Archive for October, 2010

Is Soviet Russia, Wolves Will Fucking Eat You.

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on October 21, 2010 by Colin Walker

Okay, so here at the playground you know we don’t do real news right? You may have noticed. If you haven’t noticed that yet, you either don’t pay attention to the content, or the name of this site. Anyway, I bring that up because here we are perilously close to covering actual news. The only thing that makes this an exception is that what we’re talking about happened more than five thousand miles away in Moscow.

Now I know that distance does not dictate the impact of events. Some of you are probably all like, “Coddy, that whole Hati ‘Just Shake Your Rump’ fiasco happened like one thousand miles away from you, and you hardly said anything about that.” Others will say, “Big Daddy Cod-knock, that BP ocean-rape deal was more than a thousand miles away, and you did little more than award them The Meat Suit with little commentary.” Well, to those I say, Who the fuck are you talking to, anyway? What the hell is a Cod-knock, and how are we even friends? Did you become emotionally attached to me when you saw me sleeping with your mom that time,  and I’ve been unable to shake your emotionally devastated ass off my coattails ever since? Also, in case you haven’t noticed, this is my goddamn playground, and I’ll write whatever I want, so there. If you’re wondering what distance constitutes safe coverage by this site on important matters, let’s just say it’s whatever the fuck I feel like it is. Okay? Good.

So. You guys have seen the shirts, and the ‘art’, right? You know the stuff I’m talking about. With the wolves? I’ll give you a few examples.

And, obligatory:

That last one was so famous that it inspired its own internet meme, and wound up on an episode of The Office. Look, different people have different tastes, and that’s fine. What I might think is gaudy and almost laughably tacky, you might really enjoy. Wolves are animals, and I love and respect all animals. Whether I’m wearing them, ingesting them, feeding them, picking their runny feces off of my floor , or petting them, I’ve got mad love for the entire animal kingdom. Some animals, I would rather appreciate from afar. Like on the TV. Wolves would be listed among this last group. Some of you insist that wolves are majestic, honorable creatures. And I wonder if the same people would think that if a pack of wolves was running right fucking for them.

Okay. That right there is a Russian cop that pulled over to the side of the road, only to have to jump back into his car when a motherfucking wolf pack came running down the highway. Holy shit. Hey guys, you know what I don’t expect when I get out of my car in an urban area? A wolf pack! Just sayin’. Some of you are all like, “Cod-biscuit, I see animals all the time on the highway, broham, what’s the big deal?” I’ll say back, fuck you, those are wolves. And here’s something worse:

 

They just rolled into the center of Moscow.

Yep. A  fucking pack of wolves. is running around a city of  more than ten million. That’s more populous than New York City. And there is a wolf pack. Could you imagine?

“Hey, James, wanna go down to Ace Of Clubs and see The Marine Electric?”

“Oh jeez, Clint, you know I would, but I’m being chewed on by fucking wolves.

“That’s ironic.”

“That’s not what irony even mea….AAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHH!!!11!

Rush Limbaugh Says Obama Looks ‘Demonic’ In Recent Photos

Posted in Uncategorized on October 19, 2010 by Colin Walker

“Is there a fucking TRAIN behind me?”

General asshat, and current favorite guy around here, Rush ‘Oxydaddy’ Limbaugh, said on his radio show Monday:

“These pictures, they look demonic,” Limbaugh said of the Obama photos. “And I don’t say this lightly. There are a couple pictures, and the eyes, I’m not saying anything here, but just look. It is strange that these pictures would be released….It’s very, very, very strange. An American president has never had facial expressions like this. At least we’ve never seen photos of an American president with facial expressions like this.”

Oh, you fat, fear-mongering bastard. Anyone can take a bad picture.

You WILL Buy Pizza From Gary Busey

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on October 19, 2010 by Colin Walker

Oh sweet Jesus. I make up shit. A lot. It’s kind of my thing. I don’t get paid for it (yet), but goddamn. Just when I thought I was good, Donald Trump, well…trumps me. Even I would have never imagined the awesomeness of Gary Busy, Lil’ John, and some country guy (John Rich), out on the street, among real, human beings, selling pizza. Man, it must be close to Halloween. Donald Trump is the sickest fucker on the planet.

Not for John Rich, who, honestly, if I was inside him, I wouldn’t know who he was. And not for Lil’ John, who, if shouted at me: “Buy some damn pizza, YEEEEEEAH!” I would gladly go in and buy a slice just for a cool story to tell. But, unleashing the morbid juggernaut that is Gary “I’ll rip out your endocrine system and wear it as a hat” Busey on the god-fearing public as a pizza busker? Holy shit. That’s like summoning the ghost of John Wayne Gacy to be the clown at your kid’s birthday party.

“Hello, police? I’d like to report a theft. my socks have stolen my pants. And I think I stole someone’s deodorant. And ate a baby. Where the hell am I?”

That shit is dangerous! Donald Trump is the type of guy to detonate a nuclear weapon in Austin, just to see how funny it was. Then he would sell “nuclear protection” to Dallas. Because he is a motherfucking gangster.

Fuck The Police

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on October 19, 2010 by Colin Walker

Sometimes, you have to shrug off the chains of society and let loose with some good ol’ fashioned anti-establishment behavior.

Oh shit, son. I have a new hero, and he flings poo. That chimp is so off the rails that he qualifies as his own jurisdiction. That fucking chimp is my new life coach.

Me: “But Mr. Ironcock, (the chimp’s name is Thelonious Ironcock) I just don’t know what to do about this terse situation at work. My supervisor is such a harsh taskmaster.”

Thelonious Ironcock: “Did you try bashing him with a trashcan? Throwing feces at him?”

Me: “Well, no…I…”

Thelonious Ironcock: “HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING I’VE TAUGHT YOU?”  *Smacks me open-handed across the mouth.*

Also, the commentary in this video is top-notch. “Look at ’em! He’s smashing it!” Why am I not surprised that there is a chimp running free and causing havoc in this neighborhood? His owner was probably way too busy in his meth-lab to remember to lock up the enclosure. It happens.

And the cop? Shit how do you explain that on the damage report?

Hell yes.

“Two frogs fell into a bowl of cream. One didn’t panic, he relaxed and drowned. The other kicked and struggled so much that the cream turned to butter and he walked out.”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on October 18, 2010 by Colin Walker

In Loving Memory

Mr. Froggy

2002-October 17 2010

Let me first say this: The life of a frog can suck. If you were a frog, you would be small, soft, and slimy. The slimy bit you probably wouldn’t mind, having never known anything else, but the small and soft part? Not so advantageous. Frogs are kind of like the 12-year old girl of animals. They have more predators than a Dateline special. Literally everything eats frogs. Snakes, birds, fish, lizards, small mammals, large mammals, hell even us. (Well, not me and mine, because we’re not fucking savages, but you know what I mean.)

So, for a frog to live for eight years…Well let’s just say if there was a Boston Post Cane for that sort of thing, the eight year old frog would have it laid across its lap, while sitting on his front porch, eating a raw onion and telling everyone to get the hell off of his lawn.

My fiancée was at Home Depot in 2002, looking for some plants. She saw a small frog in one of them, clinging to the leaves. It was a tropical plant. Knowing that the frog was not indigenous to this area, she knew she had to save it. (If you know her, you’re just nodding your head at this bit.) She loves frogs, my fiancée. She has a collection of frog kick-knacks. She has a frog tattoo, she has anatomically correct frogs that kind of freak me out. She had a terrarium with frogs in it that were worth more than my car. She has so much frog stuff that she told people years ago to stop getting frog items for her. You know anybody like that? It doesn’t work. People know you like (insert animal here) shit, and they just keep getting it for you, from now ’til the end of time. When she passes away, I can just see someone ponying up the money for a Kermit the Frog urn. That’s how real it is.

And before you ask, no.

So, she has a 10 gallon tank. She gets a screen top and some medium. A stick is either bought or found, I’m not sure. There is a concrete wading pool/ kill ocean that he likes to hang out by. She buys some plastic leaves with a suction cup for the side of the tank. When too many crickets start to perish in the Concrete Ocean of Death, she buys these plastic afro-leaves that float in the water, so that if the crickets find themselves reenacting the last few minutes of James Cameron’s ‘Titanic’, they can get up on these poly-flotation devices and be saved. (This was only a temporary reprieve, Mr. Froggy was a gangster-ass cricket killing bio weapon.)

Pictured: Wishing a motherfucker would.

His name started out being Li-Li, but at some point, I was  speaking as him, and referred to myself in the third person as Mr. Froggy. There was a very bad masculine French accent involved because I am still 10 in my mind. The name stuck, and he was Mr. Froggy from that point on.

He wasn’t the most entertaining pet, but he subscribed to the Harper Lee theory: Don’t give them a lot, but what you do give, make it good. He was stationary most of the time, but out of nowhere, he would go barrel-assing across the underside of the wire top of his tank like an Italian acrobat. He would sing at 1:30 in the morning, and nobody cared that it was late. He did it so rarely, that when he chimed in, it was almost like hearing the voice of a minor deity.

His tongue struck like a hellfire missile. He could make it from one end of his tank to the other in a leap that in proportion to you or me, would be like us jumping across town. He was, in short, reservedly bad-ass. For months, our fat orange cat took up residence on top of his tank, effectively blocking out most of his light. Did Mr. Froggy give a fuck? No. not a single fuck was given.

When I first got with my fiancée, she told me she expected him to live about five years. He made it eight. sitting on his rock, in his pond, or on his stick, he was the very definition of chill. I’m glad that we could give him such a good life. I loved him, and I know that she did, too.

He passed sometime on Saturday. We knew he was going, but it was still a bad scene. We wish we could have done more for him.

Goodbye, Mr. Froggy. You will be missed.

“Damn it feels good to be a gangster.”