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July 2004

Aloha, Mr. Hand!
poo and hiv, it's great to be back. | Tuesday, 07.27.04
You can stop shaking my hand now, cracker.
I'll bet that the art of hand-shaking was developed hundreds of thousands of years ago, when dinosaurs and cockroaches ruled the earth. Chances are a Chomposaurus would greet his fellow dino pals with a firm and hearty handshake, unless he had those little useless three inch arms... what the fuck is a 5 ton killing machine supposed to do with those faggy little things? Spin them around like tiny propellers and fly away to an island where small appendages aren't ridiculous? Anyway, dinosaurs with real arms developed the art of hand-shaking, and I put an ad in my local paper to round up a team of handsome archeologists to help prove my theory of Pre-Historic Greeting Rituals, but I haven't received a single callback because no one in my town can read or write, much less dial a phone without developing an aneurysm and dropping dead. I'd turn to the internet for help, but everyone's too busy playing Counterstrike and calling each other "f@g0t n00bz" to travel with me to the desert and dig up fossils, dust them off with toothbrushes and trick the fat loner guy into brushing his teeth with the dusty fossil toothbrush. So, for the sake of argument and hilariousness, let's just assume I'm right and move on.

It's time for us Americans to rise up and develop a new greeting system, as the hand-shaking system is severely lacking. As for the rest of the world, I don't care what the fuck you do, because USA is #1 and these colors don't run, never forget, etc, etc. See, with a handshake, there's too much room for improvisation. When meeting another male for the first time, the following questions float around my brain like those winged-turtle things from Super Mario Bros., or, for you old school gamers, the space invaders from Space Invaders...

"Is this person going to shake my hand like a normal human being?"
Will he extend his right hand in front of him, receive my hand and shake firmly, or will he do the hand grab, half hug, pat on the back thing that makes my head explode? Excuse me sir, I just met you, and I don't feel like choreographing a handicapped dance number with you just yet, just SHAKE MY DAMN HAND. Or maybe he doesn't want to do the half hug/back pat thing, he just wants to do the hand grab, but I go in for a hug like I'm this guy's retarded sister that shits herself on Christmas morning in front of Grandma. I can't read your mind, good sir, so let's just skip the formal amenities and agree to kiss each other on the lips from here on out, ok?

"Did this man just handle his filthy penis before shaking my hand?"
I bite my nails. That means that my fingers are somewhere near my mouth roughly 98% of the time. Therefore, if you just had some strange bathroom experience where poo was shooting out of your penis, and there was blood and HIV all over your hands, I'm going to have a combination of poo, blood and HIV in my mouth the next time I chomp on my fingers. Since I can't follow you around all day to ensure that poo wasn't shooting out of your penis, and you had blood and HIV all over your hands, I'm just going to have to assume that at some point during the day, poo was shooting out of your penis, and you had blood and HIV all over your hands. I won't be offended if you don't shake my hand, friend. In fact, I'll even drive you to the emergency room to get your filthy shit penis checked out, provided you don't touch anything or look at me.

"That'll be $300, but I don't kiss on the lips."
"Is this handshake merely a means of distracting me while gypsy children steal my wallet?"
Oh hello, sir. My name is John. Allow me to shake your hand. You want to see my business card? Oh sure thing, allow me to reach into my back pocket and -- DAMN YOU GYPSY CHILDREN!

We gain nothing from touching another human being's hand and vigorously shaking it to and fro. In a world where dinner can be prepared with the touch of a button, libraries of information are at our fingertips, and dodgeball is played on cable television, it's hard to believe that we still feel the need to live behind the lie that is the hand shake. I mean... they seriously play dodgeball on television now. It's insanity. And, like, someone's gotta be watching it, right? They wouldn't just show it if no one was going to watch it, would they?

We need more options, plain and simple. For instance, if I see someone who looks like they'd rather get kicked in the testicles than shake my stupid hand, I should have the right to kick that son of a bitch in the testicles, barefooted if I so desire. Don't feel like touching "Sweaty Leonard"'s clam hands? Spit in his face and push his wheelchair onto the interstate at 3 in the morning. That's what I did, and before he slammed face first into the median, I could have sworn that sweaty bastard was thanking me, and with good reason. And that good reason is... I don't like shaking people's hands, especially if they're disabled, or if poo was shooting out of their penis, and there was blood and HIV all over their hands.

 
Chuk pays my bills and waters my lawn, so...
mentalshed.com update | Thursday, 07.22.04
Martha Stewart Chuckle-House BONANZA.

I made two New Years Resolutions in January. One was to do everything in my power to put a famous interior decorator with a heart of gold behind bars so that brutish women will get the opportunity to beat said interior decorator with bars of soap and lead pipes. My other resolution was to stop biting my nails, but luckily, Martha Stewart will be locked up soon, and my faith in the New Years Resolution system has been restored. All hail the mighty Resolution Ranger, the fresh and in-your-face New Years mascot for the new millennium that granted my wishes and will grant yours for the low low price of absolutely fucking nothing because I made all this shit up.

Believe it or not, I have my finger on the pulse of internet comedy, and the following jokes and/or observances have already been made countless times and will never be funny ever again because we can't have nice things...
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read the rest (click "front page") // peep the archives

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STATUS UPDATE
| Wednesday, 07.21.04
THISMAYHURT Revamp Status Update


Goal: To create an interface so pleasing and fantastic that users won't notice that the site is updated once a week.

Percent completion: 0%

Estimated date of completion: August 1st, 2006

Comments: Last Saturday I locked myself in my room, handcuffed (footcuffed?) my foot to my desk and rigged an explosive device that would detonate if the site wasn't updated by the end of the day. After 5 minutes, I gnawed my leg free from the handcuff (footcuff?) and played in the backyard with imaginary dogs. Unfortunately, I forgot to disarm the explosive device, so if anyone knows of a carpenter that specializes in rebuilding houses that explode from the inside out due to homemade explosive devices, please contact me ASAP.

Alternate plans: Instead of worrying about a site revamp, perhaps I should focus on other aspects of the site, such as "remembering how to be funny" and "writing introspective pieces about farts and boogers."

Does this count as this week's update? Yes. Go here to read updates and look at pictures of naked ladies.

 
Employees must wash hands, or at least stop peeing on them.
Protein, John, zero. | Monday, 07.12.04
I hope you like the great taste of balls, because this man hasn't washed his hands or his genitals in months. Oh, and if you happen to like the great taste of balls, this guy's balls leave something to be desired.
Maybe I'm still high from the 2 hour Anchorman LOLLERfest, but I love watching local news. The stories always range from horrifically frightening to monumentally retarded, and something is always on fire somewhere. Since I live in Northern Jersey, I get all of the XxX-TREME New York City ACTION news, from confused tourists getting pushed onto the 1&9 subway tracks to crazy-assed brownstone tenants who find nothing wrong with storing a family of elephants in their 4 foot by 4 foot living room. You'd think reporting on one of the most recognizable cities in the world would be easy... lots of stabbings and people getting shot in the face, crime-fighting dogs, subway derailments, etc. But every few days, local news falls back on a classic story that probably increases viewership by like 7 points... if 7 points is good, and it sounds pretty sweet to me.

Breathy voice-over guy: Tonight on XxX-TREME New York City ACTION news, we'll take a look into the seedy underground world of RESTAURANT KITCHENS. We took our hidden cameras into some of YOUR favorite restaurants, and you won't believe some of the fucked up shit we found. Shortly after shooting this piece, our cameraman TOOK HIS OWN LIFE after witnessing the SHOCKING and DISGRACEFUL FOULNESS of one restaurant's kitchen death labyrinth...
Intrepid reporter: Sir, did you know that we found an HIV infected turtle living in your pressure cooker? What do you have to say for yourself?
Greasy restaurant owner: Turn that piece of chit camera off, that turtle only has trace amounts of HIV, and most of his open sores have healed... no further comments, you bitch! [runs down the street, flailing wildly]
Intrepid reporter: Sir, sir! [chasing the restaurant owner down the street] Why are you running from the truth, sir? Why are your employees washing the dishes with liquefied rat poison, sir?
Greasy restaurant owner: I regret nothing!

Keep drinking, young hobbit. Some day you may be the vice president of your Everquest nerd platoon.
I don't care what my journalism professors said, that's news I can use. Every week, the breathy voice-over guy is like, "... and you won't believe what we found!" No, I'm pretty sure I will believe what you found, considering you run the same goddamned story every three days. The only thing that would surprise me is a stunningly clean kitchen full of legally documented American citizens who shower every other day. See, the problem with these stories is overexposure. If you tell people that every restaurant in the world is fraught with peril and dangerous explosives, they're either going to a) purchase a Haz-Mat suit and live off the land or b) say, "Fuck it" and cave in to their hammy desires because every restaurant is tainted with syphilis and everyone's going to croak sometime, right? Look around you... hell, look down at your own floppy sack-of-shit body, and tell me that you really give a fuck what goes on behind the scenes of your favorite restaurant. I know I don't, because ignorance is bliss... and delicious.

A slow news day will always generate stories that no one really cares about, and the internet®, is no exception. For one reason or another, I check out the Drudge Report a few times a day because it presents a bunch of stories at a time from various sources. But when Drudge slaps one of his own stories on there, the results are usually hilariously stupid. Check out this HOT OFF THE PRESSES REPORT, and prepare to have your mind BLOWN you commie pinko...


TIME MAG INVESTIGATION REVEALS: EDWARDS LOVES 'DIET COKE'. The nation's top magazine leads the journalism pack on Monday with an in-depth investigation on the background of Dem VP pick John Edwards.

TIME magazine's Karen Tumulty has learned: John Edwards drinks Diet Coke -- a lot of Diet Coke! TIME unearths: "The North Carolinian who would be a caffeine-and-sodium-buzzed heartbeat away from the presidency subsequently admitted that 'on a good day' he has been known to open four before noon, at which point Kerry pronounced himself stunned, seized the can from Edwards and started reading the nutrition label aloud. 'Sodium, 2%. Protein, John, zero,' he called as Edwards scrambled for the door.
drudgereport.com



Well that seals it. No protein, John. What are you, some kind of faggot or something? I don't want no panty-wearing vice president at the helm if Kerry is taken out in the middle of the night by a renegade group of Pepsi activists, eager to push their Diet Pepsi-flavored agendas on the newly installed Diet Coke-swilling president. "President Edwards, if you do not meet our demands, we will be forced to declare a Jihad on your inferior 0-calorie beverage of choice. We are the choice of a new generation... of DOOM." Fuck that. Looks like I'll have to vote for Nader, now. I hear he only drinks red Slurpees and carrot juice... that's right, REAL carrot juice, none of that diet carrot juice. Enjoy your daily 12-pack of Diet Coke, John. It just cost you the fucking election.

 

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