Archive for Bullshit

Auditing The Aggregator, Examining Buzzfeed’s DIY Advice

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on April 11, 2013 by Colin Walker

If you’re on the internet, you probably know about Buzzfeed. If you don’t, I’m surprised as all hell that you even found my site and am genuinely wondering how you get through your day without seeing infants covered in french bulldogs, or counting down the 20 absolute best, OF ALL TIME Game of Thrones memes.

impin-aint-easy-tryion-meme This one is my favorite.

Buzzfeed is a pop culture aggregator, meaning that it grabs (or has submitted to it) various bits of pop culture related nonsense from around the web. It’s like the Huffington post, except instead of news, it’s wedding DJ fails, and as far as I can tell, Buzzfeed doesn’t want to take away my firearms.

Lately, Buzzfeed seems to be trying to branch out, adding numerous topics and subcategories, attempting to be everything to everyone without really being a news site. I stumbled on their DIY section the other day and saw an article: 20 Simple Tricks To Make Spring Cleaning So Much Easier . I read though it and cried bullshit on so many entries I decided to write an article, breaking down every one of these tips and grading them from 1-10. So, here we go, aggregating an aggregator who probably aggregated the tips from another aggregator.

scanners4 I find it hard to believe that this is the fist time I’ve used this image.

1. Use a dustpan to fill up a bucket for mopping.

enhanced-buzz-23073-1363194741-16Classy.

I suppose this works, so you’ll get at least some points. When I was locked up, I remember we used to get a bunch of those empty Cup o’ Noodles cups, bust the bottoms out of them and force them together, connect them to the sink and do something kind of like this so we could bill up large containers with water. But, you know what the difference was? We were in fucking prison.  Out in the free world there are hoses, sink sprayer, utility sinks, bathtubs and even showers. People who do this build Rube Goldbergs to wash their own feet. 3/10.

2. Clean Your Toilet With Coke.

enhanced-buzz-19231-1363127809-1 Thursday was burrito night, Today is Friday.

Do you know how much bleach is per gallon? It’s like a buck. Do you know how much Coke is per gallon? Way fucking more. Do you know what the number 1 bathroom cleaners mostly use as an ingredient? Bleach. (Or ammonia, mix them together for hilarious results!*) So, not only does this cost more, it looks gross as well. I know Coke is great for getting alkali deposits off of battery terminals, but let’s stop there, shall we? Fuck, I can’t even look at that anymore. 1/10

*Do NOT do this.

3. Use A Lemon To Get Rid Of Water Stains

enhanced-buzz-23729-1363201732-27 “What do you mean what the fuck am I doing? Zesting the shower handle guard…DUH!”

Ok, I’m sure this works. The citric acids will break down the base deposits and, magic time! No more spots! It will also leave a residue and possibly some membrane behind. Wal-mart sells these wipes like, 20 to a can that will do the same thing in one swoop. But maybe you’re on that environmental shit, and you don’t want to use those. You’ll still wind up using a paper towel to go behind and buff off all that residue, and because you’re one of those hemp bracelet wearing motherfuckers, I’ll bet the paper towels you have are those silly-ass brown ones. Damn.

l And take that stupid fucking necklace off.

4/10

4. Dryer Sheets Will Remove Buildup From Glass

enhanced-buzz-23595-1363201764-3

Maybe they will. But you know what else will? Those cleaner you’re supposed to have under the sink. Why did you walk all the way to the laundry room? 4/10

5.Keep your Cleaning Supplies Neat With A Tension Rod

enhanced-buzz-11061-1363191738-5 Ooooh, is dat some Goo Gone in the corner? I love that shit.

This is actually a great idea, so it will get some points. But, I gotta ask, if you’ve got all this stuff, WHY HAVE WE BEEN MUCKING ABOUT WITH COKE, DRYER SHEETS AND LEMONS? 8/10

6. Meet Your New BFF, The Magic Eraser

enhanced-buzz-23789-1363201546-1 My favorite gay janitor OF ALL TIME,

These things are the truth. they are absolutely great. But is this really advice? Seems more like product placement. -1 for that. Also, -1 for using ‘BFF’. 8/10

7. Get Fur Off Of Carpet Or Furniture With A Window Squeegee

enhanced-buzz-23809-1363201796-12 “Honey, this is the absolute last time I shave your mother’s back.”

In 1860, Daniel Hess invented the first vacuum cleaner. It was as big as a train. Leaps and bounds have been made in the design of these machine since then. Currently, there are even models that fit inside of a closet, and are specifically designed to handle human and animal hair. These devices also prevent your wife from crying after coming home and finding you doing this, saying that she ‘should have listened to her mother.’ 0/10

8. Use Coarse Salt To Clean Cast Iron

enhanced-buzz-24016-1363202225-9 Needs more pig stomach

This works great, but what’s not mentioned in the article is that you need to apply a thin layer of oil afterward, or your cast iron pan will turn into a rusty piece of metal. 5/10

9.Towel + Broom + A Way To Clean Hard To Reach Places

enhanced-buzz-24318-1363202189-4 Like a condom on an afro.

Um, yeah, I guess? But, you could always grow up and, oh, I dunno…

4f2ad41f13e69 LNV361_full SMF11829GGB_1_1 instead. 4/10

10. Clean Screens With Coffee Filters

enhanced-buzz-24016-1363202058-7 Also, get a new goddamn TV. The last Aiwa product I owned was a walkman.

I’m almost convinced at this point that this article was originally titled: Using Shit That Was Never Meant To Clean Shit, To Clean Said Shit And Thereby Laughing In The Face Of God. So, sure, fuck it, if this works, go ahead and do it. If you need me, I’ll be outside using my wife’s panties to wax my car. 9/10, cause, just, why not at this point?

11. Get all The Grossness Out Of Your Keyboard With A Toothbrush And Cotton Swabs

enhanced-buzz-13125-1363197568-2 *hurk*

Oh, oh hell no. Okay, look–do you know how long it’s been since Microsoft Made and sold that white keyboard? It’s been a long fucking time. Apple makes white keyboards now, but they’re coated, not porous. But, I don’t blame you for not having a Mac. You’re not an asshole, that’s good in my book. But seriously, you can buy a nice, new black keyboard for $11 at Best Buy. Do that. Now. 1/10

12. Don’t Miss The Tiny Spots, Like On Window And Sliding Door Frames

enhanced-buzz-9052-1363191845-20

Hey, when you’re cleaning, don’t forget to clean. Also, when having heterosexual intercourse, the penis goes in the vagina. I am now a certified DIY columnist. 3/10

13. Make Everything In your Fridge Organized And Easily Accessible

enhanced-buzz-24202-1363202021-10 Fuck you, I won’t do what ya tell me.

I agree with the actual entry, but this is the pic that accompanied it. You ever see the inside of a fridge door? There are places for all that stuff. And it’s not taking up valuable real estate that could be used for, I dunno, food? 2/10

14. Store Condiments In Egg Carton To Prevent Spills

enhanced-buzz-22326-1363201901-2 Not a bad idea, as long as you switch them out if they get funky. I am now envious of Alton Brown’s fabulous variety of mustard. 9/10

15. Fold Shirts Vertically To Maximize Space And Visibility

enhanced-buzz-23937-1363201853-0 That looks great! I’m sure it will look just as great when you remove four or five shirts from one of those tight rows! Oh, no, wait, it will go to shit. 3/10

16. Properly Fold A Fitted Sheet

enhanced-buzz-28508-1363196004-4

Black. Fucking. Magic. 10/10

17. De-pill Your Clothes With A Razor And Some Tape

enhanced-buzz-21192-1363187117-1

I have no Idea if this works or not, but it looks sound. 7/10

18. Vacuum Seal Bulky Clothes And Blankets For Storage

enhanced-buzz-13996-1363200026-3

This is another win. It also works with hookers if you have a deep freeze. 10/10

19. Use The Hangar Trick To Get Rid Of Clothes You Don’t Wear Anymore

enhanced-buzz-13230-1363196885-10

Caption:  Hang all your clothes so your hangers face backward. When you wear something, turn the hanger around. After a year, if something is still on a backward hanger, give it away.

This could very well work. I don’t know, I have a wife who looks after things like this because she has to be seen in public with me. If something of mine gets old, or she doesn’t like it, it disappears, and I get some new clothes. I’d like to add something, though, if you have a t-shirt that says, ‘Wassssuuuppp!’, or ‘2 legit 2 quit’, or if that shit has a dragon on it? Throw that shit out.  7/10

20. And The Best Possible Advice, Drink While You Clean!

enhanced-buzz-13745-1363198144-11 I shit you not, this was number 20. Here’s the caption: You know how sometimes you come home after a few drinks and have a strange, overwhelming urge to clean everything? Channel that feeling. The best part is when you wake up the next day and are genuinely surprised and delighted at how clean everything is.

Okay, who has that fucking feeling? I want to meet that person. They can come over any time. I’ll buy their beer. Also, if you routinely drink so much that you can’t remember what happened the night before, your chances favor finding a dead animal in your living room far more than finding it clean.  0/10

So, that’s it. And what’s the score? 98/200. So, most of this list is bullshit. And you can’t argue. This was all very scientific.

Community Service, Twenty-Four Hours In The Stead Of Presidential Hopeful Michelle Bachmann

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 17, 2011 by Colin Walker

Almost a month ago, I was sentenced to twenty-four hours of community service for charges that don’t bear re-hashing.  I was forced to write a letter of apology to the Catoctin Petting  Zoo, and fined three hundred dollars. There is also a civil suit pending, plaintiff listed as ‘Eddies Leather Fantasies, LLC’, in relation to the same case.

 It’s better if you don’t ask.

“The memory never fades! NEVER FADES!”

Being the procrastinator that I am, the deadline was almost upon me for the community service thing. I had to do something soon, or Judge McCallum would throw me back in the clink. Jail’s not that bad, but thirty days playing Spades and eating Little Debbie Strawberry Cupcakes conflicts with some other stuff I have going on, ( there’s a sheep museum opening in Gettysburg) so I had to get on this.

I brainstormed for a while on what I could do. Going back to the petting zoo was out, part of the ruling speculated some cute shit like I couldn’t go within five miles of the place. I thought of the Humane Society, or the local soup kitchen, but those animals and drunks weren’t really going anywhere, were they? If I was going to spend twenty-four hours doing something, I wanted it to be something that made a difference, something that mattered.

That’s when I discovered Michele Bachmann. I was on the internet, looking up something completely unrelated to petting zoos, and caught a news headline about her. If you don’t know who she is, I’ll tell you. She’s a United States Congress Woman from Minnesota , who is also running for President and who claims that gay people can be cured. She also has some really neat views on slavery, but I won’t go into them here. I barely had time to read them anyway. I was so enthused, so charged up about this whole ‘curing gays’ thing that I could think of little else. Yes. This. This is what I would do.

 I felt like I looked like this at that moment. Although I probably didn’t. I was on my couch in a bathrobe trying to clean up the Lucky Charms I spilled when I stood up before the dog could get to it.

I found the number online for Michelle’s campaign center and called it. A chipper male voice answered.

“Hello, thank you for calling the Bachmann election headquarters. We are most assuredly not racist homophobes.”

“Hello? Yes, I’d like to pledge some time to the cause.”

“That’s great to hear! America needs a strong leader right now, and Michelle Bachmann is this country’s best choice! What would you be interested in doing to help her become president and better this great land?”

“What?  Shit, nothing. I’m not interested in her getting elected. This curing gays thing, though. Yes. Hell to the yes.”

“Sir, that really isn’t the focus of Congresswoman Bachman’s campaign. I think if you would like to help-“

“Cut the shit man, listen. I’ve got to do twenty-four hours of community service. If I send you the paperwork, and cure a gay dude in twenty-fours hours, will you sign it?”

“I’m not sure…”

“If I can make a gay guy straight in twenty-four hours, will you sign it!?”

His voice dropped to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “Absolutely.”

 “It is ON!” I screamed. I hung up the phone and shouted, “Let’s Bachmann some shit up!” My dog looked at me disapprovingly.

 “Dude, don’t.”

So, now I needed a gay guy. I also needed a car. I haven’t had the money to get my Scion XB out of impound since it was towed from the petting zoo. I called up my pal Joey, who owned what is probably one of the most heterosexual cars on the planet, a 1978 Trans-Am.

 I mean look at that fucking thing, there’s a flaming cock right there on the hood. It doesn’t get straighter than this.

He agreed to lend me his car, because he doesn’t know me all that well. I went to the mall.

It didn’t take long. I spotted an effeminate boy with makeup on, hanging out with like-dressed parties outside of the Auntie Ann’s pretzel joint. I approached him.

“Excuse me, are you gay?” I asked, trying to sound forceful, but not too intimidating.

“Uh..what?” he answered.

“I asked if you were gay.” I said, and gestured to him.

“Uh…no? I don’t think so.”

“Then why?” I asked, gesturing to him again, trying to get him to fess up.

“I just like a certain genre of music. The way I dress doesn’t have anything to do with my sexuality. What the fuck is wr-“

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around. Standing there was a man, about six-two, wearing a tight t-shirt, workout pants, and sneakers.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a gay.” I said.

A gay?”

“Yes. I’m looking for a gay. I’ve taken on a community service project for some very important people and I need to find a gay to cure in twenty-four hours.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. My immediate future depends on it.”

“I’m gay.” he said.

“No, seriously. I need a gay man. So bad. Right now.”

I’m gay” he said emphatically. “I like men. Sexually.”

“Are you sure? You don’t really look like the type.”

“The type?”

“Yeah. You know, effeminate, flamboyant… whimsical? Are you sure you’re gay?”

“I’m pretty sure.” he said. “Let me ask you, how would you attempt to ‘cure’ me?”

I had to stop there, because I realized that I didn’t really know. I had been so excited with the concept of curing homosexuality, that I hadn’t really considered the process. I improvised.

“Ah, well, with shit. You know, manly-type shit. Doing man things and all.”

“Man things?’

“Fuck yeah!” I said, a little too enthusiastically. Other mall patrons were staring at me now. I lowered my voice. “Look, I could help you, I know I could. Give me a day. Hell, I’ll even kick in some Barbra Streisand CD’s.”

“What makes you think I like Barbara Streisand?” he asked.

“You don’t…? Listen, are you sure you’re gay? You’re kind of confusing me.”

“I’m sure it’s not the first time that’s happened.” he said. “Look, I’ll help you. This has the opportunity to be hilarious. When do we start?”

“Now.” I said, in my best ‘serious’ voice. Then I changed gears. “Let’s Bachmann some shit up!” This time, it was more than just my dog.

Outside, near the car:

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jeff.” he said.

“Geoff?” I asked, “Like with a ‘G’?”

“Why would it be with a ‘G’? I’m not British.”

“Whatever, Jeff. Have you ever seen a more manly automobile? Seriously, it’s like a dick with wheels.”

“And you think that makes it manly?”

“Shit, we play some Kiss in the stereo, you’ll be thinking about vagina before you know it.”

“I’m not getting in that. I’ll follow you in my car.”

“Baby steps, Jeff, baby steps.”

The Cure, Step One

A Trinity Of Manly Shit

Part One: Firearms

On my way back to my place, I called my buddy George. George had guns, lots of them. I’m not legally allowed to own guns because I’m way too awesome to conform to The Man. And apparently felony public exposure charges are a thing that actually exist. He answered on the third ring.

“Yeah?”

“George, I need guns, right now.”

“Oh hell no.”

“It’s not what you think. I’m trying to teach this gay guy to be straight. I’m going to cure him.”

“With guns?”

“Yes.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“No, I’m going to challenge him to a gun-off.”

“You mean like a duel?”

“No, we’re not shooting each other. Like, targets and shit.”

“You mean a shooting competition.”

“Right!”

“Oh good lord. Fine. I’ll bring two. Out back of your place?”

“Yes sir!” I said. “I’ll make sure you get them back.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not letting you out of my sight.” he said, and hung up.

Ten minutes later, George met Jeff and I in the field behind my house. He brought two guns. They were very…gunny? I don’t know. They looked like this:

 ‘Chic-chick-BOOM, Chick-chick-BOOM!’

Being the straight guy, I took the larger one with the longer barrel. There are probably some weird connotations there, but whatever. The point is, I didn’t want Jeff to be at any kind of disadvantage.

“You sure you want me to take the .38?” he asked.

“That’s cute.” I said. “Acting like you know guns.”

George set up two targets. The competition had begun.

“You see, Jeff. The gun is an extension of yourself. You’ve got to be one with the gun. Act like the gun is your penis. The target, obviously, is a vagina.

“If you say so.”

I gripped the gun in my right hand and pointed at the target. I fired all six shots as fast as I could. By the time I was done, the gun was pointing straight up in the air, and my palm and wrist hurt like it had been hit with a hammer. My target looked like this:

 What had happened was…

“I feel sorry for anyone who owns a vagina.” Jeff said. Then, “Actually, it’s probably the safest place on earth.”

He stepped to the line, took the gun in both hands and shot unhurriedly at his target.

 Fuck.

“I was thrown off.” I said. “The automatic was on too high.”

“These are revolvers.” Jeff said.

“Where did you learn about guns?” I asked.

“I grew up on a farm. My father taught me how to shoot.”

“Your father that won’t even speak to you anymore?” I asked.

“My father and I are actually very close.”

“Ringer!” I screamed. “Ringer!”

But all that didn’t matter. Because up next, was,

Part Two: Sports, Specifically Football

Football is a game of man’s men. That is no bullshit. It takes serious testicular fortitude you risk your body and grey matter running at huge dudes in an attempt to control the position of a ball on a field. This was a game of warriors. I had him on this shit, for sure.

“Call your people.” I said. “I’ll call mine.”

“My people?”

“Yeah. Some gay friends. Is that what you call them? Gay? Or do you do like the brothas do and call each other the ‘F’ word and just drop the ‘T’ off the end?”

“What?”

“You know, like ‘faggo’.” I said. It wound up sounding very French.

“No one says that, and neither should you.”

“Fine. But call three friends, so we can get this done.”

“Sure.” he said, and got on his phone.

Man, this was going to be a massacre. I called three of my biggest, burliest friends. ‘Big’ Nate, John ‘Pieces’ Reece, and ‘Little’ John Smith. It was on like Donkey Kong.

My boys showed up. At least 250lb., each. Not all muscle, but big. It was all about moving people around. Jeff’s friends showed up, all kind of looking like him, polished gym rats that wouldn’t know what a gridiron was if you dropped it on them. I called quarterback. Jeff, for some reason, called center for his team.

“What do you think the Redskins chances are this year?” he asked. “McNabb is kind of getting up there.”

“I don’t…I don’t really watch sports.” I said.

We had the ball. Big Nate hiked the ball to me. The plan was for ‘Pieces’ to barrel through and go long for the pass. Something went wrong.

Jeff seemed to glide around Nate and his arm came up before I could release the ball. Then I was…

Waking up on the ground.

“Damn dude, are you alright?” Nate asked, hovering over me like some kind of discount cherub. “I think you might have pissed yourself.”

He may have been right. It was beside the point.

“Fuck.” I said.

“Yeah.” said ‘Little’ John. “But these guys have some awesome beer.” he held up a bottle I had never seen before. “It tastes just like peaches!”

“Fuck you guys.” I said, then walked inside to change.

But all this was irrelevant, because I was going to cure Jeff yet. The next challenge was:

Part Three: Serious Automotive Shit

“Fuck the nonsense, Jeff. We’re going to fix this car.” I said, pointing at the Trans-Am.

“Is there something wrong with it?” he asked. “Besides the obvious?”

 What does he mean?

“There’s always room for improvements, Jeff.” I said. “We’re going to rebuild the engine. Do you know about cars?”

“No, not like that. Do you?”

“Uh…I mean, all red blooded American males know about stuff like this. It’s instinctive.”

“Really?” he asked. “So what’s entailed with rebuilding an engine?”

“Um, well, you’ve got to change the rings, the pistons, the headers, the doodleflangers. You know.”

“Yeah. I hear ya.”

“Right. I’ll go get my hammer and my wrench. Watch how a man works.”

“I’ll be sure to.”

Six Hours Later

“It kind of looks like you’ve got some parts left over.” Jeff said.

“They’re not important.”

“They sure look important.”

The Cure, Step Two

Nightlife

Part One: The Gay Club

“Partying was invented by straight people.” I said, holding an ice pack to my head. My skull still ached from where Jeff had hit me when playing football. “I mean, look at frats. Look at Van Halen concerts. They are monuments to excess and pussy. Hedonism writ large. Nothing you have has that beat. We’ll go to your bar or club first, then one of mine, deal?”

“Whatever you say.”

“That’s the attitude. Now, where are we going?”

“You ever heard of The Lodge?”

“The gay club?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Are they going to look at my ass?”

“No one is going to spend too long looking at your ass, I promise.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not that great.”

“You looked!?

“Well, yeah. I mean, don’t you look at girl’s asses?”

“Yes…but. What? Mine’s not that great?

“I’m just saying.”

“Shit. Fine. Let’s go.”

We had to take Jeff’s BMW, because the Trans-Am wouldn’t start for some reason. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with it. Joey would have to sort that shit out.

We arrive at The Lodge a little after 11:00. The parking lot is full, but the place looks like an old cabin or something, like something Lincoln would have built, if Lincoln had been gay, instead of a vampire hunter.

“Oh jeez,” I said, “see, I knew I was going to get raped.”

“What?” asked Jeff.

“Look at this place. It’s a rape cabin. Like a big homo rape castle.”

Jeff shook his head, then looked thoughtful. “I wonder if you could open a club named ‘The Rape Castle’?” He shook his head. “Maybe in New York, or San Fran. Wouldn’t work here.”

He started walking towards the club. He made it about halfway before he realized I wasn’t following him.

“What the hell?” he asked, “You’re not coming?”

“I’m…I’m good right here I think. I mean, I can kind of gauge the vibe from out here. There’s no real need to get any closer.”

“Ah, hypocrisy and fear. I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

“Really?”

“No. Look, we made a deal. You go to mine, I’ll go to yours. Come on.”

“No rape?”

“You are really in love with the idea of getting raped, aren’t you?”

“No!”

“Then come on.”

The place was, I admit, much nicer inside. There were two bars, a large dance floor and an outdoor smoking area out back that was actually quite lovely. Some of the patrons were what I expected, flamboyant colorful types, dancing around, or talking to people, but most of them looked normal for the most part. The music was what I heard coming out of most car stereos. I don’t listen to that stuff, but I understand why clubs play it. I’m into post-prog-hardcore-bluegrass. I looked around suspiciously.

 Suspiciously fun looking.

“What’s wrong now?” Jeff asked.

“I thought that there would be more…”

“Rape?”

“Well, mincing.”

“Mincing?”

“Yeah, you know, mincing about. Frolicking.”

“Jesus. Get a drink.”

I did my best mince over to the bar.

“You okay?” The bartender asked. She was a pretty 20-something with a cute diamond nose ring.

“Just trying to fit in.” I said. “I need a drink.”

“Okay, what would you like?”

“What do most people drink here? I need the opposite of that. Because I’m straight.”

“Most people drink what they want.”

“Well, I need a man’s drink.”

“Scotch?”

“Oh good lord, no. I can’t drink that stuff. Give me a Leinenkugel’s Berry Weiss.”

“O…kay.”

“And, just curious, are you a lesbian?”

“I’m a communications major.”

Jeff ordered a beer, a Sam Adams. I thought I might be getting somewhere.

We stayed for three hours. By the time we left, I had drank eight Berry Wiess’ and had danced for five songs. No one touched my ass. The place was actually pretty nice, but I didn’t know if Jeff had called ahead and told them there was a sleeper agent coming. I might have to go back later, unannounced, and see if it played the same way. For research and all.

Part Two: The Straight Bar

“Where to now?” Jeff asked.

“You okay to drive? I asked, as I walked full-on into someone’s Toyota Land Cruiser.

“I’ve only had three beers. We were in there three hours. I wouldn’t say I’m drunk.”

“If you say so.” I said, stumbling into his car. “But prepare yourself for adventures unbounded!”

“Okay.”

“We’re going to a bar-slash-pool hall! There is no straighter place on the planet. It’ll knock the gay right out of your backside.”

“No one has tried that before.”

“Prepare yourself.” I whispered. I told him where to go and rested my head on the window. I was dizzy.

We got to Hot Pockets and went inside. The bar wasn’t what I would call full, but the guys in there were definitely straight. There was also a large woman, wearing what looked like pajama pants, with her head on the bar, weeping loudly. Gretchen Wilson’s ‘Redneck Woman’ was playing.

 Um, yeah!

“Do you feel it?” I asked.

“What?”

“The straightness of it all.”

“Oh yes.”

“Very good. Let’s get a beer.”

I walked to the bar and ordered a Berry Wiess. The bartender, a huge guy with a balding pony-tail haircut and maybe three teeth handed me a Miller and shook his head. They still had Jeff’s Sam Adams. We walked to the back.

There were three pool tables, lighted from above with those cool-ass lights that were decorated with beer logos. When I got a house with a basement, I was totally ponying up for one of those motherfuckers. Four guys were standing around shooting pool. One of them, an old white dude with a mullet and a jacket that might have once been denim, walked up to me and asked when the last time I’d seen Leroy was.

“I don’t know Leroy.” I said.

“Aw, c’mon man! Leroy!” he said, and shook me fiercely, as if that would jog my memory.

I threw up on his shoes.

I woke up on a couch, in a pretty nice apartment. Sunlight was coming through the windows. Something smelled like eggs.

“Hello?” I called.

Jeff walked into the room, holding a spatula. “Hey, you’re up.”

“Yeah. Is this…is this your place?”

“Yes.”

“It’s pretty nice.”

“Thanks. You want some eggs?”

“Sure? Hey, what happened?”

“Man, I have never seen anyone take a punch like that.”

“What, like a man?”

“Like a lump of modeling clay. I mean, your expression didn’t even change when his fist was coming at you. Most guys at least try to move. Not you! You were like some kind of punch-test dummy. It was awesome.”

“Thanks. So, you beat his ass, right?”

“No. He was all right. A little drunk, sure, but you puked on his shoes. I played two games of pool with them and carried you out of there.”

“You played…Really?”

“Yeah, won twenty bucks.”

“Oh shit, you didn’t…?”

“Didn’t what?”

“Take advantage of me?”

“Naw man, you were handling that all on your own.”

  “Shit.”

“Well, you’ve still got…” Jeff looked at his watch, “Three hours left. You still think you can ‘cure’ me?”

I thought about it. My head hurt, like there was a dance party going on in there. Wait, dance party? Man, The Lodge was fun. There was that little dude in the beanie cap doing all those cartwheels and shit. I’m gonna have to go back there. No. Wait. Focus. I didn’t really know what to do next, but I figured I had to go back to the source.

“Yes. Yes I am. But, do you have a computer? I have to look something up.”

“Sure, go ahead. It’s in the den.”

“The fucking den??”

The Cure, Step Three

Jesus

I hated to admit it, but I had to be doing something wrong. Michele Bachmann could cure gay people, and she was a woman. What the hell was wrong with my technique? I went into Jeff’s den, which, by the way was really well kept up and who the hell has an apartment with a fucking den?  Sorry, that part still messes me up.

I sat down in front of his PC, (I totally thought that he’d own a Mac, but at this point I wasn’t even going to say anything) and did some digging. As it turns out, Michele Bachmann wasn’t actually the one curing the gays. It was her husband, Marcus. Marcus Bachmann is the president of  Bachmann & Associates, a self-described Christian counseling clinic. But, both he and his wife believe that the way to cure homosexuality is through prayer.

Damn, why didn’t I think of that? Probably because you’re about as religious as a piece of driftwood. I thought to myself. Or possibly said. Jeff was standing behind me and said:

“What?”

“Nothing. Jeff, come on, we’ve got to go.”

“Where? I haven’t even eaten my eggs yet.”

“Church, Jeff. God is the only thing that can save your tainted homosexual soul from the thorny, fiery pits of hell.”

“Well, that can wait for me to eat my eggs.”

“Jeff, you’re not hearing me. Salvation.”

“You want some? I’ve also got toast and peach preserves.”

Just when I was starting to think Jeff was all right, he roped me in with the offer of peach preserves. Perhaps Michele is right about them. The devil, tempts.

By the time we got to the church it was almost one o’clock. My twenty-four hours was almost up. I’m not even sure what kind of church it was, but I’m pretty sure it was the one with Jesus.

I ran in, holding Jeff by the wrist. We got to the alter, and I spun to face him.

JESUS!” I shouted at him, while mimicking the ‘Hadouken’ maneuver.

 Jesus magic!

I looked at him. “Nothing?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I went to his side and said: “Come on, Jeff, get knee-bound with me. Let us pray.”

“Fine.” he sighed.

“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy My brothers. And you will know My name is the Lord when I lay My vengeance upon thee.” I said.

“That’s Pulp Fiction.” Jeff said. “You don’t know anything about religion, do you?”

Just then, the preacher (Reverend? Deacon?) walked in from a small room from behind the alter.

“Can I help you boys?” he asked.

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Thank god you’re here.” I said. Here was a professional. My problem was solved. “Jeff here is gay. Gay, not as in happy, but meaning that he likes man dicks in a big way. Can you help to cure him?”

“Cure him?” the preacher asked.

“Yeah, do some God voodoo on him or something. That’s a thing, right?”

“Are either of you actually members of this church?”

Jeff shook his head. I said: “When I was way younger, I joined the KISS army. I’m pretty sure that membership includes induction into the Church Of Rock. I’m not one hundred percent on that, though. I’d have to go dig up my membership info.”

“Good day, boys.” the preacher said, and walked back into his little office. I’m pretty sure I heard ‘Maury’ on the TV in there before he closed the door.

I stood up and sighed. Jeff looked at his watch.

“Time’s up.” he said.

“Do you feel any less gay?” I asked.

“Not in the slightest. What are you going to do for your community service now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe go scream at homeless people to get a job or something? Like, you know, for the city?”

“That sounds like it will work out just as well.”

I’m sorry Michele, I tried.

 In case you are one of those people that can’t comprehend seriously ham-fisted, long-winded satire, my point is that these people are crazy.

Share: Status, Question, Photo, Felony.

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on April 23, 2011 by Colin Walker

Your boy Coddy is no angel. I know that surprises those of you that know me personally. You guys are all like “Oh, no! Not the Codpiece! I’d trust that motherfucker with all my liquor and women!” You guys are idiots, and haven’t been paying close attention. But I still love y’all. LOL (Lots of Love).

Anyway, I robbed a bank in 2002. That shit wasn’t pretty, either. You remember ‘Heat’, the movie with Pachino and Bobby D. about the group of thieves and the cops trying to catch them? There was that big bank robbery near the end with all the car chases and the gunplay? The thieves leaving the bank with impossible to carry amounts of cash hanging off their backs in duffel bags?

Back when Val Kilmer could still hide behind a normal size car.

My robbery was kind of like that, with the exception that there were no guns, no accomplices, no car chases, and no real money to speak of. I’m serious, you see that bag hanging off of De Niro up there? Shit, I left the bank with money, in a brown paper sack, but I’ve seen bigger bag lunches at sweatshop lunch breaks. For the money I took out of the bank, I collected $4.38 for every day in jail I served. And I didn’t even get to keep that shit.

“Fucking amateur.”

But enough about me and my stupidity. My father once told me that no matter how big or badass you thought you were, there was always someone out there that could beat you senseless. Apparently, that aphorism applies to areas other than pugilism. As far as dumbfuck robbers go, Estefany Danelia Martinez and her crew have got me beat by a country mile. On March 23rd, the International Bank of Commerce in Houston, Texas was taken for $62,201. Now, I’m not going to lie, that’s a damn sight more than I got, but then again, it was an inside job.

Martinez, 19, was the teller. Her boyfriend, Ricky Gonzalez, was in on it, along with two other accomplices.

“Codpiece,” you guys are saying, because you’re loudmouths that can’t help but interrupt my narrative, “That doesn’t sound like such a bad plan. They obviously got caught, because you’re writing about it, but otherwise, it sounds a whole hell of a lot more clever than that bullshit you perpetrated.” Well, you’re very astute, but you don’t know the whole story. Two days before the robbery, Martinez posted this on her wall:

“Get $$$(;.,”

Okay…Well, I mean, that could mean anything, right? No basis for suspicion. Then, a day after the robbery, her boyfriend posted this:

 “Wipe my teeth with hundereds (sic).” and,  “U HAVE TO PAST THE LINE SOMETIMES!! TO GET DIS MONEY!!”

Um…So she’s not in Mensa, and her beau is obviously one step away from being fitted for a helmet and a harness. At this point, you would think that Martinez, who was an employee of the bank and therefore automatically under suspicion after a heretofore unsolved robbery, would distance herself from this idiot and plan some kind of exit strategy.

Nope! She replied:

“I’M RICH BITCH!” (sic)

Obviously, commas are not needed when making years-old Dave Chappelle references.

Needless to say, the FBI, who were monitoring all of the bank’s employee’s social networking pages, caught this. Ramen noodles and caviar dreams.

 Pictured: Martinez & Gonzalez

Crayola Columbine

Posted in The Meat Suit Awards with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2011 by Colin Walker

Jack Dorman is six years old. Jack’s Father is stationed in Iraq. Jack, and his brother, are being raised by his mother Syndi. Things are not optimal. The stress of not having his father around has weighed on everybody in the family. Jack likes to play video games. Jack likes to draw. And that got him in a whole lot of trouble.

Most video games these days are violent. Sure, there are some that don’t have any violence at all, like Dora’s Adventures Through Oxycodone Stare Land,and Kermit Teaches You Math With A Grown Man’s Fist In His Ass, but ultimately, all video games have at least some level of cartoon, slapstick, or unseen but implied violence in them. Of course, then you’ve got the graphic titles, The Call of Duties, Prototype, GTA series, ect. And I don’t know which titles six year old Jack was allowed to play. parents differ, and I don’t know if his brother is older or younger, so I have no real way of saying if the games were inappropriate or not. Who knows?

And let's not forget about the hugely popular "Get in the van!" series of hand held games

Also, it’s quite hard to insulate your child from all the evils in the world. By the time I was six, I had probably heard the word ‘fuck’ more times than Andrew Dice Clay’s bathroom mirror.

Fuck! Look at me! Fuck! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

Point is, Jack got bored in class on day and decided to draw a picture. The picture has been described as violent, but, since I can’t seem to find it anywhere on the interwebs, so I guess we’ll take their word for it. Who’s word, you ask? Well, the Taper Ave. Elementary School, San Pedro, Los Angeles. The picture was also captioned. The caption read- “I want to die.”

And now it’s pop quiz time!

Okey doke! Let’s say you’re a teacher at an elementary school. You note that a six year-old boy has drawn a ‘violent picture’, and captioned it as above. You:

A: Inform the child that the drawing is not appropriate for school, and then talk to him after class about the possible motivations behind said pic.

B: Ask the child to explain the drawing, then draw your own conclusion towards motivations and whether or not the incident needs to be reported to the child’s parent.

C: Take the drawing and give it to the parent , either with a note, or in person, to express any concerns you might have.

D: Assume that this six year old boy has just threatened to commit suicide, and immediately try to have him committed to a psyche ward, without parental consent.

Okay! Let’s see how you did! If you answer A, B, or C, congratulations! You are an actual, thinking human being! However, if you answered D, you are most likely:

A: An unbalanced idiot with no common sense.

B: A bureaucrat taught to follow the absolute letter of the code, with no regard for its actual intent.

C: An employee of the LAUSD. (Protip: ‘C’ guarantee’s that A & B are also correct.)

Yes.

That.

That is what they did. Ramon Cortines, acting on behalf of the LAUSD, called and emergency mental health number and had the boy placed on a 72 hour hold, against his mother’s wishes.

Teachers, leave that kid...oh, what? Never mind.

Holy shit? They can do that?

They can do that.

I do not know Jack. Perhaps Jack is a madman. I could be that Jack was just biding his time until he got home, until the time when he could pierce his neck with the cold, welcoming steel and invite death in like an old friend. Perhaps Jack is seriously disturbed, and is a genuine danger to others. He could be the source of all darkness in Los Angeles County, feeding on the fear and souls of a thousand…Oh, no. Wait, my bad. He’s six. All that shit I just said is ridiculous.

And their souls shall pop in my jaws like grapes!

I’m not saying that the pic should have been ignored out of hand. And I’m certainly not implying that they’re aren’t kids who genuinely need help. But, for reals? He’s six! Do you know what I was doing when I was six? I was playing with my GI Joes. And Snakeyes couldn’t wait to rape a motherfucker’s face with a katana. Someone probably should have called somebody.

And who gave the LAUSD the power to do that, anyway? That shit is insane. And you know what’s neat? That hold is going to follow him around ’til he’s eighteen! Awesome. I’ll bet Jack is going to think it’s cool when he’s dumped in with kids who really have problems and is subsequently ostracized by his peers. That probably won’t make him feel like an awkward outsider or anything.

And hell, even if it does,

We all

Know how well

That works out.

Congrats LAUSD, You win The Meat Suit!

Go chase tigers.


The McGangbang Supreme, A Faster Way To Kill Yourself For Less

Posted in Culinary Cataclysm with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 2, 2010 by Colin Walker

First off, allow me to welcome you to a new feature. In Culinary Cataclysm, we will be investigating and innovating high-caloric ways to kill you in the most tasty ways imaginable. This is not a health food segment. By now, you should know that I have nothing but contempt for you people. But, we’re kind of stuck with each other, aren’t we? Do you remember how your mother drove your dad to drink all the time? This is like that, but with more bacon. Go forth, but realize that I am trying to murder you. As long as you understand that I have tried all of these things first.

THE McGANGBANG SUPREME


The McGangbang is the sandwich of blue-collar legend. I thought I was a clever bastard when I combined the McDouble and the McChicken, but I was wrong. Just like every other cool thing that I thought I did first, (Carolyn, I’m looking in your direction) hordes of people have beat me to it. It’s all over the web, pictures, descriptions, even breakfast variations. But, I think that I have come upon the ultimate combination. I call her The Supreme, and she is one sexy motherfucker.

What you will need is as follows:

Two McDoubles

One McChicken

One packet of Sweet and Sour Sauce

A death wish

Here are your instructions. Unwrap all three sandwiches. Remove all ‘bottom’ bun slices. Apply sweet and sour sauce to chicken patty. Take one McDouble, place it beef-side down on top of the sauce. Stack this on to remaining McDouble. Stare into the abyss of madness.

What you should have is a monstrosity that you can barely bite. A freakish tower of meat, cheese, and bread that is a testament to bad ideas and a reflection of the true ‘Merican spirit.

Like this, except battered, fried, and shrouded in beef and cheese.

 

This sandwich is so badass that it stole your novelty wallet. It’s so pimp that its platform shoes have other, smaller, platform shoes to support them. It’s so righteous that the Jews eat it on Yom Kippur and are automatically forgiven.

And value? Good lord. You get more bang for your buck here than you would at any Taiwanese brothel. Sam Walton saw the price on this thing and started to weep inconsolably. The fact that you can get this much heart-stopping flavor for so little is proof that Ray Kroc was the Antichrist.

“Eat. Eat…and become one of us.”

This sandwich is so artery-blockingly awesome that I’m going to put it straight up against McDonald’s flagship burger and then some. Once again it’s on.

THE McGANGBANG SUPREME VS. THE BIG MAC

The Big Mac is McDonald’s golden boy. It’s been around since 1967 and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. It’s so ubiquitous that it has its own trading index. This shit is an American staple.

But pictures paint a thousand words, right? “Pictures paint a thousand words.”–your Lithium-laced sixth grade art teacher. So, to the photos. These are actual pictures of the product, with no primping or preening.

Lopsided sadness.

 

And now, the McGangbang Supreme:

I, for one, welcome our meaty overlords.

 

In my opinion, it really doesn’t take a whole lot more than that to prove my point. But, of course, there are some sacrifices. You don’t get the colon-polyp inducing sesame seed bun with the McGangbang. You also don’t get the ‘special sauce’. There is no practical solution to the first problem, but as to the second?

Yes, ‘special sauce’ is nothing but 1000 island dressing. If you didn’t know that, welcome to earth! How have you been?

Those are free at any grocery store with a salad bar.

But here’s the real kick in the the Mac’s proverbial crotch: the McGangbang is only three dollars. Where I live, the Big Mac goes for $3.69.

Holy shit. That doesn’t even make any damn sense. But the dollar menu has always been a little hokey. I remember back when a twenty piece Chicken Nugget box was $5.29, but you could order a four piece off the dollar menu.

“Eco-mussafucking-nomics!”

But wait, there’s more. For a true battle-royale type competition, I got the data from all of McDonald’s heavy-hitters, put them all in the octagon of doom, and saw who came out picking the dead out of their teeth. ‘Winners’ are in red. Click to enlarge.

What a fucking bloodbath. There hasn’t been a beating that bad since your stepdad caught you going through his ‘personal things’. What does a grown man do with all those bloomer drawers with the hole in the front, anyway?

Now, some of you are going to say, ‘Coddy, those things are clearly not all ‘good’ things! Look at the fat, the sodium, the calories. you can’t be serious!’ To you I say, where the fuck do you think you’re eating? If you’re even considering eating any of these sandwiches, you’re basically challenging your arteries to a death race–and your opposition started off the line with four flats.

So, the next time you’re there, go hard. I’ll see you in the hereafter.

Very Special Holiday Wishes From Violent J

Posted in Music with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 27, 2010 by Colin Walker

Sophisticated wordsmith and science fanatic, Violent J, tweeted Thanksgiving good tidings on Thursday. Being the classy lad that he is, the message was every bit as restrained and tasteful as you would expect.

Poetry.

If you are not aware of who this talented gentleman is, well, you’re luckier than I am! But now, not so much! Because I’m going to tell you!

Violent J is half of the rap duo ICP (Innocuous Carnival Proprietors). Along with his partner, Gunnar Nelson, these two Detroit scholars wax philosophical about life, love, basic scientific principals, and something called ‘The Dark Carnival’, which, if I am to understand correctly, is an affirmative action program designed to help some of Detroit’s unemployed African American population. Good for them, I say.

ICP(Inconceivable Cavalry Purloiners), speak to our nation’s youth in a new musical style called ‘Hip-Hop’. I don’t know abut you guys, but I think this ‘Hip-Hop’ thing might really take off. I’ve been wrong before though. Remember the McRib? Man, nobody wants that damn thing. The duo are also filmmakers, their first feature film, ‘Big Money Rustlas’ debuted earlier this year. You can order it here. In addition to that, they also produce amateur wrestling videos, the proceeds from which go directly to the Ol’ Dirty Bastard Memorial Children’s Fund.

As if all that wasn’t enough, they also host ‘The Gathering Of The Juggalos’. Juggalos are mentally deficient adolescents that these charitable people feed and entertain for four days. For more information on The Gathering Of The Juggalos, go here.

God bless these lads. Let them continue to do God’s work.

What’s The world Coming To When America’s Children Can’t Even Score Legitimate Drugs Anymore?

Posted in Music with tags , , , , , , , , on July 15, 2010 by Colin Walker

When I came home today, my fiancée asked me if I knew what idosing was. I had never heard about it. She said that, apparently, kids are using the frequencies to get ‘high’. The tracks are digital files you can download, or watch on Youtube, that kids swear create feelings of euphoria akin to drug use.

As usual, kids are fucking stupid.

What they are talking about is binaural beats, where two sounds of slightly different frequencies are played, in opposing ears. This creates a ‘beat’ not only audible to the listener, but a stimuli that effects the listeners actual brainwaves. Sounds Dope-Boy Fresh, doesn’t it? Yeah, until you realize that this has been around since Heinrich  Willhelm Dove discovered it in eighteen-thirty-fucking-nine.

Rock that shit, my ninja.

Here’s a news flash for the kids reading this. First off, why are you reading this? You should not be here if you are under eighteen, I curse, talk about the pooh-nan and beer, and am sometimes absurdly and unapologetically racist. Get the fuck out, now. Two, If you think that something that can actually get you high has been sitting around, pretty much unused, for one hundred and seventy goddamn years, you are a moron. But, we have established that. Let me put it to you hip young kids like this, where was the ‘lull’ period for cannabis? Cocaine? Heroin?

There wasn’t one. Since those drugs were discovered, people have been using them. Sure, usage has increased due to availability and better trade over the last century, but we’re not talking about something that only grows close to the equator, or a plant that has to be coddled for five months in an indoor greenhouse be a hippy named Jesus, we are talking about sound. Sound, kids, has been around for a while. (history)

Just fucking with ya, this event was completely silent.

Binaural beats have been proven to help with concentration, or relaxation, but nothing has ever been achieved that was anywhere close to intoxication. Everybody remembers that girl in junior high that would be over at a sleepover or birthday party and claim that she was ‘high off soda’. That was bullshit then, and guess what? You’re that girl now.

This Mountain Dew has got me FUCKED up.


Here’s a clip, in case there are any doubters. The instructions are to put on head phones, relax and enjoy. Try it out, if you’re a masochist.

Well, wasn’t that fucking horrible. Kids, when you take drugs, drugs FUCK YOU UP. That’s kind of what they’re for. I used to smoke so much weed I couldn’t remember where my dick was. I took so much ecstasy, that everybody was covered in rainbows, and every touch was an orgasm (That got fucking old quick, let me tell you). I’ve taken so much acid that I woke up in a room seemingly filled with giant spiders, I was naked, and my unhappy-to-be-awake-at-4 am father was standing in the doorway to my bedroom, swinging a stick at me every time I tried to leave. That is high. This shit, this shit is a shared headache.

Parents are worried that idosing will lead to stronger drugs. Parents, let me be clear here, if your kids are willing to listen to this shit to get ‘high’, they are upstairs, in your bathroom, right now, trying to drink your nail polish remover and eating your tampons, because they looked at the warning on the box and Toxoplasmosis sounded ‘epic’. Get them some fucking help, would you?