tastebuds and stomach, but perhaps my sanity as well. It also happened to be the most-read and most talked about blog I’ve written yet. I’m of course talking about Chapter 2 in the Vegemite Saga. When I finished writing that blog, I actually didn’t think it was that funny. I thought it was mediocre at best. I wasn’t happy with it, really. You could say it “left a bad taste in my mouth”. Ha ha. However, it got rave reviews, and I guess that’s something.

One thing I’ve done little of since starting, is talked about actual stories in my life. I don’t lead an exciting life, so very few stories do I have. However, the few I’ve come across have really seemed popular. Perhaps I’ll have to go out and suffer more so I can have entertaining shit to whine about. I’ll die for your amusement. How very Christ-like of me. Except for the me being a douchebag thing. Perhaps the most popular of my stories was this one, which is about everyone’s favorite subject: POOPIE!

Now, some of the humor in here is obviously from a dark place. I use sarcasm (ZOMG really?!?!), and a lot of tongue-in-cheek jokes. Such as the fact that in this blog, it really sounds like I’m asking people to hurt kids. I do not, in any way, actually condone the abuse of children. Now, beating the fuckballs out of adults? I’m a-okay with that. In fact, if a dude mouths off on his 18th birthday, feel free to kick him straight in the spine. Twice! Just make sure he’s really 18 first. If you have to check ID, do so.

Also, in this blog I actually started things out by saying “Hitler Did Something Right”. Now, don’t think I like Hitler. I don’t. I’m 100% on the “Hitler was a douche” bandwagon. I have nothing more to say on that matter. Just wanted to make my Jew buddies clear on that. Hitler = Bad. Jews = Awesome. Ok? Ok…

Did you also notice I actually suggested kicking a women in the uterus in this blog? Yeah, uh… don’t actually do that. That’s just not cool. I was being facetious. In fact, if anyone kicks a woman in the uterus, I’m gonna have to kill you. Women deserve better than that. After all guys, they’re smarter than us. Way the fuck better than us too. Now ladies, don’t get ahead of me, you’re doing all you can to catch up in the “shithead” race that is life. And I’m proud of you, really. Way to fight for equality by also fucking up sometimes. It does make us feel a little better about being useless sacks of testosterone.

I’ve written various blogs about news stories too, in a desperate attempt to be topical. I’ve taken shots at NASA, Global Warming, something about some big-ass kid playing football? Granted, you don’t care about these stories, and neither do I. But at least it’s funny to whine about!

I’ve also attempted several recurring segments in the short time I’ve done this. Pretty much none of which have reaccured. Like my Weird Things Found On eBay and Complaint Department pieces. I do, however, have things planned for both of these in the future. Once I get my computer back, the eBay one should return. And I have list of minor things to complain about for the CD as well. So, shut the fuck up and WAIT, dammit.

I’ve managed to write down a pretty decent list of things that I’d like to cover in the next 50 blogs. Various ideas and things that’ll eventually be up here. I’ll also continue to search for weird products, such as the Subtle Butt, High-Heeled Sneakers, or the Krispy Kreme Bacon Cheeseburger. And will continue to find bizarre stories, like this delightful one about a Food Processor. I’ve got a few new segment ideas as well, so I can have more non-recurring recurring things to whine about. Fun shit.

Looking over the blog, I guess I gotta talk about my blog roll as well. I love you all (‘cept the Friggin’ Loon for the whole “Sending me fuckin’ vegemite” thing! I want my soul back, dammit!). The first two real peeps I’ve had on here were Oma over at Blurt and the dood who’s over there Shoutin’ from the damn abyss , you two have been faithful readers since I really started working on promoting this place, and I’m happy for it. Of course, I also kinda hate you guys. Seriously. But it’s good hate, not hate hate. Ok? Ok. And of course there is the possible red-headed love of my life and maybe future Miss Counter Culture Clown Shiny, the Unabridged Girl . You still make this bitter, cynical asshole smile sometimes. Oh yeah, the rest of you are cool too I guess. But you gotta lot of catching up to do before I love you more than these four (yes, that includes “teh loon”.)

Also, Alex, I know you’re reading this inbetween nerd-treks to the fuggin’ WoW website, but I suppose I owe you a bit too. For being the only one to find the ChocoRat blog as funny as I do. The only one. Fuck it, that’s damn funny bloggin’ boi. However, I do owe you a major ass punting for being party to stumbling upon the whole Muskrat thing. Fuckin’ hell, my life would be better knowing that that didn’t exist. I.O.U. one mentally-crippling fact that’ll leave you weeping like that did to me. You’ll get it someday.

But hey, this fuckin’ thing has gone on a bit too long now, so it’s time to let it slide. Just know that some crazy shit is still there, I’m never dry when it comes to things to bitch about. I promise to attempt to maybe try to keep it up sorta. And if you guys keep reading, fuckin’ good for you. I’d love it if you promoted. Tell your friends. Pimp me like a Blog-whore. I want readers dammit!

Either way people, thanks for an interesting first 50. And here’s to maybe… 6 more before I snap and call it quits. Naw, I’ll stick around. See ya’ll at the 100th Aniversary! I’ll probably be blogging from prison at that point. Or hell. I bet they use dial-up in hell. And AOL. Fuck, that’s gonna suck…Anyway, thanks. Seriously. Thanks. I do appreciate it.

Now go do something productive, fuckers!

…And The Vegemighty Shall Fall

Today is a great day for FiS, faithful and faithless readers. For today I have recieved a wonderous care package from one of the blog elite. The fine mind behind Friggin’ Loon has delivered unto me a gift that shall top anything else I recieve this holiday season.

As you may be aware, ever since I wrote my blog about Vegemite I have been quite curious as to what the big deal is with this product.

So a couple jars were sent to me!

That’s right! I was lucky enough to find a package waiting for me at work today. A jar of regular good ol’ fashioned Vegemite, and a jar of the short-lived Vegemite iSnack 2.0! Allow me to start off by saying how much it concerns me that on the package shipping tag, the product was marked as “Gift” and NOT “Plant, Animal, or Food products”. That’s just fabulous. It isn’t even tagged as FOOD for international shipping. And while I appreciate the sentiment of it being a gift, I am deeply afraid that it’s a gift that will kill me.

So let’s open the sum-bitch up and take a look, shall we?! First, we’ll take a look at the original Vegemite jar. It’s a tiny lil’ bastard, sorta cute in a lil’ jar sorta way.

According to the smaller words (probably smaller for a fuckin’ REASON!) under the big Vegemite logo, it simply says:

“Concentrated Yeast Extract”

MMM! I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry already! Yeast extract, and concentrated at that! Scrumptious sounding indeed!

A fun little logo says that this product is “One of the world’s richest known sources of Vitamin B”. Oh good, I was worried I wasn’t getting enough Vitamin B in my life. Doesn’t really say WHICH of the Vitamin B’s it is, so I’ll assume it covers all 8 of them. A decent thing to give a man, no doubt. But is this the best way to do it? The good news is, Vitamin B helps fight pancreatic cancer. Why not just slap that on the label as well.

Allergen Information? Sure, most products have them so why not Vegemite. Apparently, this contains BARLEY! One of the scariest allergies, right up their with peanuts and shellfish. This product has BARLEY?! I didn’t even know people ATE barley. I thought it was something you fed to horses.

Right under that, it let’s us know that it’s “Suitable for Vegetarians”. Yippy fuckin’ skippy! Lucky vegetarians! They can have YEAST! What a rich and exciting life their mouths lead! If you ever want to really shut up an annoying vegetarian friend, I believe we’ve found a solution.

Looking over the ingredients, I don’t see any words that jump out at me as food. It appears to be mostly yeast.

However, and this is good news, according to the image of an arrow stabbing a piece of toast with what appears to be poo on it, it’s not only a great source of Vitamin B, it’s also a good source of “Folate”. I think I speak on behalf of everyone when I say: DUH FUCK IS FOLATE?! I’ve never heard that word, ever, not EVER in my fucking life. EVER! Apparently I’m missing out on a key piece of my well being that only Vegemite can provide. I guess it goes by a more common name: “Folic Acid”. Now that I know what that is, I feel a little better about shoving it in my face.

It also has no artificial colors or flavours. Interestingly enough, it also doesn’t seem to have any natural color other than what I can only describe as “…WTF?”

Under the Nutrition Information table, where they tell you about daily percent and things like that, right at the top they tell me the daily percentage of “Energy”. Well, hell. I didn’t know “Energy” was a nutrient! All this time I thought it was… you know… energy. Little did I know that it’s right up their next to Protein and Riboflavin!

I’m scared. I can actually seem to SMELL the product before opening the jar. This alarms me. But let’s open it up…

The jar is surprisingly difficult to open. Probably because the jar lid knows whats best for me. It’s trying to save my life. It’s ok, jar lid, I know what I’m doing. I think.

There appears to be a bubble brewing on the top. It looks a bit like chocolate syrup… that has hardened, and gone just slightly see-thru. It also smells like bread crumbs that you pick out of the bottom of your toaster.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any bread or something to put it on today, so for my first step I’m simply going to eat a tiny spoonful. Just to get a taste of what I’m about to get myself into.

Alright, here we go. If someone finds this blog unpublished and open on my computer, know that I died living on the edge. Adventure called and I responded. Spoon in hand, I dive in!

Pre-bite thought: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST THIS SHIT IS THICK?! My plastic spoon is bending under the weight of just a tiny little chunk of it. It’s the thickest substance I think I’ve ever seen. Do I have to CHEW IT?!?

OH DEAR GOD! I can’t even manage to choke it down without coughing! It’s HORRIBLE! My stomach is actually churning, and I’m not over-exaggerating! It’s SEVERELY salty, and has an odd stale bread taste. Thankful I brought a huge piece of cake with me to attempt to drown out the taste. I shall nom it now. Pray for me.

The overwhelming bitter and salty combo is killing me. It’s not even close to edible tasting! I thought maybe the odor was misleading, but it was not. This is a terrible thing to do to Australians. Kraft should be ashamed of themselves for putting out such a product! In my short time on this planet, I’ve eaten a lot of weird food products. And never have I tasted something that’s this flat out bad. I barely took that big of a bite, and it was that strong.

Australia, listen… you don’t have to do this to yourself. Ask Kraft nicely to send you some fuckin’ mustard or something. There is no need to spread this shit on anything else! You don’t deserve that. This is the kind of disgusting jar of crap I’d expect from England, but not you! Not my land-down-under buddies!

…Dare I look at the iSnack 2.0? Fuck it, if you’re going to kill yourself, might as well do it right. Right?

It claims itself, right on the label, as a “Deliciously Different Vegemite Experience”. I hope that means this jar is edible…

Right under the expiration date (which I’m surprised wasn’t thirty six years ago), there are these words: “Jar may break on impact”. The impact of what? Me throwing it in front of a bus in hopes of killing it? Perhaps the impact of my projectile vomit smashing into the jar at top speed?

So, it appears they added… cream cheese to it. I can’t even begin to imagine what this is going to taste like. The thought of something so beautiful and delicious like cream cheese being mixed with something that closely resembles the black pus that came out of the victims of the Bubonic Plague sends me into a dark place.

Shit, the flavor of the original is coming back. Time to nom more cake…

Alright, this jar is open now too. It’s WAY creamier, and resembles a melted chocolate bar. It does not, however, SMELL like a chocolate bar. It instead smells like a bar of death. Rich, creamy death. I don’t know if I can do this, but for FiS I will. I will put a tiny bit of this in my mouth as well. I do not expect positive results. Let us hope I get proven wrong.

I’m actually hesitating. I’m THAT afraid of what is about to happen to my face. The smell of old bread is hovering over me like an air of horror. Fuck you Australia, fuck you! Alright, I can do this…

Yup. It’s just as yucky as the other. I taste ZERO difference. There is no cream cheese in this, just pure evil. I’m cramming so much cake in my mouth right now there is barely room to breath. I barely was able to keep it down, but I somehow managed. There is a strong taste of salt in my throat, and it refuses to leave. Literally. The Vegemite has formed a tiny life form inside my neck and is YELLING at me to die. It’s like an evil condiment parasite out to control the world one sorry fuck at a time.

People. I’m going to say this once, and only once: YOU DO NOT WANT TO TRY IT. I thought I did. Despite warnings to the contrary. And I was wrong. I don’t admit it often, but I was wrong. This was a horrible experience. One I never want to emulate. I’m doing this as a warning to all of you out there who ever thought “I wonder what it tastes like.”

Well, rest assured: It’s gross. It’s disgusting, vile, and inedible. I have no idea HOW this could cause such a huge following over there, but it’s clearly a case of people who have been separated from the world so long they’ve lost touch of what is worthy of being eaten. This is just wrong. It’s like humping family members wrong. It’s like using infants as weapons wrong. It’s like… listening to a Cher album all the way through wrong! It’s wrong on levels that mankind has yet to sink to. Or so I thought. Kraft… you evil motherfuckers!

If you’ll excuse me, I seem to have a small headache now. This is pathetic. It’s just a jar of Vegemite, how can it be doing this to me? I feel like a total wuss. But I will admit defeat. And end this blog with this declaration:

“Vegemite Kicked My Ass!”

The 9 Circles Of (Taco) Hell

When it comes to totally awful food, nothing is better than Taco Bell.  For those of you unfamiliar with the “Mexican” Restaurant for whatever reason, be it you don’t have them where you live or you have some semblance of self-respect, let me explain it to you.

Taco Bell is a fast food joint that specializes in “Mexican” food. It is really, really bad. Yet… it’s really, really good. A contradiction that makes it a modern miracle. Something to marvel at. And then shit out your ass like an angry volcano. Because the food is so addicting, yet does tremendous damage to your colon, it has earned the nickname “Taco Hell”.

So, today, for taco-shits and giggles, I shall look at the Nine Layers of Taco Hell, as is documented in The Divine Mistake-In-Lunch-Choice and it’s first epic poem, Paco’s Rectum Inferno.

Here we go.

First Circle: Limbo

This is the layer of people who just don’t know any better. “Hmm, a fast food TACO place, that sounds good.”. These poor souls didn’t mean any harm on themselves or the other people in their car on the way home, but they deserve the Wrath of Gordita anyway. Ultimately, they don’t get the full brunt of the storm, because they excercise caution and only order a few tacos or a burrito. Nothing that merits a full day on the pot. They aren’t idiots, they just slipped up and didn’t know better.

Second Circle: Lust

These people are a little weird. They actually make statements such as “I LOVE Taco Bell!” and “Taco Bell, that’s my favorite restaurant!”. These people are fuckin’ bat-shit out of their minds bonkers. No one LOVES Taco Bell. No one even likes it. We all know it’s pure, unnatural evil. We only eat it because it’s there, and it sounded good at the time. A violent storm shall rage forever in the lives of these poor, Taco-whores. The storm, of course, is contained entirely in their stomachs. A splashing back and forth of tummy acid as it clashes with the Crunch Wrap Supreme they have four or five times a week for lunch. A deadly storm that will forever cause them to suffer the Winds of Disaster. (If only they had a Subtle Butt!)

Third Circle: Gluttony

These are the people who take thirty-three minutes to place an order, because they have a LOT of shit they need to get. They can’t decide if they want to poo out their brains because of a bag full of soft-shell tacos, or if they want to poo out their brains for two Chalupa’s and a mexican pizza. So, they just order it all. You’ve seen them. They order a number 3, a few Chili-Cheese Burritos and a small order of nachos with extra cheese. They sit in a booth, all alone (people in this circle don’t usually have friends or family that can stand being seen in public with them). Stuffing food in their face, as if it was going to run away from them. A burrito in both hands, they resemble King Kong with two cars in his hands while destroying NYC. These people also get their Just Desserts (and no, I’m not talking about empanada’s). You see, they are forced to trudge forever through a vile pile of their own fecal matter. Large and ample flows of it shall forever pour out of them later that evening. A disgusting black-brown matter that stinks to no end. The good news is: No family or friends at their house to suffer through the odor!

Fourth Circle: Avarice aka Greed

These people are known for their habits of keeping hordes of Taco’s long after they have eaten lunch. You know the people, the ones who have three normal hard-shell tacos left over from their combo meal sitting in the fridge three and a half months later. They just randomly eat them one morning, despite common sense telling them fuckin’ not to. They have junk drawers strangely filled with Hot sauce packets and plastic forks they’ll never use. But hey, you never know when life will require you to use a packet of Fire sauce. Probably  never, but better sorry than safe. These people are always at odds with their friends while they eat: “Get your own fuckin’ packets of hot sauce! If  you wanted hot sauce, why didn’t you get some when we were at the uber-station!? These are mine, and yes I will use all of them. Bastard!” An eternity fighting their equally greedy friends over the last nacho. A sad state of affairs to say the least.

Fifth Circle: Wrath And Sloth

Two groups, trapped at the same place. The wrathful sit in the front seat of the car on the ride home, blissfully letting loose the anal hounds. Fighting to see which one of them will crack a window first. Their wrathful fumes stain their very souls for the remainder of the car ride home. Meanwhile, beneath the surface of farts, in the back seat of the car, those that cant stay conscious any longer, engage in what will be known as a “TaComa”. They will proceed to spend the rest of the day at rest, not because they have to, just because they don’t want to get up after what they just did to themselves. They can even remain this way all weekend!

Sixth Circle: Heresy

Taco Bell sucks. Taco John’s is so much better. BLASPHEMER! Such words shall be punished here. You will be forever encased in a tomb of flaming-bad tacos with fuckin’ TATTER TOTS on the side?! What the fuck is that about?! Taco John’s is a false taco restaurant, and it’s followers shall forever live without the love that is a nachos bell grande. Sure the chips appear to be made of mostly cardboard, but they’re still better than fuckin’ Taco John’s!  

Seventh Circle: Violence

Three types of people reside in different rings of this layer. We shall start with the first:

• Violence towards people: These are quite similar to the Wrathful folks, only on a much more sinister level. These are the psycho motherfuckers that hold you down and fart ON you. Trust me, such evil is out there. They torment their little brothers or unsuspecting friends with dirty bombs. A terrible act of violence that not only hurts a person physically, but forever hurts their emotional state as well.
•  Suicidal peeps: Obviously, I don’t mean actual suicide. But these are the people that actually do this to themselves because they LIKE the pain. They actually have planned ahead for a day on the toilet spraying liquid from their anus. They write notes on napkins “Sorry, but I really wanted to just sit around all day and eat burritos and poop. It wasn’t your fault, I’m sure your casserole was going to be delicious. But I just… I can’t do it anymore. I have to have Taco Bell. I MUST!” Poor, unfortunate souls. Such violence towards yourself will forever be your burden. May your higher power forgive you for such foolish acts of self-destruction.
• Violence against Taco Bell: These are the people that actually complain and return food! I’ve seen it done, and it is a hideous act of “WTF-itude”. Listen up, you sin-filled turd-burritos: it’s basically all the same shit. Just stick it in your face and stop yelling at the minimum-wage paid mother of six that just served it to you. She doesn’t understand English anyway!

Eighth Circle: Fraud

You know what you’re doing is wrong, but you do it anyway. Those who commit deduction by offering you tacos as payment, or offer you one of theirs even though you didn’t want any. These people mislead you into thinking it’s a good idea to shove one of those tacos in your face. They will forever be punished by having you whip the shit out of them for giving you stomach cramps later in the evening. They deserve it, to. Also here are people who commit flattery. Flattery will get you know where at Taco Bell. So when you tell the guy who stuffed your taco under the heat lamp that he’s a cook, you shall pay the price. They are not cooks, they are intestinal-mass murderers. Your bullshit will come back to haunt you when their ego causes them to experiment with the food, and end up giving you a taco with so much “culinary work” done to it, that it actually causes you to explode and shit your pants. Good! You deserve to forever be buried in your own crap. Also here lie those that steal tacos from others. The “look over there!” followed by a stealth-swipe of someones extra-bean burrito. So many evil lying, cheating, stealing motherfuckers. This layer of Taco Hell is only for the truly evil scum. Punishment be swift and harsh for thee!

Ninth Circle: Treason

For people that have wronged those important to them. Sinning towards their families by bringing Taco Bell home for dinner. Way to go, asshole, now your whole family has the runs and only one bathroom. This is your punishment. Housed in this layer are also those that take their friends out to Taco Bell for lunch. Traitors to the public are here too. The people that eat Taco Bell and then use public restrooms. That odor now haunts everyone who uses that bathroom after you. A terrible act towards the State and it’s people. All of these acts of treason end in the deepest of shame.

So there you have it. The punishment that can be handed to you if you do not take Taco Bell seriously. It’s a gift, a blessing, even though it hurts sometimes all the time. As long as you avoid breaking these rules, you should remain somewhat safe from the punishment. You have been warned.

May The Blessing Of Tums Be With You Always!

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!