Archive for Insane

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.

Son Of A Peach VS. Sam Adams Imperial White

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


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.”


 “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.


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.


 “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.


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.”


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.


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!


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

Rip, In Your Hose

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

A lot of us wish we had more time on our hands. Sometimes, it seems as if the tedium of the everyday world uses up all the good minutes in the day, leaving you hanging on the ragged end wondering, what happened?

But, if you had more time, would you use it wisely? I know that question is entirely subjective. My hobby could be your complete and utter waste of time. But can we get together and agree, as responsible adults, that if we did have more time on our hands, we wouldn’t spend it making up to 400 phone calls a day, in an effort to get working women to chat dirty talk to us about pantyhose?


We can? Stellar.

You know who can ride with us on this express train out of Weird Sexual Harassment Town? Rip Alan Swartz, of Upper Allen, PA, that’s who.

That's your...Ah, hell, you already know.

Sexual kinks and preferences are varied. You could like feet. I do not. Frankly, I think it’s strange that you like feet, what with their proclivity to sweat, and their bulbous, freaky midget knuckles. You might think it’s odd that I can only achieve orgasm after watching the Leif Garret Behind The Music documentary and smelling a bag of hammers. To each his own, is what I’m saying here.


But I really just don’t get this. Not for the fetishism relating to the actual garment, but the antique approach to satisfaction. You called women at work, on the phone, and asked them if they were wearing pantyhose? What is wrong with you? There is an invention called the computer. It’s a magic box the is literally filled with magic and pictures. All kinds of pictures. Even ones that move. Even ones of pantyhose.

I’m going to go ahead and assume that you already knew all that, though. Which brings me to the next question: What excites you about calling women on the phone and making them feel slightly uncomfortable? It’s kind of nutty, is all. I could understand more if you were trying to be offensive, or shocking, or even downright threatening. That would be you exercising your primal aggression. You’d still be wrong, and doing it badly, but I would at least get the point. Right now you seem like a trollish little man who gets excited by a furrowed brow and an eyebrow raise.

The judge says that you’re also not allowed to set foot on the property of Hooters, Applebee’s, Bob Evans, or the First National Bank of Marysville. What did you do there? Also, were you not aware that you can actually walk into Hooters and harass those women in person? You are kind of out there, Rip. You should call me, so we can jaw this over. And yes I am.

Queen size.

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.)



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.

Kill In Your World, Play In Ours

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2011 by Colin Walker

Speaking of video games and violence, here’s a possible correlation.

When Kendall Anderson, of Philadelphia, got in trouble at school, his mother Rashida, decided to take away his Playstation 3. Makes sense, right? Acceptable punishment? Not according to Kendall. He decided that taking away the PS3 was a bit much, really, so he went upstairs and hit his mother 20 times with a claw hammer. Kendall wasn’t done showing his mother what overreaction was all about yet, though. He dragged her downstairs and attempted to cremate her in the oven. Well, that didn’t go the way he wanted, either, so he pulled her outside into the ally, where he beat her caveman style with a table leg.

Man, parents just don't understand

She survived.

I’m just fucking with you. Didn’t you read what I wrote above? Of course she died. Kendall killed his mom because she took away his PS3. Good job, Kendall!

The good news is, Kendall apparently really likes games. Where he is going, there are lots of games.

Grand Theft Anus: I-IV

What Happened To All My Clothes? (A Kendall Anderson mystery)

Cornbread(hole) Capers!

Kendall Anderson, Up Your Arsenal

Kendall and Double Ray At The Olympics Of Soap

Sub-par Haircut? Prenatal Shanking

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on February 16, 2011 by Colin Walker

Everybody likes to think they are good at their job. Unless you are a disgruntled employee, or an apathetic sponge, you take a certain amount of pride in your work. I would never come down to where you work, and tell you that you are giving less than adequate blowjobs. Not just because your blowjobs are not only better than adequate, but extraordinary, either, but because insulting someone’s work performance is one of the most degrading things you can say. We all have to put food on the table, or meth in the pipe somehow. That Dale Earnhart commemorative plate isn’t going to get itself out of hack, you know.

The. Fucking. Legend.

The only people that really don’t share this sense of pride are bureaucrats, and they get their pride another way; by making it as hard as humanly possible for you to accomplish what you want without physically breaking your legs.

“I understand that you want to fill out a form 221TB. But what you don’t realize is, before you do that, you must fill out a ‘request to file a form’ article. Where would you get that? Oh. From the Forms Master. Who is the Forms Master? I. Am. Call me the Forms Master, and maybe…”

So, insulting someone’s work isn’t cool. Glad we’re all on the same page here. Now while we’re on that page, let’s take a minute to think about the fact that Jovetta Wilson, a hairdresser in the employ of Eve’s Beauty Salon, in New London, CT., stabbed a pregnant customer after she complained about her haircut.

Makes sense, right? I mean, shit. How dare she, right? I doubt the pregnant ‘victim’ here was a professional hairdresser, so what gives her the right to judge the work of a professional? And as far as the whole ‘It’s wrong to stab anybody, much less a pregnant woman good-god-what-are-you-doing-they-have-a-whole-separate-charge-for-that.” nonsense, I say to hell with it. I mean, you go girl! Shit, her neck ain’t pregnant! Am I right?

(I am not ‘right’, Jovetta. I’m fucking with ya! Go to jail, you crazy bitch!)