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|Truck Nuts and other assorted automobile genitalia.|
RE. SPECT. Walk on home, boy. | Friday, 02.25.05
Truck nuts. My sister sent me a link to a site where one could trade their hard-earned cash for a pair of testicles to adorn the back of their pickup, asking who in the hell would purchase such a thing. "Does it connote the ballsiness of the driver? Or the gayness?" she asked. If you've been to this site more than once, then you already know that I suggested the latter, but allow me to spell it out for you in my native tongue of internet badass: "Dude, that's fucking gay."
|If only they made a necklace, I could receive non-stop respect all day long.|
The scary thing is that I was driving behind a testicularly-enhanced vehicle a few weeks ago and reckoned that my mind was in the gutter. Was it some kind of aerodynamic invention that cuts down on wind resistance... under the truck? Or was it more like a wacky golf club cover, used to protect the part of the truck that hillbillies use to drag ethnic people to their gruesome deaths? Nope. Just balls. Swaying back and forth in a hypnotic display of pure, unadulterated gayness.
Truck-nuts.com is the #1 internet source of automobile genitalia. "Does your truck got balls?" asks the header. "Ow," your brain replies, as it attempts to recover from a) the absurdity of the question and b) the soul-sucking grammar. The site promises to get you the "attention and respect of the other motor vehicles." Shit, that's all I need? I was wondering why random soccer moms and WWII vets were rear-ending me at every red light. My car got no nuts. One look at my shiny, salty truck nuts is apparently all it takes to show the world that driving is serious business, and if you can't take my word for it, talk to my prosthetic balls.
Inventions like this bother me. Not because I'm above it (even though I am), or because I'm slightly attracted to the site of huge, swaying balls (even though I am), but because if I was just a little more stupid, I could invent something like this and live like a king. LIKE A KING, I say! Unfortunately, my conscious and dwindling self respect prohibit me from locking myself in the basement with some graph paper to sketch something so ridiculous. And I'm sure some sacrifices had to be made to the design. Did the truck-nuts prototype have realistic pubic hair? Was it made from real testicle skin? See, I wouldn't be able to compromise my art to save a few dollars. My art. My masochistic, bumper hanging, undeniably gay... art. Thanks to the internet, I can jot down a few ideas of my own behind the guise of "comedy" and "parody." Even though, secretly, I'm hoping one of these ideas sticks, allowing me to rake in the cash thanks to my own respect-enhancing sexual automobile accessory.
|Now in tastefully realistic colors.|
Bumper Tits. "Do your bumper gots tits?" the site would ask. Imagine the thrill of having a massive set of breasts on your back bumper. Go ahead, imagine it. Nice, right? Mmm, that's what I'm talking 'bout. Finally, you'll be able to get the respect you deserve from everyone, but mostly just truckers and dykes. They come in a variety of colors and sizes, but we'll question your love of America if you order anything other than "WHITE" and "FUCKING HUGE, DUDE." Buy two sets of Bumper Tits and receive a free pair of Truck Nuts, for the ultimate in confusing sexual debauchery.
"My Car Runs on Semen" bumper sticker. Gasoline is for sissies and bloated women. You want a vehicle that runs on unleaded man juice, or at the very least, a sticker that says so. Who on this planet would be able to deny your machismo with one of these beauties plastered to the back of your automobile? Joe Nobody, that's who. Goes great with a "My Other Car is Also Powered by Semen" or a "Semen Inside" sticker. Semen. It's not just for accidentally impregnating your third cousin anymore.
Cock Turn Signals. The name speaks for itself, really, but I'll try to give as many details as I can without breaking the NDA. See, it's like a regular turn signal, but instead of a blinking light, it's a foot long, rock hard penis that protrudes from the trunk of your car. Turning left? The Cock Turn Signal hatch opens up, and the driver's side Cock Turn Signal furiously alerts other drivers that you're making a left hand turn like a real man. Turn on your hazard lights for a spectacle so beautiful that it can't even be put into words. Wangs flying everywhere. If you're into that sort of thing. And if you want respect, admiration and countless women salivating at the site of your turning capabilities, then the Cock Turn Signal is exactly what your automobile deserves.
|Hunter S. Thompson|
| Sunday, 02.20.05
"Gonzo journalism is a style of reporting based on William Faulkner's idea that the best fiction is far more true than any kind of journalism -- and the best journalists have always known this. True gonzo reporting needs the talents of a master journalist, the eye of an artist/photographer and the heavy balls of an actor. Because the writer must be a participant in the scene, while he's writing it -- or at least taping it, or even sketching it. Or all three. Probably the closest analogy to the ideal would be a film director/producer who writes his own scripts, does his own camera work and somehow manages to film himself in action, as the protagonist or at least a main character."
~ Hunter S. Thompson [1937 - 2005]
|It's a fact: the elderly like coffee and hamburgers.|
It's a fact. | Friday, 02.11.05
Why do old people always drink coffee at fast food restaurants? What possesses them to order a junior bacon cheeseburger, an order of onion-flavored ring chips and a hot cup o' joe? It can't taste good. Coffee tastes good with one thing: cigarettes. OK, maybe two things, cigarettes and anger. For instance, I hear this rambling paragraph of anger and intensity nearly every day of my life...
|Just what the hell were the Doozers working on anyway? Considering the Fraggles ate all of their supplies and destroyed everything they worked on, maybe their foreman should have found a better place to build. Like Doozer Town.|
"Goddamit, where the fuck is the coffee? The coffee isn't brewed yet? WHAT THE FUCK. What the hell am I going to drink? Look, if I wanted to not drink coffee, I would have stayed at my desk and reviewed my collection of hilarious Dilbert cartoons... if I could find any. Fuck it, I'll just smoke these cigarettes while I wait for the slow as shit coffee to make itself ready. My productivity is plummeting, and I can't wait to die."
Compare that to this imaginary collection of sentences...
"Boy, y'know, this hamburger is good, but do you know what would make it even better? A cure for my shingles. Oh, and also, a giant cup of coffee."
I studied two older gentlemen at a Burger King the other day, and their beverage choices were right on target: both had cups of coffee. However, one man (the younger of the two, probably about 145 years old) must have been super thirsty, because he had a secondary backup beverage: tap water in a dixie cup. Mmm mm. I understand that old people have stomachs that can't handle fancy drinks like Coca-Cola or Quadruple X-Treme Vodka Energy Drink spritzers, but I'd rather take my chances. Bottled water companies have convinced me that tap water consists of 12 parts iron, 58 parts mouse feces and whatever 100 minus the sum of 12+58 parts embalming fluid. Internet math comedy is the wave of the future, so strap yourselves in x 100.
But what the hell do I know? Some people live by their strange food combinations, so maybe I'm just missing out. Some people like pineapple and ham on their pizza! Crazy! John Travolta said that in Belgium, they drown their french fries in mayonnaise, and Fraggles ate those plastic beams like they were candy. I always wondered what those plastic beams tasted like when I was a kid... I can only assume they taste like Lego bricks, only more transparent. And I've tasted my share of Lego bricks over the years, because teeth are the perfect Lego brick remover. I think my mother noticed all of the tiny teeth marks on my Lego bricks, so she bought me an actual "Lego Brick Remover" that looked like a shoehorn, and yeah, it cut through stuck Lego pieces with the quickness, but it still couldn't compare to a set of 5-year-old canines. Of course, my dentist tells me that my gums are receding at an astronomical rate, but thankfully, science hasn't formed a link between fucked up gums and Lego usage. Yet.
The world is full of scumbags, and I have the search criteria to prove it. Now that Microsoft is getting in on the exciting, fast paced world of search engines, I can wrangle in a whole new community of ingrates looking for "FAT PEOPLE FUCKING IN A BATHTUB FILLED WITH PRAWN" and "INSTRUCTIONS FOR FUCKING A 2 MONTH OLD WITHOUT KILLING IT." Here is just a sample of the hits I'm getting thanks to Microsoft's new search engine. Keep 'em coming, Bill!
|Why children can't play duck duck goose.|
Because tmh said so. | Thursday, 02.03.05
APEX DVD PLAYER FOR SALE NEW
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IS THE CUSTOMER RIGHT
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SEX PHOTOS OF JESSICA SIMPSON
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John Hopkins University Department of Physics
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Rollie Fingers Pitching Speed
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HILARIOUS 800 NUMBERS
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Who types "butts" into a search engine these days? "I want to see butts on my internet, and I want to see them now! Ooh, thismayhurt.com, this sounds like a randy porno bondage site, let me just triple click this link here. Hmmmm. Words. Words. Oooh, a gallery! OK penis, get ready for sweet release... what the-- I can't jerk off to this! I'm going to give this guy a piece of my mind... right after I find some butts on the internet."
Oh, and also, here's an animated goose.
|Closed captioning provided by your local school of the deaf and blind.|
aurer | Wednesday, 02.02.05
Television takes on a strange aura (or, "aurer" if you're from Jersey City) when you watch it with the sound off and closed captioning on. This is because the monkeys that transcribe television shows (namely news programs) haven't slept in years, nor have they learned how to spell difficult words like "debris" or "flaming wreckage." I noticed this last night as I was pedaling up a fabricated hill on a stationary bike that has managed to shave off nearly all of my leg hair. A description of my flaming leg pores doesn't really add much to this story, but I feel it's important that you imagine the smell of my flaming, hammy legs, covered in sweat and, for one reason or another, barbecue sauce.
|I have this picture hanging above my mantlepiece.|
I spent a good 15 minutes trying to figure out what human being would name their son or daughter "METHAN FETA MEAN" before I realized I was watching a piece on the dangers of methamphetamines. Granted, I usually lose consciousness around the 15th minute of pedaling on the stationary bike, so there's a good chance there was no story about METHAN FETA MEANS, and there's also a good chance that I died on that stationary bike last night. Regardless of my position on this plain of existence, closed captioning for the hearing impaired made me raise one eyebrow like an inquisitive rogue wearing one of those Sherlock Holmes thinking caps right before he gets bludgeoned with a candlestick in the library by Admiral Relish.
Closed captioning also turns mundane stories about retarded bullshit into tense nailbiters. They'll show, like, a picture of a taco on the screen, and since you're deaf, you're relying on the closed captioning to tell you all about this taco. But the words appear slowly, so your deaf ass is sitting there waiting, and waiting, reading misspelled word after misspelled word to figure out what the hell is going on.
>> BREAKIGN NEWS: THE DEFENSE DEPARTMENT HAS ISHUED A STATEMENT REGARDING THE STATE OF TACOS IN AMERICA. AFTER RUNNING A SERIES OF TESTS ON A VARIETEE OF MEATS CHEESES AND LETTUCE FOUND IN TACOS, EVIDENCE POINTS TOWARDS A STARTLING CONCLUSIO. THIS CONCLUSION IS SO STARTLING THAT EVEN WE HEAR AT NEWS CHANNEL 4 COULD NOT BELIEVE IT. THE DEFENSE DEPT. HAS DECLARED ALL TACOS DELICIOUS. STAY TUNED FOR FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS...
The story is about 10 seconds long. The closed captioning takes about three hours to scroll across the screen, so by the time you're done deciphering the alien code, the accompanying visuals have already switched to something more interesting, like the Pope getting attacked by a heretic dove. Now the commercials are running and the captioning switches mid-sentence, so you get a magical concoction like this:
|Presbyterian doves shit all over the Pope's Jesus parade.|
>> THIS JUST IN. THE POPE JOHN PAUL II WAS ATTACKED BY A RENEGADE HERETIC DOVE. HERE WITH A REPORT OF THE INCIDENT IS OUR JOURNALIST IN THE FIELD, SEAN WILLIAMS. SEAN?
>> THANKS BOB. IF THERE'S ONE THING I HATE IT'S PASSING GAS WHEN I'M ENTERTAINING GUESTS. THAT'S WHY I TAKE BEAN-O AFTER EVERY MEAL. OR EVERYTIME I HAVE A DRINK. OR EVERYTIME I BREATHE IN. BEAN-O! ASK FOR IT BY NAME.
Thoroughly aggravated with the closed captioning situation in the gym last night, I focused my attention elsewhere, namely futzing with my iPod and internally laughing at ugly people. Speaking of which, I'm very proud of the fact that I haven't seen a single wang at the gym yet. Not that I'm afraid of what might happen if I accidentally catch a glimpse of some guy's wang glistening in the harsh locker room light, I'd just rather not. Now, it's one thing to be changing out of your stank clothes into something with a little more breathing room. If there's a tsunami in your crotch, chances are you'll have your wang out when you're wringing out your underpants. This I can understand. But when you're walking from the showers to your locker with a cell phone in one hand and your balls in the other, I have to assume that you're inviting everyone to enjoy a heaping eyeful of wang. I'm sure it's a very nice wang, good sir, but in all honesty, I have one of my own... and it's fabulous.
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