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I’d like to take this opportunity to thank one of the unsung heroes of today’s society, so raise a shot glass because this one goes out to you: Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick. We’ve met several times, in all of your various forms.

Dumb-Dumb The Hot Cashier: You were the super hot cashier at Toys R Us when my friend and I went shoppiong for a present for his six year old niece. You seemed to have complete understanding that the cash register would do all of the work for you, so I don’t blame you for being dumb-founded when, after he paid and the computer told you what change to give, he found the exact change in his pocket. Of course you could have just given him a dollar back and taken the change but that deer in the headlights look you gave us made it perfectly clear: You’re hot, and no one should expect you to do math.

Dumb-Dumb The Hot Bar Chick: As you were sipping your fruity alcoholic slushy you butted into the conversation my friends and I were having. It was forgiven because you were hot and one of my friends decided he wanted to poon you in the ass. However, as the conversation progressed, and I got drunker and mouthier, I accused you of doing blow and clown porn. The most priceless moment of the night was when you looked at me and said, “I saw that Johnny Depp movie so I know that blow is cocaine, but what’s a clown?” I had to walk away then and there because:
A) I’ve got a girlfriend and I can’t abuse your naivety to allow me to face fuck you and…
B) I was choking from stifling back laughter which, if let out, would ruin my friends’ chances of abusing your naivety and face fucking you. So thank you Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick, that laugh made my night.

Dumb-Dumb The Hot Sorority Girl: It was girls like you that made living in Isla Vista completely worth it, even though you never spoke to me in public. If it weren’t for your overt need to prove you could get anywhere in life that you wanted by simply mouth-a-fying an occasionally wang no one would understand how you managed to muddle through your chemical engineering class, (even though you still pronounced nuclear as NUKE-U-LER) I have to say though, Dumb-Dumb the Sorority Girl, my fondest memory of you is the weekend we would spend together. Oh I was never invited to the parties you attended but I got a kick out of sitting on my darkened, second story, balcony, in all black, with a bottle of vodka, and shooting you, and your friends, with my airsoft guns. What made it that much more special was when you would drunkenly stumble back hours later, and I could shoot you again.

It’s okay though, Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick, you do have some redeeming qualities. The combination of low cut shirts and low rise jeans completely counteracts the fact that you can’t do long division, which isn’t actually all that hard. But it’s okay, because I can see a little nipple so I’ll let that slide. That and the fact that the drunker you get the more likely it is you’ll show me the tattoo that “daddy doesn’t know about” which resides just inches above parts I’m not supposed to see on a bar patio. I’m also 98.5 percent sure that one more shot of Jaegermeister will get you to flash me your tits. For that I’ll forgive that one of your life’s goals is to have a sugar daddy. But the greatest thing about you, Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick: You’re as gullable as the ocean is wet. You’ll believe anything I say as long as I don’t get that look on my face that screams, “I can’t believe she’s buying this shit.”

Quite frankly, Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick, I love you. After all, if it weren’t for you and your ilk, I’d miss out on some of my favorite things in life: Like Hooters, Girls Gone Wild, Strip Clubs and spring break stories that include phrases like,. “I’ve never fooled around with another girl, but…” and three shots of tequila later you’re face deep in the crotch of the chick you’re sharing a hotel room with. God Bless you Dumb-Dumb The Hot Chick, and just to let you know, I’m only driving this piece of shit Ford Fiesta until the Jag is out of the shop. And I promise that I will call you, that is of course unless I’m called away on a super secret spy mission. In which case, if I see you in the same bar next weekend I’ll pretend not to know you….because I’m undercover.

originally posted may 16th 2006

For those of you who may have forgotten, Mother’s Day just passed. Now for most of you mom is the woman who birthed you, fed you, wiped your ass and basically taught you how not to be a slobbering, cross eyed ass face. Something that has probably never crossed your mind, however, is the fact that at some point in time your mom was hot enough for some guy to pick up at a bar and have sex with. Unfortunately there is always the converse; some guy drank most of a fifth of Crown Royal and decided that your mom was the loosest thing left at last call. Well no matter which one your mommy was, in honor of Mother’s Day I present to you:

Coming in at number five is the wife of The Governor of California: Maria Shriver. If this woman and Tony Robbins ever had a kid it would be ninety percent teeth. This woman has a face that even Mr. Ed would have to put a paper sack over. Could you imagine waking up, as a child, to the gaping maw of this demon?

Number four is Brooke Shields. There is nothing anyone can say to convince me she’s not a man; or at the very least, a post-op tranny. By herself, with no special effects, she’s the attack of the fifty foot woman. I feel bad for Andre Agassi because he was married to a woman with a bigger penis than his.

Numero tres is actually a bit of a shame because it’s the reformed cock-holstering whore Madonna. I remember hitting puberty and staying up late to watch 120 minutes, on MTV, hoping to catch a glimpse of her Erotica video so I could masturbate violently in the bathroom. All the while hoping my own mother didn’t know what I was doing. Since then Madonna has progressed further and further down the road of looking like a saddle that’s been rode hard and put away wet. Hell I bet the attention starved Dennis Rodman wouldn’t even fuck her again just to get his name in the papers.

Number two, which is an appropriate double-entendre for poop, is Courtney Love. When she’s not drunk, high, smacked out from snorting fertilizer, or just generally wasting productive oxygen, she hangs out with one of my favorite musicians: Billy Corgan. Many people like to theorize that Courtney love killed Kurt Cobain. I don’t believe it. If I was married to this sea hag I’d have blown my brains out too. When I was fourteen I went to see Lollapalooza when Hole was playing. Unfortunately I got more than I bargained for when Ole’ Court here put her foot up on one of the monitors and everyone got a glimpse of her disgusting, unkempt, vagina.

And super number one is Britney Spears. I think that Britney stands as a monument to attest that celebrity grooming can only go so far. That and she’s been carrying the demon seed of K-Fed. I’ve mentioned before that I think Brit will do porno in order to revitalize her failing money making status. Well with the announcement of her second pregnancy, and the fact that it looks like she swallowed a semi, trailer and all, I give it three years and six figures worth of plastic surgery, before she ends up on all fours as the target for a rousing game of “Pin The Penis on The Pop-Star.” Of course she could eschew celebrity saying that she’s above all that. One thing she is obviously not above is the all ice-cream and flapjack diet.

Now that you probably want to wretch after hearing stories about Courtney Love’s vagina looking like Captain Lou Albano and that picture of Britney Spears.; I would like to turn things around. To counteract those feelings of nausea I now present:

Number five is Kate Hudson. I’m pretty sure it’s the innocent, yet hot, girl next door thing that makes Kate start off this list. She seems, to me, like the kind of girl that you parents would absolutely adore because she’s sweet and a stellar conversationalist. But she also seems like the type to, once you got home, cover you in cool whip and lick you clean. Every guy is always looking for that pre-eminent combination of Lady and Whore and Kate Hudson just strikes me as the type.

Numero four…uh…four-o (fuck off I don’t speak Spanish) is Pamela Anderson. I know she’s got the Hepatitis and that without her cosmetics her face looks like old haggis in a sweaty gym sock. BUT LOOK AT HER! Every male in my generation has fantasized about having filthy pig sex with this mother of two. Of course you have to block out the fact that she’s had more meat inside her than a Jewish Deli, but I can do that. Can’t you? Hell given the opportunity I would pay to eat my breakfast off of her ass.

Coming in at number three is the super hot, and a girl whose sexiness blossomed early: Denise Richards.Denise, I fell in love with you during the car wash scene in “Wild Things”. That love was only further solidified when champagne was poured over your nekkid boobies. I’d also like to thank you because “Wild Things” launched a series of low-grade, soft-core, porno. What really amazes me is that you still have the body that you did at nineteen. If you happen to also have a catholic school girl outfit, give me a call. I’m thinking about starting a new feature for the site: The Girls of HowToKillPeople.Com.

At number two, mother twice over and Club-Jenna contract girl, Ashton Moore. That’s right, mother and porn star. ‘NUFF SAID.

And the shining star at number one, my favorite celebrity hot chick: Angelina Jolie. I have had the jones for her ever since the movie hackers. Not only was she super hot and willing to get naked on film, but she was also a computer geek. That alone gave geeks like me hope. Not to mention the fact that she ousted herself as a freak and nympho – let us not forget the interview where Billy-Bob told everyone under the sun that he and Angelina had just had sex in the limo on the way to an awards show. I know that this is your first natural child so I’ll give you some time to recover before you start wearing skimpy clothing out in public. But until you do I’ll just keep watching my favorite scene from “Taking Lives” over and over again.
I feel kind gross now, thinking that at one point in time someone may have thought things like this about my mom, but I guess that’s the price you pay. I’d like to wish a happy Mother’s Day to the all of you hot mom’s out there, hopefully you’ll be in a swimsuit calendar someday soon. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go apologize to my mother for being an absolutely horrible son who forgot Mother’s Day altogether. Hopefully she’ll like the DVD I just sent her from Amazon.com: The Best and The Bloddiest brawls from TNA Wrestling. Mom’s like that kind of stuff right?

The acts of courting and dating the opposite sex have to be, by and large, the most horrendous and awkward rituals that we as human beings participate in. I spend weekend after weekend in bars and clubs with friends as they try - sometimes desperately sometimes successfully - to pick up women. It’s like we understand that the search for a mate, or even a piece strange, is going to be some sort of torturous routine. We accept this as fact in the same way we accept the fact that in order to be healthy we are occasionally going to have to let a doctor stick a finger in our balloon knot.

If you’re single there are very few options for you to try to wet your wick. I’m personally against dating people you work with because it leads to nothing but awkwardness. Let’s say, for example, that you get your hot co-worker drunk enough ,at an office party, to high-five genitals with you. Eventually the office security tapes will get put on YouTube or officesex.com..(I made that one up, but if it actually works: enjoy) and once video footage of you putting the lumber to the leggy brunette from the third floor gets out one of two outcomes are possible:

ONE: You get a pat on the back, a promotion, and a copy of your performance on high-def DVD.

TWO: Your boss, who has been secretly lusting after her, will now shift blame of all of his embezzling on you and have you thrown out of a twelve story window in an apparent, despondent, suicide. So there’s one option that, if you’re smart, is closed.

Unless you wish to be a social Quasimodo the only real options are for you to go out to a bar or club. And for those of you reading this, in the middle of the night, during Saved By The Bell re-runs, I’ve got a heartbreaking story to tell you: The people on live links, adult friend finder and other sites like that don’t look like they do on the commercials. You may be sitting in your underwear, fingers covered in cheeto dust, thinking you may get the super sexy blonde chick if you can just get her in the right private messaging session. Well it aint gonna happen chubbo. First off you smell like pork and you spend more time online gaming than you do outside with real people. besides the girl on the other end of that messaging session looks like you…but with smaller tits. And one last note to you computer Casanovas: Quoting Shakespeare to girls online leaves no swooning. NO ONE. fag.

Chicks that look like that don’t spend their evenings on the computer or on local chat lines. They’re hot and can go out and get laid whenever they want to. You on the other hand have a frequent buyer card for Krispy Kreme. The world doesn’t work like every shitty CBS sitcom. That fat bastard on The King Of Queens has about as much of a chance as land the actress who plays his hot wife as you do of running a seven minute mile burger boy.

Now when I was single I too would spend weekend after weekend in bars and clubs blindly stumbling through the “art” of picking up women only to discover that I was seriously lacking in some of the finer points. The first of which would be dancing. I don’t dance. I can’t dance. I’m about as adept at dancing as Courtney Love is at multiplying fractions. I’ve never understood girls who say things like, “I just want to go out on the dance floor and let loose.” For me it’s more like, “I want to go out on the dance floor and have a grand maal seizure, completely off tempo to whatever is pumping through the sound system.” Watching me dance would be like watching hippos fuck, and neither of which makes girls want to drop their panties.

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Off the dance floor, on the other hand, I was golden. I’ve never had a problem talking to women. I’m funny, good looking, and a stellar conversationalist - despite my propensity for telling off color anecdotes and love of professional wrestling. I’m quite talented in holding a girl’s attention in conversation. The on thing I lacked was the nerve and the guts to, as salesmen say, go for the close. As the night drew to a close and it was starting to become obvious that it was time to seal the deal, but the look on her face said, “That last tit-fuck joke may have been over the line,” I’d get nervous and sweaty and run away. well in order to counteract that I developed my own gimmick to make transitioning from casual conversation to moving further:

It had that shit eating picture on the front and my phone number on the back. I’d slide it across the bar to the girl and say something like, “Call me,” or, “here’s my card.” Yeah it’s the chicken shit way out but I thought it was cheeky. Sadly; these cards didn’t have the effect that I wanted, but I did become quite popular with the toothless, homeless, smell like urine crowd when I lost about forty of them on the public bus.

Now in the few times I managed to sack up and get a girls phone number I got the privilege of embarking on the social equivalent of a testicle kicking: the first date. Now I think we can all be honest here and agree that the underlying premise of dating, at least in the beginning, is whether or not you are going to have sex. They say it only takes women the first fifteen seconds of meeting you to determine if they are going to let you violate their baby factories. Unfortunately you get to spend $150 on dinner and drinks, and two hours of awkward gettin’ to know ya conversation, only to find out what she knew in the first fifteen seconds, Hell I’ve known girls who have gone on dates with guys that they had absolutely no interest in just for the free meal. Quite frankly I’d rather pay a hooker and skip all of the bullshit pretense. Of course my favorite first date memory is the one where the girl spent the entire evening talking about her aborted child. Which, in and of itself, was a deal breaker towards a second date.

Fortunately for me I don’t have to put up with any of that anymore, ever, because a little over four years ago I managed to use every last ounce of wit, charm, and guile that I had in order to convince a very beautiful and intelligent young lady to start dating me. Somehow, over the past four year period, she’s become convinced that I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread and internet porn; which is probably why, a month or so ago, she agreed to marry me. Little does she know what’s she’s really getting herself into. So far my plans for the wedding include a bounce house (like the kind they rent for children’s birthday parties), midget wrestlers, and live performances from Absent Me and Hot Pistol . Strangely she’s agreed to the live bands but we’re still in an ongoing battle over the bounce house. So there you have it: Dating sucks and I’m engaged. Angelina Jolie, I’m sorry you had to hear it this way, but it’s better like this, I’ll fed-ex you the lingerie you left at my house but I’m keeping the nekkid pictures you sent me from your cell-phone.

originally posted on April 7th 2006, right before I went to the wachowski household and beat them with squid

What’s the difference between slamming your dick in a car door and watching V for Vendetta? V for Vendetta drags the excruciating pain out for almost two hours and tries to disguise itself as entertainment. I can’t remember the last time I went to watch a film and came out happy. Each and every time I forego the idea of downloading a new release — and actually expend the energy to put on pants and go to the theater — I am left with a sudden urge to gnaw off my tongue and choke to death on it. The most recent peanut laden turd-log of a film is the newest addition to the filmography of the Wachowski brothers: V for Vendetta. While I think the film sucks out loud, critics are just clambering over each other to fellate Larry and Andy Wachowski on the stellar job they’ve done. Well the critics are wrong. Wrong like Michael Jackson having custody of his kids is wrong. Wrong like serving free ham at a Bah Mitzvah is wrong. Wrong like showing Keanu Reeve’s ass in a major motion picture is wrong. Seeing as how I am smarter than EVERY MOVIE CRITIC EVERYWHERE…EVER, and I don’t have to worry about not being invited to the next A-list Hollywood party for running off at the mouth and offending everyone. I now present to you:

10: The original writer of the movie completely divested himself from the film. This should be the first sign that a movie is going to suck. Any writer would be ecstatic to have one of their ideas made into a big budget, studio, film. It means a substantial paycheck and validation as a professional. Alan Moore saw the direction the Wachowski’s were taking his idea and walked away from the project in totality. The studio should have seen this as a giant red flag and shit-canned the film. But no, they figured the Wachowski name would be enough to carry this piece of crap. Attention everyone at Warner Brothers…I hope you get STDs.

9: I figured out the TRUTH about this film.

Sometime during the making of The Matrix: Reloaded Larry Wachowski left his wife, started dating a dominatrix, wearing women’s underwear, and from all appearances…started taking women’s hormones.(click the picture to see the larger image) This movie is not about political revolution, it’s Larry Wachowski’s cry for sexual acceptance. This, I believe, is why Alan Moore ran away from this movie so fast that flames shot out of his ass. The Character V is the master of the movie. He wears a stylized gimp mask, has a secret dungeon where he keeps people, and he likes inflicting pain up close and personal, which is why he carries knives instead of guns. The second most important tertiary character, the TV station manager, is a gay masochist. The entire movie is about people outside of the sexual norm striking out against the sexual standard. I really don’t care what fetishes people have. If you want someone to tie you up and shove popsicles up your ass…well good for you, it’s just not for me. But if I wanted to watch a movie about someone’s cry for sexual acceptance I’d go watch brokeback mountain or my own private Idaho, not something that is sold to the masses as a popcorn-munching, summer, action flick.

8: COHESION. The entire middle third of the movie had absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the film. Oh sure it had some minor sub-plot points, but those could have been covered in about 7 minutes or so. For anyone looking into becoming a writer do the world a favor and read Aristotle’s: Poetics. You don’t even have to buy the text here’s a link to it online. Aristotle set down the basic framework for the three act story structure. Here it is in it’s simplest form: ACT ONE: Introduce the characters and set the protagonist on their journey. ACT TWO: Set roadblocks to be overcome. Build antagonist/protagonist struggle. Act two should end with the protagonist seemingly being unable to accomplish the task and defeat the the antagonist. ACT THREE: The final confrontation between antagonist and protagonist, the outcome, and then tying up loose ends and sub-plots. This movie sucked bad enough that it botched up the easiest ending ever. Instead of V killing the president that’s been oppressing him, one of the president’s staff does it in front of V and then he battles a group of nameless thugs. It was the shittiest ending ever because the good guy didn’t defeat the bad guy. The good guy let another bad guy beat the ultimate bad guy and looked impotent, as a do-gooder, in the process. The best part of the ending was the V died, which should mean no possibility of a sequel.

7: The fancy looking domino scene. What the fuck was the point of this? Sure it’s visually appealing but if you step into the reality of the movie you have to think ‘Is this guy fighting for freedom or proving that British guys are better at dominoes than those wacky Asians?’ Honestly. He’s about to walk into the big showdown with the big bad guy and he decides to play with his toys? Really? Oh sure other movies have used this trick before: The Crow and Daredevil come to mind, but compared to this piece of schlock they did it tastefully. And anytime you say a movie starring Ben Affleck was better than a movie you just watched, you know that you just killed a little bit of your soul.

6: NO ROBOTS: These days how can you have a movie, based in a distopian future, without robots? The fact that it had robots would not have saved this movie — mainly because they would have turned them into some sort of robot sex slave. Shit, The Matrix movies had all sorts of super cool evil robots and they still fucked that series up seven ways from Sunday. This movie could have definitely benefited from the liberal use of killer robots. At least then I would’ve had someone to cheer for.

5: Natalie Portman. First off: Natalie Portman’s British accent is absolutely atrocious. I have a British Friend and having heard a British accent first hand I can say that Natalie Portman doing a British accent is something akin to a donkey singing opera. On top of that; if you shave Natalie Portman’s head she looks like, and has the tits and ass of, a ten year old boy. If you wanted to cast a woman who looks like a little boy you could’ve cast Winona Rider because then I could fantasize that she’d blow me for a perkaset.

4: The lack of a real action star. That’s one of the key components missing in this movie. No one believes that V is capable of defeating the bad guys. Who would be better? Who does everyone know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, would kick everyone’s ass? CHUCK MOTHER-FUCKING NORRIS! That’s right, I’m jumping on the internet band wagon of making Chuck Norris a god…and rightfully so. Chuck Norris wouldn’t need accomplices or explosives to bring down a corrupt government. All he would need is a sneer, a roundhouse kick, and a denim shirt with no sleeves and he would’ve blown up parliament.

There’s a rumor going around that the sequel to The Passion of The Christ: Christ Harder, had to be scrapped because Chuck Norris was unavailable to play the part of god. There were also script problems. Apparently no one could handle Chuck Norris telling Jesus to, “Quit being a pussy and take it like a man.” At this point in the script Chuck Norris does a roundhouse kick and wipes out humanity. No Chuck Norris? Wachowski’s, what were you thinking?

3: The political message. Holy god you people weren’t even subtle this time. Blah Blah Blah George Bush is bad. Blah Blah Blah George Bush hates fags. This movie might as well had a poster that said, “If you’re queer and hate bush, boy have we got a movie for you.” Look, we all know that you folks in Hollywood hate George Bush okay. WE GET IT…so it’s time to let it go. You only have to put up with him for two more years and then we can all elect a new bicycle seat sniffer to sit in the big chair. So how’s about we all agree to leave modern day political analysis out of movies…sound good? Okay then. You can all resume sitting in a corner sucking your thumb until the primaries in 2008.

2:Keanu Reeves’ Ass. Oh sure it wasn’t in this movie, but no movie ever should show keanu’s pasty white man ass. The Wachowski brothers shouldn’t have been allowed near a camera…EVER…after filming a scene with a naked Keanu Reeves. Just thinking about it made me throw up in my mouth a little.

1: Larry Wachowski. Since he was responsible for the adaptation of this movie from comic to film I think the sole blame for this appalling film rests on his shoulders. Now you may be asking yourself,”But the brothers work as a team. How can he blame just one of them?” WATCH ME. As I said somewhere in number nine that Larry started dating a dominatrix during the making of the second matrix film. Well, ever since Larry embarked on his alternative lifestyle his ability to write anything worth two tugs of a dead dog’s dick has completely gone down the tubes. However, his ability to pepper his writing with all of his fetishist leanings has been completely overt. Just look at how the bad guys changed from The Matrix to Revolutions. All of sudden, instead of just guys in suits and SWAT team members, now we have people who own fetish clubs and bad-guys in all leather bondage gear and gimp masks. And no one can argue the fact that the matrix two and three paled in comparison to the first one. I blame all of this on Larry’s inability to separate his professional and personal life. Though I have to admit that his girlfriend made out pretty well in the whole deal. Living with the demented Wachowski brother has to be better than living with the odd-ball pornstar she was dating. His name is Buck Angel…”A partial female to male transexual, better known in the pron world as THE DUDE WITH A PUSSY.” (I so wish I was making this shit up.)

And there you have it. Ten amazingly sound reasons why you should not only NEVER see V for Vendetta but also, for precautionary measures, you should return everything Matrix related that you’ve ever purchased. This movies fails on such a grand scale that I think I’d almost rather watch anything starring Ashton Kutcher, as long as it showed him being disemboweled by an ill-tempered homeless man or a being clubbed with the prosthetic leg of a war veteran. I am officially giving up on going to the theater until X-Men III comes out. Unfortunately that too will probably suck beacuse Bryan Singer left a successful franchise to attempt to re-launch the lamest movie series ever: SUPERMAN. I’ve had it, I’m going to go watch wrestling now, at least I know what I’m getting into with that shit.

orinigally posted during a really shitty month on March 15th 2006

Have you ever had one of those days that made you want to fist yourself out of sheer aggravation? One of those days that seems as if god, or karma, or fate, or whatever is just face fucking you and giggling the entire time? Well that one day has turned into an entire month of being cosmically jizzed on. Of course this month started out great, which was horribly and disgustingly deceptive.

Two days before he headed back to Iraq The Dude and I decided to visit the one place that anyone should visit before they return to a combat zone: The Nudie Bar . This is where the deceptive goodness came into play because any time you can listen to heavy metal and stare at nekkid chicks has to be chalked up as a red letter day of happiness and mild perversion. The only thing that could have possibly made the nudie better was if they served burritos and beer. I will never understand, however, what most men are thinking when they go into a strip club. They sit there like zombies with hard-ons hoping that if they stare hard enough, and long enough, their jedi powers will take over and the girl on stage with fuck them. They practically burn a hole in her tits with their eyes. I half expected to turn around and find everyone masturbating.

Something The Dude taught me, many years ago during our first excursion to The Nudie Bar, was that the girls on stage are like a band in concert. You go to a concert to have a good time, and you show your appreciation for the performer by clapping and cheering — and not being the creepy fifty year old guy in the back of the room who’s hand has mysteriously disappeared down his pants. Which is fucking disturbing to see at a Hanson Concert. The girls on stage are the band, make ‘em feel good. They’re taking off their clothes for your entertainment. You should, at the very least, go to the tip rail and give ‘em a couple of bucks. In the process you may discover something new and different, like The Dude and I did.

We’re up at the tip rail and the girl starts to, what I can only describe as, slide at us on all fours…genitals first. As she is doing this we catch a little glimmer of metal. While it’s not all that strange to see a stripper with her vagina pierced what we encountered was nothing we were expecting. SHE HAD HER TAINT PIERCED!!! For those of you unfamiliar, the taint is the piece of skin between the snatch and the dumper. Once we realized what we were seeing The Dude turns to me and asks, “What the fuck do you call that?” In a moment of comical clarity I calmly responded, “Splitting The Difference.”(patent pending) We both chuckled at what silly geese we were and I sprung fifty bucks for The Dude to get a lap dance.

That single comment, that last shared guffaw over a taint piercing, was the last good thing to happen this month.Why? Because the universe is on her period and I’m the fucking tampon.In short order, and by short I mean within 24 hours, the following happened:

I ate a batch of poorly cooked chicken at TGIFridays and spent the entire night puking my fucking guts out. Any night that you spend not drinking, but still end up falling asleep clinging to the toilet like it’s the last life preserver on The Titanic, is a bad night.

The following morning my truck died. This fact, in and of itself, is not all that bad. It’s the result of my truck dying that makes me want to slam my testicles in an elevator door. I now have to ride public transportation to and from work.

It’s not bad enough that I have to take the homeless people limousine but I have to get up before Jesus Christ himself drags ass out of bed to do it. Now I’ve ridden public transit before, so I am well aware of the dangers of doing so. I’ve had my run in with everything from the bum that smells like cat piss and talks to his crotch to the cross-dresser/transvestite/confused-alter-boy/transgender/man-woman that is fooling ABSOLUTELY NO ONE!

My New Bus Riding Pal

But somehow, some way, the man upstairs decided he wanted to give me a sign that I may have been to one too many tittie bars, drank one to many bottles of Jack Daniels, or that I’ve made fun of one too many rubber- heads because along with the regular assortment of crazies and freaks, he turned the weather against me. Ever since I started taking the bus Sacramento has been hit with a series of unrelenting storms. Not, normally, a big deal except for the fact that . When I leave for work, at 5am it’s cold, rainy, and fucking miserable. When I get to work the clouds part, the sun comes out, birds sing…mother nature just taunts me all day. Lo and behold when I leave work headed for the bus stop, and I’ve left at varying times each day, it’s starts raining again. I’m starting to feel like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, like there’s a fucking storm cloud that just follows me around. The capper to the entire thing is not just the fact that it feels as if god has been pissing on me every time I go outside: I was standing at the bus stop on Thursday, the 9th, and no fucking joke…a funnel cloud formed over my head.

At this point in time I would not be surprised if the earth opened up and tried to swallow me whole, or if I fell asleep and woke up to minions from hell sodomizing me. The only thing I can think of that could possibly save me from the shit storm of a month I am having is the fact that this weekend is my birthday. So if you’re in Sacramento, CA this weekend you can join me for drinking heavy with Hot Pistol on Friday and attending a TV taping of the greatest the backyard wrestlers ever with The TwF on Saturday. I’ll be pretty easy to spot; I’ll be the loud mouth asshole wearing an offensive T-shirt making horrible jokes at the expense of pretty much everyone in the room and drinking Jack and Coke out of a camel back. If that doesn’t make me feel better…I’m going back to the tittie bar until I feel appreciated.

originally posted when The Dude was in town on leave

Fortunately for me, but more so for him, The Dude is in town on leave from Iraq. Having little civilian clothing for him to wear we decided to go shopping which, in hindsight, was a mistake. We came to two distinct conclusions: ONE: We decided that we are no longer hip and on the “Razors Edge of Fashion” and TWO: We noticed a disturbing amount of men wearing pink. This fact was proven at about hour five in store number eight as The Dude loudly proclaimed in the middle of a store, much to the dismay of every super hip store clerk and patron, “Look Travis, more fucking pink clothes for guys!” Now the guys wearing pink aren’t the typical metro sexual, (read on the road to gayville), sort of guys. When I was living in Biloxi, MS, a place full of good ole boys who don’t like the poopsters, there was a huge black guy, a Marine none the less, some of the toughest motherfuckers on the face of the earth, and I would always see him in the bars in numerous all pink outfits. Shirts, shoes, wristbands, hats, the whole nine yards. I couldn’t, for the fucking life of me, figure out why a tough as nails sunovagun like this would be going out in all pink so often. I asked my girlfriend, who’s more in touch with the kids these days, and see she says that men are wearing pink as a statement of: “I’m so much of a man that I can wear pink and get away with it.” Really? That’s why men are wearing pink, because they think it’s manly? This trend scares me only because of what it must lead to. It starts with wearing pink and it can only lead down a dark path from there.

THE NEXT GAY TRENDS TO PROVE YOU’RE A MAN

Painting Your Fingernails : just because you’re a man doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have pretty finger nails. After all, you’re a real man and as a manly man you can thumb your nose at convention and paint your finger nails to prove how much of a man you really are. Don’t feel comfortable going to the store and buying your own nail polish? Borrow your mom’s. She’d be more than happy to lend it to you because that puts you that much closer to being the daughter she never had.

Getting Girls Haircuts: Oh sure, everyone knows you’re a real man so why not prove how much of a true grit guy you truly are by getting a haircut that would make any 1970s disco queen jealous. That’s right fellas, prove how low your balls would hang, if you have any left, by growing the bangs, dying them fuckers pink, and pasting them down across your forehead like a fucking crash helmet….douche bag.

Wearing Make Up: Gene Simmons of Kiss purports to have slept with over 700,000 groupies. Hell all of kiss claims that they have nailed pretty much anything and everything with tits for three decades now. Kiss wore make up, and there’s no doubt that they were real men. So what if you have no musical ability, celebrity status, or, quite frankly, talent? Show everyone that you are a man who is nailing everything that moves…slather on the eye liner you stole from your sister…cock-bag.

Wearing Girls Clothing: What kind of man can wear girls pants and a white leather, studded belt? A real man that’s who. I foresee a future where men decide that the way to prove how much of a man you are is to wear girls clothes. Oh sure it’s already started with girls pants but just wait until it moves into sun dresses and corsets. Why can’t a guy dream about being a princess too? What does all this mean? It means that somehow John Wayne, Douglas MacArthur, and the infamous Uncle Dave have been replaced by whiny cock-chuggers like these guys. Is this the new face of manliness or Menudo’s all gay, club med tour, 2006.

Sullen looks, thick make-up, girls haircuts and clothing, apparently this is what it now takes to be a man. It makes me want to swallow a glass of lemon juice and razor blades. It’s like there’s a sudden resurgence of the Ziggy Stardust era of androgyny, and even Bowie admits that shit was completely drug induced and a mistake. Of course the next generation will take it further than this one, every generation of counter-culture surpasses the previous. I can only see the final step of this progression a being something that most men won’t do.

Gay guys, just you wait: No longer will you be called sissies and fairies, give it about fifteen years and you’ll be considered the toughest sum-bitches on the face of the earth. I’m proud of being a man. I aspire to be a true-grit, leather chewing, machine gunning, shooting death lasers from my eyes Dirty Harry kind of guy. But if it comes down to it, I’ll be more than happy to be called a candy-ass because there’s no way in hell I’m letting another man corn-hole me.

And this is all coming from a guy who wore a dress to his prom.

originally posted on February 6th 2006..i hate the olympics

There’s about a week or so left until all TV news and primetime programing switches from covering actual news and your favorite TV shows to covering one of the most boring, and pointless, public spectacle: The Olympics. Now some of you are probably sitting there, with your thumbs up your ass, saying, “Travis, the Olympics don’t suck, they require years of dedication and training, and winning a gold medal is very prestigious,” and to you people I say you couldn’t be more wrong if you were fucking a sheep right now. (see, that’s funny because I likened people who enjoy the Olympics to people who enjoy bestiality. Did everyone who’s going to get it…get it? Good, moving on.)

First off; a gold medal and a dollar fifty will get you a cup of coffee. Outside of people training for the Olympics a gold medal pretty much means dick. True, you may be the worlds greatest ice dancer, but that’s like being the best burrito maker at Taco Bell, not something to aspire to and no one really gives a shit. Don’t believe me? Remember Mary lou Retten and Kerri Scrugg? They were America’s sweethearts after their respective olympics. Other than maybe appearing on a Wheaties box they’ve disappeared. They haven’t done shit since since they won their “prestigious” gold medal. Now obviously I’m not talking about pro-athletes that have competed in the Olympics (i.e. Michael Jordon and Magic Johnson) all they did was add another notch of accomplishment to their belts. Being in the Olympics also gives the athletes a false sense of celebrity. Proof of this can be found in the fact that after her Olympic career ran its course, Tonya Harding couldn’t even make money doing porno. If no one will pay to watch you do a donkey show, even as a lark, just to tell the story, you have failed!! Remember Summer Sanders? She won four medals at the Olympics for swimming, not just one FOUR . She whores used cars on commercials here in Sacramento. Way to go champ. The only American gold medal winner I can find that parlayed their brief Olympic appearance into a successful money making career is Kurt Angle… and he’s a pro-wrestler. Though Kurt does look like a date rapist.

As far as the Olympics not being boring: I call bullshit. Big, fat, hairy bags of bullshit. No one gave a flying fuck about figure skating until one nitwit had another nitwit clubbed in the leg by a meth addict. After that, suddenly, everyone was en rapt in the saga of skating. Not because they wanted to see who would win the bitter rivalry, no, everyone was secretly foaming at the mouth for the battle to escalate and for Nancy Kerrigan to come back with a crossbow. It’s like Nascar; no one watches to see the cars drive in circles. Everyone watches to see the next deadly, ball of flames, mustachioed man killing, crash. So in order to increase viewership of, and so people won’t be bored out of their tit, here are just a few of my suggestions to liven up the Olympics.

First of all, I say give the viewing audience what they want. Mix all forms of Ice skating with skeet shooting. For each skating routine a competition level shooter is placed in the audience. The shooter scores points based on where on the body they land their shot and the difficulty of the part of the routine in which they take their shot. Skaters score points based on the difficulty of their routine and how many shots they dodge. You think a back flip on ice is impressive? Just imagine how impressive it would be as bullets are smashing into the ice at the skaters feet…given the fact that the skater was able to avoid the bullets in the first place.

Announcer: Kammie is starting her triple lutz and Sven the Dutch rifleman seems to be locked and loaded…here we go. She’s up…*CHAK CHAK* BOOM And Sven’s aim is true. Five points to the Dutchman but it looks as though the .762 round to the shoulder assisted Kammie in her rotation. 10 points for landing the trick, and 10 more points for taking a bullet and pressing on. It looks like Great Britain’s skating sweetheart is on her way to the gold

Next take all of those fuckers that do the luge and bobsledding and fire the out of a cannon. Oh sure, they do just fine if they are the ones controlling how fast the sled goes, but think of how cool it would be to fire them down that veritable ice rectum of a track at 97mph headfirst. And make them wear a helmet with a dart-like tip. at the end of the track, instead of just slowing down like they do now, they’re rocketed up a ramp and launched out of a giant snow-sculpted buttocks towards something akin to a dart board where they have to aim themselves towards the highest possible point total. Sure some people will break their necks in fine tuning this new event, but I’m not going to lose a lot of sleep over someone who professionally slides around on ice.

And, for the jumping love of jesus eating waffles, liven up the most boring sport ever created: CURLING. Instead of sliding what looks like tea pots across the ice give ‘em live grenades. Pull the pin and have them sweep a flash bang grenade towards a target that is a protective bunker. Those who successfully complete the throw, survive, those that don’t, well, they go splat. Obviously when viewing this event live people should treat it like watching Shamu the Killer Whale or a Gallagher show. The first five rows should be considered a “splash zone”.

Along with livening up the old events, let’s get some new ones. Much like a sit-com that has run its course and, in order to keep things interesting, brings in an adopted kid or a robot, it’s time for the olympics to “Jump The Shark”. We don’t want to see thirty different kinds of downhill skiing, we don’t need ballroom dancing, we need new events, fresh events that everyone can get excited about: Like midget tossing, wet t-shirt contests, and lumberjacks. In this age of instant gratification, non-stop media blitzing, information overload we need to be barraged with images constantly. I want explosions and violence and titties and balloons and clowns and pancakes. Face it people, I’m right, if the olympics would take my suggestions it would improve them one billion time over. At this point I think I’m going to go watch Girls Gone Wild: Games in hopes that the olympics will hire the guy who started that franchise.

originally posted on January 14th 2006 you godless whores

This is the first of what will be a reoccurring series of public service announcements from howtokillpeople.com:

I don’t know what the fuck they’re putting in the water these days but it’s getting harder and harder to distinguish between which girls it’s okay to lier at in public and which ones you’ll get thrown in jail for taking taking pictures of them with your camera phone. So for all of you underage girls: just stop it.

First off: Stop dressing slutty. I know all of you think you’re all grown up at the all knowing age of sixteen but it’s really awkward when I’m out in public and see a hot chick only to realize you’re barely legal to drive when your mom calls you over to go home because you need to finish your homework. I know all the raging hormones of the boys at your school appreciate it, but until you’re legally old enough to appear on the internet in a compromising position with a clown, cover yourself up for the love of god. You’re just enticing perverted old men to gawk at your boobies.

Speaking of the internet; leave it the fuck alone god damnit. Stop posting pictures on webshots of the stupid shit you do when you parents are out of town. One reason is because you are leaving a paper trail. Nothing solidifies the fact that you had a house party, and some of your girlfriends got drunk and explored their sexuality, more than posting proof on the internet. If your parents are anything like mine used to be they check the history on the computer when they get home. The second reason is: if the images of you and your girlfriends, drunkenly groping each others not-yet-legal-asses are on the internet then it is very likely that College Humor will link to them. If College Humor does link to them ,then it will simply be a matter of time before one of your dad’s perverted friends sends him a link to the pictures with the subject: “check out these young, drunk, lesbians…but the one on the right looks like your daughter.” And eventually the link will be forwarded to me and I’ll get in trouble for looking at your supple, yet highly illegal, ass in a pair of Hooters shorts, while I’m at work.

And while we’re on the subject of pictures: Knock it off with the god damned web-cams. Quit using them, quit buying them, and for fucks sake: Quit submitting them to camwhores.com . I’m sure Stile appreciates it but I don’t need you popping up as a relevant link when I’m searching this great internet thingy for porn. You’re sixteen years old, go watch fuckin cartoons. The FBI already has a watch file on me because of the name of the website. I get myself in enough god damned trouble, I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP!

Also: Stop writing in your livejournals, xanga accounts, and myspace blogs about all the filthy shit you and your barely pubescent boyfriend did behind the school during your lunch period. There will be plenty of time for you, later in life, to find out exactly how much you enjoy licking a mans balls while people watch. You can submit all of your disgusting, sordid, stories to penthouse forum when you are all grown up. You’re children for fucks sake. You are supposed to be worrying about homework, prom dresses, and how much the cheerleaders are forcing themselves to puke after lunch, not whether Billy, from your science class, prefers oral or anal. Quit being filthy little whores.

Mostly you need to stop because it’s not fucking fair. When I was your age there wasn’t a constant barrage of sex starved cam-girls forever flaunting about on myspace and the internet. We didn’t have this many cock-chugging filthy co-eds. Well we probably did, they just ddn’t advertise as prolifically. That and I already feel like a lecherous old man 90 percent of the time. It’s gonna be feel even worse in five years, when my little brother turns fifteen, and I’m unconsciously oogling the dates he brings home. So for my sanity, and self esteem.

originally posted December 19th 2005

Dear Santa,
My name is Travis, and we really haven’t spoken since the “Slot Car Racing Set” incident of 1991. Honestly though, in the years prior to that, you came through for me. You and I had a good business relationship and we communicated well, if not often. I’d visit you at your grand palace in the mall surrounded by your friendly, yet distinctively smelly and diminutive minions. We’d talk about what I’d been up to throughout the year; my differentiating factors of naughty and nice (admittedly frog baseball, calling the kid next door a “fat melon head”, and setting the living room carpet on fire were chalked up to the naughty column) but our back and forth banter was a necessary part of our business relationship.

Now in 1991 I was going through, what my junior high school guidance counselor called a period of self discovery, and I started questioning our relationship. After all: You’re older than everyone I know and you surround yourself with child-sized workers and one day a year you sneak into houses in order to make children “happy”. I also started actually analyzing the songs that I had heard about you. “You see me when I’m sleeping, you know when I’m awake…” Dude, you started creeping me out. It’s not bad enough that my mom told me that every time I masturbate God kills a kitten (in 1992 I was personally responsible for the deaths of over 1200 kittens) but I also had to worry that a fat guy, with a propensity for young children, isn’t going to bring me a nintendo because I’ve been firing off knuckle children to the sports illustrated swimsuit edition.

I’m fairly certain that, due to this fact, you turned your back on me. In 1991 all I wanted for christmas was a slot car racing set, specifically the one where the track went up the wall and everything glowed in the dark. I figured with a toy like that I could goof off well into the night without my mother being any the wiser. What did I get instead? Captain FUCKING Power. You remember Captain Power don’t you? It was these toys that shot little laser beams. There were jets, action figures you put in the jets and you played video tapes where you shot at the screen and you could score points. The screen would also shoot back and whoop my non-hand-eye-coordination-having-ass. There was also a Saturday morning TV show where I could plant my little ass in front of the tube, after consuming an entire box of cocoa puffs and pop-rocks, and fight along side Captain power. At the time it was pretty cool, not a slot car racing set, but still kind of cool. Looking back on it though: Gayest Thing Ever!

Now it’s been brought to my attention, Santa, that you had nothing to do with the old Captain Power fiasco, and, as such, I forgive you. Do you hear me you Jolly Fat Bastard, I BELIEVE AGAIN. I’m still a little creeped out over the whole watching me sleep thing, but if that’s your little payback for bringing me presents, watch away you perverted rich bastard!! I’ve changed a lot since ‘91 but I’ve got a great gift idea for me this year. Seeing as how I’ve developed this ever growing hate for society: This year I want a giant, destruction oriented, robot that I can drive. Not only will this make up for my lack of cool slot car race set, it will make my commute to work easier, and assist me in my plans for world domination. Here’s something I drew the other day to give you some sort of idea of what I am looking for.

(click for larger image)

Now, I’ll be headed up a fucking mountain for Christmas, I’ll be unreachable by phone, so if you could leave my killer robot, assembled, outside of my house and shoot me an email when it’s delivered I’d greatly appreciate it. I will be back in town a few days before New Years in order to hang out with Molly, Morgan, and Alan, so please try to make sure it’s delivered before then so i can take everyone for a ride. It’s good to talk to you again fat man, tell the missus I said, “hey.”

Sincerely,

Travis

P.S. I’m off to touch myself inappropriately, can you please turn a blind eye to that? Thanks.

originally posted on December 5th 2005..I was very angry

I hate evangelical, dogmatic, people. Now I’m not necessarily limiting that statement to religious people but pretty much anyone who feels that their opinions are so important, and righteous, that they have to enforce their beliefs on me no matter the location or circumstance. It reminds me of those anti-abortion people that used to show up at my high school. The last thing I wanted to see, while arriving at school drunker than ten Indians, is their four foot tall picture of an aborted fetus. I’m glad that you think abortion is wrong but there’s no need to storm a school like guerrillas and thump the bible while holding aloft a picture of the head of a dead baby. What the fuck is wrong with you people? Why can’t you just keep it to your fucking self? I enjoy taking a shit, but I’m not going to rush your house at dinner time and espouse the virtues of my last turd or the fact that I had to beat it to death with a shovel. Along those lines; religious zealots need to quit it. I’m neither extremely pro-religion or anti religion. I’ve got my own views on god, we talked over a bottle of whiskey, we’re cool. The fact that you are going door to door selling jesus like Tupperware or mary-kay cosmetics makes me trust you, and him, less. Now go peddle your wares elsewhere so I can get back to making full and complete use of my three day trail membership to clubjenna.com.

The reason this topic has given me a rancid case of the beer farts is because of some god-damned environmentalist cunt-sack that I ran into during work the other day. About two or three times a week I have to take my boss (The Big Guy) to some sort of meeting at a big domed building in downtown Sacramento. If my life, at work, were a movie it would be “Driving Miss Daisy” and I would be Morgan Freeman. That being the case, when The Big Guy goes inside the Big Building for his meetings, I sit outside listening to the radio. Now this tree-hugging woman, who’s probably in her fifties and smells like old crotch, came out and talked to me once during the summer. For some reason she had a problem with me sitting with my car running and the air conditioner on. In a rare moment of me being nice I listened to her hippie ass and turned off the car. I think that was my first mistake. See people are like monkeys: if a monkey throws shit at you and you don’t discipline them to the point where they are scared to fling shit again, it will keep happening. I should have never been nice to this bitch. About three days ago I’m sitting outside the big building, as it’s freezing cold and raining. I turn on the car so I can turn on the heater and not more than ten minutes later, here comes the aging fucking hippie in a huff. She proceeds to bitch at me for having the car running. I explain to her that the car is running so that I can run the heater because it’s cold outside. Stupid move on my part. Apparently logic can’t penetrate her melon head because my answer just opened the door for her to unleash her environmentalist rhetoric on me. I again explained that it was cold, and that’s the reason the car is on and she indignantly replies, “Didn’t your mother teach you to bring a coat when it’s cold?” At that point I thought back to our first encounter this past summer and regretted not crushing her windpipe. No you uppity bitch, I didn’t bring a coat because I’m sitting in a car that has the convenience of having a heater. Technology really is an amazing thing. This thing then demands that I write down The Big Guy’s contact information so she can file a formal complaint about me. As I begrudingly wrote the information the only thought running through my head is that fact that if I were to kick the door open really hard I could probably buckle both of her knees. Don’t you have a fucking job to do? I’m glad your concerned about the environment but take your ass back inside your climate controlled office and leave me the fuck alone. The entire time I’ve been forced to talk to you the window has been down, the car has been off, the heater has not been running and now I’m freezing my fucking ass off. For your edification, the average cattle farm on the outskirts of stockton puts out more pollutants than my god damned staff car and I don’t see you marching your hairy ass out there to force the ranchers to plug the shit-chutes of the cows. I hate people like this so god-damned much. I was going to do a holiday update that included a comic about Godzilla saving christmas but for some reason this bitch made me so mad I completely lost my train of thought for that. Thank you so much you self-righteous bag of ass for pissing me off so much that I couldn’t celebrate the holidays by drawing a picture of Godzilla opening a can of whoop ass on Santa Claus. But being in the Holiday spirit still, here’s my Christmas wish list, why don’t all of you people who can’t keep your dogma to yourselves wrap your ever-flapping lips around the barrel of a twelve gauge and pull the trigger with your toe? Hopefully, if you do that, I’ll be able to live my life unfettered by your need to unburden your opinions on me at the most inopportune time.

So here’s to self righteous cock-sacks that can’t just keep their tiny little opinions to themselves:
Merry Christmas.

Now Fuck Off!
Sincerely,

Travis

originally posted November 15th, 2005

Well it’s official: Leaked tracks on the internet confirm that kevin Federline is indeed releasing a CD. Having heard the relased track I’ll give my honest opinion: It licks old, sweaty, fat man scrotum. It sucks more than the time that the shitty company that Gary Coleman advertises for turned me down for a loan. What the fuck is that all about? You guys will give that no talent, half pint, hack ten thousand dollars but not me? Shit, I’ll bare knuckle fight him for the money. YOU HEAR ME COLEMAN? I’m calling you out! I need twenty thousand dollars and I’m willing to fight you for it. While Gary Coleman can kiss my ass I’d really like to know who gave Federline a record contract? This putz was a backup dancer who’s only claim to fame, before he forgot to pull out with Britney, was abandoning his babies momma so he could prance about on stage and get some ass. While his record deal may very well be a sign of the apocalypse there is one, and only one, good thing that can come of it:

Think about it: every time this cock-chuggers career starts to tank her management whores her up a little bit more. She started her career dressing like a naughty school girl. Which, to me, says they were marketing her towards the forty-five year old, hiding in their basement, masturbating while choking themselves with their belt crowd. Which if you’re a fan of disgusting fat people and pedophiles, is fine.But once her vestal virgin gimmick ran it’s course they hooked her up with Justin Timberlake. This obviously led to rumors that her and Justin were havin’ filthy, I’m richer than you and can do what I want, sex. While this is true the one thing the media never picked up on was the fact that all of N’Sync ran a train on her, except for the fat gay one.

Once the media frenzy surrounding her and Justin wore off, and considering the fact that no “home video” of Britney getting stuffed full of dick seven ways from Sunday, ever leaked, her managers had to re-invent the Britney sex-machine. She then got her Pepsi contract. Now the great thing about Pepsi contracts is that you get a shit-load of money and you garner a lot of attention. The previous, biggest selling, ad campaign for Pepsi was when Michael Jackson was their spokesperson. Unfortunately for Pepsi, when everyone figured out that Michael Jackson catching fire was an accident and that Pepsi wasn’t pro “Setting that fucked up looking child toucher” on fire sales plummeted. when Britney started advertising for Pepsi in her “Watch me deep throat a twenty ounce bottle” campaign; sales sky rocketed. Proving, once again, that the bigger of a whore Britney Spears is, the more money she will make. Her career with Pepsi sadly derailed when Christina Aguilera agreed to participate in the “Wiffle Ball Bat Challenge” for Jaeger Meister.

Here’s the pictures, you tell me which advertising campaign was better.

So plan number 174,562 fails for Britney’s management and it’s time to reinvent the whore bag again. He relationship with Justin long gone they decide what better way to get more attention for her than to team her up with the two other biggest whores on the face of the planet: Madonna and Christina. This, my friends, was beautiful marketing. Hell, this was beautiful period. Though all of the whorish things Britney “the Cum Dumpster” Spears had done up until that point had pretty much been coated in sub-text, there is nothing “underlying” or “sub-textual” about sharing a nice open mouthed kiss, on stage, with Madonna and Christina. I’m sure that all of this was followed up after the show with a naked Jello-wrestling contest, and a hot, shared, shower where all three of them learned how to “get in touch with their bodies”. I’m certain Timberlake, having now started switch hitting, was pretty pissed off at watching this whole thing live from the audience. Sure, she’ll let your guy friends bang the hell out of her but the idea of more girls is totally out.

This picture says it all.

As you can see, each and every time her career starts looking like a giant toilet, her management starts whoring her out. What says, “My career is at an all time low” more than letting her stupid, back up dancing, baby abandoning, husband release an album? Nothing! Her career as a singer and performing artist are over. This is what has lead me to believe that it is an inevitability that she will be starring in “Prison Sex: Volume 19″ Well that, and the track listing from Federline’s CD gives away the whole surprise.

If you think this is ugly, you just wait until Ashlee Simpson turns eighteen. Hell the way her career is going, I imagine she’s already calling Traci Lordes.

originally posted on October 26th 2005 after hackers took down my original website, assholes

This week is turning into one of those pissed in my cheerios weeks. I have the insatiable urge to dress midgets up like circus clowns and then use a bat, covered in nails, for batting practice on their lumpy little heads. Normally Halloween is my favorite holiday. The week leading up to Halloween is always a blast because I usually spend it picking out my costume, and planning exactly how much alcohol is needed to sufficiently inebriate a large African elephant (because the sober ones are unruly and difficult to dress up like senator Barbara “I’m an aging hippie who won’t let it go, and a raging cunt” Boxer”). Speaking of Barbara Boxer; how does this bleeding heart, flapping vagina of a public servant keep getting re-elected. I found a picture of her in a Halloween costume from a couple of years back.

This picture proves two things that I always knew about her:

One: She’s Depraved

Two: Barbara Boxer is really a man.

Unfortunately this week has been a royal, flaming, pain in the ass. It started with having to move on a last minute, break neck, holy fuck me notice; reached a messy crescendo with me puking for an eight hour drive up I-5 from Southern California, and culminated in my webhost getting side-fucked and my site going down. (which is why I am temporarily using this blogspot thingy) I will say that after making fun of Barbara Boxer, and looking forward to the Halloween parties I have planned for this weekend, I do feel a bit better. I’ll put up pictures of the parties and my costume after this weekend. But back to the reason for this article: Halloween. When I was a wee little ankle biter Halloween was great because it meant my friends and I could run around, late at night, hopped up on copious amounts of sugar, acting like a bunch of half crazed window lickers with anonymity because we were unrecognizable to the world at large. No one could catch us because it’s hard to tell police that you’re house was just tp’d by a ten year old sized Spider-Man, Optimus Prime, a fireman, and Batman. Oh the joys of being a tiny little shit head.Halloween, over the years, has always been a milestone for me. Though about the only thing noteworthy that I can remember right now is having sex for the first time on Halloween when I was sixteen. I’m sure some more significant incidents have happened on those dates but I can’t remember them right now. At 25, Halloween still holds a significant amount of fun for me. But rather than getting hopped up on sweet tarts and bite size snickers now the long running plan is to get drunker than fuck-all and do something stupid. The thing I like best about Halloween is the costumes. Some people, scholarly people, would say that folks like me enjoy costumes because it gives us a feeling of anonymity. They would liken it to living in another skin where the rules or, more importantly, the consequences do not apply to us because we are not living as ourselves, but rather our temporary alter-egos. Actually, I made all of that up, see, I can sound like a pretentious ass-hat too. The Great thing is that guys get, basically, two choices for costumes: Funny/Clever or scary. That’s pretty much all we get. I guess, in looking at it though, there’s really not a whole lot of choices other than that. As Evidenced by the following pictures

A Pimp outfit I thought to myself, I’ll be so clever. Atleast we didn’t beat the shit out of each other like chicks do when someone wears the same outfit.

I go for “creepy”, he goes for “huge cock” god damnit.

I want to have a talk with this kid’ parents.
And my personal favorite of “look how clever guys can be”:

Nothing says Halloween like ensuring an express trip to hell by being all fucked up on illicit substances while dressed like Jesus Christ.

But even better than that is that girls get one choice.
SLUTTY
Why be a nurse when you could be a slutty nurse? Why be a cop when you could be a slutty cop? (and any girl who has ever been a slutty cop always has to make a joking/flirting comment about the costume coming equipped with handcuffs).

I’m fairly certain that this is the same girl in each costume, but if it’s not, I’m curious as to what it would cost for all five of them to come to my Halloween party and mud wrestle. Actually, now that I’ve relived Halloweens of the past, stared at the slutty images of Strawberry Shortcake, Little Red Riding Hood, and Alice I think this week can only get better. Maybe next year I’ll have a How To Kill People (dot) Com costume contest with prizes going to the Cleverest and Sluttiest costumes. I think I’ll give out booze as prizes.

-Travis

originally posted somewhere in 2005…god damn I’m drunk

I don’t know what the hell is going on in Hollywood, but I blame Calista Flockhart for starting the trend of unusually skinny bird bitches. Just take a look at Nicole Ritchie, Lindsay Lohan, or Paris Hilton; there is nothing attractive about being so skinny that Somalians fear for your health. Girls should have curves, and boobs, and they should be soft and enjoyable to touch. I don’t know about the rest of the world but the idea of making out with the skeleton that hung in the corner of my high school science lab never appealed to me. Let me introduce you to Angelina Jolie, I’m a big fan of hers and she’s got a few things that none of you do.

BOOBS These are what boobs are supposed to look like: round, firm, not too big and probably a bit heavy to the touch. Paris Hilton’s soggy eggs hanging off a nail are not what boobs are supposed to look like and, quite frankly, I am sick of seeing those floppy excuses for tits on the internet.

HIPS Remember the phrase ‘hour glass figure’? 36×24x36? That’s a good shape for a woman. Hips allow a woman to do that sexy walk-thing that every guy is familiar with. It’s that kind of walk that, when you see it, inspires a drumbeat. When Lindsay Lohan walks a red carpet all I’m waiting to hear is her decalcified bones snap in two.

THIGHS I’m pretty sure, by now, that Angelina’s agent is filing a restraining order, but I don’t care. I love this woman’s thighs. Attention Nicole Ritchie; these are the way legs are supposed to look. If you’d lay off the blow for a little while you’d probably look like a woman again. Shit, even Colonel Sanders wouldn’t cover those pipe cleaners you walk on with his special blend of twelve herbs and spices. But it’s okay, not to be one to present a problem without a solution I’ve come up with a fix for this temporary problem.

Celebrity women aren’t the only ones who should be hit in the head with a mallet; the men are just as bad. I’ve never understood how these Hollywood dipshits get hot actresses to date them and then they manage to fuck it up. For example: Jude Law was engaged to this hot little chick.

But he decided that one woman just wasn’t enough for him. So does he go out and find himself another hot little thing to have an affair with (ala his movie Alfie, which was a horrible waste of celluloid)? Nope, he decides that he is going to stay close to home and bangs this rhino.

But he’s not the only famous moron who can fuck up being married to a hot chick. John Stamos was married to Rebecca Romijn for several years but somehow managed to doushe that up. My guess is he was trying to coerce the Olsen twins into a foursome with Candace Cameron. Good job dip-shit. Charlie Sheen somehow managed to bribe Denise Richards into marrying him AND having his kids, although it’s not really hard to see how he could manage to fuck that up the way he did. So I have a message for all of you famous women who need a good man. I’ve never done coke, never banged a prostitute (let alone a high class, expensive one), I don’t have a gambling problem, and I’m funny. Quit talking to those famous guys and drop me a line, I could always use a sugar momma.

P.S. Jennifer Aniston, Brad traded up, quit calling me.

originally posted sometime in 2005 on myspace.com

I have decided that, for the betterment of man kind, I should be president of the world. I may not have any political experience, and I may not seem like the most likely candidate, but I think I can do it. Below is my list of qualifications.

All sissies will be slapped around with olive loaf
Tired of cry babies ruining everything? Tired of hearing about superficial law suits that happen because some people are to stupid to breathe on their own? Tired of hearing people whine about being offended and getting their feelings hurt? Well in my administration, as President of The World, one of my minions (yes I would have minions) would carry around a softball bat size log of Olive Loaf. Anyone caught whining would be summarily beaten with said giant tube of Olive Loaf. Sissies don’t deserve to be bludgeoned with real lunch meat.

My Secret Service would be an army of ninjas
To hell with having an elite protection force that attempts to blend in with low grade business men. My secret service will be nothing but ninjas. They will dress like ninjas. They will carry nunchucks, swords, and guns like ninjas. Most of all, they will kick ass like ninjas. If you were even thinking about stepping up to me, my elite team of ninja ass kickers would tear you a new asshole.

I would be a fighting president
Sick of seeing higher ranking people sending out the lower level personel to fight wars? Well once I am declared president of Earth I will kick ass along side the average joe. Of course seeing as how there will be no more war on Earth, the next place we are going to war with will be Mars. We’ll show those filthy red planet bastards. And once we conquer Mars, we’ll move on to Saturn. There is something in those rings, I must have them!!!

My Ninjas and I preparing to kick wicked amounts of ass on Mars.

My Vice President Would Rule
This is something that I have been debating heavily. Who should be my vice president? Considering all of the options I have narrowed it down to two possibilities: A Midget or A Hot Chick. Obviously everyone can see the comedic value in having a midget as a Vice President. There’s lots of height jokes that can be made on late night tv, and if I ever run out of places to rest my cocktail, I can use his flat head. However, The Hot Chick, I mean come on, HOT CHICK! I can use her as eye candy to distract the Martian scum and then whoop their asses with wicked style. This one’s tough, I’ll let you vote on it.

I will not censor anything
Tired of the government telling you what you can and can’t listen too? Tired of the FCC dominating your television viewing? Well I refuse to censor anything, that’s right, television and radio will be uncensored. I’ve been fed up with parents not doing their jobs as parents and expecting the government to step in for them. Once I am president of the world deciding what is morally decent for your kids will be your job, not mine. Don’t want them to see sex, then don’t let them watch it. Offended by what you hear on the radio, then change the station. I, on the other hand, will enjoy finally seeing wrestlers cuss at their opponents, and I am anxiously awaiting Fear Factors “all naked playmate” episode. *scrumptious*

I will issue licenses to hunt Michael Jackson
I’m fucking fed up with Michael Jackson. How many times does he have to be brought up on charges of touching kids before someone makes the charges stick. As PRESIDENT OF THE WORLD I will issue hunting licenses specifically for Michael Jackson. I think that the death penalty takes too long, but I am willing to give him a sporting chance.

I will create another moon Now while you may be thinking that this will fuck up tidal stuff, and throw the earth of it’s axis sending us plummeting directly into the sun, you’re wrong. Also consider, what other President has ever been able to successfully create a whole new moon? NONE! How am I going to accomplish this you ask? How can you possibly create another huge piece of flotsam floating out in space, orbiting our planet? Simple. My room mate, Megan, has a huge head. By huge, I don’t mean abnormally large, I also don’t mean mishapen and disgusting. Megan has a nice round head, it’s just gargantuan. One time when we were driving to work, she turned her head to quickly and caused a seventy-two car pile up. Nuns ran screaming from burning busses, four boy scouts never walked again after that day, and I am pretty sure her head killed a puppy. So, for the safety of all involved, and because it would be neat to be the ONLY president to create a new moon, I am sending Megan’s head into space.

Now I understand that many of you may have questions so I have created a FAQ for you to reference for the time being.
Q: Will you have your own version of the White House?
A: yes

Q: Where will this new Presidential Estate be located?
A: The Playboy Mansion

Q: What is your philosophy on foreign policy?
A: Look stupid, I am PRESIDENT OF THE WORLD, there are no more foreigners. Except for those filthy Martians, and oh how they will pay!

Q: Ninjas? Really?
A: SHIT YEAH!!!

Q: What kind of car will you drive, as President of the World?
A: The Batmobile, duh.

Q: When should groveling or ass kissing begin?
A: No need, I am a benevolent leader. Do you have a hot sister?
That’s all the questions I have received so far. If you have a question, or you just want to voice your support for me becoming PRESIDENT OF THE WORLD just leave a comment.
Thank You

Let’s kill them filthy martians!
Travis

P.S. Don’t forget to vote for Vice President.

originally posted on myspace.com as a follow up to this article. (you might want to read it first)

Dear Mr. Sampson,

I just wanted to write and thank you for all of your support throughout my professional career. As MAN-AZE I’ve come very far in a very short period of time and none of it would have been possible without knowing that you were behind me. I’ve made some great friends since I’ve stepped into the spotlight.

Here’s a picture of me and 50 cent. Unofficially I am the only white member of G-Unit.

Here’s a picture of my first, multi-platinum, album.

Unfortunately sometimes fame can get to you, and you start living outside your means and hanging out with whores. I got caught up Mr. Sampson, and I’m sorry, because I feel like I let you down. I don’t know when the downward trend started. All of the sudden I’m on the cover of Vibe magazine, Source, XXL. I’m getting invited to parties with famous people I only used to dream about. I was even invited to the Playboy mansion for their PJ party. That’s where it hit me, I knew I was in over my head and here’s the picture to prove it.

This is a picture of me, holding Paris Hilton’s dog, so she can go do blow in the bathroom at the playboy mansion. Sometimes you don’t realize how far you’ve fallen. I decided right then and there, that my fall from grace was over. I finally realized that what was happening in my life was something I should enjoy and cherish, and not waste away with whores like Paris Hilton. One of the songs of my debut CD is dedicated to her. It’s called My Balls: Your Chin

Paris you’re a whore
I don’t need you no more
I know that you are sore and yes…
That was a bag of my poopie on your door.

Of course you can’t be a celebrity and have mad cash without jumping in to help a good cause. Recently I lent my mad skillz to a hurricane Katrina benefit show. I did a spot with Mike Meyers but Kanye West went on before I did.

This is the pic of me and Mike, this was supposed to air, but fucking Kanye messed it up. Needless to say, Kanye and I got beef now. Matter of Fact I sat down and broke out some new shit to put on my next album.

Yo kanye, what you got to say?
You think your badass, well not today.
I’m gonna run around, all over the place.
I’m gonna take a poopie, all up on your face.

Yeah, it feels good to get back to my roots: busting out POOPIE RHYMES on those unsuspecting cows. So thank you, Mr Sampson. You’ve guided me back to the path that gave me everything I’ve got.

Sincerely,

MAN-AZE
(hey, if you want Eminems autograph, let me know…he’s a big fan of mine)

As always, leave me a comment and I will leave you your very own poopie rhyme.

orignally posted in early 2005

I have been really irritable as of late, probably due to the fact that I quit smoking and all of the hate and anger that I used to take out on myself by smoking has just been building. So I have compiled a list of shit that’s been pissing me off.

Ma-Ti (The kid from captain planet who had the power of heart):
The Good News: you’ve been chosen to become part of an elite team of super heros. There will be five of you, each with unique powers of the earth.The Bad News: While everyone else gets cool powers like controlling the seismic activity of the earth, and shooting fire, you’re the fag who gets the power to make people feel. You’re the lamest super hero ever. Even Aquaman laughs at you. (not to mention this cartoon and all the god damn hippies who made it should rot in hell!)

Jay Leno
I don’t give a flying piece of monkey shit if he replaced Johnny Carson as host of the tonight show, this guy blows. His jokes are lame and always followed by a rim shot (not rim job) then, when no one laughs, he figures that they just didn’t hear the shitty punchline so he repeats it, with another god damn rim shot from the band. Jay Leno you suck, I hope something heavy falls on your grotesquely disfigured head!

Disclaimers on Medicine Ads
Not only is there some new designer prescription for everything from nosebleeds to severe anal leakage, the side effects that they cause are horrifically worse than the problem they are prescribed to get rid of.

John Stamos
Not only did this cheese dick get to bang Rebecca Romajn ,which should put him on the top of anyone’s list of “ten people whose asses I want to lodge a small mouthed bass in”, but he was also that lame ass, hip-but-sensitive uncle Jesse on full house. And only three good things came out of Full House, Bob Saget’s drug problem, and the Olsen Twins (because we all know that soon enough those two and Britney Spears are gonna be doing porn with Paris Hilton.) John Stamos is a schmuck.

Everclear - The Band
Every song written by this three piece out cropping of dingleberries sounds alike. Don’t believe me? Start singing father of mine over that “..we can live beside the ocean..” song. I farted one time and it lasted 74 minutes, the length of a full cd, and it had more tone, charisma, pathos, and talent than every Everclear album put together. I walked out of a free concert that they put on…i then went home and watched my wall, because I had no TV. I hope this band has finally stopped recording shit, and I pray radio someday stops playing them. I also hope that they get on a plane with Sugar Ray and that plane crashes into a fish tank full of ravenous pirahanas that eats their faces off but leaves them to live horribly disfigured lives.

The Hollywood Shit Machine
This is that strange corporate entity that exists in the nether regions of California that churns out one bad movie after another. These are the people responsible for movies like Dude, Where’s my car? Dumb and Dumberer, Cool as Ice (The shit hurricane that was vanilla ice’s movie career) and various other GIANT WASTES OF DOG SHIT. This is the same cloudy nothingness that finds one actor and decides that they are the golden child of the film industry and makes me hate them. For example: Will Farrell. I liked Will Farrel when he was on SNL, but now that he is in every god damn movie that is put out these days, I would rather have all my teeth ripped out and then be forced to gum my own arm off then watch him stumble through another clumsy, heavy handed performance. One of these days I’m gonna burn Hollywood down, and then pee on the ashes.

Ahston Kutcher
When will this no talent fart catcher shrivel up and fucking die? As Kelso on That Seventies Show he was likable as a doofus, but once he became The Shit Machines golden boy, my urge to cause great and frequent bodily harm to him rose to exponential levels. That and he starred in the greatest tragedy film has ever seen: Dude, Where’s My Car? I want my eight bucks back you giant piece of toilet left overs. If I was making movies they sure as hell wouldn’t star this bag of ass, unless it was a snuff film. I hope someone puts a butcher knife in his head at a county fair informercial.

Gary Coleman
IS THE DEVIL!

Paris Hilton
Can someone please explain to me why this whore is famous and I’m not? I did more to be famous for this morning, when I took a shit, than she has done her entire life. She has the mental capacity of a small woodland creature and is incapable of any tact or substance. She should just go the whole nine and be a full fledged porn star, at least then she’d get paid for being the salacious slut that she is.

On a completely separate note: I went out to dinner the other night with the girl and some of her friends. Well they were all talking about girlie things and I got bored. So, in search of something to entertain me, I sculpted a scene out of PacMan with the leftovers on my plate. PacMan and the power pellet are made of that weird yellow squash they always give you at Chevys. The Ghost is rice and his eyes are feta cheese. The regular pellets are just chunks of tomoato. After I picked up my plate and moved it into better light to take a picture with my camera phone everyone decided it was time to leave.

I guess some people have no appreciation for art, or eighties video games.
bastards.

originally posted right after July 4th 2005

I don’t know what in Christ’s teeth possessed me to go to Utah for the Fourth of July instead of staying home lighting bottle rockets out of my ass, but that is an indelible scar that will never heal. Mapquest marks the trip as being about 700 miles which should take us about ten hours. The plan was to leave Saturday afternoon and return Tuesday evening. At the last minute, however, we were joined but one of my step-brothers who brought along his wife, their large German Sheppard, a 19 inch television, a playstation2 and too top it off, he had to be back at work by five a.m. Tuesday morning. So we end up not leaving Sacramento until one a.m. Sunday morning, half the van is overcrowded with his shit and we are going to spend more time driving than we are in Utah. I came to find out later that anytime spent in Utah is too long. In the past I have determined that Texas, Mississippi, and Oklahoma should all be walled off and used as nuclear testing sites…well, i am moving Utah to the top of that list.

Utah is, by far, that most hideously boring place that I have ever had the displeasure of wasting time in. I don’t know who drew up the boundary lines for the state but i want to meet the tool who looked out over the vast expanse of dull that is the salt flats and said You see all those pretty things way off in the distance, like trees and mountains? yeah, we don’t want any of that shit in our state. Just stop the boundary line at the end of this desolate wasteland. That oughtta keep the normal people out. Add onto that the fact Utah is governed by ridiculous rules mandated by the dominant religion in the state. As far as i can tell Utah has outlawed: Music, Colors and Fun. they have also outlawed anyone without a waspy disposition from residing within the state borders. To make matters worse you can only buy hard liquor from state sanctioned liquor stores, which are all closed on Sunday. Having been forewarned of this atrocious rule, I came prepared. After driving twelve hours we finally arrived at our hotel. I decided that I would be better off paying for my own hotel room and not suffering through sharing a room with one of my step-brothers who snores like a freight train running over broken glass. The first thing I did, after I checked in, was set up my personal, portable bar.

click the picture to see what I feel is important to bring traveling with me.

I had a couple of martinis and took a shower. Once i was all freshened up i called everyone and announced that happy hour was now open in my room. The person happiest about this, other than myself, was my Mother. Who knew she was a fan of Martinis? (now I know where I get it from)

This is the sign that sits on the Utah border with the proud slogan: Utah, still the place to be . That’s a load of horseshit. After all I have described do you really think that Utah has any redeeming qualities? I have a new sign that I would like to put on the Utah border because it actually tells the truth.

People of Utah, I am putting you on notice: If an alien race ever comes looking for human slaves, I am giving your asses up first.

originally put online by angry monkeys in the summer of 2005

I hate the summer, hate it with as much passion as I hate hippies stinking of petculli. I just spent two weeks in Southern California on some training exercises for The Big Guy where the temperatures were mild and there was a constant coastal breeze only to return to Sacramento Valley where there is no breeze and the ninety degree drive home in my car with no air conditioning causes my balls to sweat obtrusively. I can handle the winter because when I get cold I can just keep putting on more and more clothes until I warm up. In the summer, however, once I have stripped naked and my bare ass has taken up permanent residence in the crisper drawer of the fridge to ward off taint sweat, if I am still hot, I am pretty much fucked. Let’s compound this by the fact that in summer children are released from the constraints of daytime schooling and are free to run amuck. Aren’t there supposed to be some sort of leash laws to prevent these obnoxious shitheads from ruining my time at the movies on my day off?

When I returned from SoCal I found out that The Dude was back in town on leave, having graduated school, so he and I went out to do what it is that we do best: get all smacked up on cheap booze and chicken wings. After an evening of heavy drinking and gorging ourselves on greasy bar food we returned to my house and promptly passed out somewhere between three a.m. and sunrise. Normally I am all for a good night of drunken sleep. Come about ten in the morning, just after realizing I didn’t need to hold on to the bed to keep from falling off the earth, and right before I realized I was sleeping on the floor of my bedroom, I was woken by the sound of the neighborhood children running amuck on a Monday morning. When I am hungover I don’t even want to hear my own breathing, let alone the high pitched squeal of the ankle biters next door. At ten a.m. they’re running rampant on those god awful pocket bikes and squealing like a giddy Whitney Houston at a free crack give-away, as they splash around on a slip n slide. I decided, right then and there, that the best way to end a slip n slide is with live alligators.

My thought process behind this is several fold:
1 Stupid people breed stupid people, my slip n slide would cure that. Let’s look at some examples shall we? Recently there were a couple of shark attacks along Florida beaches that caused the death of one girl, and caused a boy to have his leg amputated. Did the Florida authorities do anything to close the beaches and prevent attacks until they could be sure that the risk was low? Nope, notafuckingchance.

This picture is of the stupidest family in America. It was taken about 80 miles down the coast from the first two shark attacks (which took place at the same god damned beach). The thing circled in red is a large Bull shark (the same kind of shark that attacked other two kids). Obviously in this picture it appears as if the family notices something menacing in the water. What conversation happened between this group of in-breeders that caused them to go wading?

In-Breeder One: Hey honey aren’t we just miles down the coast from where those two kids were attacked by sharks?
In-Breeder Two:Yup
In-Breeder One: Weren’t one of them kids killed?
In-Breeder Two: Yup
In-Breeder One: Wanna take the whole family out for a walk on the beach and play in the ocean?
In-Breeder Two: Yup.
FUCKING MORONS! What’s even better is there is another picture taken, mere seconds later, of the same in breeder family.

Check out the cocksmith who decided he would go walking out into the water to check out the large ominous shadow. If this guy gets eaten by a shark, it’s his own damn fault.I was actually disappointed to not see a news release the following day explaining that a retarded family, wading in the ocean off of the Florida coast, was attacked and eaten by a shark. Personally speaking, I don’t think it’s tragic when someone gets attacked by a shark. Wanna know why? BECAUSE YOU WENT INTO THE SHARKS HOME! You have to accept a certain amount of responsibility if you know that there are large creatures, capable of attacking and killing a human, swimming in the ocean and you go out there. If you were sitting in your home and a large shark came into your house and ate you, that would be tragic, but if you go swimming in an area known to have sharks and you get attacked by a shark, you should’ve seen it coming. I’m not alone in this line of thinking. My friend Steph is in line with this and even received some hate-mail due to an article she wrote based on this ideology.

This is natural selection people all I am planning on doing is speeding up the process. How does this relate to a slip n slide with live alligators? easy: Do you think little Billy may not grow up to be smart enough to do anything except make sure my fries are piping hot and ensure that my oil gets changed in thirty minutes or less? Test him. Offer him the slip n slide with live alligators. If he takes one look at it and gives you the finger, you have an intelligent child capable of, at the very least, basic survival. If little Billy decides to chance it and gets eaten by the gators…well….he was probably headed for disaster anyway.

2 Much like a culling of the herd, this will serve to ensure the survival of the fittest. I am sick and god damned tired of idiots in my world and, frankly, would love to employ live alligators as the basic survival test for all human beings. The slip n slide 4,000,000,000 ( or SnS 4Bizzle as the kids are fond of calling it) would help to ensure the smart kids survive and that the kids who are destined to eat paste and end up in the emergency room with several crayons shoved up their nose don’t make it to adult hood where all they will do is dirty up the gene pool and watch Nascar. This will lead to several revolutions in the fields of science, human evolution, pro wrestling, hand guns, and super-huge cheeseburgers and you’ll have me to thank for it. I will be a bastion of human hope. Of course not every dumb child is going to be exposed to the SnS 4Billion, which is okay, because someone has to make the drive thrus work, and someone has to rotate and balance my tires. The children who survive in my world will create robot ninjas that I can use as personal slaves and bodyguards. They will save the world…all thanks to my improved slip n slide.

3 The God Damned kids next door would no longer wake me up with their shrill little squeals, and I wouldn’t be forced to walk outside, hung over, in a thong to get them to shut up so I could concentrate on not barfing and go back to sleep.

Monday is the fourth of July, which, as far I am concerned, is a government sanction for me to get drunk and blow things up. Not wanting to blow up my neighborhood I have decided to join my Mom and Stepdad on a roadtrip to Utah to visit with his family for the Fourth.
This should be interesting.
I’m bringing a mini-bar.

originally written right before Episode III came out. DUH

Unless you’ve been hiding under a rock you’re probably aware that Star Wars: Episode III is coming out in a few days. A couple of the sure signs that the next Star Wars movie is mere days away from release is:
A.) The Star Wars brand/characters/likeness/logo has been put on everything from cans of Pepsi to Tampax Tampons.

and B.) 30 year old virgins, that still live in their parents basements, are drudging themselves into the sunlight for the first time in years. Look, I liked the first few movies when I was somewhere in the age range of six to eight, I still watch them on occasion. I will never, no matter what, understand the obsession that some people have for these movies, especially episodes one and two. These movies sucked out loud and were obviously the product of a holy-shit I have to come up with something weekend writing session. The other thing that makes no sense is the people who wait for weeks or months, in line, to be the first to see a movie that will be viewed by a billion people. I’ve got a great idea GET A GOD DAMNED HOBBY ! I was unfortunate enough, while living in Santa Barbara, to attend the first showing of episode two. I didn’t pay for the tickets and I primarily went to see the gaggle of rejects that flock to these kind of events. Never in my life have I wanted to eviscerate myself so quickly. It was nice, on the converse, to be the only male in a crowd of about 1200 who has actually touched real, naked, boobies.In anticipation of this event I jumped online to talk to my buddy George Lucas hoping that he could put aside my fears that this third movie would, unequivably, blow goats.

Episode Three better not suck, or I am personally driving to Marin County and beating George Lucas senseless with a bag of human feces.

UPDATE: since this was written a while ago I thought I should let you know that it did, indeed, lick elephant rectum.

originally posted right after the Department of Euthanization article

I want to savor this moment. I want to bask in the glow of this for just a second because I finally got…

That’s right I finally pissed someone off enough that they had to say something. After roughly a year of belittling and mocking: Fat people, ugly people, old people, famous people, stupid people, political people, and espousing my hate for the entirety of four states in the country I made someone mad enough to try to poke back. Who is it you ask? What group of people did I piss off enough to make them write to me? FUCKING VEGETARIANS. Go figure. Before I get to the hate mail I just want to point out that unless I checked my site occasionally for comments and such, I never would have found this. Apparently the link, on the right, under the heading Links For Here that says contact is not clear enough.

Apparently the link at the bottom of almost every article I put up that says. Email Me and links to the email form on the contact page isn’t clear enough. The person who left me hate mail didn’t even email me. They scrolled all the way to the very bottom of the main page, and on the very last article, wrote it in the comments. Now unfortunately the coding on my site is being a bit wonky and has been pushing old articles off the main page, and not into the archives like it’s supposed to, so here is a screen capture of the comment box.

And now, finally, the first ever How To Kill People (dot) Com hate mail. (Presented piece by piece, but unedited. My responses are in bold)

Nam0 Vegan

Comments : I didnt read all of the web but I did read about the vegetarian part.

I’ll forgive you. I know it’s hard to take in so much awesomeness all at once.

You are a bitter human being.

Duh

I dont think we are meant to eat meat.

Good for you, it’s my website, and you’re wrong

We have digits like monkeys who are mostly vegetarians except for chimpanzes are occasionally seen ripping an animal apart.

I like the fact that your arguement likens us to other primates as your primary reason as to why we should not eat meat and then goes on to say …except for chimpanzees who are occassionally seen ripping an animal apart . Good fucking job, you contradicted yourself in your fourth sentence, cocksack.

All other primates are vegetarians.

Except for the aforementioned ones that tear animals apart and attack and kill humans. Not to mention the following list of primates that are not vegetarians: orangutans, Bonobos, Macaques, Gorillas…oh fu