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Cross promotion

Thu, 01 Apr 2010 20:40:02 +0100

My friend Brian is making some fine videos. Enjoy Maganzo #1 and #2, new episode within a month.

Fezzik: The Adventure Begins

Tue, 30 Mar 2010 16:40:27 +0100

The Scene: The Princess Bride, right at the very end. Wesley, Buttercup, and Inigo have just tied up Count Humperdink (SPOILER ALERT) and are now summoned to the window by the voice of Fezzik (Andre the Giant),

:Fezzik: Inigo! Inigo! Where are you? Oh, there you are.

            Inigo, I saw the prince's stable, and there they
            were, four white horses. And I thought, there are
            four of us, if we ever find the lady. Hello, lady!
            So I took them with me, in case we ever bumped into
            each other. I guess we just did.

Inigo:      Fezzik, you did something right

Ok, let's stop right there. WHAT? When was it ever established in this movie that Fezzik is a perennial fuck-up? Hmmm...let's see: he outraces his ship to the Cliffs of Insanity and at Vezzini's urging he outclimbs Wesley. He is then bested by Wesley, as everyone was, although at least he had the opportunity to kill him, a boast the others could not make. He then obtains gainful employment on the brute squad, singlehandedly brings Inigo back from ruin, finagles himself a holocaust cloak, is lit on fucking fire, grabs the portcullis in time, gets the gate key, and knocks down the door allowing Inigo to kill Count Rogan (so, uh, this whole paragraph was kind of a huge spoiler. So if you haven't seen the movie, go now and take a metric assload of drugs which will hopefully fuck your memory up bad enough to make you forget everything you've just read NOTHING CAN GO WRONG WITH THIS PLAN).

So what are Fezzik's mistakes? Killing the albino...and...being unemployed, at some point...in Greenland.

There is no character in this movie that fucked up less than Fezzik (Wesley makes the biggest mistake of anyone by being captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts, and by being attracted to Robin Wright - that's just nasty).

So, to honor Andre the Giant's memory, I have retconned/rebooted/reimagined/completely made-the-fuck-up some new dialogue for this part.

The Rules: When you are watching The Princess Bride, watch normally up until this point. Then mute the movie and say the new lines (at the bottom) with your friends. Assign parts ahead of time to preserve the continuity and flow of the movie. Also, since my lines are significantly longer than the original, you will need to talk like the Micro Machines guy. Practice first. In front of a mirror. Naked. Go ahead and rub your chest a little...ooh..that feels good, doesn't it?

ANYWAY, the repurposed dialogue.

Inigo:      Fezzik, you did something right

Fezzik: ~~Don't worry, I won't let it go to my head.~~ I finally did something right?
Fuck you, cocksucker, try not being a drunk all the fucking time and you might notice
I've saved your ass, ALL YOUR ASSES, about a gabillion thousand fucking times.
So fuck all your noise, how about I take these fucking horses back, and you can
work on your sheath impersonation about 50 times in a row when those soldiers come
busting in that door. Feel free to throw the chick down though, I don't want future
Sean Penn getting mad at me.

Today Was a Mediocre Day

Tue, 30 Mar 2010 02:43:05 +0100

People often ask me "How was your day?", to which I reply "Shitty.", or "Mediocre.", or "Get to the point, you old fucker." (if it's my mom).

What I never do is tell them I had a good day. That is because when I was a teenager, I thankfully had a good day defined for me by the poet O'Shea Jackson, better known by his nom de plume Ice Cube.

To make sure that I accurately describe my day in these instances, I keep a running diary, then fill out a homemade checklist in the evening. Depending on my results, I know how to accurately respond to everyone's incessant (and honestly, slightly invasive) queries the next day.

So that literate viewers at home can also do this (thus ensuring that the populace grows lightning-like fast and strong like MARK SPITZ), I present to you an example taken from a random day last week.

9AM-12PM

Ice Cube:
Wakes up, morning is clear and quiet, mom makes him breakfast sans pork, which he eats in moderation. He makes plans with a lady friend and leaves, and drives to the basketball court without being carjacked, surprisingly. [Note: there is some contention on whether Cube ever actually plays basketball on this day. A close examination of the lyrics shows that he called his friends and asked them when they were playing, and then he goes on to say that when he does play he is quite good, using as an example a game from last week (a game in which he kept stats, an odd activity during a pick-up basketball game) when he scored a triple-double (one has to assume points, assists, and rebounds. Even at this early stage of his career, Ice Cube was already exhibiting the squished gnomelike frame that would come to define his later image. It's hard to imagine those sausage fingers and eggplant legs having the agility or explosiveness necessary for 10 steals or 10 blocks).

bobkerolls:
Sleeping

12PM-6PM

Ice Cube:
Drives home and showers (from basketball? One of life's little mysteries). He manages to do this without being attacked by the denizens of his neighborhood or the police. He then goes to his friend's home (TIMESTAMP - 3:30 PM. We know this because that was the time slot for Yo! MTV Raps prior to its midnight move later in 1992). They gamble and Ice Cube wins money and leaves to go pick up his date. He is pleased that no one has died today.

bobkerolls:
Waking, and trying to determine if the urine smell is coming from my shirt or pants (and why is the odor so fresh?). Lay in bed until the urge to vomit eclipses my desire to stay warm underneath my Pokemon blanket. Sprint for bathroom and almost make it before slipping in yesterday's vomit-puddle. Vomit. Stand up, pee in sink, use finger to scrape the chalky obstruction from my sippy-cup's drinky-hole. Prepare my coffee-grounds-stirred-into-milk breakfast (I have yet to figure out how to make coffee, and only understand the Kool-Aid method) while listening to my Steely Dan/Steve Winwood mashups and watching Yo Gabba Gabba. I watch 12 episodes. They are all reruns.

6PM-3AM

Ice Cube:
Picks up his date, and they go somewhere to drink, smoke, and watch basketball (TIMESTAMP - 8PM. Two west coast teams). They have sex, and she quickly compliments Ice on his sexual prowess. He takes her home (1AM), drinks some alcohol and makes use of his customizable hydraulic shock absorbers. He reflects on the goodness of his day, especially the lack of harassment and murder. He stops for a burger (2AM) and due to the alcohol (probably), believes the lights on a nearby blimp are sending him messages of encouragement. He drives home drunk, being contacted by friends and well-wishers even at this late hour.

bobkerolls:
Receive 5 phone calls, all from bill collectors. I attempt to ask the female ones out on dates, but am refused. On the next 5, I try the males, and am again refused. Now catatonically depressed, I look for some alcohol to drink but find only empty bottles with cigarette butts inside. I fish the butts out and try to suck the alcohol out of them. It sort of tastes like scotch but mostly tastes like the time I did this exact same thing the day before. I get out my Magic: The Gathering cards to do some imaginary gambling, but luck, she is a fickle mistress, and I lose some money. In keeping with my strict sense of honesty, I burn the $12 I lost to my made-up opponent. I take some of my 'happy pills' (doctor-prescribed placebos, soaked in honey and sprinkled with cocaine). I feel instantly better and spend the next few hours spitting into all the keyholes in my house. This seems a marvelous prank at the time. Pass out at 3AM while watching a rebroadcast of the Lakers beating the Oklahoma City Thunder.

Final tally: Mediocre Day. Now I know what to say tomorrow! Feel free to copy and use this checklist for your own personal use. Send your results to ibetnoonecantopnotbadday@freedonkeyposter.com

Tales from seat 15A

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 19:02:12 +0100

So one of the in-flight magazines, I forget which one, had a regular feature called "Tales from seat x" (or some such shit), which would be a short story written by someone else each issue that would take place on a plane, and the entire plot would happen during the flight. The only one I remember was about a guy who befriends a woman, she eventually makes a pass at him, and then he reveals that he is actually the brother of her fiancé and this was all a trick to test her faithfulness THE END.

These are the sorts of things you see and you think to yourself "I could write that." And so I did, and then sent the story to every single in-flight magazine I could think of, since I don't even remember where I saw it.

I have now given them about 4 months to respond, and since they have not, I believe it is safe to assume that this can now be posted, since they refuse to recognize my genius. Or they don't enjoy pedophilia jokes. WHATEVER.

TALES FROM SEAT 15A

I took another long sip from my Jack and Jameson, and snuck a surreptitious look at the gentleman who had just sat down on my left.

"Looks like a terrorist," I mused. In fact, I was beginning to grow more and more sure of his terrorist nature, so I began to reach up for my chick-call button when I noticed my seat designation placard. Seat 15A, it read. "Holy shit," I thought - "this is that seat from those stories in the in-flight magazine!" I realized I had better make a note of my thoughts, so I could write about it later. I took out my trusty notepad and noticed that the front page was already filled with observations - Terrorist, I read, written over and over again on the first page, so I flipped through a few more pages...hmm...thirty pages of terrorist written in increasingly less legible handwriting.... need some free space...here was some.

I took out my pen and gripped it tightly in my sweaty fist, Terrorist, I scrawled in my meaningful, yet nearly unintelligible hieroglyphic-language.

"Hey Abdul," I barked at the man, "what's yer name?", glaring at him through my left eye (the alcohol had long since forced me to close my right, which was fine, since binocular vision is for pussies). The man, startled, looked over at me.

"Excuse me? I thought I had introduced myself before I left to use the restroom. My name is Luke - from Sacramento, remember?" The godless heathen put his right hand forward, with all of his fingers pointing at me sideways - some sort of Islamo-bombing gesture of solidarity, no doubt.

"Now you listen to me, Iron Sheik, I don't..." WHAT THE HELL - klaxons of pain were sounding from my knees, which felt as if they had just been tested for reflexivity by Paul Bunyan.

"WHAT THE HELL", I shouted into the back of the seat that was now two inches from my lips. I leaned back and kicked at it for a few seconds, before wrapping my neck around the right side and beginning my diatribe "Listen you cocksucker," I began..which is when I noticed that there was no one there. Then I heard a whimpering sound from beneath my chin, and looked down to see a mini-terrorist, complete with Go-GURT®-stained Spongebob Squarepants® t-shirt.

The seat he was in began to shake, along with the whole row, as a large man two seats over was struggling against his seat restraints in apoplectic fury. "YOU SON OF A BITCH! DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH MY SON!", he screamed, causing me to lower my right fist (Plan B®) to my side.

"I wasn't going to touch your son," I explained in mock-outrage, relaxing back into my own chair. "I think he's fine...really, really, fine", I half-whispered the last part as I sank back into my chair, causing incoherent screams of rage from the row in front of me, along with a new set of seat-quakes.

As I began to close my last functioning eye, the gritty remnants of the mystery bathroom pills I had eaten falling down my throat, I saw the wait-staff scrambling over and I observed three of them restraining a belligerent passenger as he attempted to wreak havoc on the airplane (or more specifically, my face.)

I was rudely shaken awake, and I looked up to see the drink-chick shaking my shoulder.

"Sir! Is what this man says true?", she asked, glancing back to the commotion. I looked down at my plastic cup and shook the last few ice chips, in what I hoped was the universal gesture for 'another drink, and cut the yapping'.

"Oh, no, I think you've had enough", she frowned sternly.

"OK, just yer phone number then," I drooled suggestively at her, and she stalked off in disgust. "Whatever", I thought to myself, "anything to get her to stop hitting on me every few minutes."

I was jolted awake an undisclosed amount of time later by the plane coming to a landing, and I respectfully waited until the plan came to a full and complete stop at the terminal before burp-vomiting a little of my stomach contents onto my shirt. I reached for my bag to get off this awful flying prison and saw that it would be some time before I could depart - all of these idiots were taking their sweet time procuring their carry-on luggage.

"Assholes!", I said out loud in my head, "How inconsiderate can you be? You know people are trying to get off the plane, yet you hold everyone up while you struggle to dislodge your bag from the overhead containers. A bag, it should be noted, that just as easily could have been checked in." Some people are just naturally self-centered, I decided. And then I thought back to my flight, and all I had seen and experienced, and that was when I realized - "OMG", I reflected, and pulled out my notepad and quickly wrote down my epiphany:

Terrorists.

The time I did ALL the drugs

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 07:40:30 +0100

Between shifts of sending out free donkey posters to the lucky inhabitants of this planet, we here at FDP sub-headquarters (East Coast) occasionally take drugs. It was during one of these monotonous drug-binges that we asked bobkerolls, our senior street correspondent, to provide a one or two sentence description of each drug he had consumed. This is purely for recreational and educational purposes so that the children, convicted Mormons, and other non-drug users will understand the drug-using experience without all of the babble usually associated with drugs.

What each drug I have taken feels like,

by bobkerolls

Cocaine: I feel like a choo-choo train.

Marijuana: I feel a little silly in my pants.

Mushrooms: The fire has become pixelated.

LSD: The fucking walls are in 3-D, and my eyeballs are not working correctly, godammit.

PCP: I think I want to do snow angels on the hood of this running car to stop the fucking voices in my heads and to stop my skin from becoming unbalanced.

Prescription painkillers: There is an invisible pillow between me and everything. Also, I want to pass out in the back of a car listening to trance music. Upon reading those sentences, I see now why people think drug users are douchebags.

Alcohol: Fuck you.

Speed: I'm going to decide whether my teeth or eyes are more jittery my teeth are hurting my eyes are too jittery GODAMMIT.

I have decided that in the interests of SCIENCE, I will attempt to take all the drugs, so that readers at home or at work can live vicariously through my bleeding gums and neck.

10:05. I have taken one tab of acid, and eaten two mushrooms (stems and caps). Unlike certain ladies I know (Editor's note: bobkerolls knows no ladies, we are pretty sure he meant to type 'ladles', of which he owns several) who get sick from eating mushrooms, I can down them like moldy popcorn.

10:07. Finished taking three shots of Jameson, and chugged a beer, maybe threw up in my mouth a little. No worries, the PCP laced joint will have me squared away in no time. No effects yet, except my heart is beating really fast and my mouth tastes like some girls I've kissed at 3AM.

10:14. One line of coke, one Vicodin, some weird pill that I've been told is speed (I'm almost certain its just a super caffeine pill), and another beer to wash down the Vics. The rest will need to be transcribed.

10:20. Stop asking me if I feel anything, I just feel a little sick is all.

10:25. I am going to fuck everyone in this room, and take...cover. Free money!

10:30. I am at war with my house. It makes a move, I make a move...checkmate motherfucker. Someone get me out of this fucking place, I need to breathe. Where is my coat - its cold outside and I'm going to be gone a long, long time.

10:34. My only hope is the trees, my only salvation the sky. My lower body feels like it's attempting mutiny - I'll punch my legs into submission!

10:45. 9/10 of everything is bullshit. I am the Arbiter of Truth, I am the Ghost Horse, I am the all-knowing all-seeing dog liver of Justice, dear god please make my feet come back, I love them very much.

11:00. (crying uncontrollably)

11:12. I think everything has worn off, I am a giant tongue. I can feel nothing but taste.

12:00. Maybe District 9 wasn't such a bad movie, maybe I misjudged it. OH GOD THE DRUGS HAVE CHANGED MY BRAIN.

2:20. I have now eaten a whole cheese pizza with hot sauce, and drank a six-pack of Bud Heavies. I threw up what looked a little like black mucus, but its all good. At least I remembered that District 9 sucked - I am back to being human again.

After a few days of recovery, I have come back to type this manuscript and make all the necessary spelling corrections and remove the 3-page non-rhyming poem that I wrote about gas stations. All in all, I think it was a success. To sum up, taking lots of simultaneous drugs is like being asleep - lots of weird dreams that you only half-remember later, you are never comfortable, and in the morning the sunlight hurts your eyes. I...I may have different sleep experiences than anyone else though.

Riding the mechanical bull at the liquor store

Mon, 22 Feb 2010 22:50:03 +0100

By 11 PM we had divested ourselves of the clucking nightmare that is thirty drunk Worcester girls. Sent back to their party bus by impatient bouncers explaining that their drunk was too drunk, we could still hear their shrill, accented curses echoing off the walls of the Alley.

The brief but cold wait in line helped reset overclocked nerves, and I was soon ordering a Stella in the Liquor Store's airlock lobby, an artificial and necessary calm before the storm. A Stella because the Liquor Store is apparently one of about three bars that do not serve Sam Adams, and the $6 charge did not improve the flavor.

All accounts were settled in the next room though, a boiling kettle of Boston's college young and socially-aggressive trash, heaving themselves onto the dance platforms, the predatory males, and of course, the mechanical bull.

The bull itself is more artistically complete than many of its brethren. Forget the truncated geometry of the usual apparatus, this was a recreation of the Beast.

Horns, hide, and placid bovine eyes enticed attention-hungry ladies and the occasional Überman from the crowd to test their usually ample centers of gravity against the pneumatic Judge.

And lo, none were worthy this night, as the bull left macho men wanting, and knocked some delicious nonsense into waves of improperly-attired girls (improperly-attired for the riding of cattle, at least).

Despite the damage being done to the stalled Women's Movement, their is some joy to be found in this spectacle besides the chance of viewing a fleeting boob or disappearing G-string.

The bull, through its human masters, decides how long your moment of fame is going to last. Some skill, a little luck, and an enormous ass will help in this arena as in all others, but ultimately your time is over, and barring a truly spectacular face-assisted landing, you are soon forgotten.

Well know this, my lovelies. I might not remember any of you, but I will forget none of you. One day that Bull will come for me, and I will join you in the legion of the unworthy, remembering our dance with Judgement, wondering what if - what if at that fateful moment we had leaned left instead of right.

Valentine's Day Special

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 00:49:40 +0100

We here at FDP value your romance. That is why we have waited until after the Day of Valentine's to produce our nearly yearly Pre-First Annual Valentine's Day Special (now with more bonus fruit).

Realizing, as we all did, the momentousness of the situation, the FDP writer's room was very quiet today, as all one of our writers thought extra fucking hard about how to express all the love that we feel for you cocksuckers. And then it hit us like a ghost sliding through gauze - Clarence Carter!

That's right - the man who brought us Strokin', the American classic devoted to the finer points of amour. Where was his love? You see, he has been delighting couples from their wedding bed to their death's bed for over thirty years. Yet, all we do is take - when do we give back to the man who gave us so much love?

No worries, that's what WE are here for (unlike you shiftless amateurs). I mean, Clarence had questions - questions he wanted answered, and no one ever bothered (except by lovemaking, which is not the answer to everything, despite what your irresponsible parents have told you).

So let's go now, and through the magic of COMPACT DISCS have a little repartee with CC:

[PLAY button]

[The song begins, and Clarence sings about his advanced lovemaking techniques, and the various directions that he thrusts his pelvis in. Then he begins to get philosophical]

Clarence Carter:   Let me ask you somethin'....

[PAUSE button]

FDP: We would be delighted to answer any and all questions that thou might have, Mr. Carter, do go on. Do not let us interrupt you, but rather, pour forth all the questions you have been meaning to ask. Questions, perhaps, that one might usually save for a meeting with one's maker. For you see, Clarence (may we call you Clarence? I'm sure it's fine, right?), we are all-knowingish, and way less completely-made-up than your no-doubt pagan god. Anyway, proceed.

[PLAY button]

CC: What time of day do you like to make love?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: Wow. Thank you for asking about us, Claire (may we call you thatANYWAY moving on), most people we interview just continue to walk by, a very select few actually answer our questions, and you are the very first person to ask a question about us - about how we feel, and our interests. It...it brings a tear to the eye, I'll reckon...not mine, but many of our readers, I'm sure (shakes fist threateningly)...wait, where was I...oh yes...what time of day do I like to make love...what time of day...I guess...evening? Although that's not really a time of day, is it? Wait - wait - don't quote me on that...I want to change my answer...I'm going with mid-morning...or...is this a trick? Like, should I say "all day" to prove my randiness? Um...hang on...I got it - my final answer is "From when I wake up to when I lay my head down, that's when I feel like laying pipe" - or is that a euphemism for pooping? Fuck - I blew it - stupid! Stupid!

[PLAY button]

CC: Have you ever made love just before breakfast?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: At 3PM? Who would make love then? A man's gotta eat, Care Bear, basic needs, you know? Anyway, I would worry about jizz in my food and whatnot. Especially if I was having a bowl of uncooked egg whites for breakfast, like I normally do.

[PLAY button]

CC: Have you ever made love while you watched the late, late show?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: With Craig Ferguson? Do you mean actually watching that while making love, or just making love while it's on? Because if you were watching it - that...that would kind of be like making love to Craig Ferguson, right? Am I right about that?

[PLAY button]

CC: Have you ever made love on a couch?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: Whoa, slow down there Kama Sutra Boy.   On a couch? Yes, and I've used a bed before too - look out world. Don't suppose you'd like to answer any of our questions, now, would you?

[PLAY button]

CC: Have you ever made love on the back seat of a car?

[PAUSE button]

FDP: What are you, Fucking Dr. Seuss? No, Clare-Cart, I've never made love in a box, with a fox, or while being sat on by a goddamn elephant, either. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you so interested in my love life? To be perfectly honest with you, I didn't even know what this song was about until my thirtieth birthday, when the woman with the large Adam's Apple finally indoctrinated me into the World of Love (the ride at the fair is correctly named in its honor). So maybe I haven't done all these exotic things that you have, C-lence, I'm still the king of the bedroom!! I'LL SHOW YOU ABOUT MAKING LOVE!!!

[Editor's note: The remaining part of this transcript is meaningless babble and sobbing - we apologize for anyone at home, making love]

Partners with Capt. Class Action Suit, possibly.

Tue, 09 Feb 2010 19:17:07 +0100

I received one of THOSE emails recently:

brohammer27

Best regards!

This mail may be a surprise to you because you did not give me the permission to do so and neither do you know me but before I tell you about myself I want you to please forgive me for sending this mail without your permission. I am writing this letter in confidence believing that if it is the will of God for you to help me and my family, God almighty will bless and reward you abundantly. I need an honest and trust worthy person like you to entrust this huge transfer project unto.

Now I'm not going to sit here and ridicule this poor fucker's English, or make fun of the ludicrous claims contained within this email. Nor will turn this into a discussion on 419 scams, as that is old news. In fact, at this point, if anyone falls for this type of stupidity anymore, than they deserve what they get: they are either greedy, stupid, or elderly - three groups of people that get no support from me (in fact, I would say that I am Officially at War with these people.)

What I would like to do is point out this man's (I'm assuming) email address. Brohammer27. For someone who doesn't seem to quite understand the language, he does understand how to make the awesomest alias on the Internet. I can't believe this hasn't already been taken. One can only assume that anyone nutsy enought to style themselves as brohammer must have taken this name by force.

Luckily for you, using my prodigous powers of Name:Appearance Reconstruction (you might say I am the world's foremost expert on this. You might say that, along with any number of things, in fact), I have sketched a perfect recreation of what Brohammer must look like:

No one is safe.

In related news, my brain's thirteenth birthday is tomorrow.

Noah Lived In Some Crazy Times

Fri, 19 Jun 2015 03:12:21 +0100

Often times when I go into public restrooms, I find that someone has left behind some Jesus-themed literature (this happens more often in the South than in the Northeast, AND THUS THE CIRCLE OF STEREOTYPES CONTINUES). I usually flip through it to see if it's one I already have, and if it's not, I pocket it for later perusal.

So far, I have not given over my life to ALL POWERFUL JESUS, despite these pamphlet's various ways of enticing me into His Warm and Terrifying Embrace. Some use badly drawn, yet still frightening images of demons (perhaps made moreso because of the artist's obvious mental problems), along with appallingly poor English, to try to convince me of the error of my Heathen ways. Yet others will use everyday situations that a person from 1950 might find himself in, along with appallingly bad English, to try to gently assure me that I am certainly going to Burn In A Lake Of Fire For All Eternity.

Sadly, my collection of these glorious testaments to mankind's descent into imbecility has been lost. No doubt confiscated by the Mormons, who are always taking my things.

Luckily, I visited the South last month, and have brought back one of these artifacts of Madness. I would eventually like to examine and discuss the entire thing, but at 2:45 AM on a Friday night, strung out on speed and gasoline vapours, the idea of turning my mind over to these raving lunatics for more than a page seems a sure way to break my already brittle psyche.

One page will have to do for now, Aggressive Readers.

Ah, but what a page it is! Try not to look too closely, rather, step back and see if you can feel God's Love emanating from your monitor. Do you feel that? Yeah, that's cancer. GOTCHA! Anyway, without spoiling the Where's Waldo like fun of trying to determine EXACTLY WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE, I will sum up the message: At the End of Times, people will act very badly. Theoretically we can see this in the scene depicted, which judging from the styles of dress and haircut, seems to take place in a 1920's speakeasy-wharf bar.

FDP's Abso-Favorite Things Of All Time About This Picture:

1. The woman saying "Stop it! My husband is watching us!": Here is a fun game. Find anyone in this picture who is looking at that couple. Which honestly, isn't as odd as the fact that some of the people aren't watching the two dudes fighting with blades that can only be described as 'short swords'.

2. The guy proclaiming that he will "bet on the little man!": First of all, why? Does he have some insider info - why would the little guy ever win? Also, which one is the little guy?

3. The out-of-place monogamous couple against the back wall: You did notice they are both dudes, right? Apparently, regardless of the fact that they are very close, and saying sweet things to each other, they are an example of evil. I think they are supposed to be an example of men who are "lovers of their own selves", which frankly fills me relief, as the first time I read this, I thought for sure God meant me.

4. The amiable drunk, shouting "I have the power...Lucifer is lord!": One has to assume he said the first part in his best He-Man voice. Honestly, this man is either modeled after me, or is someone I need to make friends with. "I have the power...Lucifer is lord!" has immediately become one of my top giggle-inducing phrases. Although if one of my companions responded with:

"Yes, and we are bringing peace with a one world government - a New Age", I would need an extra word balloon to go underneath, for my response of, "Uhh....yeah...do you have to say that every time?"

5. This guy: This freak is going to hell for his French waiter mustache alone. Also, "Let's go give him the business"? This owl is all wet - he needs the bum's rush from this gin mill! Haw haw haw.

So what did we learn, eh? Because these exercises are not for comedy (obviously)...no, they are to Teach...and the lesson for tonight is that Today's conditions are "the same as it was in the days of Noah"...which according to my cursory investigation was around 2300 BC. Hmmm...well, I don't want to be the first to say it...but bars back then were kinda...badass.

So sign me up for that time travel test trial, holmes. I KNOW NOW WHAT I WAS PUT ON THIS EARTH TO DO.

How Google Voice is Trying to Communicate With Me

Fri, 05 Feb 2010 00:51:47 +0100

For those of you who need some explanation, Google Voice is a service (offered by Google...or did you know that already?) that will, among other things, transcribe your voicemail. And not only is it free, but it doesn't work for shit! Actually, it is still in beta and available by invite only (I have a few, if anyone is interested), so to be fair, it is still being improved.

Doubtlessly it will become as finely-tuned as all Google products, so I am not making fun of the concept, but rather the execution as it stands now. So with no further exposition needed, I now present to you:

Today's Top Picks for Google Voice Madness on My Phone:

Ah yes, I see I have received a call from my cryptic friend who is just starting to learn 'the English'. I'm glad they are changing his whole oil though, sometime gas stations take advantage of foreigners and only change the half. Although that might explain why he has to "change that a lot".

Sweet, Fat Albert called. Oh wait - it's actually a completely blank voicemail, and apparently Google Voice feels bad, so it made up someone who was so excited to talk to me that they just shouted 'hey' over and over again, like I do when I call my own voice mail to cheer myself up. Hmmm...

Hello Peace, what's that you say? You want me to give you a chance? Very funny Peace, you need to get some new material. How did you get this number anyway? It was those bastards at MoveOn, wasn't it? They're pissed because I don't respond to their hourly emails...

Final Verdict: 4 out of 5 Shoggoths. We will try again tomorrow, but for now I will try to beat back the crawling horrors of the deep that have been summoned by my phone, the scurrying sound of a thousand fingernails barely audible over the hiss and pop of the poorly recorded voicemails...