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.

WHAT!?

I've decided to change the format of my dramatically, and will probably do away with the prevailing negative and dark ambiance.

I have a few reasons for doing so, the first being that I'm much happier now than when I started writing this, because, let's face it: that was a pretty fucked-up time. It takes a substantial amount of maximum subconscious rage to hash out that much dark humour, and gee golly, I'm about plum out.

Honestly, if the good side of me and the evil side of me had a Battle Royale, an all-out fight to the death in the streets of Tokyo while piloting towering mecha robots armed with lasers, missiles and fear, I would want the good me to prevail, and then plant a flag with my face on it into the burning corpse of the evil me.

And who says violence isn't the answer? Geez.

I was also somewhat inspired by the deposed Generalissimo of Late-Night Talk, Conan O'Brien, to not be a cynical little fucker. To me, it's not really that funny anymore, and I find myself saying "Well, I can't post this... it's too upbeat." so I have to scrap a lot of creativity for the sake of this "image" which isn't even really me anymore. Truthfully, I can do a whole lot more than just bitch on the internet all the time. Really.

So what does a more upbeat version of myself look like?

I'm already considering a new design for my blog, because I sure don't want it to look typical or boring. I'm pretty sure I'm over the black background, too, but the alternative of white might be worse depending on what I decide to do with it. I would definitely have a contest for my readers for ideas, with the prize being a never-ending supply of Cinnamon-flavored gum, but I doubt there are enough readers for that to be effective. If I had Adobe Photoshop, I could make a crackerjack layout that would make all the Scene Girls jealous as fuck, but alas, I'm stuck with an outdated drawing program, so I'll probably just post pictures of stick people humping.

I know a few people (like Blaine) will be disappointed and upset, possibly jumping in front of a street sweeper. Don't do that, though. There are still plenty of other raging assholes writing on the internet about lord-only-knows-what, and being hilarious in the process.

That's all for now. Toodles.

Ban This, China.

A dangerous capitalist lackey radical being demolished by the glorious defenders of the people's republic.


In the words of that little black girl with the microphone, "We gotta fight the China power before they put the hoo-cha-cha on us." and I agree. I've had enough of their lead-filled children's toys, bird-based pathogens, and under-aged gymnasts. Nastia Liuken was robbed by extremely flexible Communists in sparkling leotards and she now lives in disgrace, using her forehead as a landing strip for large airliners, all because of fucking China.

China has now gone to the point of building a Great Wall of Denial to control the information on Google, blocking all the dangerous radical Western influences. After all, it's against the law to say that Hu Jintao is a premature ejaculator who smears komodo dragon feces on his face because of his mental retardation. The police would knock on my door and I would be arrested, carted off to China's courts, which would declare me guilty, and sentence me to be a contestant on Japanese game shows for the rest of my life. Trust me, it's the reason seppuku was invented.

I think, therefore, every website in the world should post Anti-Communist messages that specifically antagonize the Chinese Government, so they will have to block the entire internet except for Google.com itself.

Here's mine:

PEKING DUCK? MORE LIKE PEKING SHIT. Chairman Mao's mother was a prostitute.

Relationship Advice From An Evil Genius

Congratulations, all you socially-retarded rosacea-plastered comic-book-addicted saxicolous geekzoid milquetoasts from Tatooine. You no longer have to curl in a fetal position in a dark corner, sweating and simultaneously shitting your pants, because The Most Reliable News Network Ever Created has reported that robots for sex have been created, and all this time you've asserted steadfastly that John Hughes wasn't the amazing visionary we all now know that he is.

Now that all my thick and creamy (Now with 5% less Saturated Fat than the leading brands, suck it, Campbell's) and mildly inimical sarcasm is out of the way... what the fuck?

I am so offended, and they didn't even mention my negro dialect. If there were an Al Sharpton of Nerds, I would call him with my geek hologram projector and demand that we lobby to invade Qatar immediately. Don't question it, the people there are middle-eastern. Buddha H. Gautama... if I wanted to fuck a robot, it would be with that foxy maid robot from The Jetsons, but Lord knows that as the good old-fashioned human-on-human-only society that we are, that sure isn't going to happen.

And I'm sure the inventor of the girlfriendbot tested it extensively to verify that it could facilitate his needs. Apparently, it did, but Jesus, next time, program the robot to not look like a transsexual heroin-addict.

-sigh-

-takes a sip of gasoline-

Alright, seeing as how we, as a Brave New World, are insulting intellectually-gifted introverts and building sex machines, I think the time for a Relationship Advice Post is nigh, just to obviate the inevitable mass suicides and post office shootings that are certain to occur once the God-fearing people hear one iota of this shit.

First, you probably want to meet someone special, who is funny, warm, loving, intelligent and makes you happy, AKA attractive, attractive, attractive, attractive and is not a chainsaw-wielding psychopath, although, I should point out respectively that a vast majority of chainsaw-wielding individuals are simply gathering wood that we turn into paper, so we can write notes that say "Remember to walk the dog" because if the fucking dog doesn't get walked, then the gates of Hell will burst open and pour baby-eating demonic spirits into the world of the living, and we just can't have that, can we?

Second, you probably have this idea in your head about what a good relationship is. This notion you've developed purely from poorly-written movies and intense emotional trauma as a child, and possibly the intricate legalistic rules for dating handed down from a golden cloud of morality by an overweight Paster in an expensive suit he bought with money he guilted his congregation into dishing over, is wrong. It's wrong 100% of the time. You probably read Dr. Love's book about relationships, and didn't even realize that Dr. Love's medical license is forged. The man is a quack. Just face it, he duped you.

Therefore,

Guys: You have trouble getting dates, and when you do, they go terribly. I'm not surprised. Girls usually like attractive guys, so if you're not attractive, then you should try that next time. Furthermore, when trying to attract a girl, you should be as wishy-washy as possible. Just be caring and polite at all times, and listen to her problems, especially the ones concerning her current boyfriend(s). This will show her how sensitive and nice you are, and when she finally leaves that misogynist she's fucking every night, there's a tiny chance she could see that you're the one for her, especially if you wish on a Shooting Star. When she falls into your arms, impress her with your encyclopedia-like knowledge of Linux.

Girls: Quit your crying. I didn't forget you. You have abandonment issues after your mom left you at the park and didn't realize you were gone until after your birthday cards came in the mail 3 weeks later, and then discovered that you had been looked-after by raccoons, who had adopted you as their own. But that's behind you now. You just want to find a great guy to plug that hole. In your heart. What you should do is be pissy and bitchy, especially to strangers for no reason. When some unsuspecting schmuck meanders into a relationship with you, you should be a stalker from day one. Call him every single night, and if he doesn't pick up his telly, leave 6,000 voice mails crying about how you have no friends and your life sucks. Try to spend every waking second around him, but the whole time you're with him, bitch about things you hate and criticize him a lot. This will guilt him into being a better boyfriend, which will make your love stronger. Make sure he does not talk to other girls under any circumstances, including his own mother. If he does, tell him he's neglecting you "all the time" and then cry.


There, now you're golden!

A Desperate Cry For Help By Wikipedia Founder Jimmy Wales

Let's cut right to the chase. I am asking you donate your money to Wikipedia because you know how many times it's gotten you out of a jam in internet chatrooms when you risked looking like you didn't know what you were talking about. And remember when you copied a paragraph from Wikipedia for a school paper and then changed all the adjectives so your teachers couldn't google your paragraph and find out you cheated?

I need money; lots of it. You have that money. Sure, I'll keep a bit for myself, but I have a non-profit website here, and I refuse advertisements because I don't want eHarmony.com telling me what I can have on my damn site, or those retarded ads telling me that I can get ripped if I just follow one simple rule, then showing before and after pictures of some guy with no shirt on who got ripped following one simple rule. Do you know what I think the one simple rule is? Fucking exercise.

Anyhow, I believe in Wikipedia. I believe us. I believe in the power of love. I believe in friendship. That's what makes Wikipedia so great: the countless admins who met through Wikipedia's behind-the-scenes intellectual battlefield to form sexual relationships that eventually developed into romantic relationships. I want that sort of thing to continue.

Wikipedia just continues to get better and better; one person writes something, only to have it deleted by an angry admin, then writes it again a week later, then someone else edits it to change all the adjectives to "fucking" and then the trivia section gets deleted, then the whole article is deleted after the admins decide that Sirlin doesn't deserve his own page, and to be honest, I have to agree with that to a large degree.

We have to protect this sacred process, because it's become a part of us, all of us. [Additional citation need]. I want to keep this site free of advertisements and I certainly would hate to make all you people start paying for this site when I can just write up a stirring and inspirational speech to make you dish over the ca$h that I need to keep this crazy train rolling. Do you know how much money this site costs? Ten million dollars every year. I don't have that money just sitting around my house. If I did, then I would retire and move to Florida. Well, maybe not Florida. I might go to Asia or Europe for awhile though.

Christ, I'm getting sidetracked again.

Imagine a world where every single person in the world has access to the sum of all human knowledge from perspective of young middle-class white males. This can still happen, but you need send me a massive amount of money. Now, I understand some of you can't give much, but a minimum of $10 dollars will entice our staff to pray for your household, to prevent the Lord from sending the usual slew of locusts and mudslides upon your home as punishment.

I think we understand each other.

- Jimmy "The Anal Annihilator" Wales


Fine print: Jimmy Wales did not write any of this and nothing in this should be taken literally or seriously or figuratively or sexually. Please don't sue me.

The most magical time of year, and by magic, I mean sorcery

Time to bust out the black, green and red candles, don our dashikis and kufis, because that special time of year is growing near once again. It's that time of year when single people like myself are bitter, and drink a lot. It's a time when middle-aged women fist fight in the aisles of K-Mart at 5 in the morning, and that time of year when angsty kids bitch about commercialism while gladly being draped in materialism, because hey, it's a material world, and I am a material girl. It's a time of year when fat-ass douchebag car-dealers desperately and awkwardly cram Santa Claus into their commercials in a manner that stabs integrity and class in the throats with a cutlass.

Now, I have nothing against Christmas, it's just that everyone seems to hate it in some form or another, and it's become "cool" to be like "Scrooge" (A very unpleasant tax collector whose apathy and greed will cause the death of Tiny Tim; hates Christmas, because it's about "giving") and because I'm such an obstreperous internet rebel, I have to love Christmas in order to oppose everyone else. That's right, you Christmas-hating fucks: Instead of spraying graffiti reading "Santa Claus sucks" and "Santa Claus is a fag" and "Christmas sucks and is for fags" and "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer is a fag", you should go fuck yourself immediately.

On the downside, Christmas is about caring, which is something I rarely do, unless an Asian girl in a bikini comes to my door with two large bags, filled with large amounts of non-inflated American currency, and even then I might say "Who cares? I'm about to save Hyrule for the 100th time." then try to grab my drink, but the glass would just be out of reach, so I'd go "Ah, nevermind." and go back to my entrancing hot n64 action.

In other words, this is going to be the best Chanukah ever.

True Genius

One bright beautiful sunny day, a group of comedy writers were sitting around in a break room. All of them longed to step out into the sun and tan for once in their lives, but they had reached an impasse; all eight of them had simultaneously succumbed to the talons of writer's block, and in this case, the block was made of steel and they were only equipped to chisel away at the cumbersome cube with coloured toothpicks and those tiny plastic swords that bartenders stick in their cocktails as a novelty to amuse the drunkards. Unfortunately, all of them refused to admit their muses had all committed hara kiri, because dammit, they wrote the 1st season of "Gays Men Go To A Farm And Are Terribly Confused and Out-Of-Place". The series was such a hit that it received blind praise from many talented ass-kissers, and was placed in a lovely prime-time viewing slot that competed with Extreme Makeover: Historical Landmark Edition, an iconoclastic demolition and reconstruction program where all of our most memorable and recognizable historical structures are destroyed and replaced, all for TV ratings.

After such success against a competitor that defiled our architectural heritage for shits and giggles, how can one admit "Gee, I don't know what's funny."? Exactly. Therefore, procrastination reigned, and they mostly chattered about their exaggerated sexual escapades and joked about people of other races. "Asians are such bad drivers." one of them would quip, and the others would giggle like a Japanese schoolgirl looking at a penis for the first time. In between bouts of recreational marijuana usage and flashing their testicles at each other during coffee breaks, the sheer boredom that resonated through the air like smog in New Jersey would cause the weaker ones to allow their minds to drift off and would have a random thought, which they were trained in Comedy Writer Boot Camp to write down, or else run the gauntlet, and the gauntlet involved porcupines.

These random thoughts were about as funny and random as a glass of root beer sitting on a counter, just going flat and getting warm. Nobody just looks at the root beer and goes "Boy Howdy, that's a hoot!" because it's not a hoot at all. Think about the root beer for a minute. Is it making you laugh? Is it?! But the writers heard each other's putridly horrible ideas for the show and performed intellectual fellatio on each other like they were getting paid for it. Oh wait a second. They are getting paid for it, which technically makes them prostitutes, but metaphorical prostitutes at best. Anyhow, one of them suggested "What if we make Karen talk to a chicken about her relationship problems?" and the other writers' jaws just dropped. "That's fucking genius, Mel... motherfucking genius."

Mel just grins and says "No no, you are."

"Hey, when Ryan and Harry go to the straight bar, let's do a bit where they discuss holes in underwear for like 5 minutes straight!"

"That's gold!"

"Just think: Ryan says 'Damn, there's a hole in my underwear.' and Harry goes 'I hate that." and then Ryan says 'I think holes in underwear should be against the law!' and Harry goes 'We should hold a rally!' and Ryan says 'Hold on, I'm going to Twitter this.' because Twitter is all the rage, and putting it in the show will make us not only hilarious azzzzzzzzzzzzzzz fuck, but also, hip."

"Stop. My head is going to explode. My dick head."

"Then when Glenn finds his father, he finds out he's Irish."

"And he could like, do a bunch of stereotypical Irish things!"

"Season 4 is going to kick ASS."

Et Cetera.

After smashing open a piñata full of pathetic half-assed jokes and convincing each other that it's FUCKING GENIUS, the 4th Season of Gays Men Go To A Farm And Are Terribly Confused and Out-Of-Place airs and it's terrible, and I decide to talk to a friend about it. "That show is really bad." I mention. They take offense, like I just told them their religion was false, or favorite political party was anything less than saint-like with integrity, or worse yet, I told them that their favored genre of music is what Satan's imps use to torture the souls of the damned in Hell. "You have to get the inside jokes." they retort, and add "You have to be a fan of Mel and Tim's early work to get most of these, too."

"I don't want to watch Mel and Tim's early work."

"Why are you being an asshole?"

"I'm trying to understand why people like this show. The humor is really lame."

"That's the joke though. It's supposed to be like that so you laugh at how lame the humor is."

"That sounds like an excuse to slack on the creativity and deliberately air an epic sardonic drought that purposefully sabotages itself in order to make a lot of money for basically throwing something together that a 4th-grader could scribble out in 15 minutes while waiting for his bagel bites to heat up in the toaster oven."

"Yeah... well... screw you! And bagel bites don't take that long to make."

fin

Lady Sovereign Is Not In This Music Video

Friendly disclaimer: I have never worried about causing brain damage to any readers of any of my blogs until today, whereas now this contingency must be considered. You will most like develop a hemorrhoid by viewing any of this.

Recently, a friend and I duked it out in the streets of downtown Tokyo, toppling skyscrapers and trampling Japanese people in our wake, all because of a slight disagreement we had about an old music video on Youtube that no one cares about, and never will.

Take note this video WILL cause you to rip your arm out of your socket and beat yourself to death with it if you attempt to watch the entire thing all the way through. Also take note that I rarely post videos anywhere, let alone rap videos, let alone one with girl rappers, let alone girl rappers from England. If humanly possible, enjoy:





About the video in question: my friend told me that the rapper Lady Sovereign appears in this video, whereas in fact, it is my firm belief that Lady Sovereign does NOT appear in this video, and I'd appreciate being vindicated by contacting Lady Sovereign and hearing straight from the whore's mouth (GET IT???!?!?!??) that she is noticeably absent in this music video because her body nor her soul were present at the time of the shooting because she was either too busy spitting on guys in jelly-donut costumes, or beating up transvestites in bars.

Lady Sovereign, I know you google yourself like 7 times per day, so you had better fucking email me.

Now, my friend believes the rapper "Jaydee" from the video is Lady Sovereign, and I declare this presumption to be erroneous for the following reasons:

1. Nowhere on Lady Sovereign's website, does it state anything about being known as "Jaydee" or being in the Grab The Mic music video, nor is this mentioned on her Wikipedia or Myspace pages.

2. No website hosting the music video suggests that Lady Sovereign is in the video.

3. Jaydee is tall, has squinty eyes and has several ear-rings, whereas Lady Sovereign is short, has wide round eyes, and does not wear ear-rings.

4. A good reason why Lady Sovereign would not be in the music video: Lady Sovereign's homegirl, Shystie, did a diss song against Grab That Mic's Lady Fury called "Murderation" (Yes, people talk like that in London) and that bad blood would cause Lady Fury to get a bloody vagina at the thought of letting an enemy rapper on the track without a stabbing incident.

Now, I understand that all wannabe gangster girls in tracksuits look the same, but that does not mean they are the same. I, being the super-sleuth that I am, have now conclusively concluded that the dyke-ish brunette in question has a 95% probability of NOT being Lady Sovereign, meaning that...

...well, it doesn't really mean anything. Fuck it.

Andy Rooney Speaks, Knaves.

Listen. When Andy Rooney asks you for your firstborn child, you don't give him shit about the legality of the matter; you hand over the child and also the family dog. Have you ever seen Andy Rooney take shit? He's not going to take shit from Ali G, ergo, he's not going to take shit from you. Therefore, if Andy Rooney decides that we should replace Veteran's Day with a day protesting "war in general", save your inexcogitative, insipid, intellectually-impecunious bullshit for the Judge and Jury, you uneducated asshat.

His amazing, shining article can, of course, be found here in THIS LINK where you can read it and agree with Andy Rooney, or suck his wrinkly flaccid dick.

Ostensibly, society is filled with phonies, and so it wasn't a shocker that the overwhelming consensus in the article's comments section is that Andy Rooney was wrong, like the idyllic heathens they are. When Andy Rooney throws down his wisdom from his shining golden clouds of transcendence, it is paramount to shut the fuck up. However, Bob (Name changed to protect him from angry rioting crowds wielding pitchforks and torches) had this to say:

" I will never again watch you or 60 Minutes. Shame on you and the network! "

And to him, I say: You think Andy gives a shit? Go watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians instead, because that's more at your intellectual level. Bob2 said:

" No war, no lies, no cheats, no stealing, not in this world! Mr. Rooney, you have stepped over the line of good sense and decency! Please apologize to our veterans. I know you are a smart man but this just makes you sound like a moron. "

And to him, I say: Yeah, that's totally what Rooney was talking about; saying the troops are worthless pawns. Or maybe he was talking about having a day to think about abolishing war (Someone should make this a law) so we won't need to have veterans or dead friends, you moron. Bob3 says:

" This is not Heaven. This is life on Earth. The reality on Earth is that everything is not all unicorns and sunshine Mr. Rooney. "

To him I say: Fuck you.


In actuality, my favorite comment was by a poster fueled by pure righteous e-rage. Here is his brusquely effusive little comment (With the ridiculous generalizations highlighted in red, much like Jesus in the Bible, random nonsense in blue, and poor usage of quotes and parenthesis in green):

" The SAD THING about those like "Bob," "Bob," and all of the other gibbon-minded creatures who accuse Rooney of dishonor and cowardice is that most of them haven't the gumption or heart to have served in the military forces (they just like to complain, and join the bandwagon of beer-guzzling, fireworks-shooting "flagwavers" who think patriotism comes in the form of a cheapjack flag stuck on their utility vehicle). As for knuckleheads like "Bob," I'm betting THEY don't have a clue about the fact that "Veteran's Day" used to be properly called, "Armistice Day." If the gun-buying, fear-lapping simpletons in America can't "grok" Rooney's rightful call for a more peacefully named holiday, then they should at least agree to having "Veteran's Day" revert back to its rightful name (before flag-waving schemers in congress changed it in order easily manipulate the ill-educated). "

What this really comes down to is a lot of highly-opinionated people arguing about the name of a day because some senile old man typed up some overly-idealistic nonsense in a disheveled rambling manner, trying to pass it off as "commentary" on our fucking holidays, whereas most of us are just glad to get the day off and watch "Saving Private Ryan" or whatever Nazi-slaying flick happens to grace our television sets. To go off on an ad hominem tirade on "Gun-buying" flag-wavers (whom I assume are Republicans. And that's how you use parenthesis, not putting them at the end of sentences for no reason), really just diverts from the real story here, which is that people love to disagree over stupid shit like this, and that's why we have wars. The end.

Jon and Kate Plus Hate

Let's get something straight. I don't hold people (in general) to very high standards. If someone says something like "French fries originated in France." or something equally mentally impecunious, normally, I'll just ignore it. My criteria for interjecting is when their stupidity affects me, i.e., "The bill for your order is 1,496 dollars.", when it's clearly 14.96 and someone didn't learn about decimal points in school, or was attempting to bust out some test-material for their soon-to-crash-and-fucking-burn stand-up comedy career.

I want to talk about something affects me very profoundly every waking moment of my life.

That's right, I'm talking of course about Jon and Kate Plus 8, minus the 8. I can't even begin to explain how Jon's zirconium ear studs affect me when I'm cooking pork bacon and eggs in the morning or am at the grocery store picking out lunch meats. I spend countless sleepless hours thinking to myself "Posh Spice hair? Really?" while musing about Kate's hair. I also was deeply amused by Nancy Grace predaceously tearing into Jon like an enraged Dilophosaurus sinking it's teeth into a Dimetrodon, bitches. I haven't seen a TV host beef with someone that hard since Keith Olbermann started obsessing over Rush Limbaugh like an OCD kid religiously rearranging their bathroom utensils every 1 hour. I would imagine Olbermann wakes up at night sweating from a bizarre nightmare and screaming "LIMMMBAUUUGHHHH!!!!" Then going into his bathroom, and looking at a picture of Limbaugh on his mirror (ala Apollo Creed versus Rocky) and muttering "I'm coming for you, Rush... I'm coming for you..." then popping a shitload of Xanax.

Special Note From The Author: Keith Olbermann probably does drugs. But not as many as Glenn Beck.

As far as I'm concerned, Jon should get a sex change, replacing his genitals with a vagina, because that would be more appropriate. I will even pay for up to half of the operation, and will definitely start a special charity fund to cover the rest. I'll tell people it's for "Breast Cancer Awareness", because as we all know, no one is fucking aware of breast cancer, and are just like furry forest creatures blissfully waltzing through the woods of life, humming delightful little melodies about gathering berries, about to step into the fucking bear trap that is motherfucking goddamn fucking breast cancer. I'd even get a big-name celebrity to endorse the charity, like Nancy Grace or Serena Williams, or fucking Optimus Prime.

Maybe *I* should knock up some poor, unsuspecting woman with 18 babies, who will all emerge at once, and will have their names tattooed on their foreheads, because face it: all babies look exactly alike. After reveling in corpulence, I will place the woman on a strict diet of jellybeans and rum (or whatever it is that makes you skinny. God only knows.) to quickly regain her aesthetic appeal, because no one wants to watch fat bitches on TV, unless they're a weepy middle-aged woman watching the Oxygen! channel. Then I will get a fucking show about how chaotic, hectic and nightmarishly overwhelming my life had become so I can make one million dollars. It'd be great.

Holy shit.

Where can I get this!?

Let's Compare Everything To Hitler!

Hey. Remember Hitler? Here is a picture of him:





















The other day, while eating a shark (It was an ironic turn of events), my mind wandered off, not unlike your MS-ridden Lithuanian Great Grandmother, and I was just bemused by how many things were like Hitler: George W Bush, Barack Obama, Environmentalists, School children, French school children, rabbits, et cetera.

I've decided to play a Kevin-Baconesque game, in which I figure out how various obscure things relate to Hitler, and not just any Hitler; I mean the Hitler.



Baked Beans: These cause gas, and Hitler did a lot of gassing, so Baked Beans are Hitler.

Crest Toothpaste: This is placed on toothbrushes, which are like Hitler's mustache, and therefore, Crest is like Hitler.

Michael Jackson: He wore military uniforms constantly, much like Hitler. His sexuality was also in question because he couldn't commit to a woman, and he seemed preoccupied with his career, but possibly also his delusional fantasies stemming from his experiences as a child. Also, much like Hitler, he had an abusive father. Coincidence? There are no coincidences, just watch Glenn Beck's show.

Suzy Orman: Her name has almost all the letters required to spell "nazi". Sounds like Hitler to me.

Volkswagon: German car company.

The Surface of Jupiter: This planet's surface is obvious Nazi territory, seeing as how the gravity is torturously crushing, much like a concentration camp, and the air is made of toxic gas.

Verizon Wireless: You know how their commercials say "America's Largest Wireless Network"? Obvious propaganda; calling their network superior to all networks, like a 'master network', and therefore dubs all other wireless networks as inferior. Sieg heil.

Natasha Bedingfield: I'll get back to you on this one when I figure something out.

Recognize The Loser Within!

Motivational Speakers are everywhere, in hotel conference rooms, in our water, in our schools corrupting our children, and on radio shows, telling us to purchase their books, tapes and t-shirts. The only way I would ever buy that shit is if I were on a plane where a disoriented albatross flew into one of the jet engines, causing it to spiral downwards into the jungles of Haiti, where, in order to escape the clutches of the cannibalistic tribesmen, I had to have a curse placed on me that would cause my arms to turn to evil, causing them to give my credit card number to Tony Robbins.

If there were a demotivational speaker, I would take that occupation, and make it my own. I would take the stage in that strange-smelling hotel conference room, walk up to the microphone, and commence the following monologue:

"A good friend of mine once told me 'Just give up. Everything you try is useless.' right before downing another 40 Oz. He died miserable and unfulfilled. That could be you! Whenever I do these seminars, I come with the belief that none of you can make it; that there is a loser in every one of you. All of you sycophantic, impossibly inept peons being herded like sheep to the slaughter, I have an uninspiring message that you will hear today, that hopefully, will drive you into habitual alcohol abuse and self-destruction."

I would then show a pie chart that show 0.01% of people being happy with life, and elaborate, quipping "These are your odds of success. Very bleak, I know, and rest assured, you will probably will fall into this red 99.99% area, no matter how smart you are, and no matter how hard you try to succeed. But just think -- you could fall into that 0.01% bracket, and that is where the seeds of human hope are planted, but today, I want to crush that glimmer of hope. Who here has been struck by lightning while finding a ten-dollar bill on the ground simultaneously? No one? None of you? No hands up? Well, that is called 'the Law of Statistics', which states that if the odds are against you, then what you're trying to achieve probably won't come true. Here are some actual stories of real people who tried to make it in life and indubitably failed!"

I would then roll video testimonials of defeated souls and crushed people lamenting their flagrant fall from grace. "So in conclusion," I would say, "Keep dreaming, because that's all you'll ever have."

I would then promptly get the hell out of there.

A degenerate pornographic misanthropic dissecting disseminating morally-bankrupt monologue

Achtung: Reading any of the text in this tirade may result in permanent brain damage. If that happens, and your family asks you if I'm liable, blink twice, because I just posted a disclaimer, but if you're bothered by things you read on the 'net, then I can only advise that you unplug your computer this instant, and also your television and possibly your microwave.

Now for the funk.

Feel it.

Society is full of drones and slaves to the man and blah blah blah. But that's not why I'm mad. That's not why I'm dictating this prolific ground-breaking magnum opus literature to my Latina typist secretary that will be discussed in-depth on various radio shows with overweight drug-addicted hosts who need to compete with the underweight drug-addicted radio hosts who have become dehydrated after exhausting the Dasani Bottled Water of creativity and have turned to throwing balloons filled with honey at Korean strippers while singing the National Anthem of Canada just for the sheer shock value. You know, that cheap-shot humor that causes middle-aged single mothers to gasp and exclaim "That is wrong! What if my kids heard that?" Well, in short, if her kids heard "that", then they would grow up to be Mafia gangsters in pin-stripe suits, wielding tommy-guns and knocking down banks, then promptly diving into their model-t's to make their get-away, see?

The monotony of life gets under my skin like a... no, I'm not even going to make a run-on sentence analogy. At this point, I think most people would simply commit suicide, but I'm too creative for that shit. Rather, I've been considering constructing an elaborate alien abduction hoax so I can get onto the evening news and sell my books, which I will write later. The books will be 90% ways to get out of paying for meals at restaurants, 5% Nietzschean-style philosophical musings, and 5% recipes for Poison Ninja Muffins to serve to your Shogun warlord enemies during diplomatic tea-parties, but I plan to mention these books in my interviews with Larry King, provided that he hasn't died yet. My hoax will consist primarily of me swearing on the lives of my family that I was abducted by aliens, even though it's clearly a lie, then present photographic evidence by showing a picture of a figure with a white sheet over it's head, and simply remark that "Oh yeah, the aliens are also ghosts."

It would be so simple to run a hoax like that, and you know that spreading disinformation is not only hilarious, but it's good clean fun that the whole family can enjoy, which is why Glenn Beck loves it more than black hookers. Someday, I'll even write a step-by-step guide to deceiving the world around you into believing you had an encounter with aliens, or better yet, Nessy. Just don't get caught, or all the other "abduction victims" will come to your house and brand a scarlet "A" on your forhead for "Asshole". You will then be picked up by a government quarantine squad, thrown in a black van with no windows, and be driven off to the death factories to test Obama's meat grinders designed to turn your Grandma into ground chuck. You do not want this. It is very unpleasant.

Now to be serious for one fucking second.

As part of my desperate cry for relevance in a cruel universe, where neutron stars go around annihilating all your favorite planets, and where whales are harpooned daily for their delicious innards, I just have to say FUCK SEX PORN INCEST STORIES FATHER DAUGHTER BLACK ASIAN ANAL CIGARETTES BONDAGE TIGHT EBONY BUSTY DONKEY and also, that I think that everyone is special in their own way, and that if we all just can just look inside ourselves for the love that is in our hearts, we can all live together in harmony.

Now go kick a baby.