Archive for Horror

Beer Week Almost Derailed By Nemesis

Posted in Spirit Guide with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2012 by Colin Walker

Spirit Guide

“The first and greatest commandment is, don’t let them scare you.”- Elmer Davis

“Fortune favors the brave”-Publius Terence

“I swear these motherfuckers at DuClaw are trying to kill me.”-Codpiece

We were rolling strong until about two days ago, my fine readers. (I drink the beers and the review goes up two days later–I don’t write these as I’m drinking.) I was floating along the river Hops, in my flat-bottom barley boat, whistling to myself as I drifted past the fruit trees. I had laid back with an easy drinking porter, chilled out with my new Viking main-man, and even hosted a rowdy tempest that was more peat than malt. All in all, good times. A few harsh words were uttered, but nothing completely untoward. Looked like smooth sailing.

Then, Hop river sped up, took a sharp turn around a blind bend and dumped me into the wide end of a bottleneck. The water’s will was steady, but in my way, preventing me from continuing on to the estuary and the sea beyond was a evil-looking bomber. DuClaw’s Pax Nemesis.

 Fuck.

It turns out, the name was appropriate.

Enough with the maritime metaphors. This beer kicked my ass and nearly capsized my boat (sorry…not really.)

 “And ye almost shoved yer own misen mast trough the poop-deck. ARRR.”

DuClaw is from Abbington, MD. That’s about 100 miles from where I sit, but since they’re in MD, that technically makes them ‘local’. I wanna love the local boys, it’s always good to root for the home team. Plus, DuClaw has some seriously kick-ass labels, and anyone who tells you that they’ve never bought a beer solely because of the label is a bald-faced liar.

That’s right I called you back from yesterday’s post to call you a fucking liar. Smooth malts my ass. Don’t point that thing at me!

So, swayed by the cool labels and the cool names, I picked up three bombers from DuClaw at The Wooden Keg.  This is the first. It’s a jacked-up altbeir. An altbeir (old beer) is brewed with a top fermenting yeast at low temperature. It starts out muddy, becoming clearer and lighter in color as time goes on. Mostly, altbeirs don’t reach %11. This one, does. I don’t know what they did to it, but I wish they hadn’t.

The taste of this beer is almost completely artificial. It’s strange, almost as if they formulated a trippel and a bock in a lab, then slammed them into each other under a grain alcohol shower. It’s kind of thick, cloyingly sweet, and somewhat oily. And the alcoholic aftertaste? Dear lord. I’m not a weak man when it comes to spirits, and I’ve had brews well above %11, but none has ever given me  the problems this one did. Have you ever poured vodka into soda and forgotten to stir it, just chugging it back right after you pour it, then regretting it as that taste of pure, unexpected alcohol made you burp and your saliva glands go into overdrive? This is just like that, except the soda sucks.

I was honestly stuck here, should I sip lightly, avoiding the feeling of nausea, putting up with the taste of this stuff? Or, should I chug bravely, throwing cation to the wind in an attempt to move onto a better beer and leave this foul experience behind me?

I think that, if you know me, you know which path I chose.

This was almost me.

Man, by the end of it, I was sure I was going to lose it. My stomach was in pure revolt. Never again with this. I’ve got two more, but different DuClaws in the fridge. Let’s hope they’re better.

Taste:  If you love yourself…

Drinkability:  stay the hell away from this.

A.B.V: %11

Cost: $10

Hangover rating: I’m sure that if you drank two of these, you’d need Gorilla tape to get your head back together.

Just A Minor Gastric Apocalypse, Your Grace

Posted in Culinary Cataclysm with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 8, 2011 by Colin Walker

Here were are again, with me a few weeks older and absolutely no wiser. It’s the Culinary Cataclysm, wherein I attempt to raise a host from the base-born commoners of the Value Menus in franchise restaurants and combine them like Voltron to best the chain’s mighty champion.

Why? Because I love you guys. And I fucking hate my toilet.

 Jiggle the handle? Motherfucker, JIGGLE THIS!

So, last time, this went badly. I did a double feature on KFC and Taco Bell, and not only were the results close to inedible, I was in such bad shape afterwards that people from northern Japan were sending care packages to my butthole for two weeks.  I swore I’d take some time before I did the next installment.

But then my fiance’ went out of town. I was driving to pick up my daughter from jazz band when I heard the raspy voice in my left ear.

“Codpiece, it’s time.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh, yes. Time for another article. Time to eat.”

“No, man. Seriously, look, the last time we did this, the city had to destroy the sewer lines for blocks south of my house and a para-military unit had to be deployed to hunt the sentient racoons  that had been birthed from the incident.”

“Codddddpiece. You’re going to do it. You’ve ignored the King thus far, and have offended him. He demands fealty.”

“C’mon, man. I’ve got my daughter with me.”

“Take her with you. Sweets for the sweet.”

“Yeah, okay. Works for me.”

Then I was at Burger King. My daughter ordered the number seven, the chicken fries meal. She’s got my metabolism and weighs like a buck-o-five, so whatever. I scour the Value Menu and wind up ordering  a Double Stacker, a double cheeseburger, and a Spicy Tendercrisp. Total: $4.50 (for my part of the order).  The Whopper is the King’s Grand Champ, but I knew I had that whipped. A Double Whopper with cheese is $4.90 though, so that’s the meaty bastard I put in my crosshairs. We got home, and I got down to business.

 Houses Stark, Tully, and Baratheon, respectively.

The camera on my phone predates the written word. This looked way better in person.

Unwrap the Double Stacker, flip it over, and remove the bottom bun.

“And when the fiery chicken mounts the cheesy cow, an unholy alliance will form.”

Unwrap the Spicy Tendercrisp, remove bottom bun, and place on top of Double Stacker.

The Triple Sesame Sasquatch!

Unwrap double cheeseburger, discard bottom bun, place on top. Unleash the fury of the Northlands.

View from the north tower.

Have daughter place next to her head to provide sense of scale.

Have your daughter take a picture of you holding the monstrosity, while laughing, so you wind up looking like a viking with Parkinson’s. And yes, I always eat shirtless. DON’T JUDGE ME!

But I can judge this sandwich. It was fanfuckintastic. I wouldn’t recommend eating a Spicy Tendercrisp on it’s own, because Burger King’s chicken has the consistency of sawmill waste, but in between the two towers of cheesy burger love it gave just the right amount of zip. The Special Sauce is there near your taste buds, and then there’s the bacon. Bacon is like the mounted cavalry in your sandwich’s war party.

Let’s see how it does against the flagship:

Double Whopper with cheese:

Price: $4.90

Two beef patties

Two slices of cheese

Tomato

Lettuce

Pickles

Onion

Mayo

Sesame seed bun

1010 calories

Triple Sesame Sasquatch:

Four beef patties

Four slices of cheese

Spicy Tendercrisp patty

Lettuce

Mayo

Ketchup

Mustard

Pickles

Special Sauce

Three sesame seed buns

FUCKING BACON

1520 calories

Now, some of you are thinking that you can add bacon to the Double Whopper. You can, but it adds eighty-five cents to the price. So, we have an uncontested winner. For Winterfell!

The Evils That Men Do (To Themselves)

Posted in Culinary Cataclysm with tags , , , , , , , , on November 12, 2011 by Colin Walker

Ok, so this is the segment where I do idiotic things with food. Last time, I brought you all the McGangbang Supreme. That was pretty good shakes, let me tell you. I was pleased with myself that I was able to go into a fast food franchise and cobble something together from the dollar menu that was more filling than the chain’s flagship sandwich. I was so pleased, that I decided that I’d have to write another of these soon, trying the same formula out on other fast food places.

Well, ‘soon’ is a relative term. First off, I’m a Grown-Ass-Man, with a family and responsibilities and what-not.  The opportunity to raid the burger joint and do evil simply doesn’t come up all that much, considering that we are a fuctional family that eats meals together.

 “Look, I know you spent a while on this, but I’m gonna just go and see if I can’t make my colon hate me real quick.”

Also, I was a bit reluctant to continue on with a segment that had such a high chance of resulting in death. But, as luck would have it, the fiance is out of town, and my daughter decided to spend the night at a friend’s house at the last minute. So, the reaper was calling.

I had a budget of nine bucks, and there’s a Taco Bell and a KFC lined up nice and pretty on the main strip. Would this be as satisfying as my McDonald’s adventure? I’ll try and scratch a message on the wall and let you know before I buy it.

 Because I fucking love bacon.

Part One: The Taco Bell Imminent Rectal Prolapse

I was disappointed at Taco Bell. The value menu (the Why Pay More menu for you corporate attorneys)  didn’t have a lot of good stuff on it, at least for the purpose of this experiment. What the hell is a cheese roll-up? How am I going to incorporate a caramel empanada into a dinner sandwich? Why the hell am I doing this again?

Keeping with the theme from the last segment, I chose three items. The Five Layer Beefy Burrito, ($1.59) a Chicken Burrito, ($1.89) and a Soft Taco ($0.99). I was disappointed again when I heard that the total with tax was $4.95. I had gotten out of McDonald’s at $3.18. “Why Pay More?” I said to myself, then cackled madly. When I heard “Excuse me, sir?” I realized that the lady on the other end of the speaker could still hear me. I drove around, embarrassed.

I threw some newspaper on the table, because god knew what could happen here, and started assembling.

 The bottom one says Chalupa because education.

First, I unwrapped the Five Layer Beefy Burrito.

 “Yum.”–Satan.

Then I squirted some fire sauce on that whore.

 There, that’ll make it better.

Then I unwrapped the Chicken Burrito, and placed it on top.

 To say that I didn’t expect that color green is something of an understatement.

Then I threw the Soft Taco on top of that.

 A 17 layer death wish.

After some seriously taxing wrapping, and a little time taken out to hastily write out my last will and testament on one of Taco Bell’s brown napkins, this is what I wound up with:

 “Hate Burrito” is the name of my new band, by the way.

And then…I put it in my mouth.

It wasn’t…bad? I mean, it tasted like like Taco bell food, which, if you’re conditioned to eating it, isn’t horrible. It’s imitation bland Mexican, for sure, and those two ‘Fire” sauce packs I put on there did nothing to liven it up, but I wasn’t actively choking.

Then about halfway through, I looked at it.

 Florg.

And I couldn’t eat anymore. That visual, combined with the taste in my mouth closed the deal. Don’t do this to yourself. People care about you.

The KFC Immediate Regret

KFC’s value menu is even worse than Taco Bell’s. They have two price options ($0.99 and $1.99) and choosing between the two of them is like your rapist asking you how you want it. Because of the $4.95 I had just spent at Taco bell, I had to stick with the $0.99 choices. There were three. I could get a Crispy Snacker, a Honey BBQ Snacker, or two biscuits. I ordered two BBQ Snackers and a Crispy. God help me, I should have just ordered the biscuits. Their biscuits are okay.

 You see how they all say ‘Special’? I love when a product tries to reassure me before it strangles me with sadness.

I open the Honey BBQ Snacker.

 What. The. Fuck.

Um…Yeah. So I continued. The Crispy Snacker.

  “No…I…No. Okay?”

First off, what the fuck is that sauce? And why is there only a complementary dollop of it? Just because I don’t know what it is doesn’t mean I don’t want more of it. Damn it. This was promising to be dry, so I went and got some sweet chili sauce and put it on there. No pic is available because I was actively weeping and wasn’t sure I could keep the camera still.

Then, the other Honey BBQ Snacker:

 It will never be my birthday again.

I was less than excited about this. But, some things look bad and taste good, right? So, I tried it.

AND ALL MY WORST FEARS WERE REALIZED.

It was still dry. I don’t know what animal that is, but I’ll be damned if it was a chicken, and KFC buys their BBQ sauce in lots from a subsidiary of Elmer’s Glue Corp. Also, the whole thing went sideways on me.

 Even the damn dog is ashamed.

Don’t do this, either. As far as value menu mash-ups go, McDonald’s is still grand champ.  I’d also like to mention that Taco bell and KFC are both owned by a Chinese company called Yum Foods. A lot of people over here have been worried about war with the Chinese for a while now. Let me tell you. They are already winning. And we, we don’t even know we’re fighting.

Son Of A Peach VS. Sam Adams Imperial White

Posted in Spirit Guide, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 11, 2011 by Colin Walker

CAGE MATCH BIOTCHES!

Normally I only feature one beer. Normally, I’m too drunk to write these articles. What the hell is your point? Leave me alone. You’re not fit to judge me. Only Ernest Hemingway can’t judge me. He would beat your sissy ass if he saw you trying.

  In this picture, Ernie is so drunk he’s boxing ghosts.

I’ve chosen to feature these two beers today because they are, as of this writing, my two favorite summer brews. They are both wheat beers, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end. Well, let’s get to the rundown, or , as Ernest would say, “Get in the ring you Nancy-boy candy-ass! I can see you hiding behind that purple llama!”

 “Fuck this. I ain’t in it.”

AND IN THIS CORNER, WEIGHING IN AT TWELVE OUNCES, FROM SPARTANSBURG, SOUTH CAROLINA, “IRISH” SON OF A PEACH!

 “There is nothing at all Irish about me.”

I’ve drank a ton of fruit beers in my time. I’m a fruity bastard, especially when the mercury rises above seventy-five degrees. I’m not much for them in the winter, preferring porters and stouts, but you try kicking back at a BBQ downing bottle after bottle of  Flying Dog Gonzo.

 EPIC PARTY BRO!

Yep. That’s why I go for these beers. This beer in particular lends itself to all day slow chugging sitting out back of someones house watching other people play horseshoes. (Or, if I’m playing, sending people to the hospital with horseshoes.) It’s light and fizzy, with just the right amount of peach flavor. It’s cloudy, but drinks easy. Easy as your one friend’s sister whose always giving you the ‘Take Me Out Behind The Trampoline’ eyes. You know the one. Just like her, it also goes great with said BBQ.

“But Coddy,” you say, “I don’t really like peaches, bro.”

To this I say: “Go back to Russia, Ivan! How the hell do you not like peaches? Peaches, bacon, burgers, fried chicken, and watermelon are as American as apple-pie! Wait…What? USA!”

Break it down now. I SAID BREAK IT DOWN!

Taste: Peaches. Millions of peaches. Peaches for me. And you. And that guy! I LOVE YOU TERRY! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN THE BEST OF THEM!

Drinkability: As easy to drink as soda. You’ll find yourself drunk and be surprised.

ABV: 4.7, a little higher than your average pilsner.

Cost: $8.49 a six-pack.

Hangover rating: These have gotten me once or twice. I don’t know if it has to do with the natural sugars in the peaches they use, but probably. They’ll thump your head right proper if you go past eight or so.

AND IN THIS CORNER, WEIGHING IN AT, WELL, TWELVE OUNCES, FROM BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, SAMUEL ADAMS “RAGING MICK” IMPERIAL WHITE!

 “My father is German, you stupid son of a…”

Whoa. Just whoa. This motherfucker right here means business. It’s a white beer too, but this and the other beer probably don’t even speak the same language, at least not the same dialect.

Example:

Son of a Peach: “How ya’ll doin’? Sure is a fine afternoon. Supposin’ y’all’d like ta sit over in the shade with me? I’ll spin you a yarn ’bout how my grandpappy charmed the werewolves and the immigrants out of the deep south.”

Sam Adams Imperial White: “AAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!IS THAT YOUR SISTER!? I NEED MEAT AND SOULS TO FEED THE ETERNAL VOID!

Yeah. This beer can be drunk outside, but be wary, it’s deceptively thick for a white beer. It borders on true Belgian status. Coriander and spice be up in this bitch. It’s as satisfying as ice cold revenge though, every sip you take is like hearing the lamentations of your enemies. And it hits so hard, you might actually hear those lamentations, after the cops remove the pick-ax from your hands.

 “We’ve never seen anyone fight through five tasers before.”

Tale of the tits Tape. Tape. I meant tape. For real.

Taste: Like thick orange and coriander goodness.

Drinkability: Pretty good, especially considering how thick it is.

ABV: 10% Sweet Jesus.

Cost: $10 a four-pack.

Hangover rating: There is a good reason they only sell this in four-packs.

FIGHT!

Sam Adams comes out swinging wildly! It’s nothing but haymakers and windmill fists! Son of a Peach dodges! Sam Adams has hit the ref! The ref is down! The Ref’s head has exploded! There’s brains and skull and shit! Oh my god! Son of a Peach is still dancing! Sam Adams can’t catch him! Sam Adams has slipped in brain matter! He’s on his back, apparently cursing the elder gods that gave him life!

 “I deny being any kind of elder god. You know, for the record.”

Sam Adams can’t get up! He’s too heavy! Son of a Peach is off in the audience, flirting with someone else’s wife! Oh, the insanity!

THE WINNER:

Son of a Peach, but only because summer drinking is a marathon, not a drag race.

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.

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!