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August 2005

He plays with ho's instead of playing fetch with me.
He sniffed the toes of Tiffany and Stephanie. | Wednesday, 08.24.05
There comes a point in every man's life where he is forced to question his sexuality. One day you're standing in front of the mirror plucking a few stray eyebrows, the next day you're absentmindedly browsing through an issue of Good Housekeeping. Weeks go by, and you're getting changed in the locker room after a great workout with the boys, and the thought of sucking on their sweaty balls makes a lot of sense. Or maybe, you're at the mall, you find the store you're looking for, you walk up to the counter and say...

"Do you have Nintendogs in stock yet?" I realized that there was no cool way to ask the clerk about Nintendo's new puppy simulator. Sure, you could try to be all nonchalant about it... "Yeah, let me get Madden 2006, some Leisure Suit Larry games, nintendogs and uh, any game where I get to fuck a broad in the mouth." I didn't even bother with the charade, I just swallowed my pride, tucked my wang between my legs and approached the counter. "It doesn't come out until tomorrow, and since I'm assuming you didn't preorder, you won't be able to find a copy anywhere." I made my usual hard-hitting comment about the injustices of preordering and left, digital puppy-less. Luckily, I secured a copy the next day (without preordering, you fuckers) and prepared myself for new levels of virtual flamboyancy.

For those of you that are too busy playing Halo and having sex with women, allow me to explain the Nintendogs phenomenon. Remember the Tamagotchi craze of the late 90's? That little keychain sized pet that you got in your Christmas stocking that died on January 2nd after beeping incessently? Well, Nintendogs is basically the same thing, except it uses the Nintendo DS's touch and voice capabilities to make your fake pet ownership more lifelike and creepy. You pick out a dog, you give it a name, and then you make sure it stays clean, fed and alive. It responds to voice commands, it plays with virtual frisbees, and I think I read somewhere that it can be trained to kill you in your sleep.

Banky and my box of tampons.
(Box of tampons not pictured)


Meet Banky. Banky is named after Jason Lee's homophobic comic book inker character in Kevin Smith's Chasing Amy. Do I secretly want my dog to hate homosexuals and live in a studio apartment with Ben Affleck? Maybe a little. Actually, I'm just really bad at naming things. Whenever a videogame forces me to name the main character, I just call him something stupid like "Hamburglar" or "Jesus" or "Spiky Haired Role Playing Game Archetype Model 37." Remember when games used to have battery backups, and you'd rent them and see other people's saved game names? They were always horrible like CUNTLICKER or IRAPEDGRANDMA. Kids are gross. Anyway, back to Banky. I have to admit, I felt pretty silly yelling commands into my DS. "Banky, sit!" "Banky, roll over!" "Banky, why are you looking at me like that?" "Banky, I can't afford to feed you today!" And such and such. But who could resist such a cute wittle face? I'll tell you who - people with real pets that shit and piss all over everything.

Much like Nintendo's other vomit-inducing game of Japanesey cuteness Animal Crossing, there are penalties for working full time and not devoting every waking hour of your life to Nintendogs. Just like a real dog, Banky will pack his shit and run away if I don't feed him for a few days. Or play with him. Or wash him. Or give him my ATM card and pin number. Nintendo has really capitalized on the "gaming through shame" market, but it has adverse effects on me. See, when I stopped playing Animal Crossing for a week, I decided it would be better for my psyche if I just sold the game instead of returning to my crappy little animal town. I'm sorry, I can't handle a disturbingly cute rodent asking, "Why did you leave us, your fake animal friends?" without having the option to light him on fire.

So, even though Nintendogs isn't really much of a game, it's still a pretty cool concept. Sure, it's not a hot and spicy "murder simulator" like Grand Theft Auto, nor is it something that you'd want to talk about in public (of course, I seem to have no problem sharing it with all of you for some reason). If anything, it will prepare me for real life pet ownership. As far as I can tell, dogs love it when you poke them in the face with a stylus.

 
Micro$oft is fucking us again! (Score:5, Insightful)
happyinternetguy.net | Friday, 08.19.05
If you look closely, you can actually see Micro$oft fucking this man.
Nerds across the globe are losing their minds over the price of Microsoft's next-gen interactive multimedia wireless buttonless blast-processing overclocked transparent high definition gaming entertainment platform experience, the XBox 360. To sum up the drama: Microsoft is going to sell two 360 packages. One has the system, a wired controller and a plug for $300, while the other has the system, a wireless controller, a triple extreme plug, a 20 gig hard drive, a headset, a remote control and price tag of $400. So basically, there's no point in buying the piece of shit $300 package, since the hard drive alone is going to cost you $100 if you buy it separately. Also, you won't be able to play original Xbox games without the hard drive, and only people on welfare will buy the $300 version.

Complaints on the internet are numerous and greasy. Nerds simply will not stand for a $400 piece of hardware unless it washes their oversized dragon t-shirts or has a throbbing lubricated vagina. Actually, it wouldn't matter if the console was $35 and the games were free, dipped in chocolate and came with a free Mountain Dew-flavored graphing calculator. People on the internet complain about everything. And I'm not judging you, because here I am on the internet complaining about how everyone complains about everything on the internet. Wow. I really need to get off the computer and do something with my life.

...

All right, I'm back. You're not missing anything out there, it's all pink shirts and popped collars. Back to my manic e/n stylee. Where did people go to complain before the anonymous splendor of the internet? The schoolyard? The psychiatrist's office? Public access television? Fuck it, where did I go to complain before setting up TMH? Looking back, I think I complained the old fashioned way... in my head. For instance, when I was seven years old and forced my father to take me to see Caddyshack II, I didn't fire up my blog afterwards and write a scathing review. Chances are I just went home and drew a picture of that stupid gopher puppet on fire. Nowadays it's all myspace and livejournal and spike bracelets and I don't even know anymore.

Where are all the happy blogs? We really need a Happy Internet Guy. "Today I went to work. I make a lot of money. Then, I came home and had casual sex with a supermodel named Allison. Afterwards, we did a little (ok... a lot of) cocaine, went to Burger King and ordered some of those new chicken fries. They were awesome! I dropped Allison off at her house, then I went home, played Katamari Damacy and went to bed. Goodnight internet!" I'd reload that shit every 45 seconds to make sure I didn't miss any of the happyinternetguy.net updates. What do we have instead? "Blah blah blah, This May Hurt, everything sucks, everyone is an idiot, whaaaaa." Send me your happy blogs!

 
I get psycho killaaaaaa Norman Bates.
doon ha doon ha | Friday, 08.12.05
I think we can all agree that Eminem's 8 Mile is the Rocky for our generation. We all cheered when Rocky took down Apollo Creed and punched meat. Similarly, we all cheered when Eminem won the battle rap and had sex with Brittany Murphy on a piece of machinery. You leave both movies with a sense of cockiness. You go into work the next day and say things like, "I'm gonna cook the shit outta these fries, and if you don't like it, I'ma take you out back and pound your face" and "Tonight, the spilled popcorn is gonna have to sweep itself up, because I'm too busy writing my battle rap about Decepticons and SQL Database servers."

We don't have sports heroes anymore, so we look to rappers and Frodo for inspiration. The one thing 8 Mile was missing was a tried and true veteran to repeatedly tell Eminem that he was a piece of shit. Like Burgess Meredith in Rocky. What's the closest thing Eminem had? Mekhi Phifer? "Aw yeah, dawg, you are a very good rapper. You should continue rapping because you are a very good rapper." Fuck that. Get Mickey in there to start some shit.

You couldn't battle rap a bum, ya bum.
Eminem: Yo. Yo, yo, yo, yo I got rhymes for days, I'll put you in a maze, because I'm amaz... ing.
Mickey: Get outta my sight, kid. YOU'RE STINKIN' UP THE JOINT YA BUM.
Eminem: Mick, you gotta give me one more chance.
Mickey: You're a bum! Now battle rap this chicken.
Eminem: Why I gotta be battle rappin' the chicken, Mick?
Mickey: First, because I said so. And second is because chicken battle rappin' is how we used to train back in the old days. If you can win the chicken battle rap, you can battle rap like greased lightening!
Eminem: Allright. Yo. Yo, yo, yo, yo you a chicken, and, uh... you taste real good, like finger lickin', with the salmonella in the kitchen.
Mickey: Horrible. Do your thing, chicken.
Chicken: Bak. Bak, bak, bak, bak bawk bakka, bakka bawk bawkka bawk bawkka bak.

Just like Rocky convinced scrawny white dudes that punching people in the face is a good idea, 8 Mile gave hope to many talentless rappers, regardless of race or creed. You'd see them on the subway, the sound of fly ass Casio beats bumping from their headphones as they feverishly try to find words that rhyme with "bitch ass nigga." Even I got drawn into the illustrious world of underground rap battles. In the New Jersey suburbs. In my basement. Against my mom. Look, I'm easily persuaded by underdog flicks, ok? I was totally convinced that I could manage a team of female baseball players after watching A League of Their Own one weepy afternoon, but I think it had more to do with my love of pre-Buddhist Madonna and pre-obscurity Geena Davis. Oh, and tits. Lots of tits.

So, three cheers for the underdog movies of yesteryear and... currentyear. 8 Mile has taught me that I need to lose myself in the moment, I own it, and I shouldn't ever let it go (no). I should not miss the chance to -- something -- because this opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo. What an uplifting message. Rocky taught me that if I'm fighting against someone stronger than me, just let him wail on my face for a few hours until he tires himself out. Then throw one good punch and hopefully the other guy will go down. Words to live by, my friends.

 
Porno Sex Addict Rocks New York
crime rate goes up | Monday, 08.08.05
Oftentimes, when getting my gas pumped or my hair cut or my wisdom teeth extracted, the gas station attendant, barber or dentist will ask me, "John, what's your biggest fear?" And usually, by the time they're done pumping my gas or cutting my hair or extracting my wisdom teeth, they're sorry they felt the need to make small talk. As an American, it's my job to be afraid of a lot of things. But my newest fear, the one that keeps me awake at work and behind the wheel, is a little, how do you say, "fucking bizarre."

The breakfast lunch and dinner of champions, rapists and LAN admins.
You eat beef jerky, right? I'm not talking, like, you work at the beef jerky factory, and occasionally the boss will allow you to sample some of your work before going home to wash the stench of meat from your soul. I mean, you're like me and eat fistfulls of the stuff at every meal. If this is the case, then you know about the small packet of chemically enhanced freshness that lives among your strips of aged beef, right? My fear is that I'm going to eat this surprisingly non-toxic packet of mystery and have dangerous freshness agents released into my blood stream. You see, my busy schedule doesn't give me enough time to actually look at the food that I'm shoving down my throat. In between power meetings and power bowel movements and power power-washing, a handsome young business executive such as myself doesn't have time to discriminate against objects that are and aren't digestible. I just shove stuff in there and hope for the best. Every few months I'll schedule a power stomach pumping to extract any fake victuals that my admittedly flawed digestive system refuses to break down and turn into poo. Who knew that cigarette butts and power steering fluid had no nutritional value? And who left their cigarette butts and power steering fluid next to my can of cashews and cola?

Today I was late for a very important meeting. Something about firing half of the staff and burning a small Brazillian fishing village to the ground. But the meeting would have to wait, as I was starving, and decided to indulge my beef tooth by stopping at a local 7-11 to buy a sack of original flavored jerky. "Don't you even think of starting that meeting without me," I screamed into my cell phone while jamming a handful of smoky beef down my throat and swerving into traffic, "I'LL BE RIGHT THERE." Usually, I get a real kick out of driving into store fronts and large bodies of water, but my mind was elsewhere this fine afternoon. "Don't eat the packet. Don't eat the packet. Chew your food. Don't eat the packet. Don't play ball in the house, and also, don't eat the packet." Enough! I'm gonna dig the freshness packet out of the bag and silence the demons in my brain...

And silence them I did. With a quick snap of the wrist, my sworn packet enemy was tossed from the window. I received a postcard from the packet a few days ago; it's not doing so well. After being thrown out the window, the packet landed in the backseat of another passing vehicle. The Johnsons gave it a nice home, plenty of beef jerky and a room in the attic while Junior was away at college. Unfortunately, Mr. Johnson had a very bad gambling habit, and made some very powerful enemies who, after giving Mr. Johnson an extra week to fork over their money, found nothing wrong with slaughtering the family while they slept and burning their house to the fucking ground. Homeless and more smoky than ever, the packet found solace in the streets with other disenfranchised freshening agents, and was introduced to a life of crime and crystal meth addiction. The packet was picked up on a warrant from Florida for driving without a license, and was placed in a rehabilitation center where it raped and murdered a janitor with a broken broom handle. I'm not sure what's going to happen to the packet now, seeing as how it ran out of space on the postcard... although, for a small freshness packet, you have to wonder how it managed to write me a long ass postcard without fingers.

Clearly, all of this could have been avoided if I just ate the stupid packet.

 

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