Generic Halloween Entry

Halloween is an interesting time of year. It allows adults to pretend to be something else so that they can surprise and frighten children who want nothing more than candy. They might as well call it Internet predator day.

I don’t wanna be a party pooper or anything but Halloween just makes no friggin sense! It’s a bunch of people who wear odd clothing, annoy strangers, and are rewarded with food. You gotta imagine that the novelty of Halloween is totally lost on the homeless. I’ve always wanted to walk up to a hobo on Halloween, knock on his box or whatever habitat he’s inhabiting, and scream ‘TRICK OR TREAT!!’ Then cry until he gives me either candy or money. Or sexual favors.

The problem with this plan is that I’ve never been able to find a homeless person on Halloween. My theory is that there’s no such thing as a ‘hobo costume,’ only a trick-or-treating hobo. I can only imagine the intensity of Halloween when you trick-or-treat to survive.

Still though, it’s amazing to see how entire communities can come together for a holiday with a main subtext of devil worship. Entire neighbourhoods decked out with orange lights, and scarecrows. There’s always one house that just takes it to far. That one house that covers the lawn with graves. Has scary music, and surprises waiting. You go walking up the path and somebody jumps out from behind a bush or a tree and kills one out of every three children. Those were good times. I sure do miss Mr. Somberland.

On the other hand there are those families who don’t wanna buy candy, decorate, or deal with little children. You can tell these houses by several subtle signs. First of all the lights will always be off to trick children that nobody is home this particular Thursday evening at 7. Secondly there will often be somebody just barely visible staring out the window with shifty eyes, praying to their god that you don’t knock. Thirdly there will be eggs splattered all over these houses.

The third group is by far the best. They’re well intentioned but just don’t seem to get the point of Halloween. These are the houses with pumpkins on the porches with little smiley faces drawn on with black magic marker. The houses with a grown man dressed as a character from ‘The Wizard of Oz’ wishing you a merry Christmas.

Sadly, once you reach the age of around 18 it’s shunned to be seen asking for Candy. Majority of these individuals tend to resort to the next best thing. Partying. Traditional Male costumes tend to aim for offensive and over-the-top: JFK (suit, lots of blood), erotic superheroes such as DildoMan, or simply an abortion. Traditional female costumes are very varied: Slut.

I prefer to spend my Halloweens in a unique way. I like to dress up as The Grim Reaper and go to the nearest retirement home. The rest pretty much writes itself. You should see the elderly’s eyes when they spot me. The range of reactions I get are almost as colorful as the stains that form in their pants.

Yup, Halloween truly is a time of terror. Gotta make you wonder how it all began. Was there a formal agreement that every year we change the rule from ‘never accept candy from strangers’ to ‘never accept candy from strangers, unless they’re dressed as a pirate’ on one day of the year? Or was it more an independent project that sort of gained a cult following.

Jim: Honey, what do you want to do tonight?
Samantha: I don’t know darling.
Jim: How about we dress up as Mr. and Mrs. Pacman and ask our neighbours for candy.
Samantha: That sounds like fun. Let me just hollow out this pumpkin, so I can place a miniature fire inside it.

I mean, how does that tradition catch on? It’s amazing how illogical people will act for free candy.

What’s truly amazing is that you don’t see more Santa Clause’s on Halloween. Christmas is only two months away, why not get a costume you can reuse. You don’t even have to be Christian. Hell, even if you’re Jewish go as Santa. It’s just practical.

I’d love to keep writing, but I’ve got a pile of candy to eat, and a Hurrican Katrina costume to put away. So try not to eat too much, and whatever you do, stay away from Mr. Somberland’s house.

Happy Halloween

Have the Time of Your Life

Please don't take the time to read this. Go outside; I have nothing productive or insightful to say.

These are the prime years of your life. Your older and wiser now then you’ve ever been and you’re spending your free time reading this dribble. I literally wrote that sentence while sitting on the toilet taking a crap.

Take it all in. This is your life.

Every second of every day you get older. Every passing moment you’re closer to death. Your good looks, your smarts, and that thing you can do with your tongue are all temporary. Enjoy them while you can, ‘cause soon enough you’ll have to page that nice new Intern to help you shit into a bag.

There is a saying from a very wise man about the nature of life. He says. “Life is a roller coaster. It moves really fast, and if you can’t handle it, it’s not stopping ‘till the ride’s over.” That wise man was me. Just now. And I completely forget what my point was.

I can’t believe you’re still reading this; you make me sad.

The beautiful thing about time is that once you’ve used up a part of it, you can never have that again. That’s why time travel is so appealing to all of us. Think of all the things that you could do with the ability to travel in time. Bring a cigar, a top hat, and little tuxedo to your own birth, so that you’re born smoking a cigar and dressed to kill. Bring a pack of condoms to the night your children were conceived, or simply perform your own rendition of ‘Ice Ice Baby’ to a group of cavemen. The possibilities are endless.

Even more enticing is the ability to travel to the future. Go to where you’re going to be, jump out from behind the corner and make your old self crap your pants out of fear. Then you can travel back in time and surprise your future self surprising yourself so that he craps his pants. There are literally a limitless supply of ways to make you crap your pants.

If only.

Time travel isn’t real. Everybody gets old and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. So enjoy your youth while you can. Take it from somebody who’s young and doesn’t spend much time with the elderly, that being old sucks. As my grandfather once said:

“Being old sucks. Please, kill me.”

Trust me on that one. He’d probably deny ever saying it if you confronted him, but what does he know? He’s senile.

This is your life. You get one shot and then you die. Do something productive or at the very least enjoy yourself. Don’t waste time.

And for god's sake, don't you dare read this again.

A Planet in Our Hearts

Recently, while conducting some research for a paper I just made up for the sake of this story, I came across some very startling information. Among the chaos that the world is going through; war in the middle east, the tragic and completely unpredictable death of a man who fights crocodiles for a living, and Rosh Hashanah, one story dwarfs them all by comparison, and in light of this new information, I simply have one question,

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN PLUTO ISN’T A PLANET!!?!?!?!?

First my therapist tells me there’s no Santa Clause, my brother tells me I’m adopted, my dad tells me there’s no such thing as a female orgasm, Mel Gibson’s dad tells me there’s no such thing as the Holocaust, and now you scientist fuckers are telling me there’s no planted called Pluto!? This has been a terrible week.

I was raised my entire life believing that Pluto was a planet. It’s what allowed me sleep at night. Whenever I was feeling down and out, I could look out my window and now that Pluto was out there somewhere doing it’s thing: being a planet.

These so-called “ass-trologists” were the nerds that used to pick each others noses and practice French kissing with each other because they knew no girl would ever do it. These pathetic bastards held all their anger inside and finally decide to take it out on the most vulnerable culprit; Pluto. Beloved by all, cute, tiny, adorable, and doomed. “Hey,” one scientist says to another, “look there’s Pluto,” then simultaneously both scientists proclaim, “DWARF PLANET!!!!” then laugh so hard they shit their pants. Trust me, that’s what happened.

I mean, what the hell is a Dwarf Planet? It’s still called a planet, but it’s not really; sort of like ‘little people.’ Tiny, cute, still technically called ‘people,’ but I mean come on, who’re we kidding? We only still quasi-respect them because it would be such a hassle if they attacked.

Oh my god! What if Pluto decides to attack? What if Osama gets a hold of it and Pluto goes all meteoric on our asses? It will be like a tragic ending to a Hollywood film. Crashing towards earth at an incomprehensible speed, heartbroken Pluto seeks its revenge. After a failed brief stint with a nearby traveling meteor group Pluto has nowhere left to turn. Shunned by all his friend for his forbidden love of another planet, Pluto has nothing left to live for and focuses all its energy on the one planet that took it all away; Earth. As Pluto comes careening toward earth his lover can faintly be heard blaring in the distance. “PLUTOOOOO” comes the futile last scream from a heartbroken Jupiter; but it’s too late. A single tear comes streaming down Pluto’s face as he careens with the earth. The music picks up and suddenly all that can be heard is Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” over the image of a tragic end for both Pluto and its old friend, Earth. Roll End Credits.

Perhaps I’m being too dramatic. Perhaps Pluto will take it all in stride, going on to bigger and better things. I mean, who are we to decide who is and who isn’t a planet? Earth, with its one moon to Jupiter’s two. Earth has Moon. Pluto has Nix and Hydra, two European beauties who have run away from their strict and controlling parents to have carefree unprotected sex with dwarf planets day and night.

It is not Pluto that I worry about, for Pluto is a planet composed of methane, carbon monoxide and pure testicular fortitude, it is us that I worry about. For in the future, when my grandchildren are sitting on my lap asking me of what was in my day, I shall regale them with tales of Pluto. I will tell them of its size and it’s moons. I will tell them back when Pluto was a planet and life was easier. I will tell them of better times.

You're Worthless; You're Welcome

I’ve always had a supportive family. They’ve always told me how great I am, and how ridiculously awesome a human being I am, and how much potential I have. All this support has naturally left me to believe that I am the prime benefactor of some multi-billionaire’s will, and they’re just kissing ass before it’s too late.

I’ve been pampered and complimented all my upbringing, and I’ve grown up soft. What I need is a good ol’ fashioned ass whooping. I need to be beaten when I disobey, and whipped when I speak out of line. I need to know that I’m worthless.

This doesn’t apply only to me, but to millions of people growing up like me. To the pampered youth being raised in loving households with families that believe in them; you make me sick.

Don’t get me wrong, everybody needs love and everybody needs support but with this needs to come a dose of reality. Most of us are raised being told how special we are; which coincidentally happens to be true in my case, but for the rest of you, it’s a lie. You suck.

We’re raised to believe that we can do anything and be anything we put our minds to and this is simply not true. You can not do anything you put your mind to. If you could we wouldn’t need pumps and internet ads for penis enlargement. Some dreams are unattainable.

What about little Jimmy who wants to be nothing more than a stapler when he grows up, who are you to build up his hopes of one day fulfilling that dream? Imagine how much more heartbroken that guy you just accidentally stepped on, sleeping on the sidewalk is when he wakes up and realizes he’s not a big Hollywood director. Imagine little John Kerry’s disappointment when he realized that when his parents told him he could be the President of the United States of America one day, they lied.

I know that it may seem disheartening to think that the best you can aspire for is middle management, but it’s really not so bad. There’s nothing wrong with being average, nothing wrong with being normal. Besides, if you’re a female, you’ve got a vagina. Use it.

My “thing” has always been writing. My family has always told me it’s good and that I can have a profession in it. They read my work and they tell it’s great, they tell me to keep writing. I love my family and appreciate all the support they give me, but now I have a set of expectations. I can be a writer if I apply myself, and if I don’t achieve this, I’m a failure.

So again, for these reasons I repeat: Beat your children. Tell them they’re useless, convince them they’re adopted, spit on them for fun. Tell your offspring they’re ugly talent less hacks, and remind them how lucky they are that the clothes hanger missed their head when they were inside their mother. Remind your kids that they are not special.

If we were all without expectations than we would all be without disappointment. Life would be easy. We would be happy. Have dreams, but make them reasonable expectations. Family support is important.

My family will read this, and they’ll tell me how well written it was, and how much they enjoyed it. They’ll tell me to keep writing.

Don't Believe Everything You Read

Believe me when I tell you that the people that I am referring to in this entry are not you. The people I will be talking about are simple, easily manipulated, curious, literate, confused individuals. Not you. I promise.

There seems to be a large amount of people who take anything they read quite seriously. Just because you read something on the internet does not make it true, I cannot stress this enough. Just because you read some jackass express his opinion does not mean he is correct. Trust me.

If I were to write ‘the English language was created by an underground terrorist group of pedophiles with the sole intention of communicating with their fellow child-abusing buddies,’ you would probably have a small snicker (because the large ones have too many calories) and go to another site; probably porn. However, if I were to disguise my name and make it sound authentic, before you know it half of North America would be speaking Pig Latin.

Distracting Side Note: Pigs cannot speak. Even if they were to speak, I doubt their language of choice would be Latin and if it was then why is ‘Pig Latin’ spelled and pronounced entirely in English?

My point is quite simply: take everything you read with a grain of salt. Oh, and also Pig Latin is no longer considered socially appropriate. It was created by a terrorist group of pedophiles for communication purposes.

Just because you read it doesn’t mean it’s true. Think about it people, if everybody simply accepted everything they read, than we would all follow the ten commandments. There would be no stealing, no killing, no lusting, and no fun on a Saturday night. Without independent thought there would be no great wars (not to be confused with ‘okay wars’).

No wars means no war films. Apocalypse Now, Saving Private Ryan, Platoon, Patton, Schindler’s List; gone, gone, gone, gone, gone. A human being who does not reject everything he/she reads is a human being who detests American film and doesn’t support our troops.

In order to successfully instill freedom of speech we mustn’t always agree with what we read. The problem, however, is that today people have become so articulate and precise with their writing that it becomes difficult to disagree with an argument being made. We must therefore take preemptive action. We as ‘Planet-Earthians’ must decide before we have even begun to read an argument whether we agree or disagree with the author’s stance. Seeing as how you have not been previously told to do this, you have not already made this decision regarding this article and therefore will obey me blindly, knowing that I am correct. You are correct in your assumption.

While it is important to have some hesitation and logical thinking while reading another’s work, you may feel comfortable reading my writing with no analysis or comprehension of the facts, for I, fellow Planet-Earthian, would never; EVER, lie to you. Trust me. I love you.

While it is generally hard to distinguish the reliable from the retarded there are several clues you can look for. For example, if the article has any combination of the words: Secret Society, Bigfoot, Aliens, Conspiracy, or Female Orgasm in it, it’s probably bullshit. If the author writes for a local newspaper named after some obscure animal it’s probably best to stay away. For example, if Ted from The Oklahoma Chinchilla writes about the dangers of alliterations then I really wouldn’t be too concerned. Ted tries to type tantalizing tales telling of true terror today; but Ted’s tales tend to be un-true. Ted’s a tool.

Also, avoid anything written by Fox.

If the article requests or requires you to send any money to anybody then chances are you’re being had. Stop reading it, and if you’re gonna send the money to some jackass, you might as well send it me. At least I tried to warn you.

Journalistic integrity is an element sorely missing from literature today. Honesty is a dying art. However, without an fair and balanced audience demanding the truth and questioning the absurd there is no necessity for factuality in our writing. I think we would all agree that nothing can be taken as it is written and you should never do or believe something simply because you read it somewhere.

Get your information from a reliable source. Don’t base your beliefs and opinions on something you read in 2 minutes from somebody you’ve never heard of. And whatever you do don’t garner your information from a shoddy, unreliable source that could just be written up in 10 minutes by some snotty teenage know-it-all.

Like a blog for instance.

Viva La Revolution!!!

The other day I went out with some friends (yes, I have some) to see ‘Subplots of the Caribbean.’ It was okay. That’s not what this entry is about.

In the lobby there is an arcade full of quasi-hip videogames, amongst which is my favorite game: Dance Dance Revolution. For those of you who have never heard of it, you’re screwed, because I provide horrible explanations. Have you ever been anywhere near an arcade and seen some overweight guy stomping around like he’s crushing ants on top of a series of strobe lights? That’s Dance Dance Revolution.

I have nothing personal against DDR (I’m sure you can figure out this abbreviation), in fact I praise it. It gives hope to the dozens of people who lack the social skills and pigmentation to go out in public. It allows those who are not permitted into any clubs a place to dance, and it provides those of us shallow enough to pick on people for looking stupid in public a goldmine of material.

Dance Dance has excellent gameplay and was a breakthrough in style, but if I had to choose one fault to the game; and trust me, I do; it would be the title. Granted the game is from Japan and I should just be thankful that it’s not called ‘Super Happy Fun Dance Star,’ but I am not. I am not satisfied with this name for the sole purpose that it doesn’t make any sense.

First of all, why are there two dances? Would ‘Dance Revolution’ not suffice? Did they feel that the game was so cutting edge that one ‘dance’ did capture the true essence of the game? Is it a typo?

Perhaps the marketers were afraid that people would not understand the concept of the game, and so by repeating the word ‘Dance’ they could clarify that in order to successfully enjoy this game, there would indeed be a necessity for Dance… if not Dance Dance.

Secondly, why is this a Revolution? What are they revolting from? And why with dance? Excuse me, dance dance.

In the late 18^th century we went through the Industrial Revolution which changed the ways in which manual labor was done, shifting our society towards one dominated by industry. In the 17^th century the Scientific revolution changed the very foundations of science and our views of the world, and in the 20^th century the Dance Dance Revolution would forever change the way we did the ‘foxtrot.’

I propose that we change the name of this game to something a little less…. Stupid. My suggestion: “That Dancing Game.” Of course then you would also have to change the names of ‘Karaoke Revolution’ and any other spin-offs which would be a large hassle, but a worthwhile cause. With DDR leading the way we can lead a revolution against their own names. Then, and only then will Dance Dance Revolution truly deserve to be called a Dance Revolution…. Unfortunately they will have already led the revolution to change their own names, thus rendering that name obsolete, and forcing them to choose a new and different revolution. Don’t worry, I’m not really sure what I’m talking about either, the point is… Actually I don’t really remember.

Fuck it, I’m going to sleep.

Viva la Revolution!

O, Canada!!

God Bless Canada. No seriously, I mean it. Canada is, in my completely unbiased opinion one of the single greatest places in the world to live. We’re the United States, only without backbone, attitude, or pizzazz.

Loved and praised all around the world Canada truly is a beacon of hope for handicapped individuals everyone. I mean seriously, think about it. Our largest claim to fame is beer. We’re ridiculed for our accents, have no real army, and national mascot is a large, buck-toothed rat. Our largest exports are wood and stand up comedians, and our most recognizable celebrities are the world’s most hated woman, Celine Dion, and the always loveable, always vibrating Michael J. Fox.

Yet despite our embarrassment of a resume we have still managed to leech ourselves onto the United States coattails and be dragged out of obscurity. We truly are America’s retarded cousin. We act like them, we think like them, and we dress like them. The only edge we seem to honestly have on the States is in broadcasting. Just so long as Canadian television can keep punching out original hits such as ‘Canadas Next Top Model’ and ‘Canadian Idol’ I see no reason why we can’t keep bringing home award after award for our programming. That’s right Canada, move those Gemini awards out of the way and make room for some… more Gemini awards!!!

At least Canada can take pride in their distinct and unique culture. We know who we are and what we believe in, and no matter how strongly our Southern brothers urge us, we will not cave into their demands. No, I’m just fucking with you. America’s our Sugar Daddy, and we don’t wanna do anything to slow the Gravy Train. For god’s sake, we gave half of our country back to the Inuit (it’s Spanish for Eskimo) a few years ago. That’s it, there’s no punch line. I’ve done no research on the matter, and frankly see no reason to. We gave half our country to some friggin’ Eskimos. I mean come on people!

Though our appreciation of curling may give us the appearance of having suffered some sort of major head trauma, Canadians do in fact know the pressing matters of the moment. Not because we’re so up to date with international (American) problems, but because we’ve simply stopped giving a damn. Every time I open the newspaper to catch up to date on America’s pressing issues I’m bombarded with a new catastrophe threatening to raise President Bush’s approval ratings.

Monday: Iraq has Weapons of Mass Destruction
Tuesday: Gay Marriages against God’s word
Wednesday: Cheney shoots Harry Whittington in the fucking face
Thursday: Iran has Weapons of Mass Destruction (wait didn’t we already.. Oh!! Iran, with an ‘N’. Okay, nevermind, proceed)
Friday: Mexican’s are taking everyone’s jobs (What the fuck?)

I don’t understand this whole Mexican border thing. How is this a sudden pressing issue? Did the Mexican’s just suddenly appear in your country? Has there been some big unspoken plan that all the Mexican’s would sneak over the border together while the entire population of America was sleeping? Did George Bush just wake up one morning, and realize, “HOLY SHIT!!! There’s Mexicans EVERYWHERE!”? This isn’t news.

Don’t cry to us that Mexican’s are taking your jobs, take some goddamm initiative. Sneak into Mexico and work for them. Besides, you should be thankful. If Miguel hadn’t come to America, how would you keep your lawn looking so nice?

This isn’t a problem in Canada. We don’t have lawns, just large snow covered terrains that we travel on via dog sled. (All information provided by Tucker Carlson). Maybe it’s because I’ve been drinking too much maple syrup, but I don’t understand the American news system. How can so many fucked up things happen in such a short period of time, and then seemingly resolve themselves before people even have time to forget there was a problem? Remember the Avian Flu? You know, birds carrying diseases, threatening to destroy mankind as we know it. What happened to that? Oh that’s right, Sweeps week ended.

I guess in hindsight, Canada ain’t so great. If we’re the retarded cousin, America is the acne (Mexican) riddled teenage bully with low self-esteem. We’re more than content just eating our boogers and laughing at how easy life is.

Canada may not be the most glamorous place to live.

But it’s home.

Jesus was a Pussy

I was reflecting on something my brother said recently (god help me), and I realized that he was 100% correct. Jesus Christ was a pussy. I mean seriously… he was a scrawny, little bitch.

Don’t freak out or anything, I’m not doubting his existence or divinity. I don’t care if he was the son of god, and by no means am I claiming that he was not. I’m sure Mary was a virgin (if you don’t count anal), and I’m sure Jesus walked on water (Ice). Regardless of your beliefs you cannot argue the fact that the son of god was weak as a motherfucker.

I don’t want any arguments from all of you who are now finished ‘Da Vinci Code’ proclaiming, “Jesus wasn’t a god, he was a painter” or whatever Dan Brown’s point was, I’m just stating a fact. If I had an arm-wrestle with Jesus I would flat out kick his pansy ass. And that’s before we stick rusty nails through his hands. Shit, even Buddha would kick his ass in a fight.

Aside from that whole ‘son of god’ thing, Jesus had things pretty crappy. I mean sure, he had divine powers and all, but there’s more to a man than magic powers. As David Blaine has demonstrated, there’s also pointless publicity stunts, but I digress. Jesus’s life wasn’t that great. His birthday was on Christmas, so he only got one present instead of two, and he was a carpenter. He freaking built things out of wood for a living. Tables, benches, crosses, e.t.c. On top of that, he was cursed with the bodily physique of Olive Oyl from ‘Popeye’.

Jesus overcame these short-comings and even became a bit of a fashion icon. He invented the ‘hippy look.’ Long hair, shaggy beard, long flowing hair, unrealistic views, and no apparent concern for hygiene. God probably referred to him as ‘my faggot son.’ But what can you really expect? Gods clearly not around to raise the kid, so he’s left with Mary and Joseph. I’m sure Mary did her best, but she can only do so much in this man-ruled patriarchy, and where’s Joseph’s inspiration? His wife had a child with another man. And the other man was god. Joseph’s sitting at home with blue balls, when Mary walks in the door.

Mary: Surprise, I’m pregnant
Joseph: WTF!?!?!? Who’s the father?
Mary: God
Joseph: JESUS CHRIST!

Now Joseph has to raise his wife’s messiah love child, and he doesn’t even get any play out of it. God is such a playa.

Wait, what was my point again? Oh yeah, Jesus was a little biatch. Clearly if you were to organize a game of Dodgeball among all religious icons, Jesus would probably be the last one chosen. He clearly throws like a girl and if you hit him, he’d probably die. Face it people, Jesus was the acne riddled nerd with glasses. This applies to all sports: football, soccer, ping pong, basketball. Just because you can turn water into blood doesn’t mean you can hit a three.

Imagine Jesus in the gym. Struggling to bench press the bar. Curling fives and sweating bullets. Practicing Yoga, and participating in the ‘Cycling’ classes. What a sissy.

I’m certain that I had a reason for writing this, but I’ve completely forgotten what that was. So…. I guess I’ll just end by apologizing for everything I just wrote. Please ignore everything preceding this statement.

Jesus rocks.

Amen.

Why Aren't You Reading Dan Brown?

If you're reading this then I have to assume that you've already read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code." If you hadn't then you would be among the millions of other people who are giving handjobs in alleyways to get copies of it, because god forbid they see the movie before reading the book.

This logic puzzles me. Thousands of movies have been made based on books, but people have no intention of reading these books before going to see their films. 'Curious George' was an excellent movie all in by itself. You don't need to read the books to get it, the movie stands by itself. There's a monkey. He's fucking Curious. The end.

Millions of people flock to these movies without reading their source material. The Perfect Storm, Catch Me if You Can, Road to Perdition and many many more are seen by the blissfully illiterate. But Dan Brown claims Jesus got it on, and we've all gotta read it before we see Forrest Gump discover the truth. You didn't read H.G Wells before seeing 'The Time Machine', you didn't read W.P. Kinsella's "Shoeless Joe" before crying through Field of Dreams, and you sure as hell didn't read "Mein Kampf" before watching Passion of the Christ.

Don't get me wrong, I read 'Da Vinci Code' last summer and thought it was pretty good. Aside from the fact that Dan Brown writes under the same rules and regulations as my last blog entry, it was decent thriller with some trivial religious theories. I'm not a christian freak or anything, I'm a jew, I just don't think 'Code' was as fact-based and meaningful as "Fahrenheit 9/11" (<---Sarcasm). For all I care Jesus was a coke sniffing, whore murdering, baby eating, fire breathing, ninja... just so long as you can prove it.

I've got nothing against people reading this book, in fact I encourage it. I just don't understand that because a movie is coming out based on the book, you all have to read the book first. If you were planning on reading the book, then you have read it. Now if you're only reading the book because you wanna read it before you see the movie, then you're an idiot. If you didn't plan on reading the book, don't read it. If you were planning on seeing the movie, go see it. These two have nothing to do with each other. It's like demanding to fuck your fiancee's mother before marrying her. Read the book if you wanna read the book, see the movie if you wanna see the movie. Don't read the book because you wanna see the movie. Are you people retarded? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.

Secondly, the book is usually better than the movie. So see the movie first so you can enjoy it, then read the book to appreciate the source. Don't be that guy coming out of 'Lord of the Rings' with his fake troll feet, Gandalf hat, and back hair complaining about how they changed this and moved that. Reading books ruins movies. You can't enjoy a movie if you know what's gonna happen. That's why nobody has fun watching films about the Holocaust. Don't believe me? Snape kills Dumbledore. There, enjoy the next Harry Potter movie, asshole.

It's amazing how people can be so desperate to read this book and see this movie and yet know absolutely nothing about the book. What I've been doing is going up to everyone I know and casually telling them that Da Vinci dies. They FREAK OUT!!!! For the record, Da Vinci, is Leonardo Da Vinci and......*SPOILER ALERT... he's been dead for almost 500 years.

I'm thinking about turning this into a video blog so I guess I'll just stop ranting and finish it here so you'll be able to finish reading it in time for the film.

How To: Survive a Zombie Invasion

As I am writing this the world is being put on notice. The dead are literally rising from their graves in pursuit of brains. Your brains. That's right Zombie's are real, and coming for us, and it is imperative that we come together as one and fight these monsters.

No, I'm just kidding. Zombies aren't attacking... yet. But what if I was telling the truth? What if Zombies were attacking? Do you know how to defend yourself? Could you keep your brain in your skull and out of their intestines? Don't actually answer, those were rhetorical questions.

Fear not fellow readers, for I am here to teach you how to survive a Zombie attack. Just picture the scene: You turn your television to channel 8 and staring straight at you is the living dead as you try to interpret his moans. "That's all for the Price is Right, and don't forget to spay and neuter your pets.' You then change to channel four news and BAM!! Zombies everywhere. In a fit of panic you call your best friend, Todd.

You: Todd, are you watching the news
Todd: B-braaaaains
You: Brains? What are you talking about? Dude, focus.
Todd: BRAAAAAAAIIINNNNSSSSSS!!!!!!!
You: Okay brains, yeah, whatever. Go to channel four
Todd: BRAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!
You: riiiggghttttt.... I'm gonna... call you back.

And then it hits you. Todd's been dead for 6 years. Which, of course, begs the question as to why you phoned him in the first place, but before you can answer this question you're killed by a zombie.

So how is one to defend themselves from the living dead? It's simple, you kill them before they kill you. So how is one to kill a zombie before the zombie kills them? Well there's several effective tools which can be used:
-Shovel
-Machette
-Air Supply Records
-Heavy objects
-Anna Nichole Smith

The essential objective to destroying a zombie is to take off it's head. Bullets aren't gonna do the trick, regardless of what Charleton Heston tells ya'. If 50 cent can take it, I'm pretty sure a freakin' zombie can too.

If you don't think you're up to killing them, you can always pretend to be one. Most people are pretty stupid, and when they die and are brought back to life, they generally lose that little bit of intelligence they have, so it shouldn't be too hard to trick them. I know that we've all been taught to say no to peer pressure, and that just because everyone else is doing it, doesn't mean we should, but I think when what everyone else is doing is trying to destroy the human race, it's probably best to just play along.... That is unless the zombie's are smoking cigarettes, because that is not cool!

The most difficult part of fighting a zombie attack, for most people, would be decapitating a relative or loved one. Nobody wants to have to kill their grandmother again. Plus, her clothes would probably have rotted away, and you'd have to look at her saggy, undead, breasts. But i digress. I think the point I was trying to make is that you should get some practice in. Find a relative, preferrably a wealthy one, and just cut off their head. Don't feel too bad about it, they'll be back just as soon as that Zombie attack begins.

It's probably best to avoid locking yourself in a mall with a bunch of strangers, and if possible try and get to England for the attack. I hear their Zombie invasions are much more humorous. It might also be a good idea to find a way to be around Dick Cheney. I'm pretty sure a shotgun blast to the face would take them out.

So that's it. Now you know how to survive a Zombie attack. I'll be back next week with an outline of how to maintain your house through a flaming hail storm. Until then, happy zombie hunting.

Where in the World is...

Back in the year 2001 there was a man whose name was on the tip of everyone's tongue. Every video he made claimed worldwide publicity and he was the epitome of celebrity. His name reigned over headlines everywhere and civilians and governments alike swore revenge for the anguish he had caused them. No, I'm not talking about Chris Tucker, I'm talking about the worlds greatest hide-and-seek player, Osama Bin Laden.

Somewhere in the American Government's busy schedule of 'accidentally' shooting people in the face and capturing the President of one of the most recognizable countries on the planet, they managed to make the whole world forget about Osama Bin Laden. How did they do it, you ask? Well I'll tell you.

[Paragraph deleted by American Government]

And that is why the world has forgotten Osama Bin Laden. Which got me to thinking, who are some famous terrorists of the past? who was the first terrorist? has anybody else been forgotten like this? what the hell was I talking about?

Sure there have been several terrorists from recent memory. Timothy McVeigh, Osama (one name only, like Cher), that guy from Die Hard, and Michael Moore all come to mind, yet one stands above the rest.

Only one person has been so famous, followed to such extreme lengths, only to be forgotten come year 2006. You may have tricked the world, government, but you haven't fooled me! So I ask you:

Where the fuck is Carmen Sandiego?

Several television shows, a cartoon, a gameshow, a worldwide search, and now... nothing. Listen, I don't know what the hell she did, but if she's in such high demand, I want a piece of that hunting action. I never really understood the whole 'Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?' thing anyway. I mean, sure, the song's catchy and all, but we are a generation that grew up finding Waldo. Forget Bush, you send six 9 year olds out to find Osama, they'll have him home faster than you can say 'Nap Time!'

I mean, where the hell could Carmen Sandiego be? Did you check New York? Florida? Yeah? How about SAN DIEGO, YOU FRIGGIN' RETARDS!!! Carmen Sandiego is not like Osama (one name, like Madonna), Osama has hundreds of look alikes and is hiding somewhere in a cave. Carmen Sandiego is a 30-something year old woman wearing high heels, bright red, and an almost humorously large hat. How could we not find her? Are we retarded? Is she listed? Did anybody even bother checking the phone book?

There's only one possible solution: Carmen Sandiego and Osama (one name, like The Rock) are the same person!!!!! That's right ladies and gentlemen, Carmen Sandiego... is a dude!

It seems now, more than ever, there is a dire need to figure out where in the world Carmen Sandiego is before all the infamous fictional characters from our childhoods become terrorists. Imagine the mayhem!!

I don't think it's impossible to capture Carmen (one name, like Osama) if we really commit ourselves to it. We just need a way to get her to wear a white and red striped jumpsuit, tuque, and big rimmed black glasses.

Israel? Never Heard of it.

With the Jewish holiday of Passover set to begin jews all the way from New York to Florida are coming together to share in the history of the Jewish people. Generations celebrate by eating unleavened bread, rejoice in our liberation from Egypt, and watch Charleton Heston split an ocean on Channel 4. Orthodox, Religious, or Liberal every jew feels a special closeness to their homeland. A land where Street Hot Dogs are replaced by Shwarma and Falafels, where every 5 year old is equipped with an AK 47 ready to shave his head and ship out into action, and where every other Palestinian is seconds away from exploding. Passover is a time where regardless of physical distance in our hearts we are all in our homeland of Israel, or as the Egyptians likes to call it, that place where the bombs come from.

One of the predominant parties of Egypt is an organization known as Hammas. Hammas is the majority party of the Palestinian Authority Legislative Council located in Egypt and they're not very nice. They are responsible for many suicide bombings in Israel and are supportive of creating a Palestinian Islamic State out of the West Bank, Israel, and the Gaza Strip. (Note: Probably a good idea to cancel that family trip to the Gaza strip). They are considered a terrorist organization by Australia, Canada, the European Union, Israel, and the United States, and are banned in Jordan. Which makes you think, wouldn't the organization which denounces and attempts to blow you up be banned throughout all of Israel? Even McDonalds was smart enough to stop letting the Hamburgler in. Come on Israel, get with the program.

One key characteristic of Hammas is that they don't recognize the state of Israel. They just don't recognize it. It doesn't exist. A typical conversation between a Palestinian and an Israeli might go something like this:

Palestinian: So where are you from?
Israeli: Israel
Long awkard silence
Palestinian: Huh?
Israeli: Israel... it's right there points to the border where Israel is clearly visible
Palestinian: Still don't follow
Israeli: Israel, it's your neighbouring country. We're those guys you keep launching bombs at....
Long awkward silence
Palestinian: Explodes

I don't understand how you can want to conquer and bomb a place you claim doesn't exist. It's like denouncing the concept of toilets during a bout of diarhea. This concept of not recognizing the existence of a clearly material thing got me to thinking. How awesome would it be if we just applied this concept during our every day life?

Wife on your back about coming home at 3 in the morning piss drunk? How's that possible? You have no wife!

Cop siren blasting behind you demanding you pull over? Nope, there's no cop behind you.. floor it! Worried that he might find that ounce of cocaine in the glove compartment? Cocaine? What the hell is cocaine? You're more worried about that dead body in the trunk. Wait... trunk? Dead body? I'm confused, what are these things you're talking about?

There's always the limits of religion, morals, and laws, but then again, none of those things exist, either. Damn, Hammas is really onto something here. Maybe we should all walk into places that don't exist and blow ourselves up, it's the new 'it' thing to do.

Hammas should probably make their move soon. With all of Israel taking the Passover Atkins diet, they'll be weak and cranky, and there's no better time to invade then while they're all constipated. I'm not too worried about it though, we're God's chosen people, he would never let anything bad happen to the jews.....

As bad as things look for the 'Holy Land' all hope is not lost. That's right, yours truly has a plan to force Hammas to acknowledge the state of Israel. It's so simple that I'm amazed nobody else has thought of it. All Israel has to do is throw a party. I'm talking huge, crazy, keg-a-person, I'm-so-
wasted-I-jumped-off-the-garage-
because-I-thought-I-could-fly...I-
was-so-wrong party, and invite all the surrounding countries. Jordan, Syria, Lebanon are all welcome, even Egypt and the Hammas will be invited. I mean they can't go to a party that doesn't exist right? All Israel has to do is serve Heineken, nobody can turn down Heineken. Hammas is sure to cave, even hateful terrorist groups can appreciate a good party. So all Israel has to do is throw a party and serve some Heiny, problem solved.

Hopefully they can do it quickly, so we can all enjoy a happy and peaceful Passover. I can only hope that the Israeli government reads this blog. Otherwise, I wish everybody in Israel and elsewhere a happy Passover.

Except New Yorkers... they're not real.

A Heartfealt Apology

There's been a lot tension following me whenever I go downtown and I just wanna get something out in the open to clear my conscious a little bit. I'm just really sick of black guys staring me down, and sizing me up, and I just wanna come right out and apologize. African American community, I am SO sorry for that whole slavery thing. Seriously guys, my bad.

You just gotta understand that it was the thing to do. Every other kid on the block had a new black slave and my great great great grandfather wanted one too. Looking back, we probably shouldn't have enslaved your people, but hindsights always 20/20, right? Besides, Big Abe set y'all free. He was a cool guy, right? Right? Come on, Let's just put this all behind us and move on. Anybody up for a quick game of basketball?

Let's be fair here, I'm Jewish, so it's not like life's a picnic for us either. I know it may come as a shock to you, but we were slaves too. Yeah, that's right... in Egypt. Uh huh, yeah, I know. Shocker. Anyways, we fought through, parted a sea, wandered the desert for 40 years, and now we're free. We don't hold grudges, we don't complain. Hey, maybe if you guys persevered a little.. you know. I'm just saying.

While we're at it, there's some other people I'd like to apologize to. Old people, I see your stares and the way you size me up and down, judging me as a punk before you know me. I'd just like to apologize for any wrongdoings I may do. You're right, I'm scum. Rock and Roll music, baggy pants, and television, there are just so many ways that I've let you down, and I'd like to apologize on behalf of everybody who can't see a movie for the senior discounts half price. If there's anything you need, a helping hand, Pedisure, or kidney, please don't hesitate to ask.

Any type of store owner. I know my gap T-shirt, and faded jeans give you reason to watch me like a hawk and assume I'm going to steal something. Once or twice I've thought to myself that it would be awesome to take something just to spite you, and I'm sorry. I mean, I, personally, have never stolen anything in my life, but hey, how would you know that? I'm sure someone, somewhere, resembling me at least somewhat has taken an item of some sort of monetary value without paying, and I am sorry.

Women everywhere, I am so sorry. That whole 'women as objects' mentality that used to be heavily prevalent back in the '50s, totally my bad. Any disrespect or condescending remark I've made. Anytime I've looked at any female like a piece of meat, anytime I've given up my seat on the subway, or taken any type of chivalric action, you don't deserve any differential treatment, and I'm sorry. Listen, if I could carry and birth the baby, I would. Let's keep things in perspective though, you get to breastfeed. Milk comes out of your nipples, I dont' think you fully understand quite how cool that really is-- but then, perhaps I'm just being insensitive. I'm sorry.

That whole Hurricane Katrina thing. I know that technically I'm not responsible for the weather, and I had nothing to do with it, but that's all besides the point. I see your hateful glares, and your judging looks, and I really feel bad for this, perhaps more than anything. So I'm sorry. I understand that majority of the victims were African American, and I just wanna make sure you understand that there is NO connection between this and that slavery thing. Both were seperate screwups on my behalf, and I'm so, so, sorry.

I can only hope that you all have it in your hearts to forgive me for all my wrongdoings. For the murder and whippings, the oppression and the disrespect, I'm sorry. My parents raised me better than that, and I let them down. Mom, Dad... I'm sorry. Dear God, I'm just so very sorry. What have I become? I'm so sorry. I'm just so very sorry.

There's A Hole In My Face. Stop Laughing

To Whom it May Concern,

Last weekend I went on a hunting trip with some of my closest friends and contributors, when the unthinkable happened. My good and dear friend, Mr. Vice President Dick Cheney, accidentally shot me in the face.

I am assuming that this was an accident, however there are times, when I lie here in my hospital bed eating through a tube, that I have my doubts. A little earlier I had teased Mr. Cheney on his understanding of going ‘Quayle’ hunting. He had assumed that, much like the Kennedy hunt of 1963, we were hunting for political figureheads. Oh that crazy Cheney.

It was slightly after this that I made my first kill and coming up behind Dick, he fired a round straight into my noggin. Given, I was careless sneaking up on Mr. Cheney like this, but I assumed that it is general understanding that you look before you shoot. Oh well, serves me right.

Anyways, imagine my surprise when I turn on the news, and there’s my face, front and center. As if it wasn’t embarrassing enough to have been shot in the face by Dick fucking Cheney, now the whole world knows about it. Oh well, I think to myself, at least I will get support from the general public. Headlines such as “American Hero Shot in Face, Rallies for Moral Support” spring to mind. Parades, and visitors. Support and admiration. But no.

Liberalists, Conservatists, and Communists all take delight in the situation. “Dick Cheney Shoots Man in Face” the newspaper reads. MAN!?!?!?!?! That’s all I get? That’s the recognition I get for being shot in the face by the Vice-President of the United States of America? The fucking Cherry Tree that George Washington cut down gets more recognition than me. Granted I understand that the fact that a senile political figurehead such as the vice president screws up this royally is humorous for the ‘common folk,’ but for shits sake people I got shot. I got shot in the goddamm face!

Now I’ll be the first one to laugh at anothers misfortune, it’s the American way. But while you’re all laughing at Dick Cheney for his symbolic screw up and immediate turn towards shoot first ask later, you seem to forget one simple problem. I GOT SHOT IN THE FUCKING FACE!!!! Dick Cheney shot a 78 Year Old man in the face, but don’t’ worry about me, you just enjoy your newspaper and oatmeal.

Here, I’ve got a proposition for you. If you can tell me my name right now, I’ll stop complaining. What’s that? No? No clue? Oh okay, that’s cool. Thanks CNN, Thanks Fox News, Thanks local news broadcast. It’s Harry Whittington, my name is Harry Whittington.

Don’t for a second think I don’t see the implications of this coming. My name will forever be synonymous with accidental facial shootings. Next time your girlfriend or whatever is going down on you, and you lose control and shoot all over her face, you can now avoid those awkward confrontations, and in a moment of acceptance simply pronounce:

“Whoops, you’ve been Harry Whittington-ed!”

She’ll think you’re hilarious, and you’ll feel smart for including such a keen and obscure pop culture reference. That is, assuming anybody ever remembers my name.

Oh well, I guess I’ve got a good story to tell the grandkids one day. In fact, forget all this animosity, I’m not mad at Dick Cheney. I mean, how many people can claim that they’ve been shot in the face, let alone by the Vice President of the United States. Other than Mrs. Cheney, of course.

Please don’t tell anybody it was Quayle hunting, though. That’s just fucking embarrassing.

Anyways, the next time you and your friends are laughing at your stupid senile vice president, just remember me. Remember that Dick Cheney did in fact shoot a person. Me. A 78 year old man. In the face. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a colostomy bag to fill.

Sincerely,

Harry “ow my face” Whittington

Harmful Arms and Unhandy Hands

I hate hands. I hate the 4 fingers and the opposable thumb on each one, I hate fingernails, I hate the palm. I hate arms, forearms, and elbows. Life would not only be simpler, but better if nobody had arms or hands. Why you ask? Well I’m glad you did, because if you didn’t this would have been a much shorter article. Where do I began?

So there you are, casually strolling down the street, checking out members of the opposite sex, and if you’re a female then probably thinking about shoes or something, when you catch your reflection in the window of the nearest ‘Starbucks.’ There’s something about the way you look, the way you’re walking that just doesn’t feel right, and then it hits you. It hits you harder than a priest at a preschool, your arms are not swinging while you walk. The stares, the gazes, the pointing, and the children crying, it all makes sense now. They weren’t laughing with you, they were laughing at you. You, trying your hardest not to look like the Bride of Frankenstein, start methodically swinging your arms at the same pace as your legs, thus not allowing you to think about shoes, or tits. Your walk is ruined, and you feel like an idiot. As you walk by dogs bark, and children start crying. Fire hydrants explode with water and full grown men pass out at the sight of your forced walk. You begin to panic. Ashamed and embarrassed by your arm inspired stride you speed up, and take off running, trying to escape your audience, your shame. As your legs pump faster and harder, you focus and try your hardest to swing your arms at the same beat. Left leg, right arm, right leg, left arm, left leg right arm, left leg left-- You screw up. You stumple and hop again on one leg. Struggling to regain your balance, while continuing your monotonous arm/leg synchronization you run into a woman, and her stroller gets away from her and starts rolling straight towards the street. You look and a truck is coming straight for the baby, who has now begun to cry. You run towards the baby. Left leg, right arm, right leg, left arm. You can’t focus, you’re stumbling, you’re not gonna make it. Screw it, you think, and arms being sucked down by gravity, two straight pieces of wood by your side you charge full force to the babies rescue. But it’s too late. The truck squishes both you and the baby, and now you’re dead. Both you and an infants life are now gone all because you had to swing your arms while you walked. Now is that really worth it?

I hate arms.

Think about how much more peaceful the world would be if nobody had arms or hands. That opening scene from ‘Saving Private Ryan,’ where the soldier runs by and picks up his own arm… that whole fiasco could’ve been avoided. Seriously, how can somebody be expected to fire a gun if he doesn’t have a hand? Imagine what wars would be like, groups of people running full blast at each other screaming and kicking as hard as they can. So there’ll be a significant increase in head butts and bruised shins, but at least we’d all be alive dammit. I know what you’re gonna say.

“But Ving, if we couldn’t use guns, then there would probably be an increase in the use of missiles”

Then a stupid little smirk comes across your face and you reward yourself with that ice cream sandwich that has been teasing you all afternoon and go watch Anime Porn. Well guess what… WRONG ASSHOLE!!!!! Lemme ask you this. If you had no hands how would you press the ‘Launch’ button? Huh? With your nose? Ridiculous. Moving on.

Handshakes. We’ve all been there, the boss, girlfriends dad, doctor, or OB/GYN extends their hand out awaiting your response. Of course you have to shake back, but there’s a problem, your palms are sweating. Casually sliding your hand up your pant leg, wiping ferociously but secretively so nobody notices, you extend it to his. This is where the alpha male shows his place. Who grabs hold firmest, who shakes, who leads. How hard do you squeeze? You have to have a firm grip, but squeeze too hard and it’s awkward. How long do you shake for? Normal professional handshake, or harlem brothers slapping hands, snapping, spinning, and dunking, ghetto handshake. Careful to maintain eye contact, don’t look down at your hand. He just put his other hand on my wrist, what do I do? This is going well, I think I’ve got it, he’s letting go, thank you jesus, everything’s okay. And then, turning away from you to talk to somebody else, it happens. You watch him casually slide his hand against his thigh, wiping off the sweat from your disgusting clammy hands.

This is assuming all goes well and there is a predetermined handshake. What about those times you meet somebody new and both of you wait for the other one to extend his hand, and neither of you do, leaving nothing but a casual nod. What if you extend your hand and they don’t see? Do you casually put your arm down and ignore the other people laughing, or do you demand a handshake. Or god forbid it’s a woman. Women are the worst, sometimes they’ll open wide for a hug, which is awesome, as long as you can hide your erection, but this is not always the case. Older women tend to have more firm handshakes, just imagine she has a penis and shake hard (the hand, not the penis), but younger women, and very feminine women, who have generally married rich, shake like girls. I think the best way to handle the limp handshake is too squeeze tight, and shake confidently. Perhaps the woman will be so amazed with your handshaking technique that she’ll strip down and screw you right there in the hallway. Another approach is to use both arms and pretend to jack-off her arm. Hopefully she’ll get the message and strengthen that arm, but if she doesn’t I highly recommend running away. I guess there is one simple point that I am trying to get across here.

I hate hands.

I know the strongest argument against this, and I totally agree and understand. Without hands, we couldn’t masterbate. You’re right, it sucks, but with the good comes the bad. Without hands, we also get rid of the blowjobs retarded cousin, the hand job. Women not willing to have sex with us, but so desperate not to get dumped will be forced to skip a step and open wide. Besides, if Edward Scissorhands can do it, so can you. Regardless, masturbation will be unnecessary and be completely replaced by our favorite national past-time, rape. No more pounding on my chest, no more nails cutting my back, no more mace. She won’t be able to push you off, or punch or scratch you. No more tears or blood, only good ol’ fashioned nonconsensual sex.

So there you have it, hands bad, rape good. Oh, I almost forgot the best aspect of no hands or arms. Insensitive assholes like me would be totally incapable of writing, I’m off to get a chainsaw and some paper towels, I suggest you do the same.

This Was a Bad Idea

Here I am again, back at Duffy’s farm. Oh look, there’s the farmer’s house, and there’s the chicken pen. Oh man, all these memories, that was an awesome field trip. The 2 hour bus ride was well worth it to groom the horses, watch the chickens, and feed the pigs. Porky was my favorite, his cute little snout, and curly tail, he was so adorable. I’m so happy I’m back again to see him, I only wish it was under different circumstances.

Well, we’re approaching his pen now, opening the gate, and we’re in. The circle forms, me and my boys, and I’m standing directly in front of Porky. My heartbeat rises, and a beat of sweat dribbles down my forehead, I’m nervous now. This bestiality gangbang, was a bad idea.

We all look around at each other, then in a moment of acceptance, Todd unzips. A loud squeal and we’re under way. Moments pass, and everyone’s fully naked. This is getting really awkward, what was I thinking? Damn those pop-ups. Damn you curiosity. Everybody seems so intense, am I the only one not totally into this? I pet Porky, he looks so peaceful. Everybody looks at me, egging me on. Even Porky’s snout rises as his mouth opens wide. I casually slide over one spot, I’m just not ready.

Is Todd still going? Wow, come on man, finish up. There’s other people waiting. Oh crap, he caught me looking at him. Now he’s giving me a weird stare. Dammit, now Todd’s gonna think I’m some kind of weirdo, checking him out while he’s fucking the pig. Come on, get it together.

Oh shit, I’m going limp, come on man, focus. Big tits, lesbians, blowjobs. Getting harder, come on push. PUSH. UNGHHHHHHHHH…… uh oh. Did I just fart? Everybody’s looking at me, I must have let one rip. Oh my god, did I shit myself? Is there a turd behind me, that would explain the giggles. Oh my god, this cannot be happening, change the subject man, take everyone’s focus off of you. Say something!

“TAKE IT PORKY, YOU LITTLE BITCH!!!!”

Everybody’s gaze shifts back to the pig. Take it Porky, you little bitch? Sex talk with a pig? Really? Did I just make an ass out of myself in front of the guys? Well this is just gonna be awkward Monday at the office. “Take it Porky” they’ll tease me. I’ll be the butt of every joke. Oh my god, what have I done?

Somebody spanked porky, okay, I’m clear now. There you go, Todd is finally finishing up, is he gonna pull out? Nope, guess not. Come on Todd, common courtesy man! Nobody's gonna want that hole now… oh, never mind. We’re all rotating a spot over now. Uh oh, I’m next to the rear. Maybe if I finish myself off, I won’t have to do anything. What the hell? I’m limp again!! Have I been flaccid this whole time. Come on, focus. Goddammit, I can’t get it up. Maybe if I--

Did Greg just grab a chicken? So now it’s a pig and a chicken. That’s ridiculous, there’s no way you’ll be able to fit it inside a chick-- never mind. That’s just messy. Will somebody shut that chicken up. This is nothing like I imagined it would be.

Beastiality just isn’t for me.

What? It’s my turn now? Oh… okay. I guess, I’ll just move in behind Porky here. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I grab firm hold of Porky’s behind and-- I CAN’T DO IT!!! I turn around and take off running. Ow, shit, I tripped over the fence. Now everybody’s laughing at me, oh god, this is embarrassing. Shit, that really hurt, I’m limping away from a bestiality gangbang, with all my friends laughing at me. I should just go back. What am I saying, I can’t go back. Oh man, this bestiality gangbang was a bad idea, now I need to quit and get new friends. This was a terrible idea.

I’m going Vegan.

Fight the Power!

We live in a harsh and cruel world. A world full of pain and sorrow, hate and intolerance. People die, hearts are broken, and television shows are cancelled. Life is hard, and there’s nothing we can do about it. There is one element, one force of nature, that holds us all back. It limits our potential and is the cause of all pain in the world. Nothing bad that happens to us is our fault, we are perfect, we are flawless, we are divine. Yet pain still exists in our lives and you know what? I blame George W. Bush.

High gas prices? War in the middle east? Political corruption and conspiracies?

I blame Bush.

The American President is slow-witted, incoherent, and indecisive. He is industry focused, and economically inclined. He rigged the election…twice, and is riding high on his father’s name and reputation. I’m so smart, I am the first person to ever make this rationalization, I should be president. Boy oh boy do I ever regret hating on Clinton now, he was a good president, yet we ripped on him just because he had his knob polished… and then lied about it under oath in front of the entire world.

I blame Bush.

We don’t want a president who is concerned over the American economy. Democracy is bad, and we wanna pay high prices for our oil….. Wait-- never mind. But war is bad!!! We should treat each other as we want to be treated. Recycle and save the whales. For that matter, Where’s Osama? George Washington would’ve stopped those airplanes. Did you know he chopped down a cherry tree? A MOTHERFUCKING CHERRY TREE!! Now there’s a President. None of this ‘Axis-of-evil’ bullshit. I bet you Abraham Lincoln never mispronounced Nuclear. It’s nuclear, not nucular, dumbass. Nope, not Abe. Abe was a real man, he knew how to run a country. Sure he was assassinated by an actor/model and had many illegitimate children with unknown mistresses, but clearly this is not Mr. Lincoln’s fault.

I blame Bush.

What kind of President allows intolerance to exist in the world? Sure the public services are great, but taxes? What the fuck? Hockey Lockout, Euthenasia, and the Avian Flu. Get yer shit together Dubya. I watch 2 hours of Rocky Balboa train and he loses to Apollo Creed? Morale victory my ass, where’s the remake George? The world is at war, terrorism is at an all-time high, and that rash on my ass isn’t getting any better.

I blame Bush.

George Bush just sat idly by while King Kong destroyed New York. We don’t want that, we want a leader who will stand up and fight, a leader who will take control, a leader who will take down a 20 foot gorilla climbing the Empire State Building. And for that matter, he did absolutely nothing to save Jesus. Go watch Passion of the Christ, where’s George Bush? I’ll tell you where, he was in Auschwitz drowning puppies.

Our O-Zone layer is depleting, traffic lights take too long to change, and my computer is loading really slow.

I blame Bush.

How can we all be expected to continue living our lives when we are bombarded with problems arising from the presence of George W. Bush? We can’t! When will somebody put an end to his reign of terror? I don’t know! Am I going to continue answering my own rhetorical questions? Apparently so!

I'm sorry if this entry is below par, you’ll have to excuse me. It wasn’t my fault.

Gratuitous Oscar Entry

The Oscars are officially over and it’s time to move on with our lives. No, I’m just fucking with you, it’s time for me to go over some highlights and observations for you, and for you to keep procrastinating and keep reading this. So without any further ado, I present to you:

The Rest of This Article

-Jon Stewart was funny, he did a great job. However, for one reason or another the celebrity audience refused to laugh. They just sat there, motionless, staring at the stage. It was like they were watching their grandparents having anal sex. Did I actually just say that? I blame television, DAMN YOU MTV!!!

- I love George Clooney. I’m not gay or anything, but at times, I wish I was catholic and he was a priest.

- Rachel Weisz’s tits were HUGE. Granted she was pregnant, but that didn’t stop my imagination or my right hand. My fantasy was ruined however, when I was trying in vain to scream out her name, but was unable to pronounce it. It’s okay though, Natalie Portman and Carmen Electra showed up, then George Clooney came to help me finish the job. Scratch that, I’ve said too much.

- “Memoirs of a Geisha” cleaned house taking home 3 Academy Awards, yet in none of those acceptance speeches did they apologize for ’Pearl Harbour.’ Intolerant bastards, let’s nuke them again.

- I thought Dolly Parton was dead. She’s like the Bride of Frankenstein, just a bunch of fake parts and leftovers from other people’s bodies formed around what I can only assume are two fat midgets under her shirt. If you saw the Oscars you know what I mean, those were the biggest breasts I’ve seen since-- well… Rachel Weisz. When we saw her, everybody I was with went into shock. We were laughing and joking and then cut to Dolly, and the room goes silent. A moment of silence as we mourn our loss or respect for the elderly. Ladies, please heed this warning: Do not get more than 3 facelifts and tummy tucks in your life or you will end up looking like Ms. Dolly Parton. A Barbie Doll thrown into a fire, and then molded back to form. As you age let those breasts drag along the floor, don’t just roll them up and staple them into a ball. If Dolly Parton were on the Titanic, there would be no losses of life, just grab onto Ms. Parton, and float back to shore. Gross.

-3-6 Mafia’s performance of ‘Hard Out Here for a Pimp’ was topped only by their acceptance of the Oscar. Watching those guys bounce around on stage must have been traumatizing for the audience. I can only imagine Jack Nicholson trying his hardest to not run in fear, gripping his armchair, face turning red, sweat dribbling down his collar. Priceless. Those guys are crazy. Paul Haggis, writer/director of ’Crash’ had to excuse himself to go to the ’bathroom,’ hell even the black guy from ’Crash’ shat his pants. I wonder how long it took those guys to sell the Oscar. Actually, on second thought, they probably just stole a whole bunch of them to put on their gun-- I mean, awards rack.

- Dear Homosexuals of the World. Yes, Brokeback Mountain was a good movie, but it’s not as groundbreaking as you think. You’re here, you’re queer, we’re fucking used to it, shut the hell up. Oh, and go return that stupid cowboy hat, you look ridiculous.

- Wallace and Gromit won for Best Animated Feature and the two British men who accepted wore two gigantically oversized bowties. They were so cute, and loveable, and virgins. What ever happened to the British? Oh that’s right, Hugh Grant had sex with that Yeti of a hooker. You make me sick. Go brush your teeth and get back to what you do best, Blowing flaming fags. I’M TALKING ABOUT SMOKING CIGARETTES! Jeez, has Brokeback Mountain not taught us anything?

-Ang Lee wins best director for Brokeback Mountain. What an artist, what a genius, what a brillia-- what’s that you say? This is the same Ang Lee that directed ‘The Hulk?’ Ang, get the fuck out of my country you hack. The catchphrase was ‘Hulk Smash’ not ‘Eric Bana transforms into a large green thing that still loves a woman, but must fight evil doctors, and his own genetics to overcome the monster he has become.’ I could’ve made that movie so much better. Here we go: The Hulk falls in love with Godzilla while they cross paths destroying the world and ‘smashing’ stuff. The Hulk must then kill his old lover, The Marshmallow Man from ‘Ghostbusters’ because he is insanely jealous. Somewhere here in the middle there will be a gratuitous lesbian sex scene, followed by a high speed car chase. The film will close with a kung fu fight, that ends with the Hulk impaling Marshmallow Man with an American flag. Not that’s a movie!

-Finally, Crash wins best picture. I would love to be in the room when the Academy voted on this.

Old Executive: If you think Crash should win Best Picture, please write ‘Crash’ on your ballot and pass it forward, if you feel any other film should win, please write ‘I am a Racist’ on your ballot, and then raise your hand so we may all shun you.

Paul Haggis wrote and directed this movie. He has only written one other screen play and it was that of ‘Million Dollar Baby.’ I know what you’re thinking, “Million Dollar Baby was good,” and please believe me when I tell you that one day you’ll realize that your opinion is wrong, and you are, in fact, stupid. Million Dollar Baby was not well written. It’s a touching story of an underdog woman boxer and the companionship she finds in her elderly boxing coach, then BAM, Paul Haggis gets bored, and decides to kill the bitch. Oh yeah, Spoiler Alert. We go from an imaginary sports movie to Terri Schiavo. Boxing boxing boxing boxing boxing boxing EUTHANASIA! And Paul Haggis is laughing all the way to the bank.

Back to ‘Crash.’ MSNBC's Erik Lundegaard said it perfectly:

“Yes, we all bear some form of racism — that’s obvious. Yes, we
all “stereotype” other races in some fashion — that’s obvious.
(Particularly obvious in the Los Angeles of “Crash,” where so many
characters are stereotypes.) But, no, we don’t easily give voice to
our racist sentiments. And that’s why “Crash” rings so false

...The most potent form of racism in this country is no longer overt
but covert. Once upon a time, yes yes yes, it was overt, which is
another reason why “Crash” sucks. It’s doing what simple-minded
generals do: It’s fighting the last war.”

If you wanna see a well made movie that deals with racism see Spike Lee’s “Do the Right Thing,” or Jamie Kennedy’s “Malibu’s Most Wanted.”

There, I’m done, now you can move the fuck on. If anybody has a copy of the Batman with George Clooney, lemme know. Until then, I’m fantasizing about milking Rachel Weisz.

I Swear I'm Not Gay

Let me just begin by stating for the record that I am a heterosexual. I am as much a man as a man could possibly be. I am the epitome of masculinity and you can only aspire to acquire the levels of testosterone that flow through my body on a regular basis.

Now, with that being said, ‘The Notebook’ is a good movie. Yes, I’ve seen the notebook at least 7 times, and I get a little choked up when Ryan Gosling calls Rachel McAdams a bird, and they embrace.
“If you’re a bird, I’m a bird”
IT’S A GOOD FUCKING MOVIE. The cinematography is breathtaking, and it’s gut wrenching and heart warming to watch theset two lost souls find each other. Watching Ryan Gosling transform from a hopelessly in love teenage boy into a man so devoted to the woman he can’t have that his false illusions of having her run his life is beautiful.

I’m not gay.

Sure, every once in a while I like to take a hot bubble bath. It feels good, fuck you.

I’m not gay.

So every once in a while my roommate and I blast romantic love ballads and sing along. It’s Hard for Me To Say I’m Sorry, by Chicago, is a good song.
“After All that we’ve been through, I will make it up to you. I promise to.”
IT’S CATCHY.. Fuck you

I’m not gay.

I like to watch heterosexual porn. Nothing turns me on more than big titties. Female equality is bullshit.

See, I’m not gay.

So I shop at American Eagle, and I hate the taste of beer. IT TASTES BAD. Fuck you…

I’m not gay.

I wax my hair with Alberto Fibre Putty, and like the taste of coolers. That doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure lots of other people do… FUCK YOU!

I’m not gay.

I love lesbians. I don’t care that I have no chance with a woman that isn’t sexually interested in my gender, it’s not like I stand a chance with Jill Kelly, or Jenna Jameson, anyway. I just enjoy watching women go at it. Titties are good. Yeah. YEAH! BOOOOOBS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m not gay.

So I don’t watch Football, and I don’t go clubbing. Who the fuck are you to judge me?

I’m not gay.

I listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and have fantasies of sexual activities with my grade school teachers. I have masturbated to a picture of Tomb Raider’s Lara Croft. I AM A MAN!!!!

I burp in public and find nothing funnier than a loud fart during any type of emotional exchange. I read Tucker Max and own a plaid shirt. I enjoy playing video games, and when I lose I whip the controller into the ground as hard as I can.

I am delusional about my strength, and believe that everything I say is right, and everybody else’s opinion is wrong, especially if that person is a female. I am a very masculine man. I could beat up the Hulk.

I’m not gay.

There’s hair on my ass, and I don’t care. Once when I was younger I picked up a coal in the Sauna, then I laughed at the face of god. I do not understand the concept of pain. I go bungee jumping, and jump out of airplanes without a parachute. I have a water cooler full of vodka that I have to replace daily. I both play in a band, and whip beer bottles at them. I freestyle, and wear pants just above my knees.

I definitely am not gay.

I steal money from hobos, and beat up little girls who try to sell me girl scout cookies. I use garbage bags as condoms, and eat kittens. When I flex, worlds explode. I once had an arm-wrestle with Hulk Hogan. My strength and levels on manliness were too much too handle and his head immediately exploded. He now is nothing more than an elaborate CGI experiment.

When I play laser tag, people die. I once got into a fight with a Gorilla. Later that night, I had Gorilla stew. I eat steak raw, bench press school buses, and referee hobo fights. I am so much of a man. I make Chuck Norris look like Clay Aiken. I have died 17 times, but Satan’s too petrified to let me in. I invented the concept of pain.

Whatever I say, goes! And guess what? The Notebook was a good movie.

I swear I’m not gay.

The Baseball Bat of Justice

I’ll be the first person to admit that majority of the content you’ll find on television nowadays is total junk. However, from time to time there is a truly revolutionary, or groundbreaking concept or idea, and if you’re lucky enough to tune in at the right time to the right place you may just witness this rare event. Today, I was that lucky person. The program I got to see was a justice show called ‘An Eye for an Eye.’ However, this was no regular television justice show. Oh no, this particular show had a vision.

It began with a large officer of the court wearing his dark lensed Ray Bans announcing that the judge was ready to lay the beat down. The audience, which I assume were left overs from the Jerry Springer Show, then went wild, until the white judge, dressed in jeans and running shoes, came to his seat, after screaming “WHOOOO, WHOOOO.” He then introduced the Plaintiff and Defendant, who had signs indicating that they were the Plaintiff and Defendant, just in case the judge, fully equipped with his High School degree, forgot. The plaintiff and defendant then screamed at each other for 10 minutes, while the judged laughed, stalling for time in an attempt to sober up. While this show sounds like just another piece of trash, it had one special redeeming feature that transcended it from it’s genre. Instead of a gavel the judge had a baseball bat with the word “Justice” transcribed onto the side of it. I quickly changed the channel when I realized that Maury was starting, but I can only assume that the judge beat the loser to or at least close to death.

It was then that the genius struck me. How much easier would life be, if you had your very own Baseball Bat of Justice? Just imagine, you’re sitting at a red light, waiting for the light to turn green so you can floor it and embarrass the smart-ass beside you, who had the audacity to casually glance your way, when out of nowhere some homeless man offers to clean your window. “No,” you say, “that’s okay, please don’t,” but it’s too late. His dirty rag is on your windshield making little circles, dirtying up your already clean piece of plexi-glass, and on top of that, this asshole is expecting a tip. Well you’ve got a tip for him, you reach into the backseat and pull out your ‘Little Slugger’ baseball bat of justice. POW! One shot right to the side of the head. Judge, jury, and executioner all rolled up into one little piece of wood. You climb back into your car and slam it back into drive. You don’t put on your seatbelt because seatbelts are for pussies, and as soon as that light changes you SLAM that pedal to the metal, and pull out of there. That is, at least, until the next red light.

Or you could get a friend to share in the fun. You’re standing in line at McDonalds, and you finally make it to the front. “Can I have an Egg McMuffin?” You politely inquire. “I’m sorry, we stop serving breakfast at 10.” Moment of silence and reflection as your gaze moves from the 44 year old Philipino behind the counter, up to the clock which displays the time of ‘3:46,’ and then across to your friend, who stares back at you knowingly. “Say Chad,” I of course am assuming your friends name is Chad, and even if its not, the McDonald’s clerk doesn’t know that, so you might as well pretend his/her name is Chad, because that’s an awesome name. “Say Chad,” you calmly ask, “how do you find?” Smirk on “Chads” face he instinctively replies, “Your honor, I find the defendant, guilty on counts of being a bitch.” And before Ms. Ng knows what just transpired she’s unconscious on the floor, with her blood dripping down the side of your handy Baseball Bat of Justice.

This thing can be used pretty much anywhere. Children misbehaving? One whack should set ‘em straight. Wife/Mom overcook the turkey? WHAM!! Quick swing to the side of the face should teach’er her lesson. Police officer pull you over for speeding? CRACK! Right to the cranium, and floor it. A good ol’ fashioned baseball bat of justice is both fun and practical. Nothing says I love you like a wooden piece of wood across the face. SMASH!!! “Happy Anniversary Honey, now pick up your teeth and bake me a cake!”

They’d be easy to get too. You walk up to the cash register holding a Baseball Bat of Justice, nobody is stupid enough to ask for some money. That’s the first thing they’d teach you in training. If anybody asks you to pay for your BBOJ then you give them a quick shot to the side of the head. Nobody fucks with you when you’ve got a Baseball Bat of Justice. “Enjoy your complimentary Bat sir, have a wonderful day,” the cashier will say, and BAM you give him a warning pop to the temple just because you fucking can.

In my world the police system is more efficient. No more paper work, and organizing criminal records, it’s not necessary. First of all, with the availability of these bats, everybody’s a criminal, second of all, police Baseball Bat[on]s of Justice will have the word ‘Justice’ elevated, so when they pop you in the forehead, it’s imprinted and the world knows that you’re a criminal. Thieves and crooks have to wear this “JUSTICE” mark of shame for the world to see. The general public will be safer, we’ll know who’s a criminal, and we’ll have the opportunity to preemptively defend ourselves by beating these people with our Baseball Bats of Justice. The system is flawless. Bulletproof.

Come to think of it, there are some people I know that need to be taught a lesson or two. I’m going to prepare myself for this new wave of the future, and get the ball rolling. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a baseball bat and some paint to go buy.

Time Capsule of Awesome!

Today’s fads suck. Our celebrities are lame, our interests are uninteresting, and the music sucks. The cool funny people, the hip music, and the awesome-tastic fads of yesteryear have been replaced by sexual equality, environmental friendliness, and teen angst. As I write this I have yet to do any research, so if the results are not up to your comedic expectations please do not hesitate to get bent. With that being said, I ask you:

What the fuck happened to….

HANSON: You may recognize Hanson from such hits as ‘Mmmmbop,’ and if you recognize any other songs of theirs, than you’ll be glad to know that the Hanson brothers are still touring. Yup, they’re still at it producing hits like, well--’Mmmmbop.’ Unfortunately Taylor Hanson hit puberty causing his voice to drop 2 octaves, and their success as a “boy” band, well…. dwindled. Don’t be surprised if they decide to grow their hair back out and pose as a Girl Group unaware that that fad has indeed, ended. Oh well, at least they can live happy knowing that they produced such great hits as…..”Mmmmbop.”



COCAINE: Remember cocaine? Neither do I, I was born into Generation X (fuck you MTV), but I’m sure my parents do. Cocaine used to be the drug. Nowadays, all you ever hear about is Marijuana, I mean what kind of pussy ass shit is that? You’re smoking a plant!! For Christ’s sake, it’s legal in parts of Canada and….elsewhere. Hospitals give that shit out. You don’t see Cancer patients with catheters full of heroine, pumping through their bodies, or the sick doing lines of coke in the bathroom stalls. I say we replace medicinal marijuana with cocaine, sure it wouldn’t be practical of make any sense, but imagine how much fun it would be to be sick. Come on people, you saw ‘Patch Adams’ if that movie taught us anything it’s that as long as you die laughing, good riddance… and also that Robin Williams just isn’t as funny when he’s patronizing fatally ill children. What was I talking about? Oh right, cocaine. It’s still there, you just have to ask a hobo, or wall street broker.


MR. T: Who gives a shit? Move the fuck on!










BLACK PEOPLE ON TV: I’m not talking about these token black actors (see: Mr T) I’m talking about all-out black people with their own T.V shows. Family Matters, now that show was hilarious for several reasons (see: cocaine) but most of all, it was educational. Back when I was younger and living in my rich secluded white neighbourhood, I didn’t know anything about black people. NOBODY DID, not even black people. Family Matters showed us that some black families did have money, some black children did go to school and read and write, some African Americans were as intelligent or more intelligent than the white minority, and it showed us that a black man has the capability of not running out on his family. Fresh Prince of Bel-Air pretty much undid all the good Family Matters accomplished, but man oh man, Will Smith is one crazy nigga, ain’t he? What I miss the most is the old WB. Before this ‘I’m-rich-and-sexy-but-I-can’t-choose-between-my-teenage-model-girlfriend-or-
her-equally-sexy-and-more-experienced-mom’ television fad. I’m talking back in the good ol’ days, when they had a number of shows featuring predominantly black actors/characters who were constantly yelling and endorsing our preconceived stereotypes in the hopes that their careers will last just one more season. Back when they named the shows after their black celebrity stars. I miss such classics as ‘The Steve Harvey Show,’ ‘The Wayans Bros,’ and ‘The Jamie Foxx Show.’ I guess the racist WB presidents realized that the African community had an entire television station devoted to them, and this was, quite simply, too much exposure. In fact, If you make a backwards checkmark on your key board starting from the “W” on the left, down to the “B” then you finish on a “K,” as in KKK!!!! Damn you hate mongrels, BOYCOTT THE WB!















Sorry, Black History Month just ended, had to get it out of my system.

ROBERT VAN WINKLE: Who the fuck is Robert Van Winkle? Jinx! RVW is none other than Vanilla Ice. How can somebody write a ‘What the Fuck Happened To….” article and leave out the MVP, Vanilla Ice. So what the fuck happened to Vanilla Ice after his ‘Under Pressure’ rip-off success, “Ice Ice Baby”? Well, he appeared as himself in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze. He got married, and was later charged with Domestic Abuse after ripping some of her hair out. In 1999 he added another award to his trophy shelf, when he won the #9 lamest music video of all time. Most recently, however he appeared on Fox’s ‘Celebrity Boxing’ where he lost to Diff’rent Strokes star, Todd Bridges, by unanimous decision. He now sings Christian rock. There’s nothing funnier than laughing at ‘Vanilla Ices’s misfortune and failure… that is until you realize that he tried to kill himself in 1994. I hope you’re proud of yourself, you worthless scum.

THE PILL: What the fuck happened to the Pill? I’m not even attempting to offer an answer here, but wasn’t there a day when the onus fell on the woman not to get pregnant? I’m not saying the Pill isn’t around anymore, but there was a time (or so cable television has led me to believe) that the Birth Control pill was the first and last means of defense against Pregnantitis. Men spew millions of sperm from their penis’s on a daily basis, and with the exception of Courtney Love, Christina Aguilera and my hot neighbor, most woman can’t make the claim that that many things enter them that often. We can’t be responsible for making sure that the hundreds of millions of sperm we spew per year doesn’t penetrate your egg fortress, take some damn initiative ladies. Besides, if a guy knocks a girl up, he can always just move, woman have to carry, birth, then complain about how hard it is to raise the child, as if millions of people before her haven’t done it. The condom fad has passed; I say we bring the ‘Pill’ back to mainstream, and while we’re at it, what happened to the Sponge? That thing was awesome! Just imagine what today’s marketing departments could do with that bad boy? Shoving a little Spongebob Squarepants into your vagina, squished up against the cervix, getting pounded by some strange guys dick head. Awesome. Anyways, the day of the condom is done, so ladies, if you get pregnant, stop bitching about it, and put a cork in it! (That was by far the wittiest pun I’ve ever written.

I guess the point I’m trying to make here is that life moves quickly, and you should appreciate it while you still can. Enjoy and cherish the things around you. Be thankful for the things you have because they’ll become obsolete and uncool faster than you can say LaserDisk.