1) Pirates.
Stop it, just... stop. You dumb bastards are trying to tell me that a bunch of guys wearing earrings and brightly colored silk shirts that spend way too much time on a boat alone together is badass? Fuck you.
There's a reason sailors are called seamen, and I think we all know why.
2) Nerds that aren't really nerds.
Look, if you dig comics, role playing games or videogames, that's fine. Do your thing and nerd out to whatever you want to (just don't be around me unless you've showered...).
But if I see one more "hipster" with a Batman t-shirt, thick, fashionable glasses and plugging away on his apple iBook while listening to Tiger Army trying to debate with me the comic book medium as a whole with no real concept of the genre save a few issues of Spawn he once looked at and the one time he read Watchmen, I'm going to murder him.
3) People
There's just way too many of 'em.
4) Zombies.
What was once kind of cool has now been totally oversaturated.
Besides, they make absolutely no sense on any level at all. Let's look at the monster list...
Vampires - They need blood to survive, therefore they hunt for human blood.
Frankenstein - Big ass lug who has a retard brain. He just kicks all sorts of ass and can't be stopped because he's dead (sort of) but still eats regular food.
Werewolves - People that turn into huge wolves who eat people. Bitchin'.
Zombies - WTF?!?!?
If they're dead, and there's nothing they can do to stop decomposition, why are they out for brains? 'Cuz of the taste? I think not.
Zombies are stupid just like you.
5) Juno.
Five minutes into this movie and I pumped two rounds into my TV from the double-gage. It wasn't a movie about a teenage girl getting pregnant and evaluating her life through the eyes of a poignant, quirky young woman.
It was a “film” about a bitter thirty-something woman who wished she could go back in time a be a teenage girl so she can say all the bitter things she had no nerve (and none of the intelligence) to say when she WAS a teenage girl. Everything about that movie screamed "I'm a misunderstood, cool broad that every other woman really wants to be but can't because I'm really cooler than them all."
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Manonnaise
I got rejected at the sperm bank today. It wasn’t because my lil’ guys were bad or anything like that; it’s just that I attempted to barter with the nurse for a larger payment.
But let me start at the beginning. I was pondering what I could do to better serve humanity. Knowing me, I couldn’t do much, but then an idea hit me like a snow shovel.
There should be more me on this planet! I figured I was doing the world a disservice by hording my genetics. Something must be DONE!
Seeing as how no woman will come within 20 feet of my person, I came to the conclusion that I should hit up the local sperm bank and make a deposit.
Once there, I was shocked at the mere $75 dollars they were going to give me.
“My knuckle babies are in high demand!” I exclaimed. “I’m the peak of human development!”
I ordered that they shell out at least $50,000 (not including the time spent procuring my “manonnaise“).
That didn’t go over to well with the broad, so I wanted to see the doctor in charge. He told me that that’s not how it worked. There was a price cap, and that cap was $75 dollars.
I told him not to think of this as a donation, but to think of this as an investment.
$50,000 was steep, yes, but with a possibility of creating an army of people with my staggering intelligence, my rugged good looks and the strength of ten men, the world could be saved in under twenty years.
He said no.
Bastard was low-balling me, so I dropped my price to $30,000. It was at that point that he warned me he would call security.
“$15,000?”
I was promptly thrown out.
Fine. If humankind doesn’t want to be saved, then fuck them.
But let me start at the beginning. I was pondering what I could do to better serve humanity. Knowing me, I couldn’t do much, but then an idea hit me like a snow shovel.
There should be more me on this planet! I figured I was doing the world a disservice by hording my genetics. Something must be DONE!
Seeing as how no woman will come within 20 feet of my person, I came to the conclusion that I should hit up the local sperm bank and make a deposit.
Once there, I was shocked at the mere $75 dollars they were going to give me.
“My knuckle babies are in high demand!” I exclaimed. “I’m the peak of human development!”
I ordered that they shell out at least $50,000 (not including the time spent procuring my “manonnaise“).
That didn’t go over to well with the broad, so I wanted to see the doctor in charge. He told me that that’s not how it worked. There was a price cap, and that cap was $75 dollars.
I told him not to think of this as a donation, but to think of this as an investment.
$50,000 was steep, yes, but with a possibility of creating an army of people with my staggering intelligence, my rugged good looks and the strength of ten men, the world could be saved in under twenty years.
He said no.
Bastard was low-balling me, so I dropped my price to $30,000. It was at that point that he warned me he would call security.
“$15,000?”
I was promptly thrown out.
Fine. If humankind doesn’t want to be saved, then fuck them.
What I Want to Do With My Life
I have a dream
Most people in my line of work aspire to do something great. Write an Academy Award winning film, a legendary Pulitzer Prize winning novel; something that will inspire generations to come.
I want to make the worlds greatest porno.
I’m not talking about some low-budget Vivid feature, or even something that will win an AVN award. I want to create a two-hundred-million dollar epic the likes of which will never be done again by humankind.
First off, it will be financed by large production companies like FOX or Universal. I want to get a big budget director like Ridley Scott with John Williams doing the score. I want stars like Brad Pitt and Scarlett Johansson. Yeah, they’ll use body-doubles when we get to the nitty-gritty, but that where Industrial Light and Magic comes in. If they can make it look like Keanu Reeves is flying, they could make Megan Fox look like she’s getting the ol’ “Chinese finger trap” action.
I want colossal explosions, earth-shattering wars, magnificent CGI fight scenes, lasers, aliens, monsters, spaceships, gods, and a lesbo scene with Angelina Jolie, Jessica Biel, Keira Knightly and Jessica Alba on a floating space station as it crashes onto the surface of Pluto.
People with watch the screen and weep with joy at the incredible motion picture before them. It will win scores of awards, a huge amount of praise and an unstoppable fan following.
And I will look upon you all and smile from my golden throne; rubbing my nude body with hundred dollar bills.
I mean, seriously, it couldn’t be any worse than the shit coming out now, can it?
Most people in my line of work aspire to do something great. Write an Academy Award winning film, a legendary Pulitzer Prize winning novel; something that will inspire generations to come.
I want to make the worlds greatest porno.
I’m not talking about some low-budget Vivid feature, or even something that will win an AVN award. I want to create a two-hundred-million dollar epic the likes of which will never be done again by humankind.
First off, it will be financed by large production companies like FOX or Universal. I want to get a big budget director like Ridley Scott with John Williams doing the score. I want stars like Brad Pitt and Scarlett Johansson. Yeah, they’ll use body-doubles when we get to the nitty-gritty, but that where Industrial Light and Magic comes in. If they can make it look like Keanu Reeves is flying, they could make Megan Fox look like she’s getting the ol’ “Chinese finger trap” action.
I want colossal explosions, earth-shattering wars, magnificent CGI fight scenes, lasers, aliens, monsters, spaceships, gods, and a lesbo scene with Angelina Jolie, Jessica Biel, Keira Knightly and Jessica Alba on a floating space station as it crashes onto the surface of Pluto.
People with watch the screen and weep with joy at the incredible motion picture before them. It will win scores of awards, a huge amount of praise and an unstoppable fan following.
And I will look upon you all and smile from my golden throne; rubbing my nude body with hundred dollar bills.
I mean, seriously, it couldn’t be any worse than the shit coming out now, can it?
Fuckin-A
I’m driving on the freeway after a particularly pleasant evening, when I hit a mad build-up of traffic. Now, keep in mind that it’s 11:15 pm. I should have a clear shot home.
But no. That’s not how life works.
At first, I assumed that it was some dumbass accident. You all know, some cum-stain driving his civic like it was a motherfuckin’ 1.6 million dollar Bugatti and he was Vin Diesel.
But, no… I started seeing traffic cones. I started seeing spotlights. I started seeing lighted direction lights. That could only mean ONE thing…
Goddamn Caltrans.
So I drove at a snails pace--wait, no. I saw a snail on the side of the rode BEATING me (he was laughing and flipping me off as I ate his dust).
The worst part, THE FUCKING WORST PART, was that they decided to cut down the 5 freeway (for those of you out-of-towners, that is the damn “main-vain” of the west coast. It travels from the Mexican border to the border of Canada.) to two lanes!
TWO FUCKING LANES!!!
There were two things keeping me from bursting my carotid artery popping and spraying a jet of blood from my neck into the number two lane. One, I had my daily dose of alcohol to ride me through my rage and the assumption that those bastards were working on the road. It’s feasible; 11 pm on a Thursday night…
Well fuck me silly with a bent hanger! No work. These ass-tards blocked off a HUGE chunk of the road for no reason at all. NOTHING WAS GOING ON! It turned a twenty-five minute ride (tops) into something more like a forty-five minute voyage into slow torment.
Sometimes, I think Caltrans is just trying to fuck with me. Blocking off roads. Having “detours” that start on the coast and spill out somewhere on the ass-end of the valley. It’s like they’re herding me into the center of the hedge maze.
What I want to do is paint my face with the blood of a few emo‘s that I took out earlier, kick the fucking door off my tiny car, drop a cinder block on the gas, strap my belt on my steering wheel to steady my steed and tip the sumbitch on two wheels. I could then climb on the side facing into the heavens and pull my HUGE blazing Zweihänder from the rear seat (my white hot rage being the fuel that lights the blade on fire).
I would roar at the top of my lungs and swing the flaming sword over my head like that badass St. Michel, hurdling through the construction zone and cleaving heads. “I M THE WAR GOD OF CALIFORNIA! I AM MARS! I AM MURUGAN! I AM TYR! ” I would howl. “You DARE impede my journey!”
“DIE WHERE YOU STAND, FOUL CREATURES OF REFLECTION TAPE AND DAY GLOW ORANGE VESTS!”
What I’ll probably do is write some pathetic, angry blog…
But no. That’s not how life works.
At first, I assumed that it was some dumbass accident. You all know, some cum-stain driving his civic like it was a motherfuckin’ 1.6 million dollar Bugatti and he was Vin Diesel.
But, no… I started seeing traffic cones. I started seeing spotlights. I started seeing lighted direction lights. That could only mean ONE thing…
Goddamn Caltrans.
So I drove at a snails pace--wait, no. I saw a snail on the side of the rode BEATING me (he was laughing and flipping me off as I ate his dust).
The worst part, THE FUCKING WORST PART, was that they decided to cut down the 5 freeway (for those of you out-of-towners, that is the damn “main-vain” of the west coast. It travels from the Mexican border to the border of Canada.) to two lanes!
TWO FUCKING LANES!!!
There were two things keeping me from bursting my carotid artery popping and spraying a jet of blood from my neck into the number two lane. One, I had my daily dose of alcohol to ride me through my rage and the assumption that those bastards were working on the road. It’s feasible; 11 pm on a Thursday night…
Well fuck me silly with a bent hanger! No work. These ass-tards blocked off a HUGE chunk of the road for no reason at all. NOTHING WAS GOING ON! It turned a twenty-five minute ride (tops) into something more like a forty-five minute voyage into slow torment.
Sometimes, I think Caltrans is just trying to fuck with me. Blocking off roads. Having “detours” that start on the coast and spill out somewhere on the ass-end of the valley. It’s like they’re herding me into the center of the hedge maze.
What I want to do is paint my face with the blood of a few emo‘s that I took out earlier, kick the fucking door off my tiny car, drop a cinder block on the gas, strap my belt on my steering wheel to steady my steed and tip the sumbitch on two wheels. I could then climb on the side facing into the heavens and pull my HUGE blazing Zweihänder from the rear seat (my white hot rage being the fuel that lights the blade on fire).
I would roar at the top of my lungs and swing the flaming sword over my head like that badass St. Michel, hurdling through the construction zone and cleaving heads. “I M THE WAR GOD OF CALIFORNIA! I AM MARS! I AM MURUGAN! I AM TYR! ” I would howl. “You DARE impede my journey!”
“DIE WHERE YOU STAND, FOUL CREATURES OF REFLECTION TAPE AND DAY GLOW ORANGE VESTS!”
What I’ll probably do is write some pathetic, angry blog…
The Charlie Method #3
I’m going to teach you kids a thing or two about handling yourself in a good ol’ fashioned bar fight. For the sake of this blog, I’ll call it “The Charlie Method #2” (the Charlie Method #1 is a difficult sexual position that I am currently trying to patent, and if you’re a broad then I may one day teach it to you and Charlie’s Method #3 is a recipe for making cookies).
Before you read on, grasshopper, there are a few rules that you must follow. The first is that you need to know the guy across from you WILL do anything to beat the living cheese out of you. DON‘T HOLD BACK! This is a warrior battle between two titans, not a goddamn pillow fight.
The second is that there are no rules. Use whatever means necessary to teach your opponent a lesson. In the olden days you would fight to the death, but in our time some bureaucratic ass-sniffer deemed murder a capital offence. BAH!
Third is that you didn’t hear anything from me. If you get arrested, chances are that I’m already going to be in the cell next to yours and I WILL romp on your spleen if I hear that you blaming me…
“Charlie’s Method #2”
1) Use whatever object that is lying around you as a weapon. Personally, I like glass bottles (the bigger the better) to smash on your opponent’s head, neck or shoulder (but don‘t exclude heavy drinking glasses or chairs). A good thing to do is scope out the room when you arrive and zoom in on possible armaments like the Terminator. Better safe than sorry.
No one ever won a war by using their hands (except for maybe cavemen or nancy-boys, but they don’t count.)
2) If you are backed into a corner and cannot gather a weapon, you can go for the cock punch. Most men disagree about this move, but then again most men who disagree with me usually end up on the ground clutching their swollen sacks. The upwards swinging motion usually works best, because you hit the intended target without fail and thrust the testicles into the lower-abdomen causing nausea and headaches.
3) Never underestimate the power of a well placed sucker punch. This usually works best if your opponent is an especially smug bastard. With his head turned away to gain recognition with his friends, wind your fist up and fire that piston when he turns back to you. Or, with his chest thrust in front of him and his arms pulled out to his side like a great ape claiming his domain, swing a heavy uppercut into his abdomen and lay him out like a Thai school girl.
Note: If you’re unsure of your opponent’s intentions, remember the famous words of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, “Shoot first, ask questions later.”
4) Look for things on his body to grab onto. I LOVE it when I see a piercing; it’s like a handle from god. Just grab and pull! Same goes for hair or ridiculous clothes. Dreadlocks? Grab and pull! Baggy shirt/pants? Grab and pull! Cowboy hat? Grab and pull!
5) Whoever said to never kick a man when he’s down is a true asshole. ALWAYS kick a man when he’s down! You need to teach this person a lesson that he will remember for the rest of his life: “Never FUCK with (INSERT NAME HERE).” He’s not going to learn that lesson if you have the kid gloves on.
It’s also usually good to spit on ‘im when you’re done.
6) If for whatever reason these things don’t work, remember to RUN LIKE FUCK. If your opponent can take all of that, then he’s one tough bastard and you shouldn’t have fucked with him in the first place.
Just run like fuck and never return…
Before you read on, grasshopper, there are a few rules that you must follow. The first is that you need to know the guy across from you WILL do anything to beat the living cheese out of you. DON‘T HOLD BACK! This is a warrior battle between two titans, not a goddamn pillow fight.
The second is that there are no rules. Use whatever means necessary to teach your opponent a lesson. In the olden days you would fight to the death, but in our time some bureaucratic ass-sniffer deemed murder a capital offence. BAH!
Third is that you didn’t hear anything from me. If you get arrested, chances are that I’m already going to be in the cell next to yours and I WILL romp on your spleen if I hear that you blaming me…
“Charlie’s Method #2”
1) Use whatever object that is lying around you as a weapon. Personally, I like glass bottles (the bigger the better) to smash on your opponent’s head, neck or shoulder (but don‘t exclude heavy drinking glasses or chairs). A good thing to do is scope out the room when you arrive and zoom in on possible armaments like the Terminator. Better safe than sorry.
No one ever won a war by using their hands (except for maybe cavemen or nancy-boys, but they don’t count.)
2) If you are backed into a corner and cannot gather a weapon, you can go for the cock punch. Most men disagree about this move, but then again most men who disagree with me usually end up on the ground clutching their swollen sacks. The upwards swinging motion usually works best, because you hit the intended target without fail and thrust the testicles into the lower-abdomen causing nausea and headaches.
3) Never underestimate the power of a well placed sucker punch. This usually works best if your opponent is an especially smug bastard. With his head turned away to gain recognition with his friends, wind your fist up and fire that piston when he turns back to you. Or, with his chest thrust in front of him and his arms pulled out to his side like a great ape claiming his domain, swing a heavy uppercut into his abdomen and lay him out like a Thai school girl.
Note: If you’re unsure of your opponent’s intentions, remember the famous words of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, “Shoot first, ask questions later.”
4) Look for things on his body to grab onto. I LOVE it when I see a piercing; it’s like a handle from god. Just grab and pull! Same goes for hair or ridiculous clothes. Dreadlocks? Grab and pull! Baggy shirt/pants? Grab and pull! Cowboy hat? Grab and pull!
5) Whoever said to never kick a man when he’s down is a true asshole. ALWAYS kick a man when he’s down! You need to teach this person a lesson that he will remember for the rest of his life: “Never FUCK with (INSERT NAME HERE).” He’s not going to learn that lesson if you have the kid gloves on.
It’s also usually good to spit on ‘im when you’re done.
6) If for whatever reason these things don’t work, remember to RUN LIKE FUCK. If your opponent can take all of that, then he’s one tough bastard and you shouldn’t have fucked with him in the first place.
Just run like fuck and never return…
Huh.
I sit on the beach on a shitty chair with a shitty beer on a shitty day.
It’s not raining, but the storm system looks like a short-hair away.
I take a swig, remembering my life as entirely as I can. The good and the bad.
It gets me thinking, what do I have to look forward to? When I die, will the pearly gates open themselves to me or will I cross the fiery threshold into Beelzebub’s unspeakable realm.
Frankly, I don’t give a damn. For all I know, I’ll simply cease to exist.
I take another swig. Then what’s the point?
Greater (and far less drunk) men than myself have asked that question but fuck it, I’m having an existential debate.
I think that it’s kind of simple. Do the best you can, help your fellow man and experience what you can with the short, insignificant time you have in this world.
Because what it amounts to is this, we all die.
I kill my beer and toss the empty with the rest of his fallen brothers.
The only road to everlasting life is how you are remembered by the people you once touched. Stories of what you did and things that you accomplished. For all I know, my name will be remembered forever (and it probably will with what I did to the Bob’s Big Boy sign in New Mexico, but that’s a story for another time…).
I can see it. The monkey-men in our Planet of the Apes-like future will sing lullabies about Charlie to their fuzzy little children.
I watch the water crash on the coast, the salty mist gently caressing my face, and think “Hell, I made mistakes and goddamn I’ll make a heap of more.”
But, hopefully, not the same ones twice.
That’s when I notice a guy standing next to me, looking down at utter disdain.
“Hey, man! You better think about picking those cans up…”
I rock myself up onto my feet, and stare at the guy from behind my shades.
“What are you, the beach patrol?”
“Nah, I’m the guy that’s gonna’ shove his foot up your ass if you don’t pick that shit up!”
I swivel my head to the trash pile, then back to him. The air around us is still. The wind stops.
That’s when it hits me. Shit, I’m pretty tossed…
Then I hit him with something he obviously didn’t expect.
I vomit all over his Art Center sweatshirt.
He gazes down at his shirt than at me with utter shock.
I smile, bow my head in bravado, turn around and exit, leaving him speechless in my wake.
I guess tomorrow I’ll strive to be the best I can. Today, I take a nap…
It’s not raining, but the storm system looks like a short-hair away.
I take a swig, remembering my life as entirely as I can. The good and the bad.
It gets me thinking, what do I have to look forward to? When I die, will the pearly gates open themselves to me or will I cross the fiery threshold into Beelzebub’s unspeakable realm.
Frankly, I don’t give a damn. For all I know, I’ll simply cease to exist.
I take another swig. Then what’s the point?
Greater (and far less drunk) men than myself have asked that question but fuck it, I’m having an existential debate.
I think that it’s kind of simple. Do the best you can, help your fellow man and experience what you can with the short, insignificant time you have in this world.
Because what it amounts to is this, we all die.
I kill my beer and toss the empty with the rest of his fallen brothers.
The only road to everlasting life is how you are remembered by the people you once touched. Stories of what you did and things that you accomplished. For all I know, my name will be remembered forever (and it probably will with what I did to the Bob’s Big Boy sign in New Mexico, but that’s a story for another time…).
I can see it. The monkey-men in our Planet of the Apes-like future will sing lullabies about Charlie to their fuzzy little children.
I watch the water crash on the coast, the salty mist gently caressing my face, and think “Hell, I made mistakes and goddamn I’ll make a heap of more.”
But, hopefully, not the same ones twice.
That’s when I notice a guy standing next to me, looking down at utter disdain.
“Hey, man! You better think about picking those cans up…”
I rock myself up onto my feet, and stare at the guy from behind my shades.
“What are you, the beach patrol?”
“Nah, I’m the guy that’s gonna’ shove his foot up your ass if you don’t pick that shit up!”
I swivel my head to the trash pile, then back to him. The air around us is still. The wind stops.
That’s when it hits me. Shit, I’m pretty tossed…
Then I hit him with something he obviously didn’t expect.
I vomit all over his Art Center sweatshirt.
He gazes down at his shirt than at me with utter shock.
I smile, bow my head in bravado, turn around and exit, leaving him speechless in my wake.
I guess tomorrow I’ll strive to be the best I can. Today, I take a nap…
Mortal Enemy
I take a swig from my glass of J&C and squint at what I see in front of me.
A monkey. A goddamn monkey.
He returns my thousand yard stare, clutching the little hotel bottle of Jack Daniel’s I thought I hid for emergencies.
It’s my buddy Willie’s damn monkey. I owe him five large and he tells me that if I watch his “chim-chim” for a week while he’s in Tomsk visiting his ailing grandfather, were square.
He leaves me a cage for the thing, but that’s no use. Chim-chim’s smart as hell and figured out how to jimmy the lock on the first day he stayed there. Then he proceeds to whip his dirty diaper off and swing it around the room. I come home from the bar and find my joint spackled with doo-doo.
The only time he calms the hell down is when I let him drink and watch old reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.
(I donno. Get Opie turns ‘im on or something. Kid did look like a chimp…)
So here we are. Last day. He’s looking at me and I looking and him. I’m sauced and he’s plastered.
“Make a move, you hairy little ass-clown,” I say aloud.
Then the little bastard shoves his grimy paw into the back of his diaper, pulls out a hunk of poo and tosses it into my drink.
The sumbitch smiles like it was funny or something.
So this is what it’s like to have a mortal enemy…
A monkey. A goddamn monkey.
He returns my thousand yard stare, clutching the little hotel bottle of Jack Daniel’s I thought I hid for emergencies.
It’s my buddy Willie’s damn monkey. I owe him five large and he tells me that if I watch his “chim-chim” for a week while he’s in Tomsk visiting his ailing grandfather, were square.
He leaves me a cage for the thing, but that’s no use. Chim-chim’s smart as hell and figured out how to jimmy the lock on the first day he stayed there. Then he proceeds to whip his dirty diaper off and swing it around the room. I come home from the bar and find my joint spackled with doo-doo.
The only time he calms the hell down is when I let him drink and watch old reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.
(I donno. Get Opie turns ‘im on or something. Kid did look like a chimp…)
So here we are. Last day. He’s looking at me and I looking and him. I’m sauced and he’s plastered.
“Make a move, you hairy little ass-clown,” I say aloud.
Then the little bastard shoves his grimy paw into the back of his diaper, pulls out a hunk of poo and tosses it into my drink.
The sumbitch smiles like it was funny or something.
So this is what it’s like to have a mortal enemy…
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