According to this interview in the late 70s, Arnold Schwarzenegger liked to participate in gang bangs with black chicks and his dad was a Nazi officer.

On my way back to office during lunch today I saw something so fucking utterly ridiculous I'm still in shock. While waiting at a traffic light, I pull behind a Dodge Neon. A sticker is placed squarely in the back window that reads "Brakes Are For Pussies." Easy there Johnny Nitrous Oxide, you'd be lucky if an old lady with a walker didn't beat you up a hill in that high-performance sack of fluorescent blue 4-cylinder shit you call an automobile. I should've dragged that cocksucker out of his cute little plastic car and gone Reginald Denny on his ass.

I have a problem with Jehovah's Witnesses. It stems from the fact that they like to pound on my door early on Saturday mornings. One particular Saturday these Restorationist pricks came a-knocking. I awoke from deep slumber, threw on a pair of boxer shorts, stumbled down the stairs and opened the door. Before me stood two brainwashed youngsters spouting off at the cake chute about Jesus. Politely I informed them of no soliciting ordinance that governs the town home complex. They responded by telling me they obey the law of God and not the law of man. I was tempted to deconstruct the entire history of human law all the way back to the Code of Hammurabi, but I was tired so I slammed the door on their Jehovah-loving faces instead. My lady lives in the same town home complex and gets the door-to-door action, pamphlets and letters. I read one of their pamphlets; it was a detailed dissertation about the evils of pornography. Jehovah's Witnesses think pornography is bad. You see what I am saying? They are completely out of touch. Unfortunately, according to this, their tribe in increasing.

Labels: porn, religion, the fairways, wife

Weddings are usually a source of happiness as two people commit and celebrate their love in a timeless ceremony amongst family and friends. They're also a great place to get rip-roaring drunk and fuck some shit up. While I never bit a man's finger off or smeared cake on a child, I do recall (vaguely) one wedding I attended six years back:

• The ceremony is in North Denver and I ride shotgun to it with my cousin, Monica. Both of our mothers asked us to show up early and help set up chairs. We arrive 20 minutes late because we had to stop off for cigarettes.
  
• Monica and I sit in the back of the church during the ceremony. We make crass comments about a family member's hairpiece that gives him the appearance of a young Ringo Starr. Joking in a British accent I say things like, "Hey Paul, it's time to get married." Monica giggles like a dirty schoolgirl.
  
• The ceremony ends and Monica and I realize the reception is on the top of Lookout Mountain (near Golden, Colorado) nearly an hour away. We stop off at a local liquor where nobody speaks English before we begin the trek.
• In the car we consume alcohol as quickly as possible. We smoke many cigarettes.
• We arrive at the reception hall drunk. I sign the guestbook "Matt." I have neither a gift nor a card for the couple. Nels and my sisters have saved us seats at a table. We proceed to the bar.
• The greatest combination of words in the English language: open bar.
• After dinner, our table is completely trashed and loud. Family and friends shush us. Nels and I decide to get a round of anisette shots for the table for the toast. We drink all the shots on the way back to the table and wind up going back for more.
• The anisette shots are downed at the table before the toast even begins. Then we remember they bring around champagne for the toast. Instead of waiting for the caterers to pour us the bubbly, Monica acquires a bottle for our table and after taking the first pull proclaims, "No more for me. I have to drive home."
• The garter belt ceremony begins. Nels, my sister's date Mike and I stand in the pit of bachelors. The garter is flung and gets caught in the chandelier. Nels and I decide to hoist Mike up to the chandelier to grab the garter. Our sense of balance is skewed thanks to the alcohol we've consumed and Mike nearly falls on his face as we lift him. Mike braces himself against the chandelier, grabs the garter and jumps down. The chandelier swings wildly for about 5 minutes. My grandmother looks scared.
• I see a hot girl and ask my Mom if I'm related to her. She says no. I ask hot girl to dance. At this point I have spilled liquor all over the front of my shirt and smell like a brewery but she says yes anyway. As we dance I sing the song being played loudly in her ear. When the dance is over she informs me she is leaving and gives me her phone number. As she walks away I blurt out, "You look hot, and I'm not just saying because I'm drunk." (Days after the wedding I forget the number is in my pants pocket and it gets ruined in the wash).
• Reception ends late. Nels and I talk the bartender in giving us some beers for the road. We smuggle them out in our dress pant pockets.
• Monica ends up chauffeuring most of our drunken table home. We get stopped at a sobriety checkpoint. Luckily, Monica is now sober and passes with flying colors. I sit in the backseat staring blankly at her walking a straight line with an open beer in my hand and the remnants of a twelve pack at my feet. Much later I realize that if I were asked out of the backseat we would've all spent the night in county lock-up.

Labels: drinking, tomfoolery, wedding

Cisco sent me this to post (He claims his site is down otherwise he would do it. READ: He just downed a bottle of whiskey and forgot to pay the bill). He is far more depraved than I will ever be.

According to this dominatrix, sadomasochism needs a softer edge. After whipping multiple bare asses with a cat-o-nine tails, dripping hot candle wax over exposed nipples and ramming a diamond studded dildo into a plethora of uncomfortable orifices, I suppose this was a natural progression.

Christ it's hot in this office. I bet one of those skinny bitches turned up the thermostat. They're always cold. It could be 102 degrees outside and they're wearing a sweater because it's "chilly out." Whenever one of them says, "I think it feels fine in here" it means its 15 degrees hotter than it should be. We need to crank up the AC. I want it so cold in this dick joint that an Eskimo could ice fish in the middle of the lunchroom.

If I ever had a prosthetic leg and a beef with a heroin dealer, this would be me. Of course, if I were truly committed to beating someone with a prosthesis, I could develop a mental disorder and freeze my leg in dry ice so they cut the motherfucker off.

I periodically type Matt Brozovich into Google to see what pulls up on the list of search results (usually me or something related to me dominate the top five). Recently I discovered I have a web alter ego; a Matt Brozovich that hails from Murrysville, Pennsylvania, plays drums in a speed metal band called Headcase and likes to say things like "You are a homo."

Labels: dopplegaenger, matt brozovich

The University of Colorado Boulder is ranked the number one party school in the nation and I'm willing to bet this year's freshman class is full of dipshits like this.

I like sushi. I like it even more when it can be eaten off a naked woman.

Some guys need an instruction manual for their cocks.

Ernest Hemmingway had a son named Gregory. Gregory married Ida. They got divorced. Gregory got a sex change operation and became Gloria. Gloria remarried Ida. Gloria died in prison. Ida now wants a chunk of the Hemmingway fortune. Lawyers claim a same-sex marriage isn't a legal binding contract. I only have three words for this link: holy fucking shit.

I just returned home from a visually exquisite, physically tiring backpacking trip in the Sangre De Cristo Wilderness. I tagged along with my cousin Nels, his wife Kerry and their two dogs Chopper and Chief. I have pictures, but I'm too lazy to unpack my digital camera from my bag and plug it into the computer to share them with you. You will see me, with my mountain man beard and all my backpacking glory later this week. Many humorous anecdotes and witticisms were exchanged as we toiled along remote mountain trails, but in my opinion, the best came from me when discussing anal sex: "It's a game of inches, my friends."

An interesting footnote: On the way home today, we took a minor detour to see the Bishop Castle. In case you're uneducated in local Colorado lore, for over 30 years, eccentric Jim Bishop has been building a castle, all by himself. We had to see it to believe it. As I bore witness to over 30 years of one man's work (not to mention my enjoyment of anti-government mantras written on sandwich-board signs dotting the castle landscape) one thought came to mind: "Well this is fucking interesting. Hey, are you guys ready to go?"

Sad story. Funny picture.

Last night, while watching Most Extreme Elimination Challenge the movie preview for My Boss's Daughter came on. Ashton Kutcher and Tara Reid have starring roles. Tara Reid's emaciated skeletal-like frame haunts me. Tara, eat a fucking ham sandwich. Heroin chic is so 1996. Just ask Fiona Apple. You don't see that bitch doing much of anything lately, do you? She released an album in 1999. It's called When the Pawn Hits the Conflicts He Thinks Like a King What He Knows Throws the Blows When He Goes to the Fight and He'll Win the Whole Thing 'Fore He Enters the Ring There's No Body to Batter When Your Mind Is Your Might So When You Go Solo, You Hold Your Own Hand and Remember That Depth Is the Greatest of Heights and if You Know Where You Stand, Then You Know Where to Land and if You Fall It Won't Matter, 'Cuz You'll Know That You're Right. Who thinks naming an album something that's almost 100 words is a good idea? A fucked-up anorexic bitch that hasn't eaten in two months, that's who.

Quote of the day:

"I'm not against bikini coffee bars for puritanical reasons, but because it uses women's bodies for commerce."

Capitalism lesson number one: Everything (people included) is exploitable.

Proof positive that Photoshop can simultaneously perfect and corrupt the human form.

Lunchtime around the office is a happy time. Some days I dine in the break room, sometimes I'll roll home to take a nap and play a game of College Football, and at least once a week I eat lunch with Jake, Brandon, Joe and Neal. Our conversations are interesting, humorous and encompass many topics; world domination, Joe's homosexual party-boy lifestyle and morons we work with, etc. Today, while eating a BBQ burger at Gordon Biersch, the subject of me being Supreme World Dictator got brought up. Here's a paraphrase of the discussion:

Matt: I tell you what, if I were running the world I'd kill all of the fucking child molesters.
Jake: Killing all the child molesters wouldn't mean that kids would stop being molested, Matty.
Neal: Jake is right you know.
Brandon: Yeah, I agree.
Matt: Its not about eradicating the world of child molesters. Its about killing all the ones that are around now. Its the journey that matters, boys, not the final destination.
Joe: That's the secret of genocide, Matt; its the journey, not the destination.

It gives me hope to know some priests prefer the company of women over age 18 (albeit meth addicted women over age 18 missing teeth and selling their bodies to support their drug habits) as opposed to the company of young boys wearing T-Ball uniforms.

Artists through out history have used a variety of materials for their mediums. Whether it is paint, pencil, charcoal, etc., artists generally use something that is abundant and readily available. In the Midwest, I imagine 300 lbs of butter isn't that difficult to find.

Today in Colorado, it's fucking hot. Like Africa hot. Like the flames of hell hot. People are finding all sorts of ways to keep cool. I log onto my computer after dropping a deuce in the corporate washroom and I have this IM message flashing on my screen:

Jake: A 28-ounce Mountain Dew Livewire Slurpee, my friend. That's a high that never lets you down.

Amen, Jake. A-fucking-men.

Sometimes a man has to wear a dress on principle.

Larry Flynt is a scumbag pervert that peddles smut to like-minded scumbag perverts who enjoy seeing pseudo-lesbians piss on each other and stuff wine bottles up their assholes. That being said, I absolutely love when he pulls shit like this.

If I've ever linked to your email or website, than you by no doubt have received junk mail from a spamming sales executive at Traffic Magnet. About a month or so back, I sent Traffic Magnet a polite email asking them to please stop emailing my people. Shortly thereafter, the emails stopped and I considered the matter closed. Unfortunately, Mark informed me this morning that Traffic Magnet sent him another email. Pissed off, I decided to take action. I call upon you, the loyal readers of mattbrozovich.com to help me seek vengence upon an inconsiderate spammer. I have acquired the personal work email of the spamming Traffic Magnet account executive. All that I ask is you save the email sarah_williams@trafficmagnet.com and forward any junk mail you receive to the address. Consider it your personal storage bin for email garbage. Got an ad for anal beads? Send it to Sarah. A crooked Nigerian money laundering scheme? Sarah is interested. A recipe for oatmeal cookies from your Grandma? Fire it off to Sarah (she likes to bake). Be prepared Sarah Williams, for your careless spamming will be the end of you.

This link reminds me of the Angry Samoans song, "They Saved Hitler's Cock." It goes something like this:

They saved Hitler's cock
They hid it under a rock
I discovered it last night
I couldn't even believe my eyes
If Hitler's cock could start to talk
It would say
To kill today