sometimes i wake up at 4am with night tremors because of jeff goldblum. i shake and my mouth froths and my butthole itches. i masterbate to the thought of geena davis' gums and fall back asleep.

A Modern-Day Morality Tale, with Pictures

There are a couple things we already know about Warren Moon: he's the most prolific pro QB of all time, and he's been known to ride the 6 train on Saturday nights. What you might not know is that he was an exceedingly beautiful college athlete while at the University of Washington who forever endeared himself to all members of the Buckeye State by defeating Michigan on his way to the Rose Bowl MVP in 1978. He also was and still is a proud owner of a wonderful African-American moustache, which has served him well in picking up fat white chicks as well as skinny white chicks. You're the man, Dub.
He played 23 seasons of pro football, the first 6 of which occurred in Canada as a member of the Edmonton Eskimos, leading them to 5 straight Grey Cup victories, presumably because most Canadians, who had never seen a black man before, simply got up and ran away upon seeing him. In the NFL, starting in 1984, Mr. Moon worked the cotton fields of Houston, Texas under the stern eye of overseer Bum Phillips. After some years and untold lashes, his strength and therefore value declined, at which point he was sold into freedom in the North. Unfortunately for him, freedom was bittersweet, as even in the North he was systematically oppressed and cruelly forced, purely for the entertainment of comparatively wealthy whites, to skirmish with other men of similar pigmentation while dressed in ridiculous purple and then turquoise and green apparel.
After his career came to a merciful close, he remained in the North, where he pulled out all the stops in attempting to turn his life around by assimilating with his former oppressors. He became a motivational speaker, drawing upon a long history of community service.
Unfortunately, his Booker T attempt at rising up in the world hit a snag when he relapsed into his invetible nature as he was caught on TV in two separate incidents, first after beating a senseless white homeless man and then arrogantly trying to steal a car. Feeling cheated by those he chose to love, he finally swore revenge upon his oppressors, and can be seen here scratching vengeance into an instrument of death. Some time later he enlisted the assistance of a known social deviant, who taught him the art of dressing in shiny suits in order to lull your victims into a trance, when you can easily hack their skulls open with white man's tools, a technique he learned under the tutlege of Indian warriors at a 4 hour seminar, complete with refreshments and coporate sponsorship. At this time, it is thought that he fled across the border back into Canada, where he is deviously plotting and raising an army for his final retaliation, even recruiting drone generals.

Ebony Magazine Names the Greatest White Man Ever to Live

George Peppard
He loved it when a plan came together

The Random Saturday Drinking Diary

12-10-2005
1:46pm - Riding 6 train. Asian people blond people ipod people magazine people coffee person she better keep that inconspicuous now. Going northward to see the Bucks game. It doesn't really matter. Had planned to relax and/or do some xmas shopping today. Nix that. Rumors of white russians. Ok. Will compose delightful diary of the bacchanalia.
6:10 - 3 Russkies gone. Going to eat soon. Gonna be definitely drunk soon. Gotta write more.
8:03 - Josh is waste of a human being [Ed. note - clearly, from the poor grammatical construction, this was not the work of Ed]
8:18 - "He's talking about bulimia" -Chad. Drew: "I don't care how chicks stay skinny, so long as they stay skinny." Drew has serious flaws.
8:24 - "I always say tap the deepest well, not the most shallow" - Drew. Brilliant. Not.
8:36 - Chad flatulated in the vicinity of Drew, then he said, "That was juicy."
8:40 - Chad's pumped to "look nice" and "have my hair in a pony tail" at Katrina's purported xmas party next saturday. I, being the godlike member of this society, am naturally ambivalent.
10:12 - Drew's going to wear one of Chad's shirts.
10:13 - I very nearly could have hurled on a dirty russian just a moment ago. Damn H+H was curding on my ass. Poured myself another one but I'm scared to drink it now.
11:34 - I saw Warren Moon on the 6 train downtown just now. Drew of course is a disbeliever.
11:58 - Did you know that Warren Moon is the most prolific pro QB of all time.
11:59 - Drew needs spit on
12:13am - Go lick her behind her ear. You know it's money.
12:14 - I think my drunk ass can shoot stick with these stooges. None of those sons of bitches has any respect for the women's room.
12:17 - Hey Drew, jealousy is a strong thing, strong enough for me to write down.
12:27 - JFolg definitely beats dub-Moon at Steal the Bacon. No doubt. No doubt.
12:30 - Drew needs to stop passing cheese. I wish he were on the wrong side of the crucifixtion. Cause then I'd have license to hate him.
1:38 - This psycho Natalie thinks this poppy sing-a-long reminds her of Silence of the Lambs. I own that movie and I don't think so.

All this love for John Lennon the last couple days has got me thinking. I know I've said numerous times that when I turn 60 years old, I'm going to snuff it, and I still think that, should I find myself lucky enough to be standing and breathing on that fateful day, I will indeed do the deed. However, I'd like to go on the record as saying that I hope someone out there murders (assassinates--surely I'm famous enough for that distinction) me pretty much as soon as is convenient for any interested parties. Just think, a little assassination and all my negative characteristics would be washed away in an avalanche of positive, reverent, often rose-colored memories.
An early death is perhaps the most infallible way to ensure your legend. Just to examine a few well-known cases proves the point:
JFK- Oswald and/or accomplices (LBJ, Castro, Nixon, Oliver Stone, Jimmy Hoffa, the boogeyman, Vince Lombardi, Betty Boop), in a matter of seconds, turned a bumbling, overmatched idealist trust-fund baby into a courageous, far-sighted, dynamic leader we now see on our 50-cent pieces.
James Dean- his gas pedal transitioned him from an underrated actor into an overrated actor in even less time than it takes Matt Damon to say "Good Will Hunting."
Kurt Cobain- If only that guy from the Spin Doctors could have blown his brains out in a strung-out haze, he too could be favorably compared to Lennon, McCartney, and Dylan.
Getting back now to the John Lennon example, I'd like to say that I truly feel for Paul McCartney. Sure, he probably bathes his dog in Cristal and could now win a grammy for covering "My Little Lamb," but he certainly gets the short end of the stick compared to Lennon. (Aside: can we please stop referring to Beatles only with first names, Ringo excepted? John, Paul, and George didn't know you, and they most likely would have thrown up all over themselves if they ever had to spend more than 15 seconds around you, so please don't use the familiar form of their names. We don't say "Bill made me a nice system this year" when complimenting the newest Windows version, after all.) But by all accounts, McCartney wrote just as many good songs as Lennon did, and in fact you could easily argue that he was the true creative force behind the band, but casually you would never know this because he didn't get rubbed out by a loon with a fetish for Salinger. I think that, after a creative individual crosses through their zenith, usually in relative youth or at least young middle age, they spend the rest of their lives talking about that zenith and in effect, rubbing all the shine off their star. We all realize just how common these superstars are by listening to them talk too much. So they should all be shot. Bob Dylan is, in my mind, both the best example of this need, as well as the best example of the way around this effect. He is quite possibly psychotic in a legal way, and therefore any interviews you see with him are largely vague and never coherent. Either he lacks the ability to easily express himself, or he is in another category of genius that we cannot think to analyze. I tend to assume it's the latter, that he has it all figured out so much that he seems nuts. This of course makes it impossible for us to take him for granted or to really grasp who or what he is, enabling his youthful creative genius to continue to exist in that vacuum, separate from the aging person he now is. The other side of the coin, though, is that if he had been murdered say, in 1976, a little after releasing Blood on the Tracks, we would today view him not so much as a man, but truly some sort of god, thrust onto earth just to show us what it's like not to be human. Hell, some people even today think he's not of this earth, that he just spontaneously came to be, so imagine what it would be like if someone had been so prescient as to murder him? Strangle him with a guitar string or something. Or maybe he could have been crushed by a giant stone rolling down a mountainside. Now that would be legendary

i saw something interesting this morning. It was a youngish woman wearing capri pants over the knee high boots that every female in this city takes to wearing when the weather gets cold. but why the capri pants exactly? I did some thinking and the best comparison i can figure with men's fashion would be if a man were to pull a wife beater over a shirt and tie as if it were a sweater. now i understand that people think far too much about fashion here and to that extent end up looking like any number of characters from the wizard of oz. however, this woman was not only spotted within the banks of the good island, but also far north of high school hipster land (labeled on maps as st marks place), on park avenue to be exact, very near grand central. it should be noted that this is perhaps the most straight-laced, square part of the entire city, with the possible exception of 77 greenwich ave. so she wasn't trying to be a misfit. maybe she just needed to do laundry? maybe all her suitable full-length pants needed a wash? maybe she threw up all over her last pair of clean jeans in the restroom of a frat bar on 3rd avenue? maybe she volunteers for greenpeace on the weekends and she soiled her pants in the soil planting trees on randalls island? maybe she was at the movie theater this weekend with a friend, sharing a tub of popcorn, resting it on her lap, and the oozing chemical butter leaked out the bottom onto her pants, creating a rather embarassing stain? maybe she sent all her full-length pants to needy children in africa? maybe she performs gratis abortions in the attic of a dilapidated brownstone in bed-stuy, and therefore all her pants are constantly stained with the blood of god's children? maybe she read in cosmopolitan how the best way to get over her ex is to reinvent herself, wardrobe included? maybe she just got back from a trip to seattle to track down a long-lost half brother who shares the same sperm doner father because both their legal fathers are unfortunately impotent, and her luggage all got temporarily lost at her layover in san antonio, to be delivered to her on friday?

"Man down. We've got a man down."

I proudly present to you the Thanksgiving Day Quote Page. Instead of attributing each quote to its speaker, I think it's more fun just to transcribe them, in chronological order, so you can guess who is responsible for each. Some are amusing, some are thoughtful, some are stupid. That's the speakers I'm talking about, not the quotes.

"What would we be if not condescending?"
"I just buttered mine up!"
".........the guy told me, as we're eating sushi......"
"Have you ever seen a sophisticated individual before?"
"It's like a black prostitute, it's kinda fun, it's like the real thing, but it's not."
"I'm ashamed to know people who aren't here."
"You are good at shooting juices."
"I'm talking about kicking someone in the nuts......and you tell me to move?"
"Man down. We've got a man down."
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Fuck Steve."
"I'm a higher class of man. Don't touch me."
"Kick Scotty on your way over here."
"You told me it smelt like piss in my ass.......but lo and behold it was gin and tonic."

The Thanksgiving weekend drinking diary

Day 1. 11-23-05
11:36pm. At Blue&Gold. Drunk. Going at it since 6:30. Late start but here we are ginned up like a champion. We are seriously distressed by el capiton Buddha and his indiscretions. We need turkey. I thought we was foolproof and yet I'm nervous. Godamnit. Son of a Jewish bitch. Jewga. Ho ass. I'm drinking a scotch drink but listening to a drunk Hermiller rant.
I wonder how rife this place is.
I am a genius. Josh love Baby......Baby love Josh. [Ed. note - immediately previous sentence likely not written by Ed.]
11:58. Playing pool now some man just reverse sodomized me. Chad sucks. Here Here. [Ed. note - same as above.] This guy looks like he's in Phish.
12:08am. Chad sucks. We lost.
12:14. Drew looks like Tom Sawyer analyzing Huck's plan to free Nigger Jim.
12:20. Chad is queer. He likes man's hair. Lots of man's. JFolg needs to eat tots soon or he's going to wig out like a gremlin.
12:25. Dancing in the Dark just distracted me like a negro passing a fat ass on the sidewalk.
Drew is an elitist NYU douche.
12:28. "I'm starting pilates tomorrow." -Chad (smitten)
12:29. Dave is lucky I didn't just spit on him........
12:33. Two chicks laughing like they just found out they can get 2 for 1 at the ice cream shop just stepped by ---- both have thighs that stick out farther than their hips.
12:38. Dumb whore at the bar: yeah we know you're ready to be fucked, we don't need to see your wedgie.
12:49. Dave is a forceful douchebag.
12:56. "America's ......blah blah blah.........bad. (I'm making big arm motions.........I've got a 4" dick.............my mother is a prostitute."
1:36. (Walking home) Jesus H Christ I hate people. 5 douchebags--yellow douchebags--of course, see this total H-O go strolling by, walking bow-legged like she ought to be singing "Me so horny" all the way along. Knee-high boots and everything. So the 5 douches--smoking of course, like good Orients--stare her down like she's [Ed. note -- Ed likely passed out here.]

Day 2. 11-24-05. Thanksgiving.
1:09pm. Scott is late and the natives are getting restless. Restless for some Russians. We've eaten bacon, cheddar and pepper jack. I've sampled Chad's asian noodles and instantly felt the urge to pick up a sledge and drive some spikes into railroad ties.
3:01. Turkey's taking too long, like a prostituta negra. Mashed potatoes are good, my job here is done. Dave leads Chad 7-0 at the half.
6:23. Buddha dumps the entire can of trash out the window.
[Ed. note -- from this point forward Ed. stopped writing and merely transcribed quotes, to be found elsewhere.]
Day 3. 11-25-05.
Bender ended. Unfortunately. 12:00pm today I had seriously strong desire to hurl. Withheld, just to spite the toilet. Had to drink a glass of water and take a 3 hour regeneration period to start the day. Other than that, we're on schedule. Also probably couldn't drink gin or pineapple/orange drink for at least 48hrs without retching violently. Haven't vomited yet, so far as I know.
Now slightly past 1AM and just boarded 6 train downtown. Consciously mad decision to write so as to avoid passing out on downtown train and waking up at City Hall. A la Wednesday. That was last weekend. Drinking kills brain cells. Subway tracks get more uneven between 59th--51st streets. Not going to hurl tonight. Maybe I did sometime in the last 2 days? Must have. Stomach was too uneasy the last 2 morning to be suffering from natural causes. Can't wait to sleep in my bed tonight.

Day 4. 11-26-05.
Me, Drew, Dave, Chad, Katrina, and Madeline at bar. HO.
[Ed. note -- there was a fine drawing of the corner of the pool table on the page too.]

Crazy Legs Devereaux's Guide to Gambling

Before I get into a quick recap of last week, I'd like to say a few words about the little scandal that has plagued us here in Fantasyland this week. (By the way odds of a Finkelstein plagiarism were officially 2-7 after falling from an opening line of 2-1. I guess all the gamblers out there know what a morally bankrupt soul he is after all.) I will not rehash any of the by now well-known details; instead, I choose to put the focus back where it always belongs: on Tits. You see, Tits is the forgotten man in the whole sordid affair, reduced to a mere crony in the Chuck world, forced to have aggrandizements ciphered onto from far more TV-ready Chucks. But this man--Tits--deserves a platform all to himself, from which to stand, chest outward, phat shades adorned, and yell insults to his tight ends coach through the voice of a emphesymic bodybuilder before dropping down and doing a set of pushups with two cases of Keystone balanced on his back. So let's please take a moment to consider the man's majesty: more than just a saggy pair of Tits, he's something more than a man but something less than a god.

Well, last weekend, after being successfully scared off college football for one week after watching Kansas beat Nebraska by about 30, immediately followed by a horde of locusts and frogs descending upon the Midwest, I managed to compile a 9-6-1 record for NFL week 10, including two-for-two on the overs. Like any wise gambler, I don't repeat these results for the sake of narcissism, but to see what I can learn from them. For instance, it's ok to lose a game because a team returns a punt, a kick, and an interception for its only three touchdowns, but it's not ok to lose a game because you bet on Kurt Warner on the road. That was my bad, and so I learn. Crazy Legs also learned that just maybe, with the exception of any game involving the Chicago Bears, this might be the NFL Year of the Over. Crazy Legs has now cashed in on multiple over bets for three consecutive Monday Night games, as well as a three team over parlay this past week that won by an average of 25 points per game. That's a lot of scoring, and any middle-aged overweight swinger will tell you, it's always fun to get yourself a piece of all that scoring, no matter how ugly it might be for anyone else.
Perhaps the crowning jewel of this Over-happy year occurs this weekend in the form of a neatly wrapped present called Indianapolis at Cincinnati. It's been stated in this space already that we're going to ride Indy on overs every game the rest of the year, and when they're playing a game against another offensive team with a ball-hawking if not porous defense and the over is only 47, well you can take it to the bank, my friends. In fact, between 9-10 of the 15 games currently on the board look extremely good as over bets. So make like Shannon Tweed and ride that over right to the top.
Without further ado, here are Crazy Legs' week 11 picks (*=Crazy Legs' Pick of the Week, **=Crazy Legs' Over of the Week): Car -3, *Jax -4, Cin +5, Ind/Cin OV 47, NE -9, StL -9.5, TB +6, Oak +6, Dal -7.5, NYG -7, **Phi/NYG OV 40.5, Mia +2, SF +12, Buf +11, Den -13, Hou +7, GB -4.5.
Bonus pick: 10 team over parlay: Jax/Ten 38.5, Ind/Cin 47, NO/NE 47, Az/StL 49, Oak/Was 43, Det/Dal 39, Phi/NYG 40.5, Sea/SF 42, KC/Hou 44, Min/GB 44.5. That pays $3500 on a $10 bet, by the way.

From the desk of Larry R. Finkelstein, CPA

Mr. Finkelstein regrets any misunderstanding that the post “Chuck ‘TITS’ Amato is the perfect human being” may have caused any readers of Why Were So Awesome (WWSA). This confusion my stem from the allegations that contents of referenced posted were somehow fabricated and or the authorship was misrepresented. Mr. Finkelstein acknowledges that portions of the post were borrowed from a website celebrating various attributes of Chuck Norris, not Chuck Amato the esteemed NC State football coach. While Chuck Norris is a handsome gentleman, talented actor and the possessor of a “ass kicking” roundhouse. Mr. Norris in no way deserves the praise that said website was bestowing upon him. Furthermore, the facts that were so easily attributed to Mr. Norris were clearly authored with the Adonis like image of Mr. Amato in mind. Mr. Amato’s x-steroid induced man breasts, Captain Beefheart like raspy voice, Martha Stewart like intimidating demeanor and stylish Oakley blades were surly the original inspiration for these factoids. In closing, Mr. Finkelstein regrets any misunderstanding and hopes that nothing will be reported to the American Institute of Certified Public Accounts so he will not lose his CPA licensure.

The American Way

In light of the upcoming holiday… I introduce the Turducken.

Definition: tur.duck.en ; a deboned turkey stuffed with a deboned duck, which itself is stuffed with a small deboned chicken. The cavity of the chicken and the rest of the gaps are filled with, at the very least, a highly seasoned breadcrumb mixture”

Only in America would we stuff a small chicken into a duck and than stuff the duck into a turkey, all in the name of a holiday feast. Now I am intrigued by this combination and admittedly somehow awed that the rules of nature have been so bent in the name of deliciousness. This got me thinking, could this ever happen naturally in the circle of life… could a duck eat a chicken or have such “relations” that it would work itself fully inside the duck. And could a duck bloated by a chicken (in all its folk lore cartoon abilities) find itself inside a turkey… I say yes, and I challenge you to prove me wrong.

Also, is that a fish in the background of that picture? I think I remember from my 7th grade science class that the Chicken is the natural predator of the fish….

A statment from the desk of Boonswangle

The blog "Chuck 'TITS' Amato is the perfect human being" is temporarily and officially being re-posted pending an official and sufficient statement and apology from Larry R. Finkelstein.

-President and CEO of Awesome LLC.
Boonswangle B. Goodtimes

Cheaters never win

They Have Strokes and shame an entire city...

Ok well they often do win – shit! It’s the only way I’ve ever won anything – but they don’t win when someone who is a bigger cheater is on the case. It’s like you can’t trick the trickster – or you can’t child rape the child rapist. All facts I’m well aware of.

Now I must call out the crime against humanity committed on this blog. I am not doing so as a personal vendetta against said individual, but I searched said content believing it to be fraudulent (like every professor I ever had did to all my papers in college, but little did they know Gupta the Indian exchange student that I chained to a pipe in my basement with a word processor and an unlimited supply of Cheese on Wheat Crackers and Diet Peach Iced Tea Snapple with promise’s of freedom after the “next” paper was completed’s work was completely untraceable) and i was correct. When I found this content on several sites (one example http://www.4q.cc/chuck/index.php?topthirty ) I was appalled and felt that my sense of humor had spent a night on Ricers Island in the communal showers.

In accordance to the bylaws of Section 14 Article 5 of the Why Were So Awesome charter plagiarism is forbidden. So without hesitation I as creator of this gem am going to temporarily suspend but possibly forever remove said post… and… dare I suspend said author? Make you case young Jedi! Shall you get the Axe and join other plagiarizing misfits in the bowls of some hell beast? Or should you be given a second chance to display your own personal sense of humor like Eric Roberts after Best of the Best 4?

To follow will be only original content unless the proper source content is pulled from is recognized.

WE’VE GOT OUR EYES ON ALL OF YOU….

Crazy Legs Devereaux's Guide to Gambling

Lesson One: Sports Gambling

(disclaimer: to date, Crazy Legs has lost ~$400 betting on sports over two years, although he did bank almost $500 for winning the office NCAA pool. He's also an altruist and a fantastic lover)

Repeat after me: sports gambling is wonderful, sports gambling is wonderful, sports gambling is wonderful. Sports is wonderful and gambling is wonderful, put the two together and it's like boning a hot chick and not having to a) pay her, b) pay a doctor to remove the warts, or c) pay her husband to raise your child.

The number one thing to remember when gambling on sports is that the bookie always wins. The number two thing to remember is that the this doesn't mean that you have to lose. Sports gambling is different from casino games in that when you place a bet you are betting against another gambler, and not the "house." This is absolutely key. Have you ever been in a sportsbook? Have you ever seen those people? Are you telling me you don't think you're more intelligent than them? Half those guys probably could tell you who Beano Cook picked to win the Heisman in 1983 but couldn't remember their middle name.
Ok then, a few rules.
1. Football is more fertile ground than basketball (Unless we're talking about the NCAA tournament). In basketball, there is something that will cause even the most hardened sports gambler to lose his lunch: garbage time. The next time Mark Madsen makes an 18-footer with three seconds to go to cut the lead to 13, you will know what I'm talking about.
2. Do not parlay college football games. When an 8-0 team, ranked sixth in the country, loses by 38 to a team with two wins, you will know what I'm talking about. College football games are easier to pick but still more unpredictable.
3. You can make enough money in the first and last three weeks of the NFL season to fatten up for the losses you will sustain betting on the coin toss for the Super Bowl.
4. Never, under any circumstances, ever bet on boxing.
5. Bet the over on every Indianapolis Colts game through the end of the season.
6. NCAA Tourney: Izzo, ACC, Established Big East teams, MAC, middling C-USA teams, Under bets = good. Pac 10, Bob Knight, SEC minus Kentucky, top C-USA teams, undefeated teams, Teasers = bad.
7. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes you get totally ass-fucked.
8. It's easier to win $20 than it is to lose $20, but it much easier to lose $200 than it is to win $200.
9. Don't drink then wager.
10. Week 11 NFL picks (*=Crazy Legs' Pick of the Week, **=Crazy Legs' Over of the Week): KC +2.5, Tampa +1, **Tampa/Was OV 33, *NE -2.5, SF +13, NYG -9.5, Ariz +3.5, Jax -6.5, Hou +17.5, Hou/Ind OV 44.5, Car -8.5, Den -3, StL +6.5, Atl -9, Pit -7.5, Phi -3.

Go Get Em

Chuck "TITS" Amato is the perfect human being.

Re-posted November 16th 2005

The top 11 reasons why Chuck Amato is the perfect human being. (Chuck Amato is currently the head coach of the 4-4 NC State football team and posses some beautiful man boobs.)


11) Chuck is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right pectoral muscles.

10) Chuck frequently signs up to coach Pop Warner football, just so he can "accidentally" beat the shit out of little kids.

9) Chuck ruins the endings of Harry Potter books for children who just bought one for the hell of it. When they start crying Chuck calmly says, "I'll give you something to cry about," and than takes off his shirt.

8) At the end of each week, Chuck murders a dozen white people just to prove he isn't a racist.

7) Chuck sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled coaching abilities. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck punched the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

6) Chuck can make a woman climax by simply pointing at her and saying "booya".

5) Chuck does not sleep. He waits.

4) Chuck once went to a frat party, and proceeded to kick the shit out of ever kid with a popped collar in sight. He then drank three kegs and shit on their floor, just because he's Chuck Amato.

3) A man once asked Chuck Amato if his real name is "Charles". Chuck did not respond, he simply dropped to the floor and ripped off 17 pushups.

2) When Chuck plays Oregon Trail his family does not die of Indian attacks, he has them doing 13 push ups every morning to so they will be ready for the Indians. He also requires no wagon, since he carries the oxen, axels, and buffalo meat on his back. He always makes it to Oregon before you.

1) Chuck built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his man boobs, deflecting them. JFK's head exploded out of sheer amazement.

quote of the day 2

Jillian: what is your type of women lucien
Lucien: so you know who Shannon Tweed is?

ill let you figure out which one is the quote of the day.

quote of the day

"my kinda girl understands that it could be a Long John Silvers night or a Fish Market night depending on whether the Steelers cover or not."

Hate…

Now I realize that the Bengals are without a doubt going to win the next five Super Bowls. When this happens I have to prepare myself for the awful truth that John Kitna will in fact receive a Super Bowl ring.

And if that fucko gets a ring my personal goal for the rest of my life will be to steal it - melt it down make a nail out of it, build a house and use that nail to hang a sign up in it that says "God Bless this Mess" in needle point. Then I will start a family in that house - have a son (if daughters - I'll do like the Chinese and just sell em to the Laotians for poorly made rickshaws). I will raise that son to be a cold blooded killing machine full of blood lust while never seeing the light of day. Then when he turns 17 I'll un-chain him from the pipes in the basement and unhook the car battery from his genitals for the first time since his 9 hour’s of freedom on his 9th birthday. I’ll then pull that nail from the wall melt it down and make a bullet out of it, and on that bullet I'll engrave a landscape of Kitna celebrating his two wins in 2002 and on the other side the infamous “shot put” goal line pass that was intercepted and run back for a touchdown in 2002. Then I'll send my son on a cross country journey to assonate Kitna he will be totally naked riding upon a white steed – I will be following him around in a blimp painted like the sky so that he doesn’t know I'm there. Then when he finds Johnny masturbating to pictures of himself dressed as Elvira my son will pounce upon him just as he’s been trained and kill him in such a fashion with his bare hands that the paper will report it as "The most gruesome murder in human history" and assume the suspect to be a raptor that escaped from the real Jurassic Park (I know it exists) Then as my son devours Kitna’s spinal fluid and brain to keep his soul from entering the great beyond - I'll wait in my blimp, then as he runs out of the door to evade the authorities I'll shoot that abomination of humanity killing machine little fuck right in the face with that very bullet that I made from the ring.... then I'll grind him up in a meat grinder and make a John Kitna shaped meatloaf... Which I will feed to everyone at Kitna's funeral - then I'll shoot a rocket into that building like Robocop killing everyone who attends... I will later feed all those burnt up awful people to dogs and then toss those dogs into another meat grinder.... feed that meat to a milk cow. Then punt that damn cow in the udder like I’m Jim Breech banging one home in the 1988/89 AFC Championship game - then rape that cow repeatedly while we travel by sail boat out into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean– then when we reach our destination I’ll shove that damn cow right off the side of the boat and laugh hysterically while pissing myself until it sinks into the great abyss
good night john...

A Note to Herman Edwards

Pennington - Out
Fiedler - Out
Testaverde - Old and hurt
Bollinger - Sucks, looks like a douche and very chokeable

It’s time for Big Ten and NFL super star

Craig "National mutha-fuck'n Champ" Krenzel
Healthy as a ox in heat!

Plus Herm, he's been taken it easy mowing the Bengals practice field, making Subway runs and shining Kitnas shoes. I understand you don't want to just jump into something without a little background... well how about a little about Craig; He likes Cool Ranch Doritos and Rolling Rock Green Light and appreciates thoughtfulness... That should be plenty... So all you have to do to save your season is get out the pen, a napkin and the $450.00 for his services. And Craig will fire up his Saturn and see you on Wednesday night!

In sickness and in health, til death do us part

this is purely a relation of true events that happened to me and some lucky souls fortunate enough to be within listening distance of my sonorous voice.

The scene: the front porch of a large three-story vacation home located on the inner bay of a little gnat- and manatee-infested island off the Gulf Coast of Florida.
The prologue: three drunken chaps, one of which (the hero of our story) is carrying a walking stick with a turtle for a handle, driving around in a golf cart in the dark, bumping into two innocent-looking lost people, trying to find a party being thrown for two people (one from florida the other from idaho--they met, of course, in utah) who just got married on the beach that afternoon.
The story: so our three gents happily decide to escort the two lost souls even though none of them knows where the party is. Luckily one knows at least what direction it's in so they all drive that way for a mile or two before giving up and pulling off the side of the road to give the unsuspecting couple being towed along the bad news. Just then another golf cart with headlights off comes rolling out from the pitch black darkness and offers to give everyone a real escort to the party as that's where they were heading too. So now the convoy of carts rumbles ahead to the large house on the inside part of the island and our three comrades disembark with just 5 or 6 beers, no shoes, no idea who anyone at the party is, and one green walking stick.
They wander along the wooden deck path to the dock and sit down amongst a small group. Haphazard introductions follow and the three and smoking Merit cigarettes in no time. Soon free beers are aflutter, as well as Cuervo, vino, and the business end of a 3 inch long bowl. In the meantime a near-fight broke out, resulting in one hapless soul who already had dried blood on his nose from taking a header out of a golf cart gets thrown into the stagnant black water. Floppy haired chap who did the pushing spends a healthy amount of time thereafter ruffling his rooster feathers and yapping something about a $1500 watch, yo.
Sooner or later the small party moves to the house and assimilates with the 15 or so people already there, inclusive of one skankalicious ho who happens to simultaneously be the host, strut around like a bitch, and have little shorts on with F S U written across the ass. Turns out there's another floppy haired fucko in the house, and he's the brother of $1500 watch, yo. Anyhow, our three end up outside off the front porch of this house as part of a group of about 6. Whiskey and wine are passed around the circle as a dark haired drunken girl of indeterminate intelligence speaks up and asks our hero something to the effect of how he got his handicap. (It should here be divulged that our three gents had been joking about the hero being a cripple right from the get-go). So, our hero, sensing an opportunity for some good fun, sets to telling his injurious story of adventure. It seems as though our lad was actually 25 years old but had already seen great things and suffered great tragedies. He gradutated from The Ohio State University as a double major in meteorology aviation at just 21 and went immediately to work for the United States Weather Service. His work there entailed flying around to weather stations around the world, specifically around the Pacific, and checking in with the usually one or two workers on the ground at the usually very remote stations. So one time just about a year before the story is told, our hero was paying a visit to a station on one of the Cook Islands in the South Pacific. Everything went pretty much as it also did until he was strapped into his plane and ready for takeoff, when it all went wrong. It seems as though there was a crazed old Japanese hermit man hiding on the island who had not yet heard that World War II had ended. This former soldier burst into the open upon seeing the Stars & Stripes on our hero's plane and started shooting. Our hero hastily tried to get the plane airborne while his two colleagues on the ground burst from the station guns in hand. They succeeded in winning the man's attention but were only able to kill him one of them had been taken down. While all the shooting was taking place, our hero was struggling to lift his bullet-riddled plane off the ground, once succeeding only so much to get about 25 feet in the air before crashing back to the ground, causing his lower right leg to become mostly crushed and necessitating the use of a "cane" even nearly a year later.
So, after finishing this yarn, no thanks to the girl for constantly interrupting him, or his two comrades for heckling him with various fake names, our hero grabs hold of the cane and gamely hobbles away to the next tree to relieve his aching bladder. The girl, who of course believed every bit of the story, commenced to light into an endorsement for doing mushrooms because they're the only natural drug, as well as defending the hero from his two evil friends by calling him "brave" and saying that she admires him for being able to carry on with his life and not complaining.
Some minutes later, said girl retires to an upstairs bedroom to pass out, we later learn. One of the other listeners to the hero's story comes up to him later, laughing, and asks to shake his hand in respect of such a quality story. We also later learn that this fine gentleman had assisted the older floppy haired fucko in resetting his dislocated shoulder after fucko had mistaken the top step of a staircase for a diving board and the side of a wall at the foot of the stairs for the deep end of a pool. To punish fucko for his various transgressions our three fine gentleman steal one of his bottles of wine and make a quiet exit from the party, only to dump the gas-station, sub-carlo quality wine after making it back to the homestead. $1500, yo.

Round One

We talk a lot about the inferiority of the South, and for good reason. One way to judge this is by taking a look at the region's institutions of higher learning, and contrasting them with those from our own homeland. One thing that is fairly interesting and enhances this comparison is the distribution of universities in the two regions: scattered large, usually state, schools dominating the landscape but with loads of itty bitty worthless schools often claiming some sort of religious ties in order to get tax breaks. So, without further ado, here it is -- SEC vs Big Ten, Round 1: The Mascot Names.
(I'm tempted to cut each conference down to ten for simplicity's sake, but that would undoubtedly mean hacking Northwestern from our side, and we'll actually need them later on, so we'll just have to live with the one school disadvantage, 12-11.)
(Scores will be given for each school alphabetically, then added up for a total conference value. 0-10 scale)

The Big Ten

Indiana Hoosiers: we'll take our mulligan here. Score - 2.
Illinois Fighting Illini: it's offensive, it's aggresive, and it's obvious. I like it. Score - 7.
Iowa Hawkeyes: Hmmm, odd but sounds good, and I'm sure that a) they have hawks in iowa, b) a hawk could kill just about anything if it set it's mind to it, and c) no other school uses this name, bonus for originality. (Also this doesn't count but black and yellow are obviously superior colors.) Score - 6.
Michigan Wolverines: this is a tough one. Loses big points (contrary to common belief, the wolverine is not indigenous to the state of Michigan.), but gains big points too because I'd rather lock myself in a prison shower with no lubricants than come within even 50ft of this beast in the wild. Score - 6.
Michigan State Spartans: another great original name. For non-history geeks, the ancient Spartan army was one of the most efficient and feared killing machines of all time. Score - 9.
Minnesota Golden Gophers: well. Gophers, strike one. A color qualifier, strike two. A buck-toothed mascot with a big ass furry tail, slight redemption. Score - 4.
Northwestern Wildcats: pass. Score - 3.
Ohio State Buckeyes: admittedly stupid, but has three big things going for it 1) it's completely unique, 2) it's geographically significant and appropriate, 3) it sounds really good. Score - 7.
Penn State Nittany Lions: the stepchild of the conference. It's not awful, and you can shorten it to Nits. I won't reach any further. Score - 4.
Purdue Boilermakers: damnit. Score - 2.
Wisconsin Badgers: well at least they have them in Wisconsin. And I think they rank just a notch or two below the wolverine in terms of ferocity. We've cornered the market on the mean members of the large marmot family. Score - 6.
Total conference score - 56.

The SEC

Alabama Crimson Tide: obviously this makes no sense. At least they help us out by having an elephant as the mascot. An elephant? This kind of logic won them the War of Northern Aggression. Oh, wait......... Score - 2.
Arkansas Razorbacks: certainly more stupid than a Buckeye, until you remember that it's a pig, then you realize it's insanely stupid. How many times do you think those sloppy fucks killed the damn thing at halftime of games (right about when they've long forgotten about having a chance to win the game) just to roast it up and eat it with their bare hands. Score - 3.
Auburn Tigers: pass, unitl you consider their actual mascot is something called a "War Eagle." On second thought, maybe that's why they won the War of Northern Aggression.........Score - 0.
Georgia Bulldogs: what, did the principal, the secretary, and the janitor brainstorm this one. I know an SEC education is about as valuable as a 6 week evening GED class taught by a cross-eyed covicted rapist, but come on. Score - 3.
Florida Gators: finally a name that doesn't totally suck and makes some sense at the same time. Score - 6.

Kentucky Wildcats: lotta wildcats roaming the across the bluegrass savannah. Pass. Score - 3.
LSU Tigers: pass. Score - 3.
Mississippi Rebels: top three least used male baby names in Mississippi: Abraham, Ulysses, Sherman. Score - negative infinity.
Mississippi State Bulldogs: maybe you should just call your team names the Smiths, the Joneses, and the Williamses. Score - 3.
South Carolina Gamecocks: dude, sweet! Pass the fucking beer bong, man! You Sigma Deltas throw the most killer parties! Did you hear John Mayer is playing here in two weeks! I totally don't put my collar up anymore, only freshmen do that, so yesterday! Hey my balls have been itching like crazy since we had those Gamma girls over that we passed around like a joint! That's fucking awesome, high five! Let's shave our chests and do some curls! Score - 0.
Tennessee Volunteers: I don't actually hate this one as much as you'd think. It's dumb, and hick-y, but at least it has some signficance, and quite frankly I'm starting to fudge the numbers up for the SEC cause this is pathetic. Score - 6.
Vanderbilt Commodores: I had to look in the dictionary to find out what this is: "Used as an unofficial designation for a captain in the British Navy temporarily in command of a fleet division or squadron. " Yeah, that's about right. I guess "Tar Heels" was already taken. Score - 2.
Total conference score - negative infinity plus 28. That's kind like absolute zero plus the heat you get from a single match that you might light to burn down Atlanta. You know, to celebrate history. We'll invite the president of Ole Miss to come and take notes.

go nuts

sometimes, when i'm taking my morning shower, i wash my hair with only my left hand, just to spice things up a bit. i think i'm no different from anyone in that my morning routine is pretty much set in stone. i wake up, i turn on the light, i grab my towel, i turn on the shower, i pee (in the toilet not the shower), i don't flush (because the plumbing is awful in my apartment), i get in the shower and engage in the daily chess match with the hot and cold water controls (because the plumbing is awful in my apartment), etc etc etc. really i've got to change it up somehow before i grow up to be bill murray. so in that spirit i give you a helpful list of how to stay sane by getting a little crazy:
1. be wild. get the chocolate danish.
2. quick, before it starts to get cold, sleep naked.
3. when you're cooking mac and cheese for dinner, pretend you're julia child and spritz a little white wine into the sauce.
4. use the speakerphone exclusively at work for an entire day.
5. when you're alone at night maybe watching tv, see how long you can sustain an erection.
6. while walking down the street, keep a mental count of the minorities you see in a given distance. i like to use blacks, whites, asians, hispanics, jews, and filthy jews.
7. introduce yourself as "python" when meeting new people.
8. wear an eye patch.
9. open up an umbrella while walking down a very sunny street.
10. call up your mother/girlfriend and pretend to come out of the closet.
11. feign a jamaican accent. if you're black, make it irish.
12. wear a striped shirt.

Is that a mouse hanging out of your shorts or......

Magnum PI pictured above after a formal business presentation with his more formal "long" shorts

Not so long ago I was on the train sitting across from a gentlemen who I knew was wearing briefs… and I didn’t know because he was the “whity tighties type” nor because he gently whispered it into my ear what he had under us outer garment. I knew because I could see them and don’t be mistaken I couldn’t see them above the rim of his well cut jean shorts but because they hung at the same level on his outer thigh. So when he sat the shorts gave way to such a sight….

This got me thinking…. I’m sick of my thighs being so white… so covered… in slavery to my long shorts

Remember the days when it was not only socially acceptable, but it actually lifted your social status to wear shorts so small that a testicle could easily fall into view of the public? The days when you went to the beach you’re mom/friend would recommend that you put some SPF on the scrotum just to prevent any skin damaging burns while your sitting/running/playing volleyball/building a fantastic sand mermaid in your trunks that when compacted could be easily be carried in that fifth pocket on your dungarees. The days when if you were a machinist on a hot summer day you had to consciously think don’t let “these” get caught in “that”. The days when if you had lost your genitals in a moped accident – everyone knew – everyone. The days when a young man with pockets sticking below his cut off jeans could mean that he was in a gang / the prom king / a Nicaraguan freedom fighter / congressman / local honor student / strait / gay / mayor / war veteran / your local superintendent / porn star / Dan McIntyre / NBA superstar / president of the united states / your dad.

Then one day some rich man bought Abercrombie and Finch and at the same time some southern frat boys with dirty base ball hats said… time to turn the tides and persecute anyone with fantastic thighs and shorts of such a glorious length… and it’s time to wear shorts past your knees.

But I’m taking back the streets – in one hand I have scissors in the other a pair of women's jeans… and on the desk next to me I have some fake tan cream (you know I’ve got to catch these bitches up to all the years of missed sunlight)

It’s time for emancipation my precious thighs! Freeeeeeeeeedom!

House Fire

I was walking yesterday on a lazy Sunday afternoon and something peculiar happened. A fire truck was racing with unusual urgency down 7th Avenue, lights flashing horn blaring, as it took the corner from 7th Ave onto 14th Street extremely fast. Midway through the turn a fire coat flew off the truck and into the intersection. The truck continued at its torrent pace, but than slammed on its brakes mid block and started backing up, a fireman jumped out and ran back to retrieve the coat. This whole exercise took at least 3-4 minutes … Now if they were in such a big hurry, the loss of one coat shouldn’t stop them dead in their tracks… think about the buildings burning and the babies trapped… but that $100 coat was important enough to go back for. My hypostasis is that the firehouse was bored on a Sunday afternoon; they all rolled up the sleeves on their FDNY t-shirts, jumped in the truck to cruise around the city… I believe I faintly heard Bon Jovi emanating from the fire truck as it speed away.

Furry Homeless Men II

You forgot three things…

Public Masturbating - I’ve noticed the more I take place in said activity the thicker my gentleman’s mane gets

Sleeping on cement and cardboard - I read that’s how Tom Selleck keeps a thick lustrous moustache

Testing bottles that are filled with a mysterious yellow liquid that just might be beer - I know when I pee in beer bottles seal them back up and then “accidentally” drink them later… my hair becomes thicker and shiner then Ron Jeremy's

Furry Homeless Men

As a man in his mid twenties, I am faced with the reality of thinning hair. As I grapple with this reality, I have noticed an anomaly in the male species. Homeless men are not bald. Maybe this is because of the lack of stress, lack of exposure to florescent office lights or copious consumption of malt liquor.

I'm lovin it!

Seen this morning at approximately 8:13am: one older gentleman, perhaps 70, dressed impeccably if not curiously in black trousers, brown leather shoes (sockless of course), a white dress shirt, solid red necktie, and a royal blue sport coat that, believe it or not, did not have any type of insignia over either breast. Said gentleman had his thin, graying-to-whiteness hair vitgorously plastered to his shiny scalp with hair products and sternly parted in the fashion of a 1950s boy scout leader. In addition, he was smoking a cigarette through an FDR-style brown cigrette holder. So what is so interesting about this man, you ask? Not much, except that he was rifling through a pile of garbage bags outside a McDonald's on West 3rd St.

BREAKING NEWS!

Walker Texas Ranger doesn't need no mutha fuck'n bun gettting in the way of his HEALTH tube!

Now as the co-creator of this online Xanadu I had only envisioned original content being on the site, but this article is so deep, meaningful and important to the human race that I am making an acceptation.

Below is news bigger then Hurricane Katrina, The Great Chicago Fire, both atomic bombs, the Cold War, the birth of Hitler, and the highly controversial and much talked about post “Everything is Awesome About Rollerblades”….

NEWS
Hot dog! Scientists believe the preservatives in hot dogs could have health benefits

6 September 2005

WASHINGTON (AP)
Could the salt that preserves hot dogs also preserve your health?
Scientists at the National Institutes of Health think so. They've begun infusing sodium nitrite into volunteers in hopes that it could prove a cheap but potent treatment for sickle cell anemia, heart attacks, brain aneurysms, even an illness that suffocates babies.
Those ailments have something in common: They hinge on problems with low oxygen, problems the government's research suggests nitrite can ease.
Beyond repairing the reputation of this often-maligned meat preservative, the work promises to rewrite scientific dogma about how blood flows, and how the body tries to protect itself when that flow is blocked. Indeed, nitrite seems to guard tissues - in the heart, the lungs, the brain - against cellular death when they become starved of oxygen.
It doesn't mean artery-clogging hot dogs are healthy.
But the NIH researchers have filed for new patents on this old, overlooked chemical and are hunting for a major pharmaceutical company to help develop it as a therapy - even as doctors await the enrollment of sick patients into research studies in coming months. The scientists are so convinced of nitrite's promise that lead researcher Mark T. Gladwin says the government will pursue drug development on its own if necessary.
"We are turning organs into hot dogs," Gladwin jokes. Then he turns serious: "We think we stumbled into an innate protection mechanism."
If it works, "this drug would be pennies to dollars per day," says Christian Hunter of California's Loma Linda University. By January, Hunter hopes to begin studies of nitrite treatment for babies with an often fatal disease called pulmonary hypertension. "It's so easy to use."
Gladwin and an NIH cardiologist, Richard Cannon III, discovered nitrite's effect by accident while studying a related compound, nitric oxide, long known to improve blood flow by dilating blood vessels, but difficult to use as a drug.
Gladwin and Cannon injected sodium nitrite into healthy volunteers. Tiny doses almost tripled blood flow. Moreover, when people exercised, nitrite levels plummeted in the muscles being worked - the body was using it.
The researchers were stunned. For 100 years, scientists thought nitrite had little medical relevance.
High doses are an antidote for cyanide poisoning, but they're also toxic. In 1944, 11 New Yorkers literally turned blue, their blood struggling for oxygen, after they accidentally ate the meat preservative instead of table salt.
The low levels that naturally occur in the human body were thought to be inert, unimportant. Not anymore.
"This has led to an avalanche of work," says Gladwin, who this week hosts an NIH meeting where scientists will compare nitrite research.
The work done so far is "sufficiently encouraging to warrant a full-court press," says Franklin Bunn, a Harvard Medical School professor who has reviewed much of the research.
When oxygen levels drop, the body's natural stores of nitrite convert to nitric oxide, in turn dilating vessels so that more blood - and more oxygen - gets through.
That's Step 1. Then there's tissue preservation.
Consider: Even after doctors clear a blocked artery to end a heart attack, heart muscle continues to die for a while.
Nitrite interrupts that chain reaction, caused when harmful proteins spewed by dying cells in turn take out their neighbors, says David Lefer of Louisiana State University Health Sciences Center in Shreveport.
But the heart's nitrite stores are depleted quickly.
"When you have a heart attack, you use it all up in the first few minutes keeping the organ alive," Lefer says. "You need to add some more."
So Lefer bred mice with low nitrite levels, clipped off the rodents' main heart artery for 30 minutes, and infused nitrite before opening the artery back up.
The salt cut by 67 percent the amount of heart muscle that died.
Gladwin says it worked as well in dogs, whose hearts are similar to people's. He hopes a study in people suffering heart attacks could begin next year.
The first human patients to test nitrite have sickle cell disease; another piece of the nitrite puzzle is its connection to hemoglobin, the oxygen-carrying protein that makes blood red.
Doctors have long thought the bouts of crippling pain suffered by sickle cell patients resulted when their abnormally shaped red blood cells clumped together to block blood flow.

La Salle, René-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de you owe the people of New Orleans a big apology

The Fucking French... sooooo now I do hate the French, but not like some modern day right wing nut job. I simply hate them... and have for some time, but not French people, but just the French. From WWI to WWII to Vietnam... they have dodged social evolution and it's mighty hand like no country in history. In short the French became bitches at the most perfect of times... any other time in the history of civilization prior to WWI - they would have been eaten up.

Now this hate letter goes to the French I actually like... the old French - the French up to the time just after Napoleon. What in the holly hell were you thinking La Salle, René-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de? (the man who claimed Louisiana for the French and the first European to establish a settlement in "Nouvelle-Orléans" or to us non frogs New Orleans).

I still struggle to comprehend with every bit of my able mind, how someone could walk into present day New Orleans - see the second largest body of salt water on the continent on one side (Lake Pontchartrain 1 ft. above sea level) and then see the land next to it (New Orleans some parts as much as 10 feet below sea level) and the Mississippi river (at sea level) lying on the other side - Nothing bad could happen here... it's not a recipe for disaster... but instead the perfect place to live....

Oh and thanks to the south and it's segregation, oppression, and Jim Crow laws that turned New Orleans into one of Americas poorest city and sadly because of the previously mentioned - 95% of those poorest people in one of the poorest city... not white... GOOOO SOUTH!

"It's not hate it's heritage man!"

Jethro II

Every once in a while my dad likes to quiz me on my spanish knowledge, just to be sure his 15 boxes of ziti were not wasted on an ingnorant son. To show the end of the world is not upon us but on New Orleans, I am going to post a quote from the newly found Jethro. To give a little background Jethro is putting away groceries.

Jethro: "Do you know what frijoles negros means?"
Me: Black Beans
Jethro: "hahahaha....negros"

On a different note I am bringing back a travel mug that I received at Gold Star Chili. This mug is going to be my new drinking cup for all football events and get togethers. Said mug has is roughly 64 ounces and has a picture of Steve Palmer throwing the pigskin. Lucien you may look it at, but you better have no intention of touching it. Bonswangle, let your boner rest, you have one coming

Corrections and Retractions

From the Desk of Boonswangle B. Goodtimes

CORRECTION

To the September 1st Post "I have a confession to make"

The pizza for reading exchange (inspired by the early Babylonian flesh trade) was as follows. One book read = One Booket stamp for your Booket button (available at participating Pizza Huts (if your reading this after 1988 there is no guarantee that your local Pizza Hut has Booket buttons or has ever heard of such program)). Once a student between grades 1 and 5 reads 6 books he (recalling that women didn't earn the right to read until 1991, nor the right to earn pizza in exchange for scholarly achievements until the Supreme Court's controversial decision in Hinckley v Yale in 1998) could gather his proud family on the fist Tuesday of every month between the time of 5:35 and 6:00 in the PM and enjoy a single succulent one topping personal pizza (tax, tip, beverage, breadsticks, parents meal, parking fee, delivery to table fee, Booket tax, sticker tax, proud child tax and new button charge not included) from his local participating Pizza Hut.

not

A single book for a single pizza (that would be nirvana)


RETRACTION

From the July 05, 2005 Post "The only thing more shifty then a cobras head is..."

"An Official Boonswangle B. Goodtimes Disclaimer - Johnny Bench was a tremendous catcher for the glorious Cincy Reds... but after selling his soul to the 5/3rd corp in the late 80's he became a different person... a shell of his former self... the old Johnny.... RIP good sir... the new Johnny.... see you in hell!"

Is retracted and replaced with

"See you in Hell Bench!"

HaHa

"You're so funny."
"I'm not funny."
"Yes you are."
"No. Retards are funny. I am witty."

I have a confession to make.

In the 4th grade I had an obsession. Not the typical obsessions of a 4th grader: candy, kickball, big wheels, star wars, etc. I was obsessed with BOOK IT! The program developed by the school district and Pizza Hut to promote reading. I am a little hazy on the details but I remember that as the reward for reading a book you received a certificate for a Pizza Hut personal pan pizza. As a budding businessman, I took this as a challenge. I didn’t want to flat out lie about reading books but that was where my morality stopped. I started out by reading really short books (like 25 pages), graduated to skimming larger books and eventually hatched a devious, and might I add very successful, scheme to insure my unending supply of Book It! Pizza Hut certificates. I carefully watched Ms. Babcock, my 4th grade homeroom teacher, as she distributed and stored the certificates. As the school year grew to an end I notices she had a large supply of said certificates remaining. On the last day of school I offered to help her clean her room and throw away her trash. She gladly accepted, and as we proceeded in the cleaning I methodically watched the location of the certificates as they moved from desk, to box, and than I stealthy stacked the boxes so that I knew exactly where the certificates lay. As I took out the trash, I knew that I couldn’t just take the box and run, so I carefully placed the marked box in the corner of the dumpster. That night I rode my bike the 10-minutes from my house to the school to retrieve my booty. The plan worked perfectly, I had a lifetime supply Book It! certificates and I only read 2 Hardy Boys books! I went to celebrate my success the next day at Pizza Hut, and realized that I ruled the world. However I had two things standing in my way of 4th grade nirvana: 1) I was in 4th grade and my parents generally knew where I was 2) the only Pizza Hut that was within biking distance from my house was sure to catch onto my scam the 3rd time I tried to redeem my personal pan pizza certificate. The charade could only last so long before my house of cards would collapsed.

my mother asked me on saturday if i might want to have laser eye surgery but just on one eye first then later get the other one done. (i have told her for the last three years at least that i'd forsake both my birthday and christmas if they'd foot the bill). no, my family is not what you'd call "upper" middle class. i told her sure, i could just wear an eye patch over the one while we auctioned off my younger sister to collect her dowry. in eastern ohio, you can sometimes get as much as three cows and a small plot of land, only the girl has to have certain size hips of course. if she has all her teeth intact as well you might even be lucky enough to get land with a natural spring bubbling up through it, or, god willing, even some abondoned coal deposits.
has it ever made anyone curious that elevators sometimes post maximum weights and number of occupants, such as "not to exceed 2000 lbs or 13 persons?" what if i stole a bunch of babies from a day care center and stuffed them into an elevator. so if im at the ground floor of the empire state building and i stuck 20 25lb babies into an elevator and sent them up, am i to expect that the car would detect seven too many persons and fail to make the trip to the 86th floor with only 500 lbs on board? or would they in fact defy logic, make it to the top, only to crawl around aimlessly on the observation desk until eventually falling over 1000ft to their grisly deaths? and if a penny could supposedly kill you when tossed from that high imagine what a 25lb baby would do. admittedly they are soft but still i'd think the effect would be something between being hit by a large water balloon and a watermelon. plus, since they would have been up there roaming a while, and surely filling their diapers with poo, when they plunge to their deaths they'd be like a bunch of shitbombs. i think even 20 babies could completely terrorize midtown.
while we're on the subject, surely you could get--what--something like 50 babies into a standard small sized elevator. no, actually i bet i could get at least 100 into a 4'x4' elevator. in fact i'd wager i could get 150 in. so assuming i got 150 live babies into an elevator, how many would still be alive when they get to the top of the empire state building? i think we could create a fairly simple mathematical formula to graph the death rate of the babies as a function of time. of course we would have to attach some sort of sensors to each one detecting their vitals, because surely in the time it would take to extract all the babies from the elevator once on top, some of the little guys stuck all the way at the bottom would die, potentially skewing the results dramatically.

this post is utterly tasteless

do you think it might be fun, next time we're in a crowded bar, to pretend that one of us is deaf and just make random hand signals? if a real deaf person sees us and decides to be offended we could just tell him that ours is a different dialect of hand signing that we learned as part of a government sponsored university experiment to see if a deaf kid could communicate through signing with other people, even if he'd been taught to sign in a different "language." that would shut him up. i think disabilities are the new frontier of bar fun. the best might be muteness. try ordering a red headed slut at the bar while pretending to be mute. or you could be a uniplegic who has no use of the left arm. why is it, actually, that you never see a uniplegic? they're so rare that i don't even know if that's a real term. it's always quadriplegics. maybe some of these "quadriplegics" are just phonies. maybe some of them can actually use their legs, but they're just lazy and want to be able to ride around in a scooter. i say everyone applying for a handicap parking pass should have to prove it. put them in a dogfight pit with an angry rotweiler and see if they can jump or pull themselves to saftey before getting mauled to death. those unfortunate souls who dont make it probably weren't contributing anything to society anyway.
i think it is the responsibility of all able-bodied -minded -etc people to glory in their superiority. really it is just an active way of participating in evolutionary natural selection. and really who wouldn't like to personally change history. i suppose you could argue that cognizent natural selection is just eugenics and maybe you'd be right, but really that term has been unfairly stigmatized by the nazi-fearing public. any time a bubbly young woman whose cunt flower has shriveled and died like a prom night corsage walks into a sperm bank and skims through the donors looking for the best characteristics, she is practicing eugenics. seriously, who wouldn't want to find ways to advance the human race, or at least your own particular set of genes? when i choose not to impregnate a woman with down's syndrome, it is indicative of more than just my preference for women with normal sized foreheads, it also reflects my desire to not have a kid who'll be constantly sticking his tongue out at me.
see, the tricky thing about modern human evolution has to be the presence of money. surely darwin wasn't thinking about this little variable when he was staring at finch turds all day. money will cause an otherwise attractive woman to reproduce with a genetic nightmare. i think that, thanks to money our culture will surely begin to get uglier and uglier. you can actually see evidence of this in the world today. where was capitalism invented? england, i think. where are perhaps the ugliest people in the world? england, quite clearly. where is probably the highest percentage of attractive chicks in the US? the south. where is the most stupid, poverty stricken, ass-backward area of the country? yeah, the south. so you see that, thanks to the blindness of money and greed yielding far more ugly men in successful positions than is natural, we are destroying our beauty. the hottest women are often reproducing with ugly men, completely stifling our society's involuntary march toward beauty. money is making us ugly.

Legalize it!

Uncle Sam Giving Family Fun the Stiff-arm

read the life changing document here

It's 1989 - I at the ripe age of 9 have what appears to be either Fat Man or Little Boy in my hand. As I stare down my 8 year old cousin... I figure.... if I can't win the battle (which I definitely can't - since I throw like an armless polish toddler) then I should win the war and strike a crushing life changing blow to her self esteem and physical person. Possibly taking out an eye, or put a hole in her lung that will give her a cool garglely sound when she breaths or even damaging her brain so her speech is slightly off for the rest of her life.

I wind up to inflict Hiroshima style damage on her person... my lawn dart flies through the air like the space shuttle re entering the atmosphere.... she loses it in the sun... ha! victory! keep looking up you douche!... then I suddenly glance at my dart hurtling through the air... and I notice... It isn’t 1987 it’s now 1989 and Uncle Sam told my dad to pitch our Soviet Union style lawn weaponry with the tomahawk missile style tips, and replace lawn dart with a "lawn toy" that looks like an anal suppository with a stick on the end.

The missile hit on target... first the top of the head (that brain damage i was hoping for) then it slides down to the eye (take that you mannish bitch! eye patch for life!) then it falls off her face and hits her chest (that's one blood filled lung whore!)

So victory is not mine – my teary eyed cousin lives to see another day…. With both eyes….

Dildos at Krogers

Middle America has escaped the innocense that is it's reputation. Hometown stores are stocking vibrators. Now perhaps I'm being a bit presumptuous, but selling a small cyndrillic tube that vibrates to give a better shave comes with some ulterior motives. Every masturbation joke about women in the last 24 years takes place in the shower/bathtub, and now there are commercials airing in primetime, throughout middle america, advertising a pocket rocket that can double as a shaver. It is clear now men who have wives/girlfriends are free to get the happy ending, and if their wives/girlfriends find out, they should not respond in haste. They should calmly walk to the bathroom, pick up the vibrating razor, put it up in the air, and say "Hello pot, this is the kettle". Put the razor back in its place, grab a cold beverage, and proceed to watch PTI. Freedom by other's bondage.

Big Mac Attack

I had a party a few weeks ago. Present at said party were 40-50 friends and acquaintances and a few friends-of-friends, all were welcome. A friend, call him Mr. Smith, brought his girlfriend and a friend of hers… this is where is starts getting interesting. Mr. Smith’s girlfriend, call her Jane. Jane’s friend, call him Dick (for reasons to be revealed later) apparently has a storied past. In 1974 he came up with the famous McDonalds Jingle “two all-beef patties, special sauce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun." One can argue that he just listed the elements of a Big Mac, but nonetheless it caught on. Apparently Dick is a celebrity in his minds eye and is accustom to that delusion. On this given evening he was so taken with himself as a wordsmith, his impact on pop culture and his 31 years of glory, he turned to Mr. Smith as he put out his Pall Mall and said, “I can’t believe no one recognizes me.” Mr. Smith realizing the irrationality of this statement, calmly said, “it must be the lighting.”

A yellabean is born

Legend has it...

It was a warm August night when some hot ass bitches were playing the UNO game of their lives while sipping raspberry coolies... Draw Four's, red eights and Reverse’s were flying around the room like homoerotic undertones on a pirate ship.... and then it happened….

"Whose turn is it?"

innocently questions dw

"IT'S YOUR'S!!!"

an impatient roid raging flavio yells

"Are you yelling at me?"

asks dw as he pulls a "draw two" out as punishment for flavio’s emotional outburst

then suddenly from across the room – a scream erupts from the individual formerly known as Joshua P. Folger

(thought to be caused by the volatile mix of the pressures of UNO, raspberry coolies, and stank ass champagne)

"DID YOU JUST CALL ME YELLABEAN?!?!"

Then a figure appeared in the heavens...

"hence forth my son... ye shall be called yellabean..."

An Apogee

Some might call it Rock Bottom. Some might call it a Reality Check, or a Wake-Up Call. Some might think of it as a final gruesome descent into inescapable depravity. Not me. I call it my zenith, perhaps the crowning achievement of my life to date.
On Saturday, August 20, in the year of our Lord 2005, at approximately 11:30pm, I was denied entrance to a bar. Did I reek too much of booze already? Was I belligerent, drunk and abusive? Was I not wearing any shoes? Had I stepped through a worm hole and been transported to a 1950s bizzaro world where white folk are denied entrance to most public establishments? No. No. I showed up with a wallet full of money and multiple forms of identification. But still, Down the Hatch wanted nothing to do with me. A place that states "We pride ourselves on being affordable and casual," greeted me with cool rejection. A Village bar located next to a sex toy store and requires descending stairs from sidewalk level to enter was too classy for me. A bar whose main attractions are a foosball table and vomit-streaked urinals couldn't stand to digest a vermin such as myself. My crime: style. "No tank tops after 8:00."
It's a wife beater, fucko. And thank you for the greatest moment of my life.

Cliffnotes to the South

Chapter 1

Business Casual

I guess I didnt get the memo, but every meeting, occasion, and ceremony is double pleated khakis and a tucked in polo shirt. Acceptable polo shirts consist of patterns, company insignias, and a sporting gentleman on a horse.

Chapter 2

Douche Bags

a much higher percentage.

Chapter 3

Ralph Lauren

I was not aware of this, but he's big there. Every schmuck with a Piggly Wiggly Visa is out buying polo stuff. I even saw a grown man in pink polo pants, with a tucked in polo shirt, with a polo bungee cord for his sun glasses (which often made the journey from around the neck, to on all while indoors)

Chapter 4

Southern Food

It's awful. Dont buy the lies. Black eyed peas...garbage fried okra...not good. grits...garbage. Boiled Squash..."ive run out of room on my plate but ill be sure to come back". Cornbread...well that was pretty good. Strawbery cake and peach ice cream...yeah that was pretty good too.

Chapter 5

Sweet Tea

Lets call a spade a spade, all sweet tea is is iced tea already sweetened. Its nothing special. I was under the impression that sweet tea was a magic concoction that makes you want to go out and support Ralph. In the north we make iced tea, and allow you to sweeten it yourself. Those pretentious cross burners think they know how much sugar I want in my tea, screw you. If I ever have to go below the waters of the mighty Ohio again, Im going to order sweet tea, and ask for splenda.

Chapter 6

The Lies

a) "the south has progressed"
every place i went was full of rich white people. and you know who was serving me sweet tea and grits, black people. its all white people being served by black people with phrases, like "aw thank you sir, youre so kind" and "hmmm boy that sure was a pretty wedding" even though they werent invited. Its still 1950 in the south, its just the cars they all buy arent as energy efficient as they used to be.

b) southern hospitality
im tired of this and i was there for 36 hours. you know what, everyone in the world isnt mean. They are actually pretty nice. and im tired of everyone in the south implicitly calling everyone one else assholes. the people of the south are nice, just like everyone else.
im sure the black people in the south think its real hospitable that all you white ladies open up your homes and let them serve you waffles and grits. and then you drive out of town really fast so you dont get lynched. i guess lynch mobs and cross burnings is something you leave out when you talk about the tradition of southern hopsitality. im sure minorities feel really welcome.

Weird Science

USA Today reports ....today.... that some scientists (wackos) have apparently seen Jurassic Park one too many times and have proposed to re-wild the United States by reintroducing large beasts into the Great Plains in an attempt to "restore the environmental balance" of 13,000 years ago. Never mind a few ice ages in between, evidently. Writing in the science jounal, Nature, these P.T. Barnum incarnates plan to stock the breadbasket of America with giant tortoises, elephants, lions, cheetahs, and camels. Yes--camels. Now, sure, I have just as hard a time respecting Plains natives' rights to life as the next guy, but can this really be a good idea? Is there nothing else these "scientists" could be working on while absorbing all that public grant money? I could come up with a plan to kill and terrorize midwesterners, too, and it would necessarily be far easier to implement (how about relasing a bunch of artistic, atheist homosexuals into their midst?). Maybe I'm overreacting though, tortoises and camels are rather benign after all. But maybe I'm not, as suggested by a link right on the homepage of the very same Nature: "Lion attacks on the rise." On the bright side, now all we need to do is find some midgets, move them to Nebraska, and let the experiment conduct itself.

VATICAN CITY - (AP) Today is a great day to be an American. The Chicken is in the Hall of Fame. The San Diego Padres Famous Chicken, after a long career of high-brow comedy, has finally received the ultimate gesture of respect from his peers, being selected as an inaugural member of the Mascot Hall of Fame after three long days of balloting here.

Aunt Jemima, a member of the selection committee, put it this way: "well, him bein a chiken an me bein syrup, i din hab much 'casion a meetin im, but still, who dun' lub a chicken? i mean, dam boy, i's goooood, speshly wit duh skins on."

Another individual instrumental in the election of the Chicken was the Pirate Parrot: "People have always assumed that the Chicken and I don't like each other, and maybe, at the beginning of our rivalry, that was true, but believe me, I've come to appreciate his work as much as the next bird. Back in the 80s when Big Bird, god rest his yellow soul, ruled the roost, the Chicken and I were just scrappers trying to get our claws in the door. I admit, early on I resented him, mainly because he did his work in San Diego--beats Pittsburgh by a feather, let me tell you. Plus everybody knows West Coasters don't know shit about sports so of course it's easier to entertain a crowd that doesn't really care if you've got an outfield of Bonds-Van Slyke-Bonilla. You've got to respect the game in a place like that. I mean, I had a strict limit of just three dances on top of the dugout and one pull-down-the-umpire's-pants rountine per game. I had to earn everything I got, damn stupid chicken--I mean he can't even talk! What the fuck? Can't believe I let that stupid n----- bitch convince me to vote for him."

The Chicken joins fellow sporting mascots the Gorilla and the Philly Phanatic as members of the inaugural class. The three will be formally enshrined in a cermony led by Hall President Mr. Clean on November 25, the day after Thanksgiving. President Clean allowed The Chicken to select the setting for the ceremony, and in an apparent guesture of both spite and respect he chose to hold it at a chopping block in Plymouth, Massachusetts. The Chicken easily received the largest share of votes, carrying the support of 34 of the 39 members of the panel. 20 votes are needed for enshrinement.

The Chicken is said to have had a career 68% effective rate in making children laugh with only a 6% cry rate, the latter number being the best all time. His laugh rate for adults, 46%, is second only to the great Mickey Mouse himself, though Mickey's 55% rate has been called into question recently based on some question as to whether his pre-war stats should be counted, since we all know that was the dead-joke era when you could do pretty much anything and get a laugh. It should be noted that in general these statistics are difficult to pinpoint, because sometimes a kid will just smile and it's hard to draw the line between an open-mouthed smile and a true laugh; also some people will cry while laughing. In either case, The Chicken's case was extremely strong.

The new Hall, currently under construction in Centerville, Ohio, an extremely uppity suburb of Dayton, located just a few clicks away from the real world, is scheduled to open next spring. President Clean explains the odd choice of location: "You know, all the other Halls of Fame--is it 'Halls' or is it 'Fames,' silly me I always mess that up--are in cute little no-name cities so we thought, why not us? Centerville is also home to my partner, the Brawny Man, and you know he gets fussy when I ignore him. Plus, I'm told that approximately 1 in 10 people living in New York City are from Centerville, and it's always nice to have a presence in such a chic, metropolitan, and open-minded place like that. Brings in the dollars, you know."

i had a dream that i had testicular cancer. i was waiting in the hospital room or whatever it was and when the doctor came in, i remember being extremely relieved that he was a man. does this mean that i'm subconsciously gay, or subconsciously straight?
last night around 9 i was talking to a friend walking around midtown east while stopped waiting off the curb to cross 3rd ave i think. two girls, one squatty, one top-heavy, were trying to hail a cab next to us. i happened to use the word 'kilometer' in a sentence when top-heavy turns, pauses for maybe three seconds and gives me a look that means either she's just been anally penetrated or she's a bimbo, and repeats, "kilometer?" then laughs and continues gabbing with squatty. now let me clarify something first: my pronunciation of kilometer was "kil-AH-meh-ter" and not the perhaps more common "KIL-o-mee-ter." so anyway, i was amused by this and looked right back at top-heavy, into those vacant eyes, and said again, much louder: "kil-AH-me-ter. you know, fucking metrics, you stupid imperialist stooge." she just laughed of course, cause she wasn't, in fact, taking it up the ass at that particular moment.

The Apocalypse is 45 Minutes Away

There are several reasons this is becoming more plausible by the day. As happenstance has it, they all revolve around the evolution of my father. By evolution I do not wish to indicate an upward spiral to the pinnacle of manhood, but rather the withering to the sea of estrogen. Another word should be used, but I do not know that word, so we move on.

I used to have a father named Jeff, he was closer to a Jethro than Jeff, but since we live 32 miles above the Ohio River Jeff seemed an appropriate, yet begrudging substitute. It now seems as though my dad has delusions of Nova Scotian grandeur, and the only barrier to becoming Sir Geoff Williams is the lack of free time to run down to the license bureau and make it official.

Some concrete examples so the next loud noise you hear, you find some cover.

1) Jethro changed his own oil, Geoff now takes it to Jiffy Lube.
2) Jethro went swimming in ponds, Geoff has a poolhouse
3) Jethro drank Miller Lite because Rusty Wallace drove the Miller Lite car, Geoff drinks Michelobe Ultra because he doesnt want to get fat.
4) Jethro used to come home from work with grime on his hands, Geoff comes home from work smelling like Dove Body Wash
5) Jethro used to advocate bombing any place with sand, Geoff is reflective on diplomacy abroad.
6) Jethro used to show up at 6 for dinner, Geoff now fixes most dinners
7) Jethro used styrofoam coolers always having more than one in the garage, Geoff has a commercial beer fridge in the pool house
8) Jethro had a pickup truck w/o air conditioning, Geoof has a truck with leather seats
9) Jethro used phrases such as "tighter than a nun's cunt", Geoff uses phrases such as prone to fiscal responsibility
10) Jethro would follow W into a forrest fire, Geoff is still defining his political views
11) Jethro squinted, Geoff wears Hugo Boss glasses
12) Jethro tucked in t-shirts to jean shorts, Geoff tucks in t-shirts to jean shorts.
13) Jethro watched his son play football, Geoff watches his stepson play tennis
14) Jethro listend to K99.1FM (its country), Geoff listnes to Warm 98 (its warm 98)
15) Jethro smoked cigarettes two at a time, Geoff is thinking about going on the patch
16) Jethro didnt understand how someone could buy a car from the japs, Geoff's wife drives a Lexus

The list keeps going, but I want all of you to go stock up on water.

There is hope in the last words Geoff gave me that Jethro is on the return. It was an analogy, which is scary in its own right, about how sometimes you have to spend a little money to get the best.

"Son, sometimes you pass on the 15 dollar blow job becuase you know the 25 dollar one is going to be worth it. Thats why the government cant do shit right, becuase they contract anything out to the lowest bidder. If I was one of those astronauts I would smuggle some heat shields and super glue in my pocket before I went up. Alright, come on out to the pool tomorrow, new yorks made you pale."

important questions

i'd like to open up a roundtable discussion with whoever wants to join. last night i had sex in a dream with somebody from work. not somebody i work with (cause that would be positively perverse) but somebody who i see daily here at work. so the question is this: could i approach this person and tell her i had a dream about her, being honest about the fucking? further, could i then ask if it's ok to have a run-through to check on the overall veracity of the dream?

another ponderance has occurred to me, regarding meeting/talking to chicks in bars. i'm not really one for protocol so always open to new approaches. when you meet someone you can apply a formula for how long it will take you to determine if you want some of it: time(t) = 2 x distance(d). distance here is length, in meters, you are from the girl when first meeting her, while time is of course in seconds. (equal sign) should be (less than or equal to) but i don't know how to type that. variables such as overhead lighting, jersey and/or long island accents, beers consumed, distance between subject's bellybutton and the top of her pants, etc etc, can also be factored in but the above formula works well enough for most purposes. so as you can see if you are in a bar booth that is 8 meters from door to the bar when a girl walks in, it will take you no more than 16 seconds to make a decision. of course if she is moving toward you then the equation would be more complex but if graphed would simply rise up from the y-axis and then plateau after a few seconds. so we can see how superfluous it is to carry on a 10-15, or, god save us, a longer conversation simply in order to secure either a phone number or a cab ride to her place, pronto. this is what i propose--upon taking the necessary time to make a decision based on our formula, we as predatory males, should accost the subject with something like this: "hello. i think that you are (hot, cute, a babe, attractive, ugly but accent-free--however tactful a word is for you to decide). can i have (your number, body, mouth, etc) now?" now being a very important word here, of course.