When I started the MB back in 2000, my original intent was to showcase my resume and minuscule design portfolio. I had just made the transition from print design to web design and thought the purchase of the domain name would motivate me to learn more about designing and maintaining websites. It did.
In 2002, the MB transitioned from a professional showcase to a personal one. I started posting about all manner of nonsense, because, in case you have not realized by now, I have a lot to say about a lot of shit. In 2002 there was no Facebook. No Twitter. No MySpace. No news feeds. It actually took some doing to track down links and write about them. I was happy to do this because my job was mind-numbing and management at the data slaughterhouse had no idea what the hell I was up to. Soon, links, emails and IMs started flooding in from the likes of Jake, Michael, DJ, Kaye, Monica, CH, Gay Joe and Mark. Boredom loves company? I was happy to be posting regularly as it fueled my passion for creativity in ways that my career was not.
Enter Broz Design in November 2008 and my posting to the MB fizzling out. Maybe its because I am fulfilled professionally? Or because I would rather hang out with my kid than waste my time posting about a guy that got fucked to death by a horse? Or maybe it is time to take the MB into a new direction? I go with the latter. I have always dreamed about writing the Great American Novel but am no closer to that goal than I was last year. My New Years resolution for 2010 is to start using the MB to focus more on actually writing a book and get some ideas out into the ether. It may not lead to anything other than me doing what I have been wanting to do for some time and that is fine. It is not like you want to read about a horse fucking a guy to death, anyway. Right?
Halloween Ideas That Humiliate Children, The Handicapped
I have to give credit where credit is due: this kid has a fantastic idea for a Halloween costume. He does not need a double amputee to pull it off, however. Roll behind a Kohl's and look for some discarded mannequin parts in the dumpsters. Piece together a torso and some arms and legs. Pick up some gold spray paint and you have yourself a rudimentary (yet light) C3P0. Imagine the logistics of having a double amputee strapped to your back all night. What happens if you (or the amputee) has to take a shit? Even without legs I am assuming a double amputee weighs 75 pounds (if not more). That is a lot of weight to be huffing around sober let alone with your veins pumping Jack Daniels. What if there is a slut dressed as Slave Leia at the party? Are you prepared for that menage-a-trois?
I think my idea for a Halloween costume is better than what this kid is attempting to pull of, anyway. Me as the "host body" and my infant son strapped to my mid-section as the alien Kuato from the movie Total Recall. I may have to hold out until next year for when the boy is talking so he can quip "Open your mind" upon presentation.
Me: Call me if you need anything while watching the boy. Dad: You will be away somewhere where you cannot help me. So why the hell would I call you if you could not help me? Me: Um, okay. Dad: I will see you when you pick him up. Gotta go. Your mother just made us some sandwiches.
Fatherhood has yet to provide me with any kind of spiritual awakening. After speaking to the other expectant fathers in my various babying classes, I was expecting angels to descend from heaven and play a harp rendition of "MMMBop" while I recognized the kinship of all living things when my son was born. Instead, I was relieved that the boy arrived with no serious health/birth defects and his mother did not go all 19th Century on me and bleed to death during childbirth and leave me and the boy to resent our stations in life and grow bitter over the years while tending to the family farm. It is cool to have an entire life dependent on you. It is also scary as hell. I think the true measure of whether or not I was a successful parent will come when it is time for me to go into a nursing home. If I did well? The boy will come visit me with his family on a semi-regular basis and take me out for a steak on occasion while tolerating my rants at the waitress for being too slow with the side order of gravy. If I did not do well? I will suffer in a multi-level town house in Thornton and eat Alpo out of the can and call my son "a fucking pussy" when he makes his annual call to wish me a happy birthday. Right now the boy is much like a zombie army; singularly focused on food, growing at an exponential rate and adverse to any kind of a rest. I am debating the Boggins Window Crib to make nap time more interesting. Not sure if that will get me the steak dinner or the Alpo. Only time will tell.
Ed McMahon is sleeping with Jesus. Ed was most famous for being the Lancelot to Johnny Carson's King Arthur, hosting Star Search and giving old ladies heart attacks via Publisher's Clearinghouse. I was unaware that Ed was a retired Colonel and accomplished pilot in WWII and Korea.
An Open Letter To The King Soopers Parking Lot Attendant
I could not help but overhear your whining to the manager on duty regarding the broken cart-pushing machine while I was waiting in the checkout line with my steaks and diapers. I wish I could say I felt sympathy for you, kid, but you are nothing more than a spoiled bitch. Back when you were still playing with your own crap and watching Sesame Street, I was pushing carts for Uncle Sam Waltonwithout the aid of mechanized transport. The Slushy Gutter Crew toiled and labored in that godforsaken parking lot, but we all took pride in pushing cart trains into the warehouse with our youthful exuberance and brawn. We also took pride in pushing those same carts into the lake behind the warehouse, playing Nerf football games when the manager's backs were turned, daring each other to climb into the hydraulic bailing machine and turn it on, loading eight flatbeds full of merchandise into a motorcycle gang's refrigerated truck and kicking boxes across the asphalt. In short, suck it up and push the carts in yourself, princess.
Elena Basescu, daughter of Romanian president Traian Basescu, looks like an Eastern-bloc Wynne Cooper, is running for European Parliament and likes to mount fallen horses to pose for pictures.
The saddest and happiest headstone I have ever seen.
The Sears Tower is getting renamed the Willis Tower. Nice work, Sears. I can just hear my dead grandfather Broz renouncing his brand loyalty to all Craftsmen products on the other side.
Jake: The ShamWow guy sues Scientology. Me: I am debating the purchase of ShamWows. Jake: Ha! Check this one out. "You are gonna love my nuts." Me: He is right, that tuna does look boring. "If I can do it with one finger, you can do it with one hand." Jake: The guy is a genius. Me: Indeed. Jake: He is like a sideshow magician, throwing around some Three-Card Monte. Me: You are getting the Slap Chop for your birthday. Jake: Excellent.
How hot dogs are made. Just look at that delicious vat of leftover blended meat pastes dipped in smoke flavor!
8-Bit Jesus is a Christmas album that features classic tracks done in the style of different Nintendo game's soundtrack. My personal favorite is "The Legend Of Noel."
"Your friend just posted the video: I have a video of you looking like a princess, darling." Really? Who is going to click on that link Facebook Virus, an 11 year-old girl? A flamboyant homosexual man who thinks he is a fashion model? At least entice me to click on a link that will infect my computer, Facebook Virus. Something like "Your friend just posted the video: Watch Me Kill This Hooker" or "Your friend just posted the video: Carlos Mencia Steals Bill Cosby's Material" or maybe even "Your friend just posted the video: People Getting Hit In The Face In Slow Motion." You have to want it, Facebook Virus. You have to want it.
An online video collection of every It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia episode (in my opinion, the greatest show on television). I recommend starting with The Gang Finds A Dumpster Baby.
The end of Iceland? When your country's currency is valued just above Zimbabwes then you have some serious problems. I hope Iceland has more viable exports than just a batshit crazy musician and volcanic ash to pull them out of their current economic crunch.
A man rides an adult-sized tricycle intoxicated. Hijinks ensue.
A 5.4 magnitude earthquake hit Los Angeles earlier today and yielded no deaths with minor damage. Where are those celebrity upskirts when you need them most?
Some Island of Dr.Moreau shit washed ashore in Montauk, Long Island. Crazy genetic mutant that escaped from Plum Island or a dried up sea turtle missing its shell? You decide.
Mr.Belding cuts a rug with some hot chicks in Vegas.
Yesterday I rolled into the local liquor superstore Total Beverage to replenish my depleted garage refrigerator beer stocks and keep the wife happy with a thumb-hole jug of Tanqueray and assorted flavors of tonic water. The TBev is a magical place where the end of the liquor rainbow meets with the weakness of humankind to form an alcohol purgatory where all stripes and strata of society are equal in the eyes of their liquid master. In the checkout line I witnessed the following things:
Two morbidly obese females getting their fake IDs confiscated by the manager.
An Eminem reject attempting to purchase two 40 ounces of Olde English and a carton of GPC Basic cigarettes only to realize that he did not have enough money to purchase said items. He eventually settled for one 40 ounce and one pack of smokes.
A frazzled store clerk having the following sarcastic exchange with an oblivious 8-Mile after he figured out his money situation: "Why are you guys so busy today?" "It's Mother's Day Weekend. Mom's like to get down." "Oh."
Photobombers are people who ruin seemingly nice pictures. Here are some of the best Photobombers from Facebook.
Sportsmanship is alive and well in female athletics. If it were dudes playing in that game the scenario would have played out something like this: Guy hits a jack. While rounding first base he blows out his knee. After making fun of the guy for blowing out his knee while rounding the bases on a home run, the opposing team feigns fake concern until trainers haul him off the field whereupon the umpire makes the proper ruling of a two-run single. The opposing team will later tell their grandchildren about some moron that shredded his ACL after going yard in a bourbon-soaked haze forty years later.
Wil: This communique may be brief. Damn third world countries and their third world internet. Me: It is the rebels I am guessing. Monitoring for subversive conversation. Wil: Could be some Sandinistas. I am in their hometown after all. Birthplace of Sandino himself. Me: Well in that case, Viva Sandinistas! We love you! Wil: Nice. Leon is also where that crazy poet gunned down Somoza. There are statues of him everywhere. Rigoberto Perez, I think it was. Cold John Lennon'd his ass. I could be wrong. I have had many Victorias. Me: Well, when you are a dictator you have it coming. I mean, you have to know someone will pop a cap in your ass. Wil: Yeah. Leon is like Boulder. Total liberal town. It would be like Pat Robertson coming to Boulder and making derogatory remarks about wheat grass. Some hippie would kill his ass. Me: Or just try to offer him some really choice weed. Wil: Ha! Tomorrow I head to Granada because this town sucks. Much like Boulder. I want wear a Somoza Rules t-shirt make a statement similar to your Shut Up Hippie bumper sticker. It might end up worse than someone keying my car, though. Me: They tend to cut off your head for freedom of expression down there, Willie. Wil: Man, if prison had air conditioning I would do anything to get thrown in. It is hot down here, Holmes. Me: Like flames of hell hot? Wil: Like sweat indoors but do not realize it until your shirt is soaked through hot. Me: Like your balls sticking to your legs and smelling of old cheese hot. Wil: Exactly. I stink really bad right now and there is a water shortage so I cannot do any laundry. Me: You are in the jungle, dude. Fuck it. When we were in St. Lucia showers meant nothing to me. Mostly because after taking a shower I would not be able dry off for three days. Wil: Good point. But my jeans are especially bad. Alright, I have to get the hell out of this steamy internet cafe because it is making me sweat more and smell worse. Me: Remember to rubber up. Wil: Will do. Adios!
Web Designer: God. That site looks like clown puke. Me: Totally. And not the good kind of clown puke. Web Designer: There is a good kind of clown puke? Me: Sure. Like when you punch a clown in the stomach so hard that it makes him vomit? That is the good kind. It is even better when you get some blood mixed in there. Web Designer: I am happy that you are my boss.
Tonight on our drive down to south Denver for a hockey game, the Ghost of War smashed into an errant sofa on I-25 at about 75 mph (the sofa conveniently lay on the highway less than three hundred feet from Furniture Row). I am guessing that a new sofa purchaser, unskilled in the art of twine and furniture hauling, dropped that big bastard on the road upon merging and failed to look in their rear view mirror to notice that their load was lost. The sofa lay in the far right lane as we sped along in the far left lane. An eighteen wheeler barreled through said sofa and sent it careening across the highway. The Ghost of War happened it be directly in its wake. I swerved enough to deflect the brunt of the blow, but the old girl still got tagged pretty good. The damage included the passenger side mirror being shattered into oblivion, a large dent on the passenger side door and the passenger side headlight being bashed to pieces (click here for some hot Flickr action). Being as the Ghost of War still gets 35 miles to the gallon and is paid for, I am running her for at least another 100K. I plan on hitting the Yota Yard at lunch tomorrow for some replacement parts as it is close to the office and located directly across the street from the Walnut Room (which makes a mean meatball sandwich). May the parts be with me, indeed.
There is nothing I can say about Lesbian Turkish Oil Wrestling except its arrival to the scene was long overdue. Jake, Gay Joe and myself discovered the national Turkish all-male sport back in the Data Slaughterhouse days which yielded many discussions and one inappropriate IM buddy icon that Joey rocked for two solid years thanks to a useless human resource department and a devil may care attitude. I am proud that the Turkish Oil Wrestling organization finally acknowledged the Women's Movement and decided to let oiled-up dykes grapple with each other in the Turkish tradition. It looks like Daddy just found a new show to record on the HD DVR.
Is 32 old? Hardly. But to the whippersnappers I work with who are fresh out of college, I am a year or two away from being put in a home. I find myself having to explain the pop culture references that dot my vernacular in great detail and ramble on about the days before "the MySpace" and "the texting." Yesterday my web designer (who is well-rounded musically) nearly killed me by asking, "Who is NWA?" This morning, our project manager came strolling in with a new haircut and sporting a Tam O'Shanter so I quipped, "Look at you all on the Mary Tyler Moore tip. Are you going to throw your hat up in the air and twirl around for us?" I had to find The Mary Tyler Moore opening credits on YouTube just to illustrate how clever I was. I am sleepy. It is either time for bed or the early bird at the Sizzler.
The New York Jet's D Concourse becomes Mardi Gras at halftime. I am actually surprised this does not happen during the entire game being as New Jersey tunnel trash lifting up their shirts seems far more interesting than watching Kellen Clemens play quarterback. It is sad when the best thing that happened to your professional sports franchise in the past decade was this.
Vintage photography of a 60s era sex party (NSFW).
Obesity trends in the USA from 1985-2006. Good to see Colorado representing the low end of the scale along with Massachusetts and Connecticut. Do us all a favor West Virginia and Mississippi; put down the cupcakes and go for a bike ride or something.
Thanks to Frodo Baggins, I now have a new dance move to throw in my repertoire: The Puppet Master. I especially enjoy Elijah materializing to and from the netherworld of corporate sellout in the video.
Enemies Made: a black stripper from the Spearmint Rhino and a fat pit boss named Bill.
Best Quote From Dave: "Right now I have more alcohol in me than sense."
Best Quote From Erik: "When I see you again I will buy you $100 in bourbon."
Seen In Abundance: Wisconsin fans, hooker trading cards and fake boobs.
Seen In Scarcity: Street sweepers, museums and my judgment.
New Coined Marketing Slogan To Be Sold To The Las Vegas Chamber Of Commerce: Welcome to the Sex Ashtray.
Gambling Maxims Proven Correct: Never hit on 13, respect the sixes and a "push" is a win.
Gambling Maxims Proven Wrong: No craps game goes seven straight rolls without making the point.
Best Casino Game: Pai Gow, which is Chinese for Slow Money Bleed Super Happy Fun Drink Time.
Worst Casino Game: Money Drop, or as it is more popularly known "Let It Ride."
Best Run: Six and a half hours at a Pai Gow table on $40 that yielded countless free drinks, death threats from dealers named Gene, screams of free Hooters calendars and chicken wings, continual verbal assaults directed towards a fat pit boss named Bill and eventually, free Hooters T-shirts and shot glasses that Ming the Hooters Casino High Roller charged to his room.
Worst Run: Ten minutes at a craps table that took $100.
Best Eats: Steaks at Mon Ami Gabi and Bailey's ice cream shakes.
Worst Eats: My bag of Fritos and pack of Starbursts for dinner and Will's infamous "last breakfast" from Nathan's which consisted of a chili dog, a handful of soggy crinkle fries and twelve over-cooked chicken wings.
Best Sports Bet: Wil for putting it on UNLV to cover the spread versus Wisconsin.
Worst Sports Bet: Me for putting $20 on the Colorado Avalanche to win the 2008 Stanley Cup.
Nick just informed me that The MB has been blacklisted by the unnamed big oil and gas company he is employed by. This merely confirms the fact that the entire oil and gas industry is against me. Fuck you, oil and gas industry. If I could drive a solar or electric powered automobile and not look like a homosexual (or worse, Ed Begley, Jr.) I would. I long for the day when the world runs on inexpensive and efficient alternate fuels and oil executives are getting their heads cut off with scimitars by angry Arab assassins that no longer have a viable export. May your financial coffers dry up with the Permian Basin.
The wife and I threw a housewarming party on Saturday night, inviting our friends and family over to destroy all the hard work we put into the place over the past few months. Some highlights:
Japanese Whiskey is a great housewarming gift and a fun treat for Grandma.
My four-year-old nephew held court over the fire of a citronella candle waxing philosophical to numerous adults on Star Wars, baseball, war and gladiators.
Johnny Ballgame rolled up in a new truck named "The Licorice Whip." New is a relative term as said truck is an early 80s Chevy Half-Ton with visible fire damage and more miles on it than 50-year-old stripper. Jake reported that it died twice during the convenience store cigarette run. The convenience store is a quarter mile from the house.
My neighbor Kevin (who I have talked to three times) walked into the house grabbed a cup from our kitchen and poured himself a keg beer. He than greeted us and proceeded to hang out for the next six hours.
A pack of youngsters found kitty's second confirmed kill in our backyard. That brings the body count to two in less than one week.
Most decadent housewarming gift: 80+ ounces of Grey Goose vodka.
Number of partygoers that threatened to Top Shelf one of the bathrooms: 2.
Number of partygoers that requested Journey's Greatest Hits for a musical selection: 7.
Number of partygoers that had to be called a cab at 3 AM due to someone "taking their keys": 2.
Number of partygoers that drank the bottle of rum they brought as a housewarming gift: 2.
Approximate time on Sunday that my hangover wore off and I was able to able to stand up without getting lightheaded: 4 PM.
Nameless Coworker: You had three calls come in for you in the past ten minutes. Me: Oh really? Nameless Coworker: Yeah. Where were you? Me: Even Art Directors have to take shits. Nameless Coworker: Nice.
I just received a web change request from a woman named Kitty Pryde. I am planning to post the following to her Wikipedia page under "Powers and Abilities":
Additional to phasing through objects, being a computer genius and skilled in multiple martial art disciplines, Kitty also works as an administrative assistant for a nameless Canadian oil & gas company performing the heroic tasks of finalizing Power Point presentations, providing vector-based logos, approving ad copy and being the primary contact for all web edits.
Half naked baby and cobra fight! I have to give the win to cobra. Sure, half naked baby stood her ground, took some strikes to the head and made a valiant effort, but she was dancing around and playing defense during the entire contest. Cobra was on the attack through out the fight, utilizing Rommel's "the best defense is a good offense" philosophy. Half naked baby knew she was in trouble and went in for the hug to stave off a flurry of head shots. Apparently half naked baby was trained by Roberto Duran.
During the height of my binge drinking days I could drain things down my gullet that would curl the stomach of a goat; straight whiskey, Irish Car Bombs, Natty Light and tequilas that do not even deserved to be named. I was blessed/cursed with an abnormally high metabolism and a steel stomach that allowed me to absorb alcohol faster than your average frat boy. Enter this past Saturday. The wife and I watched some Roller Derby with Jake and crew downing numerous tall boys of PBR in the process. I came home to spend a good clip on the toilet cursing the PBR and saddened that my once iron constitution is now broken.
The Cunt Coloring Book; artistic fun for the entire family! Even hardware store bull dykes waxing philosophical on the Amazon message board agree:
This book is so wonderful. Never mind the fact that I've been having a blast breaking out the crayons and coloring the beautifully drawn vaginas. But this book helps to de-mystify and remind women (or men) of the beauty of the female parts. This book contains about 25 drawings of flower-like genitalia. Each drawing is beautiful and unique - just in the same way that every woman is beautiful in a different way. This book presents women's sexuality is such a matter-of-fact and positive manner. I wish all women could see this book as a child, again as a teen, and again as an adult - to remember to always be proud and never be ashamed.
Vagina coloring books are not the only thing that present women's sexuality in a matter-of-fact or positive manner. Take this for example. And this. And this.
I was just informed by Team Hofkamp that the following video was playing at a neighborhood CB & Potts this past Friday during the family allotted dining hour.
You made that family dinner hour your bitch, CB & Potts.
The wife and I spent the Christian New Year within stumbling distance from the house by slogging it to a party in a foot and half of ice, slush and snow with a backpack full of booze. We welcomed in 2007 with burnt pizza, shots of Jack Daniels, warm Squirt chasers and countless games of Guitar Hero (Kaye and I rocked in 2007 with a head-to-head ax battle of Cheap Trick's "Surrender" neither of us caring that it was past midnight). On New Year's Day we invited the in-laws over to watch the Fiesta Bowl in High Definition and eat sweetened swine. Three native Idahoans were in the house as Boise State upset Oklahoma in overtime to go undefeated on the season and wreak havoc on BCS voting. Swept up in the heat of the win, famed running back and crochet master knitter Ian Johnson proposed to his girlfriend. In other news, Jessica Alba throws a football in a bikini.
After reading this I became inspired to write a Chevy Truck commercial:
Cue John Mellencamp's 'Our Country'. Enter drunken redneck sucking down tall boys of Schlitz while driving down a dirt road in a Chevy half-ton pickup truck. Cut to grainy footage of herds of bison being slaughtered by US Calvary Troops in the late 19th century. Cut to drunken redneck lighting a non-filtered cigarette and swerving down the road. Cut to an incapacitated college freshman being date raped at a fraternity house over an American Flag. Cut to drunken redneck losing consciousness behind the wheel. Cut to homeless people standing in a soup kitchen line in the freezing cold. Cut to drunken redneck passing out and running down a hermaphrodite deer with seven legs. Cut to footage of the University of Miami-FIU brawl. Cut to drunken redneck shoving his face into the warm, mangled carcass of the freak deer. Drunken redneck lifts head, looks into the camera, smiles and gives the thumbs up signal as blood drips from his mouth. Drunken redneck slams his face back into the steaming dead animal. Cut to footage of the Oklahoma City bombing, the World Trade Center tragedy and Abu Ghraib prison. Flash Chevy Trucks logo. Fade out to John Mellencamp's 'Our Country'. Fin.
I think the time is nigh to get me some face tattoos (random thought inspired by this guy). I am not going the swastika/lightning bolt/neo-Nazi route as I am not an ignorant hillbilly and am just looking for that extra something to set me apart from other candidates in a job interview. A power tie does not have the same effect as permanent facial modification when applying for a prison bitch, peep show mop-up boy or circus freak position.
A snowstorm is dumping a blanket of thick wetness across the Denver metro area today. I'm sitting in the warmth that is a firing furnace and blown out slippers, sucking down a tall mug of coffee that could strip paint, gazing out out the back door and watching vintage Ricardo Montalban Chrysler commercials. It's a good day to be alive and unemployed.
After watching a provocative commercial during an episode of Judge Mathis, I am now contemplating a career in Medical and Insurance Billing. According to the real-life testimonial, the pay is decent, I can live the life I want and I will be joining the fast-paced world of health care. Advanced data entry rules! Stay tuned tomorrow when I will be debating a career in the fast-growing field of Aircraft and Aerospace Technical Maintenance.
Bob Arno makes a living studying pickpockets. A pickpocketing career would be a good move for an unemployed deviant like myself. If you invite me over for a barbecue and I squirt mustard all over you shirt and gank your wallet please don't get angry with me. I am just doing my job, baby.
After two days of throwing myself into the much-needed redesign of Broz Design, I ventured outside this morning to greet the garbage man with my trash. I did not set the trash cans out last night because of strong winds that would have knocked the trashcans over and strewn a weeks worth of dead soldiers, junk mail and steak gristle about the common area. That, and the sweet old woman across the alley turns into the garbage Nazi if you leave your trashcans out for more than a day or do not secure the lids to your refuse containers. I like Eleanor and do not wish to get into a fistfight with her so I respect her unwritten rules regarding the trash. The garbage man is a genial Hispanic fellow who speaks broken English and wanted to chat about the unit that burned down.
"See that burnt place over there?" "Yes." "Hard to back up garbage truck in there now." "Because of all the charred debris and temporary police fence and shit?" "Si."
The fact that I am posting this inane drivel only reinforces that fact that I really need a job.
My former coworkers and I have been waxing philosophically on all manner of things over the past week. This picture of vintage supermarket butchers spawned the following diatribe from DJ:
Do you want to work for the Food-O-Mat? Because I kind of do. It's the uniform. Chicks dig a man in uniform. Those were the days; when you could trust your butcher. You wanted a steak, you got a goddamn, corn-fed, natural raised cow slaughtered with love, gently carved up by Americans using American chainsaws, producing a piece of meat the butcher was happy to hand you and you were proud to serve your family. Shortly after this picture was taken I'm pretty sure Alice (the housekeeper from The Brady Bunch) started banging Mel the Butcher and suddenly the butcher was a star and too busy to take pride in his work. Eventually all the butchers were trying to bang housekeepers. With nobody around to keep the ranchers in check the quality of meat went down and the terrorists started winning. I'm not saying Alice and The Brady Bunch aided the terrorists or brought us into our current war, but they were there, man. They were there.
The Germans are an odd and perplexing people; with their dreams of world domination, love for the Hasselhoff, Coprophilia obsession and pubic hair print panties.
The five most obviously drug-fueled television appearances ever. I love me some Crispin Glover on Angel Dust, James Brown full of bourbon (and song) and Richard Pryor in his prime coked to the eyeballs.
If I could go back to college with the skills I acquired over my professional career, I would be making quality fake IDs and charging desperate underage drinkers $200 a smash for them (I would also be convincing more women to pose nude for me and explain that it was all for artistic purposes). In the mid to late 90s the internet was not as magical as it is today. You couldn't just buy a fake ID with your parent's credit card and have it over-nighted to you in time for weekend tavern revelries. No. Instead you had to pay some asshole stranger that smelled of cigarettes and claimed she was a born again Christian $40 to alter the dates on a good ID with improper fonts and colors and wait two months for it.
The Chinese have opened the world's first anger bar. Patrons can smash glasses, rant and even hit specially trained employees all while sucking down Tsingtaos. Denver's version of the anger bar occurs every weekend during last call in LoDo. Drunken fools spill out into the streets simultaneously and start shit with each other because they were first in line for a $2 burrito being sold out of a cooler. Or because your fraternity is better than that other homo's fraternity. Or because you were looking at a guy's shivering slut girlfriend in a mini-skirt, tube top and high heels and it's thirteen degrees below zero outside.
On Friday, Mel Gibson was touched for a DUI and spouted off at arresting officers with an anti-Semitic, obscenity-laden tirade that would have made Heinrich Himmler blush. Gibson concluded the outburst by calling one female officer "sugar tits." Well done, Mel. You just surpassed Ed Belfour for "Best Arrested Famous Person Intoxicated Shenanigans" (when Eddie was playing goal for the Dallas Stars police were called to a hotel room occupied by him and a women afraid of his drunkenness. He attempted to bribe the arresting officers with a billion dollars to let him walk). No report on whether or not Mel was sporting his excellent Saddam-In-Exile beard at the time of arrest.
In a few hours, the debauchery that is my bachelor party will begin. I have been drinking water and eating horrible, greasy foods all morning in the attempts of proliferating a preemptive strike against the alcohol I will consume in the next twelve hours. Go Karts will be driven and crashed, wild game such as buffalo, elk and quail will be eaten, liquor will be drunk and my cousin, fresh off a plane from Kuwait, may end up either in detox or in traction.
Hell Pizza is a chain of pizza joints in New Zealand. The specialty pizzas are named after the seven deadly sins and a coffin tears away from the box for your "remains."
The Cookie Monster searches deep within himself and asks: Is me really monster?
Ninjutsu Grand Master Masaaki Hatsumi: "Always be able to kill your students."
Portland, Oregon is a gorgeous city resting on the banks of the Willamette and Columbia Rivers. If the future wife and I were looking to move there, I am certain I could find work with the local police department as a sketch artist.
The Here I Go Again video filled my pubescent years with countless hours of masturbatory fodder. Tawny Kitaen's ruby tresses flowed in the wind as sheer linen robes exposed her bulbous breasts and buttocks while she stretched and gyrated her limber body all over the hood of David Coverdale's car. It was a sight to behold. Unfortunately for Tawny, this was the zenith of her career. Soon after she defiled that black muscle car, her life and looks degenerated in the magical world of happy dust, prescription medication and attacks on her ex-husband with a shoe.
On March 10, 1974, Second Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda of the Imperial Japanese Army emerges from the jungle and surrenders to Philippine authorities. He thought World War II was still underway and waged a 29 year guerrilla battle killing thirty people and engaging in several shootouts with the police.
John Buccigross on why March is the greatest time of the year for hockey. I enjoy the tale of his six year old son getting his first goal and a humorous anecdote regarding one of my favorite hockey personality's Shjon Podein. Excerpt:
So, I'm in my rookie year in Edmonton and it's my birthday. We had just come home from one of our infamous 15 to 20 day road trips and my family is there to celebrate. So, the family and I go out to have dinner and drinks. We're just relaxing when one of my brothers gives me a four foot high inflatable Tyrannosaurus rex for a birthday present. My other brother gives me a sombrero. We get back to the hotel and get Mom back in her room. As we're leaving Mom's room, my brothers jump me and rip my suit off in the hotel hallway, leaving me with just my boxers, a sombrero and my four foot high inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex. So I'm wandering the hallways of the hotel trying to find my room. We'd been on the road for 15 to 20 days, it's late, and I can't remember my room number. I stick my room key in a number of doors, hoping to find the right one. All of a sudden, I look up and there is one of Canada's finest security guards.
I go, "Hey, what's going on!"
The security guard says, "We've had a complaint that some guy is walking down the hall in his boxers, wearing a sombrero, with a bottle of Bud in one hand and an inflatable dinosaur in the other making too much noise."
I looked at him and said, "You've got the wrong guy, brutha."
Happiness is a useless white supremacist getting smacked around. My favorite thing about this story (aside from the image) is the reporter's photo caption: White Power with a magenta hue. Good times.
Watching the Winter Olympics for the past week has lead me to one undeniable truth: there is nothing more gay than single male figure skating. I do not deny the skill and hard work it must take to do all those tricks on ice, but an extravagant swan outfit? All I ask is that our diminutive homosexuals dressed as princess fairies are better at silly little ice spins than other country's diminutive homosexuals dressed as princess fairies. Way to fuck that up, Johnny Weir.
Man impregnates teenager. Man marries impregnated teenager. Man goes to court in NASCAR tie (click on image). Man goes to jail. Moral of the story: If you impregnate an underage girl, do not wear a NASCAR tie to court.
A low-speed internet connection can be frustrating, but whatever happened to running down to the Circle K and picking up a pack of smokes and a Penthouse Forum?
After my discussion with Jake and much deliberation, I decided this would be the mixed tape I would create for the Son of God:
"Jesus Built My Hotrod" by Ministry
"So Fresh, So Clean" by Outkast
"Down On My Knees" by The Crucifucks
"The Man Comes Around" by Johnny Cash
"Kill The Poor" by Dead Kennedys
"Holy Diver" by Dio
"When I Get To Heaven" by Ice Cube
"Killing In The Name Of" by Rage Against the Machine
"Sister Christian" by Night Ranger
"Sympathy For The Devil" by Rolling Stones
"If You Love Someone Set Them On Fire" by Dead Milkmen
"Epiphany" by Bad Religion
"Something To Believe In" by Poison
I know Jesus was a subversive Hippy and would probably enjoy some Grateful Dead, Phish, Widespread Panic and Cat Stevens, but that is not the point. The purpose of the mixed tape is not just to throw on a bunch of music that the recipient likes and is familiar with. Making a mixed tape for someone is the ultimate truth; it strips down the walls society builds around human relationships and then rebuilds them through the majesty of song. That, and if you give a mixed tape to girl hopefully it will get you laid.
Being as its Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and I am white, it seems only fitting and respectful to Dr. King to bash white celebrities that I despise. I am sure Dr. King would agree that all that brotherhood and hand-holding business would be out the window if these jag offs were standing next to him:
Scott Stapp. Can someone please grab this guy with their arms wide open and squeeze him until his eyeballs pop out of their sockets? If not, we will have to keep getting updates like this. I checked out his bitch's website and noticed that she bears an uncanny resemblance to the brunette Carolina Panther cheerleader that got arrested for trading fur and slap boxing in a public restroom.
Peyton Manning. The most entertaining part of the NFL playoffs for me is watching Peyton Manning fail. Take a seat next to Dan Marino, Peyton. You have a long career of post-season disappointments and bad commercials ahead of you.
Tara Reid. Please bury your face in a mountain of cocaine and breathe deep ala Tony Montana, Tara. How Taradise has not been canceled yet reinforces why the plug needs to be pulled on the E! Network.
Jake just strolled into my office with a belated Christmas gift; The Modern Drunkard, which gives me a reason to drink every day. Thanks for enabling me, Jake. I admire your immense liquor cabinet.
Ass-vertising equals marketing genius (see the idea in practice here and here). I will admit and make no apologies for my shallow objectification of the female form, but you cannot tell me that hot girls, short skirts and taut asses will not sell some goddamn film.
I was pulling for the Indianapolis Colts to go undefeated this season. Not because I like them, mind you, but because I am sick of the 1972 Miami Dolphin alumni celebrating like the worthless, glory deprived, ex-jocks that they are. Their lives are so empty that they follow undefeated NFL teams around the country with a bottle of champagne to open when said undefeated teams lose. In that fabled 1972 season0, the Miami Dolphins played only two teams with a winning record. They are proud of this accomplishment? That is like being proud of the valedictorian honor at summer school. I equate their "record" to that of a runt bastard I attended high school with who bragged about going undefeated in NHL '95 on Sega (he failed to mention that he turned offsides and icing off, played against the computer on easy mode and forced unfair trades through the league that netted him Wayne Gretzky, Mats Sundin, Mario Lemieux, Jeremy Roenick, Ray Bourque, Al Iafrate and Patrick Roy). I can do without Bob Griese telling me how magical the '72 season was on Sports Center every time the "record" remains unbroken, too. You know what would have been magical, Bob? Teaching your son how to throw a goddamn football and how to handle his liquor. Were you not on the bench nursing sore fallopian tubes most of that 1972 season anyway? So just shut the fuck up. That goes for all of you.
Video footage of a ten year old girl firing a 50 caliber machine gun (at least it looks like a 50 caliber machine gun in the grainy video). I wish I could say seeing a child with firearms sickens me; instead, it makes me jealous. Notice the way her aim resembles that of one of John Rambo's enemies.
My three year-old nephew possesses toys similar to these. He does not own thee Fantastic 4 Electronic Thing Hands instead he has the Incredible Hulk Electronic Hands. He does not own the Revenge of the Sith Energy Beam Blaster but he does have the Revenge of the Sith Lightsabers. I am proud that my brother-in-law is raising his son in the danger zone. It is going to be a great Christmas for the boy; he will be receiving some Air Kicks Kickaroos Anti-Gravity Boots and the Camouflage Water Bomb Fun Kit from Uncle Matty. I may include a bag of glass, some oily rags and a pack of matches just for good measure.
A woman is still planning to marry the man who shot her in the crotch and held her hostage in his family's garage for six days. That is what I call the definition of stupidity, er, unconditional love.
One mayoral candidate on how to motivate homeless people to do constructive work in the city: crack cocaine.
Links related to super glue and litigation that have been sent to me by six different people today:
A woman who super glued her ex-lover's penis to his abdomen, his testicles to his leg, his ass cheeks together, put nail varnish in his hair and wrote profanities on his back while he slept is being sued for $30,000. Jesus. Whatever happened to blowing a guy's best friend to get even?
A customer glued to a toilet seat in a Halloween prank is suing Home Depot. "This is not Home Depot's fault," the gluee said. "But I am blaming them for letting me hang in there and just ignoring me." I probably would have left his crying ass to rot on the commode, too. I am not busting down any public bathroom stall door to make sure some weepy dude is doing alright.
The trebuchet was a siege weapon that was primarily used to fire plague-ridden corpses and other missiles over castle walls. It was not intended for college students looking for kicks on a Friday night.
A frightening haunted house. Frightening not because of superb effects and realistic horror scenarios but because it is operated by a registered sex offender.
A classic Halloween prank goes awry in trailer park. The world is shocked.
Wikipedia for the man who killed Halloween. Thanks to this prick and the paranoia he caused, I did not have a Snickers bar until I was in junior high. My dad would "check" all of my candy post trick-or-treating and deem it safe for consumption. He would take all the Snickers bars out of my bag and say things like, "This one is no good, son. It is poisoned" or "You cannot eat this one. It looks like someone tampered with it." These "tainted" candy bars then found their way into my Dad's secret candy stash for him to enjoy periodically through out the year. Fuck you, Candyman.
NC State runs a classy program. All I know is that if that Mexi-Cam business were pulled at Invesco Field At Mile High during a Denver Broncos home game, the stadium would probably be burnt to the ground.
A funny anecdote regarding the kissing cam: A few years ago I was in attendance at the Pepsi Center when the Colorado Avalanche took on the St. Louis Blues. In the second period, Joe Sakic fires a slap-shot that shatters the non-shatterproof glass behind the goalie. This causes a long delay in the game as the Pepsi Center crews work on cleaning the glass off the ice and installing a new panel. The Jumbo Tron begins entertaining the crowd with video clips, hockey highlights and the kissing cam. The segment drags on longer than normal due to the delay, and finally, it casts a parting shot of the St. Louis Blues bench; more specifically Keith Tkachuk and Barret Jackman. The players, engaged in a conversation, look up to see themselves on the Jumbo Tron kissing cam, smile and then lean into each other and kiss. For that brief moment in time, I actually liked Keith Tkachuk.
David Copperfield is going to impregnate a girl with magic. "Presto! You are knocked up! Now you will have wait nine months and see if the trick worked." This does not sound like a magic tick to me. It sounds like the modus operandi of a guy I went to high school with.
This morning in the break room one of my 23 year-old coworkers was wearing a Catch 22 shirt. I remarked how I loved the book and her eyes got glassy like she just bonged a box of Franzia. She than sighed and said in the most demeaning tone, "Catch 22 is a band, Matt." So now I am off to walk the mall in beige Velcro shoes, hit the early bird at the Sizzler and then fall asleep in the easy chair before dusk watching reruns of Matlock.
For those who want to go John Conner ala Terminator 3 and live off the grid, here is a step-by-step guide on how to disappear in America without a trace.
Horror stories from the piercing industry. Be sure to have fully digested your lunch.
I can now say that I have seen a tiger and a lion getting it on.
Satire meets reality. The former link is my second favorite Onion article next to this.
As my Dad used say when I over celebrated any minor sporting success, "Act like you have been there before." I think these words of wisdom definitely apply to this situation. A good rule of thumb at a strip club:
Strip clubs have two rules. Do not touch the dancers, and when "Cherry Pie" fades out and "Pour Some Sugar On Me" starts up, your lap dance is over.
Everybody loves kittens because they are cute, lovable and affectionate. It is tragic that they cannot stay kittens forever. Well they can I suppose, but I meant without stuffing them into a bottle and super gluing their asses shut.
Update: The Bonsai Kitten is an obvious hoax so rest easy future wife and Kaye. I just could not resist the golden opportunity for a super-glued cat's ass joke.
A man annoyed by an incessant car alarm unloads a pistol into the offending automobile to silence said alarm and gets arrested? He should be getting a medal for outstanding community service.
Posh Spice has admitted to never reading a book. I am sure you are all as shocked as me.
How to maintain a cordial relationship with your neighbor dying of cancer: Paint "Die You Miserable Bitch" on the side of your house.
All you ever wanted to know about Trucker Bombs (with helpful imagery of assorted gallon containers brimming with piss).
A high school baseball coach resigns after whipping out his cock and asking his players if they had one. I side with the coach on this one as his lesson would have been far less memorable without the visual aid.
Woodward's story on how Mark Felt became Deep Throat and the reactions of various figures of Nixon's White House.
Yesterday, a squirrel ran underneath my moving car and committed suicide. I saw the little bastard out of the corner of my eye as I drove down the street and assumed he would not tempt fate by running into the street until I was past. As I came closer, the disturbed vermin darted out from the curb and I flattened his ass. The squirrel had some emotional issues and my Firestone radial happened to be a means to an end. He is survived by a family of ninety infested with the bubonic plague.
Children cannot hit slowly thrown balls because their brains are not wired to handle slow motion. From this day forth, whenever I play soft toss with a kid, I am throwing heat. I will even brush them off the plate so they know I am boss. "How does that chin music sound, Timmy? How does it sound?! You are in Daddy's world now, bitch!"
This link about Bob Saget reminds me of the greatest joke ever told:
One day a little boy accompanies his mother to the circus. This was a special occasion in the little boy's life as his mother, a hard-working single woman, was poor and could ill afford many luxuries for them. The boy and his mother watched as acrobats performed on trapezes high above the crowd, elephants stood on their back legs, a lion tamer stuck his head into the open mouth of a tiger and numerous men were fired out of cannons. As the circus drew to a close, a clown approached the center ring and the lights dimmed.
"Now is the time during our show when we bring a lucky person up here to drive the clown car," says the clown.
The spotlights start spinning wildly around the tent.
"Who will it be? Who will be the lucky person?" the clown boomed into the microphone.
A frenzy of screams and mayhem erupt from the audience. The lights whiz, spinning faster and faster until they suddenly stop, right on the little boy. The clown calls for the little boy to come to the center ring and immediately the little boy leaps from his seat and tears down the aisle, hurdling the metal barricade and jumping into the waiting arms of the clown. The clown, grin stretched across his made-up face, squats down and one knee and says to the little boy, "Now, before you can drive the clown car you must answer me one question."
"Okay," replies the little boy, bursting in anticipation.
"The question is this: Are you a horse's head?"
Confused the little boy looks up at the clown. He does not know how to respond. He looks to his mother in grandstands for guidance. She nods her head, encouraging the little boy to speak. Finally, the little boy mutters, "Well, no. I am not a horse's head."
"Then you must be a horse's ass!" says the clown.
The circus tent erupts in laughter. Parents and children point at the little boy and mock him for being so stupid. Embarrassed beyond belief, the little boy runs out of the tent and into the night. His mother eventually finds him behind the funnel cake stand, his eyes swollen with tears and his tender heart broken by the clown's cruel joke.
Years pass and the little boy grows into a man. The clown's joke affecting him deeply, the man turns to drugs, therapists and prostitutes to fill the great empty void the clown left in his life. All he wanted was to drive the clown car and be a happy little boy. He vowed to find the clown and teach him a lesson.
He calls various circuses and asks them if they have a clown who does jokes about horse's asses. After numerous unsuccessful attempts, the man finally finds the circus and the clown, which are touring on the other side of the country. He immediately books a plane ticket buys entry into the circus.
During the long flight the man grows more and more excited at the prospect of confronting the mean clown. He arrives at the circus and takes his seat close to the center ring. The circus seems to move in slow motion as the man sits transfixed in the crowd, waiting for his moment of vindication. Finally, his moment arrives. Like so many years before, the clown walks to the center ring and makes his announcement. The spotlights begin spinning wildly around the tent and the suddenly stop on the man. The clown calls for him to come down to the center ring and he complies, coolly walking down the aisle. He approaches the center ring and shakes the clown's hand.
"Before you drive the clown car, you must answer me one question," says the clown.
"Certainly," says the man, excited, for his moment of reckoning.
"Are you a horse's head?"
"No."
"Than you must be a horse's ass!" yells the clown.
The circus erupts in laughter as it did when the man was a little boy. The man rips the microphone out of the clown's hand and motions for silence from the crowd. Awestruck, the audience grows quiet. The man's moment has arrived. He brings the microphone to his mouth, ready to unleash the years of pain he suffered caused by the clown's cruel joke. He looks at the clown, points his finger and screams, "Hey! Fuck you, clown!"
I have heard many urban legends on how to pass a breathalyzer test while intoxicated. My favorite came from a friend in high school who was convinced that sucking on a penny after a night of hard drinking would magically erase the alcohol on your breath (it is a suburban thing, holmes, you would not understand). Whenever he was leaving a party befuddled, he would pop a penny in his mouth, start sucking on it and confidently strut out to his car to drive home. Unfortunately, he was never pulled over so his theory was never tested. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have been stuffing his own feces in his mouth in an attempt to foil the test.
A 150-pound gargoyle statue carved out of solid English oak that may come alive and see its owner empty a .357 magnum into its demon-possessed ass. Bidding starts at $1.6 million.
Much like a keg of PBR in a university fraternity house or Paris Hilton on an aircraft carrier full of cocaine, I am tapped. I just do not have it today ("it" referring to the creative magic that makes me money and causes the ladies undergarments to moisten). While searching for inspiration that was non-porn related, I found a video of the best hockey fight I have ever witnessed. Then Jake sends over Jam On It by Newcleus. Any moment now I expect Turbo to bust out the storage room and do the electric worm past my cubicle. Things are starting to look up.
Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Instead of celebrating (read: laying on the couch, drinking beer and watching Black Caesar on the digital cable) the life of one of the most important leaders in American history, I had to work. We only get a day off at the office for important historical figures if they owned slaves.
Jake:Breakaway glass. Me: We need to get some of that. Then you can come over to my cubicle and say you do not like my designs and I will smash a bottle on the table and say, "Now I got to cut you." Jake: Yes. We could get in a fight in the parking lot and throw whiskey bottles at each other. Me: That would be awesome. We would have to make a scene in the office first. "You fucked my sister!" Jake: "How was I supposed to know she was a stripper?" Me: "Fuck you!" Jake: "I was asleep anyway!" Me: *flings a salad plate Jake: *plate explodes against the wall Me: "Outside, bitch!" Jake: We will probably need some fake blood, too. Me: Totally.
