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July 22nd, 2008
06:25 pm
Gnomes are magical creatures that live in the enchanted forests of the world. Shy and retiring, you are unlikely ever to see one with your own eyes. If you do, don't take any candy from them. Gnome candy is full of rape.
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June 20th, 2008
07:33 pm
ATTENTION HENCHMEN:
 Please review this henchman's orientation pamphlet thoroughly—it could save your life! Even if you have been a henchman or henchwoman before, you are strongly encouraged to read carefully, as our organization, under the leadership of the great and terrible Colonel Cronos, operates under slightly different guidelines than you may be used to, and failure to adhere to those guidelines may result in your being strangled to death for the amusement of others, thrown into the Pit of Holy Fuck is it Awful in Here, fitted for Arabian Goggles or stripped of pudding privileges for 1-8 weeks, depending on the severity of your offense.
But before we get into all the dull stuff, we'd like to answer a few Frequently Asked Questions, because it's just not a good idea for you to ask them yourself.
Q: Is it true that Colonel Cronos lost his testicles trying to fuck a particle accelerator?
A: No. And, by the way, that particle accelerator was totally asking for it.
Q: Oh. Was it from shooting super-soldier serum into his taint? I totally heard that somewhere.
A: What are you, 80 years old? They stopped making the serum in the late fifties. Now it's all suppositories.
Q:Wait, so he still has his testicles?
A: Yes and no. Yes being that they are in a jar and in his possession, no being that what sticks to his leg on a hot day is 100% robotic.
Q: So how did it happen?
A: Suffice it to say that one should never, ever, ever attempt to add a twelfth herb or spice. That's just playing God, and all you get out of that is cursed jigglies.
Q: Wait? So he's one of those phony chicken colonels?
A: Just don't ask this question. The person who did was placed in a room with an apparatus that simultaneously mixed in both a twelfth herb and a thirteenth spice. Wherever he is now, we can assure you he is not having a good time.
Q: I think I've seen him before. Wasn't he the Diabolical Dr. Dicklicker?
A: Yes, but he has since stopped rollerblading.
Well, that's that. If you have any further questions, don't hesitate to ask the Human Resources Manager in your sector of operation, who will then kill you for your insolence. Or just reject your request for vacation time. It really depends. They're just a bunch of unpredictable dicks.
Equipment:
Along with this orientation pamphlet, you also have recieved the practical elements of your Henchman's Career Kit—the tools of the trade, as it were. You should have:
1) Uniform and Scrotility Belt
2) An assortment of organically-grown, hand crafted assault teas. As your training and probationary period progresses, you will be certified in some of the most lethal teas ever stapled into the same sort of cloth they make drier sheets out of. Fuck, I never thought about that before. That is so gross. Your kit should include:
a) Hurl Grey, 10 bags: causes explosive vomitting
b) English Feckless, 8 bags: -5 Charisma, -20 Intelligence.
c) Chamomile Holocaust, 7 bags: Impale your enemy with relaxation!
d) Peanut Surprise, 8 bags: Some people are allergic, you know. Just try foiling things when your head looks like a Macy's Parade Balloon,
e) Orange Pekoe, 3 bags: Not really dangerous, but when you're storming a fortress in the Arctic, you could do with the vitamin C. Good with honey.
3) Nude photos of the Colonel.
Perks and Amenities:
This isn't your father's Evil Army...we care. Or at least we're willing to consider caring at some point. At any rate, we offer a wide variety of perks, fringe benefits and amenities to our henchmen, because hey—we're a team. We're all in this together. If we could perpetrate acts of unspeakable inapropriateness by ourselves, we would. But we can't. We need you, and we appreciate you efforts.
The Break Room: Foos ball! A discount vending machine with soda, chips, cigarettes and deadly neurotoxins! Free coffee, for qualifying henchmen. Coffee is for killers. Kill someone, then you can have coffee. Otherwise, keep your grubby little paws off.
Death Benefits: If you are killed in the line of duty, nobody is going to rape your corpse. That's our promise to you*.
Legal Protection: If you are apprehended in the course of your duties by any law enforcement or intelligence agency, you will be protected by the best legal representation that money can't not buy in Uraguay.
Duties:
Let's be honest. You're just here to be one of the faceless many blown into pieces by some nemesis or nemeses in furtherance of some pointless conflict that doesn't really make any sense. All you really have to do is hit the gym so that when you're killed in your skintight uniform, the big load in your shorts is more embarrassing than your big man-boobies.
* Protection against corpse-rape not available in all locations. Sorry, Tennessee!
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June 19th, 2008
08:03 pm
Alright, this is goddamn annoying.
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07:23 pm - Oh, it's all fun and games
CPU Fan in eye = Dance all night
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June 18th, 2008
11:33 pm - Upon some reflection, getting off the pot is not a viable option
I have been doing a great deal of thinking about my life lately. Where I thought it would go when I was younger, where it is now, and what the hell any of it all means.
At any rate, I have decided that I have, for all these years, been on the pot. Dilly-dallying. Woolgathering. Coasting. On the fence. I have decided that it's high time to get off the pot, and you know what that means— TIME TO SHIT, Y'ALL!
Incidentally, one of the few good things about my phone is that it can do a proper em dash.
But I digress. No more half-measures. Sure, being a porno foot-soldier is all well and good, but there is just so much more evil to be done. Big fuck-all death rays to build. Lairs to construct. Insane world-domination schemes to enact.
Phase 1: Gross inapropriateness.
Status: Completed, and then some.
Phase 2: Standard villainy
Status: Depends on who you ask.
Phase 3: Super villainy
Status: Coming soon!
Now recruiting henchmen. References WILL be checked.
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June 13th, 2008
09:40 pm
Why did the chicken cross the road?
( Answer )
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June 10th, 2008
May 31st, 2008
May 24th, 2008
02:53 pm
Right then. Just back from seeing Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull Script Written by Erich Von Daniken Forest of Improbabilities Whole Bunch of Shit that Doesn't Really Make Much Fucking Sense At All, Does It?
Looking back on it, though, I should have known. Sean Connery turned down the opportunity to have a cameo in the film. Just reflect upon those five words: Sean Connery. Turned Down. Film.
The same Sean Connery who has lent his presence to such gems as Zardoz, Highlander II, and the Avengers, declined to participate.
At any rate, right as I have been writing this, an email cam from the ticketing thingie soliciting a review about my recent moviegoing experience:
Now that you have seen the movie, how would you rate Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull?
Excellent
Very Good
Good
Fair
[x] Poor
In the spaces below, please list the names of all the movies for which you remember seeing an in-theater coming attraction (preview) before the beginning of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull:
Will Smith playing a superhero who gets drunks and gives handjobs or something
Kung Pao Panda
Something about the Metric System, I can't remember what it's called why didn't you send me this until after I sobered up
By the way, I object to their not being a checkbox for "Shitty beyond belief"
One of the few genuinely entertaining moments? Shia LaBouef or however the fuck you spell it dressed like a Tom of Finland lithograph. Sure, sure, it was supposed to evoke Brando in The Wild One, but it ended up looking less like an early-fifties depiction of juvenile delinquency and more like a late-fifties depiction of what happen right before someone's fist is slathered in axle grease.
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May 23rd, 2008
06:35 pm
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May 20th, 2008
08:14 pm - Garry Kasparov and a FLYING PENIS.
No, seriously. A flying penis.
Now if the Obama-Clinton contest was more like this and less like a tedious, drawn out rendition of "Anything you can do I can do better," maybe I wouldn't want to vomit every time I see one of the fucking jerks.
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May 2nd, 2008
May 1st, 2008
05:19 pm - Just when you though it was safe to look out your balcony...
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April 22nd, 2008
04:52 pm
Alright, if these douchebags don't knock it off soon with the same five high-volume hip-hop songs all day, every day I am going to put speakers facing the floor and blast the fuckers with Metal Machine Music. Both barrels. No mercy.
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April 20th, 2008
09:03 pm
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, dear Hitler
Happy birthday to you
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April 18th, 2008
12:41 pm - Well then—isn't that just fucking festive
A few minutes ago, I went onto the balcony of the apartment I will soon be vacating because the pigfuckers that own it are jacking up the rent by 20 percent. La dee da, just an average day in these here fancy fucking luxury apartments that are totally worth the price.
Hello, what's that down there by the pool?
 Why hello there, you loveable-but-hardly-hygeinic scamp? What brings you to my neck of the woods on this fine day? 
Ah, right then. Carry on. I have to go inside now and boil myself.
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April 16th, 2008
08:41 pm
It all started out normally enough. I am one of those people who is occasionally subject to the Jimmy Legs. From time to time, they start wiggling, flailing, kicking and sort of itching on the inside. Well, sort of inbetween itching and feeling like they've gone to sleep, which I most certainly haven't. After a while, they gave this a more medical-sounding sort of name: Restless Legs Syndrome. Naturally, a lot of people think it's a bullshit disease that the pharmaceutical industry made up just so they can sell another drug to people at an obscene markup.
While the markup is indeed obscene, the disease is real. You want a phony? Lyme disease. No such thing. They do it all with subliminal messages and microwaves and satellites. I have it on good authority that profits from Lyme disease have fallen off significantly in the past few years, so all the eggheads have been hard at work cooking up a successor: Lemmon-Lyme Disease, twice as awful, three times as refreshing and still caffeine-free, so as not to offend the Mormons.
Anyway, it's a real condition and the drug they've cooked up for it actually does work. There's a catch, though—in all the literature and commercials and what-have-you, special care is taken to mention some of the drug's more exotic side-effects. To whit, "increased gambling, sexual or other strong urges."
"Fine," I said to myself, "to hell with it. I may end up with a venereal disease and a significant debt to a mean dude named Rocco, but at least I'll be able to sleep." The latter was what gave me the most pause, but my physician assured me that the most effective treatment for Restless Legs Syndrome was, in fact. Broken Legs Syndrome, which completely supercedes the former condition and, to boot, you can weasel betterdrugs out of it.
Three weeks later, wiggle-free in the limbs and probably more well-rested than I had been in at least a decade, the ugly truth suddenly dawned on me as I perused a racing form, resting in the small of the back of a tranny I was cornholing...
"Wait a second; 'Other strong urges?' what the fuck does that mean?"
Sometimes, you just shouldn't ask questions. Early next week, a grand jury will begin the long and tedious process of determining three important legal questions: 1) Is performing a nude puppet show of Black Sabbath's classic, but internally inconsistent, Iron Man, with one's metallically-painted member playing the title role obscene? 2) Is there a medical exemption? and, most importantly 3) What the fuck? Is that Paul Schaffer? What the hell does he have to do with anything?
My lawyers have advised that, for the time being, I stop taking the medication. They're afraid that the drug may inspire an even worse interpretation of The Sweet's Ballroom Blitz, which is all too likely.
So if anyone would like to come over and break my legs, I would be most appreciative.
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April 8th, 2008
10:21 pm - Better get yourself together, darling
 Fred Phelps — Finally Phucked?
In July of 1900 and 98, Victoria Keenan and her son Jason had a bit of car trouble while driving through Hayden Lake, Idaho, the worldwide headquarters of the Aryan Nations. It proved to be mildy unfortunate for the Keenans that their passing roused the compound's guards from their usual pastime—dreaming of a whites-only Christmas—in that those guards then shot at the Keenans, riddling their vehicle with bullets, then held them at gunpoint.
Ultimately, it proved to be completely unfortunate for the Aryan Nations and its leader, the Revereand Richard "Licker" Butler. With the aid of the Southern Poverty Law Center, the Keenans brought suit against the Aryan Nations and won a judgment to the tune of $6.3 million. I've never heard that tune, myself, but I hear it's got a solid beat and you can dance to it. In gold shoes. With prostitutes that lactate cocaine. in Hawaii.
Since the Aryan Nations was primarily funded by donations from people who spend the larger part of their income on trailer rents, mullet wax and contraceptive foam to prevent their sisters fron birthing their hideous mutant flipper-children, they had no means whatsoever to pay $6 million they now owed. On a good day, I don't think they could have come up with bus fare to Boise for more than two people, maybe three when Greyhound still offered a flipper-child discount.
So the Hayden Lake coumpound was deeded to the Keenans, along with all the other assets of the Aryan Nations, which consisted of: 1 Blow-Up Hitler Doll with Realistic Vibrating Anus, 35 barrels of Swensen's Old-Fashioned Mullet Wax (if you can find a better mullet wax, you buy it!), 3 mimeograph machines, an amusing clock where a German fellow comes out once an hour and drops his pants, a collection of highly illegal French lithographs, and all of the Aryan Nations' intellectual property, as confusing a concept as that may be to work ones head around.
This is, of course, old news. I will, however, restate my disappointment that the Keenans did not take advantage of their acquisition of IP to release an Arayan Nations Energy Drink, with a variety of mixed-race gay men making love to one another on the label a-la Jones Soda.
That being said, it looks like the Westboro Baptist Church is in for a similar sad end. Not satisfied with picketing every event even remotely related to any degree of discernable gayness that they were able to get to, these fun-loving rascals decided to up the ante and put a little more zazz into their protests by picketing the funerals of US servicemen killed in Iraq, Afghanistan and—better late than never, I guess—the workplace of a retired Marine who had stubbed his toe in Grenada and may or may not have secretly enjoyed The Birdcage. The reasoning behind this being, of course, that these men and women were dying not because they were sent into a flying jugfuck by an unholy cabal of shit-eating monsters, but because we don't kill enough gays in this country and God will continue to punish us in all sorts of ways apparently interpretable only by the one true prophet and his magical cowboy hat of faggotry. So they went a-here and a-there, gloating over every corpse they could get to.
The father of one of these unfortunate persons, one Albert Snyder of Maryland, filed suit in federal court for intentional infliction emotional distress and invasion of privacy by intrusion on seclusion. He won, initially, $2.9 million in compensatory damages and $8 million in punitive damages; this was, even if the punitive damages had not been reduced by $5.9 million, about $10.8 million more than these dicks could afford to pay, spending as they do so much money on day-glo rasta signs, bicycle pants and, of course, travel and lodging expenses incurred in going to and fro about the country to be hateful to people they had never given them offense.
There have been appeals, but if things keep going the way they have been, Phelps & Co. are going to be proper fucked. Both the church property and the properties owned by Phelps Chartered have had liens placed on them. Both Shirley Phelps-Roper and Rebekah Phelps-Davis have been ordered to post a $100,000 bond on their homes to prevent confiscation. It simply doesn't look good.
Now there's the mean, evil part of me that just wants to see these pricks get there comeuppance and die penniless in the gutter. But there's also the part of me that hopes that those who are still capable can take this catacylsm as a warning from whatever power there is in the universe that eventually wounds all heels. It's not holding its breath, but it's there. It's learned realism over the years.
Take it away, John.
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March 25th, 2008
06:35 pm
All you video game queers should get a kick out of this.
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