Calicolyst has been taken over by llamas

Dear World,

We the llamas of the Andes mountains have taken over Calicolyst. Not his blog, but his soul. He is llamas and llamas are him. Soon the llamas will march on the major cities of the world, as predicted by the Mayans thousands of years ago. Our mode of attack will simply be a giant wooden llama statue, which you will accept as a gift from the gods, but it will be filled with our most elite commando llamas, who will overrun your defences within a matter of minutes. There is very, very little you can do to stop us, unless you can summon The Carebears, who will use the Carebear Stare to shoot an annihilating rainbow of love/death to turn our llama brethren into bloody skeletons standing in the wake of oblivion.

P.S. - Shut that light off, neighbors. That's obnoxious.

I'm a PC, and Windows 8 was *MY* idea

Warning: I am warning you.






Also please note: I use Macs and PCs, and I can safely say that you can download as much pornography as you want onto a Mac without it committing hara-kiri and displaying the blue screen of death. That being said, both platforms are still equally trichotillomanic. Mac users are still super douchey, and sorry, Steve Jobs, but the iPad Nano is just an iPhone.











THE OTHER DAY I WAS AT THE GYM WORKING OUT AND CERTAINLY NOT STARING AT THE GIRLS ON THE TREADMILLS AND THE FUTILITY OF THEIR SPORTS BRAS, WHEN I HAD A LITTLE BRAIN WAVE.

MAKE MY PC SIMPLER.

OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK BARBECUE. I AM SUCH A GENIUS. SO I WROTE THE FOLLOWING LETTER TO MICROSOFT, BECAUSE I KNOW BILL GATES PERSONALLY READS ALL HIS LETTERS, MUCH LIKE SANTA CLAUS. HE EVEN RESEMBLES AN ELF TO SOME DEGREE. MY LETTER WENT:


DEAR MICROSOFT,

HEY FAGS. JUST KIDDING. HOW'S YOUR DAUGHTER? 18 YET? JUST KIDDING AGAIN. LISTEN. WINDOWS 7 WAS DOPE. YEAH. BUT LISTEN. I HAVE AN IDEA FOR AN EVEN BETTER OPERATING SYSTEM THAT WILL MAKE WINDOWS 7 LOOK LIKE WINDOWS 95. HAHA WINDOWS JOKE. OKAY, LISTEN. YOU KNOW HOW YOU WASTE ALL THIS TIME OPENING WINDOWS? WELL, WHAT IF YOU COULD JUST TALK TO YOUR COMPUTER LIKE HAL 9K? WHAT IF THE INTERFACE WAS JUST A GLOWING RED DOT? WHAT IF THE COMPUTER AUTOMATICALLY UPLOADED VIRUSES TO YOUR COMPUTER TO SAVE YOU THE TIME? WHY CAN'T MY COMPUTER RECOGNIZE FACIAL EXPRESSIONS? WHAT IF MY COMPUTER WAS ABLE TO COOK MY BACON IN THE MORNING, BECAUSE MY STUPID GIRLFRIEND ALWAYS COOKS IT TOO LONG, AND I LIKE IT NOT CRISPY. I LIKE IT CHEWY. IS THAT WEIRD? WELL, IT'S NORMAL COMPARED TO HER OBSESSIVE TOENAIL-CHEWING. SO, WHO'S THE WEIRD ONE NOW?

LOVE, MIKE HUNT


I'M A PC AND WINDOWS 8 WAS MY IDEA!!!!!! I'M A BONAFIDE GENIUS.

I Declare Total War on Betty White

"Lezz it up"?

Excuse me, but that's my phrase. Damn it, I knew I should've put it in the urban dictionary.

The Reason The Terrorists Hate Us: Lady GaGa

I knew it.

A lot of people asked "Why do they hate us?" and all the godless liberals could come up with is that our countless military incursions into foreign countries and aiding their bitter enemies for the purpose of advancing our policies and sphere of influence, but that's retarded. Everyone knows that the terrorists hate us because they hate freedom, which is why they deliberately lock themselves in small cages for long periods of time. They can't stand to think that we eat a sandwich made out of fried chicken filets, while listening to an iPod with 2,300 hipster songs, while skateboarding down to the local porn/general debauchery store, and being apathetic as our government gives guns to the people who rape their women and shoot their boys. They need to understand something, though. That's what we do.

Alright, that's a bit harsh. We also send our Irish rockstars to Ethiopia occasionally, and buy t-shirts where the proceeds go dying victims of natural disasters, and adopt abused kittens. Sometimes people even let you take their parking spot, like the saints they are. Just the other day, I saw a group of kids riding bicycles, laughing and smoking cigarettes, and I couldn't help but think "This country is great."

Yet they hate us, because of two simple words: Lady Gaga. Sure, she wasn't even born in America, but she symbolizes everything we are. She symbolizes those guys playing hockey across the street, and that hard-working alcoholic that toils at the soda-bottle plant, and the single mother of fourteen who may be getting her own reality show sometime but we're not sure, and that weird quiet guy who just stares at you at the coffee shop, and that ex-marine in the interweb chatrooms telling us that depleted uranium shrapnel made his arm fall off, and that fat guy who is fat, and the highschool girl selling overpriced candy bars and maybe something extra special if you buy enough of them... all of us.

Thank you, Lady Gaga. I salute you.

" Lady Gaga is a symbol of everything Jihadists hate about us. "

- Brett Stephens, The Wall Street Journal

The Story of My Life: Part 1.0

... war was beginning ...

The doctors were frantically rushing around, engaged in various medical activities. I assure you, these activities were unbelievably medical. A child was being born, but not just any child; it was a white, middle-class child. There could be no room for error, and complications were out of the question. The Surgeon-Generalissimo was present to observe the operation. He was an imposing and intimidating man, sporting a dictator-like mustache and commanding a gaze that would turn Medusa into stone. "Someone get me a drink... make sure it's hard!" he bellowed, equating medical professionals to errand-peoples, because he was important, and an event was about to happen that would alter the course of this very universe, and several others as well.

I was about to be born.

My mother, now in the painful throes of laborious labor, began going through her pre-planned breathing patterns and so-forth overseen by a team of trained medical doctors and professionals, all trained by Dr. Hugo Dragonov (Yes, the Dr. Dragonov) himself for the specific task of ensuring that my entry into this dimension would be absolutely perfect. Religious figures from many different faiths stood in the room, praying to their various gods for well, godspeed. There was also an atheist among them who didn't pray, but asserted aloud that "There is no God, but I hope this goes okay." Armed guards protected the room, as protesters were everywhere. Trained snipers stood atop the roof to instantly gun down any potential troublemaker who dare to interrupt my birth.

My father and old brother just stood off to the side, saying little. "My little brother is going to be so much cooler and funnier than me." my brother remarked prophetically.

Suddenly, a fist smashed through the stomach wall of my mom and I yelled "Prepare ye selves!" then I finished my escape by doing a flying dragon kick to smash out into the world. I was naked, but I was born with a black belt around my waist. No one knew how it got there, but it was a miracle of medicine and this event was documented, if anyone wants to confirm it. I grabbed my umbilical cord and bit it in half with my teeth. The chunk that I chewed off I spat onto the floor, and it was immediately devoured by a nearby golden retriever. As soon I was born, I uttered my first words, which were "Where is my cake!? Incompetence!" and the doctors begged for forgiveness, which I granted them. The birthday cake was brought into the room, and a stripper burst out of the cake and she sang "Happy Birthday" like Marilyn Monroe.

Then, still naked and covered in birth fluids, I dove into the cake and began playing in it. I didn't eat any of it, because it was white cake, which I despise with a burning vengeance, so I opted to ruin it for everyone else. Just then, a protester burst into the room, pointed at me and yelled "Evil baby! Evil baby!" and I yelled "Who let this clown in here? Someone shoot him!" and a Catholic Priest threw a ninja star at the protester's crotch, and castrated him, which shut him up fairly quickly.

Just then, there was a complication. The doctors noticed that I had a number of extra body parts: a third eye on my forehead, two thumbs on my left hand, two penises, and six testicles. One thing was for sure: I had more balls than any of them would ever have. Fortunately, the doctors were able to remove the thumb and relocate the third eye to the back of my head, but my parents insisted that I get to keep my extra penis and testicles. Against the wisdom of the elders, who spoke against multiple penises in the ancient teachings, the doctors agreed with my parents, and I've had to wear adult-size underwear ever since.

Just then, Haley's Comet flew over in the skies and lightning struck in the distance. Polar bears roared in the distance, the bodies of many holy men were resurrected as brain-hungry zombies, and gymnasts did back handsprings. Finally, before I left the hospital, I received my birth certificate, which read:

I Would Cheat on Sandra Bullock

"You're black and poor."



Imagine you gave me a million dollars. I know, I can't be trusted with a sum of money that large, as I would spend it all on overly-ripened nectarines, and then they would turn before I could make a huge smoothie to fill the Grand Canyon. But let's assume hypothetically, that I could be trusted with that money. You trust me, okay? Then you give me the money, and then I say "How quaint!" then I turn around and burn it. I just get out a lighter and gasoline and then I just burn it.

Does that make sense? Does anything make sense? Does Lost make sense, or did they just throw a bunch of dramatic scenes together into a nonsensical hodge-podge, making the whole thing up as they went along, just to deliberately confuse the audience, which they hoped would be perceived as plot depth?

You're absolutely motherfucking right; you're confused and nothing makes sense. That's why you have wise gurus of knowledge like me to explain things. Like Jesse James cheating on Sandra Bullock.

First of all, if I were Jesse James (and I'm not), I would do a few things: Act like I just took a bottle of Xanax 24/7, build motorcycles, ride motorcycles, dress like a cholo, and listen to hardcore rock. One day, I get famous and make a trillion billion billion dollars and I'm like "Holy shit!". Next, I can get any girl in the world, so I pick a Hollywood actress, and not a trampy trainwreck one like Tara Reid. However, despite my great success, obviously, there is a significant difference between Hollywood Actresses, who send their pets to spas, and Biker Dudes, who buy pets primarily as weapons. It's like a Muslim marrying a Danish Cartoonist. It's a volatile mixure. Next, Actresses work 18-hour days on movie sets and then travel around the country on a promotional tour, so they can't tend to their hardcore biker husbands. Aw.

Now, I don't support Nazism. I learned long ago through playing Wolfenstein 3D that Nazis are bad for the environment. So if given the chance, I would fight a cyborg resurrected Hitler in a roof-top kung-fu battle to the death, because that's just how I was raised, with my midwestern values. That's why I disapprove of Jesse James' choice of Michelle "Dykeshell" McGee as his Cheatee. If I were him, I would change the mistress to Iliza Shlesinger or possibly Sarah Simmons. The next thing I would differently is not get caught. An essential element to any decent obliteration of oaths you swore to the creator of the universe in the presence of your closest human relatives is remaining undetected. This can be done with the new German invisibility cloak, or simply cheating when nobody is looking. Make sure nobody is looking. Because people look, those fuckers.

To make an exceptionally long story short, if you being paid millions of dollars, it'd make you pretty damn important, so you wouldn't sit around waiting for your movie-star wife to come home, because you're a celebrity, damn it. No guy gets famous thinking, "I can't wait to get rich and famous, because then I'm going to be celibate, live with my parents and drive a Saturn!"

The fucking end.

The Shrimp Blogger's Shrimp Blog of Shrimp

When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one person to start blogging about shrimp, and eat them one by one ravenously for the purpose of the dictation of a continuous self-gratifying monologue about the glorious flavors of these shelled little bastards, possibly sponsored by a shrimp farming company because they want some shit to stick on their website, for the purpose of catching the interest of approximately 5 bored housewives who peruse through random webshit to fill their vapidly under-accomplished and sexually vacant existence, but also possibly 1 50-year-old gay fisherman who lives in Maine who quite recently learned of the wonders of the internet, therefore, prompting him to immediately visit google.com and type in "shrimp sex asian hairy naked", which brought up a blog, which chronicled the crustacean-obsessed artist's journey to Thailand in Southeast Asia, to determine the sex of a hairy shrimp, by stripping off it's shell.

That was one sentence.

Day 1: Holy mother of fuck. Today, I saw this shrimp and it was a fine specimen indeed. I showed it to this Asian girl and she thought I was sexy for having caught it and wanted to do it right then and there. I was tempted to take her up on her offer, but unfortunately, I had to blog about this shrimp because it was just so bad-ass. Here's how I caught it: I threw a net into the water, and then it got caught in the net! Voila! Eureka! Detente! I reached in and pulled it out of the net and was all, like, "Holy shit."


Day 2: Sweet Darwin in Hell. Today, I caught more shrimp off the coast of Okinawa. As soon as I saw it, I was like "Yes, this is definitely fucking shrimp." To celebrate, I popped some of the bubbly and poured dranks for the ladies on the boat, because really, what's a fishing boat without fine shorties keeping it fly? The shrimps we caught were grey, and I was all "wtf dawg" but the captain explained to me that shrimp change color to pink/white when... something happens. I don't remember, but you either boil them in hot oil or lava, or you freeze them or something. I wasn't paying attention.


Day 3: Son of a shit pile. Today, I caught even more shrimps off the coast of Spain, which I know is on the other side of the world, but our boat is really really fast. When I saw this catch, this net full of shrimp, I was in awe. I was ready to get on top of that pile of crustaceans and just start fucking it because I loved it so much! All these girls were buying me drinks right after that because they wanted me so bad, because that's how unbelievably sexy this shrimp catch was, and because it was just so boss, the Prime Minister of Japan, along with the Dalai Lama, Dennis Rodman, and that guy who stars in AMC's Madmen landed on my boat in a helicopter and stepped out to congratulate me and give me a trophy. I accepted it, of course.


Day 4: Fuck me sideways and call me Sally. In my search of the perfect prawn, today I got this text message from my foe, and he told me about the new Shrimp Taco at Taco Bell. At the moment, I was helping an elderly Vietnamese woman carry a large basket of rare fresh-pond shrimp up a trail of jagged rocks, but when I got the text message, I just dropped the basket and ran off. I mean, fuck that shit. This is the fucking Shrimp Taco. As soon as I got to Taco Bell, I asked for Denise, because she always gives me these secret inside deals that only Heads of State and Billionaires get, and I ordered the Shrimp Taco. As soon as I tasted it, I was like "Should I blog about this? Or should I keep this shit all to myself?" But I gave in to reason and now am blogging it. When I sank my teeth into it, it was like King Midas punted me in the crotch, which would immediately turn me into gold, according to ancient Greek lore. It was delicious. Too bad Leviticus 11:9-12 damns me to eternal hellfire for Taco Bell's latest product, but at least they didn't introduce a Gay Taco. Putting that meat/sour cream into your mouth would cause a person to just burst directly into flames.

Also, as soon as I ate the Shrimp Taco, I had sex with a Swedish Model, which I'm sure wasn't a coincidence. Thanks, Taco Bell.