Wednesday, December 22, 2010

If a Trees Falls in the Forest and No One is there to Hear it, Does it Make a Sound?

This is a very pertinent question on 12/22/10. Why? Well, let me ask you this: If the UCONN women's basketball team breaks the all-time NCAA basketball record for consecutive games won, and no one gives a flying fuck, was the record really broken? If you ask me, I say UCLA still holds the record. If women's and men's basketball were essentially equal, maybe. But a simple comparison of the following will make it apparent that they are nowhere near equal:
1. Revenues generated by men's college basketball versus women's
2. Attendance at men's games versus women's
3. TV ratings of men's games versus women's
4. The number of different teams that have won a national championship in the past 25 years in men's college basketball versus the number of different teams which have won national championships in women's college basketball in the past 25 years
Very few people give a shit about women's college basketball. Sorry Ms. Femi-Nazi, but you can't look at the sky and argue it is magenta. This isn't a chauvinist thing, this isn't gender inequality, this isn't a male-dominated society trying to keep women in their place. This is facts. This is reality. There are a very small handful of teams in women's college basketball who are good. There a ton who absolutely fucking suck. It is like Brunei. Sure, the Sultan and a few of his homies are rick as shit, but then there is the rest of Brunei. In the past 16 years, there have been 6 different women's champions. UCONN has 7 of those titles, Tennessee has 5. 75% of the titles with two teams in this span, with over 100 teams total. In the 29 total years of the women's tournament existing, these two schools have won 15 titles, or 52%. No one else can win. Who cares that you are beating absolutely no one. If I take 4 of my friends to elementary school playgrounds and win 5,000 straight games, who gives a fuck? I will promise you that Hasbro Games is not furiously pumping out new versions of Trivial Pursuit to alter the answer to the question "Who holds the record for most consecutive games won in college basketball?" from "UCLA" to "UCONN". There is no reason to compare these records. Whatever the previous women's record was....well you eclipsed that. You didn't eclipse UCLA. Deal with it.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The Scout Chronicles: I Just Learned the Story of Jesus Today from that Religious Freak Beagle in the Dog Park

He told me all about it. I think that little fucker is tooting blow in his kennel all day. He will not shut the fuck up about Christ and the Holy Spirit and how you've got to give up dry-humping shit if you ever want St. Peter to open the fucking golden gates for you and blah, bark, blah. I mean Jesus Christ dude, give it a rest. Some of us are trying to sniff some anus around here, not listen to you drone on endlessly about your savior. Anyway, I listened long enough to catch the gist of the story: A virgin teenage girl gets knocked up by a ghost, without any sex occurring, mind you, and gives birth to the apparently fully human son of an omnipotent entity who is nowhere and everywhere all at once, floating around in a cloud paradise somewhere, presumably above us given that is where all the Latin baseball players point when they cross home plate after going yard, and all the VIPs in town want to kill the baby, even though they haven't a fucking clue who he is to begin with.......HAH! You have got to be fist-fuckin' me dude! Maybe I would have bought that story when I was like 6 months old and still pissing the rug. But the Scoutmeister shits outside now and doesn't need fairy tales anymore. I mean come the fuck on. I don't buy that story, and I still think grizzly bears on TV are in our living room. I'm just saying beagle, you're going to have to get up a lot earlier in the morning to pull that one over on ol' Scouter. I'm not really on board with this whole story my parents have been feeding me either, the one about this fat-fuck in a red suit who is apparently going to sneak into our condo through the chimney on our gas fireplace, somehow without me hearing him (and I wake up when our neighbor 4 doors down the hall cuts a fart in the middle of the night, mind you). However, at least that fucking guy is supposedly bringing me some sweet potato treats and a stuffed rhino this weekend, so I'm not laughing them out of the building when they spin that ghost story. Live and let live beagle, I'm going to go run around in circles until I'm dizzy and then bark at that old lady sitting on that bench. Hope the savior and his son bring you some cool shit on Saturday.

Whatever Happened to Honesty and Integrity in the Pan-Handling Business?

If you are starving, then look fucking starving. When you are trying to sell me your starvation 150 pounds overweight and wearing brand new retro Air Jordans, pardon fucking me when my heart refuses to bleed and my wallet remains sheathed. When you walk the streets of Chicago, you see a lot of the gentleman in the lower photo asking for help to get something to eat, but very little of the gentleman on the top asking the same. There used to be integrity in pan-handling. I recall a time that when approached by a pan handler you had to really consider if that person was starving or just in dire need of some Thunderbird. I'd respond much more positively if a vagrant walked up to me, said "Pardon me (and not in that woe-is-me pussy assed way, but like you meant it) sir, but I'd like to smoke some rock today and wash it down with a couple of 22-ounce pounders of Steel Reserve. I'm currently underfunded and seeking some start-up capital. Are you interested?" Depending on my mood I'd say there is a 30% chance I'd give him $1. That is a much greater chance than the 0% you have when you are built like Fat Albert and tell me "Can you help me get somethin' to eat?". No, I can't help you Pigman. It appears you've plenty of help in stuffing your fat gullet. Now fuck off. If you want me to buy that you're starving, you've got to sell it. Be skinny. Be frail. Look wild with hunger. Try to entice a fly to land on your eyeball. Have a distended belly. Look a little more like Gentleman A on the top above. There is too much dishonestly in the world today without the noble pan-handler reducing himself to running Ponzi schemes.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Could Somone Please Buy Me the Brett Favre "The Streak 297 Starts" Autographed Football for Christmas....

.....So that I can punch you right in your fucking stupid face.

And then de-friend you on Facebook. Then block all of your email addresses. Then erase your phone number from my cell. Then call your parents and tell them I saw you making out with a gay dude at a bar, in the corner behind the jukebox, to an Elton John song, and your hand was in his pants. Then break into your house when you aren't there and download "Hardcore Elementary School Orgy" onto your hard drive with a shortcut on the desktop called "Sand Storm". Then call the Department of Homeland Security anonymously from a pay phone and tell them I overheard you talking to a Jihad'ish looking dude at the WalMart, about "Operation Sand Storm" and that all the plans are on your hard drive. Then give them your address. Then the week before you go to prison I throw you a "Going Away to Prison" party. At the party I slip a shitload of roofies into your drinks. When you are passed out from the roofies I pay a tattoo artist to come over and tattoo a giant set of awesome tits on your back, so that when you get to prison dudes will want to rape you more. Then while you are in prison getting bitched out to the Mexican gang by your cell-mate Big Ronnie, I get your sister and your mom addicted to heroin. Then I turn them out to start tricking, in the neighborhood of an ethnic group you don't like. At the end of their long day of tricking I give them a cheeseburger and take all the money they made, possibly a slap in the face. Then I show up to all your parole hearings and tell them you send mail to me from the joint talking about how you are going to get out of prison and trick out a white van with window-black, beaded curtains and track lighting and start hanging out at local elementary schools and "show all the kids what they've been missing". At some point during this time I killed your dog with antifreeze.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Whoever is Putting These Foreign Chocolates in the Office Kitchen can Knock it the Fuck Off

If you are going to put chocolates in the kitchen for all to enjoy, fine. But have the common goddamn decency to make sure that the label is written clearly in 'Merican. Not fucking Frencher, not I-tie, and sure as shit not written in fucking mountain Nazi. When I open a chocolate that is wrapped with a picture of a red-cheeked elf goosing a 3 year old Swiss girl with golden pigtails, what am I biting into? I don't fucking know, that is the problem. Is it some kick ass real cherry in there? Is it some bush-league non-descript off white cream shit? Is it rat feces coating a spider monkey semen center? No one knows. So if you are going to print the label in your goaddamned effeminate, state sponsored socialist welfare, surrendering-ass pussy language, fine. Just don't export that shit to 'Merica, Jack. We speak fucking 'Merican here, not vagina.

Brett Favre Douche-O-Meter

Brett Favre was injured in Sunday’s action, a sprained throwing arm shoulder. Brett Favre has been telling the media this week that it hurts in the only way Brett Favre tells the media that he is hurt: By sounding very mellow-dramatic and making sure it seems that although the situation is dire and Brett Favre could die at any moment, Brett Favre could very well get up and take the American flag from a fallen comrade and lead the colored 54th Infantry into Fort Wagner ala Matthew Broderick in Glory. Or in Favre's case, throw 3 interceptions, lose one fumble, and come hobbling off the field as though Brett Favre won the game by merely showing up. Brett Favre told the media that it "Hurts to put socks on".
Threat Level: SEVERE
Expect: Ed Werder hourly tweets that "Brett Favre still day-to-day"; Brett Favre hinting that Brett Favre doesn't know if he can do this anymore; Brett Favre convincing himself that if Brett Favre had been in command of the German army at Stalingrad they could have overcome the Soviet winter and accomplished the dream of German lebensraum; Brett Favre saying that Brett Favre is going to be the lead actor in Something About Mary 2; Announcers blaming Brett Favre interceptions on Brett Favre pain.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Urban Meyer Boldly Attempts to Out-Douche Bag Brett Favre

Urban, you've got a long row to hoe if you want to supplant Bayou Brett as sports' most egomaniacal, narcissistic douche bag. But brother, you're well on your way. Last December you lost the SEC Title game to fellow It's All About Me asshole extraordinaire Nick Saban. You were undefeated going in, and had you won you would have been in the national title game and everyone would be talkin' Urban all the time, and not the dude Nicole Kidman is fucking. But you lost, and no one was talking about you. Like Hitler you couldn't fucking stand it, so you invaded Poland. Actually you just held a self-press conference to announce you died of a heart attack or got AIDs or were in love with Tim Tebow, or whatever, you said you couldn't handle it and were walking away. You got more than you could have ever hoped for when ESPN fell all over itself like only ESPN can do, and started fellating you around the clock. Once everyone was talkin' Urban again, you had a miraculous comeback 48 hours after you walked away. The fawning went into hyperdrive. You used your Jesus-rising-from-the-dead story to steal a recruit from Ohio State by texting him that God told you he should come to Florida. Fast forward one December later and we've got deja vu. Urban the family man is walking away again to be with his family. Last year he needed less than two days to be with his family. How long this year? It was interesting that last year's retirement coincided with losing the SEC Title game to Saban and not getting what you wanted. Just as interesting is how this year's retirement coincides with a bad year for Florida leading to playing in the Toilet Bowl where no one is going to talk about you because the other coach is 83 year old Joe Paterno. I'm pretty sure you won't be with your family for very long this year either. Type-A egotistical assholes don't care much for their families because although they are a part of you, unfortunately they aren't actually you. You might unretire from Florida again. You might take the Miami job. You may even go fill the coaching vacancy in Denver so you and your life partner Tim Tebow can take long hikes in the Front Range and fill each other's "vacancies". Whatever it is, you are a douche bag. Keep your nose to the quit and unquit grindstone and one day soon you might get to fly in the same rarefied assclown air as your mentor Brett Favre.

P.S. Your daughter is hot.

The Chicago Transit Authority Sucks

The directors of the CTA should all be lined up in Daley Plaza and executed by firing squad at high noon.

If I have one more fucking bus fly by my stop without stopping this week because it is too full, I am going to get on one the following day strapped to the tits and sporting a trench coat like Neo in the Matrix and go fucking postal. The only good news is that it is colder than a well-digger's ass right now, so you get a side of frostbite to go with your stewing fury as you wait for the next late and as a result overloaded bus to roar past and tell you to eat shit. Here is a novel fucking idea: During evening and morning rush hours, run more buses to accommodate the significantly higher commuter volume. Done and fucking done. The train situation is no better. My favorite part of the winter commute is that when you get on the bus with your wool hat, wool scarf, insulated wool pea coat, sherpa-lined gloves and Wookie sized winter boots, the bus driver typically keeps the bus at a balmy 97 degrees Fahrenheit. Nothing like walking into work with swamp ass when its -4 outside. And the absolute worst part of it all? I am going to bend right over and shake it like a little whore and let CTA cram it right up my ass. What else am I going to do, walk? Fuck that.

Monday, December 6, 2010

If We Ever Get Off Our Asses and Actually Capture Bin Laden, This is what Should Happen

Let's play make-believe for a moment and pretend we're actually trying to catch Bin Laden, rather than using him as an iron-clad excuse to continue to steal poor people's natural resources. So we've got a tactical unit out trying to negotiate with Afghan warlords over land we want to run a natural gas pipeline from the former Soviet Central Asia republics through, and Osama happens by, trips and falls into a cage. Now we've got that skinny asshole. In my scenario, everyone wins:

-Gather Osama bin Fuckstick and any of his other buddies we've got rotting in Morocco, Guantanamo, central Florida, whatever shithole we've got them languishing in, and fly their asses to NYC under cover of darkness.
-Build a giant WWF-style cage around all of Central Park with only one entrance/exit
-Gather up all police, fireman, transit authority, port authority, any first-responders in the NYC metro area
-Tell all of these people there is a party for them tomorrow at Madison Square Garden, be there 8 a.m. sharp
-When they show up the following morning, turn on the beer taps and bring out the hard liquor and serve them all the freebies they want
-Also give them copious amounts of cocaine. Anyone refraining from the cocaine, just put speed in their drinks
-While this is going on, take bin Fucko and associates to Central Park and lead them through the only entry/exit.
-Give all of them one Nerf brand weapon of their choosing. Nerf bazooka, Nerf rifle, Nerf baseball bat, etc
-Start showing images of 9/11 on the Jumbotron at MSG. Images of the towers, the towers collapsing, the fallen, the families of the fallen, the terrorists partying afterward
-While the images are being shown, play really aggressive metal with some sad songs mixed in. Every Rose Has Its Thorn at some point, for sure
-Let the entire liquor-addled, coked-up crowd from MSG out, and take them on buses straight to Central Park
-Hand every one of them an old-timey weapon as they exit the buses: brass knuckles, rubber truncheons, socks filled with rocks, etc.
-Announce to this crowd that within the cage currently surrounding Central Park is Osama bin Laden and numerous of his tee-totalling douche bag buddies
-Open the only entry/exit to Central Park and let them in

End of chat.

Friday, December 3, 2010

BREAKING NEWS: We Got Bin Laden!!!

Oh wait, no we didn't. My bad. He is still kicking it in a cave in Peshwar, balls-deep in virgins, washing down fresh opium with some tea you've never even heard of. There is a silver lining to this cloud however, which is:

Since Bin Laden and his associates took full responsibility for the master-minding and financial support of the 9/11 World Trade Center attacks, the United States has.....
-Had a full meltdown of our stock market
-Obliterated parts of Afghanistan, which were already fucked to begin with
-Made up an utterly and completely horseshit story about Iraq. We used to party with Iraq, but they quit following orders and someone needed to pay for thinking independently
-Used the horseshit story to launch a multi-billion dollar terrorist attack of our own against a country that had nothing to do with 9/11, killing scores of their completely innocent non-combatant civilians
-Tested out some pretty neat weapons of mass destruction on the innocent civilians of the country we were punishing for supposedly having weapons of mass destruction
-Showed that Colin Powell was one of the only people in the American government with a shred of honor
-Killed a bunch of fucking people NOT named Osama bin Laden
-Had the effects of trying to support two separate occupying forces ultimately lead to our economy collapsing
-Even though he was one of the only people with big enough balls to call bullshit on the wars in the first place, we blamed the black guy for the wars and bailing out the banks that were already bailed out before he ever set foot in the White House
-Turned Iraq from a country where a terrorist would be summarily executed if he stopped to take a piss in the desert there; to a country that is now the MTV Spring Break Cancun of international terrorism
-Spent combined more than 1 trillion dollars to completely re-fuck two countries that were already well-fucked to begin with
So obviously we fell into a pile of shit and came out smelling like roses. The really awesome part is that I guarangoddamntee you that if 2 days after 9/11 the U.S. had sent 2 dozen of our best special forces Navy Seal kill-you-twice-before-you-know-you're-dead badasses to Afghanistan with a blank check to sign over to some local Afghan poppy-field baron warlords, Osama would have been all kinds of dead a fortnight later. I bet it wouldn't have exceeded 250 million bucks, tops. But no, we'd prefer to handle it the Texas way and spend all sorts of money to still fail. So here's to you Osama bin Fuckface, you orchestrated one of the most successful attacks in the history of earth from a fuckin' cave on the other side of the planet. Colonel Kurtz could have used a man like you in 'Nam.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Are Donkey Shows Real?

I was retelling a story last weekend that a friend told me about in college. His dad was an underwater welder and has seen catfish next to bridge supports in the Ohio River in deep pools of water that are large enough to swallow a human whole. They stay on the bottom their entire lives eating river scum and become gigantic due to never being caught. Pretty fucking terrifying, right? Well my brother informs me this is an urban legend. Apparently there are no catfish the size of blue whales at the bottom of the Ohio or Mississippi River. Who knows, maybe there are no underwater welders either. There should be, because it sounds pretty fucking cool. Using fire underneath water and all. I've told this story no less than 25 times in my life, fully believing this to be true. Honestly I wanted to stop the goddamned car and tell my brother he could walk his know-it-all fucking ass the rest of the way. My pride was pretty injured. No one likes being told they were duped, except for really stupid people. They seem to get a kick out of that shit. Watch the David Blaine street magic video sometime where he goes into the Cowboys locker room. He pulls one playground magic trick on Emmet Smith, who responds like a Neanderthal that was just shown fire for the first time. He had a ball with it. I'm no rocket-scientist, but I'm confident I could best Emmet in a knowledge bowl. Even if two of the categories were "Football" and "Emmet Smith's Life", I'm pretty sure I'd win. So my brother can fuck off with the too sly to be duped by the man-eating catfish story attitude.

Anyway, conceptually I think I understand how a donkey show works. A bunch of highly intoxicated and coked-up bikers, frat guys, traders and other upstanding members of a moralistic society (Luckily I was only a frat guy and a trader, but never a biker) gather in a poorly ventilated structure somewhere in the Baja peninsula, usually a quaint little suburb of Tijuana. They pay $50 or so a man and are allowed to drink Tecate from a cooler that was probably also recently used as a transport for a chopped-up drug runner named Paco whose family owed a little too much money to the local narco traficante. Once these social aberrations are all oiled up they probably play a little mariachi number, maybe fire a pistol. A shower curtain opens to a retarded donkey with, as you might guess, a donkey dick swinging between his legs. From a location you don't even want to know about stumbles in a woman fucked 6 ways to the weekend on booze, black tar heroin and ketamine. All the poppy plants in Afghanistan will not help this poor soul to forget the multiple nicotine-stained finger-blastings she received from her mom's boyfriends during her trailer park Christmases in Bakersfield, CA. She gives the donkey an HJ, maybe a short blowie, and then its go time. I do not know the logistics of a chick fucking an equine, to be honest with you. Once upon a time when I was about 15 we were hanging out somewhere and my friend Tony popped in a bestiality porn that he claimed he "Found" somewhere. Two chicks were in the process of fucking a horse. I made it through about 30 seconds of that, and then left the room and drank enough Cisco to kill the very horse I think I saw get fellated. Thankfully I no longer possess any memory of that event. Needless to say a chick crams a monstrous donkey cock into her holiest of holies, presumably the donkey gives the crowd a money-shot, and they in turn go wild. The bikers bike off to start some trouble in Belize. The traders head back to Wall Street to gamble away your kid's college fund. The frat guys drift into Tijuana to "Do some fucking bombs, bro!" The protagonist of the show goes back to wherever it is she came from to cook up the shot to end all shots and lays on the floor of her pimp's trailer as his homeboys run a train and visions of marrying Prince William of Great Britain dance through her head.

At least that is how I envisioned the spectacle. But this catfish wool that got pulled over my eyes has made me question even the sanctity of the donkey show. Say it ain't so, Joe. So can someone confirm, with irrefutable evidence, that they've been to a donkey show. Or am I an even bigger gullible asshole than I thought?

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

I'm Sorry, You Must Have Mistaken Me for a Trailer Park Resident who has Cavities

No cavities 4Life son! Just got back from destroying Dr. Decker's office like I do every 6.5 months, mutherfuckers. I spout off about my dominant oral health pretty regularly. But like Cassius Clay said, "It ain't bragging if you can do it". And guess what, I can do it. Same ol' song and dance as usual: "You have excellent oral hygiene." "Your brushing technique is flawless". Tell me something I don't already know. Listen, I was in "Dr. Dave's No Cavities Club" from the time I could crawl, and no one is taking my picture off that club wall anytime soon. I fucking eat tartar and shit pearly whites. You can try to defend it any way you want, but at the end of the night I will hang 28 cavity-free Chiclets from your neck and there is nothing you can do to stop that. When I walked into the appointment today I grabbed a bottle of baby powder, poured it into my hands, and then clapped them together and threw the powder right in the receptionist's face and screamed "GAME TIME BITCH!" She started crying something about "I got laid off from my job....I'm only a temp...." Boofuckinghoo hoe. You just got owned you little hussnut and you know it. I went into the cleaning room and started karate-chopping all the equipment in sight. When the hygienist-in-training appeared to ask why I was destroying the exam tools I told her to take that little league meatball back to the Cape Cod League and call someone in from the pen who could throw some high fucking heat. She looked astonished so I got into a wrestler stance and asked if she had two singlets and one bottle of Vaseline. She could not smell what The Rock was cookin', and fled accordingly. My usual hygienist D-Real knew what time it was when she saw two office employees in tears. She brought her A-Game to the cleaning, knowing she was going home with the L. I respect her for that. The dentist appeared and gave me a nod to signify his respect, and I was on my way.

All y'all haters gonna have to wait until late May, early June, to try and knock me off the No Cavities Wall again.