HowToKillPeople.com|

Californian’s, it’s time for voting, so pay fucking attention.

First of all I don’t write about politics very often because, along with being a polarizing topic, I typically just don’t care.  I don’t give a shit who you vote for for president because no matter which pin head you people decide to put into office; we’re fucked.

McCain is a fear-mongering war vet, and putting him in charge is like asking a zombie to be responsible while watching over a fresh brains buffet.  Also, I’m pretty sure that he’s a cyborg who doesn’t understand human emotion.

Obama is an inexperienced socialist, and putting him in charge is like asking Pippy Longstocking to be in command of an aircraft carrier.  Also, I’m pretty sure that he’ll sell out this country like a snitchy little prison bitch.

But I’m not here to tell you how fuck the future of this nation.  We’re far beyond that point.  I’m here to convince you to vote no on Prop. 8 in California.  First off I’m not voting no on Prop 8 because I care about gay marriage (and stick with me on this one for a little bit, gay people); certainly, I AM voting NO on Prop 8; but not because of the issue of homosexuals tying the knot.  I do believe that gay people have the right to get married; it just doesn’t affect me personally.  And, honestly, if you’re not a dude who’s going to marry another dude, then why should you give a shit?

Honestly, why?

It’s not like all of a sudden, for each and every gay marriage performed, an equal amount of straight marriages must be dissolved. Shit just doesn’t work that way.

First of all; the idea that “gay marriage” is going to ruin straight marriage is about as sober of an idea as thinking that all children who play Pokemon will grow up to enslave small animals and pit them in fights to the death.  The divorce rate for heterosexual couples is 50%.  Unless straight couples start murdering each other on their wedding night, I’m not sure that straight marriage can get much more fucked.  And at least gay couples can’t have babies in order to try and trap people into failed relationships.  Something that I’ve seen happen on more than one occasion with heterosexual couples.

The real reason that I’m voting no on Prop 8, and the same reason that you should, is the absolutely terrifying precedent that this proposition will set.  If this proposition passes, it establishes two things that not only scare the shit out of me, but it makes me violently, shit my pants, sick.  This proposition establishes that not only can the government legislate what two consenting adults can and can not do, it also establishes a moral barometer for the country.  And if you don’t read that statement and get midget punchingly angry then you’re an abject fucking idiot.

First of all, the government has absolutely no right to govern what I do in my private life - within certain limitations, of course.  If the actions of my private life start to infringe upon the rights of others then I’m in violation of the constitution.  But I must make the point that not being offended isn’t a right.  For example: below is a picture of two dudes kissing.  It might offend some of you but the only thing - and keep this shit in mind  - the absolute only thing you can do to not be offended by this is to not look at it.  That’s it.

And, just for balance…

Here’s the deal; what two consenting adults decide to do, as long as they are not violating the constitutional rights of others, is their own personal business.   And it should remain that way.  If I decide that I want to spend an evening getting retarded drunk and having butt sex, the only way you get to have a say in that is if I decide to do it in YOUR house or in public.  At no point in time should the government step in and try to prevent me from having butt sex.  It’s not their fucking decision.  Hell, if you want to take it one step further, as long as I’m doing it in the privacy of my home (and my decisions don’t directly affect the the rights of another) then the government should have no say.  If you’re not really on board with that idea, let’s use the example of the government trying to legislate the consumption of alcohol; and we all saw how good legislating drinking turned out.

But that’s exactly where we are heading if Prop 8 passes. Prop 8 basically says that even if there are two consenting adults, who are completely capable of making their own decisions, who want to engage in an event that has ABSOLUTELY NO BEARING ON ANYONE ELSE, the government can step in and shake it’s bony, school marm finger in their face and say, “Nuh-Uh, faggots, everyone else can make their own decisions, but you can’t.”

In taking this argument down the slippery slope that seems to be so very popular these days;  at what point does the government decide that they’ve reached the demarcation point of interfering with my personal life?  Does it stop at telling people who they can marry?  Maybe we start looking into what people are watching on television?  Maybe we should keep ideas that would be disingenuous to the government away from people.  Hell, we could probably do that by burning any books that contain those ideas.  At what point do we stop looking at George Orwell’s 1984 as a cautionary tale, and start looking at it as a guideline for quelling public insurgency?

Have I started getting through yet?

The other frightening precedent this proposition sets, above and beyond anything else, is that it sets a firm and magnetic north for the moral compass of this country.  And that’s utter bullshit.

Morals are a very subjective. Morality isn’t something that you can legislate because not everyone believes the same thing.  Let’s start with a basic example.  Even if we could all agree on the very basic fact that what two people do behind closed doors, out of the view of the public eye, without involving anyone other than the two aforementioned consenting adults, is all good: you would still have people who would state that prostitution is morally offensive.  Why?  It abides by that very same rule that we all agreed upon.  But even then, with that rule so plainly defined, you’re going to have people who argue the point that it doesn’t fit their particular view of that rule that we all agreed upon.

The morals that you are using as a definition for trying to get this law passed are based upon a religious pretext.  Lest I remind you that this great divide between all of these bullshit religions is what has caused almost every major war in the history of mankind.  If this proposition manages to squeak through we are officially defining the moral compass of this supposedly free nation on the ethics of a biblical tome that was written thousands of years ago.  If we take the last leap off of sanity cliff and officially define the bible as the moral center of this nation then we are establishing that we can, at any given point, go back to this historical document for literal guidance for governing this nation. Here are some things that are written in the bible as law:

If a priest’s daughter is a whore, she is to be burnt at the stake.  (Leviticus 21:9) (good bye strip clubs, the perpetual half way home for the emotionally stunted preachers kid)

If anyone, even your own family suggests worshipping another God, kill them. (Deuteronomy 13:6-10)

Psychics, wizards, and so on are to be stoned to death.  (Leviticus 20:27) Run and hide Harry, forget Valdemort, the Christians are coming to get you.

“When men fight with one another, and the wife of the one draws near to rescue her husband from the hand of him who is beating him, and puts out her hand and seizes him by the private parts, then you shall cut off her hand.” — Deuteronomy 25:11-12 - That’s right.  If you’re getting the shit kicked out of you and your wife steps in to save your ass by grabbing the grapes of the dude who’s kicking your teeth in, your reasonable and biblical response should not be to high five her and say, “Good tag team effort honey.” - you’re supposed to cut her fucking hand off.

This is the book you want to define the laws of America in the 21st century?  You people are fucking insane!

Lastly I want to address the propaganda ads that have been running here in this state.  Some of the most confused, ass backwards, misinformed advertising I’ve ever heard on the radio.

The first ad I heard was one that threatened that if Prop 8 doesn’t pass then,”…churches will lose their tax exempt status.” Fucking Good.  Why do churches deserve tax exempt status?  I have to pay taxes when I drink.  I have to pay taxes when I smoke cigars.  If I go to a titty bar I have to pay taxes in the form of tips just so I can enjoy the luxury of having fake tits in my face.  All of my vices are taxed; so why shouldn’t yours be?  Religion and Jesus are as much of a vice as my drinking and predilection for tits.  Vices are the things that you are addicted to that make it possible for you to weather the storm of every day.  You choose Jesus, I choose strippers and booze.

Only difference being that no one ever went on a genocidal rampage to please a titty dancer.

Also, I can prove the existence of all my vices.  I’m not the dumb ass who’s paying for a lap dancer that never actually shows up… no matter how much I believe she will.

Another ad I heard talked about acceptance of the gay lifestyle being mandatory.  Like your Jesus shit hasn’t forced upon me for the last thirty years like a late night pitch man that just won’t go away. And, honestly, if we’re going to look at a concept being forced on people let’s look at marriage itself - a concept that is very nebulous in definition.  If the concept of marriage, in and of itself a religious concept, had not been forced on the entire populace - then no one would be demanding wide range acceptance of it.  Think about it; if marriage hadn’t been forced upon the populace of EVERYONE, then no one would demand a different kind of marriage be accepted.   Due to your years of proselytizing and demanding that everyone accept marriage as the epitome of a relationship your doctrine has finally seeped into the American consciousness.  Even the gay consciousness.  That’s right Christians, you fucked yourselves on this one.

At least the gays don’t come knocking on my door at 8am on a Saturday morning trying to sell on me on the idea of sucking dick.

The government’s job is to govern on behalf of the people, not to moralize on behalf of some whiny cunts who can’t accept that shit has changed since they were young.  I don’t know if you folks are aware, but Negroes and The Womens can vote and own property now.  A statement like that seems pretty normal but it was only 92 years ago when women first got the vote; and a mere 54 years ago when we ended segregation.  Looking back at those times; isn’t the idea of gay marriage something that we’re going look back upon in two generations with a grimace?  Do we not have a chance to be the generation that ends one more itteration of intolerance and religious persecution?

Here’s the bottom line: I am a happy and secure married man. I have gay friends and the idea of them getting married has absolutely no bearing on my marriage.  I have gay friends and relatives who are married and their new found “status” as a married couple has done nothing to diminish my status as a married person… and it never fucking will.  The only thing this proposition’s supporters are doing is standing behind a religious edict in order to persecute yet other group of people.

I’ll close this thing out with two sincere statements.

1. I am all of the following: an asshole, a prick, politically incorrect, completely insensitive and I typically don’t give a shit about the feelings or emotions of others…and even I think that this is a short sighted attempt by a tyrannical government to oppress yet another group of people by invoking the name of Jesus.

2. “It would be really nice if we could live in a country that didn’t try to use religion to oppress people from living their own lives,” My Wife.

If anyone happens to know of a country that represents the ideals of being free from religious persecution - and you happen to have a spare Sea Fairing vessel - let me know so that we leave these puritanical pricks and start our continent..except without all that killing of the indigenous peoples.

Now get the fuck out and vote.  This means more than me and you.

Travis

I would like to announce, here and now, that I will be going down in scientific journals for discovering a new chemical compound; Awesomeonium Nitrate.  Awesomnium nitrate is comprised of three elements that have just been added to a new section of the periodic table of elements.  Awesomeonium Nitrate is made by mixing equal parts of the following.

Tattooed Chicks With Attitudes
Old School Roller Skates
Healthy Doses of Kick Ass

Fortunately for me Sacramento has a steady stockpile of Awesome in their very own Sacred City Derby Girls.  But before we get into the hows and whys of Sacred City first let’s take a look at how Roller Derby came about.

Roller Derby, in it’s original incarnation was obviously the product of a cocaine fueled, James Caan movie marathon that culminated with a viewing of Rollerball and one coke fiend turning to the other with the saliant thought,  “This fucking rules, but it would be so much better if it were hot chicks.”  Which was quickly followed by a high five and a swift, yet decisive, “Fuck Yeah!”

With it’s over the top characters, pre-determined outcomes and vaudeville like theatrics,  the 1970s heyday of derby had more in common with pro-wrestling than with the legitimate sport it’s striving to be today.  Though a little bit of pro-wrestling does sneak in.  Hell at the first bout I went to I saw a chick throw an elbow that would make the rock jealous.  But don’t be fooled by the outfits or the stage names, these girls are working their asses off to bring legitimacy back to the sport.

I was introduced to the world of Sacramento Roller Derby by my friend Bri - better known to her team mates at Brat-Worst.  Though I will admit that one of the derby names she was deciding between; Bri-Tard, was my favorite.  After months of cajoling Brat-Worst managed to get me off my lazy ass and show up at to the Roller King in Roseville where the frenzy of the event far outweighed any of my expectations.  I expected to see roughly twenty or thirty fans, comprised mostly of guilt tripped friends and family - like most of my comedy shows.  What I got was two to three hundred people, young, old and everything in between, anxiously awaiting not only their hometown team but even their heroes.  And I’ll admit it, I was impressed.  So much so that I approached the teams board of directors in order to write this very article.

Following an approval process that involved a lot of awkward explanation of this site’s name - which believe me I’m used to - I showed up to practice on a chilly Thursday at the very same roller rink where I saw my first bout.  The roller rink was a strangely foreign place that night.  Tonight there would be no childlike atmosphere.  No laser lights and cheesy eighties slow songs.  Not a nauseatingly awkward couples skate  to be found.  Just grit and determination were present as I watched the Sacred City Derby Girls lace up their skates and tighten up their pads for another grueling night of practice.  Make no mistake; though these girls wear rollerskates and suggestive outfits, the closest they are going to come to your idea of a roller girl is if they get into a fist fight with Heather Graham.  Which any these roller girls would win with both arms tied behind their back. And blindfolded.  What I’m trying to say is: Heather Graham, your whore ass days are numbered.

As practice started heating up I sat down with three of Sacred City’s vets; Vicious Token, Rosie Knuckles and Foxy Knoxy to discuss Derby, Sacred Citys community presence and what brought them all together for what is,  according to the Sacramento News and Review, The Best Thing On Eight Wheels.

In the pantheon of women’s organized sports Roller Derby is the fight club of the group. All of these girls have regular lives, regular jobs and regular names. They’re mothers and sisters.  College students and professionals.  But once they lace up their skates they become entirely different people.

Vicious Token: For me, my derby name is who I become when I step out on the track.  Who I am in my regular life is not who I am at derby, [and] I think that goes for alot of the girls here.

“Even if I could tell someone they had a good fight, I wouldn’t be talking to the same man.  Who you were in fight club was not who you were in the rest of the world.”

But lacing up a pair of skates with these ladies isn’t as easy as walking into the arena and demanding a one on one fight.  These girls go through months of intensive training.  Training that I couldn’t complete even following two cycles of steroids and a wang enlargement surgery.  And while it does pain me to add another group of girls to the list  of chicks who could kick my ass; these girls have earned every stripe they’ve got.

Vicious Token: There’s months of drills.  Learning how to slide on your equipment, learning how to take a fall so you don’t splay all over the track and take other people down with you. Endurance drills.   Not to mention learning the rules and the strategy of the game.

Rosie Knuckles: The more inexperienced the person you’re skating against the more likely it is that someone’s gonna get hurt on the track.

Foxy Knoxy: Every heat is a flat out sprint.  If you don’t have the endurance you’re gonna fall flat on your fucking face.

And as long as we’re discussing the subject of the rules and strategy of the game;  here’s your color by numbers guide to the rules of Roller Derby.

“A guy came in to fight club his ass was a wad of cookie dough, after a few weeks, he was carved out of wood.”

The Sacred City Derby Girls let it all hang out on the track at each bout.  The display of physicality is so impressive that I’d pit the SCD Girls against almost anyone in a fight.

(subliminal note. Kim if you throw yourself in front of a bus we’ll consider my birthday present bought and paid for)

According to The Derby Girls themselves: the action, roughneck tactics and hard-assery stay on the track.

Vicious Token: We leave it all on the track.  The competition’s there and everyone wants to win but once we leave the track we’re all friends.

Foxy Knoxy: We’re all hard asses but once we leave the track we’re all friends.  There’s something to be said for hitting a girl hard as hell and having her bring it right back at you and once it all said and done having a drink together.

But what takes place on the track is only half the story of the burgeoning legacy of the Sacred City Derby Girls.  For every ounce of heart that they let bleed out on the track; they more than willingly share with the community of the greater Sacramento area.

Rosie Knuckles: We’re heavily involved in the community.

Vicious Token: We do Second Saturday (Sacramento’s monthly art and music festival downtown), Chalk it up (Sacramento’s sidewalk art festival to benefit children’s art eduation ) and we even do our event called Noise For Toys where we get a live show going with a bunch of bands and Derby Girls and we collect toys for under privileged kids.

That’s right; the tattooed, hard hitting, skate devils of Sacred City have hearts of gold and spend a lot of time giving back to the community that has made them what they are.  The dichotomy that these girls represent - the balance between ass-kickery and altruism - would be like watching Godzilla handing out chocolates to orphans.  Sure what you’re seeing is fucking awesome…it’s just not what you were expecting.

Saint Godzilla, patron saint of smashing towns, scaring the Japanese and finding lost socks.

But the real story here, outside of the jokes, and the poorly photoshopped images, is the story of women finding themselves and finding a sisterhood that they can believe in.  For each of these women the sorority of being a derby girl has not only been a fun ride, but an avenue to self realization and means of - sort of , kind of - salvation.  For each of these girls this team is more than a sum of it’s parts.

Vicious Token: I had a great professional life. I was really satisfied while I was at work but beyond that I didn’t have what I was looking for.  When I joined derby all that shit changed.

Foxy Knoxy: I’d been involved in sports and been active all of my life and being involved in derby let’s me be physical and it’s like a sense of family.

Rosie Knuckles: I think for most of us it’s a like a family more than it is a team.  When one of us is down; we’re all down.  When we’re happy everybody is happy.  We help each other out and take care of each other.

So there you have it ladies and gentlemen: Sacramento’s own Sacred City Derby Girls.  A unique group of women that kick ass on wheels, party hard off the track and support the community that has made them an attraction. Each and every bout that these ladies put on is an all out fest of speed, guts and determination, but don’t think these shows are for adults only.  Sacred city also prides themselves on putting together an event that is fun for all ages with a beer garden for the adults, the Jelly Belly man for the kids and of course the full force of badassical of the roller derby bout itself.

So make sure you get the hell out to their last bout of the year - which is this weekend - and get 150% of your daily supply of Awesomeonium Nitrate.  And if, for some ungodly reason, you miss the last bout of the season.  Then you damn sure better make it out to catch a face-full of radical at their next fundraiser.  Because if  it’s an accepted fact that derby is awesome; then derby chicks mud wrestling has to be holyshitthisisfuckingsupersweetomgwtfbbqcrap!

Since most of you are going to be forced to live in the communal experiment called dorm life, this part of the howtokillpeople.com college freshman survival guide will deal with dorm life.

First things first: The dorms themselves.

There are a number of specialty living arrangements at almost any college that can serve to avoid the unmitigated mess that is the average dorm. The three most common of which are; single sex, chemical and substance free, and specialty of theme housing.

Proponents of higher education will tell you that living in a single sex dorm, where you aren’t subject to the pressures of drinking and smoking, and living with like minded people who share you interests will be a way of alleviating a certain amount of social stresses during your first year of higher education. These same people will also tell you that reducing these social stressors will ease the transition for the student. But let’s face facts: You spent the majority of your adolescence living in a place where you couldn’t drink, couldn’t smoke, couldn’t nail chicks and spent most of your time with your like minded friends playing foosball (that’s what the kids are into right, foosball?) So why in the hell would you want to start your college career in the same sad predicament?

Not to mention the fact that these people went through all of their higher education just to end up working at a college.  Listening to them espouse the virtues of collegiate living would be like graduating high school and then thinking it’s a really smart idea when your old P.E. teacher tells you that you should get an apartment together so that he can finally meet all those chicks from his classes.

Your parents probably took out a second mortgage to get you the fuck out of the house so you owe it to them to live it up. They sure as hell partied their asses off in college…and if they tell you otherwise: THEY’RE FUCKING LIARS!!

Also; unless “theme housing” is a dorm sponsored by girls gone wild you’re dooming yourself to another sexless year of your teens. Though the Xbox 360 tournament would probably be epic. Not getting smashed and slovenly touching titties, however, will far eclipse any Call Of Duty pwnage.

Living in a college dorm is very different than any living arrangement you’re ever going to experience and you need to approach it with the right mindset, just like the first time you go to jail.  As such here are a few rules that need to be adhered to while living in the dorms.

Rule 1: Establish Dominance Early
In every relationship there’s a strong one and a weak one. Your goal is to be the strong one.  Walk in to the dorm and make sure that everyone knows who’s in charge by introducing yourself with a firm and swift punch to the cock.  Then you tell that motherfucker that you get top bunk.  Only Bitches sleep on the bottom.

Rule 2: Protect Your Territory
There’s a lot of infighting that occurs when living in the college dorms.  There’s competitions and civil wars amongst floors, pranks played on other rooms and turncoats at every path.  The most important thing to do is to establish that you and your room mate are on the same team. Establish a territory that is easy for you both to protect and enforce your will over.  Draw a line in the sand and any motherfucker that crosses that line gets what’s coming to them.  And by coming to them I mean you wait until they pass out and cover them in sharpie drawn dicks.  And then send the picture to their parents.

Rule 3: Establish Rules and Routines
Living with another person is about compromise and communication.  You’ll need to make sure that everything you do is planned and coordinated with your room mate.  You both need to know each others coming and goings.  This routine will take a little while to establish so here’s some guidelines to get you started.

The Fridge Rule: Whoever takes the last of something replaces it.  There’s nothing more frustrating than coming home at the end of the day, craving  a cold beer a plate of nachos only to find out that not only are you out of beer but the nachos you so desperately needed are nowhere to be found.  Obviously in a case like this your first instinct will be to enact revenge on the nacho munching fuck who took your snacks but if the rules have been established your room mate will be well on their way to the store to procure more munchies.

The Towel On The Door Rule:  Some day you’ll get laid.  It’s gonna happen.  Hell even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while.  And you never want your room mate wandering in when you’re high fiving genitals with a confused young lady.  Placing any recognizable object on the handle of your door will alert your room mate to stay the hell out of the room until the appropriate time.  Though in the name of discretion obvious items should not be used.  A sock on the door knob will let all of your asshole neighbors know that you’re boning and they’ll do all that they can to wreck it for you.  If that happens - refer to rule #2.

The Timing Rule: Know your room mates schedule. If you ever wanna abuse your newly found internet access to tune up the old skin flute then you better understand your room mates schedule like a swiss clock maker understand the art of time.  Last thing you want is to be ready to do the no pants dance only to have your room mate interupt your solo act.  And the first time that happens, your chances of needing to use the towel on the door rule will plummet astronomically.

Rule 4: Don’t Cry.
Bitches cry.  And the last time I checked you firmly established, both with your swift cock-punchery and the claiming of the top bunk, that you are no bitch.  And even though you may feel a little homesick at times the worst thing you can do is cry.  As you silently weep yourself to sleep your room mate will be taking notes.  And those notes will be passed around to everyone on your floor.  And like a drunken text message to your ex-girlfriend, once those notes are out there, there’s no getting them back.

Rule 5: Start Your Own Business.
Just like in prison there are certain things that can not readily be found in the college dorm, and you can carve out a niche by being able to supply those commodities.  The most important of which is alcohol.  Alcohol is important for three reasons: It can be found anywhere, it’s not a controlled substance, and everyone knows that when large groups of men and women drink together - everyone gets laid.  Sneaking booze into the dorms is going to require a bit of pinache of subterfuge.  The easiest way is to buy mint flavored alcohol and mix in some green food coloring and place it in a mouthwash bottle.  Not that this hasn’t been seen or done before, I’m just not sure if you’ve seen Toy Soldiers starring Wil Wheaton or not.  And if any of your buyers bitch about getting girly, mint flavored booze; punch ‘em right in the sack.

Rule 6: Don’t Eat In The Dining Hall All The Time Fatty
Everyone complains about gaining the freshman fifteen.  You’re away from home for the first time and you’re unsure as to where or when your next meal is coming but the ever present dining hall is right downstairs and it’s filled to the brim with all you can eat bacon cheeseburgers.  And while a non stop feast of baconators, spray cheese and foods covered in fried gravy is eventually how I’m going to Elvis my way out of this existence, it shouldn’t be how you spend your freshman year in college.  With a coffee pot and microwave in your room, along with a few helpful USB accessories you can create your own healthy meals without ever heading down to the land of lard.  And trust me when I say that by eating some top ramen and skipping a few pancake breakfasts, your first summer spent back at home you’ll be given plenty of opportunities to stare at boobies on the beach.  Instead of your flabby man tits in the mirror.

Rule 7: Learn To Hold Your Liquor
Booze will be pilfered into the dorms, and if you play your cards right you’ll be the Al Capone of the underground college booze set.  But all of your well laid plans can be wrought asunder by one night of haphazardly running through the dorms drunk off your ass and puking in the hall way.  Not only will this ruin your chances of getting hammered in the dorms but you’ll kill the party for the rest of your friends.  And while I’m the last person to try to keep you from running around without your pants on in a drunken stupor I will always advocate discretion in order to keep the party going.  So the first time you decide to blitzkrieg your way down your hall like Amy Winehouse on a three day bender remember, you’re killing the fun for everyone at the carnival and making it worse by raping the clown on your way out the door.

Incidentally, raping a clown possessed by the devil is what brought Amy Winehouse into being.

Rule 8: Plan For The Future
While this may seem a little redundant during your first year of college you should always remember that this is the first of four, or six, or possibly more years of higher education and each year is built upon your successes or failures of the year past.  Your scholastic life will take care of itself but your social life is something that you should safeguard in earnest.  Each year, as you progress through college, your reputation will either build or diminish and this will directly impact your ability to not only go to parties but to also attract the most attractive room mates,  bring in corporate sponsorship and attract amateur pornography to be filmed in your fraternity.  With that in mind here’s a few quick ways to up your social bargaining status.

Bring Hot Chicks To The Party:  If you’re known as the guy who always brings hot chicks to the party you will be invited to more parties and hot chicks will learn that you are their tour guide to debauchery. This bargaining chip can help you land in the luxury single room of a sea side rental house.  And remember; the closer to the beach, the closer to the boobies.

Don’t be a mopey bitch: Emo should go out the window as soon as you leave high school and realize that the only way you’re going to get attention by cutting yourself is to end your life on webcam….only after posting the photo to your myspace, facebook and blog.  So quit sitting in the corner listening to This Mortal Coil’s, “It’ll end in tears” album while you write poetry.  No one thinks you’re deep and artistic, they think you’re a douche, and the only thing that voluntarily hangs out with douches is dirty vaginas. And no one likes hanging out with a dirty vagina.  Methaphorical or otherwise.

Learn Some Simple Magic Tricks:  Sure magic may seem a little bit dorky but most college party goers are easily impressed.  You do a couple of card tricks and make a couple of simple household items disappear and you’ll be eyebrow deep in all of the co-eds you can handle.  Don’t believe me?  Take one quick look at Criss Angel and then start quantifying your envy of his exotic cars, unmitigated fame and super model consorts.

Now that you know how to survive living in the dorms, next we’ll tackle the duplicitous threats of both your scholastic and social lives.

This time of year droves of prospective college freshman are preparing to leave the safety of the nest for the uncertainty of college life. And while their parents have done everything they can to prepare their offspring for the scholastic rigors that college can bring they’ve done little to nothing to give them a fighting chance in the collegiate gauntlet their progeny are about to face. Well listen up space monkey’s, because I’m about to drop a metric ton of knowledge on your soft little heads. So instead of heading off to college all doe eyed and stupid, like so much cattle being lead to the slaughter, you’ll be prepared.

As the build up starts toward the first day of school the first thing on your mind is going to be what you’re going to take with you.  Like preparing for an excursion in the Alaskan Tundra you’re going to be tempted to bring every last god damned thing with you when you move away from mom and dad. And though you may get a bit nostalgic over the captain caveman pillow you’ve had since you were six; if you take that to the freshman dorms you’ll be called “Captain Pillow Pants” until you get your doctorate. And even then you’ll be Dr. Pillow Pants; Phd in crying himself to sleep and wetting the bed.

Also: everyone will swear you’re a proctologist.

Space in a college dorm room is as limited as parental supervision at a Michael Jackson sleepover.

As rare as R. Kelly pissing on a high school graduate.

As rare as me seeing Ashton Kutcher on TV and not hoping he gets ass cancer on his face.

That is to say there’s not a lot of it.

With that in mind there’s an essential shopping list for any freshman dorm.

Item One: Febreeze
You are lazy.  When you were living with mommy and daddy you’d let your dirty laundry pile up in your room like some homage to Mezo-American pyramids and you’re telling me that now that you have to cart your laundry down three flights of stairs to some skeazy, David Fincher-esque basement, that you’re going to do your laundry more often?  That’s right; you’re not.  So instead of smelling like a three day old sweat sock that’s been in a deep sea fisherman’s crotch; grab yourself a bottle of febreeze and drench your clothes in it and hang it near an open window with a fan on it.  In that setting the funk should dissipate in about 30 minutes.  This trick, obviously only goes so far. But if you really push it you and your room mate can start playing the game of “Who do girls run away from faster?”

Item Two: A Lock Box
You’re going to have valuables that you’ll want to lock up to keep your room mate and others from getting their hands on. Everything from passports, emergency credit cards, keepsakes and your favorite porn should be under lock and key. If you don’t believe me then it’s not my fault if you come back to your dorm to find your roommate jacking off to your family photo album.

Item Three: Headphones
Since this is probably your first time living in the same space as someone else you’ll want to be courteous when it comes to watching movies and listening to music.  Also your prick room mate might be a snorer and the only way you’ll get a decent nights sleep is to slap on some headphones and doze off to an episode of Southpark or a Batman movie.  That and the headphones will help you keep your secret that the only way you can sleep is to listen to Yanni’s ‘Live At The Acropolis’ as you drift off to dreams of mustachioed Greek men whisking you away on a Mediterranean cruise.  Headphones will hide the secret, the obvious shame on your face, however, will totally give it away.

Item Four: Good computer with great anti virus protection.
Lying to your parents about needing a top of the line computer cause you’ll “totally need it for your homework,” is something every college student does and is completely acceptable; but everyone knows why you really need a computer. With bit torrent sites, streaming music and movies; your computer can be your sole means of entertainment and save you a lot of money. But the most important thing is unfettered access to the gold mine that is the internet.

You’ve been under your parents thumb for years when it comes to internet access. Sure you might have snuck in youporn.com - only to have to clear the cache and history; back up the computer, reformat the hard drive, reload the O.S. And return all the files to their rightful place. Well fret no more Shirley because you are free to roam about the tubes…at your own risk.

The Internet is like Thailand: It’s asshole deep in girls that can shoot a ping pong ball with their pussies…and aids. You’re, metaphorically, a sailor on leave, pockets full of money and in search of the kind of entertainment that only a venue like that can provide. And you should protect your computer as vitally as you would your junk in the midst of Bangkok whorehouse.

Item Five: A Bucket
That’s right a bucket. A big, orange, five gallon, home depot bucket. There is going to be more than occasion in which having a large bucket to carry goods back and forth is going to be advantageous. It’ going to be more handy when you’ve downed thirteen shots of tequila in order to impress some sorority chick which only leads to you laying in bed praying for the room to stop spinning and the bathroom to magically appear. And when it comes time to clean up you simply close the lid on it and chuck it out the window.  Not in your room, not your problem

Item Six: Footwear
You’re not going to want to spend all your time in your tennis shoes and Birkenstocks once you’re done for the day. You’re going to need two kinds of special footwear to make your time in the dorms livable.

The first kind is a pair of slippers. Slippers allow you to wander around the dorms comfortably without everyone looking at your mountain man feet.  I have two pairs of all purpose fuck off slippers. The first pair are my Homer Simpson slippers that I have worn proudly on many a road trip.

My most recent, and far comfiest pair of slippers came from this company courtesy of this guy this way you can still keep a sense of style while providing your feet comfort. Hell I like the slippers so much that I even came up with an advertising campaign for them.

The second kind of footwear you need are shower shoes. The average dorm houses the population of a small Caribbean island and all of these people have to, more than likely, share a grand total of four community shower rooms. And the more uncouth of those jerk off in the very same shower stalls. Not that I’m judging them; it’s probably the only privacy they get. But I’m certain that you don’t want to wade through their abandoned baby batter in order to get the stink off of you. A cheap, two dollar, pair of flip flops can be all that stands between you and a thin coating of DNA

Item Seven: Condoms
There is a rare opportunity that will present itself to you during your first year in college; the opportunity to get laid.  This opportunity will present itself  with few recurrences and the last thing you want to say when a girl is half naked in your bed is, “Oh shit I don’t have any condoms.”  At that point you might as well tell the accepting young lady that you lost your cock in a rousing game of “slam your junk in the elevator door” because that’s how useful your unwrapped member is going to be.  Everyone knows about the social necessities of avoiding STD’s because they can destroy your life.  Especially the most prevalent and destructive of all sexually transmitted diseases: Children.  So in order to increase your chances of getting mutually molested by a confused exchange student; keep some condoms within arms reach of the bed.

Item Eight: Socks and Underwear like a sonuvabitch
Your free cash is going to be sparse during your first year of college and there are two things you ca’t have enough of: socks and underwear.  Just like a first tour in Vietnam; college is going to be confusing, scary, life threatening and full of defending yourself against communists.  And just like wandering through the jungles occupied by the V.C. the most important part of keeping yourself safe and healthy is guarding your feet and your crotch.  As a college freshman you’ll spend an inordinate amount of time walking and this will cause your feet and crotch to develop a smell that is a cross between rotting garbage and a baby’s coffin.  Each of these things will ward off females faster than garlic wards off vampires.  It’s in your best interest to keep, at bare minimum, three weeks worth of socks and underwear at your disposal. Trust me, both your room mate and your sexual prowess will thank me.

Item Nine: Duct Tape

Item Ten: A Pair of Brass Balls.
I’m not talking about those weird Chinese ones that you meditate with.  I’m talking about reaching deep down and growing a sack that you can be proud of.  College is about taking risks and doing things that you’ve never even considered as a possibility.  You need to come out of your shell and experience life and the only way you’re going to do that is to reach down between your legs, grab yourself a handful of adventure and self confidence and get the fuck out into the mix.  If you’re at college for a week and don’t have at least one story that ends with, “And then I woke up without my pants,  in the fountain downtown,” then you’re fuckin’ up and it’s time get out of the house for some blackout drunk good times.

Now that you know the essentials of what to bring to college..next we’ll talk about the rules to living in the dorms.

I’ve been working fifteen hour days lately because California is literally burning to the ground and I’ve been on emergency watch in order to ensure my supply of Porno and BBQ sauce doesn’t go up in flames. I’ve literally been doing nothing but working, commuting and sleeping. But I did manage to squeeze in a trip to the multiplex to treat my eyeballs to the gun candy that is Wanted.

Ever since I saw the first trailers for Wanted I have salivated at the mere mention of its name. I was so excited to see this film that I actually wrote the following two months ago: In Wanted, Hollywood has finally put together all of the key ingredients to make the ultimate three course meal of awesome.

The Appetizer - Hyper realistic concept of a secret society of assassins who are so dedicated to their craft that they design their own specialized bullets.

The Main Course - Bullet Bending. Not since Equilibrium’s Gun Kata has a film reinvented and restylized the use of guns in film.

The Desert - A shot of Angelina Jolie walking away from the camera naked.

Somehow, instead of producing a steak and taters meal of explosions and exposed tits; the makers of this movie have foisted upon the viewing audience a shit sandwich of a film that fails to live up to its own hype.

Look Hollywood, I’m willing to suspend my belief when it comes to almost any movie. Giant robots from outerspace that can transform into cars? I’m on board. People being kept alive by computers within an artificial reality so that they can use the people as a power source? I’m in. But the sloppy pile of wet ass that is this movie just pisses all over the good will of the viewing audience.

First off exactly how are we supposed to invest ourselves in the main character when you throw him into this wild world based around avenging a father that he never knew?

Fox: Hi, some dude killed your dad.

Wesley: The dad that, up until you introduced yourself, I thought had been dead since I was an infant? The dad I’ve never met and never gave a shit about? The same guy who, according to the way he abandoned me, wouldn’t piss on my face if it was on fire? That dad?

Fox: Yeah, that guy. If you can manifest enough faux teenage angst, maybe cut yourself and dye your hair, over the loss of your absentee parent I will train you to be a killing and fucking juggernaut.

Wesley: Well in that case my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my…

Fox: Wrong movie.

Wesley: Oh shit, sorry…but yeah, fuck that guy.
*silence*
Are we gonna hump now?

What kind of cheese dick motivation is this? Honestly; this is how you expect us to buy intot eh character’s motivation? At least in the comic book Mark Milar made it pretty cut and dry.

Fox: Wesley, your life is pathetic and you’re a fucking sissy. You the only way you could be more of a flapping vagina is if you had a tampon embedded in your candy ass face. But your father, against his better judgment, asked us to show you how to grow a sack large enough to crush a watermelon. And not to deny a dying man his last wish - I’m here to teach you how to be a supervillain. Come with me and you’ll live a life of excess that even your most fetishist fantasies couldn’t touch. You’ll pillage, murder, fuck like a porn star and stomp hippie’s crotches into dust with complete impunity. Or you can say no and I’ll kill you right now ending your pointless life.

Wesley: Let’s fuckin’ do this shit.

See what happens in the second scenario? No false emotional investment just two options: come learn how to be “Fuckin-A” awesome or die the same way you’ve lived; pathetic and impotently. And who can’t get behind the idea of a guy who just wants to be super awesome?

And as long as we’re throwing Mark Milar’s ingenious story out the window – we’re going to need a new reason to explain to our protagonist why he should now embrace the idea of killing indiscriminately. Should we come up with a story about divine mandate? Maybe we could explain it with a story about being a part of a secret government agency that kills for the betterment of man kind? Maybe these guys all work for the Department of Euthanization?

No wait, I’ve got a better idea: A magical sewing machine that supposedly spits out random binary code that somehow equals the names of people that need to be killed. Other than the obvious and glaring logic gap – or the fundamental question: Which mongoloid first saw screwed up threads on a blanket and decided that it meant they should kill someone – why in the hell would anyone, let alone generations buy into this bullshit?

But I will give you donkey fuckers credit - this movie had some amazing special effects shots. The flipping of the car, that amazing parking lot rescue, that one scene where the guy bursts through the glass - all of them were absolutely astounding. And I saw every single fucking one in the previews. That’s right, you guys allowed your marketing campaign to give away every single distinct and signature shot of your film away for free, good job assholes. Imagine if the preview for Empire Strikes Back had ended with a close up of Darth Vader looking down at Luke and revealing the big twist that he’s Luke’s father - a plot twist this movie steals unapologetically. All you had was matrix like effects shots and you handed them all out months before the movie.

But there was one thing you hadn’t given away or fucked up - the final battle. By Hollywood doctrine a gun slinging movie of this caliber must have an epic final fight that puts all other fights to shame. it must employ all of the mystical fighting abilities we have learned throughout the film and eventually our hero must face down the main bad guy. If you look at the matrix - only one of the litany of films you blatantly ripped off for this shit fest - that final battle lasted the entire last third of the movie. Surely this movie had to top that. And as Wesley ran through an entire textile mill - somehow killing professional assassins after only being a killer for a mere six whole days, but…whatever - my heart raced. As Wesley walked into that circular room, surrounded by the elite of the world’s greatest killers, all of whom who could bend bullets and who could wield a gun the way Michaelangelo could wield a paintbrush, an anticipatory boner grew in my pants.

Oh god the possibilities. Possibilities that could have put every action movie to shame. In my mind the film makers were going to put the first Matrix film, Equilibrium, 300, every Quentin Tarantino mexican stand off and every John Woo movie into a big blender, set that motherfucker on “kick ass”, and dish up a milkshake that would give even the most impotent of men a hard-on you could hammer a nail with. 12 super assassin bad guys against 1 superassassin good guy in a round room in a world where bullets can fly in circles…this should motherfucking rule.

Oops, I fucked up, wrong again.

In a movie where character development was obviously something that ended up on the cutting room floor, Angelina Jolie’s character decides that they’ve all been horribly led astray and kills all of the other bad guys - killing herself - with a 360 degree circular shot that makes the “Oswald magic bullet theory” almost plausible. This is all I get? No super show down? Just one miniscule, emo induced change of heart and that’s it? That’s like watching a porno and just as it gets to the money shot both of the actors stop fucking and go, “This is irresponsible. We really should have considered the consequences of our actions.” Then they get dressed and go to Olive Garden.

What I was expecting to revitalize and revolutionize the entire gun slinging genre of film making just ended up being the cinematic equivalent of blue balls. And if I wanted blue balls I’d drop money at a strip club, not the fucking multiplex.

Updates have been slow in coming as I seem to have thrown all of my energy into doing stand-up comedy these days. It’s addictive in a way that no drug really is. I’ve been writing comedy for almost four years now but there’s nothing like a live crowd…especially in an environment where you can ask a 60 year old man if he’s ever shaved his balls and no one looks at you like you’re an asshole. It’s actually expected.

But don’t think I’ve forgotten about you internets; you’re my first true love. What with your ample supply of torrents, your never-ending pool of porno and your non-stop thirst for entertainment.

But first a couple of quick announcements.

I’ve started a “twitter” - the internet’s true answer to attention deficit disorder and an instant gratification complex. From what I can see it’s sort of like text messaging, but on the internet. Where blogs toned down the idea of story telling into bit sized tid-bits, twittering has broken it down even further into trial sized, individually wrapped snippets. Whatever it is, I have one, and if you want to follow me on twitter you can do so here.

In the vein of taking this comedy thing seriously I have opened a new myspace account. I’ll be going through and adding all of my friends from my other account and then, eventually, deleting the old one. You can find my new Myspace profile here.

Last thing and then you can prepare your face for a full frontal blast of dick and fart jokes. I’ve got a show coming up. I’ll be doing host work and stand up for two great bands - Keeping Score and Hooker Fight on July 5th here in Sacramento, CA. I’d like to thank my friend Jon for sending the show my way when he was unable to take the gig. It’s an all ages show with no cover - so you have no excuse, come out and see some live music and live comedy.

Cocksuckers.

And now, another video of me doing stand-up.

We’ll return to our normally scheduled programming soon.

Let’s all face facts here: I’m a loud mouthed, opinionated motherfucker who gets myself into trouble because sometimes I just don’t know when to shut my trap. Anyone who’s ever hung out with me will tell you that if you get a few drinks in me I’ll think that I’m the life of the party and that I fart comedy gold. And on more than one occasion I’ve run off at the mouth like a cheerleader after one too many shots of jaeger and gotten myself into trouble.

Like the first time I went sky diving for example.

I was out with some friends, drinking like the apocalypse was upon us, when I got an angry hair up my ass to go sky diving. It was a three day weekend and I figured I’d just quietly sneak off Monday morning and go jump out of a fucking plane. Why? Because I’m a fucking idiot; that’s why.

I figured it would be an impressive coup of coolness: disappear early Monday morning, come back three hours later.

“Hey dude, where’ve you been?”

“I went sky diving.” calm. cool. collected

But did I keep this idea to myself? Oh no. I started running my fucking pie hole to any person who’d listen about my surreptitious plan. By the end of the night everyone knew of my now not so secret plan to fling myself out of a perfectly good airplane.

Very. Fucking. Subtle.

So come Monday morning as I’m nursing a weekend long hangover I start getting phone calls from people who were drinking with me.

“So…big man, you gonna go jump out of a plane today?”

“What’s going on skydiver? You gonna get up the sack to back up your fucking mouth?”

So I pulled myself together and drove down to the airfield really not conscious of what the fuck I was doing and before I knew it I was sitting on the edge of the doorway of the airplane staring down at the ground 13,000 feet below me.

not pictured: me shitting my pants.

Why do I get myself into these situations?

So about a month ago I decided that it had been quite some time since I’d done something pants shittingly frightening and I started putting the idea out there that I was going to do something more sphincter clenching than jumping out of a plane. But did I keep this thought to myself? No, I told everyone. Including my mother.

What was my new brilliant plan?

I decided that I was going to do stand up comedy for the very first time.

And below is the video.

With Memorial Day having just passed we are now entering one of the most devastating annual disaster time frames that happens every year. This time of year is responsible for more death and destruction than tornado season, wild fires and earthquakes combined. What kind of phenomenon can cause this much havoc? Summer Blockbusters.

Along with a healthy dollop of AWESOME, and two full scoops of bacon flavored ass kicking- each and every year the summer blockbusters are responsible for destruction and death on a scale that most can’t imagine.

Michael Bay said that during the filming of Transformers they destroyed over 200 hundred cars. That’s just cars! Not to mention innumerable lives that are ruined during alien attacks like in Independence Day, meteor strikes such as Armageddon, property damage seen in movies like Gone in Sixty Seconds and possible terrorist actions as seen in the Die Hard series and other movies like The Rock. Each and every year millions of lives are affected by the events that occur during the summer blockbuster. And you could be next.

Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Bruce Wayne; they never expected to be at the center of a shitstorm of craziness. Even the average guy like Sam Witwicky from Transformers or Randal Raynes from gone in sixty seconds were ill-equipped when the hammer of fate came down upon them like four hundred pounds of cake on Oprah during one of her blimping up stages. But they survived their ordeals, and so can you.

I’m here to talk to you today about how to survive a summer blockbuster…should you find yourself inexplicably transported to a weird alternate dimension where Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer play god with the lives of innocent civilians.

In order to assess whether you’re actually in a summer blockbuster or if you’ve just landed yourself in the middle of a maelstrom of unfortunate happenstance; we’re going to answer a quick series of 10 questions:

1. Is stuff blowing up around you?
2. Is everyone shooting at stuff and conveniently hitting mostly walls and debris?
3. Are you dodging gun fire?
4. Are there ridiculous amounts of hot chicks everywhere?
5. Are the unnaturally hot chicks drawn to you like a moth to a buglight?
6. Have you done something ridiculously illegal yet still haven’t even been scolded for it?
7. Are fantastical and amazing things happening all around you?
8. Do you have a pivotal role in these fantastic events?
9. Are aliens present anywhere in the world?
10. Are you Shia Lebouf?

If you answered yes to any of these questions you are in a summer blockbuster and your life is going to be an unstoppable juggernatut of chaos as you watch everything around you circle the drain. Fortunately for you I have developed my patented system:

Step One: Stay the fucking hell away from major cities.
Almost every bad thing that takes place in a major motion picture is centered around a major city. New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Washington DC – these places are magnets for atrocities of Godzilla like proportions. Alien Attacks, Meteor strikes, costumed ne’er-do-wells executing chaos driven crime sprees, all of these things plague our metropolises. So do you self a favor: if you’re standing in downtown San Francisco and buildings start exploding and the subway starts spewing fire like a drunken sorority girl puking up Jaeger and roofies – pack up all of your stuff and head for the fucking wilderness. These kinds of things don’t happen in places like Roundup Montana.

A city the size of a postage stamp.

Red Dawn doesn’t count.

Step Two: Stay near the hot chick.
If you normally have the sex appeal of a burn victim and you suddenly find yourself in the enviable position of having a hot chick like Megan Fox lusting after you; you are holding on to your golden ticket to survival. They never kill the hot chick. Sure they might tease nudity, or show some tastefully artistic side boob, but the likely hood of her getting shot in the head or stepped on by a giant robot is slim to none. So stick to her like bad press on Britney Spears.

Step Three: Stay the hell away from national monuments.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of my years of rotting my brain with explosions and John Woo movies it’s that all trauma in the universe is attracted to national monuments. And not just our national monuments. Summer blockbusters have also been known to be an international affair, leaving grieving widows and devastated townsfolk in their money grubbing wake.

You’re probably saying, “But Travis, most national monuments are in big cities.” True, but some of them aren’t. Take Mount Rushmore for example. It’s in the middle of nowhere. So you’re sitting out in the middle of nowhere, with your finger buried two knuckles deep into your nose, thinking you’re safe because you’re in the middle of the wilderness when all of a sudden: BOOM

Alien space ship blows up the mountain and you’re crushed under Abe Lincoln’s severed stone head because you didn’t listen.

Bottom line: Stay the hell away from them.

Step four: Get a gun.
I don’t care if you’ve never fired a gun before in your life and the thought of pulling the trigger makes you wet your bed like a five year old. Get a gun. At some point during the film you’re going to be in the position of stopping the bad guy, saving the girl and riding off into the sunset but in order to do that you’re gonna need to shoot somebody. Mostly likely right in the face. Probably while doing a wheelie on a motorcycle and shooting two guns at the same time. And no matter that you’ve never touched a gun before in your life, you’ll wield that roscoe with ease and grace of an expert marksman. Despite the fact that you’re shaking like a dog shitting razor blades.

Step Five: Witty Banter
No hero should ever be without an arsenal of witty one-liners and snappy come backs. Many a hero has made bad guys quiver in their logo encrusted boots with the use of a snarky catchphrase or a quick quip. Dirty Harry made criminals piss their pants with “Go ahead, make my day.” The Terminator could cause entire cities to come to a hault with his signature “I’ll be back.” And John McClane put boot to terrorist ass on four separate TOTALLY FUCKING RADICAL OCASSIONS while uttering one of the greatest catch phrases ever muttered through gritted teeth, “Yippee Kay Yae Mother Fucker!” And so should you have a mighty bag of poignant and situationally relevant one liners or super hip non sequiturs.

If you follow these five simple steps you’ll make it out of your summer blockbuster ordeal a little bruised and a little battered but WAY better off than than the sacrificial comedic sidekick whose only job is to die in order to give you some emotional depth…or a cause for revenge.

And if you do indeed survive your summer blockbuster fiasco thanks to my patented system, make sure you tells those news reporters that Travis from howtokillpeople.com saved your life.

Then, out of gratitude, introduce me to your new hot friend; Megan Fox. I promise we’ll send you a postcard from whatever exotic tropical resort we end up humping at.

I normally don’t go to the big summer blockbusters within a week of their release because my burgeoning sociopathic tendencies make me think it’s a good idea to bring a claw hammer to the multiplex in order to dispense my own brand of Waldorf and Statler justice to the slack jawed hordes that just have to see a movie on the first weekend it comes out. Let me give you an example.

My little brothers desperately wanted to see “Jumper” when it came out. After my father offered up a sufficient enough cash bribe I agreed to take them. After sitting through ninety minutes of the worst movie ever made, as the credits are rolling, one of my brother’ classmates walks by our row of seats and – in recognizing my brother – loudly asks, “Hey, did you see the same movie?” At which point I yelled, “Nope, we’ve been sitting in the same theater watching The Muppets Take Manhattan.” Just as that kid’s dad was about to give me what-for I verbally accosted him for raising a dullard…but not before graciously kicking him in the grapes and rubbing popcorn in his eyes. He thanked me for enlightening him.

These are the kind of people that make me feel good about downloading screeners off of the internet.

But since this is going to be one of the biggest blockbuster summers on record I’m going to risk jail time for your amusement. I hope you’re fucking happy internet.

This year’s first blockbuster is an ass kicking opus about how great robots are: IRONMAN. Now I’m gonna tell you right now that this article probably contains spoilers. I’m not really sure what’s been seen online or on tv but I’m going to discuss the movie here and if you read on and I spoil something for you don’t get your vagina all in a twist and don’t bitch at me.

Our story starts with billionaire genius Tony Stark being kidnapped by terrorists and forced to build a bomb. Quagmired in a plot reminiscent of Back To The Future Tony Stark does not build a time machine out of a DeLorean and travel back to 1985 – instead he throws together a robotic suit of armor with spare parts in a fashion that would make MacGyver look like the bemulletted, over rated hack that he is.

Tony Stark is, by far, the greatest scietist/inventor ever. Allow me to present this highly scientific chart that pits Tony Stark against some of the most noted minds in history.

	Thomas Edison	Albert Einstein	Bill Gates	Niels Bohr	DaVinci	Ben Franklin	Tony Stark
Nails hot chicks like most people breathe air
Can build anything out of anything with stupendous results
Can sing opera
Eccentric billionaire who can own anything he wants
Can fly
Harnessed a new form of energy
Developed a robotic suit of armor
robotic servants
Super hot personal assistant

I’d like to see Einstein try to score a supermodel. No talent hack.

This two hour epic on the truths about why robots are more kick ass than ninjas, pirates and lumberjacks combined continues as we watch Tony Stark develop a new super armor with the assistance of his super advanced 3D rendering software and his comic relief robot helpers. That’s right, the man who would become a robot has robot helpers. That’s tantamount to Hugh Heffner having naked female assassins for body guards. Robot helpers and hot naked female assassins – looks like Santa’s getting an updated list from one internet asshole this year.

As he’s building his new suit of armor Tony Stark finds out that the same terrorists that were holding him hostage have gotten their hands on a bunch of Stark Enterprise weaponry and he decides to take matters into his own hands. So he jumps in his robot suit and flies to the Middle East in around six minutes. From Los Angeles!

Let me break down the math for you.

As the crow flies a trip from Los Angeles to Baghdad is 7660 miles. The F22 Raptor, the Air Force’ newest fighter jet cruises at 1,325 mph. Without considering stops for refueling, even dropping out of cruise for mid-air refueling, it would take a Raptor 5.78 hours to make that trek. It took iron man SIX FUCKING MINUTES. That means he was flying at roughly 127,666 mph. That means the Ironman suit beats the shit out of any country’s most advanced aircraft, the straship Enterprise and the Millennium Falcon. Of course in my hands I’d probably just end up doing what those guys from Blue Thunder did and scope out naked chicks who were jazzercising in their 1980s living rooms.

Once he’s flown to the Middle East he beats the holy piss out of a bunch of terrorists and then he fights a tank. Let me repeat that for those of you who didn’t catch it: A robot fights a motherfucking tank. If you’re not sprouting some sort of physiological sign of being horribly aroused (hard nipples, raging boner, moist in the crotch – take your pick) then you’re probably not human. Or at the very least not entertained as easily as I am by sophomoric humor. And by sophomoric I mean absolutely fucking awesome ideas like robots fighting tanks, canons that shoot sharks and a mountain made of bacon that is inhabited solely by extremely hot lesbians…who have no problem with public nudity, or people eating their tasty, tasty mountain.

He beats the tank with a single knockout punch reminiscent of a Mike Tyson bout – sans the ear biting and all of the prison rape - and decides that now that he has laid the smack down it’s time to head back to America for cocktails and skirt chasing. Once he is back in America our attention is turned to the real bad guy who has found Tony Stark’s original “Escape the terrorists” armor and decided to reverse engineer that into his own Super suit of armor making him a bigger and better armed robot than Ironman himself. So without spoiling the movie; Ironman has to fight an even bigger robot in order to win the day.

Robot image courtesy of one of my favorite sites:  I FIGHT ROBOTS

So far he’s escaped terrorist kidnapping, fought the terrorists who stole his company’s weapons, fought a fucking tank and now he has to fight a gigantic robot. That’s like defeating Godzilla and just as the celebration orgy breaks out, Godzilla’s mother comes around the corner, distraught over the death of her child and puts a serious cramp on your all asian booby bonanza.

Ironman is obviously victorious - because how the fuck are you going to cash in on a sequel when the main character is dead? As the movie ends, and the sun sets, we pull back away from Tony Stark’s palatial mansion on the Malibu Cliffs and we find the answer to that great universal question: what would you do if you were up to your tits in massive piles of fuck you money?

I’d become a robot and fly around the world fighting terrorists.

That and I’d be balls deep in every super-model I could find.

Robotic balls that is.

Good night everybody.

Environmentalism and environmentalists have officially gone over the brink from innocent idealism to a level of devotion and fervor that can only be judged against the Tom Cruise Scale of Bat Shit Insanity® . Where once a small group of people devoted their spare time to recycling and conservationism; these days every Tom, Dick and Harry has a theory or practice to ensure the survival of mother nature. From Sheryl Crow, to carbon offsets and the greening of the work place, hippie idealism is seeping into mainstream society like shit from a leaky diaper. And nowhere is this concentration of pure shit greater than in those holier-than-thou, crap stain on the pants of society, idiots who buy hybrid cars.

First; I want to say that I understand people who buy Hybrid cars for selfish reasons with no regard to the fucking environment. They live in population centers like Los Angeles and buying a hybrid allows them to take the carpool lane, with only one person in the car, and give the finger to every other commuter. I understand that. I used to live in southern California and if I had to club a baby seal in order to shave an hour off of my daily commute you can bet your sweet ass I’d be researching whether a metal or natural wood baseball bat delivered the coup de grace with more finesse. So to those who bought a hybrid without giving a shit about the environment, good for you.

But why is it that every other self-righteous prick that drives a hybrid thinks that they are single handedly responsible for the salvation of the environment? As if mother nature were Lois Lane and each time these shit sticks fire up their glorified golf cart they’re donning their red and blue super-douche outfit and flying to the rescue. What’s even worse is that the media, other hippies and environmental groups are lauding these arrogant bags of crap as the last salvation of mankind. As if the act of driving a car will end world hunger, stop poverty, bring peace to the middle east and bridge the racial divide once and for all. Well I’ve got news for you taint sniffers: it’s not a cure all, it’s not the final solution and it’s not a band aide for world crisis.

It barely counts as a fucking car.

All it is is a fucking ego stroke from the car companies that allows you to act like even more of an elitist asshole than you did when you bought your first BMW in the 1980s.

First of all your car has about as much chance of saving the environment as Al Gore does in winning a fight with a nun-chuck wielding grizzly bear. Which, by the way, I would totally order on pay per view. It’s a car flapjack! If you want to be a friend to the environment then get a fucking Huffy. No matter what kind of car you drive you’re damaging your precious environment. As a matter of fact; hybrid owners tend to drive more because you cocky buckets of shit think that; since your car gets better gas mileage than mine you can run all over fuck all like it doesn’t damage the ozone layer. While people like me don’t want to pay for gas so we stay home. So which one of us pollutes less? Me, sitting at home in my underwear playing Portal and eating nachos; or you driving your Prius with smug indifference?

That’s right you dick pump…I win again!

Travis – 4,398,256
Dirty Hippies – 0

Not to mention the fact that these cars are built with the structural integrity of a balsa wood airplane. I got into an accident with a hybrid last year. It was a minor fender bender. My car was fine but the Prius that rear-ended me burst into flames. I tried to put out the fire but as I pissed on the flames all those dirty hippies could do was scream and complain. Not a single thank you for my efforts…fucking ingrates.

But the worst thing about these puritanical egomaniacs is simply the fact that they never shut the fuck up.

Remember when the Atkins diet was all the rage and your office was stuffed to the gills with tubs of goo wrapped in polyester who wouldn’t stop proselytizing about their fucking diet? You’d be sitting in your cube, happily munching away on your Quizno’s sub when one of these carb Nazis would waddle their way over to your desk and start berating you about how bad the carbs in your sandwich were. All the while Orca is cramming consecutive fistfuls of gravy soaked ham down their neck. And for one brief moment you actually consider the fact that you’d be an office hero if you managed to drown someone in bbq sauce. Remember that? Hybrid drivers are the new atkins assholes.

The topic of hybrid cars never comes up organically in any conversation. But any chance they get they will bring up their precious new love affair with their matchbox car and how great they are for driving it. They’ll force it into the conversation with all of the grace and civility of a Parkinsons patient giving back alley hand jobs. Something they’re extremely good at but brings them constant shame - we’re looking at you Michael J. Fox. They’ll repeatedly beat you over the head with facts and figures and their smug-as-shit self satisfaction; all the while the subtext of the conversation revolves around how you’re killing the planet for driving your four cylinder Honda Civic. What’s even worse is when these trogladytes get on their political high horse and announce that since they drive a hybrid they’re doing more for the war effort and peace in the Middle East than anyone in a uniform or on the Joint Chiefs of fucking Staff. My wife actually saw a bumper sticker on a Prius that said, “My car gets 40 mpg, my car can save a soldier’s life. Step up people!”

Really? Are you fucking sycophants that delusional? I happen to have a little first hand knowledge of the armed forces – what with two of my best friends having served in active combat zones and one heading back there in a few months – I happen to know a thing or two about what can save a soldier’s life. Here’s a quick graphic I put together after talking to The Dude and Ryan.

Things that can save a soldier’s life

click on that bad boy to see the full sizer

You know what’s not in that picture? Your self righteous fucking car, that’s what.

You’re the kind of people who disappoint your family by planning vacations around going camping. You try to be eco friendly by getting back to nature instead of taking your kids to Disneyland. Do you know what camping is? Pretending to be homeless. Basically, Mother Earth has made you her bitch.

And you wonder why your family hates you.

But I understand your desire to preserve the earth for future generations, I really do. I just think you arrogant knob gobbers are going about it the wrong way. So here are a few suggestions, other than buying a hybrid, that will help mother nature and infuriate the rest of society a little less.

First off, reduce your footprint - cut your foot off.
Fuck it; cut all of your limbs off, right down to the nub, leaving a whole six inches of stumps for you to crawl around on. Once the act of dragging yourself to the bathroom on you rmeaty little stubs becomes an excursion on the scale of Gulliver’s Travels, you’ll think twice about driving to the store on a whim. And all of the gas you’ll save by being carted around by the medi-van or the bus, will allow me to commute to work on a jet ski or in a tank. Completely guilt free.

Secondly: Eat Organic - eat your own shit.
Think of how much waste you generate when you use the toilet.
Water.
Paper.
Nutrients.
It’s just a never-ending cycle of pollution. By eating your own food babies you are eliminating thousands of gallons of wastewater and cubic tons of poop tape. Plus it gives you one more thing to be a dickhead about. Next time someone tells you to Eat Shit you can look at them with indignation and say, “I do.” And they’ll marvel at your enviro-dedication.

image courtesy of Monocle over at cracked.com

Lastly: Eat Your Own Children
Think about it this way; the future is completely unpredictable and out of your hands. You are leaving the environment in the ill-fated possession of your melon-headed offspring and that scares me worse than the idea of putting my dick in the garbage disposal. And it should scare you too. Kids are stupid, and leaving the earth in their under prepared hands is like putting Scott Peterson in charge of a maternity ward. Your kids are going to fuck things up worse than you could ever imagine so the only real solution is to eat them.

It’s a good idea, it’s something that lions have done for eons.

By eliminating future generations, you’re eliminating future waste. All kids do is break things, dirty up your nice house, eat boogers, smear cheese on the walls and buy Hannah Montana cds. And the sooner we end the diabolical reign of terror and noise pollution that bitch puts out, the sooner the world is going to be a better place.

Plus, if you’re kids are anything like you - and they undoubtedly will be - they’re going to be arrogant assholes who think that they know the answers to everything…and I don’t need the competition.

Having not been seen in public since emergency surgery for his prolapsed rectum in August of 2006; Fidel Castro officially announced his resignation from the office of The Presidency of Cuba earlier this week – through a letter. Yes; the communist scourge of the western hemisphere basically broke up with his country via a note passed through an official state newspaper.

A lot of people are speculating – in conspiracy theory hushed tones – that Castro has actually been dead for some time and that this recent letter was written by his brother in order to officially pass the reigns of power. Well I call bullshit.

First off I need proof that you actually wrote that letter. You’ve run Cuba like a bully child running roughshod through a Chuck E Cheese for the better part of fifty years and we’re expected to believe you’re just going to give up control of the mechanical band without so much as a curtain call? Not very fucking likely.

Secondly your brother looks like a cross between a retarded Muppet and my grandmother.

Are you really going to put this douche bag in charge? I thought not. But now that you’re gone, Fidel, I’ve got six great ideas for improving that little island nation.

#1 We’re going to divide Cuba into four fun filled activity zones; like Disney Land…or Canada.

1. Vice Land
While this name may give you ideas of reenacting scenes from a video game; it’s really meant to be an escapist destination for people who enjoy controlled substances. Booze, gambling, coke, cigars and hookers; it’s all here for you to glut yourself on. Just don’t blame us if you go all tits up and bloated like Elvis.

2. Professor Robert Willoughbees Fun-Time Bounce-o-rama.
There’s nothing finer and filled with more glee than a bouncehouse made for adults. Well in Prof. Willoughbee’s fun time bounce-o-rama everything is made out of bouncehouse material. Streets, floors, buildings…everything is inflated for your protection and enhanced childlike joy.

Fat People: Feel that spring in your step again.

Old People: Fall down as many times as you want without breaking a hip.

Alcoholics: Tired of being called a falling down drunk? How about a falling down and right back up again drunk?

While you’re here be sure to visit trampoline town: twice the bounce at half the cost and always staffed with buxom babes who are more than willing to demonstrate the world class facilities.

3. Cuba’s National Animal Habit and Water Park
It’s really not what you think.

4.The Island of Youth
Located off the southern coast is our special zone for couples with children in tow. Our kid friendly island plays host to some of the finest family activities including snorkeling, water skiing, pool activities and our patented child gulag. You can park those little bastards and go have some real fun while your children learn the value of hard work as they slave away to produce fine souvenir items for our country gift shop.

While you’re here don’t forget to pick up some Castro Cash. Use it to buy food, drinks and souvenirs on the island and any you have left over makes for a great keep sake.

#2 The Cuban Black Market Emporium
Nowhere else in the world can you find a finer variety of contraband items than here in Cuba’s world famous Black Market Emporium. Spend your left over Castro Cash on human organs, automatic weapons, grenades, yellow cake uranium, pilfered military secrets, and a plush Che doll. Because nothing says, “I remember the revolution, but I still support capitalism and a free market,” like a stuffed toy of a Marxist revolutionary.

#3 We’re bringing back freak shows.
You heard me right. Though they’ve been eschewed in polite society we’re not only going to allow freaks to ply their trade but we’ll also give them their own colony here on the island. I personally agree with Doug Stanhope, “I don’t know who decided to end freak shows, but I bet it wasn’t the freaks.” Politically correct society sometime ago determined that it was rude to stare at people with deformities. I guess I can understand…to a point. But when a man covered from head to toe in puzzle piece tattoos is hammering a nail into his nose on a street corner it’s not only rude NOT to stare but it’s considered incredibly gauche not to at least leave a fiver in his tip cup. Freak shows are fun, they’re harmless and they’re uplifting. Five minutes of staring at lobster boy with his weirdo wiggly appendages makes me appreciate some things I take for granted…. like not being called lobster boy and being able to shake people’s hands without someone going ewwwwwww.

But we here down in Cuba are not all about fun and adventure. We understand that the world is in need of academia. That’s why we are proud to announce the opening of

#4 The Cuban Pirate Academy

Have you always dreamed of sailing the high seas in search of adventure, booty and swashbuckling shenanigans? Well the CPA is the world’s only accredited institution of higher learning dedicated to the fine art of piracy. As a student you can major in:
sword play
patch wearing
the art of parrot husbandry
ports of call
rum based cocktails

Also at CPA we’re doing our part to help the environment. In accordance with our state sponsored religion – Pastafarianism – “global warming, earthquakes, hurricanes, and other natural disasters are a direct effect of the shrinking numbers of pirates since the 1800s.” As we are educating a new generation of pirates we are doing more to assist the environment than any company on the face of the earth. Al Gore you can kiss my ass. And parents; you can relax knowing that your son or daughter is staying in our world class dormitories.

#5 Travis World Famous Cuban Products
With the trade embargo lifted we can now export Cuban goods…other than baseball players and people on homemade rafts. I will take advantage of our new economic freedoms and we will begin exporting products that Cuba is famous for.

These two products alone – with their witty slogans and addictive properties – will bring in important American dollars to our economy.

And lastly Cuba needs something to let the world know that it is now open for business. A sign that will draw people to the island. That’s why number six is a new advertising slogan for Cuban Tourism.

All in all I think that I am probably the best thing that has ever happened to Cuba.

This is a public service announcement from howtokillpeople.com – just in time for Valentine’s Day. Fellas this topic is a bit taboo but if we don’t talk about it; who will?

Guys, it’s time to talk about shaving your pubes.

Think about it this way: As a guy you don’t want to be in the advantageous position of possibly dining at The Y only to find out that your face is about to Lewis and Clark it’s way through a dense jungle of nasty do you? Hell no you don’t. So if you don’t want to be in that situation what makes you think that your girl wants to take a taste of your hair covered man-cicle? Precisely. Nothing will turn a girl away from a party in your pants faster than finding out that you’ve got a Don King hairdo resting above your Slick-Rick Johnson.

A point of clarification before we move deeper into this; I’m not telling you to retrograde your region to moments of pre-pubescence but at the very least you need trim up the ole front lawn.

The first question you’re probably asking yourself is why in the corn-fed hell would you want to shave your pubes? Other than obvious answer of “it pleases the women” the second answer is that it will bring you great happiness as well. Allow me to elucidate this fact: have you ever, on a whim, shaved your head? How wicked crazy does it feel the first time a cool breeze blows across your bare scalp? Pretty great right? Now imagine that crazy feeling on your crotch, except instead of a cool breeze it’s a girl’s face.

I’ll pause to let you contemplate the awesomeness of both that idea and that written statement.

The second question boring it’s way through your skull is most likely: Travis this sounds like the most awesome idea since a live action Thundercats movie, but I’m overwhelmed, how do I make this goodness a part of my life?

I knew you’d ask.

The first thing you’re going to need is a beard trimmer. It doesn’t matter what name brand but make sure that it’s got adjustable guards it’s rechargeable and cordless. Not being tethered to the wall makes it easier to take care of business in an area that is easy for clean up, but it also makes clearing the playing field on the go a viable option. Make sure you start off using the beard trimmer and not a razor. A razor won’t cut the hair so much as rip it out at the roots and having your man-town fun zone looking like a napalmed village inspires no one towards wang-fun-ification.

The second thing you’ll want is a cream based after-shave lotion. Not only will it cure your newly discovered groin irritation but also if you use the right one it should leave your junk compartment smelling a little like Burt Reynolds. And there is no finer, or faster acting aphrodisiac than anything that directly relates to Burt Reynolds.

I’m not going to over the intricacies of actually trimming down fun-town but I will offer the following advice from a perspective of experience.

If you do decide to go for the full Brazilian – known as the “nuke-and-pave” in the adult film industry – make sure that you take care to get rid of the rest of the hair on your abdomen. Nothing looks sillier than you having a hairy chest, hairy legs and a spotless crotch. If you don’t heed my advice then be prepared for your young lady to laugh when it looks like you have male pattern baldness on your balls.

Speaking of balls, it’s important not to forget your undercarriage. If you were buying a car and - while the top looked great - the underside of the car looked like a pile of steaming, wet, ass … wouldn’t you think twice about the transaction? Yeah, you would. And so will she.

The last piece of personal experience I can pass on is that for the first day or so it’s going to itch. There is nothing you can do to prevent the itch and it will occur at the most inopportune time so here’s some tips to get away with scratching your crotch in public:

The Under The Desk Sneak Attack
Your desk provides the best coverage for a necessary scratch at the freshly groomed wonder sack. While seated at your desk make sure your back is toward the entrance to your cubicle. Scoot your chair in as far as it will go and nonchalantly lay your hand in your lap allowing you to scratch undetected.

The Behind The Book Slip
While carrying a book or binder the tips of your fingers will be hidden from public view which will give you unfettered access to tending the needs of an itchy crotch. If necessary you can allow the book to slip a bit which will allow you to look like you are merely keeping your goods from falling to the floor when you are, in actuality, keeping your goods from driving you insane.

Pocket Protected Undetected
Put your hand in the top edge of your pocket, like you’re acting casually, allowing you to scratch with minimum effort and maximum result. This method has been employed by everyone from male models to grooms at the alter and is virtually undetectable.

Lastly if you want to spice up your adventure in the realm of the short curlies you might want to consider shapes and designs. The easiest way to create crotch-ornaments are to use old cookie cutters and playdough shapes.

Let’s take a look at a few of the more popular designs:

First up there’s the star shape, popular with wiccan crowd. After that is what is commonly referred to as The Bert (mostly gone with a little strip at the top). Then there’s the ginger bread man - which will give your woman the thought that you crotch is not only appealing but a delicious snack. And last up, the heart, always popular this time of year.

And if you’re low on cash this Valentine’s Day…this technically counts as a gift.

You’re Welcome

I can’t listen to the radio, turn on the television or browse for porn these days without being reminded that the shit-hurricane that is the 2008 presidential election is baring down on us like a starving fat kid on a box of Krispy Kreme. Shit I can’t even read pro-wrestling news without hearing about which presidential candidate my favorite rasslers are endorsing.

sadly, this is almost true.

It’s only a few weeks into 2008 and I am sick and fucking tired of hearing about the election. And there’s a good reason for that: the run-up for the ‘08 presidential election started around mid-January of 2005.

As soon as G-Dub put his hand on the swearing-in bible for a second time; politicos started foaming at the mouth, like rabid wolverines, over how they would wrest control of the country out of his hands. This political demagoguery over the past three years has left the voting public feeling over saturated and, quite frankly, fed up and unwilling to listen to anymore election bullshit.

Political-SWAT Teams have taken notice of your apathy and they’re working to fix that. It is understood that in order to drive voters to the polls you have to get people to fill up their brain space with the knowledge that an election is coming. They also want you to understand that voting is not just your constitutional right…but something you need to do if you don’t want your legs broken or your pets sodomized.

Get what I’m saying?

I’m glad you do.

With the current election being so polarized it has been determined that more diverse and drastic measures need to be put in place to increase voter turn out. As such, voter activist groups have come up with a four pronged attack to increase voter turn out that they are calling…

Prong One: The Forked Prong of Voter Awareness.
Voter awareness comes in two different categories: Celebrity Endorsements and Regular Voter Awareness. So I guess technically the graphic should have five prongs.

In previous elections multiple voter awareness campaigns showed up to try to drive voters to their polling places.

P-Diddy told you to vote or die.
MTV Wanted you to rock the vote.
And WWE showed you how to Smackdown your vote.

In the spirit of these previous attempts to popularize the democratic process - including the mildly frightening Bill Clinton saxophone extravaganza - several celebrities have come out of their caves to help convince you to vote.

This strategy employs Mr. Walken’s evil powers to invade your dreams and tear at your soul until you vote.

And of course there are always fringe groups who demand equal time.

I like the fact that in this picture it looks like Tom Cruise is saying, “Good Point Xenu” And Xenu responds, “Word Bitch.”

Of course celebs aren’t the only people who want you to go to the polls. Your neighbors are concerned too. This brings us to the second part of the first prong of the Enlightened Fork Of Doom: Regular Voter Awareness. What do I mean by this? Average citizens who believe in the political process so much that they’ll usher you along the future voter highway.

That’s right I’m talking about assholes with bumper stickers.

It seems like every semi-literate, self absorbed sonofabitch is more than willing to broadcast their political viewpoint on the ass of their Prius. To assist you in fighting them I’ve made a few of my own stickers that you can print out or put on your myspace page or blog. This is an election year after all, and it’s time you started spreading the love.

I feel like anytime I make a joke these days I need to clarify it just in case. I’m not mocking Barack Obama because he’s black. I’m mocking the fact that his name rhymes with a country we are at war in. Similarly if there was a presidential candidate named Koosh I would say fuck that guy because his name sounds like Douche. I hope that clarifies things. If not I can put you in touch with a guy at the ACLU who can explain it with crayon drawings.

Subliminal message: fuck you David Beckham.

Prong Two: Door to Door Canvassing
As the Mormons have proven; the best way to increase your numbers is to go door to door and bug the shit out of people. And everyone seems convinced that the next administration is more important than your eternal soul. Well that’s what the candidates are counting on. They need you to understand that your very soul may be at issue in the coming election. Sadly, in an attempt to create jobs and social awareness most of the candidates have employed the homeless to be their street level public advocates. While their attempts to create jobs is admirable the results are less than stellar because no one wants to take voting advice from someone who smells like piss and looks like a hurricane Katrina victim.

Prong Three: Voter Incentives.
Each year the number of voters who bother to show up at the polls has been dropping. In order to counteract this trend advocacy groups have put incentives in place in each state. Here’s a look at some of the incentives that should be offered in some of the key turning point states.

Nevada - One Free Trip to the brothel of your choice.
Living in Nevada is the only way to ensure your voting experience has a happy ending.

California - Be A Celebrity
Everyone on the west coast hopes that they’ll become a celebrity and as we’ve all seen the easiest way to get famous these days is to release a sex tape. That’s why all California voters will get a turn at the most recent sex-lebrity: Kim Kardashian. Fucking her way into fame worked for her so why shouldn’t it work for you? Each person who votes in the primaries or presidential election will get an all access pass to the fun zones of the latest public fun toy. Condoms will be provided for your safety.

Utah - Eternal Bliss
The state of Utah is obviously backing Mitt Romney in his bid to be the leader of the free world and they are offering something that only a religiously zealous state could: A “Get Out Of Hell Free” card. That’s right the Church of Latter Day Saints is using their bartering power with the almighty to secure your vote on November 2nd.

Ohio - Airfare
If you live in Ohio then you know that you are a vital participant in the final push to the white house. In 2000 and 2004 more money and time was spent in your state, during the final days leading up to the election, than anywhere else. But if you live in Ohio you also know one other truth: Ohio blows goats. That’s why the Poli-SWAT teams have secured funding to purchase every voter a plane ticket to get the fuck out of Ohio and go somewhere fun for a few days following the election.

Prong Four: The Bonus Prong
Presidential Candidate Drinking Games

Every Time a republican mentions Ronald Reagan - Take a shot.

Every time a republican likens themselves to Reagan - Take Two.

Every time a republican mentions the border - shot of tequila

Every time a democrat mentions global warming - ice luge shot of Jaeger

Every time a democrat mentions bringing the troops home - Take a shot

Every time anyone says “Weapons of Mass Destruction” - Have an Irish Car Bomb

Every Time Giuliani mentions 9-11 or the Twin Towers - Pound a beer

Every time Giuliani mentions being the mayor of New York - Shot of whiskey

Every time Hillary mentions being in the White House in prior years - Do a body shot…It’s what Bill would have done.

Following these rules you should be shit-face-plowed after the first debate.

As you can see; political activists are looking to make 2008 the most interesting Presidential Election ever. And quite frankly I’m scared that if, after all the planning that went into the Enlightened Fork Of Doom, you don’t take the time to go out and vote - they’ll come after you and your whole family.

I have to start this with an apology: My side of this story has been FAR too long in coming. I had to wait until all of the investigative and punitive measures were completed before I was allowed to respond. I put that limit upon myself so as not to impede any progress of the investigation or its results. Your patience and support has been appreciated.

For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about; here’s the story:

Before August of this year I inhabited a little known corner of the internet that garnered a moderate amount of attention from a core group of fans and friends. They understood my sense of humor and knew it was all a joke. They knew that the domain name – howtokillpeople.com – was simply a device used to garner attention. There were no directions on killing people and any statements made regarding that topic were tongue in cheek.

But then along came the Contra Costa Times and their heavy handed storm trooper Thomas Peele. He read the title of my site and maybe two or three articles contained therein and took it all at face value. Then he mounted his soap box in the middle of a retardedly slow news cycle and, with a straight face, proclaimed that I was a threat to national security. And the media lapped it up with a fervor normally reserved for high speed police chases and hostage stand offs.

I can’t count how many times Thomas’s story was distributed, retooled, translated and quoted throughout all forms of the media. And each time the story was re-broadcast the news casters would climb higher and higher on their ivory tower of self righteou