I am a big fan of stories that involve human beings with more girth than a large sea mammal having to be cut out of their homes via the jaws of life and taken to the hospital by way of cherry picker. Unfortunately for this poor bastard, he was frothing at the mouth and perished in the ordeal because medics could not get his gargantuan ass through the front door.

Labels: gluttony, tomfoolery

This past weekend was a bloodbath for the top seeds in the NCAA tournament. My bracket now look as damaged as Edward James Olmos's face. Since Stanford was upset by the Crimson Tide, my only hope for a cash payout is if Oklahoma State, Duke, St. Joes and UConn all lose in the next round or if these collective teams are executed by firing squad.

Labels: gambling, sports

During my lunch hour I headed to the Super Target to procure a cheap AM radio so I could listen to the NCAA Tournament games in my cubicle (as I post this, I am number two in the office pool. Stanford Cardinal all the way, baby). I follow a young woman (approximately 20 years of age) into the retail superstore and am horrified to witness to one of the most unsettling views in contemporary American society: low-rise jeans, a bare midriff and back fat. Rolls and rolls of mushy back fat. With a butterfly tattoo right in the middle of it. I should have reprimanded the young woman for not only showing off her obesity but also accentuating it with a stupid fucking tattoo. Ladies, if you have a handful of flab hanging over the side of your pants you do not look like Gabrielle Reece. You look like chain smoking gutter trash that takes their dirty bastard children to the flea market to purchase cheap jewelry and black market name brand clothing. For the love of baby Jesus, cover up that spare tire up with some fabric.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, gambling, gluttony, sports

Kaye: Do you remember that robot's name from Short Circuit?
Me: Johnny 5.
Kaye: That is right. Johnny 5 is alive!
Me: I hate that motherfucker.
Kaye: I hate that fucking dumb ass movie. Johnny 5 was all rolling around like he was a tank or some shit. Where are your fucking legs Johnny 5?
Me: I wanted to take a crowbar to his stupid ass. Or disconnect his shit and roll him down a hill. Fuck you, Johnny 5.
Kaye: Johnny 5 is not alive.

Labels: im convos, kaye, movies, pop culture

Modern science is magical. Veterinary students can learn how to properly rectally palpitate cattle on the bovine rectal palpation simulator. This simulator is similar to the position I assume when I ask for a raise at work; my boss being the young student who does not take his wrist watch off in the scenario.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, science

This link about the trials and tribulations of a career roadie is fantastic. Some excerpts:

• "I started doing so much cocaine, my dick was completely useless. So when girls would come around and say they were willing to do anything to meet the band, I just started throwing meat at them. That's what they had to do to earn their backstage pass. I'd make them strip down and stand in the corner while we pelted them with the deli tray. After a while, it became like this daily event. All the bands would stop sound check and gather round, just to watch me throw meat at some chick."
• "He asked me if I wanted a drink, and I said 'Sure,'" she recalls. "Then, out of nowhere, he puts his hand up my dress and, not even knowing me, sticks his finger in my asshole. I didn't even flinch, though, because I knew he was just trying to get a reaction out of me. And right there he said he knew I was his girl."
• Motorhead guitarist Phil Campbell offered him a hamburger. "I was starving because I hadn't eaten for a long time, so I said, 'Sure,'" Hickey says. "And because my nose was so torn up from all the speed I'd just snorted, I couldn't smell." He could taste it, though, and high as he was, it only took him one bite to realize that Campbell hadn't given him a hamburger at all, but rather a patty of shit stuck between a bun. "That was my appreciation for being so dedicated to the band," Hickey says. "A shit sandwich."

Labels: crazy, drugs, music, pop culture

Americans like to do peculiar things in their backyards. Like build monorails. Or wrestle. A few years ago during a moment of drunken weakness I purchased The Best of Backyard Wrestling on video (It was not offered on DVD). It was late, Southern Comfort was wearing off and I wanted to see some rednecks body slamming each other onto stained mattresses covered with barbed wire and hitting one another in the head with metal trashcans. After having the tape in my possession for five months, I loaned it to my Pakistani friend (who at the time was applying for American citizenship) and have not seen it since.

Labels: drinking, pop culture, sg crew

The Colorado Avalanche kicked the shit out of Vancouver Canucks last night 9-2 and Todd Bertuzzi tried to kill Steve Moore. Moore was said to have given Canuck Markus Naslund a cheap shot during a game on February 16. The hit in question was not a penalty and the NHL, after reviewing the incident, deemed it legal. Vancouver coach Marc Crawford still opened his ballwasher claiming it was "a cheap shot by a young kid on a captain, the leading scorer in the league," and his Canucks vowed revenge on Moore. Enter last night, the final regular season meeting between the two hockey clubs. From the moment the puck drops, the Avs play like a riot looking for a place to break out. In one glorious minute, they put three in the back of the net and at the end of one period the score is Avs 5, Canucks 0. With eight minutes left in the game, down by six goals and feeling the inadequacy of playing for a franchise that has never won a Stanley Cup, Todd Bertuzzi attacks Steve Moore from behind (a tactic he probably mastered sodomizing guys three times smaller than him in prison) and then proceeds to crush his face into the ice. Fuck Todd Bertuzzi for being a bitch punk. If he had any heart at all he would have come at Moore straight up when they played in Denver. Fuck Marc Crawford for encouraging his team to intentionally injure another player and then smiling about it when it happens. Most importantly, fuck the Canuck fans for cheering as Steve Moore lay on the ice unconscious causing me to loathe them and their franchise now more than the Detroit Red Wings.

Labels: denver, hockey, sports

This morning I received an email of distress from my friend Scott in Minnesota:

How you doin' Matt?

After reading your blog, I'm here to check on you and make sure you're all right. That's some eyebrow-raising shit you've been linking to and I recommend a lavender bath to chill your ass out.

Maybe your friends are feeding you the links, I dunno, but all I can say is if Susan Wright's now dead husband would have just gotten her a shit bitch bear, I bet he'd still be alive today. Pass it on. It could save a life!

Just to assure Scott that I am not going to the roof of a tall building with a high powered assault rifle to pick off old ladies with shopping bags anytime soon, check out this stupid sweater.

Labels: crazy, scotty minnesota, tomfoolery

"Her face was so pretty, regardless of the blood."

Labels: death, quote of the day

CH just emailed me this link with the message "My wife thought this was funny." I will tell you what is funny, CH; girls who wear Colorado State thong panties.

Labels: ch, colorado, sex

Religious moviegoers in Georgia were horrified to find their ticket stubs to The Passion of the Christ imprinted with the number of the beast. The manager of the theater claims it was a computer glitch and not the work of Satan.

First, in the book of Revelation the number 666 was said to refer to the Antichrist in which many modern Christians misinterpret as the coming of Lucifer to Earth in human form during Armageddon. Most biblical scholars concur that the number actually refers to the Roman emperor Nero, whose name equals the numerical value of 666 in Hebrew. Nero was quite a bastard to first century Christians and he enjoyed torturing them by crucifixion, setting them ablaze and feeding them to lions. John, the author of the book of Revelation, understood the wrath of the Emperors firsthand as he was poisoned, beaten, dipped in boiling oil and eventually exiled to the island of Patmos just for being down with the Lord. Therefore, the number of the beast does not refer to the Prince of Darkness himself but to the oppressive leaders of first century Rome.

Second, I am of the opinion that the greatest song Iron Maiden ever recorded was The Number of the Beast.

Labels: evil, history, movies, music, pop culture, religion