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Unleash The Mail! Fat Edition
Girls Of Summer, NH Edition
Post-Coital Candor
Stupidity Meets Socialism
Gabamania Runs Wild
Official Cause Of Death: Xbox
Soul Break
Common @ White House, GAF
Right Move, Wrong Perspective
Is There No Place That's Sacred?
Royalty Schmoyalty
Smart Slice My Throat
Words Can Be Hurtful...
Bear
Ride Alongs Aren't Sexy
A Letter From Paul
The War On Pubes
The Modern American Warrior
An Unobstructed View
January Search Terms
I Ain't Sayin' She A Beef Digger
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FBQ: Vege-Fruitarianism
FBQ Part 3: On Views
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Smart Slice My Throat
April 25, 2011

It never ends. First Jared and his sexless, non-threatening energy turned a remarkably shitty submarine sandwich chain into America’s premier health food outlet. It should go without saying that when soda is on tap inside an establishment, healthier choices are being expelled by pigeons in the parking lot. Then, Kellogg’s attempted to eradicate all of humanity’s ailments with Immunity flavored Rice Krispies. Since Snap, Crackle, and Fag were unable to reverse AIDS with their toasted rice cereal, Domino’s Self-Proclaimed Pizza has stepped in to fill the schoolhouse lunchtime nutrition void and offer the societal dregs of tomorrow “a revolution[ary]… line of delicious, nutritious pizzas created specifically for schools” called Smart Slice. And what helps makes Smart Slice pizza so revolutionary? Hows about a crust made with 51% white whole-wheat flower, motherfucker?

Yeah, I said it: 51 percent! Whole-wheat, beeyitch! Or, as the urban beneficiaries of Domino’s nutritional wisdom will understand it, fiddy-won puhsent ho-wheat.

Sorry to break up the pizza party/revolution, but what in the hand-tossed fuck is 51% white whole-wheat flour? Does this mean it’s 49% African-Americrust? That’s the cheesiest joke I’ve ever delivered on this site, until the current sentence containing two intentional, embarrassingly predictable puns. But seriously, what of the other 49%? Is it still the same cardboard as the box it comes in? Who did the ingredient and number crunching for Smart Slice pizza? How and why has this 51% been determined? This is the greatest numeric mind-fuck of our time. Justify the 51! Identify the 49! Is this the arbitrary white whole-wheat flour content set in the new USDA school lunch guidelines that Domino’s Smart Slice “was specifically developed to meet”? Because if the federal government suggested it, then I’ll eat it and shut up, because I’m a patriot!

I have a bit of information for any parents out there careless and/or insane enough to allow their offspring to purchase and ingest anything from a school cafeteria. Just because the nice pizza people tell you that their hot, boxed mess will “give kids energy to learn, grow and play,” doesn’t mean it actually will. Actually, what it’s likely to do is a) sap your child’s energy as his or her body attempts to digest the unearthly concoction it’s had dumped into it thus preventing effective learning b) facilitate growth… of cysts, tumors, cavities and a plethora of other infections and c) cause your child to reach down the backside of their sweatpants and “play” with their bunghole that now feels as though it’s falling out of its ass in the aftermath of consuming large amounts of denatured cheese on cardboard. But you should still feel good, because, hey, it is 51% white whole-wheat poison.

Sorry mom and dad, but there is no nutrition available from a dough-based international purveyor of food generating $1.4 billion in revenue. I don’t begrudge them their success - I’m all for profiting off of hungry retards - but you can’t be that big and make real food. I know what you’re thinking; “But they have ‘wholesome ingredients available just for schools’ and ‘customized recipes for your student’s taste buds.’” Of course. Just like every school in America is staffed entirely by “the most highly qualified professionals, passionate about their craft and committed to helping each and every student realize their full potential both as students and as people.” At least until the third week of every school year when they realize there’s nine more months of dealing with these mouth-breathing tapeworms and they mail it in.

Before I close this out, I must share with you a quote from Domino’s Pizza CEO J. Patrick Doyle, who is already a confirmed douchenozzle based on his initialized first name. But since one form of assholery is never enough, he lays out this doozy, carefully designed to appeal only to the likes of interior dwelling shitbirds like the gelatinous food review kid from YouTube (who is probably my favorite human):

“Few people know this, but there are actually 34 million ways to make a single Domino's pizza. Consumers truly have the power to create as nutritious or indulgent of a pizza combination as they wish.”

Fun fact: Few people know this, but there are 34 million different Domino’s pizzas with which I’d enjoy suffocating that company’s CEO for having the douche-chilling audacity to make the above statement. I’ll leave the combination to him though, as he truly has the power to create as nutritious or indulgent of a pizza asphyxiation as he wishes.

Royalty Schmoyalty
May 2, 2011

What kind of distribution could I get on an updated, more realistic take on the animated mind poison known as Cinderella? In this rewrite, instead of creating false expectations for generations of children that lead them to hate their own lives and live vicariously through televised weddings of “royal” parasites, I would offer young girls and boys a more grounded presentation, one that might spare them from a life of unfulfilled dreams that exist only in Disney cartoons.

It wouldn’t be a drastic rewrite, as the original story would remain intact, only after Cinderella and Prince Charming ride away from their wedding, instead of, “and they lived happily ever after,” we segue into the next scene, later that evening, as they settle into their royal honeymoon suite. Cinderella, bursting at her vaginal seams, throws herself at the Prince, who resists her advances, repulsed by the notion of vaginal penetration, thus confirming his status as a closeted homosexual à la Prince Edward in Braveheart. Considering his options, we see Charming’s eyebrows rise, and he proceeds to command that his bride remove her bloomers, spread her cheeks, and prepare to receive him anally. The film then quickly draws to an unexpected, but much more real-life-preparatory close when, upon her cheek-clenched refusal, Prince Charming draws his (actual) sword, cuts off Cinderella’s head, and sits on her face.

The moral of the story? Shit is fucked up.

Or we could leave the film alone, continue to raise a world full of girls that expect a handsome prince to sweep them out of their trailer park / section 8 housing development / upper-middle class, oversized bedroom with walk-in closet that they complain is too small for all their shit, and wonder why the divorce rate is over 40%.

Friday’s “royal” (read: fucking nonsense) wedding of William Arthur Philip Louis and Kate Middleton was televised to a worldwide audience of more than two billion ~~vacant humanoid cunts~~ people. Two billion. There are just fewer than seven billion people in the entire world. This means nearly thirty percent of the human beings on Earth watched a wedding that affects their life in no reality-based way, all because of the insane, archaic notion that some pale, prematurely balding dillbag in England’s bloodline makes him divine. I’ve for long recognized the self-enslaving inferiority of most human beings. Despite this, I had, until learning the above statistic, maintained a microscopic glimmer of hope that logic and sanity might ultimately persevere. That glimmer has been beheaded, sat on, and shat on by two billion wretched parasite hosts.

Words cannot relate the profound stupidity of the notion of “royalty” in the modern world. How is it, in the year 2011, despite the rapid advancement of civilization over the past several hundred years, that anyone on this planet isn’t repulsed by the idea of royal human beings? The only collection of humans in the history of Earth arguably more corrupt and contemptible than politicians is royalty.

The premise of royalty doesn't just fly in the face of logic; it forces it over a diamond-encrusted royal bidet and violates it in every imaginable way. The idea that one's bloodline entitles them to a throne, power, respect, or anything, is totally archaic and illogical. Despite this, many nations continue the tradition of royal families, while those that don’t look to those that do in enchanted wonderment, unappreciative of the fact that people they do share a bloodline with sacrificed their lives in rightful defiance of the notion of royalty. I understand that traditions are often continued because they're exactly that - traditions. But simply being a "tradition" shouldn't qualify anything for automatic preservation. America, among most other nations, had a tradition of owning other human beings as property. That tradition no longer thrives. Prison inmates have a tradition of anally raping each other. It’s hard to argue that anal rape’s status as a tradition alone warrants its preservation. So why do we preserve the tradition of royalty? Accepting as legitimate a birthright to power is just as ridiculous as accepting the legitimacy of owning people or fucking their assholes against their will. Actually, it's worse. At least an argument can be made that prisoners need to get an occasional nut off, and your left hand does stop feeling like a stranger's after a while. But there is absolutely no rationalizing the notion of royalty.

Yet not only do we humanoids legitimize the notion of royalty, we bestow upon them great celebrity, as though they’ve earned this adulation by simply climbing out of some royal cunt. Instead of being mocked, loathed, and urinated on as they should, members of royal families are celebrated and worshipped by a delirious public oblivious to the oppressive, murderous, rapist, racist, tyrannical lineage from which these scumbags descend. Simpletons are awestruck by royal assholes under the misguided impression that they have an intrinsic worth higher than that of the common crack ho that gives five-dollar BJs and complimentary STDs. The only difference between the princess and the crack ho is that while the former was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, the latter was born with a glass pipe in hers. Okay, and maybe a dick or two. But at least the crack ho’s ancestors only smoked rock and sucked dick - they never pillaged nations or guillotined innocent people on a whim. There's more than a fine line between beheading and giving head. Unless it’s your first night in prison, where I’d imagine the difference seems negligible. Until one realizes that the average slutjunkie has more to offer than the king, the queen, or any of their reptilian offspring, he is doomed to a life of self-imposed inferiority.

Speaking of crack hos…

I believe the children are our future. Teach them that Cinderella is a cocktease, Prince Charming is a closeted dong-monger, and to preface every interaction with others by inquiring as to whether or not that person was one of the two billion that watched the royal wedding of 2011 and preclude those individuals that did from any participation in their lives. Then, let them lead the way.

Royal wedding? Blow me.

Is There No Place That's Sacred?
May 9, 2011

Just outside of Dallas, it’s 6:00 p.m. and a sun-drenched 75 degrees of temperate perfection. You couldn’t ask for better baseball weather. Moms and dads couldn’t ask for a better opportunity to get the kids down to the park where their eldest has a game. It's a beautiful facility with meticulously maintained fields, picturesque tennis and basketball courts, rolling acres of fresh-cut green grass, a glimmering playground, friendly folks, playful puppies, and an abundance of children fit to frolic. So pack your best attitude, bring all the sportsmanship you’ve got, and whatever you do, don’t forget a Ziploc bag of Fruit Loops and your hand-held video game system of choice!

Have you ever heard the theory that there is no universal reality - that we are each the unwitting master of our own reality that we create and that is unique to us? It’s a fascinating notion that I’ve entertained at moments - at least until a moment comes along in which I’m forced to look at a six-year-old boy in such a glorious setting as the one I’ve just described, sitting on a shaded steel bleacher next to his mother, with his face 1.5 inches away from his Gameboy (or whatever the fuck kids play now - I’d rather include this unnecessary parentheticality than Google any such thing), periodically removing his left-hand to blindly pluck Fruit Loops from his personal Fruit Loop pouch to continuously fuel his relentless gaming. That’s when I say “horseshit” to the creating your own reality theory, because there is nothing inside me that could ever will such a horrific sight into being. That is the creation of abhorrent parenting, not me trying to mind-fuck myself by imagining into existence some tech-savvy Toucan Sam disciple that will need glasses and an epipen before he graduates kindergarten.

Wait… what’s this… he’s… standing up. I don’t believe it! His legs seem to function as designed by nature! Until this point I assumed his mom carried him from the SUV in some sort of energy-conserving gamer-child satchel. Could it be that she’s suggested he take a break from the 2-inch alternate reality he lives in and maybe engage in the flesh-and-blood real world, where there are dozens of children his age riding scooters, playing games, and just generally enjoying an hour out of the day that requires no batteries? What are you, high? She handed him $6 and sent him to the snack shack to get himself “a bag of Skittles and one of those giant pretzels you like” so he’d have the stamina to press buttons deep into the night. If he learns nothing else in life, at least he’ll be an expert on the colors of the rainbow, what with Fruit Loops being dinner and Skittles being desert.

Question: If I abducted this kid on his way to the snack shack, put him on a poorly crafted raft, and set him out to sea sans Gameboy, am I a bad guy? Could his life turn out any worse than if it stayed on its current track? Maybe he makes it, maybe he doesn’t, but either way, things can only get better. He’s spared from a future of diabetes, social ineptitude, and the lack of vaginal penetration that accompanies it, while his parents experience an immediate financial boon no longer spending a fortune on batteries and breakfast cereal. Plus, who’s to say he doesn’t wash ashore to be found by a magical dwarf named Willow? The kid’s bound to be well versed in magic and dwarves, given his commitment to gaming, and will enjoy a life where he actually relates to someone, something he’ll never do with his non-magical, non-dwarf parents. He’ll live a video game, and his parents will never have to deal with the mixed emotions that accompany suffocating their own child. It works out for everyone. I withdraw my question, having now realized I’m a bad guy for not doing this.

In my defense, however, I was unable to think it through in the moment, as I was suddenly distracted by a tug on my dog’s leash. I looked down to find a mentally retarded boy with my dog in a front neck lock, trying to insert its muzzle into his mouth. Without a care in the world, or any apparent adult supervision, this kid was literally trying to suck the nose clean off the dog’s face. When I suggested he stop trying to inhale my dog, he pulled away, and I could have hung anvils from the two-foot strands of viscous retard/canine saliva that were produced. Hey, he may have had the entirety of my dog’s skull in his overly salivous mouth, but at least he didn’t have a fucking Gameboy in his mongoloid hands on such a beautiful day. Come gym class, I’m picking Dogtard over the Fruit Loop Assassin every time. Especially if we’re playing Chubby Bunny.

I weep for the future of vaginal satisfaction.

Right Move, Wrong Perspective
May 11, 2011

Writes Kristen at Food Renegade:

Sedgwick, Maine has done what no other town in the United States has done. The town unanimously passed an ordinance giving its citizens the right “to produce, process, sell, purchase, and consume local foods of their choosing.” This includes raw milk, locally slaughtered meats, and just about anything else you can imagine. It’s also a decided bucking of state and federal laws.

The horror! Someone call the FDA! Get out your posterboard and sharpies, we need to rally! Chant with me now: SHUT DOWN SEDGWICK! SHUT DOWN SEDGWICK! What is the government waiting for? I demand they protect me from the guerilla foodists in this tiny coastal town who dare to consume local foods of their choosing. Cultists! Anarchists! Terrorists! Save us! Please, government, reign in these nutritional evildoers and see to it that they never again attempt to secede from this One Nation Under Monsanto!

I love the fact that people in Sedgwick, Maine have declared that - as rational, responsible, self-determining, individual human beings - they’ll raise, grow, and eat whatever they choose, regardless of the wishes and/or commands of those in state and federal government that would be so all-encompassingly cuntish as to attempt to govern the digestive tracts of others. Each and every such governmental hemorrhoid in the anal canal of free society should be rounded up, sent to feedlots, force-fed refuse, and left to meet the same fate as the other diseased cows.

I hate the fact, though, that most people read the above passage and felt absolutely no instinctual rage at the notion that the town “gave its citizens the right” to produce and eat food. The town GAVE THEIR CITIZENS THIS RIGHT? Fuck right the fuck off, would you? This is how for granted we take our status as unconditional slaves to government. A right, under the assumption that such a thing exists, cannot be given or taken. It simply is. A right is inherent in life, in humanity. Exercising any particular right could have unpleasant consequences, ranging from a guy at the bar punching you in the face for saying something stupid, to the government caging or slaughtering you for any attempt at personal sovereignty. Still, the fact that the government will murder you doesn’t make them the gatekeeper of rights anymore than it does the CPA/serial killer next door who’ll do the same. If the CPA knocked on your door and told you that you’re no longer allowed to consume raw milk, per his edict, or else he’ll put you in a cage in his basement and kill you if you resist, you’d get your gun and tell him to go fist himself. But when the government tells you the exact same thing, you comply - proud, “law-abiding” citizen that you are. And when they haul off your neighbor for daring to take one last raw swig, you shrug, and think to yourself, “Well, he did break the law. He gets what he deserves. No one has a right to break the law.”

And that’s when you officially become a slave. And an asshole. Because everyone has a right to break the law. Everyone has a right to do whatever the earthly fuck they wish to do so long as they don't trespass on others. Individuals are the exclusive keepers of rights. Governments, no matter what ridiculous laws they pass, cannot take rights. They cannot store them in basements or file cabinets and promise that, some sunny day, they might just give them back. All they can do is levy a threat, aka a “law” or “statute”, to execute violence against you for exercising whatever right they don’t like (which is all of them). Then, we the people, being the wretched cowards we are, tuck our dicks - and our rights - back between our legs and long for the day when “government” gives them back. Should one or two ballsy individuals work up the testicular fortitude to go ahead and untuck from the government-sanctioned mangina, they’ll quickly be snuffed out. But if, by some miracle, the whole populace suddenly thinks, “Wait, these are my genitals. Why do I allow some other entity to tell me that they have to be all stuffed up in my grundle while my asshole sweats in the summer heat? Fuck this noise, it’s time to air out deez nuts!”, it would suddenly showcase the impotence of government in the face of widespread self-ownership - the prerequisite right for freedom.

So “hurrah” to any individuals in Sedgwick, Maine, or elsewhere, that exercise the right to ingest things of their choosing. And “fuck you” not only to any cunt that would burn a single corn-fueled, Monsanto-sponsored calorie to stop them, but also to any poltroon (great word, been waiting for an excuse to use it) who a) considers freedom in food choice anything other than incredibly unremarkable and b) would look to politicians for permission to swallow.

Common @ White House: File Under "Who Gives A Fuck?"
May 12, 2011

Because there are absolutely no pressing issues in the free, prosperous, nearly perfect United States, millions of blundering, partisan fuss-buckets are now engaged in a competition to see who can feign the most righteous indignation over the fact that hip-hop artist Common has been invited to that shining beacon of human decency, the White House. There’s nothing like the sight of pasty-white, middle-aged, suburban battle-axes showcasing their vaginal soreness over this horror of horrors.

How dare Barack Obama invite some man I heretofore had never heard of but Fox News and dozens of my uninformed Facebook friends assure me is a true menace to society to poetry night at the same residence from which some of the greatest horrors in the history of mankind have been directed? I wasn’t much affected when Obama claimed the right to hunt and kill any American citizen of his choosing with complete impunity and no judicial review… but allowing a rapper on the hallowed White House grounds? Blasphemy! I don’t understand why I’m angry, but since I’m incapable of original thought and can only regurgitate the contrived utterances of Karl Rove and Sarah Palin - a veritable cable news Jesus Christ and Mother Mary - I am outraged!

Moments like this serve as a reminder that there is no hope. Zero. There’s nothing so uninspiring as watching total dullards get up in arms over inconsequential horseshit that happens under the White House roof while simultaneously expressing no concern for events happening under their own - like morbid obesity, a fourteen-year-old daughter uploading her vagina to the internet, a federal assassination squad coming through the window to commit unreviewable slaughter, and a father/husband masturbating to The Suite Life Of Zack & Cody. The mindset of these Foxen (Fox News-viewing oxen) is immeasurably more offensive than any individual’s visit to the White House - be it Common, Karl Rove, or Lucifer.

Who has perpetrated more evil on the world: Barack Obama or fucking Common?

Exactly.

But you don’t get it. It’s the principle of the matter. Inviting a man that wrote a song in admiration of a convicted cop-killer compromises the sanctity/honor/prestige of the White House…

Sanctity? Honor? Prestige? Of the White House? Stop talking and eat a dick.

This guy sang about a killer. The White House is the residence of a list of murderers that can’t be rivaled. The human evil that has walked those halls would overflow the pits of hell if such a place existed. Yet you’re all in a huff because there’s a motherfucking hip-hop artist swinging by for motherfucking poetry night? Sweet hell I would hate to see your life’s priority list. There’s a stranger in front of you, holding a loaded pistol to your face, his finger's on the trigger, and he seems unusually comfortable. But why worry about the bullet about to pierce your skull when halfway across the world, a pencil is about to roll off a student’s desk and land safely on the floor? Clearly, stopping that #2 from hitting the floor is priority #1.

Why in the all-American fuck do you care if Common goes to White House poetry night? How does this affect your life? Will your life improve in any fathomable way should Common be uninvited from poetry night? Or will there still be money robbed from your paycheck, taxes levied on “your” property, and badge-adorned government henchman anxious to yank your ass off the road and extort money from you should you commit the heinous act of not buckling up?

Why not ask bigger questions, like:

Why is there a house in Washington DC that is paid for with money stolen from individuals at a cost of $4,364,041 per day?

Who the fuck could possibly be worth this?

Why should any aspect of my life be predicated on shit that goes on in some theft-funded monstrosity in the corporate acreage known as the District of Columbia?

When did I consent to this shit?

How do I withdraw from this ridiculous shit-show and how soon should I expect to be put in a cage for trying to do so?

Why is the author of this website so much better looking than me?

Why won’t anyone rub my tummy, tell me it’s gonna be alright, scoop the shit out of my diaper, and powder my soggy ass for me?

Oh, and can we please file Common’s visit to the White House under “Who Gives A Fuck?”

Soul Break
July 31, 2011

Last night, I looked into the eyes of an obnoxious, obese female (a description threatening to become synonymous with “average American female”) at the very moment her soul broke. It was beautiful:

Obese Girl: “Your ego’s too big even for Texas.”

Me: “Your asscheeks are too big even for those ‘Texas-sized’ thunder-panties you’ve got strapped on.”

Obese Girl’s friends: [ unbridled laughter ]

Obese Girl: “Asshole!”

Me: “Haha! It’s funny! Because all of your friends are sick of you cock-blocking them and now they’re laughing at your humungous ass. Haha! So big!”

Obese Girl’s friends: [ continued unbridled laughter ]

Obese Girl: [ nothing / despair / soul break ]

Final Score:

Me 1
Obese Girl 0

I AM THE WINNER.

Official Cause Of Death: Xbox
August 1, 2011

Game over, assclown. Chris Staniforth, an Xbox-addicted human sloth from Sheffield, England, managed to Halo-marathon himself to death at twenty years of age. If you don’t find this wildly amusing, I suggest you take up Halo-marathoning immediately. Some dime-a-dozen internet drive-by-moms spat their rapidly evaporating vaginal rage-juices at me back in May when I posted on the horror of kids that live inside of video games even when physically in the outside world.

“If that’s what makes them happy, who are you to judge?”

“At least they’re not out doing drugs and stealing.”

“FYI, video games can INCREASE brain function bla bla bla…”

Wow. Too bad they’ll be unable to pass that brainpower on to the next generation as sitting on their testicles twelve hours at a time decreases dick function. Every such response was translatable to truth as, “I am a complete failure as a parent. In fact, I am such a parental coward that instead of walking into the next room and potentially saving the life of my eight year old by tearing the Xbox out of the wall, I will instead email you, a complete stranger with a website full of overstated ramblings, and try to rationalize my incompetence by lambasting you for holding a mirror in front of my increasingly fleshy face.”

Well, now what does the Games Are Moms Too lobby have to say for its feckless self? Are you slobs, now armed with the knowledge that video games can be deadly, still unmoved when you see little Jackson sitting on the couch, entering his eleventh consecutive hour of pretend murder? Actually, I hope you are. Because the sooner Mother Nature is able to cleanse the Earth of your spoiled little gameboy piglets tying up the internet with their world wide warfare, the faster the response time for my streaming pornographic marathons will be.

The failed parents of the dead Staniforth have “launched a campaign to raise awareness about the health risks of playing online computer games” in the wake of his death. I’ve launched a campaign to raise awareness about what complete failures at life Mr. and Mrs. Staniforth are. How nice that you’ve decided to take a proactive role in your son’s life. Oh wait. It’s over. Just imagine if you’d decided to take similar action sometime during the two decades for which he was alive. I imagine it was hard to tell the difference between pre and post mortem Chris, though, as in both instances he was just the clump on the couch with the shitty neck beard. I’m sure it took at least 72 consecutive hours of the screen flashing “GAME OVER” before Mom and Dad began to question his status as a viable life form. Well, that, and the fact that the Dorito supply wasn’t dwindling for once. Too bad Dr. Pepper couldn’t revive him. I just can’t believe his girlfriend didn’t have her finger on - forgive the pun - the pulse of things. What? The chunky guy that played video games for twelve hours at a clip didn’t have himself a gal? Color me shocked! Vaginas throughout the United Kingdom will surely starve in the absence of a cocksman the likes of Staniforth.

Disconnect your kids, mommies and daddies of the modern world. At least at intervals shorter than twelve hours. Offer them drugs and tell them to go out and steal if necessary. The drugs might give them some perspective, while running from the cops post-theft will require their legs to be used for something other than deep vein thrombosis. Whatever it takes to not be the next Mr. and Mrs. Staniforth.

Game or die? Game and die.

Gabamania Runs Wild
August 3, 2011

Courageous. Inspirational. Patriotic. Cunt.

These are all words - okay, except for one - that have been used incessantly in reference to Gabrielle Giffords since they rolled her into Congress Monday night so that she could proudly endorse the continued demise of the United States. I made clear back in January, shortly after she got her skull blown across a Safeway parking lot, exactly how I feel about Giffords and all of her brethren in the Parasite Class. Needless to say, casting an unneeded vote in favor of expanding the leak in an already sinking ship is not courageous, inspirational, or patriotic. It’s just cuntish.

Unable to escape into the deep, deep wilderness these past couple weeks, I was consequently unable to escape exposure to the “national debate” (read: scripted distraction / unmitigated horseshit) over the looming “crisis” that would result from Congress’ failure to reach a debt compromise. While there were a few voices echoing truth from the wilderness, the typical tens of millions of American oafs sat on pins, needles, and their own cellulitic asses, wondering what the future would hold, and praying to Jesus Christ - only begotten son of the Founding Fathers - that “our leaders” would put together a plan and “save the country.”

These patrons of Federal Theatre experienced much of the same discomfort felt by countless six and seven year old children in 1991, unsure what Hulk Hogan’s fate would be when he challenged the Iraqi-sympathizing Sergeant Slaughter at WrestleMania VII. Fortunately for me at age nine, I knew the whole thing was a fucking work.

Professional wrestling has some of the highest ratings in the history of cable television. Even if you don’t like it, you’ve seen it. You get it. You know the routine. It’s ridiculous, and you can take it or leave it. So we can be certain that a large percentage of the questionably cognizant citizens that interpret politics as reality also understand the farcical nature of pro wrestling. How, then, they fail to see the similarities between fake ‘rasslin and any political point of contention spotlit by the media is indicative of some type of Hulkamania-induced brain maldevelopment.

The good guy has the upper hand. The bad guy has the upper hand. This political party is winning. That political party is winning. Whoa. The tides are turning. It just might go the other way. Back and forth we go. They’re hitting all their marks. Ooh, false finish! That was close. Body slam! Controversial public statement! Whoa, another false finish! Oh no! The referee has been knocked unconscious! The bill failed to pass! Let’s hope the match ends before we’re out of time! Let’s hope there’s a resolution before the country defaults! Yea! Nay! One! Two! Three!

It’s over, it was meaningless, we all looked silly, and it was a financial loss for everyone but the performers.

The only thing missing from her entrance Monday night was cheesy thematic music and the voice of long-time WWE announcer Jim Ross shouting, “My Gawd! That’s… that’s… THAT’S DOUBLE-G GABBY GIFFORDS MUSIC!” If we laced the Capitol’s water supply with anabolic steroids, C-Span and WWE Raw would have been indistinguishable from one another on Monday night. Who care’s about a failing currency? The Ultimate Warrior is back!

But here’s the difference. Vince McMahon doesn’t steal my money. Triple H won’t put me in a cage for growing a plant he doesn’t like. The Honky Tonk Man has never issued me a citation for successfully crossing a street whilst not within special painted stripes. And I don’t think Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka much cares if I cross state lines with unpasteurized dairy. “Rowdy” Roddy Piper might have something to say about it, but he still wouldn’t claim authority to punish me for such a heinous act. In other words, the WWE does nothing to deny my self-ownership. It’s up to me to decide whether or not to patronize the WWE. It cannot use force to compel me to meet its demands. If I don’t like it, I don’t buy it. If enough people feel and act the same way, WWE ceases to exist.

Government, on the other hand, is a living, breathing, monstrous denial of self-ownership. It’s representatives, henchmen, and business partners exist exclusively to perpetuate themselves at the expense of productive individuals - such as the Honky Tonk Man. The government steals my money. It will cage me or kill me for pursuing self-ownership. It claims authority to punish me for whatever it dislikes and denies my right to decide if it’s worthy of patronage. It uses force to compel me to meet its demands. I can opt out of the WWE. I cannot opt out of the State.

Fortunately, if enough people felt the same way - that government wasn’t worth buying - and acted on it, government, too, would cease to exist. Unfortunately, the same tens of millions of slobs that recently tuned in to the Congressional Shit Show legitimize government by encouraging it to cage or kill anyone that doesn’t similarly succumb to its whims. We enslave ourselves and cheerily clamor toward the cotton fields of the State plantation.

The only question that remains is: Whatcha’ gonna do, brother, when corporatism, and the most pervasively controlled society in the history of the world run wild on you?

The answer, of course, is to grab your ankles and welcome it with open ass. But first, give a standing ovation to Gabby Giffords for not allowing a bullet in her brain to stand in the way of her “service” as a noxious government cunt.

In the words of Iron Mike Tyson... reptilian motherfuckers.

“It’s just like pro wrestling. In front of the public we hate each other, we're gonna rip our heads off - but in the locker room, we're all friends."

Are you suggesting professional wrestling is fake?

"I'm suggesting politics is fake."

- Jesse Ventura

The Intersection Of Stupidity And Socialism
August 4, 2011

I didn’t think my jaw could or would ever hang lower than the first time I viewed Rebecca Black’s “Friday” video. Then, they released what appears to be the latest in the Jason Bourne thriller series; “The Bourne Miscarriage.”

Holy pseudo-intellectual! This is what happens, folks, when willpower alone fails to raise one’s IQ into the triple-digit range. Whether it was the intention of the squirrelly guy with the microphone to make Matt Damon appear foolish or not, he executed the best possible strategy for this effect - that being putting a microphone in front of Matt Damon’s mouth and allowing him to speak directly into it.

Let’s break the film down, shall we?

[0:12] Self-righteous grinning. Self-satisfied for “taking a stand.”

[0:18] Intransigence! Four-syllable word! Complimented by forehead-scratching. Well played, Mr. Damon.

[0:26] Head-nodding to accentuate the completion of what he believes to be a point, followed by direct eye contact with the interviewer to feign sincerity, all while hoping there will not be any follow-up queries.

[0:38] Yes. Yes. I advocate the criminal cartel of government looting even more money from productive individuals such as myself. Without hesitation, I not only want the government to take more of my money from me, but I endorse their using force to extract even greater sums from others in my economic class, regardless of any desire they may have to keep what’s theirs.

[0:41] Oh shit. Why did my mouth just make the first half of a statement that my brain can’t finish? Maybe if I pepper whatever I say next with a bunch of “ya knows,” “I means,” “probablys,” and “likes,” I’ll sound like less of a jackass than this awkward silence makes me seem like.

[0:56] Fuck. Did I just smirk and bring up the “roaring 20’s” inconsequentially? I cannot possibly be taken seriously after my usage of “roaring 20’s.” Why do I keep sounding dumber the more I talk? Wait, I know, I’ll play the odds and talk even more, because I’m bound to express a rational though eventually.

[1:10] Fuckin’ fuck! It didn’t work. I just called it “criminal” to only steal 35% - not more - of the income of the 1% of earners who already pay more than 20% of all federal and state taxes. Quick, I’ll remedy this with some cockamamie selflessness and references to the children.

[1:26] This is still wildly uncomfortable. I know! Lemme ejaculate some patriotic blather inside this hot, hollow vagina of mental ineptitude I’ve created for myself. I’ll mix it with insincere righteous indignation and sign off on it with a smile. USA! USA!

[1:39] Phantom irritations indicative of discomfort. He at least seems to be self-aware that he’s talking out of his pious little asshole, yet he lacks the humility to simply say, “You know what? I have absolutely no fucking clue how to express a rational thought, and I apologize for pretending otherwise for the last minute and thirty-nine seconds.”

I can’t continue this. It’s too painful. Watch the rest at your own risk. He rambles sub-coherently about his hatred of tax cuts, smirks whenever he thinks one of his utterances smacks of intelligence, and rubs his head a bunch. Oh, and he manages to work in his word of the day once more: intransigent.

It’s always strange to, after being impressed with the work of an actor, discover that, off-script, they appear to be clinically retarded. Go YouTube some Robert DeNiro clips since his handlers finally convinced him to make public appearances. He has the wit and social grace of a disinterested infant. If you didn’t recognize him as Robert DeNiro, he would just be some aging dude in need of full-time adult supervision. While Damon can interact with other human beings in a far more dynamic manner than DeNiro, there’s still no adjective to describe his failure in expressing his so-called thoughts on sociopolitical matters.

Then there’s the matter of how deeply perverse the sentiments Damon’s attempting to express are unto themselves. He’s disgusted by those hesitant to sink the country into deeper debt? Forget any principled argument over self-ownership and the inherent right to the fruits of one’s own labor. He’s clearly a statist. But even using that as a jumping-off point, how does one arrive at the conclusions Damon does? Based on his patchwork, forehead-scratching illogic, I can’t possibly imagine he has any concept of economic matters on any level. Hey, Matt… inflation - your thoughts? Causes and remedies? The business cycle - ready, go. Fiat vs commodity money - what say you? Okay, here’s a special ed level question for you: Escaping grotesque debt by incurring even more debt - sensible?

In good Will Hunting’s estimation, stealing money from rich people and dumping it wherever benevolent government experts tell us it’s needed will remedy all that ails the nation. Don’t cut back. Steal more! Borrow more! The redistribution of wealth and psychotic borrowing practices have brought us to the brink of the Utopia we see today - why ever would we roll such progress back? Notch this motherfucker up! Pillage the wealthy directly, borrow, inflate, debase, and enable the eternal welfare/warfare state. Oh, that’s not sustainable policy? What happens when the dollar collapses? I don’t know. But as soon as I figure out how to work “intransigence” into the answer, I’ll get back to you.

Post-Coital Candor
August 8, 2011

It’s an ancient gag; the most honest moment in a man’s life is immediately after an orgasm. I disagree, however, as in the past, even I’ve pretended to enjoy the company of the woman I’m with after the fact. These days, I like to think I’m a fairly honest cat - unrelated to the fullness of my sack - but either way, I recently found myself in just such a post-coital predicament, when the topic of truthfulness arose.

“It’s easy to tell when guys are lying,” she said. “It’s 100% of the time.”

“They can’t lie about an orgasm,” I replied.

”Well, everything other than that, then.”

“That’s silly to say, especially after that display you just put on.”

“What display?”

“That whole production you’d have me believe was an orgasm.”

“What!?!”

“Faaaaake.”

“What?” she shrieked. “I did not fake it! How dare you?” she said, failing to fight back a smile as she softly slapped at me.

I decided I’d give her some insight. After all, she really hadn’t faked it:

“Listen. Women fake orgasms. Men fake things after orgasms. This is how you’ll know if he’s a liar. There are three genuine actions a man can take post-orgasm, and anything else he does is phony. If the guy you’re with isn’t leaving, sleeping, or throwing you out… he’s faking whatever else he’s doing.”

“You’re not doing any of those,” she said.

“Apparently you didn’t notice me putting my shoes on.”

"My beard is scratchy, Canteen Boy, but it gives good backrubs."

Girls Of Summer, NH Edition
August 10, 2011

Ahh, summertime in New Hampshire and bitches be struttin' they shit. Yo lemme holla atchu girl. What it is, ma? Lemme get up in dem watermelons you smugglin'.

Unleash The Mail! Defending The Fat Edition
August 12, 2011

It’s that time again, kids. I’m finally dusting off the mailbag. It’s the typical nonsense, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Check out past mailbags here, here, and here. And for what it’s worth, I don’t really get the final email below, either.

From: Cat Webber <cattypants321@___.com>
Subject: Soul Break

Let me start off by saying that I’m not fat. However that doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic to people who are. I read your classy Soul Break thing. That's awesome. I hope you teach your sons to call girls fat and add to the list of indecent men in the world. I would love to rip off your head and take a shit down your neck.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com
To: Cat Webber <cattypants321@___.com>
Subject: Re: Soul Break

First, I’m not into scat. Second, I agree - it was awesome. Third, the best part about your little emailed attempt to save the world is that before you could even be bothered to stick up for husky broads, you first felt it necessary to qualify yourself to me as NOT being fat. You may not be fat there, Kitty Cat, but you’re certainly see-through. What ranks higher on the scale of indecency? Me commenting on the prodigious size of some broad’s ass that was acting like an outright bitch, or you prefacing a half-hearted attempt to stick up for such an ogress by declaring that you are not like her in terms of excess flesh?

Since I want nothing more than for your hopes to come true, I will teach my sons to call girls fat. At your behest, I will add to the list of indecent men in the world. Someday, when the paths of my sons and your daughters cross - the daughters you’ve taught to rip off the head’s of indecent males and take shits down their necks - we’ll see just how much ripping and shitting they do. But don’t be surprised if, instead, they self-lubricate and grab their ankles. My boys will tear them asses up. Unless, like Soul Break’s, their asses are fat. I will not raise fatty-fuckers.

Later fatso.

From: Cat Webber <cattypants321@___.com>

I didn’t say it to “qualify” myself to you. I said it to give you some persepctive that some people treat everyone like human beings no matter what they look like good or bad. Not everyone is a superficial prick like you. Not everyone thinks its cool to dehumanize fat people to their faces. I hope I have sons so that I can raise them as decent human beings. Decent enough to rip off your sons heads and shit down their necks.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com

Gee, Cat, thanks for the “persepctive.”

There’s nothing like shallow people making it their mission in life to police the shallowness of others, all the while remaining incapable of anything but their own shallowness. According to Cat, who’s made perfectly clear that she is NOT Fat Cat, she looks good and fat people look bad. But, because she’s such a devout humanist, she treats the bad looking people like… well… people.

Soul Break’s fatness was incidental to my dehumanizing her. Her fat was simply my vehicle for dehumanization. I didn’t dehumanize her because she was fat. I dehumanized her because she was a vicious hag intent on preventing any of her normally proportioned friends from enjoying my company in less than pants. I did her friends the favor of finally shutting her chunky mouth for once out of my purely humanistic concern for their well-being. And they were grateful - a sentiment you’ve never experienced toward a man.

And you’re right, Cat. Not everyone is a superficial prick like me. Some people take it to a much higher level - so far, in fact, that they lose the capacity for introspection and plod around the internet threatening superficial pricks like me with scatological beheadings. These people, Cat, are called depthless cunts.

From: Cat Webber <cattypants321@___.com>

Just fucking die would you.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com

:)

____________________________________

From: Robin Lawson <lawsonrbnj@___.com>
Subject: Why

I was unfortunate enough to find your website looking for recipes. In just one page it seems clear to me that you enjoy disparaging those who are mentally handicapped, homosexual, or have weight issues. Does doing this make you feel good? Have any of these people ever done something to you that would make you want to say these things about them? Or are you just a hateful person?

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com
To: Robin Lawson <lawsonrbnj@___.com>
Subject: Re: Why

You must have Googled “recipes for a water-logged vagina.” Right? Riiiight?

Do you mean retards, fags, and fat fucks? Because if you’re talking about ‘tards, cocksuckers, and tubalards, then yes! Disparaging mongoloids, pole smokers, and land walruses makes me feel great! The ‘gloids are always drooling and reflecting the sunlight off of their giant foreheads into my eyes; the queers are always pullin’ the peckers outta their trousers and makin’ me fellate ‘em at highway rest areas when I’m tryin’ to score meth, and the hungry-human-hippos are always plugging up doorways, walkways, and roadways with their swollen asses, or attracting wildlife with their Limburger-esque body odor and the trail of sweat and food waste they always leave behind. I’m not hateful, though. Outside of the offenses I listed, I fuckin’ love mental cripples, crotch goblins, and cord-fed human cows.

Now let’s talk recipes…

From: Robin Lawson <lawsonrbnj@___.com>

Congratulations on writing the most offensive email humanly possible. You should seek professional help.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com

Why? It ain’t like I’m retarded, queer, or fat.

From: Robin Lawson <lawsonrbnj@___.com>

No, you’re just sick in mind and spirit.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com

Hey, that’s offensive!

____________________________________

From: Julie <theanjools@___.com>
Subject: you

youre fat.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com
To: Julie <theanjools@___.com>
Subject: Re: you

But, like, with a “ph," right?

From: Julie <theanjools@___.com>

Pretty much.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com

So what you’re saying is you’d fuck me skinny?

From: Julie <theanjools@___.com>

Pretty much.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com

Whaddya go? Deuce? Deuce and a half?

From: Julie <theanjools@___.com>

Pretty much.

From: unleashthebeef@gmail.com

Solid. Catch you on the flip flop.

From: Julie <theanjools@___.com>

Fuck