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Having spent a good 35 minutes total on Microsoft's greatest invention since the Internet®, allow me to introduce you to the X-Box Live SUPER ALLSTARS! The competition is fierce, the stakes are high, and the geeky headsets are sweaty as fuck. Care to meet this year's lineup?
|X-BOX LIVE SUPER ALLSTARS!!!!!11|
funny++ | Monday, 06.30.03
|XBL Screenname: HEAVY_METAL_RULZ_69|
The 411: Let's get this straight... this boy is here to do one thing, and one thing only... ROCK YOUR FUCKING SOCKS OFF, MISTER! There's only one thing this dude loves more than online gaming, and that's being a world-renowned HARDASS! He's not afraid to call his mom nasty names when she says, "No more X-Box Live for you young man, it's time to brush your teeth and go to bed!" She just doesn't understand his online gaming, or his poetry, or his intimidating hair, and she deserves to be fragged, d00d!
Superpower: Can enjoy his mom's casserole in a single bound.
Battlecry: "This level is for faggots, who here likes Linkin Park?"
|XBL Screenname: I_LIKE_FISHING_12|
The 411: This seasoned veteran has been into online gaming since the good old days, when online games were played with chalk and clumps of grass. Sure he's a little gray, and his brain is slowly turning to pudding, but that doesn't stop him from talking smack with the best of 'em! Just don't let him play games that feature flashing lights, intense action or girls with "huge gazongas." It will only make him yearn for gaming's yesteryear, when the games were dark, the action was minimal, and the girls were yellow pucks that ran from ghosts and ate square pellets.
Superpower: Keeping regular.
Battlecry: "I think my heart just stopped... tell my wife I lov--"
|XBL Screenname: tmh718|
The 411: Help desk consultant by day, webmaster by night, and horrible online gamer by late night. Too weirded out to actually speak to real-life people over the information superweb, this fellow silently sips bag after bag of Capri-Sun, cringing at the insane levels of stupidity found on X-Box Live. As his onscreen persona gets fragged, gibbed and spalonked, he wonders what else he could have spent his hard-earned $50 on. Tango lessons? Some nice toenail clippers, perhaps?
Superpower: Looking ridiculous in retarded X-Box Live headgear.
|XBL Screenname: HIILIKEGAMESANDMYNAMEISLEELOLHIHELLOTHEREHI|
The 411: Time to lower the volume on your kickin' rad "X-Box Live Communicator" (gay headset) once this nutcase enters the fray. While most gamers enjoy casual conversation as they send each others' organs into clumpy piles, this foreigner enjoys saying things like "Hallo" and "Hallo Hallo Hallo Hallo" and the always popular "Who here on server speaks Engrish good?" But don't let this gamer's hilarious dialect and disregard for sentence structure fool you, she's actually incredibly fucking stupid.
Superpower: The gift of broken-english gab.
Battlecry: "WHO ON SERVER HAS XBOX LIVE?"
I have a huge, huge ass, so food is of great importance to me. Naturally, I peeped out the grub situation during my stay across the pond and noticed many trends, some delicious, some not so delicious. Some on the "very tasty, thank you" side, and others on the order of "what the shit is this on my plate, and why does it taste like scary anime tentacles?"
|Whose potato do I have to peel to get some service around here?|
i like food food tastes good | Wednesday, 06.25.03
I'm not gonna front, yo, but I love me some fast food. Mickey D's, Taco Bell, KFC... both me and my tits are salivating at the moment. And since the rest of the world wants to be cool (and dangerously obese) like us Americans, you can eat like a king (a BURGER KING... tee hee tee hee) while spending time in your favorite backwards-ass country of choice. But while I still got the same calories and disturbing aftertaste that I've grown to love in the USA, I encountered a few subtle differences in the fast food department overseas.
a) Off-puttingly friendly service. You know when some retard fucks up your order at Wendys, and you spit in her face and fire thirteen rounds into the ceiling? I didn't have to do this once in Ireland. Everyone's just so damned nice. Even the mean people are twenty times nicer than the nicest person in Niceville, USA, and that's saying something. Have you met the people in Niceville? They're all like, "Welcome to Niceville" and shit. They're good people.
b) Weird names. I don't know about you, but McDonald's has always been called Mickey D's at my house, which I always thought sounded kind of "street" and "hip." Like, if RUN-DMC was hungry for cheeseburgers, I think they'd say something like, "I want fries, and shakes, and burgers wit cheese / C'mon y'all, let's go to Mickey D's." Do you know what the "street" name for McDonald's is over in Ireland? Mackers. Mackers!! And to make things even more confusing, there's a rival chain known as Super Macs that serves roughly the same stuff, and looks roughly 20 times dirtier. Mackers... pshaw.
c) Mayo. Dear country that exports mayonnaise to Ireland: Cut it out, they've got plenty already, thanks. There was enough mayo on my Ireland Beef Burger from Super Macs to choke three mayo-loving donkies. I mean, it was still good and everything, but my heart stopped a few times between bites.
My Scary Seafood Platter
During our last night in Dublin, we ate at Johnnie Fox's, also known as the highest pub in Ireland. Seriously, it's basically on top of a mountain. You had a choice of three main courses: traditional Irish stew (soaked in Guinness... I wish I was kidding), a seafood platter and something else. Rachel ordered the stew and I ordered the seafood. So they bring me this plate of seafood, and I swear to christ, it looked like the inside of a fishtank at the pet store. The plate was crawling with raw fishies. Plus, little shells stuffed with plankton or shark guts or chum. I was expecting, oh I don't know... fucking cooked fish, perhaps breaded. I know I probably sound like a bitch, but seriously, this plate was alive and quite similar to the creatures found in superviolent anime rape porn.
Everything else = A-OK
Man, I don't want to slam on the food that much, because all in all, everything was great. I mean, most of the nights we ate free at the hotel, and one morning at a bed and breakfast this nice old Irish woman made me pancakes. The slamminest dinner had to Chicken Kiev, which is Irish for "Chicken Stuffed with Butter and Garlic," served with, you guessed it... potatoes. Much like every other meal. And dessert. Speaking of which, the Irish are big into Kit Kat bars and weird energy drinks for some reasons or another. Just thought I should mention that.
Having spent time with a group of misfits from across the globe, I've come to realize that New Jersey is synonymous with two things to those who have never visited the Garden State: Bruce Springsteen and the Sopranos. We shared our trip to Ireland and the UK with tourists from Australia, Canada and inbred crackers from the mid-west, and all of them had the following conversations with Rachel and myself.
|Glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye, eh?|
Jersey represent, whut. | Sunday, 06.22.03
Tourist: So, where are you from then, eh?
Tourist: OMG, the Boss, eh!?
Rachel: Yeah, I guess.
Tourist: God, I love the Bruce Springsteen... but you must love him even more, being from New Jersey and all, eh?
John (whispers to Rachel): Who the fuck is Bruce Springsteen?
Tourist: Where ya from, mate?
John: New Jersey.
Tourist: Crikey! I love the Sopranos!
John: Yeah, I've never seen it, but it's pretty popular.
Tourist: Never seen it?
John: No, but a lot of the outdoor shots from the Sopranos are shot in my hometown. My crazy ex-girlfriend's house is in the opening sequence, and Pizzaland is right up the block.
Tourist: (heart stops)
Being the only tourists from tha eazt cide on the trip, we were immediately nominated official hard-asses. Tell people you're from Jersey and they'll simply call you a "goomba" and laugh at your accent, but tell them you're 10 minutes from NYC and they'll hand over their wallets and randomly beg for their lives. I won't speak for Rachel, but this was pretty fucking cool. For once in my life, people were afraid of me. I found that bringing attention to "my piece" and making reference to "all my niggas up in the state pen" only added to the levels of respect I demanded. Of course, I come home and get mugged by 12 year old girls, but fuck all that, I'm on vacation.
|In this picture, both Rachel and I have Waterford, Ireland on lockdown.|
The more time I spent in other cities, though, the more I realized that New York is a pretty hardcore place. For instance, the graffiti in NYC comes in two distinct flavors: a) crazy, nondiscernable tags and b) blatant naughtiness. Seeing the words "GO FUCK YOURSELF AND DIE YOU FUCKING WHORE" scrawled in pencil over a subway ad for the Ronald McDonald House would not seem out of place in the city. In Dublin and London, however, the graffiti was just so fucking weak. First of all, there were almost no signs of "whacked-out" tags anywhere; instead, you'd see the names "JOE" and "FRED" written quite legibly on a park bench. Right next to the names would be non-threatening phrase, such as, "I like pudding!" or "Hooray for sunshine!" In London, there was this sign that read "KFC... we're always open!" and some stupid bloke spraypainted the word "not" between "we're" and "always." Oh! I get it! KFC... they're... NOT always open! Blimey, I almost fell off the lift in the tube station when I saw that one.
So don't worry, Rachel and I represented Jersey to the fullest during our overseas excursion. And neither of us own a Springsteen album, or have HBO. We had the attitude , though, and that was enough to send both blokes and wankers home to their mums for beans on toast.
coming soon to THISMAYHURT, scintillating, sexy stories straight
|Hmm, beef salad, beef on the cob, beef fried beef...|
Even this menu is made of meat! | Thursday, 06.19.03
from the pub and into your hearts. Thrill as you read about...
the mentally challenged bus driver
life-threatening time differences
Ireland's fascination with energy drinks and Kit-Kat bars
and potatoes, potatoes, potatoes (potatoes)!!!
and if you act now, you'll also receive Irilicious photos of...
the Blarney Stone
the Cliffs of Moher
more sheep than you could shake a sheep at
shady hotel hallways
and meat, meat, meat (and potatoes)!!!
That's right, we're back from Ireland and London, and we're ready to update, motherfucker. We saw everything worth seeing, and we drank more Guinness than our bodies can handle (which, thankfully, was only half a pint. That shite is fecking gross.). So, hopefully I'll peel myself away from my free preview of the G4 channel, and Rachel will stop celebrating her acceptence into grad school long enough to bring you...
JOHN AND RACHEL'S EXCELLENT POTATO-FLAVORED ADVENTURE
|YOU FLUSH IT OUT / YOU FLUSH IT OUT|
YOU FLUSH IT OUT / YOU FLUSH IT OUT | Thursday, 06.05.03
I don't even like Metallica, I'm just downloading your new shitty album so that I can burn a hundred copies and destroy them in creative and hilarious ways. Please don't kick me off the world wide interweb.
|From Russian with herpes.|
20% off used brides!! | Tuesday, 06.03.03
Mail order Russian brides. You've all heard of them, maybe even fantasized about being married to a woman with four teeth who has never seen an electrical outlet before. If you have any questions about the purchasing and storing of a whore from another country, feel free to ask me, as I consider myself an expert now. No, Rachel's last name isn't Pajitnov, and she wasn't delivered to my house in a refrigerator box with some holes poked in the top. I earned my PhD in "Russian Whore Purchasing" by watching a show on Discovery Health Channel last night, and believe me, the shit is fucked up.
|I find your American way of life... how do you say... fascinating.|
Imagine for a second that you're a highly successful middle-aged white man. You have a cushy office job, a faaaaaabulous home and an important-looking beard. Also, like most middle-aged white men, you're completely bland and devoid of social skills, and you haven't touched a woman since you punched out that waitress for spilling your Tom Collins last year. You're ready for love! However, most self-respecting, intelligent American women your age won't give you the time of day, and bitches half your age think you're 170. Where do you turn?
LOVEME.com, you big silly! But remember, "We are not a 'Mail Order Bride' company, we are the largest, most respected International Introduction and Tour Company in the industry." Right, so basically, you're a Mail Order Bride company with a heart of gold, or something. (Most companies that claim they aren't mail order bride companies usually don't have the words "Mail Order Brides" in their website's title tags, but what do I know?) While you're not "paying" for a Russian whore and her Commie children to move into your house, she won't marry you unless you have enough money to support her "high maintenance" lifestyle, which includes crusts of bread, running water and a garage for her goat. And the really fucked up part is that she has the right to decline your marriage proposal! Listen, if I wanted a bride that could exercise free will, I'd pick a random American whore out of the phonebook and save millions on travel expenses.
So this show I was watching on the Discovery Health Channel was amazing. It chronicled the lives of two swinging, 50 year old bachelors and their quest to order a bride with a side order of frequent linguistic misunderstandings. I mean, a Russian mail order bride speaks (surprise!) Russian, and the dopey potential husbands use the old American practice of speaking louder and slower in an attempt to win over their Stalin-loving partners.
John Smith: Hello, Svetlana. I have a lot of money and am free of most sexually transmitted diseases. How are you?
John Smith: Haha, your lack of comprehension is delightful! Now, I have a very serious question to ask you, Svetlana, are you ready?
Svetlana: Ehh, I flew on the, ehh, how do you say... flying metal bird, and I eat the bag of penis, no?
John Smith: Peanuts, dear. Bag of peanuts.
John Smith: You know, even though we've just met, I think I'm falling in love with you. Svetlana, do you know what love is?
John Smith: LOVE! L-O-V-E! I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU!
Svetlana: In my country, my brother was famous astronaut. He bought me 3 sheet of paper. He was in debt for rest of life.
John Smith: Fucking christ, how much does it cost to buy a Russian whore without Down's Syndrome?
So, let's say you somehow tricked your purchase into loving you, and you set up an all-expenses-paid trip to the Town Hall O' Love. You've slapped the ring on her finger, she has become your property. Now what? Unfortunately, LOVEME.com's Most Often Asked Questions (MOAQ) page doesn't dwell on this too much, so I decided to answer some of my own Most Frequently Asked Often Questions That are Often Asked Frequently and Repeatedly (MFAOQTaOAFaR).
|Sssshhh... don't tell anyone: I am very handsome woman. Is very big secret.|
Q: All right, I'm married. Now what the fuck do I do? This bitch barely knows where the fuck she is half the time.
A: First off, congratulations on purchasing your bride! We find it best to let your new wife stay home and watch public programming, such as Sesame Street and Blue's Clues, in order to understand the language and customs of her new home. Also, be sure to slowly expose your wife to foreign technology, such as doors, eating utensils and rugs so that she doesn't become (even more) confused.
Q: I ordered the wife and child combo package from your website, but the kid keeps planting crops on my front lawn. He also hired a mule to "work the land." Is this normal?
A: Absolutely! Remember, most of these children were brought into this world to perform arduous manual labor. Attempting to break this cycle will cause your step-child to revolt and flee the country by any means necessary. Due to their tiny developing organs, children are NON-REFUNDABLE, however, we do accept trade-ins.
Q: Um, I've decided that sharing my life with a filthy godless Communist just isn't for me. Can I send this chick back to you, or what?
A: We offer a 30 day money back guarantee on all mail order brides purchased from LOVEME.com, however, there is a 10% restocking fee. After the 30 day grace period has passed, you are allowed to stab your wife in the face during the night and dump her body in the nearest river or hospital emergency room. But be forewarned, most of our brides have done time, and are a lot tougher than they look.
I guess the moral of the story is that most guys are miserable, pathetic human beings who would pay top dollar to be loved by a whore. Or maybe, the moral is "You get what you pay for." How does "Let the buyer beware" sound? Eh, whatever. "To each his own," I suppose. "A bird in the hand is worth two Russian slave-wives in bush."
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