Posted in random thoughts on July 31, 2009 by The Vegetable Monster
I met some serious blogging kids the other day and I learned a few things I need to do in order to gain a following in the blogging world.
First, I need to reactivate my facebook account and start using it again even though I’ve really started to like not having that distraction because apparently in the blogging world promotion through facebook is essential. Second, I must be more short form and topical, which I’m going to start doing. And finally, I need to update multiple times every day.
So starting next week, expect to see some changes to Eat Your Fucking Vegetables.
Today is my mom’s birthday so if you see Cynthia make sure to say, “Happy Birthday C-Dog!”
She’ll either think its hilarious, or that you’re crazy. But, probably crazy. I’m currently working on some stories about her. Which I haven’t started writing so I’m not really working on them. In the meantime however, here is a story I wrote about her for a class a while back.
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When I was a young pubescent boy dealing with all the problems that face young pubescent boys such as liking girls for the first time, a shifting in vocal pitch, and involuntary erections, there was an incredibly popular song by some tone deaf retard with a rhyming dictionary named Sisqo. This song was called the Thong Song, and at the turn of the millennium the idiotic youth of America just couldn’t get enough of it.
Looking back, I have no idea why this piece of shit was so popular. Maybe it was the hard repetitive beat, or the violent raping of the violin, or maybe even Sisqo’s smooth voice that hits the listener like a tire jack to the balls. I’ll never know, but every time I hear Sisqo belt out “Baby you know you want to show me / That thong, thong, thong, thong” my ears feel as though they have been repeatedly gang raped and then committed suicide. The fact that Sisqo probably made enough money off repeating the word thong forty times to afford whatever makes his hair so silvery white for life is so infuriating that I pray daily he will be mauled by his dog who, ironically, was brought into a frenzy by his own shitty song.
Still, despite the fact that today I hate Sisqo’s stupid face and think that even Soldier Boy could fart out a better song, I cannot deny that at the time I like the rest of America tolerated this abomination every time it played on the radio or MTV. With its repetitive catchy melody it was hard for naive children not to be caught under the Thong Song’s spell. Honestly, I believe that Sisqo took advantage of me as a child and I feel dirty and used. He molested my ears and—like all child molesters—deserves to be beaten to death with a dead fish. Nonetheless, as a young kid watching MTV all I knew was I wanted, like Sisqo, to see some “thong, thong, thong, thong, thongs.”
My desire to see as many thongs as possible was fulfilled by Sisqo’s own music video for the Thong Song. Here, Sisqo showed us numerous images of scantily clad women, and I couldn’t get enough of it. One day, while watching MTV by myself, my mother decided to sit down and watch television as well. Not long after her arrival, the familiar imagery and melody of the Thong Song began to emanate from the television. Not knowing where the remote was, I spent four awkward and horrifying minutes with my mother watching Sisqo gyrate his pelvic region over women dressed in anal floss while singing such lines as “She had dumps like a truck, truck, truck / Thighs like what? What? What? / Baby, move your butt, butt, butt / I think I’ll sing it again.”
Please God Sisqo don’t.
“She had dumps like a truck, truck, truck / Thighs like what? What? What? / All night long / Let me see that thong.”
As Sisqo repeated these lines over and over again I tried to think of some way to distract my mother from what she was seeing. My first thought was to punch my baby brother in the face. But he was nowhere to be found. I continued to brainstorm, “Maybe I could start a civil war in some African country.”
But no that wouldn’t work. I’m twelve. And Africa already has enough of those.
“I could have an abortion!”
Shit, still twelve. And not entirely sure how to get a girl pregnant to begin with. Although, I do know it involves my penis and I want to do it. Hopefully she’d be wearing a “Thong, thong, thong, thong, thong.”
Fuck, I’m back to thongs. Goddamn you Sisqo.
As much as I tried, my thought process kept bringing back to thongs and I couldn’t come up with a way to protect my mother from Sisqo’s hard pelvic thrusts. But then, miraculously the song ended, and my mother and I sat in silence.
I couldn’t believe my mother’s reaction. She did not tell me to turn off the television and go to my room. She did not give a speech about the Thong Song being degrading to women. Amazingly, she did not get angry or upset in any way. Instead, after a few moments of silence, she just calmly asked, “Hunter, what does it mean to have dumps like a truck?”
To this day I have no clue what it means to have dumps like a truck. And in the moment, the only explanation I could think of was, “I think it means to take big craps.”
To which my mother responded, “That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard,” silently got up, and left the room.
Even though months have past since Chris Brown beat the shit out of his then girlfriend Rihanna, I still have never been able to understand what could have possibly happened to enrage Brown so much. Personally I think that Rihanna is one of the most beautiful celebrities performing today and, because I believe in “the greatest happiness principle of my dick,” I would stab four people in the throat while performing an equal amount of abortions to have some alone time with her holiest of holes.
Now, I’m all for putting a bitch in her place now and again when it’s needed. But only one, maybe two, back handed bitch slaps is usually all that’s ever called for. Further, I can only see a punch being necessary if it’s a big girl you’re dealing with who looks like she could take a punch, but never anymore than one. So what the hell did Rihanna do to deserve such a beat down?
After much thought, I’ve come up with 10 things that may have incited such a reaction from Brown.
They are:
She kept picking his favorite Mario Kart character.
There are few things more frustrating than someone repeatedly picking your favorite Mario Kart character before you have the chance to. Especially if you are then forced to pick some gay character like Peach or Toadette. Personally I know every time someone picks Koopa Troopa before I can I have a blind moment of rage where I fantasize about beating them over the head with my controller and then urinating on their unconscious body. Chris Brown looks to me like he takes his Mario Kart gaming pretty seriously, and I can only imagine how pissed he’d get if some bitch, even one as beautiful as Rihanna, kept picking his character.
She put mayonnaise on his sandwich.
It’s a well-known fact that women belong in the kitchen making sandwiches. My mom understands this, my aunt understands this, and the biddy currently making my pastrami on rye understands this. Rihanna, on the other hand, with all her good looks and success strikes me as someone who probably forgets her true place in society: Chris Brown’s kitchen (and dick of course). Because Rihanna probably doesn’t spend as much time making sandwiches as she should, I can also see her forgetting one day that Chris Brown, like myself, fucking hates mayonnaise, and putting enough of that seamen looking spread on his sandwich to give an elephant a heart attack. If this did occur that fateful night before the Grammys, and Chris Brown took a bite expecting a delicious turkey sandwich but instead had a mouthful of mayonnaise, there’s no telling what could have followed. But probably something that looks like this.
She ate the last slice of Pizza.
Everyone hates the asshole who takes the last slice of pizza because everyone deep down wants to be that asshole. Whenever sharing a pizza and it comes down to the last slice all bets are off. Everyone always sits there in awkward silence badly wanting the last slice for themselves, but also not wanting to be the dick that takes it. Every single time this happens to me, and I’m not that dick, I feel an overwhelming amount of hatred toward the person who is. And, like every good Christian, I take that hatred and bury it deep down inside to be released later in life in the form of a massive heart attack or stroke. Chris Brown obviously hasn’t mastered this art of repressing aggression until it comes back and kills you. And while he may not die at the age of 45 from a stress induced brain aneurysm, he will have to perform the humiliating job of picking up other people’s garbage on the side of the road.
She asked him what he was getting at Applebee’s before ordering, and then proceeded to order the same thing first.
Has anyone ever done this to you? Cause if not just know that it is incredibly infuriating especially if your waitress is hot and that person then makes some dickhead comment like “Oh man, you’re such a copy cat,” or “What’s wrong? Couldn’t think of something unique to get?” When they know damn well that I decided to get the Quesadilla Burger first because I like traditional American meals with a little bit of ethnic flare. I can imagine Chris Brown one day at Applebee’s excited to order his usual medium rare 12 oz. New York Strip only to have Rihanna shit on his parade by pulling some stunt like this. And even though I’m sure Rihanna meant it in a playful flirtatious couple way, when it comes to men and red meat there is no such thing as just “kidding around.”
After a year of dating she still denied him the back door action.
Rihanna is a classy girl and classy girls typically don’t let anyone go near the back door, which is understandable especially for Rihanna who dances for a living (I can only imagine it would make that more difficult). Now, while most guys would be perfectly content just banging Rihanna the normal way, Chris Brown is a superstar celebrity who is use to getting everything he wants. I think it perfectly believable that Brown, who before Rihanna probably had to put forth zero effort to get laid, would be a little frustrated when, after a year of work, Rihanna still denied him access to this final frontier.
She erased the TiVo before he was caught up on Grey’s.
Chris Brown looks to me like he’s a Grey’s Anatomy fan. There’s just something in his eyes that scream in a very gay voice “I love Mcdreamy.” I can see him coming home from being on tour one evening ready to find out what Meredith and the gang have been up to for the past two months only to discover that his beloved Grey’s is not recorded on the TiVo because Rihanna had watched and deleted them. If this did occur, then I can also see Brown flipping a shit because he would then have to watch Grey’s on ABC’s website and deal with the frustration that comes with buffering a video.
He was sick and tired of hearing about her stupid umbrella…ella…ella.
Remember when Rihanna’s song Umbrella was huge and all the radio stations played it on loop? I don’t even listen to the radio and I remember not being able to go anywhere with out hearing that fucking retarded song. With its infuriatingly catchy refrain it was impossible to not have that song stuck in your head for days after hearing it. I’m sure this was even worse for Brown who not only had to bare listening to that piece of crap every time he left his house, but also whenever he was with his biddy Rihanna. One almost has to sympathize with him because I know if I had to listen to that song as many times as I’m sure Brown did I’d probably break someone’s face in too. Just hopefully not my super hot girlfriend.
She gave him herpes that she got from Jay-Z.
This was the actual rumor going around right after Brown beat the shit out of Rihanna. And, to be honest, if some bitch gave me herpes that she got from Jay-Z first I’d say, “Wow, you know Jay-Z? That’s so cool. Can you introduce me to him?” And then I’d probably punch her in the face too. Herpes is some serious shit that doesn’t go away, and the moment I start having painful sores on my pumping pole of penile power someone’s getting a beat down.
He let her borrow his copy of In the Mix on DVD, which she then loaned to a friend.
It is so annoying when you let someone borrow something and they then turn around and loan it to someone else. Especially because this usually means you are never going to see that item again. According to this website, Brown’s favorite movie is In the Mixstaring Usher (apparently he has a really shitty taste in movies). If this is true, and if Brown is anything like my older sister was when she was seven–which I think he is–then he can’t go a day without watching that movie. My sister would scream and throw a huge temper tantrum every time my mom made her turn off her favorite movie–The Wizard of Oz–to come have dinner. And I think its reasonable to assume the equivalent reaction from a grown ass man discovering he can’t watch Usher trying desperately to not come off as a complete tool would be to beat the shit out of his girlfriend.
She made a joke about Elmo being a better dancer.
Have you ever seen the video of Chris Brown performing along side Elmo on Sesame Street? If not then immediately smoke a blunt to your face and watch it at the end of this post. Last year, before Brown ruined his career by becoming a wife beater, I was obsessed with this video. I use to watch it all the time for two reasons: 1.) some of the signs Brown names are hilariously random and 2.) Elmo is a amazingly good dancer for a puppet. While I’m sure Rihanna was only kidding when she said Elmo was the better dancer, Brown comes off as an obsessive jealous boyfriend who most likely took her innocent comment the wrong way and then punched her in the face.
Facebook informed me today that it was my sister’s birthday. Yes, I had to learn her birthday from facebook because I only knew it was sometime in mid July between the 10th and the 20th. And although I may not be the world’s best brother, I am exceptionally good at 3 things: Chinese Checkers, doing squat thrusts, and reminiscing about past events in my life. So, in honor of my sister on her special day here’s the story about the time my friends found her vibrator.
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In the summer before my sophomore year of high school few things were wrong with my life. My parents fed and sheltered me, there was no school, and I had a computer with the internet in my room, which to a growing 15-year-old boy is fucking awesome. Everyday I would wake up at the reasonable hour of 3 o’clock in the afternoon, watch a little porn, take a shower, and then go on with the rest of the day. Things were great, and the only occasional thorn in my side was my older sister Genevieve.
The problem with Gen was not that she constantly found the need to bicker with me over trivial things, or that she refused to ever give my friends and I a ride to the movies. The problem with Gen was that she did not know how to knock before entering someone else’s room. Instead, Gen would barge right in with complete disregard for what might be occurring on the other side of the door. Now, this of course would never have been a problem if I had a lock on my door. However, the genius that built my parent’s house never thought it was necessary to include locks on any of the bedroom doors. As a result, I had to constantly be on my toes listening for any indication that someone was coming whenever I decided to exerciser the prostate.
By 15, my ears had become so keen that I could distinguish who was approaching my room just from the sound of their footsteps. Despite this talent, however, if the approaching person did not stop to knock before entering there was still not much I could do to prevent them from walking in on a very private moment. Therefore, while Gen never walked in to catch me in the actual act of one man tug-o-war, she did walk in a few times immediately afterwards. When the sexual urges had literally just been beat out of me and I was ashamed and somewhat disgusted with the video I was watching (amazingly gangbangs aren’t at all hot after you’re done with the five knuckle olympics).
I vividly remember each time Gen walked in on me because even though my dick was no longer in my hand and porn no longer playing on my computer there was something on her face that said, “I know exactly what just occurred here.” And in the days following each incident we both seemed to avoid one another more than usual out of what I think was a mutual embarrassment.
In contrast to Gen, I understood this embarrassment that could follow walking in on someone during a private moment, and therefore always knocked before entering a room that wasn’t mine. I remember knocking on Gen’s door and hearing her yell back “I’m getting dressed!” Which I never found suspicious until I started noticing that Gen would occasionally get dressed two or three different times a day. But even then I just told my self it was a strange girl thing and forgot about it. Little did I know that the image I had of my sister was about to change forever.
One evening, I was alone in the house and a couple of my friends decided to come over and do what 15-year-old boys do when they have the house to themselves: steal their parent’s alcohol, play video games, and make big gasoline fires. In the middle of our drunk and idiotic night, my friend Jay brought up how I thought it was weird that my sister was constantly “getting dressed” every time I went to her room. He then came to the conclusion that Gen was not changing her outfit at all, but was actually beating the beaver.
After hearing this, everyone in our group agreed and then began teasing me by saying that my sister had a vibrator and they were going to find it. Before I could respond with any rebuttal, everyone ran to my sister’s room and began rummaging through her things laughing about how they were going to find her vibrator.
Furious, I began yelling at all of them to get out of my sister’s room while slamming each of the drawers that they had opened. My friend Grant then opened the top drawer of the nightstand next to my sister’s bed and, without saying a word, looked at me and smiled. There, on top of everything, was a six-inch metallic vibrator shining back at me.
Horrified, I looked at the silver bullet in shock while all my friends burst out laughing. My friend John, not fully convinced Gen would leave her vibrator somewhere anyone could find it said, “No, guys. That’s not a vibrator. It’s a flashlight.” He then picked it up to examine it and twisted the bottom.
BUUUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!
The silver bullet came to life violently vibrating. Disgusted at the fact that he was holding the object my sister most certainly used to pleasure herself, John immediately dropped it to the floor and everyone ran out of the room laughing hysterically.
I then was alone, still in shock, looking down at my sister’s vibrating pleasure device roll around the floor. When I finally came to, I went to the bathroom, got a towel, picked up and turned off the vibrator, and placed it back in the drawer where my friends had found it.
For the rest of the night my friends continued to make fun of me while I sat in silence unable to argue and trying to cope with what I had just uncovered about my sister.
Not until years later did I ever tell Gen that one night my friends found her dear silver bullet. And from then on every time I knocked on her door and heard her yell “I’m getting dressed!” I still stood and waited patiently for her to answer the door. But when she did answer the door, flushed and a little out of breath, I just gave her a look that said, “I know exactly what just occurred here.” Cause even though I thought about barging in to teach her a lesson and shame her for life, seeing my sister actually vibrating the vag is an image I knew I could never live with.
Yesterday, that complete disappointment Andy Roddick did what he’s best at and lost again to Roger Federer at Wimbleton. Now I don’t follow tennis, and I think it’s a pussy sport. But I do know enough to know that that faggy Swiss man, which in my book is no better than a Frenchman, has been wiping the floor with America’s pathetic excuse for a hopeful for years now. Every time these two meet, Federer comes out and top, and Roddick is left looking like a sad little bitch whose mommy clearly didn’t love him enough.
But as Americans, what can’t we do. Roddick is all we have and Federer is a fucking beast when it comes to playing with fuzzy balls. Its obvious however, that something must be done about this. Switzerland is a country with no balls whatsoever, and they haven’t been in a war since 1815. America, on the other hand, has bigger balls than that Indonesian guy with elephantitis, and has pretty much been in every war since 1815. Therefore, there are few options available to us.
We can take the long tedious route and start really promoting tennis as the next big sport. But that sucks cause tennis sucks. I, along with everyone else, would hate to see all our best athletes suddenly becoming pussies and playing tennis instead of kicking ass in other more manly sports like football. So, we got to go Tonya Harding on Federer’s ass and take the fucker out. Roddick needs to finally show he’s hit puberty and break one of Federer’s legs already. Cause let’s face facts, as long as Federer is able to walk Roddick will continue losing and so will America. So Andy I leave it to you. If you succeed maybe next year the U.S. can finally see its first men’s Wimbledon win since Pete Sampras in 2000. And if you fail, then you can just continue losing, and everyone else can continue not giving a fuck.
A week ago today, musician and entertainer Michael Jackson was found dead in his rented mansion. After hearing the news, my first reaction was “Well, that’s one less child molester I have to worry about.” The rest of the world however, had a very different reaction. In the days following I couldn’t go anywhere without some asshole reminding me of Jackson’s demise, and I begun to feel like I was the only person who truly did not give a fuck. All of a sudden, everyone was a Jackson fan again and everyone was playing his music. The Spanish people across the street even stopped blasting their shitty Latin American music at all hours of the day, which I hate them for by the way, and begun blasting the music of Jackson instead, which I may burn down their apartment for. I really could not understand it, but everyone else actually seemed upset that this freak had died. My own mother even called and mentioned how sad it was that Jackson had passed away. To which I responded, “Yeah sure, and think there probably aren’t any children where he’s going.”
She didn’t laugh.
Now, I know Jackson was a great and influential performer and that Thriller is pretty great. But come on people, do you really care? Cause now that a week has past I’ve had enough of this shit. Just today I walked into a connivance store to discover that they already have t-shirts for sale commemorating his life. While part of me can’t help but think about how awesome capitalism is and how people are making probably a lot of money off Jackson’s death, the rest of me has a deep hatred for anyone who buys one of those shirts.
So fuck you if you bought a Michael Jackson shirt now that he’s dead. And fuck you for listening to his music now that he’s dead. The only sadness I feel now that Jackson is dead is the sadness I have knowing I will now never have the opportunity to punch that asshole in the jugular, kick him in the shins, and poke him in the eyes. All of which fucking hurt.
What I really would like to know is if anyone remembers that Farrah Fawcett also died last week? Cause she was hot, and even though I never have before I’d totally still beat my meat to that nice dead piece of arse. Or how about Billy Mays? You know that dick who’s always on TV selling you shit you don’t need. Well he died on Sunday. But that doesn’t matter cause Jackson died and it was someone else’s children he may have touched.
That being said, Michael Jackson you can suck my balls. Which at 20 are twice the age you’re use to. Cause I’m sick of hearing about your fucking death. And, as my own little commemoration of the world being Michael Jackson free for a whole 7 days now, I have compiled my favorite Jackson jokes.
Q: How do we know Michael Jackson is guilty?
A: Several children have fingered him.
Q: Why does Michael Jackson like children so much?
A: He knows how they feel.
Q: Why does Micheal Jackson like to lose foot races to little boys?
A: He likes to come in a little behind.
Q: What is the most difficult thing to get out of little boys underwear?
A: Michael Jackson’s makeup!
Q: What makes Michael Jackson so unique?
A: It’s the little boy inside him.
Q: What has 18 balls and 3 pubic hairs?
A: A Michael Jackson slumber party.
Q: How do you know when it’s bedtime at the Jackson residence?
A: When the big hand touches the little hand…
Q: What’s the difference between Michael Jackson and acne?
A: Acne doesn’t come on your face until you’re about fifteen.
Q: Have you heard about Michael Jackson’s New Book?
A: It’s called “The In’s and Out’s of Child Rearing”.
Q: Have you heard, McDonalds is coming out with a new sandwich called the McJackson?
A: Its 50-year-old meat between 10-year-old buns.
Q: What do Michael Jackson and broccoli have in common?
A: Both are force fed to little boys.
Q: What’s the difference between Michael Jackson and a grocery bag.
A: One of them is plastic, white, and dangerous to children and the other is used to carry groceries.
Throughout all of history, the hipster has plagued human society. While they have not always gone by this name, they have always been present making the rest of us feel inferior through their systematic judgment of our characters. They exist to constantly remind us of our conformity and inability to be unique and separate from the masses. The Ancient Greeks had Socrates who, in great hipster fashion, managed to make us all feel stupid by simply admitting to be the most ignorant. The early Romans had Jesus who was such a nonconformist that he couldn’t even stay dead like everyone else. More recently, we have seen the likes of John Lennon who was too cool to get out of bed for two weeks, but not quite cool enough to survive four bullets to the back. With time, these figures have been remembered as great and influential people instead of what they initially were—douchebags. Still, the hipsters of the past are not like the hipsters of the present. While having the same relative amount of douchebagerey in their own times, the hipsters of the past really were better than the rest of us. The modern hipster, however, is not.
Unlike hipsters and countercultures of the past, modern day hipsterdom has no purpose or originality. Instead it has mutated into a self-obsessed aesthetic vacuum, where wearing the latest fashion and discovering the newest hip band before anyone else is more important than any overall social movement. While other more recent countercultural movements—like punk of the 1970s—have also been ideological movements, the only ideology hipsters seem to follow is one that promotes pretentiousness, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon (better known as PBR), and shopping at the same two stores: American Apparel and Urban Outfitters (or, if you’re poor, H&M). Nonetheless, despite being walking ironies of themselves and the greatest poseurs since the death of hair metal bands, there is one thing that modern hipsters share with their forefathers: they hangout in places much cooler and more exclusive than anywhere you have ever been to.
Whether it is Athens, the right hand of God, or face down on the sidewalk in front of the Dakota, hipsters hang out in places normies (normal people) can’t even imagine. Occasionally, a normster (hipster/normie bastard breed), like myself, is able to infiltrate the hipster ranks and gain access to these exclusive gatherings. Recently, I had the opportunity to attend a concert at a place called Less Artists More Condos. When I arrived I was surprised to discover that Less Artist More Condos was not a commercial concert venue, but someone’s actual Condo with a make shift stage. It is here where hipsters gather to smoke cigarettes, talk about how awesome Obama is, and watch shitty bands that no one has ever heard of. The following is an account of what I witnessed.
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While walking into the unfamiliar terrain that is Less Artists More Condos the distinct smell of cigarettes, sweat, and beer hits my nostrils. This is a privately owned condo and therefore, unlike the rest of New York City, smoking is allowed and, by the look of it, even encouraged. Everyone is smoking their Parliaments or Lucky Strikes and I immediately feel out of place in spite of my flannel shirt and Chuck Taylor shoes. As I make my way through the crowd, numerous eyes give me the once over determining in moments whether or not I am hip enough to discuss how awesome the new Animal Collective album is, or if Thom Yorke’s The Eraser is better than any Radiohead album.
It turns out. I’m not.
Approaching the bar, I see horn rimed glasses, flannel shirts, and hoodies in every color of the rainbow. Suddenly I am blinded by a girl in full fledge neon yellow. And, for the next ten minutes, I try to determine why any sane person would own any outfit that is neon yellow. I decide it must either be because during the day she works full time as a traffic cone, or she likes jogging at night. However, judging by what she is wearing—some sort of one-piece spandex top, jeans, and those ballerina shoes that all hipster girls wear—I know I’m wrong. Hipsters don’t jog to stay in emaciated shape, they do coke. Besides, I think drivers would be more likely to try and hit her than avoid her if they saw how completely ridiculous she looks. For a split second, I even contemplate what would happen if I stopped and—without saying a word—punched her in the uterus. I decide against this because, even though a ten year old with Down’s syndrome dresses better, she is still quite physically attractive. And if her uterus were victim to one of my right uppercuts, it would then be of little use to me.
After spotting a few novelty black hipsters and noticing that, apart from them, everyone appears to either be a vampire or just extremely pale, I finally reach the bar, which is actually the kitchen, as the first shitty no name band takes the stage. I order a PBR, because it is the only beer they have, and move a little closer to the stage. Once the first band begins, awkward white kids start to dance everywhere. Some sway their bodies back and forth in a retarded motion that is completely out of time with the music, while the more energetic comically jump around like the idiots they are. At first I stay perched on my pedestal inwardly laughing at how stupid each and every one of them look. However, after a few more PBRs, I join them and enthusiastically also begin jumping around the dance floor and actually enjoying myself. I continue this for the next band until I get to tired to continue.
Finally, I leave this strange place and head back to the normal world where people don’t wear neon, oversized nonprescription glasses, and flannel. Where PBR is considered a shitty beer, Thom Yorke isn’t God, and everyone is just a little more lame.
For my first post I decided to come up with a few reasons why I’m the coolest mother fucker this side of Sam Jackson. Hopefully after reading you will understand why this is the best blog ever and why you should come and read it continuously.
The reasons I am more awesome than you are:
I have seen The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King 67 times.
The Lord of the Rings is the best film trilogy since George Lucas decided to rape my childhood and release the Star Wars prequels, and The Return of the King is the best of the three movies. On top of that, there is no greater test of endurance than sitting through Peter Jackson’s four-hour epic (cause I’m a true man and only watch the extended editions) multiple times. Sure, you may be able to run a 6 minute mile or play through a 90 minute soccer match, but how many times have you watched Eowyn kill the Witchking of Angmar by macking him in the face with her sword?
I have never quit Monopoly half way through.
Everyone knows that a quitter is just a loser who is too much of a pussy to finish what he started. For this reason, I have never chosen to stop playing Monopoly before the game was over. While there have been multiple occasions where my opponents left the game early, I’ve always stayed until the end showing off my mad financial management skills. Now, I’m no Jew, but I am circumcised and I’m disgusting at Monopoly. Not only do I manage to control the railroads almost every game, but I also build so many hotels up on that bitch that it makes Donald Trump look like a penis fellator. So next time you want to play Monopoly, you better watch out and hope you don’t land on Pacific Avenue, or you’re going to owe me 200 dollars. Or a blowjob. Whichever is easier.
I once wrestled a jaguar and won.
I don’t think this needs much explanation. A jaguar once tried to start shit, and I’m not one to let any kind of pussy mess with me.
I have a green belt in karate.
As a kid, karate is the shit. We all watched Power Rangers and The Karate Kid. And everyone at one point or another had dreams of being a ninja opening can after can of whoop ass on well deserving people. I personally think I watched each of those 3 Ninjas movies about 100 times, and had daily fantasies of kicking ass with Rocky, Colt, and Tum Tum. The problem with taking karate was that it was only cool until a certain point. Once that point was reached you immediately became a fag who needed to get some friends and a real life. I remember in fourth grade the weirdest nerdiest little Asian kid was a black belt in karate. And even though he could, and did, break Laura Bracowski’s arm with a single karate chop, he was also a loser and everyone hated him. This is why I only reached my green belt in karate. Which is a high enough level to master the Zen art of ass kicking, but also not high enough to be considered a loser.
I have an iPhone.
The iPhone is the pimp of all phones. And anyone who disagrees deserves to die from a bad syphilis infection contracted from a botched blood transfusion because they’re wrong. You can argue all you want in favor of your shitty Blackberry. But at the end of the day, if our two phones met in a dark alley and fought not only would my phone destroy your phone, but it would also deflower and impregnate your first-born daughter. Cause the iPhone is a pimp, and that’s how pimps roll. I once even ordered a prostitute using the iPhone just because I could. When she arrived I told her that I never paid for sex, but we fucked anyway because she was a slut and I had an iPhone. And when you have an iPhone, you can do anything you want.
I have a black friend.
In the age of Obama, having a black friend is like having a Razor scooter when you are 12—its fucking awesome. Not only do I immediately have more street cred while walking through the Bronx streets late at night, but also now get to use cool slang like “Let’s smoke a blunt to the face,” or “Fuck that noise.” My black friend is great, and I love him. He taught me how to roll my first blunt, blow my first line, and do other shady things that only a black man should teach you. Actually, the only thing better than a black friend is a black girlfriend. Because, if you have a black girlfriend then you are some kind combination of the Highlander, Uncle Jesse from Full House, and Clint Eastwood. Which has an awesomeness level that is off the charts. When people see you walking down the street, black girlfriend at your side, they think, “Wow, look at how progressive that couple is, they must be good people.” When actually, you just like to bust your nut. So, if you happen to know a girl who meets the criteria of being black then hook a nigga up. I would even drop my current BBFF (best black friend forever) if need be, but lets hope that’s not the case.
I use a loofah.
If a sponge is Star Wars: A New Hope, than a loofah is The Empire Strikes Back. It takes the same basic formula and improves upon it in every way. Sure, the first time I saw A New Hope I was awestricken and giddy with childhood delight just like the first time I used a sponge and realized how much cleaner I could be. But The Empire Strikes Back, like the loofah, took me to new heights I never thought possible. Where Empire showed me the overwhelming destructive power of the Dark Side and the desperation that follows, the loofah showed me it’s overwhelming power over dirt and the cleanliness that follows. Like Vader cutting off his son’s hand, or Lando Calrissian stabbing his best friend Han in the back; the loofah’s pores treat dirt like it’s their bitch. And they fuck that bitch up until there “ain’t nobody dope as me I’m dressed so fresh so clean.”
I can name all 50 states in alphabetical order.
After money, rock hard abs, good looks, and quick wit (all of which I have of course) there is nothing women like more than a guy with brains. This is the reason you never hear about the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz getting laid. He had no brains, and thus never got his D wet. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve displayed my smarts at a party by naming all 50 states in alphabetical order, but I can tell you that I got laid every single time.
I have read all the Harry Potter books.
I started these as a child and finished them as a man. Nothing has been as consistent in my life as Harry Potter except maybe my parents and my love of steak. If you are one of the assholes that started the Harry Potter books when you were young but then stopped reading around the fourth book then I hate you. Or, even worse, if you are a dickhead who has never read any of the books and thinks its fine to just go see the movies (which are badass in their own rite) then I’m going to buy a chimp and have it maul you. Stop being a lazy douche bag and read a book for once. They’re children’s books for God’s sake, and if I could handle them at ten I think you can at 20.
I can play the accordion.
There is nothing sexier than being able to play an instrument especially one as dynamic and versatile as the accordion. If truth be told, the squeezebox is my one true passion in life and I can think of no greater ecstasy—except actual ecstasy—than hearing the harmonious bellowing of the accordion as my fingers run up and down its surface pushing all the right buttons. People often forget how incredibly sensual the accordion can be, but I can’t count the number of times some biddy has wanted my P in her V after hearing me play with my accordion featuring punk band: The Robert Redfords (we really love the Sundance Kid).
