It's Taken A Turn For The Worse.

Sears Portrait Studio

2010-09-11T15:59:00.002-04:00

One Sunday morning in the spring time in New Hampshire, I woke up a little earlier than usual. So, I walked down to the local 7-11 for my daily coffee. 2/3 blueberry coffee, 1/3 hot chocolate. It's like an orgy in my mouth, and all the hottest chicks get off at the same time. Suddenly, I notice two chocolate cake donuts through the glass of the bakery stand. Crying out to me like the two most adorable kittens in the world need a forever home in my tummy. So, I go ahead and buy the coffee and two donuts.

I'm walking home and it's gorgeous outside. Springtime in New England is beautiful. I'm sipping my coffee periodically, but going to town on those donuts. The first one went down quicker than a crackwhore sitting shotgun. By the time I reached my doorstep and climbed the stairs, I was just starting to bite into the second donut. Suddenly, the story goes downhill quickly. I open the door, and Sara is awake. I figured she'd still be asleep for another hour or so. Her eyes narrow, scan down to the donut and back up at me. I know that look. It generally results in me getting in trouble.
"You cannot afford that." she sternly notes.
"....But this donut is a majestic treat!" I reply.

(Note: At this point, I'm screwed. I have no secondary donut to offer her. This could have easily been absolved with a simple "Look hunny, I got you one too.")
Sara shakes her head in disappointment and goes into the details of our budget. After logical female deduction and a slew of well explained, conclusive evidence, I was given the news: "You need to get a second job."
When she said it, the words came out like slow motion. Like the dentist telling a 12 year old, "You need to get braces."

So, next thing I know I'm applying for jobs. First place to call me back is Sears Portrait Studio. Oh, the humanity!
My first day arrives, on a Saturday morning. I have to dress up nicely in hopes to compensate for the fact that I'm a complete and utter douche nozzle. As socially awkward as I can be normally, it's amplified tenfold once I'm required to wear a long sleeve, button down shirt, and some khaki's that even Elton John would refer to as "faggy".

I arrive to work. The first person I meet is the manager, so I can go over paperwork and whatnot. She's in the early 40's, but just as bubbly as a 13 year old. One of those people who giggles after everything, flips her hair, then checks her reflection in whatever shiny object may be in the room. She reminded me of an older woman, wearing all white, riding a tandem bike with an attractive business man in a tampon commercial.
First, she informs me I'll be making an extra 50 cents an hour based on experience. Another girl working there overhears and rolls her eyes.
She picks up the phone and starts dialing. New employees need to enter their SSN's into the Sears database. However, I'm pretty sure her roaming hand on my shoulder was not protocol for training. She starts giggling and hands me the phone only to hear a recorded message for a naughty co-ed phone line. "Wrong number!" she says through laughter. Really? Very professional. Although, I'm not one to talk. This lady won't take her fucking hands off me, and all I'm concerned with is whether or not Gambit could beat up Spiderman. (Update: Gambit obviously can beat up Spiderman.)

Suddenly, I'm standing around waiting for everything to go through. My surroundings are bleak. Calamity every which way. Kids aged 2-5 sprinting around. Giggling, playing, loudly screaming. Making me wish I owned a Flux Capacitor, allowing me to go back in time with an unbent wire hanger and a vivid story of the A.D.D. ridden future these parents were about to endure.
Suddenly, this little blonde haired 3 year old wearing overalls runs in to me going warp speed. He bounced off the back of my leg like I was a brick shithouse, and he were made of Nerf.

This kid starts bawling harder than my prom date. Parents are staring at me, waiting to see what I'll do. I have no parental instinct, and no way to know what to do. Do I pick him up? Do I console him? Jingle keys? Instead, I act based on all I know. "That certainly didn't seem like the intended result...Walk it off, dude."
I feel the death stare from every adult in the room. But if that mom had chosen a more coordinated husband, perhaps heredity could have stepped in and helped this little indoor kid from being perennially picked last in gym class throughout his childhood.

Next, I meet the kid who will be training me. I don't remember his name, so I'll call him Bieber Fever. Bieber Fever was a nice kid. About 19 or 20, flamboyant as all hell, and really passionate about photography. He genuinely enjoyed his job, and might have been one of the most upbeat people I'd ever met.

Bieber Fever gives me all kinds of great information I wouldn't retain. Jingle keys, make faces, use puppets. All I could think of was making funny faces, while using my keys to give all the little puppets buttholes.
So, I'm standing in while Bieber Fever takes pictures of families. This kid is amazing at his job. Babies are smiling, little ones giggling, the whole nine yards. But once in a while they'd catch a glimpse of me standing behind him. Shadowed in the darkness, arms behind my back, looking like the director of a fucking snuff film.

Suddenly, a Juggalo struts into Sears, carrying his offspring around like a basketball he might pass it to a tall black guy, who would in turn slam dunk it. If you're interested in what a Juggalo is, read my informative guide by clicking here.
Juggalos: Fact Or Fiction
However, for those of you who won't click that, a Juggalo is a fan of the Insane Clown Posse. A horrible rap group consisting of an inbred retard, and a diabetic dog inseminator. They speak about drinking Faygo, carnivals in the sky, and intercourse with large women.

He walks into this crowded cluster of people with his kid, and says to the girl behind the desk, "What is a Juggalo? This fucking lunatic!" That's actually a derivative of a lyric. This guy speaks in clown. The girl instantly turns beet red, no idea how to handle this fiasco. The child actually has a Capri-Sun in a brown paper bag. (I guess Faygo is a 8 years and up drink in the Juggalo community.) Sure as shit, Bieber Fever and I get the task of photographing what is sure to be Exhibit A in a juvenile parole hearing in the next 10 years.
The guy wouldn't change poses as asked. Wouldn't smile as asked. Pushed his kid around until he stopped listening to Bieber Fever's instructions. Every picture taken, is the Juggalo holding his hatchetman bling, as the child first begins to realize what sort of shit-show he's been born into.

The session ends, and the Juggalo sits down as his kid instantly takes a way a toy from a little Native American child. A whole trail of tears ensues from Mini-Tonto, as Juggalo Junior is not reprimanded in any way.
At this time, I'm editing the photo's. I have years of experience in photoshop, so that was about all I was qualified to do at Sears. As I'm editing, I hear the Juggalo randomly chanting lyrics. I can't even help myself at this point. I'm editing these photos, check out to see if anyone is behind me and type in "Amber Alert 2009" in bold Verdana lettering across the top.
What I didn't know, is that at Sears Portrait Studio, every alteration instantly saves.

Bieber Fever comes over and asks how it's going.
"Uhh, I thought this was pretty funny, but I'd like to take it out.", as I open the Amber Alert picture.
"OH EM GEE." Bieber Fever replies. "You can't do that! They save everytime!"
"Okay, well, how do I delete it.", I politely ask.
"You can't."

At this point at any other job, I'd feel bad. But no, not this job. Suddenly, the manager walks in and starts freaking out. "Why would you do this?" she questions.
I respond with, "Look at that guy. I'm doing the state of New Hampshire's public schools a service."
Then, the bubbly act ends and she starts to flail around and panic.
"We need to reboot the entire system. The whole store. Now these people are all going to have to wait."

Awkward 4 second silence overwhelms the room before I blurt out "Juggalo's are not people."
Nobody thinks it's funny but me, and I happen to think this is fucking hilarious. I start to daydream about what how the Juggalo actually procreated and with what.

I imagine a grotesquely obese ginger with dyed black hair. Bright red freckles, stubbly arms and hairy legs. Smoking a joint in her living room, sitting on the ottoman they bought at a trailer park garage sale. Duct tape prosthetic foot after a combination of diabetes and Count Chocula warranted the amputation. 1992 Casio boom box on the shag rug, playing ICP songs, periodically skipping. Inbred, Rocky Dennis lookin' daughter looms behind the smoke and the end table. Rockin' a makeshift peg leg stolen from a dining room table display at a Target. Her eyes aren't crooked, but she does has a lazy tit. Unopened mail on the floor, old bottles of Faygo, and a pool of menstrual blood because a bunch of cotton balls Scotch taped to a used fountain drink straw isn't really all that great of a tampon. (BTW, that's actually the sheet music for "Black Dog" by Led Zeppelin. I felt the contrast was amusing.)

The day finally ends, and I politely inform the manager that I won't be returning. She understands, and crosses me off the schedule.
I giggle the whole drive home about Juggalos, Bieber Fever, amber alerts and the donut which got me into this predicament. I arrive home smiling with Sara greeting me at the door. From the smile on my face, she knows I have a story.
"You quit didn't you?" she bluntly asks.
"I'm not down with the clown."

From that day on, I will think twice, and refer to the budget before purchasing a donut, muffin, scone or any other sort of delicious morning pastry.
Even when it's okay, I still look over my shoulder as if I'm doing something wrong.

Pansy.

2010-09-11T15:37:00.001-04:00

I had quite the bizarre cast of friends in high school. 1998 was my sophomore year, I was 16 years old. Decked out in Jnco jeans, Sketchers, and ridiculous shiny shirts from Gadzooks back when they sold men's apparel. There was a concealed beeper in my pocket, and to top it all off, I'd dyed my hair black with blonde chunks in the front. Not only a sign of the times, but affirmation that I was a complete and utter douche. I ate lunch with an identical cast of characters everyday. There was Bret, who was extremely quiet, shy and lanky. He didn't speak much, but he was always by far the nicest of the group. Then, there was Sobucki. The lone 50% black kid in a bumblefuck northwest Indiana high school. Sobucki was a smart-ass like I was, and a baseball enthusiast. He idolized Ken Griffey, Jr, and in fact, 12 years later he still does. Finally, there was Frahm. Eric Frahm stood all of 5'2", and could grow a beard by age 11. But the guy was built like a brick shithouse. We teased Frahm, but anytime we encountered any physical resistance, Frahm stood front and center. His claim to fame was emptying a cologne bottle, filling it with vodka, and getting caught spritzing himself in the face...On the school bus. The man was a legend in his own right.

Everyday, there was a specific routine. We'd get our food, climb a flight of stairs, and hang out over the ledge. It was typical, common high school back and forth banter which often concluded in such zingers as "your mother". Sobucki would call Frahm an Ewok, Frahm would call Sobucki "Soblacki", and they both would deservedly call me a fag, Bret just kind of hung out, and endured the immaturity surrounding him. He was too friendly to really participate in our childish dialogue. He was simply a nice kid, hanging around a bunch of dickheaded choad chompers.

This specific day, I notice that Bret is drinking Diet Pepsi. I question why a 16 year old would opt to drink Diet anything. Nobody ever really questioned Bret about anything. His response would undoubtedly be whimsically polite and leave any antagonist feeling foolish.

"Why, Bret?" I ask. "Why would you drink Diet Pepsi?...Got to watch that girlish figure?"
Leave it to the guy with a shiny shirt and hair gayer than Flock Of Seagulls to question someone else's manhood.
Sobucki and Frahm chuckle lightheartedly, most likely at the irony. I continue on about Diet Pepsi, before I abruptly bring the harassment to an end.
"Bret...You are a....Pansy."
The word pansy echoed throughout the hallway.
"Pansy....ansy....ansy"

I looked over at Bret and saw a fire in that kids eyes. Before I could even throw a playful elbow alongside a "Just kiddin', buddy", he looks me square in the eyes. They narrow, and he remains locked in on me as if I'm about to be put in the boston crab until I tap out and poop my pants simultaneously.

Suddenly, like the most casual act in the world, Bret pours his entire Diet Pepsi over the ledge.
We're all speechless as a 3 second pause seems to take forever before we hear the splash. We stifle our giggles and everyone pats Bret on the back. "Way to shut Foster up!" seems to be the general consensus.

A loud, female scream amplifies itself throughout the hallway. Suddenly, like Jurassic Park, a light rumble surges through the concrete and tile floor. Frahm's lunch is tossed around more than Snooki's orange pussy.
Logically, I realized we were nowhere near a fault in the Earth, but it sure felt like we were in the midst of some sort of plate-tectonic shift .

Loud footsteps approach quickly, and suddenly what appears to be a human female stands forth. She was about 6'3", damn well over 300 pounds. I strongly felt it possible that another smaller person may dwell inside her, powering her movements with controls. She was wearing a white t-shirt, perhaps a modified hammock or bed sheet. Her dark sweatpants brought leniency to the term "one size fits all".

I look back down the stairs, and wonder how how the forklift even got her up the stairs with without a handicapped accessible ramp.
Frahm senses danger and valiantly rises to his feet. At 5'2", he was about eye-level somewhere between her 3rd lower tit roll, and her fupa's fupa.

Our brave friend begins to shake more than Michael J. Fox in an earthquake, and abruptly sits down. I look up at this woman, and envision her spinning Sobucki and I over her head like she's making a pizza. While holding Bret upside down, shaking his juice money from his pockets. Finally, stomping on Frahm, as an exaggerated Mario stomping on a Goomba in hopes of obtaining 200 points.

The Beasts eyes narrow, and her lip curls. I utilize a moment to use a bit of panoramic mental photography, and note that she resembles a billboard for an ink blot test. A secondary rumble up the stairs is heard in the background, as The Beast's eyes fixate directly at me. I literally fear for my life, and defecate just a little bit. Suddenly, a sniffle and loud sobbing overtakes the quiet halls of our suburban high school.
"I HATE YOU ERIC FOSTER!"

Go figure, I was always under the impression that big girls don't cry. Of course I would get blamed. Sobucki would have been the only other candidate to do something like that, and racial profiling is totally not cool.

Suddenly, a figure appears behind The Beast. I'm not all that confident it was a woman, based on the back acne and scent of gym socks and ball-sweat. I guess I'll never know. The Beast is crying a fucking river, as her cross-eyed androgynous friend verbally rapes me in the butthole. My friends are all stunned, speechless, subsequently in no position to react.

A small group of people begin to circle around. A scene has officially been made, and I realize that I'm in a position where I'm socially forced to retort.
The low pitched screeching of swear words directed at me still spews forth from the friend. Finally, the Beast chimes in. "You are such a fucking fag."

I stand up and dust myself off.
"Cry! Go ahead and cry! Cry! Cry! Cry! It burns calories!"

A silence overtakes the fiasco. My friends chuckled, and a few other people in the circle giggle as well. Finally, The Beast's friend storms off, as a team of 20 social workers clear the passage to her blowhole before a slew of heavy machinery rolls her back into the ocean.
I look back at my friends, and sigh. Mostly in relief that none of us were eaten whole. My friends were some pretty cool kids. Bret began to talk more, and grew up to be cool as shit. Sobucki remained a fun-loving smart-ass, and Frahm was one of the most loyal, philosophical dudes I'd ever known.

A few years later in my mid twenties, I was out drinking with Buckman. He'd noticed The Beast standing behind us at the bar, angrily staring. She looked even bigger than I remembered. She grew yet another neck, which leads me leads me to believe that fat people neck rings are another way of determining their age, much like trees.

On that note, It's fun to draw myself as a kid back when I still had a neck. This story really has no punch line, it's just fun to draw fat chicks.

Irish People: The Guide To Drunken Micks

2010-06-05T22:19:00.008-04:00

Irish People: The Guide To Understanding Drunken Micks.

Gross, bizarre, repulsive. These adjectives are commonly used to describe the descendants of Ireland. They drink, they fight, they eat cabbage and they drink. These simple creatures are often times the butt of hilarious jokes, insults and physical harassment.
In order to understand the Irish, it's important to be educated pertaining to their origins and development.

Stages of Development.

1. Fresh Hatchling
-The eggs of an Irish woman are white with green spots, not unlike those of Yoshi. The Irish embryo feeds on a concoction of cheap self produced moonshine, until the hatchling is strong enough to escape the confines of the shell. Many hatchlings never hatch, as they become prey to owls and other predators.
2. Pupa Stage
-A build up of calcium and sugars produde a sturdy shell. The Irish dwell in the forests or cornfields, feeding on insects with a projectile, sticky tongue. They're also able to swim in puddles and feed off moss and algae. After a mere two weeks, the pupa Irishman sheds his exoskeleton and moves to the next stage of life.
3. Cocoon Stage
-Many human children capture young Irish pupas, as a source of recreation. They sometimes keep the Irish in a clear plastic container, and add a leaf, stick and grass-clippings as means to recreate their natural environment. Then, the Irish pupa entraps itself within a cocoon built in silks produced by it's butthole. It remains here throughout the cold winter.
4. Irish Infant
-In the cocoon stage, the Irish child develops hands, feet, facial features and genitals. It's very susceptible to infection and disease until it's immunities build against potato famines and other deadly diseases. For the first 2 months, it needs it's head supported at all times, and either feeds off breast booze from the mother, or a bottle of alcohol no less than 5.5% alcohol by volume.

The Irish have come a long way throughout history. A separate chart of evolution was made in order to display how far the Irish have come since the dawn of man.

From the early Leprechaun hatchling, all the way to modern day Mark Wahlberg, the Irish have encountered numerous alterations to their physical appearance. At one point, the Irish were tanks from the knees down, complete with flabby, unflattering breasts. Even further on, the Irish began trying to mate with bluegills. In the early 1920's, Irish men began the trend of using pomade and other products in order to manipulate and sculpt their facial and pubic hair. Thus inventing the handlebar pubestache. Finally, the modern Irishman isn't necessarily cursed with the red hair, freckles or the inability to speak without a shower of saliva spewing forth from their mouth. Although, the immediate offset of rage and hatred as a result of personal insecurity and penis envy still is very prevalent (As seen with prominent actor, Mark Wahlberg.)

Reproduction

As it becomes mating season for an Irish pair, they go through physical changes. An exoskeleton develops beginning near the thorax, and extends down to abdomen. A light fuzz grows on the arms and legs during arousal. These act as means to pollinate the room with an everlasting stench of corned beef. The eyes of both sexes become compound, and wings develop. The male erection is actually a shillelagh, and plays a song during intercourse. The female excretes a corrosive, acidic green substance from the vagina, which is highly toxic. The substance destroys the Irish erection after relations occur. After the eggs are inseminated, the female decapitates the male, and eats the severed head. Primarily because Irish chicks are perennially pissed off and aggressive nearly all the time. Finally, a Hazmat team of 12 is all too often dispatched in order to quarantine any witnesses or properly dispose of excess of vaginal fluid.

Laying Eggs

After the act of mating occurs, and arousal ends, the female reverts back to her naturally chubby, pale and stench-ridden self. The average age of Irish pregnancy is between 15 and 18 years of age, which cascades perfectly along the typical timeline of laying her eggs in the top-tank of a toilet in the school bathroom during senior prom. The act of defecating in the upper tank of a toilet is known as an "upper decker". However, laying between 7-10 Irish eggs is much more vile, and infinitely smellier. 45% of all Irish eggs are found by school janitors, heated up using a cigarette lighter and backwards spoon, and subsequently injected into the bloodstream. The high it produces, creates massive hallucinations, a relaxed opiate painkiller, delusions of grandeur, and an unexplained desire to listen to The Dropkick Murphys.

However, when a man not of Irish decent impregnates an Irish woman, the birth is that of a conventional human. However, many doctors are injured every year, by unprotected deliveries from Irish mothers. Due to the sheer mass, fluidity, and advanced mechanics of an Irish woman's vagina, doctors are forced to don full major league baseball catchers gear in order to protect themselves as well as the construction of the room.

Irish babies are thrust forth from the uterus at speeds of up to 92 mph. Depending on the grip of the forehead upon extraction, some babies curve or slide. Occasionally, a wild birth occurs, where the doctor misses a signal, of the uterus loses grip of the head during birth. This occurs in instant death of the child, but more importantly thousands of dollars of damage to the building.

This brings us to the topic of Irish gynecology. In all 50 states of the United States of America, it's illegal to use a naked eye, or speculum to view the inside of an Irish woman's vagina. First off, the stench alone is enough to kill 7 eskimos. Many have died before even witnessing what awaits within the depths of such hellacious Irish vag flaps. Tall tales are told, of sailors weak with scurvy and rickets who were promptly swatted into the ocean by an angry menstrual labia.

Irish women's vagina's are actually capable of maintaining their own parallel universes. As seen above, an abundance of genital warts, and blinding blonde pubic hair are common. Other conditions include lopsided labia's (seen here), inverted clitoris's, and an occasional appearance by 90's alternative acts, Smash Mouth. This specific vagina shown here, (as viewed by a shoebox constructed pinhole eclipse viewer) displays yet another meeting of the Ku Klux Klan, burning a cross. In the background, a parallel but similar atrocity comparable to our 9/11 is in process. The primary difference being, inside an Irish woman's cooch, ground zero is everywhere.

As Irish children develop, they have the same light-hearted, adorable tendencies as humans. However, by age 5, the natural Irish mannerisms begin to develop, and segregated Irish preschools develop.

As seen above, little Abagail McGinnis lights a bong packed with marijuana sprayed down with Windex for Shamus O'Reilly. Abagail is also holding a straw stolen from a local Wendy's, and plans on snorting multiple lines of cocaine she purchased from threatening Mexican man with a little moustache. Brody McGillicuddy pours another Steel Reserve 40 ounce bottle in what's known as a 'beer bong' for his playmate Molly O'Conner. Meanwhile, laying next to a bottle of open pills, good ole' Cassidy McIntire ties himself off, and injects himself with pure Columbian heroin that he found searching through mommy's purse.
Irish kids love to play.

The Anatomy Of An Irish Man
To further understand the Irish, it's a good idea to comprehend the mechanics of how they exist.

First off, the Irish man's hairline recedes by age 16. Their beards come in fully by age 21. These beards are often used to store cookie crumbs and bar pretzels. The primary difference between Irish and humans is the complex cardiovascular system. In Irish adults, the fully shaped heart is a small, fist sized cabbage. This pumps, and distributes a draft Guiness beer throughout the entire body. This beer allows the Irish man to function even without it's essential binge drinking on a daily basis. A pot belly develops early in the 20's, and is used to store excess beers and potatoes in case of a long winter, or a Doogie Howser, M.D. marathon. Finally, all Irish men wear knee-high, orange striped socks, and pee-stained discounted underwear from Wal-Mart. All of them.

Anatomy Of An Irish Woman

The Irish ladies have the same vital functions as the Irish man, although an extremely complex reproductive system capable of producing up to 28 children in a calender year. It's also capable of birthing most other mammals, and even some specimen of endangered marine-life. (Irish chicks are totally into beastiality.) Irish women are typically seen with blonde or red hair, freckles, and often abuse their children in public. As seen here, that babies arm is freaking broken. That mom is all like "I don't care, I'm too concerned with flirting with a black guy in a du-rag to make my husband jealous and shit."
Irish women get progressively chubbier in the belly region as they give birth. Eventually in their 30's, it's mandatory for them to use a scooter as primary means of transportation around a Kohls, as they seek fancy wine charms even though they only drink cheap beer and grocery store brand liquor.

Random facts:

Irish people poop potatoes. Their digestive systems use starches and top soil in order to produce potato poops. Like dogs, Irish people sniff and commonly eat their own fecal matter.

If Irish girls go too long without drinking, their faces WILL melt. That is an unfortunate fact of life. However, after looking at an Irish girls face, the dripping skin and rotting flesh is actually a mild improvement.

Summer Recreation

Guess which girl is Irish. if you said, the flaming potato hooker on the right, you'd be correct! Actually, due to all the alcohol in their blood streams, Irish skanks are 1000% more susceptible to sunburn, 1st degree sunburn, skin cancer, and spontaneous combustion. Booze is flammable, and Irish chicks are 90% booze. Do some math, Asians.

Movies

Irish dudes love 'Rudy'. All Irish boys dream of going to Notre Dame. A school where even the repulsive, pale, virginal political science majors have a chance fingerpopping an equally as gross Irish girl after a bootleg DVD and a bottle of pills in their dorm room. "Rudy" gives Irish men shillelagh erections. It's rumored for a brief period of time, Irish men actually develop a small pigment of vagina in the region that their taint/chode/grundle occupies. Rudy gets carried off the field and Irish men sob uncontrollably. The most important fact about 'Rudy' is within the dialogue in the illustration. Rudy's only friend died in the steel mill, and to this day both Sean Astin and Rudy are only 5 foot nothing, and completely friendless and lonely.

Books:
Irish People Can Never Find That Damn Waldo.

Irish people are for the most part, inbred and illiterate. Unless the objective of the book is to "relax your eyes" to discover a 3-D tyrannosaurus rex. Or, find Waldo amongst a whole bunch of other douches, wizards, retards, bumblefucks and pap smears. Irish people never seem to find the elusive Waldo.
Although, he's made himself seen recently, urinating on an old, gay leprechaun and a random dancing hipster slut. As for books, no Irish man has read anything beyond paperback Goosebumps books. I would know, because I'm Irish and 'Monster Blood' is the greatest piece of literature I've ever tackled.

Music:

Contemporary Irish Music
Irish people listen to the following bands:
-Dropkick Murphy's
-Creed
-Blessid Union Of Souls
-Sister Hazel
-Vertical Horizon
-U2 (Even though Bono was born a hermaphrodite and a bedwetter.)

It's common for Irish people to be about a decade or so behind current rock. They still use myspace, and are never sober enough to remember lyrics beyond the chorus. The Irish used to be huge fans of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

However, even Irish people are sick about song after song after song after freaking song about California. Everybody knows where you are from guys. WE KNOW. Given the option of another Chili Peppers song about California, of listening to the sheer horror of loud, talkative intercourse between Fran Drescher and Gilbert Gottfried, I would choose the latter.

Billy Idol is another widely tolerated musician. However, the majority of his songs are about pedophilia.

And Irish folks refuse to "rock the cradle of love". That shit is not cool.

The same Amber Alert concerns are only amplified for leprechauns. Those creepy little pedophiles have all kinds of nasty tricks up their sleeves. If your child is on a little league team coached by a leprechaun, check his butthole for ginger pubes, and alert the authorities. Their riddles only lead to empty promises of Skittles and kittens. Leprechauns have nothing good to offer anyone. (Except for Lucky Charms.)

Religion:
All Irish Are Catholics.

All Irish people firmly believe that Jesus died for your sins. They also complain about the commercialism of Christmas, yet still vividly decorate their trailor park homes. Irish people are thankful for Jesus, and although very few have actually even tried to read or listen to The Bible on tape, they still firmly stand by their beliefs.
Although, Easter scares the potato poops out of the Irish. When some drunken dildo told Irish kids "Jesus came back on Easter", they deducted that Zombie Jesus was much less forgiving and friendly than regular ole' Jesus.

Many Irish children roll around in their poorly constructed race car beds contemplating who would win in a wrestling match between Jesus and Zombie Jesus. The mindfuck of whether or not Zombie Jesus would tap out in the boston crab is enough to confuse anyone, much less innocent retarded Irish children.

In addition to Jesus, Irish people also worship the young man who played "Donkeylips" on the Nickelodeon series 'Salute Your Shorts'.

When rocking their children to sleep, and assuring them that Satan and that greasy crackwhore Courtney Love won't slay them in their slumber...Irish parents reassure their children by describing Donkeylips and Jesus hanging out in the poorly built treehouse by drunken daddy, outside. They're playing cards, telling tales, and fighting the deeds of the Devil. Like a couple of ole' buddies.

Due to these fables...The real life Donkeylips has full immunity to do whatever the fuck a Donkeylips does.

As pictured above, this essentially allows Donkeylips a fearless mindset, lacking any concern of repercussions- Seen here, waving a skewered fetuses with an unbent clothes hanger. Stomping on orphans faces, and destroying the Stradivarius, Action Comics #1, a Babe Ruth signed baseball, and an autographed copy of a Led Zeppelin vinyl record. In addition, wikipedia says that Donkeylips is a recovered PCP addict. I'm not quite sure if that's real or not, but it made me laugh so hard that I dribbled urine from my peen.

The Irish Pecking Order Of Worship Goes Like This:
1. Jesus
2. Donkeylips
3. The Ultimate Warrior
4. Tooth Fairy
5. Steve Irwin
6. Zack Morris
7. Mother Nature
8. Gambit
9. R2D2
10. King Hippo

Politics:
After the 2008 election, Irish people were no longer allowed to register to vote. Based on names alone, a few Irish people voted for McCain instead of that black fellow. However a resounding majority yet again abused the 'write-in' feature, and voted for Jack Bauer. Jack Bauer is a fictional CTU agent on the recently cancelled TV show '24'. Neither he, nor Kiefer Sutherland have ever run for any political office, or verbally expressed any desire to do so.

Fashion:
Irish people dress like idiots. Some chubby chicks muffin top their shit around the state fairs searching for new baby daddys. Some Irish dudes neglect to wear t-shirts, but instead wear queer plaid shorts and sit shotgun in a pickup truck with their foot hanging on the window, as Kid Rock blares on blown speakers and a novelty ballsack dangles from a rusted trailer hitch.
But one thing the Irish don't tolerate is excessive douche baggery.

The only form of humanity even lower than the Irish are known as the "Modern Douche'. These dildos go tanning until they're emitting a creepy orange glow. They also wear ridiculous Ed Hardy t-shirts. Ed Hardy is a designer who makes everything look really gay. Skulls, flowers, lips and angel wings are often forced onto a t-shirt without any reasoning or creative logic. Morons see these shirts and say "Oh, that's dope!", and suddenly white people everywhere are disgraced. The Modern Douche also buys New Era baseball hats, leaves the stickers on them, and allows the bill of the hat to remain unbent, and sometimes tilted up. These hats are also cocked to the side, although the Modern Douche has no affiliation with neither the Bloods nor Crips. Tribal arm-band tattoo, cubic zirconia studs, Fossil watch, novelty spinner belt-buckle, and overly sculpted facial hair are all further signs of douche. Irish people hate douches almost as much as Irish people hate Scottish people.

That's scary, because the Scottish are the only people on Earth paler than the Irish. They're actually translucent, and exceptional boxers.

Another comparison often made is, the Irish people to Leukemia patients.

The similarities are overwhelming. Both appear to have no eyebrows. Although most Irish people actually do have an eery, glowing orange coating of eyebrow. Leukemia patients are completely hairless from the chemotherapy. Irish people actually shave and eat their own pubic hair. Both the leukemia patient and the Irish patient are pitied to a degree. Although, leukemia patients receive unlimited prescriptions of oxycontin. Irish people only receive unlimited prescriptions of rejection. Leukemia patients are brave fighters. Whereas, the Irish people get boners from their siblings.

Incest:
The Adventures Of Pete & Pete. Or The Adventures Of Pete IN Pete?

Even Irish celebrities practice incest. These two mischievous love birds open mouth kiss, while Artie- The Strongest Man In The World looks on with diligent concern.
While practicing incest has been looked down upon since the stone ages, the Irish continue to defy convention and get shillelagh boners from co-ed shower time.
Big Pete and Little Pete entertained the masses for years. All the while whispering into one anothers ear "You smell like mom" before savage butt-relations occured.

Irish Facts & Fiction.
Fact: Irish Strippers Sob Rainbows

Fiction: David Bowie's Bulge Wrote The 'Labyrinth' Soundtrack By Itself
(Truth: Bowie and a bunch of yuppie dinks with ponytails actually wrote it.)

Irish People Are Confused:

How come Marty McFly always "Shakes it like a poloroid picture"? Even when there isn't any music playing!
Actually, Marty McFly suffers from Parkinsons Disease. Everyone knows a Hover Board doesn't work on water, and that Marty McFly gives horrible haircuts.

Irish People Remain Confused:

Where the hell is Lisa Turtle from? What kind of ancestry is the Turtle family? That bitch must be from the Galapagos. If Screech had given her a dirty sanchez, you wouldn't even be able to tell. (Because the melanin in her skin, makes her pigment brown.) Why's that turtle talking to her? Where do babies come from?

Random interests of the Irish:
1. Irish Stepdance
-A bunch of creepy, freckled Irish whores wear wigs, stupid old traditional Victorian dresses and jump around while some ginger fag plays a song on his own shillelagh boner. They tap-dance around, until the audience gets drunk, and ritualistically beats the shit out of them with a sock full of gold coins.

2. Glory Holes
-Lonely Irish retards stick their wieners through a hole in a public restroom, and an eccentric hermaphrodite, covered in oral cold sores puts it in his/her mouth. Then, they go home with a smile, and poop out some potatoes from their buttholes.

3. IRA (Irish Republic Army)
-Some geriatric, Irish losers with really old saggy balls, made some bombs and blew up a bunch of people. The victims of these attacks, were marked because they decided, "Hey, maybe Irish people shouldn't tongue kiss and spoon-snuggle with their siblings." So the old boners made a bunch of bombs from cabbage leaves and liquor, and defended the right to give their sisters facials. (But not the kind from the spa.)

Irish People Don't Know The Difference Between A Bear And A Bear:

Irish people are even more terrified of the one that doesn't like honey.

Some prominent Irish people are racist.

The Ultimate Warrior is not a fan of the colored huxtables, gays, Jewish people, or left-wing politics. He is however a fan of arm tassles, face-painting, and gorilla pressing opponents.

Dog The Bounty Hunter claims that black people can't swim. Well, if they were married to your wife Dog, they wouldn't need to. Those floatation devices could have saved millions during the tsunamis.

Random Conflicts:
Irish people have a lot of rage built up from within. They drink and they fight. Sometimes they actually kill. But rest assured, they always drink.

Mexican People

Irish people really hate Mexicans. Almost as much as they hate oranges. Due to this, the directives are to "shoot on site" if an Irishman ever steps foot on Home Depot property. (Because Mexicans are there stealing supplies to roof with.)

Gay People

Irish people really hate homosexuals. Mostly based on jealousy. Gay men are typically more organized, educated, better looking and much more hygienic than the Irish. Basically, Irish people are still really pissed off that re-runs of 'Will & Grace' are still on TV. In addition, Irish people strongly feel that "gay" is contageous. Hey, some Irish people have swords!

Hippies

Irish people have no tolerance for tree-hugging, liberal hippy douches. In this picture, an Irish man in khaki slacks is putting an end to a drum circle. Irish people can't stand Dave Matthews, Phish, hemp bracelets, veganism, organic food, soybeans, sandals, and community college. But they do like using piano wire as a weapon.

Asians

Irish people have no need for mathematics. They jumped and cheered at the end of 'Bloodsport' when Chong-Li was defeated. They don't like bukkake, and worry about it everytime an Asian man buys a tarp. Irish people believe that karate is a bunch of nonsense, and don't trust anyone with a genetic lack of peripheral vision. (They've got squinty eyes.) Irish people really like kittens. And eating kittens is not cool, okay? Hitting an Asian man with a mace isn't cool either, but that balding Irish virgin really needed a companion, more than Phuk Yu needed dinner.

African-Americans

Okay, I'll admit this is tasteless. I forgot the bottle of generic grape soda. Sorry, my bad. But Jamal died a happy man, with a whole mouthfull of watermelon seeds. At least our Irish friend poured a 40 to the curb for the homies no longer with us. Black men are seen as a direct threat towards apple-bottomed, pale faced, blonde Irish women, muffin topping their old high school gym shorts. Irish men feel entitlement to these wenches.

Emo's

This is my buddy Dan, and he's just slicing the throat of some whiny emo pussy. That's what Dan does! Emo kids sit on the benches at shopping malls, and listen to Simple Plan over and over again on their iPods. They're androgynous by nature, and actually procreate by bending their limp, lonely weiners, into their bleak, heartless vaj-ay-jays. Irish people don't like butt-babies. They also hate whiny music, where a bunch of kids with trust funds complain about a girl they never actually had the courage to ask out on a date. Emo kids write haikus, cover their vehicles with the band stickers of unsigned bands, and poop in the bathtub.

Catfish

Irish people have zero tolerance for catfishing. If you're a catflish, or you associate with catfish, be on the lookout for hoards of Irish people. They're all rage, with a hurricane of uppercuts and box-cutters. Do not catfish around the Irish. Do not pretend to catfish or be a catfish around the Irish. This is a very touchy subject for them, and there is no grey area. If you speak highly of catfish, or roughly resemble a catfish in anyway, you will endure their wrath. It's okay to swim, congregate with trout or even have a tropical fish tank. Irish people's butthole's begin to flare, and they cannot suppress the urge to roundhouse kick a catfish in the face during an encounter. This is very important.

Jewish People.

Oy vey! Irish people enjoy money. The typical Irish woman makes $12,000/year as a Dairy Queen brazier operator. The typical Irish man dances for nickels alongside subways in the Boston area. Jewish people have lots of money, gold, herbs and spices. These are all in demand amongst the Irish population. Jewish scrotums are full of rare Indian-head coins. Often times, Irish people will wait along the state-line of New Jersey and look for well-maintained Mercury Sables to cross the border. Oh yeah, and Irish people are still pretty pissed about what happened to Jesus.

Other people the Irish despise...
-Inbred bumblefuck hillbillies.
-Communists
-Eskimos
-Other Irish people
-Germans
-Midgets
-Retards
-Ghostbusters

In conclusion, Irish people don't have the same chemical make-up or sense of morality that seems to be common in the rest of humanity. They're aggressive alcoholics, perverts, drug addicts, serial killers and retards. If you see an Irish person, keep your distance. They have poor eyesight, so if they seem agitated, stand still. They'll eventually forget about you, and remember that's it's time for yet another habitual drink or a box of Lucky Charms.
If you know an Irish person, alert them of the dangers of allowing ginger sluts to play songs on their shillelagh boners.
Furthermore, if you're a human and an Irish woman extends the desire to procreate, stay away. The corrosive acid will burn away at a humans skin. Having intercourse with an Irish woman is the equivalent of finding an old sandwich along the sidewalk. You don't know where it's been, don't put that in your mouth. If you're lucky enough, your mom will slap the top of your hand and replace the urge with a tupperware full of Cheerios.

And finally, for no reason at all: The man, the myth, the legend:
Norman Poophouse

Norman often recites an old Irish limerick, after he's been consuming his Irish quota of 18 beers a night.
"I don't want your number (no)
I don't want to give you mine and (no)
I don't want to meet you nowhere (no)
I don't want none of your time and (no)
I don't want no scrub
A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me
Hangin' out the passenger side of his best friends ride
Trying to holla at me."

Use this knowledge in the face of anger and confusion, you faggots.

Oops McPoops

2010-04-04T09:40:00.002-04:00

Sara and I have been in New Hampshire almost a year now. Money is typically pretty tight, so the quiet night in is nearly always the better option over an expensive night out. On this particular Saturday night, I was as sick as a dog. We'd been invited out, but Sara wanted to make an ice cream cake for a party. Which worked out well, because I was hot blooded, check it and see.
I had a fever of 103.

I'd exercised the classy act of shoving tissue up my nose, in order to create a snot perimeter. My stomach was turning over like I'd had an a acrobatic fetus looking to barrel roll it's way out of my butthole.
I made myself a little drink to take the edge off. Some Skol vodka and Nyquil. Mmm Mmm!

So, I lay back down in bed and pop in a season of '24'. If it's going to be a sick night in, I'm going to make myself as comfortable as possible. After about 45 minutes of watching Jack Bauer killing terrorists, I feel like I'm going to let loose the granddaddy of all farts. I contemplate calling in a Hazmat team and evacuating the apartment complex.

Finally I let 'er rip, and I swear by the bushy beard of Oden that I was actually lifted off the bed.

Sara heard the echo. The apartment complex shook a little. Japanese people everywhere recalled the horrors of Hiroshima. Stock in duct tape, bottled water and Twinkies rose without explanation.
From the other room Sara pokes her head in, with a cup of coffee?
"I heard that."

I look left and right, "Heard what?".
Sara walks back to the kitchen while, I notice some moisture in the seat of the pants.
I think to myself, "Yeah right, I'm 28 years old. There's no way I pooped my pants." I shift to the left, and conclude. "Yep, there's some poop in my pants."

There must be a way to discreetly cope with this sort of a situation. I take a quick mental inventory of the collateral damage. I must deduct the fatalities from the wounded and act quickly.

One fatality, two critical but stable. Okay, now I need to move about quickly with every ounce of stealth I'd obtained from watching Jean Claude Van Damme films.
The boxer briefs are a lost cause. They act as ground zero for this disaster, if you will. Luckily there's a plastic Rite Aid bag under the bed, and a bottle of Febreeze on the window ledge. I dive and roll across the room like a police officer taking cover before firing at a perp.

Apparently, I wasn't as covert as intended. Sara pokes her head from around the corner, and questions what in the hell is going on. I shrug like I have no idea what's going on, but Sara doesn't further persist.

The boxer briefs are in the garbage and disposed of, leaving me with sweatpants and a bedsheet. Note: Sweatpants weren't actually "Juicy" brand. The pants were easy to take care of. A nearby box of Kleenex and an empty laundry bin made short work of them. The bedsheets became my white whale. I realized that I'd need a brush to scrub out the minor poo particles. We had just bought new toothbrushes that week. They remained unopened in the cabinet under our bathroom sink. I sneak into the bathroom, and casually grab Sara's pink toothbrush.

After battling the pro's and con's of this decision, I kneel down and grab the bedsheet. The brush gets closer and closer to the bedsheets. My hand trembles, and I stifle a childish giggle. I'm just about to plunge the toothbrush into oblivion when I hear footsteps.

I turn beet red. I felt like I was a 14 year old that had just been busted masturbating to late night Cinemax in the living room. Sara asks, "What the hell are you doing?!"
I have no idea how to respond. Toothbrush still in had. Poop on the bed. I'm red-faced, smelly, and my covert operation had been exposed.
Mentally, I'd expected Sara to transform into some sort of mythical machine of destruction.

I thought her hair would turn into snakes, her head would rotate and she would profusely vomit a pea soup substance. Complete with adamantium claws and nipple lasers. I was surely in for imminent death.
I realized that there was no way out, and plausible deniability was no longer an option.
At this point, I'm pretty sure I shrunk to about 8 years old, oversized in adult clothing. Much like the ending of the movie 'Big' starring Tom Hanks.
With no other option, I bluntly and reluctantly admit, "I pooped the bed."

There's a brief pause. It was probably only 4 or 5 seconds, but I felt like I'd had enough time to pop a baked potato in the oven and play a little X-Box.
Sara narrows her eyes and shrugs.
"Whatever, I'm baking an important cake."

All that work, and she didn't even care. I was so stupid. I cleaned up, passed out, and made the mistake of telling my buddy Dan at work on Monday. Since then, I was dubbed Oops McPoops, and although the fecal matter is long since gone...It's left it's legacy.

1998: Your Milkshake Did Not Bring All The Boys To The Yard.

2010-04-02T18:47:00.003-04:00

The year is 1998, and I'm an even louder, more obnoxious 17 year old little jerk than I am now. People wear Cool Water cologne, listen to Sugar Ray, and have Furby's.
They chat on ICQ, watch Adam Sandler movies, and hide their black, Motorola pagers deep in the pockets of their wide-leg Jnco jeans.
People play Goldeneye 007 for Nintendo 64, and somehow eyebrow piercings aren't yet viewed as tacky. Kids are chatting on ICQ via their dial-up modems, and the Knicks are actually a successful basketball franchise. Douche nozzles are easily identified by wearing upside down, backwards tennis visors and people haven't yet united in a collective hatred of Limp Bizkit or Creed.

I'm the first of my little retard friends to drive, giving me much more responsibility than I really deserve. My mighty vehicle is a poop brown, 1989 Lincoln Continental. It was a frickin' boat. At one point we fit 16 kids in this damn car. Those of you who know me well will attest how much of a spaz I am. Amplify this by 20 as a 17 year old.

So, it's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in the primitive time of 1998, and my friends and I decide to drive to the mall. It's spring time, and all the tops are down on the convertibles, the motorcyclists are out and about, and people everywhere are wearing unnecessarily baggy, short sleeve shirts. (Some of which are actually Austin 3:16 shirts)
Me and 5 of my friends are driving down route 30 in lovely Merrillville, Indiana approaching the Southlake Mall. The car reeks of 5 teenagers wearing too much cologne, and everyone nestles in around all the random shit in my car I opted not to throw out.
The windows are down, we're listening to the Lost Highway Soundtrack, and enjoying the fuck out of our freedom.

Disclaimer: I'm just as wrapped up in 1998 as every other 17 year old. Perhaps ever more so. I'm guilty of the Jnco jeans, Gadzooks button-down shirts, and Mark McGrath haircut/dyejob. I loved my beeper, and even might have at one point enjoyed that "She Likes Me For Me" song by the Blessid Union Of Souls.
But don't you assholes judge me. I'm simply man enough to admit it.
Well, we're driving on this perfect day, and suddenly we come to a red light. This green Jeep pulls next to us in the left lane. These two acne-ridden brothers of virginity are driving, while a couple of girls that look like they sweat trying to eat breakfast in the morning are in the back. The Jeep doesn't have a body kit, but it sure looks like a low-rider.

The guys are twins, and they both look like Napoleon Dynamite washed his face with bacon grease and motor oil every morning. The two girls look like they could be pro wrestlers, under the tag team name The Natural Disasters. One was Earthquake, and one was Typhoon but their separate identities ceased to matter in light of their sheer mass as a unit. They both have really large, white styrofoam cups, full of milkshake. They are just giving those milkshakes the business. Two handed, chubby sausage-like fingers leaving indentations in the cup. I thought that milkshake didn't stand a chance.
Earthquake makes the mistake of smiling and waving to us.

I'm looking straight ahead, talking through my grinding teeth.
"Ignore them."
I'm the most immature kid ever, and I'm going to let this go. Surely my friends will heed my advise not to start a war with an enemy who can pick any of us up over her head, spin us like a pizza and devour us whole, ignoring our pleas of "Don't eat me, I'm a real human boy!"
Nope.
I hear muffled giggling in my backseat followed by a very loud, "Ewwwww!"

My spazzy mind begins to race, and I start to sweat. "Oh no, what if they eat the car?! My parents will be pissed."

The light turns green and I decide to make a run for it. Then I remembered- I drive a 1989 Lincoln. I'm not going much of anywhere very fast.
They catch up, and are at a steady pace on my left. I lean my head out the window to make amends. I don't need any vehicle damage here. I hold my hand up, as we're driving 60 miles an hour side by side. I begin to apologize, when in slow motion Typhoon bites the straw, and pulls it from the cup.
Like a soldier pulling the pin from a grenade.

Then, in slow motion, this gigantic milkshake hovers across a lane of traffic and catches me square in the fucking face.

The milkshake explodes on impact. All over my face, the outside of my car, the inside of my car, my friends. One day when I have kids, they'll feel the impact of the milkshake. I'd been milkshakkaked. I can only assume that they were under the impression that diabetes was contagious. Although, how they actually sacrifice food for the sake of humor blows my mind.

Then, I lose it. My friends are stunned that this Jeep full of abstinent rejection has pulled one over on us. But being 17 years old, full of testosterone, everything turns red and I begin acting on instinct.
The backseat of my car is cluttered. I tried to live in my car at one point. "Give me something!" I scream like a doctor about to lose a dying patient.

I'm handed a hobby horse. His name was Pepe', and we kept him around...Well, I'm not sure why he was there to be honest.
But, my friend sitting shotgun takes the wheel, as I slide 75% of my 110 pound body out of a vehicle now traveing nearly 70 mph.
I take the stick end of the hobby horse and just let loose into the hood of the Jeep.

I beat that car up, like it were Whitney Houston. The car slows down, to try and lose us. But the abstinence advertisement on wheels speeds up to retaliate. Then, I'm handed a bottle of Dep 8 hair gel. Because lets face it 1998- No imitation Sugar Ray haircut will do it's thing without it.
I throw that hairgel about as hard as I can, and it explodes upon impact of the windshield. Jeep swerves left, then right, and bam. Into the center median.
We drive off cheering loudly, way too proud to have gotten the best of a couple if virgins and the Natural Disasters.

Yeah, that just happened.
No shame at all....

1998 was a different time.

Video Game Characters: Life Beyond Game Over

2009-08-28T14:49:00.007-04:00

I invite Link into the room. He quietly closes the door, and sheepishly prances towards the table, while staring down at the floor. Then, he places the keys to his pink Vespa on the table, as I invite him to sit down and begin. No, this isn't the beginning of a gay porno. Link and many other video game characters have agreed to divulge the ups and downs of life after infamy. The prosperous and the painful, all to be documented here, as an exclusive.
We all remember Link as the heroic avenger in 'Legend Of Zelda'.

Link courageously battled his way through multiple gauntlets, collected Rupees, and ultimately defeated the evil Gannon. After obtaining the mystical triforce, and saving the Princess, life took multiple twists and turns for Link.

"That silly bitch got kidnapped every other week." he recalls with a prominent lisp and limp wristed expression. "Finally, we settled down to start a family...We never actually had sexual intercourse. The sex education in Hyrule was just awful. I was under the impression she's be impregnated by a firm handshake or a pleasant stork. Then, she'd poop out a child." He later confided to me by referring to Zelda's vagina as, "A cavernous abyss, which smelled like a garbage bag full of dead fish on the sidewalk during a hot summers day." Finally, Zelda was impregnated. At this point, in the interview Link begins to softly weep. He struggles to explain the story which unfolded in Hyrule Hospital.

"When the doctor said it was a boy, I was so excited" How so?, I ask "I went into song- Surprise, surprise, puppy surprise. How many puppies are there inside?" That excitement turned into life altering bitterness after Link laid eyes on his son. "Wasn't mine." he directly stated. "I told her she was a frickin' whore! I saved that stubble cooched whore from Gannon too many times for her to turn around and let King Hippo blow his load inside her yeast infected box."

Link would move out of Hyrule, and into San Francisco. Fascinated by hipster culture, Link began to frequently see live concerts. "I listen to Passion Pit, Panic At The Disco, Menomena, Fall Out Boy and other stuff that dykes and fags enjoy...I wanted to be part of the scene." In the middle of Lilith Fair, Link got into a verbal spat with a group of lesbians.

"They did. They stole it. I've had this fabulous haircut since 1987. That's when I decided that all women were icky, and I wanted nothing more to do with their pap smears, girl vaginas and scented douches." Link became a gay rights advocate, and was romantically linked to Don Flaminco for a number of years. These days, Link is the manager of a downtown Dairy Queen in San Francisco.

"It's faaaabulous!" He exclaims while placing his hand on his hip, and looking off into the distance. "I AM the Dairy Queen. I hope Princess Zelda rots in hell" after receiving the news she'd yet again been kidnapped by Gannon. "I hope he fucks that stupid bitch was a gasoline soaked cactus." Suffice to say, there aren't enough Rupees in the world to initiate another rescue mission. ""I already have the triforce. I wake up every morning with my skidmarks smeared on the front on another sexy man's underwear. What else could Link the Tink ever ask for?"

The story of Mega Man is a depressing one.

After battling the demented Dr. Wily a number of times, Mega Man finally realized what he was missing in his life. True love. Unfortunately, the laws of love do not coincide with the laws of sexual consent. A journal found by police in a South American hotel read. "I just....I don't know. Noboby knows what it's like when a robot boner rages out of control. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, with my sheets damp with motor oil and hydro fluid. Doused in my own shame." This sexual confusion eventually lead to a forbidden love. After watching the TV show 'Small Wonder', Mega Man became infatuated with the young, adolescent robot girl, Vicky.

They met, and immediately fell into a forbidden love for the ages.

The journal goes on to read, "She was so aesthetically pleasing. Call it whatever you will, but I call it true love." Unfortunately, the state of California called it Amber Alert. Mega Man abducted Vicky, then falsified documents creating a legal marriage. After 3 weeks of a Bonny & Clyde inspired adventure evading authorities, Vicky broke it off with Mega Man. Mega Man continued his life on the run, encountering a whole new plethora of bosses.

The final exert in Mega Man's journal read- "I need another girlfriend about as bad as America needs another Red Hot Chili Peppers song about California."
Both of their whereabouts are unknown at this time...

My next interview was with a small, three legged red alien. His name was Toe Jam, and you may remember him from 'Toe Jam & Earl'.

These two natives from the planet Funkotron, crashed their space ship, and struggled to find the scattered components necessary to fly home. Toe Jam slowly walked in, with a defined urban swagger. I greeted him, and he sat down. "What happened with Earl?", I enquire. At that point in time, Toe Jam hocked a loogie and spat on the floor, animating disgust towards his former friend. "That motherfucker is dead to me, dawg." Toe Jam goes on to explain the specific deviancy which lead to their separation.

"Sheeeeeeeit, after we got back to Funkotron, that fat bitch got into some freaky shit." Toe Jam continued to describe Earl's crazy sex parties involving underaged teenagers. "I'm a thug. But I ain't into that shit, yo. I dipped outta Funkotron, and moved to the west coast to meet up with my homies." Toe Jam was then introduced as the newest artist with Death Row Records.

Toe Jam released his major label debut in 1994, featuring the single "My Third Leg Ain't My Dick" The single did not receive much mainstream airplay, but was praised widely among members of The Bloods. Toe Jam left Death Row Records with the blessing of good friend Suge Knight, to pursue other projects. After being out of the public eye for over 10 years, Toe Jam resurfaced breakdancing at a shopping mall.

Unfortunately, a small child had gotten away from her negligent, useless parents and Toe Jam accidentally kicked the baby in the face. "Fuck that punk bitch baby! That whore got dealt with." The video became a youtube sensation, and Toe Jam was thrusted back into the mainstream.
In a nasty incident, Toe Jam auditioned for American Idol. Having snuck a weapon into the audition, he fired twice directly into the face of Paula Abdul.

"Turned out to be no big thing", Toe Jam explained. "They just built a robot out of popsicle sticks and wax. Nobody even fucking noticed." No charges were filed, and viewers seemed much more fond of the robotic Paula, anyway.

Earl's story is much more disturbing. He wasn't able to be reached for comment, nor is he up for parole for another 9 years. However, police records were obtained explaining his descent into a sick perverted underworld. After Toe Jam left, Earl opened up a bicycle shop. Two boys, Arnold and his friend Dudley frequently visited. Without understanding Earl's perverse intentions, the boys allowed Earl to serve them wine, watch x-rated cartoons, and eat delicious pies.

Finally, Arnold told his father, Mr. Drummond and he alerted the police. Subsequently, the police raided Earl's Bicycle Shop, finding a bevy of child pornography hidden away in the back room. They also found a rusted van around the side of the shop. The contents of the van included Skittles, Pokemon cards, Fruit Roll-Ups, and a torn and tattered pair of Alvin & The Chipmunks footy pajamas. Earl stood trial, and was sent to a maximum security intergalactic sex offender prison.

Earl was reported to tell a prison guard, "I like my sexual partners like I like my donuts- Day old and glazed."

These knuckleheads should have listened to Wilford Brimley's diabetes supply advice.

You could probably beat them in a foot race. You could also be a huge dick, and buy them socks for Christmas.

Little Mac was the 17 year old, 100 pound boxing phenomenon featured in 'Mike Tyson's Punchout'.

Starting from Glass Joe and going all the way to Mike Tyson, Little Mac quickly found himself on top of the world. "A lot of the credit belongs to Doc. Everytime I was beat up, he'd rub my shoulders and my health vastly improved. Then, he'd steal my bike and wouldn't give it back until I bought him a grape soda and some fried chicken. They were intense work outs." Of course, he's referring to Doc Lewis, Mac's longtime manager. "When Doc left, I just wasn't the same.", Mac recalls.

Doc went on to a successful acting career. He was most well known in his portrayal of Carl Winslow from the TV sitcom 'Family Matters'.

Shortly after his departure, Mac lost his championship title to an upstart young brawler from the early 90's named Norman Poophouse. "That guy was an animal. He came to the ring wearing slap bracelets, light-up sneakers and a fanny pack. I took him for granted."

Little Mac was knocked out in round 2. "It was fun while it lasted. But, my retirement gave me the leisure time necessary to collect Star Wars paraphernalia, and buy myself a race car bed." Mac's reign as champion was short, but sweet. Little Mac, now 36 years old still resides in his parents house.

"Move out? Are you kidding me?!" Mac exclaims. "My mom cuts the crust off my grilled cheese sandwiches, and I drive a Chrysler Lebarron! With a tape player! I'm a team leader at Target, and I drink water from a Brita purifier. Life is pretty gosh darned good."

Other fighters from the circuit managed to find notoriety after boxing.

Super Macho Man, the tanned bodybuilder known for his dancing boobs was arrested in a Jewel/Osco supermarket. In the midst of a steroid fueled rage, he assaulted a downs syndrome ridden employee with a box of Count Chocula. Eventually he was tasered and taken into custody, charged with assault.

In an embarrassing twist, his nipples exploded with breast milk during the apprehension. Police found anabolic steroids, testosterone, horse tranquilizers, and a box of stolen enemas in his vehicle. His probation ends within the year, and reports claim he intends on having intercourse with your mother. Yes, your mother.

Another fighter, Soda Popinski found moderate success as a host on Russian CNN, broadcasted specifically towards Soviet nationalists.

His notoriously racist commentary has made him popular amongst religious fanatics, Neo-Nazis, Soviets, and alcoholics.

When asked his opinion about religion and premarital sex, Soda claimed "God doesn't mind a little anal." These remarks lead to an increase in Russian girls walking bowl legged down the hallways, and a decrease in national bean prices.
His characteristic bottle of soda on-air, has become his trademark. He also builds miniature penguins from cat feces, and hurls them at his executive producer to key the end of the show.

My next interview was with a man named Axel Stone. Axel arrived 2 hours late, eating a box of Burger King cheesy tots. He smacked me on the shoulder, then spun the chair around, sitting down in a manner similar to how Zack Morris would sit at The Max. He'd lost most of his hair, and grown a goatee. The man did not age well. Axel, Blaze and Adam fought the forces of Mr. X, in order to bring peace and justice back to the city. They were featured in the game 'Streets Of Rage'.

After defeating Mr. X, Axel and Blaze engaged in a 2 year courtship before finally tying the knot.

So, what happened with Blaze?, I ask. "Oh man", he initially responds. "All went downhill after we got fucking hitched, broseph." Police records show multiple domestic dispute complaints. The final incident occurring during the pregnancy of their second child. "I was all fucked up, dude. Allll fucked up. Weed, peyote, booze, pills. And that damn broad was going on and on about her stupid fucking water breaking or some dumb shit....So I tried to roundhouse kick her face off."

This final straw lead to a separation between Axel and Blaze. Also fueling Axel's deep descent into hard narcotics. "Man, I'd do anything for a fix, bro." Axel reminisces. "I bare knuckle uppercutted an old fucking slut buying cake decorations in a craft store. Just for some heroin, and a Charleston Chew." Axel recalls hitting rock bottom, shortly after.

"I always thought Zangief was some bear fucking, fruit loop." This perception was amplified during a drug binge outside a Pizza Hut in central Idaho. "That motherfucker sold me 2 grams of heroin. In exchange I had to lube up a mitten and give him a handjob."
Axel had officially hit rock bottom.
"I went to rehab. I see my kids twice a month, and I went back to fucking college! I'm a Goddamn gym teacher at a middle school. Dodgeball Thursdays, I don't have students, I have targets."

Axel Stone was promptly fired days after our interview was made public. At which point he told his boss "Reverse the Sassmouth Express back into Silent Station."

As for Blaze, she became an exotic dancer at a club named The Hairy Triforce. After Axel, she met up with an old enemy of the Streets Of Rage posse.
Donovan-

Blaze and Donovan are still married to this day, and planning to start a family of their own. Blaze denied our request for an interview, but did respond to a question regarding Axel.

"Being married to that guy was more irritating than having to listen to Gilbert Gottfried fuck Fran Drescher in her unlubricated butthole."

The final tale is a sad story of tragedy. 'Super Mario Brothers' featured painfully stereotypical Italians, Mario and Luigi.

Their goal was to rescue the Princess from the clutches of serial rapist, Bowser. They collected coins, ate mushrooms, threw fireballs, and traveled discreetly through pipes. After finally defeating Bowser, the trio of Mario, Luigi and the Princess lived in virtual utopia within the welcoming confines of Princess Peach's castle. One fateful day, Princess announced that she was with child. Everyone simply assumed her and Mario had finally conceived.

The controversy surrounding the pregnancy unlocked Pandora's box. Box, not being used as a euphemism for Peach's moldy, half eaten Hot Pocket-esq vag-jayjay. After the child's birth, Maury Povich was consulted in order to perform a DNA test. A gaggle of prospective fathers were featured on the show. Yoshi, Goomba, Koopa Troopa, Toad, Boo, A Boy & His Blob, E. Honda, Mario and Luigi all supplied their DNA for testing.

The mystery of Princess's child was enough to cause a split between the brothers. Luigi moved out of the castle, and back in with his mother. In doing so, he vowed never to speak to Mario again. After abusing the old woman physically and verbally, she had no other option but to kick Luigi out.

It was a very quiet Mother's Day.
This final betrayal from his family directly caused Luigi to slide into a deep depression. He began posting emo poetry on xanga, and cried furiously while he masturbated with his penis to suicidegirls. After becoming heavily involved with the goth/emo counter-culture, Luigi formed a band alongside Simon Beaumont, Earthworm Jim, Paperboy and Sonya Blade.

They called themselves The Kinetic Dildo, playing a dark, depressing brand of synth/glam rock with a gothic twist. The androgynous band was inspired by Bauhaus, Placebo, and The Cure. The primary differences being, that The Kinetic Dildo sucked really bad. After briefly opening up for Deadsy, the band hit a rough patch. Paperboy later leaked to the press that Luigi had become a megalomaniacal monster. Paperboy also disclosed his own personal regiment of drawing a face on his penis before bed, and singing Papa Roach singles with it. Sonya Blade left the band to create a performance art piece based on the Nightmare Before Christmas. Shortly after, Earthworm Jim was found dead in an apparent auto-erotic asphyxiation. The band went on indefinite hiatus, and Luigi disappeared completely, not heard from since.

Mario went down a much different path. A world wide celebrity, Mario opted to run for public office. His celebrity status and passionate political speeches were the groundwork for an ambitious career. After a term as Senator from Illinois, Mario officially announced his decision to run for President of The United States of America. His platform of change during an economic recession was viewed as welcome alteration in regime. His supporters included people with absolutely no realistic political knowledge combined with those with even less ability to analyze economic patterns.

Mario was soon selected as the Democratic nominee for President. He later went on to win the election in November, and become America's first filthy, pasta eating, greaseball, calzone fornicating Italian President. During his Presidency, Mario encountered a great deal of economic, political and international pressure. His Presidency was clouded in controversy. Hurricane Katrina devistated New Orleans, and during a live televised benefit concert, one of Mario's harshest critics spoke up, much to the chagrin of Mike Myers.

This effictively began a fued between President Mario and Sonic The Hedgehog.

Mario disregarded the feud in the press, but Sonic continued to speak out against President Mario's character and international relations. Sonic the Hedgehog had openly questioned the President's integrity in a series of quasi-artistic rap songs, and mainstream interviews. Controversy forced Mario to assemble his Cabinet and explain new policies in a State of the Union address. Vice President Guile, Secretary of State Peppy Hare, and Secretary of Defense Kirby were all instrumental in creating a rapport between the President and middle class America.

The American public began to understand the difficult decisions encountered between fiscal policy and homeland security.
In a day which will live on in infamy, Mario and friends went to Ford's Theatre to see an opera. At 3 minutes during the second intermission, Sonic the Hedgehog climbed into Mario's balcony seat.

Sonic delivered one shot, point blank into Mario's skull. The President succumbed to death shortly after, and Sonic The Hedgehog had successfully assassinated the acting President Of The United States. A plot to assassinate Vice President Guile was foiled, and a manhunt began to capture Sonic. Sonic leapt down to the stage, instantly breaking his leg. The normally speedy hedgehog known for holding up to 99 golden rings, though he had no pockets has been hindered. He escaped the initial pursuit, before leading police on a low-speed chase in his white Ford Bronco. His intent to visit his girlfriend, and use the computer. After arriving, and with police preparing to move in, Sonic sent out a myspace bulletin, because he was a gigantic faggot.

After sending this bulletin on myspace, Sonic the Hedgehog went up to his Seattle attic, met with his girlfriend Courtney Love, wrote a faggy depressive haiku, and finally committed suicide.

I'm already well aware that I didn't mention everyone. Too bad. However, I have included a final breifing a few other characters that deserved some degree of update.

Oh, boo-hoo. Yoshi sucked, anyways.

Also, to all of you must be wondering, "Who the hell is Norman Poophouse?!" The answer is simple- He's like Jesus, but if you tried to crucify him, he'd punch your mother in her stupid, flabby tits. Norman likes kittens, long walks on the beach, cocaine, and Pogs. He hates police officers, Jnco's, and the way Danny DeVito waddles. He was conceived in a tool shed, loves Rush, and his mother has a happy trail.

How To Escape Jury Duty

2009-05-11T15:40:00.001-04:00

Nothing in the world makes me cringe more than the long walk back from the mailbox. This specific walk in particular, while staring at the "Jury Summons" envelope with my name on it. I still remember angrily squeezing the envelope so tight that the paper warped from the moisture of my hands.
"Fuck", I exclaim while slamming it down in the kitchen counter. My cat jumping at the sound, giving me a look as if to say "Chill out, doucher."
Further inspection of the notice prompts even more anger. It informs me, that I’m due at the courthouse in Hammond, Indiana by 8 AM. At the time, I was working the midnight shift for the railroad. 8PM-8AM. Meaning, that I actually have to leave work early and go straight to the courthouse. I come to terms with the situation, and proceed to conjure up a scheme. I'm bitter towards the judicial system. I'd punch Judge Judy in the face if given the opportunity.
Instead, they provide me with a survey to fill out. I'm pissed off, and not taking a cerebral approach to avoiding this. I find a big red crayon, and begin the operation to display myself as a complete inbred bumblefuck.

It was actually cathartic. I assume that they can't select me if I voice complete and utter distain for the government. A small amount of confidence builds, and I start to believe that I might just fingerpop the system.
Finally, the day comes. The night at work wasn't particularly a busy one. I spent most of the night in a forklift, stacking 53 foot chassis in a filthy gravel lot. 6 AM comes along, and it's time to escape. I should go home, shower, shave and put on some queer sweater and attempt to convey the slightest degree of responsibility.
No, that's okay. I decide to go as is, projecting my displeasure of this out of date concept in selecting jurors. Similar to some sort of loser strike. The initial bitterness has returned on a morning where I'd much rather go home, catch some sleep and watch the Cubs game when I awake. I use this to rationalize going to a government building reeking of axel grease, diesel fuel, cigarettes and an amalgamation of body odor and stale deodorant.

I mentally replay my strategy. I decide to put the cherry on top of the sundae, when I roll around in the gravel pit. I smear dirt and grease on my face, as if I'm an Indian chief leading my people into battle. In a rhetorical way, I feel that I am.

I walk in the building amongst a slew of dirty looks. I feel like a homeless man at a Hollywood benefit dinner. At this point, I've also concluded that I will speak in an over-the-top Southern accent. I discover the Confederate flag bandana I barrowed from the legitimately inbred fellow at work. "This will come in handy." I decide.

I arrive in the room, all too reminiscent of high school. Scattered with little desks, a TV in the corner and the podium at the head of the room. I sit down and pass out instantly, ignoring the good-natured conversation from people around me trying to make the best of a bad situation.
After 2 hours of waiting, some fat whore with a moustache shows us the shittiest video ever produced throughout the history of the cosmos. This video depicts jury duty as a 'fun' and 'interesting' process. I giggle incessantly throughout the cheesy interviews and 1990's Saved By The Bell-esq graphics. I catch a dirty look from nearly every direction during this.
"Shh!" Someone says towards me.
I turn around and calmly state, "Be quiet, adults are speaking."
After another 2 hours go by, we finally get shuttled into the courtroom. I'm virtually asleep, next to a younger girl and an older sex-offender looking dude named Vlad. He looks like his daughter should be named 'Amber' after the alert that marked her conception.

I couldn't recall what the girl actually looked like, so my lovely girlfriend Sara will stand in for the sake of art. Consciousness during the process comes and goes until I finally hear my name called.
I may or may not have walked to the jury box with a morning erection. Don’t judge.
I sit down, rub my hands together, and put the Confederate flag bandana on. I see angry faces glaring at me. The room is a melting pot of whites, blacks and Mexicans. I search frantically for a ‘Git R Done’ t-shirt or some flannel, in hopes an actually hillbilly would support me. The slightest bit of embarrassment actually arises.

A reminder, I used a heavy Southern accent during the questioning. The best way I can describe it would be like Boomhower from 'King Of The Hill' or 'The Squidbillies'.
The attorney asks me what my name is.
"A-Rack Fawster."
Where do you live, and for how long?
"Uh, dang ole’ Crohn Point, Ind-Jana. Nan-teen yurs, I reckon."

Have you ever been convicted of a felony?
".....Er......Nuh-Uh!....."
What newspapers of magazines do you subscribe to?
"Well...Ah reckon, Ah get the NRA Weekly, High Times, Spurts Illu-stray-ted, Tahme."
Time? Time Magazine?
"Yeah, Tahme. Aaaand. Oh yeah, that dang ole' Playboy."

The guy next to me, Vlad laughs. His laughter audibly projects through my microphone. I pull the mic closer to me, nearly putting it into my mouth for effect.
"This feller knows wut ah'm talkin' 'bout."
I reach my hand in the air for a high five, but he shakes his head to indicate no. I visually survey the courtroom. The attorney is laughing. The jury box is filled with people's faces buried in their hands. I scan through the smirks, hear giggling, and see people shaking their heads in rejection.

I feel awesome. At this point, I feel that I've convinced the judge and attorney's that I'm a complete hillbilly. I mentally picture them profiling me driving a ridiculously sized Ford truck. Complete with naked chick mud flaps and novelty ballsack dangling from the trailer hitch. Confederate flag waving in the breeze, with "RUSTY" decaled in duct tape across my windshield. Listening to "Freebird" loudly on blown speakers and screaming "THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN!" at under aged high school students, while pointing at my genitals. I’d been conceived at my own family reunion, under a picnic table. Brown jugs of moonshine labeled ‘XXX’ scattered across the floor of my trailer. Kool-Aid stains on my favorite wife-beater. Wearing dolphin swim-trunks amongst my outfit including a scruffy beard, and unwashed hair hidden by a Dale Earnhardt Jr. hat. An unhealthy obsession with Ted Nugent, corn dogs, and a yard with a sandbox and swing set, even though I don’t have any kids.
Then I make direct eye contact with the judge. Suddenly, he's a lot more intimidating than I'd initially perceived. I remember mentally referring to him as Judge Fivehead, due to his freak of nature gigantic forehead. I remember seeing the bright lights of the court, and the bailiff’s reflection in his shiny dome. He reminded me of Henry Rollins, with a gigantic neck and those perennially pissed off eyebrows. One of those dudes who punches a hole in the wall with his left hand, while jerking off with the right.

He silences the courtroom, and calls the counsel over. TV static consumes the courtroom as they converse. The judge begins waving his arms around emphatically. Suddenly, the static used to drown out the court ends. A few brief whispers escape, after the noise distortion ceases. I love it when that happens.

Judge Fivehead looks at me. Narrows his eyes, and curls his lip.
"Mr. Foster, please come here."
I stand up, and shuffle past the jury box. The TV static comes back over the courts speaker system. I'm walking slowly, as he gestures at me with his pointer finger.
"I believe you are intentionally trying to evade jury duty."
"Nuh-uh!!!!" I say, as I slam my hand down on bench.
Judge Fivehead begins to sweat. He starts screaming and flailing his arms around like a monkey about to hurl it’s own feces.
"IT IS YOUR DUTY AS AN INDIANA RESIDENT TO BE TRUTHFU-"
"Yew listen here, Judge!", I interrupt him.
"Ah am an 'Merican! If that thur colored Huxtable sold some cocaine, ah want heem t' go to jail just as bad as yew dew! Ah tell you hwut."

I feel my face flush. I realize that the jig is up. Judge Fivehead goes off on a 2 minute tangent in front of the entire court. Tells me that I'm what's wrong with the country, and that I should be ashamed. Tells me about how it’s my duty as a citizen, and that I owe my country. I honestly tone him out, and envision his reaction had I gone with the plan I’d originally orchestrated.

A KKK Grand Dragon with a handful of synthetic toddler dicks, and the freshly severed head of Tila Tequila. THAT would have been out of line. (Other than the decapitation of Tila Tequila. That seems perfectly reasonable.)

A top-hat, monocle, Hitler moustache, sporting a novelty cat t-shirt and a jar of my own urine. Holding a plethora of deviant porno movies, with a balloon and a cockatiel named Osama Bin Jesus on my shoulder. THAT would have been out of line.
Judge Fivehead clearly states that another outburst will result in being held in contempt, and placed under immediate arrest. A little self realization occurs, and I envision myself being used as currency in jail.

I imagine myself being sold to a Suge Knight look-alike for a pack of Newports, a spork, and a weeks worth of fruit cups from the cafeteria. No thanks, I conclude. I can't afford the "Exit Only" tattoo on each respective butt cheek necessary to survive in prison.
"ONE MORE WORD, FOSTER! ONE MORE WORD." Judge Fivehead reiterates.
I put my hands in my pockets, and shamefully walk back to my seat, with my head hanging in excessive shame. I’m more terrified than if I were about to receive a vasectomy from Michael J. Fox.

I whisper to the girl next to me, before the TV static comes to an end over the courtroom. She looks at me with the utmost rejection. Another reason Sara fit this part so well.
The attorneys meet with the judge, and finally the judge tells me that I'm excused. He says this while slamming his fist down in a very animated manner. This almost makes me laugh. Judge Fivehead glares at me as I leave the courtroom. I can see the moisture on his shiny skull. A single bead of sweat runs down his temple. The vein in his necks builds and pulsates.
I'm fairly confident that he beat the shit out of his wife upon his arrival home.

Topping off the domestic assault with a flying elbow drop from the top of the couch. A prominent "OH YEAH!" bellowed through the air as an homage to the Macho Man Randy Savage.
In conclusion, you don't have to serve in a jury. Claim that you disagree with the judicial system, you don't trust police, and that God's justice upon death is more than enough.
There's no need to pretend to be racist. They see it so much, and it's just not believable in this day in age. It's 2009, why would anyone actually be racist, sexist, or homophobic?! It simply doesn't make any sense.
That being said, I saw this etched into the bathroom tile at Moores Bar in Greencastle, Indiana.

Crying Burns Calories.

2009-05-06T12:37:00.000-04:00

In my early twenties, I was subjected to the horrors of working in retail. I worked at Hobby Lobby. For those of you who don't know, this is a craft store frequently visited by old cake decorating sluts, red-hat society skanks, and stoned college kids looking for glitter and model glue.

Many times, people would approach me on the salesfloor. We were required to wear blue work vests with "Hobby Lobby" in bold white lettering, clearly stitched on the front. These people say "Excuse me" as I follow their eyes staring down, directly at my goofy nametag.
"Do you work here?"
Seriously? Really, now? No, I don't work here. I'm wearing this tacky blue Hobby Lobby vest alongside this Hobby Lobby name-tag as a pathetic attempt to meet chicks.
Do out of work referees just hang out inside of Foot Lockers?
There must be some logic behind such confusion.
Circumstances such as these were a dime a dozen.
All in all, I was good at biting my tongue and took pride in my awful job.

One evening, while getting ready to close the store I heard giggling traveling up and down adjacent aisles. The giggling is androgynous in nature.
Not too high, not too deep. But they're definitely stomping around. I was fairly confident that a convoy of linebackers had been somewhere in the general vicinity.

Suddenly, I come across what I believe to be a manatee in low-rise jeans, and the ever so enigmatic Bigfoot devouring a slide of pizza.
I try and sweep past them without being pulled into orbit. "Excuse me", I politely say.

I stand there waiting for them to move, while they look me dead in the eyes.
"Sorry to bother you, just need to sneak through here."

"Are you here to sweep us off our feet?"
I shake my head in rejection, while involuntarily getting an eyeful. The Bigfoot was literally wearing Apple Bottom Jeans. And the boots with the fur. Seriously, I'm not kidding. Her black tank top reminded me of a lunar eclipse, while her arm-fat jiggled all the way down to her felonious muffin-toppage while sweating and struggling to eat a slice of pizza. (Which she spit all over the place during her oh-so smooth pick-up line.)
The manatee wasn't quite as big. However the difference between 350 and 300 can be made up quickly. This one was wearing bleached, low rise jeans, with a white, glittery "Angel" t-shirt. The astounding aspect of this specimen, was the fact that she managed to cameltoe the shit out of a pair of jeans. Not to mention, her fupa was nearly bumping into me, like an umpire and an angry manager disputing a call at first base.

I actually question whether or not my friends had recruited a couple fat chicks to play a joke on me.
While giggling, the manatee repeats her friends question:
"Are you here to sweep us off our feet?"
Without thought, I respond: "No, I'd need a much larger broom"

Suddenly, Bigfoot sprints back to the forest. Leaving behind a trail of tears and sweat. She kicks the broom on her way past me. Between the wind resistance, the momentum of the broomstick, and sheer fright, I drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
"Oh God, don't eat me I'm a real human person!" I silently pray before I hit the unforgiving floor.
Before having the chance to make it back to my feet, I see the manatee standing over me. She's staring at me like she's about to pick me up over her head and spin me around like a pizza.
"You made my friend cry!!!" she screams in a voice not unlike James Earl Jones.
"Crying burns calories", I reply. Yet again, without thought. Go figure.

She shakes her head back and forth. She steps towards me. I flashback to my childhood memories, and relize she's obtained the power of Hulkamania. I'm about to meet my demise.

When the Hulksters coming down and it hurts inside? Screw that, I'm getting the fuck out of here. I stand up, create a strategic obstacle course of debris. She begins to give chase. I'm not prepared for Peter vs. Goliath round 2.

A football helmet, a broomstick, and a garbage can lid wouldn't have been enough.
So, I do the only thing applicable at that specific time. I ran like hell.
I was spinning tackles, stiff-arming customers, jumping over shopping carts. I was not about to lose a fight to something that would only be on Maury next week, explaining how none of the 12 men onstage were the baby's daddy.

Of course, she told the manager. I explained how her fupa had caused all the ruckus, and that I'd saved an insurance claim.
After telling my friends, they'd told me to stand and fight. That I'd been a pussy for running away. I began training the next week. Lifting weights, boxing, running.
Things will be different next time, manatee.
I know your weakness.

Real Life Human Torch.

2009-05-02T00:19:00.000-04:00

In the past, my friends have described me as a weirdo. When I say 'past', I really mean...Well, to this day. Not so much in a creepy, black trenchcoat mafia kind of way, but more along the lines of a Star Wars obsessed creep who blushes and stutters in the presence of the opposite sex.
Back when I was a young adult, I moved out. I was young, rebellious and dating a girl on a college campus with a bit of inherited money. This allowed me to pursue my career as a musician, and essentially obtain a sugar momma before I was even old enough to buy a beer.

The house was adorable. A quaint yellow house that had seen better days. However, emitting an undefined charm perhaps produced by the magic of being the first place I've ever lived in away from home.
She was a nice girl, and her intentions couldn't have been any better. One day, I'd finished up with band practice early. I rushed home to sit down on her computer and post on hipster message boards, ranting and raving about Coheed & Cambria, Minus The Bear and Poison The Well, which were the prominant bands of discussion at the time.

I hear a soft sobbing approaching the door. It bursts open, and the wind blows my hair into my eyes. She's screaming as if she's being raped with a rotating cactus, lubed with rubbing alcohol.

Her arms flailing around like a whirlin' dervish while tears decorate the walls like a salty sprinkler. I reluctantly remove myself from the internet, and inquire about the water works.
Sniffling and sobbing between words I could barely understand, she explaied that mere hours ago, her grandmother doused herself in gasoline, and set herself ablaze.

"...Really?" I ask in disbelief.
"Yuh-Yuh-Yeah...Sh-Sh-She burned to death."

Now, you'll understand why I'm weird. According to my socialogical research, people in my situation are supposed to show compassion and console the distrought individual. A hug, a pat on the back, even a cheesy reference pertaining to going to a better place.
First, I question the whole ordeal. Why would someone kill themselves in such a slow, methodic and painful manner? What a freaking stupid way to die.
If I planned on suicide, a fiery blaze would be somewhere on the list, below drowining in rancid mayonaise and choking on my own dick.

It gets much worse from here. In my youth, I had trouble holding back verbally speaking what images and thoughts which went through my head.
I stand up cheefully, and proudly recall-

"The Human Torch WAS the coolest member of the Fantastic Four."

The akward pause was interupted by the sound of her jaw hitting the floor. I guess comic book references in a time of mourning aren't cool. It was a day of personal discovery!
This was sort of ironic, based on her reaction. Unknown to me, pissed off women have the phsyical ability to morph into the Tazmanian Devil when angry.

Our cute little home is annihilated as she spins around, hurling anything within reach about the living room. Two thoughts come to mind at this point-
1. The Cubs could use another good arm in their bullpen.
2. You mess up the living room, you clean up the living room. Whore.
This amuses me. The situation dictates that I do not laugh...I realize this.
But ever so slightly, EVER SO SLIGHTLY my mouth curls in an upward manner.
Because everyone knows The Thing was way cooler than the Human Torch.
Of course she notices. I'm far too unlucky to get away with that.

Suddenly, this turns into a bar fight. A broken bottle and a death-stare lead me to believe that I'll be picking pieces of glass from my scrotum until the ambulance shows up.
I begin to panic, and conjure up a mental estimation of the closest doors and windows I may use as an escape from before she gets stabby.
She steps towards me. Once. Probably for nothing more than to force me into an apology.
I panic and pee a just a little. I realize that I'd better pull a rabbit out of my hat.

All this does, is buy me a brief moment in shock value, allowing me to escape with my own penis not hot-glued to my forehead.

After sleeping on the couch for a week, everything was resolved when I finally apologized.
Shortly after, someone knocks on the door early in the morning waking us up.
She yawns and stretches, then looks at me and says "Bee are bee."
I pause, and consider the practicalityof this. "Be right back" is only 3 syllables. As is "bee are bee."
No time nor effort is saved in this useless internet based abbreviation. There's no logical use for such in a real life capacity. This results in me packing up my stuff and moving back home.
I would have rather lived in my parents basement than endure internet lingo in real life.
Many years later, I feel the exact same way.

How About A Handshake?

2009-05-01T00:28:00.000-04:00

I was seeing this chick for a little while. She ends up asking me, "Hey, I need you to pick me up from ball-room dance practice. Be there at 6."
"Okay."

I show up. At 5:45. Because I'm punctual like that. Waiting,waiting, waiting. Damn, I really need to pee. But I'm in the parking lot of this fancy shmancy place that I obviously don't belong. So, I just can't wonder around and pee in a shrub. I'm patient. I'll wait...5 minutes. 10 minutes. 25 minutes. Oh God, the patience was fictional. But the urinary rage built up in my weiner is all too real.
"Snap out of it Foster!", I tell myself.
It's time for action! Not piss induced whining of a yeast infected degree! Red team, go!

So, I search the parking lot. There are people in cars, but no one looking directly at me. "Sweet." I find an empty 24 oz Speedway cup of coffee wedged between my passenger seat and emergency break. After realizing that my life has been reduced to urinating in an old coffee cup in the parking lot of a dance hall, I briefly feel as if my life hadn't turned out the way I'd planned.
Then, I realize: Wait, I'm Eric Foster. I'm never going to be a musician ever again. For the most part, I'm pretty washed up. This really IS the chronological order of how things are supposed to unfold from here
So, I begin to pee in the cup.
Warning: The actual size of my penis may or may not be exaggerated by numerous feet/inches.

Either way, everything is going as planned. Just have to pee in the cup. Not a complicated procedure.
Suddenly, everything goes South.
Not 'stars and bars' forever, kind of South.
Intercourse in a tool shed after smoking poorly cultivated marijuana at a Charlie Daniels cover band concert at the County Fair kind of South.
I don't know exactly HOW or WHAT a human male needs to drink in order to urinate over 24 ounces....But, somehow I found a way...
There are dudes reading this, right? You guys know about 'the pinch'. The pinch' has been used by men since the stone age. Everytime we need to pee, and can't. We just grab the dink, and give it the ole' pinch-a-roo.

As common of a practice as that was, I tried it. However, I was disappointed to discover that apparantly, my D was suddenly immune to the pinch.

This resulted in a powerful blast of urine projected onto:
a) My steering wheel. (Which is helpful in guiding my vehicle to it's destinations)
b) My stereo (Which provides me with funky jams, beats, and/or rythems)
c) My hand (Of VITAL importance. Seriously, vital.)
Like a garden hose on full blast, waving around the lawn. But, I'm tenacious as well as resourceful. I also like eating at Wendy's. Thus, in my center counsil of my car, I had some napkins. Napkins of salvation, if you will...

So, I quickly, wipe down everything.
"Oh God, she'll be here soon!", I say to myself with a handful of wang, and another handful of saturated, piss drenched napkins used to wipe up the liquid humiliation which will result in years and years of involentary abstinence.
I see people exiting. So, I put little Mario back in the castle as quickly as I can, and stuff the napkins right back in the center counsil alongside a pack of Newports, and some At The Drive-In CD's. The coffee cup full of pee goes out the window, in the bed of someone's black Dodge Ram. Surprise! You win the raffle, you truck driving faggot!
Thinking quickly, I grab the Axe body spray (like I had it holstered on my belt) and hose down the wheel, stereo, and whatever else I could before she opened the door.

(I love this picture, because it looks like I'm picking up a prostitute.)
"HELLO! HOW ARE YOU, THIS FINE EVENING?!" I shout, as if she's deaf, retarded, and just consumed a condom full of heroin.
"Okay!", she responds. "Thanks for picking me up....It smells good in here!"
I mentally pump my arm like Kirk Gibson rounding second base in the 1988 World Series.
"Thanks, I put a new air freshener in here."
"I like it."
Suddenly, I feel more more clever than I really am.
I take her back to my place. We watch some movies, drink some booze, yada yada.
The next morning, we hop in the ole' Mustang.
After a preliminary sniff, I remain confident in getting away with the perfect crime. I begin to mentally boast a tad. I might be the most clever person, ever, I think to myself...No. I AM the most clever person, ever. Even if I can't grow a real beard, yet. Or still live in my parents basement.
So I'm driving her home.
She sniffles."Catching a cold?", I ask.
"Yeah, I think so."
"Aww, that sucks." (Note: If a guy ever says, "Aww" before ANYTHING- We don't mean it. Our sympathy is a false attempt in a larger scheme to put our google in your crockpot. Furthermore, if you're a dude and you actually mean "Aww"...You probably have the skidmarks of another man smeared on the front of your underpants.)
Anyways, back to the story. She asks, "Do you have any Kleenex?", then opens up my center counsil.
"Oh, napkins!" She exclaims!

From here on out, everything really does occur in slow motion. I swear, time and space actually slowed. She picks up the napkins, which had time to dry, overnight.
Slowly brings them closer to her face.
Mentally, I'm screaming "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!", with my hands firmly pressed against my cheeks, like Mackuly Culkin in 'Home Alone'.

The morbid side of me watches, as she blows her nose into the napkin.

...My soul had physically left my body. I'd become an empty shell of a jaded, bitter, and generally hopeless human being that could never ever view the world with the slightest degree of bright eyed, bushy-tailed optimism, ever again.
The rest of the car ride was her talking. I don't remember what she was saying. Infact, it didn't really matter. All I could think of was, I bet the words tasted like an amalagated combination of my own urine, with traces of bad gas station coffee.
Finally, we reached our destination. She gives me a hug, and thanks me for everything. Then, bends over to give me a kiss. Don't get me wrong-I love making out with chicks...Just, not after they'd had something I peed on, in the general viscinity of their mouths. So, I patted her on the shoulder, and verbally shuffled my feet.
"Ayyy! You!!! We'll go fishing sometime, little trooper!"
(Like I'm more like Fonzie, less like Urkel, letting her down real cool like.)
"Huh?", she exclaims.

Then, I reached out to shake her hand, like it's a totally normal thing to do with a chick you're laying the sikdaddle down on.
"Hahaha, you ARE goofy!" she exclaims.
"Yeah. That's the ticket."
I got in my car, punched the gas and then punched myself in the penis really hard twice.
It hurt, but I deserved it.
Finally I went home and took a shower. I balled up in the fetal position and resisted the urge to cry, attempt to orally satisfy myself, or ever pee somewhere there isn't a toilet, again.

The Gentleman's Guide To Dating

2009-04-30T23:51:00.000-04:00

The Gentleman's Guide To Dating:

As instructed by Eric D. Foster. (The "D" is for 'Dangerous')

First off, let me issue a stern warning to all of you cry baby, bedwetting people of a sensitive nature. Stop reading, now. There are images and descriptions of a graphic, unnecessary and immature nature.

However, if you're easily influenced, lacking will power and searching for direction in life:
Take my hand, friend.

Let me lead you to the promise land.

Many of you ask me-

"Foster, how do I convince a broad to allow me to have consensual sex with her vagina?"

"Foster, I'm a reject and whenever I'm around women, they file restraining orders against me, and knee me in the gonads."

"Foster, how come no one does the electric slide with me?"

No more paying for prostitutes with peg legs and happy trail stubble.

No more handjobs from 11 year olds wearing lubed up mittens that won't look you in the eye.

The problem?

You're uneducated, and lacking discipline.

Before I explain HOW to lure women, you need to decide which broad is right for you.

There's plenty of ladies out there. All with advantages and disadvantages.

Some of them are friendly. Some of them have the herp. Some of them want to drop a steaming Yogi on your chest.

I've compiled a detailed description of all women.

Every one of them. They all fall under one of these vague, crude stereotypes.

Some women will tell you, "I'm a unique flower."
They're lying liars, and they have broken in catchers mitts for cooches.

The Whiny Emo Whore.

This chick is cynical pertaining to everything. There's literally nothing you can do to make her smile. She's incapable of upward oral reactions. Whiny Emo Whore enjoys cutting herself, listening to Bright Eyes and Simple Plan before crying herself to sleep. Her leisure time includes lighting scented candles, and posting horrible haikus on deadjournal.com.

She enjoys complaining about modern culture in coffee shops, while embracing the least talented and redundant variety on her I-Pod.

Punky Brewster.

She's got very sexy, wide hips and all different sorts of bells & whistles.

Fellatio can be had with nothing more than a liberal political rant and a brown jug of "XXX" labeled whiskey. Do not bring her home. She has little to no concept of social interaction. She will squat down to pee, outside. At the beach. During the middle of the day. During a birthday party for a small child. She's physically aroused by stuffing kittens into a burlap sack, then throwing it into a river. Intercourse can be initiated simply by informing her "If you're down with pee, you're down with me."

The Beef & Cheddar.

These women wear revealing clothes in order to convince men that their cleavage is due to something other than natural proportioning to the rest of their body. Notorious for her fellatio, and obsessive tendency to tackle the challenge of 'all you can eat'.

Ringing a triangle while not wearing pants should result in oral sex.

Encourage her to walk home afterwards, as means to lose extra weight. Crying burns calories.

Hollywood Bitch.

This uppity broad is high maintenance. She actually expects you to spend legitimate American currency on her. She's often seen searching for her herpie medication through her Coach purse, and texting her father, asking why her labia is so itchy.

However, she is very hygienic, buying herself Brazilian waxes every week, while dressing her dog up in sweaters and hats, not recognizing that she hasn't actually fed it in 4 days. Just imagine if Jean-Bennet Ramsey actually grew up.

White Trashley.

First off, I really wanted to draw a dead baby on the porch, but I was too lazy.

White Trashley is the epitome of Georgia. Barefoot and pregnant.

Wearing the same pink panties for weeks on end, with smeared menstrual blood and skidmarks. Smoking couch weed on the porch, watching tumbleweed roll across her driveway with the 1983 Pontiac sitting up on cinder blocks.

She keeps her aborted fetuses on the mantle of her trailer, next to her bowling trophies and Nascar collectible plates.

Growing a moustache usually puts you in the running to the father of her next abortion.

Try identifying with Garth Brooks lyrics, and mentioning that you find your cousins physically attractive.

It's pretty easy porking white broads, isn't it?

Red Headed Slut.

These chicks are frickin' crazy. Generally very curvaceous women, some resemble Pippi Longstocking with a high freckle ratio. But, the majority do have dumps like a truck, and voluptuous milk-bags full of Vitamin A(The 'A' is for 'awesome').

Red haired women DO have tendency to recycle douche nozzles. And they're all born with horrible lower back butterfly tattoos.

They also have Phoenix adjacent powers. Telekinesis, telepathy, etc.

They love to argue over trivial things. But, their doggy style fornication techniques have left men so dazed and confused that they actually think Dane Cook is funny.

Panda Express.

Submissive. Natural dry-cleaning, manicuring, and karate skills.

She does not come equipped with a tarp for bukkake, but one can easily be obtained from your local Mexican friend or Home Depot.

She has bad peripheral vision, so she can't see you slip a roofie into her sake'.

Good at math, but her pubic hair is pixilated, and she has a sideways vagina.

She may or may not 'rove you rong time.'

Take her out for orange chicken, and keep telling her how bad you felt about Hiroshima.

Black Magic.

She may try and "axe" you to use your "bafroom".

This actually just means she'd like to use your bathroom. Let her.

Black Magic is nice. You can literally bounce a quarter off her ass.

She's fond of KFC, Faygo Grape Soda, and watermelon. All which totally kick ass.

Don't try and dance with her. Unlike white people, she actually has a sense of rhythm. Ask her to "clap that ass." However, do not look directly at it without the proper eyewear. Outside the strip club, you may see her in full uniform. This includes Apple Bottom jeans and the boots with the fur. Everybody in the club, looking at her.

The darker the berry, the sweeter the vaginal excretion.

Cassie McCokeslut.

Cassie is tiny. Those who like super skinny women will love her.

She has Olive-Oil type limbs which flail around like a whirlin' dervish while geekin' out for a bump. Cassie actually can store up to 8 lbs of merchandise inside her vagina.

Most of it is cocaine, but sometimes she has a Rubix Cube or a PSP, which is nice to pass the time while she's thrash dancing to Lords of Acid and sweating like Courtney Love in a pharmacy. She will fornicate for coke, money to buy coke, or with anyone who may have a distant cousin who's roommate one time snorted a line, while watching Perfect Strangers.

Salt-Lick Lisa.

We all know her. She's got these tiny little Tic Tac looking teeth, surrounded by miles and miles of gingivitis ridden gums. Her large nose acts as a knife, stabbing into your torso during oral sex. She eats carrots. Wears generic, four-striped Adidas. Owns a Super-Cuts bang haircut. And listens to nothing but Sister Hazel and Blessid Union of Souls on her pink I-Pod. She's always jogging. From behind, many guys say "Daaayumn." Then, she turns around, prompting the response "EGAD!", or excessive projectile vomiting.

The pick-up line, "Hey baby, why the long face?" usually works.

If it does, she'll google your name all week, and write you love letters written with perfume and menstrual blood.

Mrs. Robinson.

Go to a bar. Mrs. Robinson will be there. At the jukebox. Playing hair-metal which reminds her of her high school prom. If you pretend an interest in Queensryche or Mr. Big, you should at least get a handjob in the back of her Lumina, next to a carseat, while focusing on a Tazmanian Devil window decal.

After that, she's pretty cool. No mind games. No drama. Try not to sell her kids on E-Bay, and you're a potential father figure. She's all thick, with those luscious child-bearing hips. Maybe some crows-feet developing in the optical region. But, she keeps in shape. Although, there IS a 35% chance that her vagina could actually be a Slip N' Slide.

Top notch cock-riding skills and she cooks a mean grilled cheese sandwich.

Just agree with how much of a jerk her ex-husband is, and you should be in line for a creampie.

Juggalette.

Careful. If you actually do come across a Juggalette, make sure to handle her with gloves.

Mostly found outside during the rain, Juggalettes make their way upwards through the mosit Earths soil in order to absorb minerals into their dense exoskeletons.

If you really wish to court one, try and rhyme while you speak, provide it with wrestling magazines, and Faygo. Although, it's an asexual being capable of reproducing with itself, it IS capable of inter-species relations. It enjoys having it's body hair sheered off, in the spring, and it's vaginal secretion can actually be used as a chemically heated oxidizing agent, to manipulate metal. Danger: All Juggalettes have dangerously low t-cells. Intercourse without the proper protection could be fatal.

In other words, Chick-ety check yo'self before you wreck yo'self, fool.

Patty Mayonnaise.

Patty is all grown up. She loves dinner at The Honker Burger.

She likes emo faggots wearing green vests, who write in their journals.

She's totally a scenester, now. With her polka dotted sweater, skirt, and Chuck Taylors.

You can probably find her at a Mates Of State concert, showing her beaver backstage.

Be careful. Patty began to get around later in her teens.
Her sexual partners include:
-Skeet Skeet Skeeter Valentine.

-Principal Bone.
-Mr. Dink.

-Porkchop.

On that note…Suddenly, Doug was a pretty screwed up show.

Polio Sarah.

Ever want a girlfriend who couldn't run away from anal sex?

One who doesn't need to spend a lot of money on pants, socks, or shoes?

Here you go. Polio Sarah is sweet. She's actually grounded, with a good head on her shoulders. You don't need to worry about her beating you in a foot-race, or grinding on the dancefloor with your best friend while a dude you went to high school with takes a bunch of upskirt photos and posts them on multiple message boards.

Actually, her vagina is mechanical. A series of censors and lasers compose most of it.

It comes equipped with On-Star and an HD DVD player.

However, if your house(or car) isn't handicapped accessible, you won't be receiving sex.

Plus if it is, vacuuming the tire tracks out of the carpet can be a pain.

Try impressing her with your hackey-sack skills, and casually bringing up how she can't do it.

The more you bring her down, the more she'll go down on you.

Bridget The Midget.

Imagine receiving fellatio while you AND your girlfriend are both standing.

However, if you're particularly gassy, do not parade her around on her leash directly behind you. She plays Frisbee. She tugs at the rope. She rolls over on command.

Plus, her little hands make your inferior wang look gigantic.

Her little limbs are structured like she's a fat baby. If she hasn't been spayed, her vagina is pudgy, and hairless. Her skull is huge. She often uses a hammock as a bandana.

Kicking her through the uprights, gives your team 3 points.

Downy Syndrome.

Don't call her a "retard".

Downs syndrome people are capable of delivering a top-notch suplex, rendering healthy, socially contributing members of society injured and embarrassed.

4% of America is injured at the hands of an angry retard, every year.

However, you can hide drugs inside her, and UPS her across the border.

One in every 4 handicapped people are vaginally full of illegal substances and paraphernalia.

They're a powerful specimin powered by emphatic waving and apple juice.

Okay, now that you've narrowed down your wish lists, it's time to learn exactly HOW to meet women. Perhaps you have a friend who converses with women pertaining to mutual interests. Or a friend who takes women out to nice restaurants, with flowers and men in suits playing the violin.

These men are douches, without a concept of how to relate to today's modern broad.

In order to physically arouse a whore, you simply need to understand biology, and how to appeal to her chemical make-up. It's a proven fact that the tear ducts and the vagina work in direct conjunction. Basically, if a woman cries, her vagina naturally lubricates simultaneously, due to arousal.

So, the trick is how to make a woman cry.

Thus, physically arousing them. The mental influence directly leads the attraction towards the member of the opposite sex who initiated the arousal tactics.

Resulting, in stanky on the hangdown.

"Foster, this concept is confusing. I still don't know how to talk with ladies."

Quit being a pussy.

Be direct. Be direct and insulting.

Find any physical flaw, and point it out rendering her self esteem immobile.

Inform her, that she'll never do any better, and that she's single because of some sort of personality disorder, or an unbearable vaginal scent.

"Gee, this all makes sense now! All women are glorified prostitutes, and none of them ever say anything which interests us. Their vaginas are our main priority, and I'll do whatever it takes to make them cry. Punch them in the kidneys, Insult her back fat, or tell her Santa Claus doesn't exist."
Very good. Now you're catching on!

I've compiled some helpful rhymes that you can remember in the field.

Follow these simple steps, and you too can be fist deep in ladies of a vulnerable and confused nature.

"Boy Foster, I know it all! There's no stopping me, now. I'm a hustler, baby!"
No, son. You CAN go wrong.

Just like the conception of Britney Spears' children, mistakes can still occur.

Use your common sense. Close your eyes, and feel out a situation.

Young Padawon, the force is strong within you.

Your Jedi penis will lead you away from the dark side of courtesy and treating women as equal human beings with interesting thoughts and opinions.

"What exactly do I say, when my fun parts are tingling with excitement?"

These generally work for me.

Try exclusively talking about yourself. Brag and boast about how many mint bitches you've obtained. Tell her about your huge genitalia, and how you tie balloon animals with it. Ignore her commentary, beliefs, and anything she says pertaining to anything other than her breasts, ass, or cooch.

"Eric Foster, where do I have to take this slut in order to obtain the beef jerky between her legs?"

Follow these steps, and you'll be the mack daddy, as well as the daddy mack.

"Okay Foster, tell me how to please myself, without allowing her any pleasure at all."

First off, you need to learn your penis.

Look down at it. Say hello. Tell it a joke or haiku. Make it feel at home.

Remember teamwork. Without your penis, you won't want to barbeque. You won't watch football on Sundays. And you may become susceptible to Brokeback Mountaineers, and romantic comedies.

"Okay, now that I've studied up on my penis, I'm ready to spit some bitches."

Slow down, shooter.

I'll remind you that it's physically impossible for any human penis to sustain length of over 3 ½ inches. You won't be 'splitting any bitches', but you sure can tickle her insides with your funny stick.

(Make sure Naughty By Nature is on vinyl.)

Chicks love toast.

"Foster, I'm scared. I've never operated a vagina before. Do I need safety equipment?"
I prefer a hardhat and safety goggles. Oh, I'm kidding.

I wear gloves and a reflective vest, as well.

Also used for extra lives while playing Contra for your Nintendo Entertainment System.

"YES! Foster, I put my weiner in some ladies hoo-hah! Someone give me a championship belt!"
Not so fast.

In order to become heavyweight champion, there's one more special maneuver to perfect.

Once you have the title, you can play it like a guitar, wear it over your shoulder. And finally bask in the reflection of a being pure, undisputed champion of an excellent and awesome nature.

Final lesson:

The Donkeypunch is like defating Mike Tyson in Punchout. Like finding all the space ship pieces in Toe Jam & Earl. Like getting all the pieces of the Gwar tickets in Beavis & Butthead. Like Johnny Cage uppercutting Goro into the pit of spikes.

The ultimate victory. The final feather in your theoretical cap of awesome.

Now, I set you free unto the world.

Go out, and pork comely lasses, my friends.

Remember your teachings, and unleash a brief and efficient fornication for some lucky broad.

Sincerely,

Eric D. Foster.

P.S.: I do not actually condone white people fornicating at a family reunion, hanging black people from trees, hiding drugs in retarded people, polluting in front of Native Americans, or putting Mexican women in the Boston Crab.

However, Asians eating ducks is always okay.

On that note, I really hope some of you took this seriously.

I actually love ladies. And I even pretend to listen and care about what they blabber on about.
For those of you lacking common sense and deduction, this is a parody...

Mucus Pocus

2009-04-30T23:35:00.000-04:00

I wake up the other morning.
Just getting over a fever.

Perhaps I'm the only one...But when you've got that terrible sinus pressure/infection, head congestion, etc.
What's the first thing you do in the morning?
For me, it's hocking that epic loogie that's been building all night.
And it's always that Chernobyl nuclear green, guacamole textured beast that you can't expel around women with fear of being lectured about etiquette.
...Resembling the Ecto slime that came with the 80's Ghostbusters action figures that I would STILL play with if I could find them.
Perhaps that's only what I have to do.
Don't judge me.

I'm on the way to work at 6 AM.
I opt for some Starbucks. 12 hour work days and 45 minute drives obviously require some overpriced caffiene.
So, I pull into the drive-through and order.
(Yes, these drawings are intentionally awful for comedic effect.)

"Yes, I'd like a vente peppermint mocha please."
"That will be nine hundred and forty-three dollars and sixteen cents. Please pull through."
"...Thanks."

So, I put my car in drive and coast through.
Without thinking twice, I snort the entire nights sleep of accumulated mucus, and spit out the window. However, the epic loogie of rejection does not clear the vehicle. Or my mouth.

Yes.
It lands nicely on the window track and drips down the outside of my door.
And it sure wasn't tough to miss, being that it was a glow-in-the-dark, radioactive loogie of the utmost embarrassing proportions.

All of this occurs while I'm about to pay, then be handed my coffee.
So, I panic. You would too, don't be a lying liar.
I reach over into the passenger seat and grab a receipt from the ATM machine.

However, the consistancy of the loogie simply will not be denied.
Then, time runs out.
The girl at the window goes to hand my my coffee.

...And a prominent line of mucus connects my face to the recepit glued to my car, surrounded by snot.

The girl at the window tilts her head in confusion.
Like a dog confused why it's being scolded after peeing on the carpet.
The akward moment when our eyes met caused more emotional damage than seeing my grandmother stepping out of the shower, with her silver Chia Pet-esq a bush connecting into a happy trail leading up her trachea.

The forecast called for rejection, that morning.
With a 100% chance of involentary abstinence for the rest of my life.

She hesitated, shifted her eyes and then said, "thank you".
Had I been on the ball, I would have responded "'Snot a problem."

Steve Irwin: A Eulogy

2009-04-30T23:12:00.000-04:00

A TRIBUTE TO STEVE

Steve Irwin was a great man.
A conservationist, entertainer, family man, friend to nature...Along with a complete badass.
However, his death allows us to appreciate the splendor that was his magnificent life.

On the 5th day, God said "Let there be Steve."
On the 6th day, God said "Let there be sting rays."

Unbeknownst to the majority of the public, Steve Irwin was present at the birth of Christ.

Here is a painting of the birth of Christ.
You can see Steve offering a biblical high five to the baby Jesus.
He brought gifts of gold and Vegimite sandwiches.
Then, God himself blessed Steve with everlasting Earthly life.
As you can imagine, Steve responded with "Crikey!"

...Down in the pits of Hell...
Satan was plotting and planning.
The birth of Christ was living proof of the truth.
So, mean ole' Lucifer countered.
And if you knew the devil, you would be aware of his fondness for sting-rays. (And, Sham-Wow.)
Satan reached into a firey ocean, and created Glenn.

Glenn was the epitome of all that was evil. Most sting-rays were harmless, clumsy ocean creatures. Glenn was the devils ocean guardian.
His barb was laced with Lucifers venomous lies and the slimey extract of Courtney Love's vagina. His I-Pod was always set on Huey Lewis & the News. (Obviously, which Satan also created to torture mankind.)
Glenn knew that his destiny would result in an ultimate battle with Steve.

Meanwhile, Steve left his mark on the world.
(The gaps in time were pretty much due to Steve porking comely lasses, and inventing cool shit(Kittens, ice cream, and Atari.)

(1770)- Beethovens mother can't afford another child. She contemplates the abortion of Ludwig, but reconsiders after Steve arrives in Bonn, and wrestles the child from her womb, before crippling her with Boston Crab.

(1776)- Steve Irwin and Thomas Jefferson write the Declaration of Independence after drinking some Fosters lager, and juggling koalas.

(1865)- Steve Irwin decides that it's time for America to heal the wounds it's afflicted upon itself. He mediates the Confederate surrender at the Appomattox Courthouse, while subduing an awnry croc. Then, he drank more Fosters lager with General Grant, while convincing him to run for President.

(1910)- Steve Irwin dies for our sins.
The Lord is yet again disappointed by mankind.
God returns Steve to Earth, to finish out what he was sent to do.
Steve forgives. People ask themselves, "What Would Steve Do?"

Disclaimer: The hole in the O-Zone was due to Steve flapping his angel wings too hard, before he got to Heaven.

(1945)- Steve Irwin travels to Germany as an Aussie diplomat.
Steve and Hitler engage in a verbal debate over killing Jews.
Steve realizes the world needs dentists and bankers.

As Allied Forces attack Berlin, Steve and Hitler get into a physical altercation.
Steve single handedly destroys the Axis Powers with nothing more than a headlock, and audible cries of "Blimey!"
Being modest, Steve allows the government to formally name it V-E Day.
Disregarding the original name: "Steve Irwin Cockslapped the Homo Nazis Day."

(1963)- Steve Irwin time travels to 1963, with the assistance of a quantum time machine. His holographic friend from the future, Al assists his journeys with the help of the enigmatic Ziggy. Steve discovers that he's traveled to the past to repair a discrepency in regards to the JFK assasination.
Suddenly, Al notices a sniper in the Book Depository.
Low and behold, it's Glenn!

Steve gives it his all to protect the President, but alas.
His arch nemesis has succeeded in the assassination.

However, Al reveals to Steve his true mission.
Here's the crazy twist: He was actually sent to save the First Lady.
And like all of Steve's endevors- Success.

(1969)- The world witnesses a fake moon landing. You fucking retards.

(1972)- Steve Irwin and some queer astronaut with a moustache actually do land on the moon.
Steve doesn't need a space suit. He only needs Vegimite. Gravity still effects Steve.
...But, only because he feels sorrt for it.

(1992)- Steve sleeps. God takes a rib from Steve's side and creates Terri.
They get married, instantly.

By the way, Steve fucking loves Star Wars.
Steve has 2 children with Terri.
Bindi Sue, born in 1998.
And Bob, born in 2003.
(They're both already wrestling kangaroos and pissing off menstruating koalas.)

(1996)- Steve writes "The Macarena" and invents a quirky jig to go along with it. After realizing that it was all different sorts of gay, he donated it to some starving Mexicans. Steve never spoke of it, again.

(1999)- A small child screams in the supermarket.
And goth woman in the deli proceeds to tell Steve, "If that were my child, I'd have him killed."
Steve responds by telling her, "Crikey, if that were your child, you'd be on Jenny Jones trying to figure out which of the 7 blokes is the father."
That's post translation, mind you.
It actually sounded more like "Criokey, Eef thot wuh yuh choild, yu'd bay oon Jinny Jones troying t' figger oot wheech oof th' seeven bloke ees th' fothuh."
Steve loves kids. Hates goths and gangbangs.

(2001)- 9/11 occurs. It only happened because Steve was taking a nap.
Everytime you wake Steve from a nap, an eskimo eats a baby penguin.

(2006)- Glenn fullfills his destiny and thrusts his barb deep into Steve's heart.

Steve returns to Heaven, where he plays laser tag with Mr. Belvedere, and eats chicken with Wesley Willis.
The last words Steve whispered into Glenn's ear were, "This must be Home Depot, because I'm looking at a tool." Oooh, burn!!!
Nobody in the ocean likes Glenn, OR Huey Lewis & The News. (God, I can't fucking believe how horrible 'Sports' was...)
At the end of days, Steve Irwin will return, yet again.
.....Is this where you want to be when Steve comes back?

Steve Irwin Fact & Fiction:

Fact: Steve Irwin loves koalas.
Fiction: Steve Irwin..encourages Communism

Fact: George Washington would not tell a lie. (Because Steve would have kicked his ass.)
Fiction: Steve Irwin pees Mountain Dew.

Fact: Steve impregnated Teri with a hearty handshake.
Fact: Steve refers to Teri's vagina as his "Hot Pocket".

Fact: "Johnny Appleseed was actually just Steve Irwin feeding animals and exploring terrain.
Fiction: Steve Irwin masturbates everytime Men At Work is on the radio.

Fact: Steve Irwin allowed Sammy Hagar to drive 55.
Fiction: Steve Irwin shaved Sammy Hagars penis shaft, and put the pubes in a sandwich. (Ed Asner did that.)

Fact: Steve Irwin loves catapillars & watching Cop &..1/2.
Fiction: Steve Irwin can kinetically charge playing cards that explode on contact.

Fact: Steve poops soft serve chocolate yogurt.
Fiction: Steve enjoys handjobs from schoolgirls wearing lubed up mittens.

Steve Irwin Haikus:
(I am the hustler of haikus...But, feel free to submit your own.)

Goodbye, Steve Irwin.
We mourn your untimely loss.
All sting-rays are fags.

Conservationist.
Nature remains in your debt.
Let me pork Teri.

Crocodile kisses.
Australias sweet embrace.
Let me pork Teri.

Unforgotton cause.
Croc could not eat your baby.
Tan shorts, Always cool.

RIP: STEVE IRWIN.

P.S.: The bad Photoshop work is intentional. WWSD?

Dr. Pepper, I'd Like A Second Opinion.

2009-04-30T22:11:00.000-04:00

I can't be the only broke-ass who can't afford name brand pop.
Sorry, Mr. & Mrs Thurston Howell, but I can't afford your 'la-dee-fucking-dah' 50 cent can soda.
Sodas with commericial advertising, celebrity spokespeople, and ingredients which don't cause various forms of impotency.

Laaaa-deee-fucking-DAH, I boastfully repeat in your general direction.

Fuck you Pepsi, Coca Cola, and especially you Dr. Pepper.
YOU, Dr. Pepper...
You're the delicious drink in which I crave. Dr. Pepper has always been the right diagnosis for what's ailing me:
Thirst.
Prescription: Drink one of me, then bellow out a satisfied, inappropriate "Ahhhhhh", vocally communicating just how amazing you make me feel.

But recently, I calculated how much that costs me a week.
Vending machine at work = .60
Times 5 days a week.
(Let me find my useful Casio calculator for assistance in this complicated, mathmatical pickle)
Three dollars.
You know what else costs 3 dollars?
Cigarettes. A plethora of delcious Charleston Chews. A forty of Mickeys. A crappy handjob from a stubble cooched, yeast infected, housewife pill addict wearing nothing but orange-striped knee-high socks.

I refuse.
You heard me, doc.
I refuse to let your tantilizing, carbonated product consume my monies. I will not miss out on the finer things in life. This will be my last visit to your clinic. I'd like my records, please. I'm going to find a new doctor. A doctor who can fix me up, without the financial burden you've put upon me with your theoretical stethoscope of bankrupcy. So, I searched.
In the process, I discovered...That they pass around medical degrees in the soda industry like they pass around a joint at a Cypress Hill concert.

First, I went to Dr. Thunder.

His price was reasonable.
But, the love wasn't there.
When he grabbed my balls and asked me to turn my head and cough...I realized, "I just wanted something to drink."
Then, I realized Dr. Thunder was actually Uncle Dennis.
And that Uncle Dennis had really soft hands.

My search continued, as I made an appointment with:

Dr. Topper.

What the fuck is a topper, anyway?
This soda is a conundrum of overhwhelming confusion.
He wasn't so bad. He was gentle, yet quenching.
And his prices were reasonable.
Suddenly, Dr. Pepper was becoming a mere memory. Yesterdays news.
But, once again...It had carbonation. Had taste.
Lacked love.

Dr. Springtime:
(No picture available)
I found Dr. Springtime in a Piggly Wiggly.
At first, I assumed it was the name of a feminen hygiene product. Dr. Springtime sounds like a generic brand of douche only Tuesday afternoon strippers with happy trails can afford. On that note, Dr. Springtime also tasted like douche.
Does all soda come with a vinegar scent and a nozzle?
This left me gagging and angry that Dr. Springtime ever recieved his medical degree in soda.

Dr. Foots:

I hoped for the best. This doctor has the name of a grey kitten with cute, white colored paws. But, I was wrong. (Although, I do enjoy the fact that "Chill Before Serving" is on the can...Just incase inbred bumblefucks weren't sure how to drink a fancy sodee-pop.)
Tasted like I was licking the gravel from the blistered corns of a hobos foot.
I actually spit Dr. Foot on the ground, with an audible "BLEH!"
An old lady outside the market saw me do this, and gave me me a funny look. I gestured the can in her direction implying she could finish the rest.
She simply raised her hand as to say "No thanks, faggot.", and continued on her marry way to dying soon.
(Okay, that actually never happened, but it would have been completely awesome.)

Dr. Chill:
(No picture available)
Dr. Chill is my dawg.
The most ghetto generic pop, ever.
If Dr. Chill and Faygo got into a brawl, Dr. Chill would rip Faygo's arms from it's torso, then roundhouse kick Faygo's grandmother out of her wheelchair.
Dr. Chill was the sheeeeeeit!!!
He's all, "Sup honky?"
And I'm all, "Dayumn, Dr. Chill. I need a fix."
So, he's all "Chickety-check yo'self son!"
And he was delicious.
I had the sudden urge to go home and watch the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, and smoke a pack of Newports.

Doctor:
(No picture available)
Yes. I thought, perhaps his simplistic approach, may be due to a pompous arrogance of delicious product.
Incorrect.
Doctor tastes like flat Dr. Pepper.
Literally. Open a can of Dr. Pepper. Leave it rest for a couple days.
Then, taste.
It tastes like someone sodomized themselves with a prune, put it in a blender with some A1 steak sauce and the puss excreation from a whore's bread baking, yeast infection.
Doctor should find a new line of work.
Selling used cars, or cagefighting.
I'm not sure what it actually tastes like giving a rimjob to a dead piece of roadkill, along the highway. But it can't be any worse than drinking Doctor.

Dr. Bold:

Dr. Bold was a dickhead.
He tried to stick a speculum in me.
"I don't have a vaj-ay, Dr. Bold."
Then, he opened up his glove compartment, and showed me his medical degree.
Dr. Bold violated me with his bold carbonation and bitter aftertaste.
In Europe, bidets should flow wild with Dr. Bold.
That's about all it's good for.

Dr. Perfect:
(No picture available)
I was hoping Dr. Perfect was a tribute to former WWF Intercontinental Champion, Mr. Perfect. I was wrong. Whereas, Mr. Perfect would spit him gum out, and swat it in mid air.
Dr. Perfect tasted like a bed sore.
Mr. Perfect would play baseball and hit only homeruns. Mr. Perfect would play Scrabble and get a triple word score, EVERY TIME.
...Dr Perfect was like a parapeligic trying to run the gauntlet in American Gladiators.
I'm not even sure this was actual soda.
Perhaps the bag-boy at the grocery store urinated into a can, and I fell for it.
He also gave me a piece of candy that looked curiously like a knee-scab.

Dr. Right:
(No picture available)
Dr. Right? No.
Dr. Wrong, you penis wrinkle!
There was NOTHING right about you.
I HATE YOU SO MUCH, DR. RIGHT.
You bring false hope to us all, you doppleganger of disasterous porportions.
Someone bring me Dr. Right, so he can diagnose the after-effects of the left uppercut to the chin he'll soon have to endure.

Dr. Sparkle:
(No picture available)
If Christopher Lowell drank generic Dr. Pepper...It would be Dr. Sparkle. Or "Doctor Thparkle!!!" with a limp wrist, and hand on the hip. I felt gay even drinking this. Just looking at it made me want to be an olympic figure skater, and karaoke the Dawson's Creek theme song.
I tried it, and low and behold.
It was fruity. Literally. It was a horrible attempt at soda.
I hope whoever created Dr. Sparkle has long since died of GAIDS.

In conclusion:
After lots of research and blatent outrage.
The winner is Dr. Chill.
Dr. Topper was a close runner up.
I recommend them both, and the cost effiecient, tasty results which come from their consumption.

Dr. Pepper, you just lost a customer.
...And a friend.

The Daddy Book

2009-04-30T22:08:00.001-04:00

If anyone has a younger sibling they'd like to exploit, let me know. I would like this narrated by a child. Now I'm well aware a select few of you who were born with an additional chromosome are accusing me of racism.
But before you do that, think about it-
All the watermelon references to blacks, and duck eating, math references to Asians fail in comparison to the stereotype of white, homoerotic, inbreeding/child molestation.
However, if you're still offended I can assure you. I sincerely do not care in the slightest.

Juggalos: Fact Or Fiction?

2009-04-30T20:33:00.000-04:00

I'm here to deliver the facts as they're surfaced about Jugglaos(Jug-uh-lows).Some of you see these face-painted anomolies, and have specific inquiries:Does it hybernate?How does it procreate?How does one specifically become "down with the clown?"
I'm here to provide answers.First off: Identification.Juggalos are easy to spot.

After looking into the specifics, I discovered that their medallions helps them indentify one another in unfamiliar habitats.Many of them suffer from uncoordination, and the inability to hang posters at a 90 degree angle, or wear a baseball cap properly.
Fact: Juggalos inject a mild poison when they feel threatened.Fiction: If a Juggalo touches you, you become one.
Reproduction:All Juggalos are asexual.They're born with both fully functional sets of male and female genitalia, and reproduce internally.The need for socialization is generally limited, and unlike humans, has nothing to do with procreation.They prefer to travel in numbers, or a "pack". Due to facial scent glands, some Juggalos can recognize a domesticated Juggalo.Often times, a Juggalo that is tagged and re-released into the wilderness suffers a grim fate.
There are 4 stages in Juggalo birth:1. Egg. (2 months after the seed fertalizes the egg, the Juggalo goes through a defensive cycle, in which it lays up to 6 eggs, and hides them in a warm, moist area.)2. Several larval stages (In which it develops an exoskeleton, some internal organs and body parts.)3. Pupa. (Limbs and genitalia are formed. Some are born with face paint, and some develop it shortly after birth.)4. The Juggalo emerges, and makes it's way to the ocean, to feed on algea. Hundreds of Juggalos are prayed upon by seagulls and owls before they reach the ocean.Their fight only begins, as oceanic predators typically feed off newborn Juggalos before they form their land legs.
Fact: The first Juggalo was the product of a birthday party clown, and a sting ray.Fiction: If a Juggalo looks directly at you, you turn to stone.
It IS possible for humans and some primates to communicate with the enigmatic Juggalos.A translater is encouraged, but suprisignly, they talk just like you and I.Often times, they start their sentences with "Sheeeeeit" or "Yo". Many believe these literary redundancies indicate a level of comfort around fellow Juggalos.Miscellaneous hand gestures and braided dreds may flow through your personal space.Concentrate on the communication itself. Regardless of the stench and distractions.This is a natural clown odor, glandular in nature.Careful, if you offend the Juggalo they are known to attack. One Juggalo sting is harmless.Poison remains in the system for a few hours. Swelling will occur, but little long-term effects are documented.However, if 10 or more Juggalos sting, it could cause fatal side-effects to your central nervous system.Speak slowly. Enunciate. Nod and agree.Keep the Juggalo content, and he'll waddle off without incident.You'll have experienced natures glory, and made strides in inter-species relationships.
Fact: The Juggalo is endangered. It's prohibited by law to harm one. If it takes residency in your home or on your property, you're legally obligated to feed and protect it. Governments grants will be issued to provide Faygo, hatchets, and "a fat bitch named Bridget".Fiction: Licking the underbelly of a Juggalo produces a mild hallucinational experience.
A final reminder to the reader-Remain cautious.However, the Juggalo is just as scared of you as you are of it.

Contemporary Civil War Fashion Show.

2009-04-30T18:20:00.000-04:00

The new hip fashion statement of our generation.
Retro has made a triumphant return, as the heroes of the Confederacy and Union return from the dead in order to strut their stuff down the cakewalk.
Feeling sassy? Wanna make an impression on that special someone? Show the socially defined popular kids that you're dope as well as fly? I've got the ticket for you.
Meet General Ulysses S. Pants:

Ulysses is currently sporting his new khaki/casual line of pants. When he's not resolving war at Appomattox Courthouse, or leading the North to solidify the union...He's taking long walks on the beach, having a drink at a local pub, or naming all the kittens at the pet store. All in the casual, yet quasi formal comfort of his Ulysses S. Pants.
Professional enough to drink a Steel Reserve 40 oz. before speaking at Harvard. Yet fashionable enough to spit on his Enzyte enhanced, powerful genitalia and anally penetrate a preteen, 6 fingered Turkish maid. An all occassions pair of pants for the most rugged of men, who still identify with the younger crowd.
$39.99, available in plus sizes.
We accept paypal.

Introducing: General Stonewash Jackson:

When he's not crushing the yankees in the second Bull Run, and destroying Northern city-slickin' sissyfolk in Antietam. He's fingerpopping drunken harlots and doing so in style. The leadership, integrity, and hard nosed battle tactics of General Jackson earned the nickname "Stonewall". But, the past is past, and the future is now. After being mortally wounded by his own men in Chancellorsville, Jackson realized what he was missing 140 some odd years later-
Style.
The Stonewash Jacksons fill the spacious void in the lives of the toughest, most testosterone ridden men. While their sleek, tight fit show off a massive crotch bulge to entice even the most virginal, women of excessive virtue. Furthermore, commanding respect and awe from gentlemen fellows sporting inferior pant technology and penises. Notorious for the younger crowd, looking for score some pink up on their glorious dinks. Whether it be flying a kite in the park, assaulting a wheelchair bound WWII vet with a bayonet, or proclaiming "Eyyy!", while pointing and clicking at fine bikini clad ladies at the beach...The Stonewash Jacksons dedicate themselves to fitting your most flattering penile features. The ladies simply can't resist a gruff man smoking a cigarette, leaned up against a streetlight, as he's illuminated and displayed in all his Confederate glory and power.
$69.99, SOS pad crotch accelerator sold seperately.
Will not increase actual penis size. If discoloring in genital area occurs, consult a doctor immediatly. Could be side effect of a more serious condition.
Christmas packaging available before October.

And our latest feature...
The Robert E. Levi:

While battling Grant for cecession and their own specific choice of lifestyle, one doesn't necessarily need to do so without the assistance of fashion. The Robert E. Levi's provide the casual look for adults, while providing the essential features needed to continue a sassy and empowered existance for those who lead, rather than follow. The perfect pants for at home use, a casual dinner with friends, or to supervise supressed black people as they toil in the cotton fields, crying out for master's mercy. Hip enough to take your child to an all-white school, yet comfortable enough to masturbate to Princess Leah in her slave bikini during Return of the Jedi. The pants for all occassions. They command respect. They imply authority. And they certainly make the ladies want to "move it, move it".
(I'm talking about intercourse.)
The all purpose, utility infielder of pants. Still looking good, searching for the lost family dog in the rain, a town lynching, or some good ole' fashion, bare knuckle bukkake.
$19.99 on sale!
Ladder available by special request.

Do YOU want to slaughter Urkel with a rusty butterknife?
I do. There are no board certified doctors within our organization, but we have the prescription for you. Our countrys greatest heroes and fiends have joined together with one purpose:
Getting some stanky on your hangdown. Order our full catalog today.

Coming soon:
-The Abe Lincoln anti-assasination helmet.
-Slavemaster fake nose & moustache
-Watermelon handling fashion gloves
-Confederate "put your sister to the test" novelty condoms.