CHILD PLEASE. This is the most important thing on the Internet right now. Check it before you wreck it.
Have a great weekend you guys. It’s Halloween, but remember, don’t celebrate it on the 31st, which is a Sunday, otherwise it’s straight to Hell for you. Doesn’t matter all the other great stuff you’ve done or whatever, don’t dress up and get candy this Sunday, or you’ll burn. Saturday night? Go nuts! But right at midnight, you better have that costume off and be binge drinking as per your usual, or start dressing lightly for the eternal damnation you’ll be sweating through.
(h/t to The Icehouse for the reptilian flatulence)
The funniest thing about this, and it’s just for me I guess, is that the look of “Whaaaa…?” that you’re likely giving this kid is the EXACT face my girlfriend gives me when I talk about fantasy football, Animorphs, or the addition or subtraction of two integers greater than 5.
(h/t to John Schulte and his facingbook)
OMIGAH I can’t believe it’s finally happening for me. FINALLY a movie that I can wait in line for days by camping out in a tent I don’t know how to construct. FINALLY we have a Best Picture contender that isn’t about stupid dreams or Facebook (even though Facebook is totally awesome [NEVER give up on your dreams]). FINALLY I CAN HAVE PEACE IN MY LIFE.
PEACE IS RIGHT, MR. BIEBER. I can’t believe that this hasn’t happened sooner. I mean this is the CLASSIC Canadian-rags-to-American-riches story that the world is going to eat up. Remember how good “This Is It,” Michael Jackson’s docufilm was? Awesome, right? THIS WILL BE WAY BETTER BECAUSE BIEBER WILL BE ALIVE TO ENJOY WITH
The swoop. The smile. The moves. THE SHOES. He’s got it all and isn’t going anywhere for a good-long-while. I’d say “knock on wood” but this is ironclad. I’m not sure what could kill the Bieb. Seriously. I have this sneaking suspicion that if he were ever to need medical attention (PSH. NOT LIKELY) by way of intravenous needle, the metal would bend away from his soulful flesh like that part in Superman Returns. Am I saying that JB can deflect bullets? Yes. But, I’m also saying that with one “Oh-oo-whoa-oo-oh-oo-oh”…HE WON’T HAVE TO. Like The Matrix. Not that he’ll ever have to worry about that. I’d gladly jump in front of any number of guns, knives, throwing stars, or flammable underwear to protect Mr. Bieber. He’s the best around and nothing’s going to ever keep him down. I love him.
Whoa. Sorry man. Didn’t mean to get too close. Just kidding about that “love” business. I enjoy your music a respectable amount. We cool?
Awesome. Glad we worked that out. I don’t know what I’d do if…I mean. Great. Glad that’s settled.
Having a little trouble in paradise, men? Is your significant other grinding your gears, gentlemen? Going round and round, bout after bout, day in and day out with the same problems every couple faces…and even some that most don’t, fellas? Is a ten-inch butcher knife involved, sir?
Unfortunately, guys, this happens to almost everyone at least once, even in the brightest and non-psychotic of relationships. Fortunately, with this familiarity, comes certain patterns that can be recorded and used for later benefit. Especially when there’s a ten-inch butcher knife being thrown into the equation.
But fret not! These conflicts, skirmishes, and arguments, however, can still be won! Here are some helpful, time-honored techniques that insure you can best your argumentative opponent while minimizing the chance of being stabbed by the trembling blade that is being wielded near your person:
1.) Try to see where the argument got its start. Did you see the point at which your girlfriend became upset? What happened immediately prior to that point? Were you washing your knives right before then? By looking at where the argument started, you can see WHY is started more clearly.
2.) Don’t take your eyes off the knife.
3.) How did YOU feel right before an argument ensued? Sometimes, conflicts can arise not because of WHAT was said, but HOW it was said. Perhaps your nonchalance was taken to be flippancy. Perhaps your casual indifference was interpreted as weakness fit to be slaughtered and gutted. Remember: it’s not always WHAT, but HOW.
4.) Is there a communication problem? Be sure to let her know your honest opinions about things that affect you both. Open the lines of communication so that she can see exactly where you’re coming from, while also opening the lines of communication at a volume level audible from up to 20 yards away.
5.) Parry, parry, thrust, turn, parry.
6.) Take a step away from some arguments for some breathing space. A couple of minutes to cool off in your own respective corners can do a world of good. Letting off steam is highly encouraged in successful debating, especially if it’s done near local, state, or federal authorities.
7.) A simple reminder of how valuable you are to the other person has been known to calm down a heated exchange. Remind your partner of how important you are to her, and how precious all of the numerous fragile objects she owns – vases, commemorative plates, framed posters – that are pretty close to you.
Also, remind her of how hard you can throw some of those handheld objects. Shots across the bow are discouraged, depending of course, on how much ground your girlfriend can cover in an instant.
8.) Remember all of the reasons you love your-…WHY DID YOU TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE KNIFE?! DO NOT TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE KNIFE.
9.) Try and maintain a distance that is both intimate and close, but far enough away that your girlfriend can see all of you. If you give her numerous targets on your body, she can become distracted, perhaps opening an opportunity to go in for a nice, reconciliatory hug/disarm her.
10.) Let her figure out why SHE’S in the wrong. Avoid words like “Don’t you see” and “I told you so” while encouraging her to find her own avenues to your correct point of view. She’ll get there eventually, and you’ll BOTH win. Also, avoid words like “crazy,” “psycho,” “nut,” and “maneatingsnaggletoothedcrosseyedvicioussouldestroyer.” Those are argument/life enders.
11.) Purchase a gun.
By following these steps, you can be assured that you won’t just have a say in the matter, but can still win the argument altogether with little to no bloodshed! Those considering following these steps should consult with your physician to ensure you’re not a hypophiliac who would bleed to death from any minor scrape or knife wound. And remember DON’T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE KNIFE, EVEN AFTER THE ARGUMENT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T REMOVE YOUR EYES FROM THAT BLADE YOU WILL BE DEAD, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, GET SOME HELP.
HEY MAN, ARE YOU GOING TO BE HERE ON YOUR LITTLE TREADMILL FOR AWHILE? ME AND SOME BROS WHO ARE ON THE WAY ARE ABOUT TO SLAM IRON, SO IF YOU WANT TO LEAVE, THAT’D BE AWESOME. YOU STAYING? SUIT YOURSELF, CHUBBS, BUT KNOW THAT WE’RE GOING TO BE DOIN’ A LOT OF SWEATIN’, LOT OF SCREAMIN’ AND A WHOLE LOT OF METALBLARIN’. LIKE SO!
(/pushes iPod button on speakers)
Oh, God. Listen…listen, man, BUDDY!, man, you CANNOT tell any of the guys about to be here that I was listening to that. Please, pal, you’ve gotta do me this solid. It…it wasn’t even mine! Oh man! It was totally my girlfriend’s song on my iPod, she’s always listening to that kind of crap and IT TOTALLY MAKES ME SICK. Right? So we’re good. It’s my f’in girlfriend’s song. Just that one. Norah Jones. Every chick loves Norah FREAKIN Jones. Not me though. Give me METAL. Give me GUITARS. Give me RAGE! Glad we got that covered up, Puss. Now….let’s not mention it again. To anyone.
(/changes song on iPod)
Whoa…um…looks like…she’s got a…lot…of songs on my iPo-….look, you really can’t tell anyone about this. I need this group to think I’m the baddest badass that’s ever had an ass that’s ever been ungood. Seriously, I’m wearing a camo hat. I’ve NEVER been hunting. It’s just I don’t like waking up abruptly, and these piano playing women are the most soothing sirens I’ve ever heard. They sound like they’re made of body pillows that secrete sensual lotions that seep into your brain and tell you that you’re not the failure your father says you are. I need them more than I need this weightlifting thing and I REALLY need this weightlift-…
HEY GUYS, WHAT’S UP?! YOU READY TO SLAM SOME IRON? YEAH! AHH! WHAT? AHHH! WHO’S READY?! YOU READY?! I’M READY! LET’S DO THIS! LET’S! DOOO! THIS! WHO’S GOT THE IPOD? LEFT MINE AT HOME!
You’re not going to tell them I actually have my iPod, are you? Please don’t. They don’t understand how blissful it is to sit with a warm pumpkin spice latte and whole wheat bagel and just let Norah rock you to comfort within the warm embrace of her soulful melodies. I don’t know how she does it, but somewhere between her fingertips and her larynx is where I’d love to make my gentle cabin in the wilderness and live the rest of my days.
NO! I DIDN’T! I DIDN’T BUST THAT ONE OUT HAHA! GOOD LORD THAT ONE SMELLS LIKE EGGS AND DANFORD’S MOM’S FUPA! OOOHHHH! SHUT UP DANFORD, YOU PANSY! LIFT THAT, DANFORD! LIFT THAT AND I’LL NOT TOUCH YOUR MOM EVER AGAIN! AHHHH YOU KNOW I CAN’T STAY AWAY. JUST MESSIN’, DANFORD, YOU BAG OF NUTS.
Please, don’t tell them that when I hear an alto voice coming from a piano-playing woman, I melt away into a Parisian cafe to talk about life, love, and other mysteries. Don’t you tell them about any of that. Nary you mention how this is the only thing playing in my Victorian duplex, or smartcar, or iPod. Please, I don’t even LIKE my iPod! Vinyl is the only way to listen to these soulful sirens. Norah Jones, Joy Williams, Tristian Prettyman-
HEY, WHERE ARE THE TUNES? I CAN’T LIFT UNTIL I GET SOME FIVE-FINGER DEATH PUNCH! LIFT IT, DANFORD! GET IT! YEAH!
-Keri Noble, Allison Krause, Natalie Merchant, Adele, and on and on. Do you realize how many puppywuppywoowoo-, I mean, dogs, Sarah McLachlan has encouraged me to adopt? Eight. Now I have nine dogs and three cats crammed into this duplex. AND I LOVE ALL OF THEM. Each and everyone one of these adorable creatures. We read magazines, sip Earl Grey tea, and live our simple lives together and the only two things I have holding it all together is this music and this weightlifting group I go out with on weekends.
OH, T.J.! OOOH T.J.! YOU ARE GOING TO POUND YOU SOME SQUISH THIS WEEKEND! WE ARE GOING DOWNTOWN! AND WE ARE GOING TO JUST SLAAAAY!
Please. Not a word. I’m begging you. These guys…they, uh, wouldn’t understand.
THIS A-HOLE? I DUNNO, BUT HE’S BEEN ON THE TREADMILL FOR AWHILE? KICK HIM OUT? NAH, BRO. LET’S NOT DO THAT.
Oh please. No. Don’t say anything about it.
OH I AGREE, I TOTALLY WANT TO THROW HIM OFF THE TREADMILL. I JUST DON’T THINK RIGHT NOW HE’S WORTH IT. I ALREADY WARMED UP! NOW I’M READY TO LIFT THE BIG WEIGHTS! DON’T WANNA GO DOWN ON THE WEIGHT SCALE BECAUSE OF THIS CHUMP! HAH! I BET HE IS GAY!
You’re not gay are you? I’m not, but I’m really sensitive to LBGT and questioning persons issues, so I’m so sorry if I offended you. Please. Don’t say anything to them. Oh, Lord. I’ll give you money out of my wallet. Please.
NO THAT’S NOT MY IPOD.
DUUDE. THAT’S SOME LAMENESS. I LIKE DON’T EVEN WANT TO WORK OUT ANYMORE. LET’S ALL LEAVE! AND GO BANG CHICKS! YEAH! RAAGE!
Thank you. We’re leaving. Thank you thank you thank you.
HEY, SO MY IPOD GOT SMASHED…CARE IF I JUST STEAL THAT ONE?
…Thank you so much.
Took a little break from this beloved depot of mindless humor(ish) material, and in the meantime, people have been asking “Zack, WHAT have you been doing?” Well, sweet sassy molassy, I’ve been busy. Here are just five of the LITERALLY COUNTLESS things I’ve been doing, all of which are really, really important:
1. Watched about 45-60 hours of “Law and Order: SVU”
Okay, have you heard of this show? If you were like me, the answer was “maybe, is that the one with Jeff Goldblum?” Well, no, it’s not that one, that’s another Law and Order. This one is just a little more nuts, because at the end of the day, all this show is is writer types sitting in a room dreaming up more creative ways to rape people. “What if we get a TRAPEZE ARTIST, who removes his pants during routines in such a way that the victim has to be raped or plummet TO THEIR DEATH?!” No?…”How about a rapist who convinces a hermaphrodite (a hermaphrodite WITH AMNESIA) that he/she raped him/herself?” I SMELL AN EMMY. Watch this show if you haven’t yet this decade.
2.) Bought some new shoes
I’m most likely the whitest person you know. My family line is Scottish-German-Dutch-English. A mixture of those four nationalities usual leads to a lethal amount of opaqueness, but I managed to make it out okay. I wear polos in my sleep, and khakis with sneakers. I’ve been hunting and think baseball is America’s pastime, but football is better. God, I’m white. But frankly, my feet have not gotten the memo, because the only shoes I wear are DOOOOPE. I do a lot of performing around town, either stand-up or improv (WAKKA WAKKA JOKESANDJOKESANDJOKESANDJOKES), and the only shoes I’ll perform in are Air Force Ones. And color is a must. Currently, I’m working two pairs: the Highlighters and the Purple Reigns, although these are clearly the dream pair.
Okay, not really, but I’m getting there. My senior year of college I found this really skinny kid whose parents were Ukrainian gymnasts or something. I referred to him only as “The Guy.” Now, being the Might Morphin’ Power Rangers aficionado I was in grade school, I master such ninja/gymnastic techniques as “The Cartwheel” and “The Roundoff” with great dexterity. So I cornered this kid in the gym one day and asked him for gymnastics lessons and he was ridiculously nice and obliged. Now I can do handstands and – NO JOKING – front handsprings. Seeing the portly, balding kid at a party? Whatever. Seeing that same guy doing FRONT FREAKING FLIPS? Priceless. Currently, I’m honing my upper body strength for a back-flipping out of a roundoff. Because that’s Bruce Lee business right there.
4.) Won a Literary Contest
5.) Committed murder
Actually didn’t do this, but watching all of these Law and Order marathons, wearing weird shoes, and driving my jalopy around St. Louis gives me the feeling that at any moment the cops are going to question me about something minor, and I’m going to start acting “suspiciously” by sweating profusely or stuttering, one of which I do all the time and the other I do when being questioned about things I actually know nothing about. I swear. I didn’t do NOTHING man. I don’t know what DNA is, how could I have put it at a crime scene? Yo, man, I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU W-W-W-W-WITHOUT MY LAWYER.
There’s an unoften noticed flaw to being stocky, husky, or any other adjective that describes me and my fellow people who are described as not tall, but also of a portly build: people want to fight you.
Maybe it’s not necessarily that they WANT to fight you, but it’s a fight that most people think they can win and they can do it without looking like they were drawing an easy confrontation. Nobody’s going to walk up and nail the biggest guy in the room, and picking on a liliputian nerd just looks lousy. Where are we? Middle School? You’re not going to be the hero putting little Winslow in his place.
Anyway, so I always get the feeling in bars and such that if anyone’s going to take a swing, it’ll probably be my dome on the recieving end. Call it neurosis. That and I have a proclivity to give a wet willy or two to bystanding jabronies. And while I haven’t been in a fight in years and years, I’m always assuming there’s one on the horizon.
I’d like to think my years of adolescent Tae Kwon Do lessons would help me in a bar fight, but I really, really doubt it.
Everyone has that Bruce Lee fantasy, one in which some big meathead comes in causing a scene, and you, like a silent knight, peacefully request he keep it down and be respectful. This only angers the oaf, who demands a fight. You say no, and begin to walk away. The bruiser stikes you – BEHIND THE BACK, THE COWARD – and only after drawing your blood will he suffer the jealous might of your fists, feet, and cunning. There may or may not be a fatality, depending on the atmosphere (club scene? No. All-male surroundings? Yes). But it will all be just. This is the dream of all Caucasians taking any kind of martial arts.
And this has never happened. First of all, even when I was at my most limber and doing all that, I never kicked. We’d spar and it’d just be a boxing match in which the other guy could kick and I couldn’t hoist my fat leg above my opponent’s hip. All this kung fu business also limits my inherent strength: sheer mass, enough of which to withstand even the mightiest of blows. Remember that guy who took the bowling ball to the gut? How tall do you think he was? About 5’10”, that’s right. Which isn’t short, by the way. It’s average.
I might be able to throw a nice block or two, HIYAH. But it wouldn’t be anything my opponent probably wouldn’t also have learned by playing a couple of hours of Mortal Kombat or Street Fighter. And there’s nothing in any known martial art to account for the two great factors of bar fighting: broken glass and bouncers. They are invincible.
I haven’t been following this whole Brett Favre texting his weiner to some people very closely. One website I follow pretty closely, Kissing Suzy Kolber, offered to show it to me, as one of their founders works for Deadspin, who unearthed the penis.
I declined. No, really, I’ve never seen it.
But luckily I have-…. NO, I HAVEN’T SEEN IT, I SWEAR TO GOD. I DO NOT WANT TO SEE BRETT FAVRE’S DONG. But luckily I have the sleepy village of Asia to re-enact every sordid detail of the event through the wizardry that is CGI. Yes, like Toy Story. Just like Toy Story. Only BETTER.
- I love the depiction of the NFL investigators. High fiving around an office, chest bumping, fist pumping. I like to imagine this is how it really is. “Oh yeah! We’ve been handling substance abuse cases ALL DAY, and FINALLY we get a dong-in-text! From BRETT FRIGGIN FAVRE! SCOOORE!”
- The Doghouse. Clinton. Tiger. Now, Favre. And they’re READY to PARTY!
All in all, pretty awesome.
Seriously, stop asking if I’ve seen Brett Favre’s weiner.