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rachel: Eh, it's not really that heavy. john: But... but, it's the X-Box. It's larger than all of my other consoles combined! Right? Please? Just humor me here? rachel: Huh? Oh. Oh! Wow, you're right John, this X-Box really is heavy and large. Boy oh boy, I can't get over how heavy and large this stupid console is. Thank you. Now, the X-Box by itself is a pretty shitty console. It already has the size and weight issue against it, but most of the games... how do you Americans say... suck ass. So why did I pay $211 for a console that I didn't really want? To mod (the l33t way of saying "modify") it, you silly goose. See, once upon a time, some hackers in Chinatown were trying to figure out a way to make the X-Box suck less. They tried glueing better consoles on top of it, but that didn't work. They tried turning it into a 700 pound hat, but that also didn't work. Then, one of those crazy kids decided to open that puppy up, solder some chips to it and -tada- the X-Box sucked less. So what does your modded X-Box do, besides make you run from the law for the rest of your life? First off, it can play imported X-Box games. Right, whoop-de-shit, who cares. Second, it can play DVD's without the use of the stupid dongle switch thing that Microsoft charges $30 for. But, here's the best benefit: you can install a bigger hard drive into the X-Box and fill it up with ripped games, every type of media file imaginable (avi, vcd, mp3, etc), and it can even run emulators (so you can play insanely great Super Nintendo games). Still not sold yet, huh? Fine! I did a little research, and I found some other cool things that a modded X-Box is capable of.
1) ... play games for systems that haven't even been invented yet. So if you somehow get your hands on a copy of Final Fantasy 92 for Playstation 54, you'll be able to play it on your modded X-Box, lickety split. 2) ... sponsor a starving child in a third world country. Don't ask me how, but once you mod an X-Box, it can actually send grain and corn to a half-dead child in a country you've never heard of. Amazing. 3) ... clean the sludge out of your gutters. Seriously. This kid I know modded his X-Box, and one night he woke up to the sound of his Box out on the roof with a ladder. When the kid asked the X-Box what it was doing, it just kept cleaning the gutters, because a modded X-Box can't talk. What are you, some kind of idiot? Do you know nothing about technology? 4) ... take over the appliances in your house and turn them against you. The less said about this, the better. So, I feel confident in my purchase, and look forward to voiding my warranty, spending a few months in the pokey and hiding from 5-0 for the rest of my life. Thank you oversized, extremely heavy, ugly and nasty X-Box! (Contrary to popular belief, making jokes about the weight and size of the X-Box is still extremely hilarious, despite the fact that system has been on the market for the past two years, and everyone has already gotten over this fact. OMG X-BOX IS HUGE LOL LOL LOL!!!!11)
My dreams are fucking gay, and I don't mean that I have homosexual sex in my dreams, since that would actually be interesting. At least I'd be getting some sort of play, but no. My dreams are about as exciting as my real life, because my brain is fat, lazy and usually calls out sick, even though I know it's just sitting at home playing Excitebike and eating miniature Nestles Crunch bars. You want proof? Check this out, here's a recap of last night's dream. It's late, and I'm in my room. I can hear a scuffle going on in the hallway, so I open the door a crack. We're being robbed! By one of Rachel's friends! Noooo! So I loudly proclaim, "I'm calling the police!" And then I do. The end. This dream revealed a lot about my inner psyche. For instance, I think the dream was trying to tell me that I don't want to have my house broken into, and that cops are nice. Also, I think the dream reveals that I like to have dogs defecate on my face. How about the night before? I'm working at a comic book store with Dante and Randal from the movie Clerks. Randal and I go outside to have a cigarette. We come back in, and the Chinese have taken over the store! OMG! They're holding Dante hostage! Dante escapes their clutches, pulls out a gun... and... AND... shoots himself in the head. Yay! But he's still sort of alive, so I take the gun and shoot him twice more. Good morning, bright eyes! What a perfeclty well-adjusted dream to have. Why, no, I have no interest in going on a homicidal death pilgrimage, but I'd love to check out your literature on the subject. I'm not really sure what this dream was supposed to reveal about me, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with having dogs defecate on my face, and really enjoying it. So, while you're gently drifting off into slumber land, visions of plums and other dried fruit prancing about your head, know that I'm tossing and turning, throwing my pillows across the room like oversized fluffy grenades and dreaming of going to the store to buy cashews, eating the cashews and shooting myself in the head repeatedly. Can I borrow some of your dreams? Mine seem to be a bit on the "retarded and broken" side.
It was a Friday, and I was sitting in my office supply closet, which also doubles as my cubicle, at my internship. I opened up the cgi script used to update thismayhurt, and I looked around the room for inspiration. Since I share the room with dusty boxes and rodents, I decided to look elsewhere. Then -- like a mouse crawling out from underneath a dusty box and up my pant leg to bite my sac -- all became clear. Some higher being was using me to write the greatest and best update in the world, my fingers flew across the keyboard with blinding quicknessity (not a word, but should be). I laughed and chuckled and tee-hee'd as the words formed sentences, the sentences formed paragraphs, and the paragraphs formed the equivalent of literary nirvana on raver drugs. I began to think of all the dead authors that I singlehandedly surpassed with this one update: Chaucer, Seuss, the Apostles. They didn't have nothin' on me. As I struck the last period, a lone tear crawled down my face. I wept for a good twenty minutes after that, stopping only to tell myself how great I was. I looked at the monitor and knew what I had to do... Victory pee. I wanted to hit the "Update" button with an empty bladder, call me crazy. So, I kissed the keyboard and walked down the hall to the bathroom, and my oh my, urine never smelled so sweet. It was the urine of champions. All of the years of being a nobody passed through my urethra and into the terlet, and onto the terlet, and onto the wall as well. I was so excited that I couldn't even urinate in a straight line. I breathed deeply and walked back to my office supply closet, where the greatest update in the entire history of the world awaited my click of approval. I sat down in the chair, moved my legs under the desk, put my hand on the mouse -- ZAP. Poof. Black screen. Now, I didn't scream. I didn't throw the monitor across the room. I didn't even change my facial expression. I just slumped back in my chair, staring into the void of the computer that just ate my flawless masterpiece. I really couldn't do anything, since it was my own fault. I accidentally kicked the computer's powerchord when I returned from my victory pee. All I could do was calmly leave the room, find the nearest janitor, stabb him in the neck and drag his body into the street. I felt a little better after that, but I was still a little peeved. A lot of people ask me, "So John, what the the greatest update in the world about?" And I reply, "Uh... I don't know, paperclips or something. I can't really remember."
This is why I salute brothers Arie and Will Wilgenburg, two California farmers who decided it would be neat to kill 30,000 of the winged beasts with the aid of a woodchipper, or, in this case, "chickenchipper." Shit, the U.S. Department of Agriculture said it would be cool, too, and decided that the brothers should not be brought up on charges for 30,000 counts of "woodchipular chickenslaughter." The farmers needed to destroy the chickens because they were "spent" -- or no longer able to produce eggs -- and could not make chicken soup out of them because the farms were under quarantine for the poultry virus Exotic Newcastle Disease, District Attorney's spokeswoman Gayle Stewart said. -- Yahoo! News It seems that some hippies from the Humane Society thought the brothers' actions were "callous and barbaric" with just a hint of "batshit insane" and a dash of "cuckoo... cuckoo." Apparently the Humane Society has never heard of Exotic Newcastle Disease... but, uh... I hear it's... pretty bad. Why, just last month I had a bit of the old Exotic Newcastle Disease, but I rubbed some Vix on it, and eventually it went away. So, you've got a barn full of bacteria-ridden chickadees, a woodchipper, and a dream. A dream filled with blood drenched feathers, majesty. What to do? The farmers must have thought this one through for about three seconds. Will Wilgenburg: I reckon we gotta get rid o' these sickly chickens, Arie. Arie Wilgenburg: Yep. Will Wilgenburg: You wanna help me throw 'em into the woodchipper? Arie Wilgenburg: Yep. Will Wilgenburg: Then I'll tell you about the rabbits, again. Arie Wilgenburg: Yep. Now, I've had some repetative jobs in the past. Stuffing envelopes, folding flyers, executing Mexicans, etc. Can you imagine throwing 30,000 chickens into a woodchipper? That's bending over, wrestling a ferocious chicken and getting showered in McNuggets 30,000 times. I can think of a few better ways to spend my afternoon, and only one of them involves a woodchipper and poultry. OK... maybe two ways. Maybe it's just really fun. Maybe the inbred farming brothers made a game of it, like whoever can catch the most chicken giblets in his overalls wins a new tractor. I'm sure "Extreme Massive Chicken Slaughter" will be seen on ESPN2 in a few days. They'd show fucking "Extreme Eye Exam" if they had an available timeslot. Bastards. What was this update about, again?
Der derp derp whooopy dooo! derp derp, Sandler derp derp angry, punches some chick derp derp derp. Derp derp girlfriend derpy derp, other guy, big penis derping derp derp. "Habba, zabba zabba doo" derpy derp, der derp "Wait till they get a load of derp" derping derp. Der derp derp derping derp? GREAT! DERP! Derping derp derp... derp. Derping derp derp? Derp. Derp derp funny sidekicks, all homofags derp derp derp. Derp derp chick from Austin Powers 2 derp derp! Derping derp Boston Red Sox bra, OMG so hot derp derping derp. Derp derp flung my fesces at the derpy screen derp derp derping derp. Derping derp Adam Sandler at his derpiest, der derp derp. Also, lesbians make out from time to time. Derp derpity derp, 13 year olds can derp off, now derp derping derp. Derpity derp PLOTPOINT: Derp derpy derp Nicholson steals Sandler's girlfriend derp derp. Derpy derp derp oh wait, it was all part of his anger derpy management derp derp. Derpy derp movie full of lies derp derping derp. Derpy derp "want to derp the heiny" derp derp, "Where does he derp those wonderful derps?" derping derp. This movie fucking derped big soggy derp. On a scale of derp to derp: Derp: 1/50 Daderp: 1/Derp Derpity: 3/Derp x12 Derp Derp: 100/100
I will be argueing for the male side. Here's a little background on myself: I'm a Journalism major from Rutgers University, and I plan on attending Wendy's next fall to begin my training as the best damned meat-flavored sludge patty cook that ever lived. I've never won an argument with Ms. Corus before, and I don't plan on starting today. But I have a vast knowledge of useless information, and I know the lyrics to eight GWAR albums from beginning to end. Argument #1: Men couldn't deal with having periods, as the physical and emotional pain would be too much for them. Women can handle these struggles, and cook my damned dinner at the same time. lacki: This is the worst argument in the history of broads trying to make sense. First of all, I'd have to agree that if, all of a sudden, I started getting my period tomorrow, I'd be a little upset, considering there would be a steady stream of clumpy blood ejaculating from my penis. But if I was supposed to get it every month, then I, along with the rest of the men on the planet, could totally handle it. Also, emotional pain doesn't exist unless it stems from a sports team, losing a videogame or not pooping enough. So I say, hand me that tampon and I'll shove it so far up myself that I'll never bleed again. Rachel: I personally feel that men could potentially deal with the physical and emotional pain that comes along the time of the month. On the other hand, I could remember when my boyfriend, not mentioning any names, had a slight cold and he just wanted to be hugged and rubbed. Even though I fell alseep during his time of need... the period issue... right. Women have to deal with a lot of crap when the dreaded period comes to town, and that is what makes them superior. The end. Argument #2: PMS exists, and causes women to lose their fucking minds. lacki: Nope. Sorry, there's no such thing at PMS. I've actually devised a theory involving cloning and evil cloning that will explain everything. See, during one week of the month, a bunch of women go to meetings about doing laundry, cooking dinner and keeping themselves neat and tidy for their husbands and/or boyfriends. These meetings are held in a top-secret location, probabaly on some looney island somewhere. During this week, an evil clone replacement wife/girlfriend takes their place, but the evil clone technology isn't so hot yet, so most evil clones have no control over their emotions, and can swich from laughing to crying in a matter of seconds. They are usually a little more bloated than their real counterparts, yet no guy is able to notice this, even when the evil clone grabs the boyfriend/husband by the ears and thrusts their faces into their evil clone bloat stomachs, screaming, "LOOK AT HOW BLOATED AND FAT AND UGLY I AM!" So, there you have it. No PMS. Just evil, bloated clones. Next? Rachel: John, you ignorant slut. PMS exists, absolutely. Speaking from experience, I lose my fucking mind. It is like some kind of demon that enters the women's body and causes her to go crazy, thereby causing their significant other to kick holes in the wall. But I also kick holes in the wall when I don't have my period, so now I really don't think I am a reliable source to answer this question. I just think women are out of their fucking minds most of the time regardless of the periods. Argument #3: Women make excellent drivers. They are fully aware of their surroundings and keep their eyes on the road at all times. lacki: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Whew boy... that's rich. Rachel: Oh, fuck you. Argument #4: One day, a woman will be president. America will be full of fluffy bunnies and tranquil deer. Rachel: If a women becomes president we are all in trouble. I don't know about fluffy bunnies or tranquil deer, but that is just one more woman with their period in power. Now I don't know about you, but that is some crazy shit. I believe in women's liberation but we have to draw the line somewhere. lacki: That means there would have to be a first-man, and that would seriously be the gayest thing since that two-headed announcer thing from Episode I. And of course, a female president would have a female vice-president, and then they tell two friends, and then they tell two friends, and so on, and so on. Before you know it, the nancyboy first-man is baking cookies for the president and all of her bitch-ass friends, who all now live in the White House. It will be like... oh fuck, what was that movie where the women take over the world? Oh yeah, "Anal Lolita Vixens Take Over the World #42." And I won't even get into foreign affairs... "Why don't we just call up the Baath Party and talk about our feelings all night. They've just been so mean lately... I don't know what's gotten into them! Is it me? Whaaaaaaa! I'm a shitty president! Whaaaaa!" Fuck that. You chicks are fucking nuts, man.
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Some people say that the Punisher is a crappy superhero because he has no amazing powers. Spiderman can cling to walls, detect danger with his Spidey Sense and shoot webbing. The Incredible Hulk can turn green, wear purple pants and break shit. Superman can do everything. And the Punisher can... shoot people in the face and brood. But he has a kick-ass t-shirt, and that's all a good superhero needs, really. Well, that and a hilarious monkey sidekick.
So, since neither the Punisher nor Batman have any cool superpowers between them, who would win in a fight? I'm talking no guns, no Punisher-repellent spray, just a straight up brawl. The question has plagued mankind since its inception, and I think their battle would go a little something... like this. Punisher: Well Batman, for reasons beyond our control, it appears that we are both trapped in this room together. Batman: You're right Punisher. My Batty Sense® is tingling. I think- Punisher: Hold on, you don't have Batty Sense® ... do you? Batman: Of course I do! Why, when I was bitten by that radioactive bat, I gained all of the powers a bat has, including, but not limited to, my Batty Sense® . Punisher: Bruce, come on, you weren't bitten by a radioactive bat. You just needed a gimmick, and the only costume left at the Halloween store was a faggy bat suit. Batman: All right, fine, so I wasn't bitten by a bat, but at least I can seek vengence undetected. Look at you, the police should just put out an all-points-bulletin to be on the lookout for the homo with the oversized skull on his shirt. Punisher: But Wayne, this skull is my trademark! It's all I have! My wife and child were killed, you insensitive prick. Batman: You're right, old chum. I'm sorry, I too have felt the pain of death. The joker killed my parents when I was a young boy. Punisher: Wow. It really makes you think, huh? Batman: It sure does. Hey, do you want to fuck each other in the ass for a little while? Punisher: Christ, I thought you'd never ask. How come I'm not allowed to write comic book story-lines? I think this is way more interesting than the death and return of Superman. See, I know what the kids want, and it's loving, gentle anal sex between two grown men in tight fitting leather otfits. Where's Stan Lee's number when I need it?
It's been clinically proven that 9 out of 10 fat dudes loves them some soda. The other dude drinks Pepsi ONE, because his life is a lie, and this crappy soda substitute is all he has. It's sad, really. Poor guy gets home after a long day of doing a big bunch of nothing, plays The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker until four in the morning, falls alseep for 2 hours only to start the whole process all over again. Now, I know nothing about who this guy is, or the name of the street he lives on, or what shade of green his boxer shorts are right this moment. But I do know this: I got the Master Sword last night, and I'm going to kick Ganon's ass as soon as I'm done writing this. Anyway, you'll always hear skinny people telling fat people that if they simply cut soda from their diet, their weight will plummet so quickly that even God will say, "Fuck if I know what happened to him. I made him fat, he stops drinking soda, now he's skinny. I'm a crappy creator." What the skinny people forget to tell the fat people is that eliminating soda from their diet will cause permanent levels of craziness, with a slight chance of herpes. So, the skinny people got together one day, added some sugar to ceptic tank water, sloshed it into a silver can and proclaimed to the world, "Check it out! It kind of looks like soda, and it comes in a neato silver can! Come forth, chubby ones, and drink of the nectar that comes from the sewers in Bayonne!" And the chubby people said, "Why don't you guys try it first?" And the skinny people ran far, far away. Even they don't want to touch this shit, and they have to know what's going on. They're skinny for Christ's sake. And this is where I enter the story, as a slightly (massively) overweight lover of all things carbonated and brown. I have an entire basement filled with cases of Pepsi ONE. It's not even funny how much of this swill I've downed in the past year, and I've barely made a dent in the pile. And yes, the skinny people were right when they said that eliminating soda from your diet is a great way to lose weight. And since the Pepsi corporation isn't legally allowed to call Pepsi ONE a soda, I'm doing my part by drinking it at every meal, and pouring it on my Frosted Flakes. Want to know an even more effective way to lose weight? Shoot heroin. Fat junkies? Never seen one. Kurt Cobain, Steven Tyler, Mr. Rogers... all thin, all junkies, all insanely popular. So kids, the moral of the story is: Fuck Pepsi ONE, shoot heroin into your toes for an ass that just won't quit, and a set of pecs that you could write your 7,000 page dissertation on.
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