Archive for Idiocy

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.


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. Dryer Sheets Will Remove Buildup From Glass


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


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


Black. Fucking. Magic. 10/10

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


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

18. Vacuum Seal Bulky Clothes And Blankets For Storage


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


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.

Unibroue Terrible And Samuel Smith Organic Apricot: A Hazy, Sweet, Mahogany Smack Down

Posted in Spirit Guide, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 6, 2012 by Colin Walker

 Spirit Guide

Well, I sure went off the rails with my posting schedule, didn’t I? Yeah, well, that happens. There was only one perfect person born on this earth, ever, and his name was Arnold Paupington, of Spelthorne, Surrey. No one really knows much about him though, as perfect people have a tendency to be woefully fucking boring.

 How boring? No search results boring.

To err is human, and to throw your posting schedule out the window is how The Codpiece gets down. So, let’s break back into it, shall we? Starting off with a big, dark, Canuk that just don’t give a damn.

   Head’s so damn big it uses a large dog bed for a pillow.

Unibroue Terrible

I’ve never trusted the Canadians. You want it out there? Fine, it’s out there. I know that all of you have been wondering about my position regarding my northern neighbors for a while now, so BAM, there it is. Some who know me will say, ‘But Coddy, your paternal grandfather was French Canadian.’ I will then call you a freaky-ass stalker, because I hardly tell anybody that. You need to get the hell out of my family tree–seriously. And I’ve never even met my paternal grandfather, so there. Not to try and start in on a sob story, but there dude ran out on my grandmother before my father had even drawn breath into his partially territoriality handicapped lungs. There’s also the fact that the Canadians in general are just too damn quiet. I know what that means. I used to be that guy when I was a teenager. I used to stay up in my room for hours, and they’d never hear a peep out of me. You know what I was up to?

Almost satanic levels of mischief, that’s what.

 Pictured: What I believe to be a Canadian greeting card.

So when I heard about Unibroue, a Quebec-based brewery that opened in 1990 with the intention of becoming the first brewery in North America no faithfully mimic the Belgian style of brewing beer, I was more than skeptical. I got down right scared. And then I got armed.

 Because like I said, Canadians are fucking crazy, that’s why.

I bought a bottle of their ‘Terrible’ offering from The Wooden Keg as part of my birthday ‘Here, honey, please drink yourself to death’ present. I mean, I had to buy it, right? Look at that bottle. There’s really nothing on it save for a silver strip with the word ‘Terrible’ cut out of it. Intriguing, to say the least. I poured it and took that picture up there. There was some serious head right off the bat, even with a careful down the glass slow pour. That, indeed, is a characteristic of a Belgian Trappist-style beer. I raised my eyebrow, then the glass.

And my distrust of Canadians was instantly reinforced. “See!” I shouted, much to the distress of my wife and our teenage daughter. “You see that!? You can’t trust a goddamn one of them! This isn’t terrible at all! This is fantastic!”

 And then I just kind of rocked the fuck out for a while.

This beer is straight-up great. It’s almost as good as SKULLSPLITTER , and it shares a lot of the same traits. It appears to be black coming out of the bottle, but when held up to the light, it has a definite mahogany hue. There is a rich malty-ness with distinct fruit overtones and a barely there smoky finish. It really gets on your tongue and does a dance. And it’s not some kind of low-rent boiler room jig, either. This smooth maple leaf motherfucker waltzes, gliding across your tongue like some kind of be-pinstriped ballroom dancer.

Any kind of strongly flavored grilled meat would complement this brew tremendously, although food is by no means necessary to enjoy this beer. One could simply lean back in a favored chair, resting their feet on the naked minority of their choosing, smoking a fine cigar, and a good night would be guaranteed.

So, there you have it. I’ve been won over by a Canadian. That’s one out of thirty four and a half million. And I’ve got my fucking eye on the rest of them.

TASTE:  Elegant, complex, and powerful. Like the space shuttle in a dress.

DRINKABILITY: This is a fantastic sipping beer, but you could always be a heathen and chug it. Try not to throw up on the Dave Matthews poster you still have hanging in the man cave in your basement, though.

A.B.V.: %10.5

 COST: $12/1pt.9oz.

HANGOVER RATING: I wouldn’t go past three bombers of this.


Samuel Smith’s Organic Apricot Ale

I’ll let you all in on a little secret. I’m not really all that fond of Samuel Smith beers. The browns and porters fall flat, in my opinion, being kind of mundane and unremarkable. It’s why I don’t do reviews on them, or reviews on beers that I’m just kind of uninspired by all together. Because opening up an article and seeing the word ‘Meh’, followed by this picture:

Is a waste of both of our times.

But hey, you know what Samuel Smith can do right? Fruit beer! Damn right, Coddy’s preferred summertime libation jackpunched by an old English brew house. I’ve had all of them, but on the same night I tried ‘Terrible’, I got to try what I believe to be the best one for the first time.

Samuel Smith’s Organic Apricot is everything a fruit beer should be, and then some. First off, if you don’t like apricot, stay the hell away, because they sure didn’t go easy on it. The apricot here is far more prevalent then in the offerings from Pyrimid, Sea Dog, or Dogfishead. These apricots kick in your door, sit on your sofa, and demand chips.


There is a thickness to this beer that is actually quite pleasant. I can’t stand that sort of thing in a berry beer, but here it just sort of works. Perhaps it’s because apricots (unless fresh or dehydrated) are usually served with some kind of syrup, and my mouth has no trouble at all with the associated viscosity.

This is absolutely wonderful, and if you were to put it in your face hole with something, I would suggest plain high quality cheesecake.


DRINKABILITY: Too damn easy. You could put yourself in the hole pretty quick with this, and have fun doing it.

A.B.V.: %5.1

 COST: $7/1pt.9oz.

HANGOVER RATING: Gotta be careful with something this sweet. ‘Wine Crushing Headfuck’ isn’t just a great band name, you know.

And then…

Samuel’s Sunsetter: The Apricot At The Threshold

Now, those of you that read this blog regularly know that I like to do this retarded thing with food where I smash two things or more together and try and see if I can survive/enjoy it. 

It was only a matter of time before I did this with beer, and you damn well knew it.  So what happens when you have roughly equal amounts of these two beers sitting in your fridge? Do you do the responsible, acceptable thing and pour a small glass of one, then the other? Not if you’re me, you wouldn’t. Hell, this glass holds sixteen ounces. I’m not wasting them.

It would be really easy to sit there on the other end of the internet and say: “Coddy, I coulda told, ya, man, that’s gonna be a bad idea. Brew Masters worked for countless hours on the formulation and manufacture of those two beers, and you just can’t go playing god and splicing their delicious beer genes together like that, bro.”

Well, then you’d be a smug asshole with no sense of adventure. You would also be woefully wrong.

Because this combination is awesome.  Smoked peaches? A complex symphony of taste over a simple beat of sweetness? A thick, yet refreshing body?




In related news, I am now a minor beer deity. Go forth, child, go forth and conquer! 

Revisiting DuClaw: Soul Jacker

Posted in Spirit Guide with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 19, 2012 by Colin Walker

 Spirit Guide

After yesterday’s post, you would think that a rational man would steer clear of the dog that just bit him. You would come to the conclusion that a level-headed, reasonable gentleman, would show good sense and avoid getting into the same cage with the tiger that had just mauled him. You’d be right. A reasonable man would do that.

But this is a picture of me.

So, while a forward thinking fellow would take a wide berth of that tiger cage, you can rest assured that the Codpiece would be back the next day he was able to walk, smirking and calling that tiger names.

 Why? Because that son of a bitch thinks he’s better than me, that’s why.

DuClaw bit me on the ass. I’ve come back to see if they can do it again. Also, and more importantly, it’s already been paid for and is sitting in my fridge. I refuse to be afraid of anything in my own refrigerator.

 Except for that. I didn’t even fucking see that, so it’s not my responsibility. I’m not touching it.

DuClaw? DuClaw.

 DuClaw’s Soul Jacker

Another fancy label, anther cool name, another high alcohol content. So far, DuClaw hasn’t deviated from the formula that whipped my ass so soundly last time. Swell.

Soul Jacker is so named because it is actually a mix of two of the breweries other offerings. The ‘Soul’ bit comes from Devil’s Milk, which is an American barleywine. The ‘Jacker’ part comes from Black Jack, DuClaw’s imperial stout. Well, I’m actually not fond of barleywines, but I do love a good imperial stout. So, what happens when they throw one of them on top of the other?

It pours a dark, translucent, reddish-brown. Not a whole lot of head, but with this alcohol volume (and not being bottle fermented) this is to be expected. To the lips and…

It’s not bad, actually. The imperial stout stomps pretty soundly on that barleywine taste that I don’t like, while leaving some of its pleasant qualities behind. Unlike Nemesis, you can hardly taste the alcohol here at all, even though this is only %1.5 ABV lower. Chocolate and malt up front, with a little vanilla peeking through in the middle to a trace of hops at the end. All in all, I was expecting something a little more robust. this was actually quite mellow and soothing. By the end of the bottle, i was nodding my head in appreciation.

Food pairings? Asiago cheese and some hot salami.

 Double entendre, I was talking about my junk.

TASTE:  Balanced and pleasant.

DRINKABILITY: Really easy, leaves the barleywine far behind.

A.B.V.: %9.5

 COST: $10/1pt.9oz.

HANGOVER RATING: Not too bad, but as with anything, it would be easy to over do it.

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






Sesame seed bun

1010 calories

Triple Sesame Sasquatch:

Four beef patties

Four slices of cheese

Spicy Tendercrisp patty






Special Sauce

Three sesame seed buns


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.


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.


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.


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.

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.


“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?”


“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.”


“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.


“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?”


“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


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.”


“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?”


“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…”


“Well, 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.”


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


“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!”


“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.


“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?”


“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.”


“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


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:


“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