My food is like my cock, it'll make you close you eyes and go "Mmmm" when it goes in your mouth. Another thing the two have in common is that they never go near vegetarians. As much as I'd like to take a giant shit on those twisted fucks they're still recovering from the last vegetarian blog post.
There are few things in this world as powerful as food. You eat it all fucking day every fucking day. It can ruin your date and your marriage. With all that said, people need to shut the fuck up about it. Oh my God, hearing a bitch moan about how great her trendy fusion salad was is one thing. Hearing her talk about, "the balance of flavors" or anything doing anything to her palate is unforgivable. Why is she a woman? Because I'm sexist, mother fucker.
Foodies will wax poetic for hours about shit they know nothing about. That's all well and good if you're talking about women or politics but food is something I care about so you keep it out of your whore mouth. The idea of these squash shaped assholes sitting at a keyboard with their weird t-rex arms beating off to Andrew Zimmern makes me sick.
Everyone knows a foodie, they're the people that sigh or scoff when you want a Big Mac and a big ass coke. Don't take their shit, you know that Taco Bell isn't really Mexican food but that doesn't stop it from being delicious. Street tacos are great and eating at the new restaurant up the street is the closest you'll ever get to Vietnam I'm not denying that. I just think foodies should shut the fuck up. It's not going to happen, the only thing that would surprise me more is if the cooked something edible they didn't steal a recipe for.
This blog was brought to you by; Andrew Zimmern the lip smacking idiot, the Julie part of Julie and Julia, Remy in the first half of Ratatouille, people that put "Sushi." as their facebook status, and all those stupid blogs I stumbleupon.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
An Ode to the Good Ole Days: When a Man was a Man and a Woman was something he owned.
When someone's hyperactive little brother punches a hole in the drywall because he can't have hot cheeto's for dinner, a man starts to pine for simpler times and long sleeved shirts that hide bruises well. Nothing seems substantial anymore. The house I live in could be destroyed by ornery senior citizens wielding over ripe vegetables, so can my mental well being and my girlfriend's chastity.
The house I grew up in however was built by my grandpa and made of brick and spite. That house lives on. As does the spite, before my grandpa passed away he sold the surrounding property to a private school that wanted to expand it's campus. He sold 3/4 of his land knowing full well that the school would need the entire lot to build. The school can either eat the money it spent on the 3/4 or spend a hell of a lot of money for the remaining property. So there his house stands blocking education to spoiled fuckers state-wide. I loved that bastard.
What happened to brick houses, steel cars, and a fat Drew Carey? When did the world decide to become one giant parody of itself? It's starting to feel like Laurence Fishburne got mixed up and slipped me a red pill in my drink instead of a roofie. Didn't stop him from raping me though.
Instead of just bitching about all this like I normally do I figured out a solution. Balls. Somehow someway we lost our balls and the world turned to shit. I'm personally going to blame 1920 for the tragedy. I encourage every one that reads this to reach down their pants, find those droopy dick grapes you've got tucked up your ass, and squeeze them until the juice starts running again. Once that's done don't go running to Facebook, you've still got work to do. I don't know what that work entails but it damn well better be based on logic and testosterone. The one-two punch that built Rome and coat hanger abortions. Remember, there's nothing more pathetic than a person that smells like ass just by sitting on it. You should either be getting it or building your fucking kingdom.
The house I grew up in however was built by my grandpa and made of brick and spite. That house lives on. As does the spite, before my grandpa passed away he sold the surrounding property to a private school that wanted to expand it's campus. He sold 3/4 of his land knowing full well that the school would need the entire lot to build. The school can either eat the money it spent on the 3/4 or spend a hell of a lot of money for the remaining property. So there his house stands blocking education to spoiled fuckers state-wide. I loved that bastard.
What happened to brick houses, steel cars, and a fat Drew Carey? When did the world decide to become one giant parody of itself? It's starting to feel like Laurence Fishburne got mixed up and slipped me a red pill in my drink instead of a roofie. Didn't stop him from raping me though.
Instead of just bitching about all this like I normally do I figured out a solution. Balls. Somehow someway we lost our balls and the world turned to shit. I'm personally going to blame 1920 for the tragedy. I encourage every one that reads this to reach down their pants, find those droopy dick grapes you've got tucked up your ass, and squeeze them until the juice starts running again. Once that's done don't go running to Facebook, you've still got work to do. I don't know what that work entails but it damn well better be based on logic and testosterone. The one-two punch that built Rome and coat hanger abortions. Remember, there's nothing more pathetic than a person that smells like ass just by sitting on it. You should either be getting it or building your fucking kingdom.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
My Mental Health Is Fine...But Mine Is Pretty Bad
The United States is a beacon of hope for people around the world. Middle-class Berliners, impoverished Afghans, and gay-hating elderly Southern couples all see this fine country as the leader in freedom, liberty, and American patriotism. Except for the liberals. They won't be satisfied until your teenage daughter is forced to trim her pubic hair to resemble Stalin's mustache.
The USA is on the forefront of personal freedoms, internet usage, and infanticide. There is, however, one area where the US of A falls behind on the world stage: mental health. Our status as the fattest and least educated country has been jeopardized by other nations, but we still kick ass at being crazy.
Picture it: you're in a car on a date with a sixteen-year-old. If you're fifty ignore the spine-tingling jailbait factor for the duration of this scenario. As you try to text message, change lanes, and drink a bottle of the overpriced piss that is Gatorade, your date fiddles with the radio. Things seem to be going dandy, and you may set a record for violated child endangerment laws, when she turns down the radio volume from 11 to 10. The fuck is this, man? Either you can hear it or you can't.
"I'm sorry, I'm just kind of OCD about this kind of stuff," she laughs, "I can't stand it when the volume is on an odd number."
This happens all the time and nobody ever calls someone out on it. You've probably said it before without thinking twice. Maybe you didn't think once. It's a nice way of saying "I'm a controlling cunt and deciding the volume of the guy with mantits from Train's voice is all I can do right now. You're operating the motor vehicle and I'd prefer it was me who was tipsy and almost running over hidden roadside Nigerian joggers." Obsessive-compulsive disorder is one of the few illnesses, along with alcoholism and orgy-style syphilis, that we feel the urge to brag about. Nobody fails a college exam and says, "Whoops, that's just my phenylketonuria talking. Now get that fucking gum away from me."
It's not even about self-diagnosis to excuse your character flaws that is infuriating, it's the lack of effort to maintain consistency. At least try to seem mentally ill. Break into your neighbor's apartment and arrange the dildo collection in their top drawer by size. Go all the way and visit a doctor about your problems. He'll give you a questionnaire to examine your head and hopefully a rectal exam involving a cinder block.
The only other disorder that even comes close on the mental health wishlist is attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Teenagers, especially today's myriad hipsters, love using ADHD as an excuse for their flaws. So do their parents, siblings, and ex-Presidents. You can't read the fine print on your credit card statement but you can meticulously maintain an internet farm? Fifty years ago your behavior would have been labeled annoying and you'd be stuck head-first into an unflushed toilet. Now everyone in a 500 foot radius knows your mental disabilities are the reason you're quirky and unpredictable. It's, like, so cool you're not like those dorks who read books and file their own taxes. You can only focus on doing something for a few minutes at a time? Great! You and four friends can get your shit together and come landscape my yard. I'll make sure to rotate your jobs every few minutes.
Friday, September 24, 2010
An Open Letter To Vegetarians (Please do not eat this)
Vegetarians and vegans (heretofore referred to as veganterians, also leafpoopers) are a special brand of completely wrong. They are wrong not simply for their ideology, and not even for their execution, but their very concept. The foundation upon which most meat-deniers have built their diets is fallacious--a sandy ground which happens to resemble the texture of their feces. Grass-fellatiators have become rampant, and I feel it is my civic duty to tell them that when every girl who has ever loved them told them to "eat shit and die," they did not have to take it literally.
Cabbage-masticators do not realize that in achieving their very goal, they are hypocritically becoming more damaging than any meat industry could be. Let me first define what the evil (anyone who cannot enjoy a salisbury steak is evil, check Leviticus) veganterians want. What they desire is to smugly not eat what has been part of our diet as a species...ever since we've been a species. And they are not content to merely gnaw upon our endtables in peace. No, they hope to spread the disease, they hope to inseminate us with their filthy love of soy, a material so vile that even Stephen Hawking twitches ever so slightly at the sight of it. They want us...to become like them.
And why do they desire it? Because they pity the animals. They deplore the brutal endgame employed by the livestock industry- the maturation, followed by the slaughter, of their poor little darlings. And so they aim to have us eat moss and lichen, to chew upon bark and to eat whatever the hell that red soupy stuff is. In short-- to murder our mouths.
But what if they were to get their wish? What if every rotund, heartily-sated patriot of a man, and every round-bottomed porterhouse steak of a woman, were to suddenly submit to our anemic overlords, and convert our meaty loins into withered collared greens? If the world stopped eating meat, what would happen to the noble chicken, the proud pig, and the hilarious emu?
Perhaps these soy-based organisms have not had sufficient mental energy to piece together the consequences of turning our wonderfully brown sewer system permanently green, but I have thought for them, just as I have been eating several times the appropriate amount of meat for them for the last several decades.
If tomorrow, soy replaced all meat, and all meat-related delicacies, not only would we become really irritating douchebags that smell faintly of rye bread and excrement, but instead of free-grazing animals, there would only be soy. The chicken old farmer dan had in his old rusty coop? Gone. Replaced by a small patch of soy and marijuana. Because we had to legalize marijuana if we were getting rid of meat-- can't have the entire world killing itself, can we?
So what would happen to the animals that the veganterians wanted so badly to protect? They would cease to be--cease to exist. Populations of enormous densities, densities higher than even the heads of the Bristolest of Palins, would be wiped out. Cows would belong in zoos-- their presence in a field would now be considered an act of vandalism, and they'd be forced to pick up garbage by the side of road in orange jumpsuits. But their hooves would not be able to properly work the pointy sticks and it would waste everyone's time, although the legal weed would make the whole process a lot funnier to watch.
And so by hoping to save these animals, the leafpoopers would destroy them! Now I ask you: What kind of activism is that?
The leafpoopers might rebut me-- "It is better to not live than to suffer as greatly as these animals would have had to suffer in captivity," they may utter, as their teeth fall out due to malnutrition, and perhaps awl To that I say this: Oh really now? Is that the logic by which you hope to protect your position? Transferring this principle, I suggest we attach a nuclear bomb to some fried chicken and deploy it upon the continent of Africa. After all, their conditions are so deplorable, that it is better not to live than it is to suffer their indignities. They shall die as they have lived; stereotypically eating fried chicken.
Thus, I have demonstrated the absurdity of the veganterian movement, the futility of its cause, and the insanity of its proprietors. But fear not, veganterians. Although I have beaten you savagely, I do not wish to do the same to the animals you have loved. I am an advocate for the improvement of livestock living conditions.
That is why, when we put you, the veganterians, into small cages, I propose that we change your lettuce dishes several times a day, and change your diapers regularly so as to prevent finickiness. We must remember, you're almost people.
Cabbage-masticators do not realize that in achieving their very goal, they are hypocritically becoming more damaging than any meat industry could be. Let me first define what the evil (anyone who cannot enjoy a salisbury steak is evil, check Leviticus) veganterians want. What they desire is to smugly not eat what has been part of our diet as a species...ever since we've been a species. And they are not content to merely gnaw upon our endtables in peace. No, they hope to spread the disease, they hope to inseminate us with their filthy love of soy, a material so vile that even Stephen Hawking twitches ever so slightly at the sight of it. They want us...to become like them.
And why do they desire it? Because they pity the animals. They deplore the brutal endgame employed by the livestock industry- the maturation, followed by the slaughter, of their poor little darlings. And so they aim to have us eat moss and lichen, to chew upon bark and to eat whatever the hell that red soupy stuff is. In short-- to murder our mouths.
But what if they were to get their wish? What if every rotund, heartily-sated patriot of a man, and every round-bottomed porterhouse steak of a woman, were to suddenly submit to our anemic overlords, and convert our meaty loins into withered collared greens? If the world stopped eating meat, what would happen to the noble chicken, the proud pig, and the hilarious emu?
Perhaps these soy-based organisms have not had sufficient mental energy to piece together the consequences of turning our wonderfully brown sewer system permanently green, but I have thought for them, just as I have been eating several times the appropriate amount of meat for them for the last several decades.
If tomorrow, soy replaced all meat, and all meat-related delicacies, not only would we become really irritating douchebags that smell faintly of rye bread and excrement, but instead of free-grazing animals, there would only be soy. The chicken old farmer dan had in his old rusty coop? Gone. Replaced by a small patch of soy and marijuana. Because we had to legalize marijuana if we were getting rid of meat-- can't have the entire world killing itself, can we?
So what would happen to the animals that the veganterians wanted so badly to protect? They would cease to be--cease to exist. Populations of enormous densities, densities higher than even the heads of the Bristolest of Palins, would be wiped out. Cows would belong in zoos-- their presence in a field would now be considered an act of vandalism, and they'd be forced to pick up garbage by the side of road in orange jumpsuits. But their hooves would not be able to properly work the pointy sticks and it would waste everyone's time, although the legal weed would make the whole process a lot funnier to watch.
And so by hoping to save these animals, the leafpoopers would destroy them! Now I ask you: What kind of activism is that?
The leafpoopers might rebut me-- "It is better to not live than to suffer as greatly as these animals would have had to suffer in captivity," they may utter, as their teeth fall out due to malnutrition, and perhaps awl To that I say this: Oh really now? Is that the logic by which you hope to protect your position? Transferring this principle, I suggest we attach a nuclear bomb to some fried chicken and deploy it upon the continent of Africa. After all, their conditions are so deplorable, that it is better not to live than it is to suffer their indignities. They shall die as they have lived; stereotypically eating fried chicken.
Thus, I have demonstrated the absurdity of the veganterian movement, the futility of its cause, and the insanity of its proprietors. But fear not, veganterians. Although I have beaten you savagely, I do not wish to do the same to the animals you have loved. I am an advocate for the improvement of livestock living conditions.
That is why, when we put you, the veganterians, into small cages, I propose that we change your lettuce dishes several times a day, and change your diapers regularly so as to prevent finickiness. We must remember, you're almost people.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Because Sauntering Is Sacred
Sauntering is the best means of conveyance. It's cool, it's confident, and it's most definitely not for orphans. Let me explain. Today my saunter was in full effect, my arms were swinging, I was a-whistlin, and my feet were in rhythm when lo and behold a child appeared. His saunter was immature and sloppy but I could tell his heart was in the right place. "Where are your parents little guy?" I inquired. "I don't have any parents. They died when I was a baby." Well then fuck you, little guy. Get off my street, go back to your understaffed federally funded hellhole, and start writing dark poetry. You're a mother fucking orphan. What are you doing outside alone? I mean, I get why you're alone but why aren't you as lonely as I am? None of this makes sense. Everything is wrong. And do you know why? I'll tell you why. The got-danged media.
Batman is an orphan. He grew up bitter and full of hatred and started kicking ass. Now Batman showed that orphans could grow up and kind of contribute to society, (not like that pussy criminal Oliver!) but also that they were still totally unrelatable. Nobody with parents would dress in a giant bat suit and be best friends with a butler because that's fucking stupid. Then Harry Potter happened. All of a sudden orphans were hot shit and it went right to their heads. They feel like they can do anything-- from combating dark wizards to opening successful small businesses and everything in between. If we aren't careful, they'll start politicking their way to the top. Before you know it they'll be demanding equal rights and you know what that means. Marriage. Orphans only want to get married so they can murder-suicide and create more orphans. They'll keep doing it until being an orphan is the norm and we'll all be godless heathens, fighting crime, solving mysteries, and/or singing our way into billionaires' hardened hearts. I refuse to let this happen.
Today I stole a child’s ice cream cone, scuffed his knees, and reminded him he has no one to kiss it better. I did my part, now do yours.
--Contributed by SoulPatch
Batman is an orphan. He grew up bitter and full of hatred and started kicking ass. Now Batman showed that orphans could grow up and kind of contribute to society, (not like that pussy criminal Oliver!) but also that they were still totally unrelatable. Nobody with parents would dress in a giant bat suit and be best friends with a butler because that's fucking stupid. Then Harry Potter happened. All of a sudden orphans were hot shit and it went right to their heads. They feel like they can do anything-- from combating dark wizards to opening successful small businesses and everything in between. If we aren't careful, they'll start politicking their way to the top. Before you know it they'll be demanding equal rights and you know what that means. Marriage. Orphans only want to get married so they can murder-suicide and create more orphans. They'll keep doing it until being an orphan is the norm and we'll all be godless heathens, fighting crime, solving mysteries, and/or singing our way into billionaires' hardened hearts. I refuse to let this happen.
Today I stole a child’s ice cream cone, scuffed his knees, and reminded him he has no one to kiss it better. I did my part, now do yours.
--Contributed by SoulPatch
Friday, September 17, 2010
A Trip In The Woods
The winds tore through the wilderness below an intimidating full moon. Some people believe in the “Butterfly Effect.” Those who don’t need not worry on this foul night. Those who do, however, would have been very frightened by the fart that slipped out of a camper’s sleeping bag that evening. Mother Nature’s gassy visitor was not awakened easily, perhaps due to his many years on board an all-male aircraft carrier. Unfortunately he remained asleep when the caped hero entered his temporary dwelling, nude from the waist down except for two brown, knee-high socks. Tonight would be an easy victory as long as the black bears remained asleep.
The visitor crept into the tent, after successfully minimizing the noise of the outer zippers, and silently watched his prey. Tonight was a perfect night for his game he enjoyed playing with hikers along the Appalachian Trail. He got into position and knelt over the slumbering man’s face, the beard lightly tickling his buttocks, and imagined himself in his happy place. By imagining himself in a shoe factory in a South American free-trade zone, and by practicing meditation, he was able to relax his stomach and intestines. The monochromatic form of a bat glided across the side of the tent like a warship crossing the Pacific; he knew he wasn’t the only predator in this neck of the woods.
To prepare for tonight’s activities he had eaten a hearty meal which featured a steak, beans, chili, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a chocolate milkshake. A Peloponnesian battle ravaged his bowels – it was time. The quartet was playing in the woods this evening: his heavy breath, the violent wind, the flapping of his winged companion, and the rustling of leaves. He released his soft-serve-like excrement onto the face of his victim. His beard was transformed from black to brown as the sludge made its way into the crevasses of his neck. Tonight’s activities were going splendidly well and it was almost time to depart. The final obstacle was using his weak leg muscles to push himself up and away from danger.
What was that noise? It must have just been the leaves; one tends to become paranoid when their man-eggs are inches away from twenty-something sharp teeth. The wind would allow him an effortless exit from the foul-smelling tent. Ah, shit (no pun intended). That can’t be the leaves. Suddenly the brown-faced, bewildered gentleman screamed and made a Herculean effort to sit upright. His nose became lodged in the caped crusader’s anus causing both men to scream as loud as their post-pubescent bodies could permit. This was, without a doubt, the worst night of both of their lives.
When your evening involves feces, a cheap Walmart tent, a pretentious camouflage sleeping bag, and a total stranger your mind tends to go into overdrive. Your weaker senses grow stronger as your eye muscles atrophy due to the ensuing chaos. There was another soul stirring at this ungodly hour. Someone, perhaps a nearby camper hoping to provide assistance or some laxatives from his first aid kit, was making their way towards the Turd Tent.
Suddenly something swiped through the side of the tent and the camouflage was stained with blood. The bears may have arrived black, but one can be certain they departed the foul tent stained brown.
--Contributed by Kyle
The visitor crept into the tent, after successfully minimizing the noise of the outer zippers, and silently watched his prey. Tonight was a perfect night for his game he enjoyed playing with hikers along the Appalachian Trail. He got into position and knelt over the slumbering man’s face, the beard lightly tickling his buttocks, and imagined himself in his happy place. By imagining himself in a shoe factory in a South American free-trade zone, and by practicing meditation, he was able to relax his stomach and intestines. The monochromatic form of a bat glided across the side of the tent like a warship crossing the Pacific; he knew he wasn’t the only predator in this neck of the woods.
To prepare for tonight’s activities he had eaten a hearty meal which featured a steak, beans, chili, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a chocolate milkshake. A Peloponnesian battle ravaged his bowels – it was time. The quartet was playing in the woods this evening: his heavy breath, the violent wind, the flapping of his winged companion, and the rustling of leaves. He released his soft-serve-like excrement onto the face of his victim. His beard was transformed from black to brown as the sludge made its way into the crevasses of his neck. Tonight’s activities were going splendidly well and it was almost time to depart. The final obstacle was using his weak leg muscles to push himself up and away from danger.
What was that noise? It must have just been the leaves; one tends to become paranoid when their man-eggs are inches away from twenty-something sharp teeth. The wind would allow him an effortless exit from the foul-smelling tent. Ah, shit (no pun intended). That can’t be the leaves. Suddenly the brown-faced, bewildered gentleman screamed and made a Herculean effort to sit upright. His nose became lodged in the caped crusader’s anus causing both men to scream as loud as their post-pubescent bodies could permit. This was, without a doubt, the worst night of both of their lives.
When your evening involves feces, a cheap Walmart tent, a pretentious camouflage sleeping bag, and a total stranger your mind tends to go into overdrive. Your weaker senses grow stronger as your eye muscles atrophy due to the ensuing chaos. There was another soul stirring at this ungodly hour. Someone, perhaps a nearby camper hoping to provide assistance or some laxatives from his first aid kit, was making their way towards the Turd Tent.
Suddenly something swiped through the side of the tent and the camouflage was stained with blood. The bears may have arrived black, but one can be certain they departed the foul tent stained brown.
--Contributed by Kyle
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Fuck These Tubes
A person need only look at history to see what a depressing shit hole this place is. Kennedy was shot, Lizzie Borden whacked, and giant snow storms swept across the Midwest forcing families to leave their shitty states in hopes to find paradise only to discover that rural Kansas was really the best they could do. Not to mention all the mayhem the White Devil caused. White power my ass. Anyways, you can look at all that and wonder, "how could it get any worse?" The mother fucking internet.
Do you know how long it's been since I've been outside? How many 16 year old boobs I've seen? That the ratio of computer boobs to real life boobs I've seen is 795:1? That I'm masturbating to illegally downloaded porn in one tab and listening to a person getting quartered in a third world country in another whilst I type a blog riddled with spelling mistakes? I'm not the only loser typing his life away. I'm not even the most pathetic (I'm not the worst looking either, ladies) but I'll be damned if I haven't gotten so used to facebook chat that I have to consciously refrain from whipping my dick out five minutes into a conversation with a flesh and blood female.
If I could, I'd go back to the time when the only memes were hard work and domestic abuse. Sure it'd be harder to find a Brazilian midget that wants something in every orifice but I wouldn't know what I was missing. Also, Coke would cost a nickel.
--Contributed by Soul Patch
Do you know how long it's been since I've been outside? How many 16 year old boobs I've seen? That the ratio of computer boobs to real life boobs I've seen is 795:1? That I'm masturbating to illegally downloaded porn in one tab and listening to a person getting quartered in a third world country in another whilst I type a blog riddled with spelling mistakes? I'm not the only loser typing his life away. I'm not even the most pathetic (I'm not the worst looking either, ladies) but I'll be damned if I haven't gotten so used to facebook chat that I have to consciously refrain from whipping my dick out five minutes into a conversation with a flesh and blood female.
If I could, I'd go back to the time when the only memes were hard work and domestic abuse. Sure it'd be harder to find a Brazilian midget that wants something in every orifice but I wouldn't know what I was missing. Also, Coke would cost a nickel.
--Contributed by Soul Patch
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