They misspelled finger.
Monday, April 20, 2009
well put
this quote appeared today in a front-page article of a major, international, english-language newspaper. the person quoted is the Information Minister of an english-speaking nation (Jamaica), and therefore accustomed to making statements to the press. in the language of english.
"Thank God, there are no injuries in terms of the passengers and that the hijacking is that of a mentally challenged youngster and not anything else that will be any cause of concern in terms of an international incident," Vaz added.
wordwise, in terms of the language used, i thought everyone, in terms of people, would appreciate, thankingwise, how never to use the language in terms of speaking.
in terms of taking the time, for your benefit, in terms of helping you not sound like a fucking idiot even though not sounding like a fucking idiot may be 99-percent of your job-description, careerwise, you're welcome.
"Thank God, there are no injuries in terms of the passengers and that the hijacking is that of a mentally challenged youngster and not anything else that will be any cause of concern in terms of an international incident," Vaz added.
wordwise, in terms of the language used, i thought everyone, in terms of people, would appreciate, thankingwise, how never to use the language in terms of speaking.
in terms of taking the time, for your benefit, in terms of helping you not sound like a fucking idiot even though not sounding like a fucking idiot may be 99-percent of your job-description, careerwise, you're welcome.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
FUCK!
I'VE BEEN SHOT IN MY HEAD!
sorry. just speculating how i might have reacted had i, like Uncle Murda, been comment-capable after taking lead to the dome.
shit, i probably would have taken the time to sign up for twitter and posted "i done just been shot in my head," then updated my facebook status to "shot in the head; blood on my blackberry." that's how shit becomes real, yo.
sorry. just speculating how i might have reacted had i, like Uncle Murda, been comment-capable after taking lead to the dome.
shit, i probably would have taken the time to sign up for twitter and posted "i done just been shot in my head," then updated my facebook status to "shot in the head; blood on my blackberry." that's how shit becomes real, yo.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
captured live at Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport
shot of unidentified Ninja University graduate blowing Ronald McDonald in broad daylight.
I know it's Amsterdam and all, but Jesus. They don't have broom closets in Dutch airports? I'm tryna drain a Big Mac over here.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
What not to call your movie theater
Even if it is a porn theater. Which this Cape Town movie house is not.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Scientifical Gay Test (For Males)
if this champion's breakfast doesn't send your boner through your desk like a breaching whale, you're gay.
simple.
simple.
yo man fuck Kellogg's
word is they've cancelled phelps's contract. dropped him as sponsor. i haven't checked yet whether speedo plans to dump him. fuck knows any dude likely to buy a banana hammock would prefer to buy one from a ripped young dude who smokes weed. gay dudes fucken love to party. and we have to ask the geniuses in Battle Creek, home to Kellogg's HQ: who eats cereal more than the stoner demographic? pound for pound, motherfuckers out-consume their square counterparts by a factor of seventeen. so it's not like marketers need any more evidence that drugs are awesome for business.
and yet here (below) we have brand-new evidence, thoughtfully delivered by God hisself in mankind's dark hour of drug-hostile posturing, that proves beyond question the positive influence of drugs in our world and on our children. this fresh footage raises questions like, If drugs are so awful, why's this video only like the most awesomest and popular thing on the internet besides my blog? is this video watching itself? yeah, didn't think you'd have a snappy answer, Mr. Kellogg's. keep shutting up your dumb face.
and yet here (below) we have brand-new evidence, thoughtfully delivered by God hisself in mankind's dark hour of drug-hostile posturing, that proves beyond question the positive influence of drugs in our world and on our children. this fresh footage raises questions like, If drugs are so awful, why's this video only like the most awesomest and popular thing on the internet besides my blog? is this video watching itself? yeah, didn't think you'd have a snappy answer, Mr. Kellogg's. keep shutting up your dumb face.
How Do You Solve A Problem Like Michael?
ohmygod. ohmygod. the shock. the outrage.
in addition to a shit ton of fake indignation, the above photo instigated the following email conversation:
POINT: Michael Phelps....dummy.
COUNTERPOINT: I respectfully disagree. The kid’s from Baltimore. In B-town we have a strong tradition of character-building thru testing one’s own physical limits, a cornerstone to which is one’s ability to take on alcohol and drugs. And I like what the bong photo says. It says, “Look how I can handicap myself and still beat your sorry assess.” The world, Americans especially, need to grow the fuck up. Enough with the ongoing mock outrage. Unless we want to be a nation of babies.
Well done, Michael.
COUNTERPOINT SUPPORT: I totally agree with you. Big deal. The "reporters" who spend their lives dredging up this crap have nothing to be proud of.
POINT: Well, the fact is that he might lose endorsement deals and future deals because of this picture. I agree that ripping his photos down from locker rooms is bullshit, but the guy is basically the only swimmer in the world who could ensure the financial security of his entire family forever by maintaining a certain public image. It ain't fair, but all the hard work is done and he should have rode the wave for a while before he cut loose. I know, he's a kid and bound to make mistakes, but this one cost him his job.
COUNTERPOINT: Yeah. Because everyone's gay. And agrees to prop up the phony outrage. And marketers are chickenshit. And everyone is gay.
COUNTERPOINT SUPPORT: Exactly.
MORE COUNTERPOINT SUPPORT: And really, what percent of those media faggs have never hit the binger?
POINT: I don't disagree with any of that. I'm just saying that the guy is a fuckin' idiot because he won the swimming lottery, should have know that they hired him for his image, and broke the contract by getting photographed taking a hit off a bong. I don't take a moral stand on any of that other than pointing out that he just gave away a meal ticket that may never come again.
COUNTERPOINT: I hear you. I think it highlights our idiocy as a people, not his idiocy.
POINT SUPPORT RE: “DUMMY”: Yea, great [photo] to have to explain to [my 4 boys].
COUNTERPOINT: “he’s smoking drugs, boys. People do a lot of things to alter their base mental state. You will too. But I want you to do it with extreme caution and with profound respect for the damage it can do. There are no drugs nor drink that aren’t dangerous, and they’ve ruined a lot of people’s lives. And now look what michael phelps did to his life with just this one silly act. Is his future something you would trade for that one experience of drugs?”
You’re welcome.
P.S.: the single greatest thing you can do to keep your kids away from drug problems is to talk to them about drugs. Fact. Even if in your talk you encourage them to do drugs. Talk about drugs with your kids prevents their developing drug problems by a precise and reliable percentage. My source for this: studies done by the Partnership for a Drug-Free America. Bottom line: if you don’t want your kids developing drug problems, you should thank phelps for introducing the opportunity to discuss drugs.
POINT FLOP: Well, you're right. We have definitely entered a stage at [our house] where they are getting exposed to all sorts of non-innocent parts of life. Sex, drugs, violence, mean people, whatever. So yea, we talked through it for sure. And you know, the Phelps thing really is just another opportunity for them to learn and get their brains around it.
INQUIRING MINDS WANT TO KNOW: Would they make anything out of it in Europe or just let it go?
CORRECT ANSWER: Europe could give a fuck and will laugh at America's feigned outrage, prudishness, and hypocrisy. (addendum: although England could prove me wrong.)
CONCLUSION: Let the kid smoke weed. Let him pawn his gold medals to buy a giant flat-screen, XBOX 360, and a Vertu phone with Dominos on speed dial. And let the rest of us roll a fatso, crank Acid King’s album “III,” and pass that shit around. And mind our own fucking business. Except to admire michael’s sweet-ass watch. That shit is TIGHT.
"INHALE, CLINTON!"
in addition to a shit ton of fake indignation, the above photo instigated the following email conversation:
POINT: Michael Phelps....dummy.
COUNTERPOINT: I respectfully disagree. The kid’s from Baltimore. In B-town we have a strong tradition of character-building thru testing one’s own physical limits, a cornerstone to which is one’s ability to take on alcohol and drugs. And I like what the bong photo says. It says, “Look how I can handicap myself and still beat your sorry assess.” The world, Americans especially, need to grow the fuck up. Enough with the ongoing mock outrage. Unless we want to be a nation of babies.
Well done, Michael.
COUNTERPOINT SUPPORT: I totally agree with you. Big deal. The "reporters" who spend their lives dredging up this crap have nothing to be proud of.
POINT: Well, the fact is that he might lose endorsement deals and future deals because of this picture. I agree that ripping his photos down from locker rooms is bullshit, but the guy is basically the only swimmer in the world who could ensure the financial security of his entire family forever by maintaining a certain public image. It ain't fair, but all the hard work is done and he should have rode the wave for a while before he cut loose. I know, he's a kid and bound to make mistakes, but this one cost him his job.
COUNTERPOINT: Yeah. Because everyone's gay. And agrees to prop up the phony outrage. And marketers are chickenshit. And everyone is gay.
COUNTERPOINT SUPPORT: Exactly.
MORE COUNTERPOINT SUPPORT: And really, what percent of those media faggs have never hit the binger?
POINT: I don't disagree with any of that. I'm just saying that the guy is a fuckin' idiot because he won the swimming lottery, should have know that they hired him for his image, and broke the contract by getting photographed taking a hit off a bong. I don't take a moral stand on any of that other than pointing out that he just gave away a meal ticket that may never come again.
COUNTERPOINT: I hear you. I think it highlights our idiocy as a people, not his idiocy.
POINT SUPPORT RE: “DUMMY”: Yea, great [photo] to have to explain to [my 4 boys].
COUNTERPOINT: “he’s smoking drugs, boys. People do a lot of things to alter their base mental state. You will too. But I want you to do it with extreme caution and with profound respect for the damage it can do. There are no drugs nor drink that aren’t dangerous, and they’ve ruined a lot of people’s lives. And now look what michael phelps did to his life with just this one silly act. Is his future something you would trade for that one experience of drugs?”
You’re welcome.
P.S.: the single greatest thing you can do to keep your kids away from drug problems is to talk to them about drugs. Fact. Even if in your talk you encourage them to do drugs. Talk about drugs with your kids prevents their developing drug problems by a precise and reliable percentage. My source for this: studies done by the Partnership for a Drug-Free America. Bottom line: if you don’t want your kids developing drug problems, you should thank phelps for introducing the opportunity to discuss drugs.
POINT FLOP: Well, you're right. We have definitely entered a stage at [our house] where they are getting exposed to all sorts of non-innocent parts of life. Sex, drugs, violence, mean people, whatever. So yea, we talked through it for sure. And you know, the Phelps thing really is just another opportunity for them to learn and get their brains around it.
INQUIRING MINDS WANT TO KNOW: Would they make anything out of it in Europe or just let it go?
CORRECT ANSWER: Europe could give a fuck and will laugh at America's feigned outrage, prudishness, and hypocrisy. (addendum: although England could prove me wrong.)
CONCLUSION: Let the kid smoke weed. Let him pawn his gold medals to buy a giant flat-screen, XBOX 360, and a Vertu phone with Dominos on speed dial. And let the rest of us roll a fatso, crank Acid King’s album “III,” and pass that shit around. And mind our own fucking business. Except to admire michael’s sweet-ass watch. That shit is TIGHT.
"INHALE, CLINTON!"
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Slipping
I don’t want anyone getting worried. I’m not totally losing it; not asking people ‘what’s your name again?’ five times in five minutes. People such as my sisters. Precisely because my brain is so sharp I want to prepare, right here, for the inevitable decline.
And yet...and yet...there is mounting evidence for concern. For example, I’ve started using ellipses. Just two sentences ago. Which for any writer not named Louis-Ferdinand Céline is pretty much a gateway drug to some shitty, sloppy habits. Next I’ll be swapping its for it’s, writing ‘hopefully’ when I mean ‘I hope,’ and spreading infections like “at the end of the day;” an AIDS patient of letters forcing unprotected man love on your eyeballs. That ain’t me. Wait, what the fuck am I saying? You know this already. This is why you’re all up on my nuts, nominating me for the Nobel and whatnot. And I appreciate it.
What I’m trying to say is, because I’ve scared myself with recent Alzheimery moves (description to follow) I want to brace self and readership for the future while I’m still faster on the buzzer than every Jeopardy contestant. I want to make my intentions clear.
So, we all have shit we do every day, right? Behaviors we do so often our brain can calmly surrender their management to muscle memory. Brushing teeth. Walking. Finding mouth with beer can without taking eyes off game. I’d also file washing one’s hands in the workplace bathroom in the same category, and I’m sure you would too. I know you’re not Australian. You wash your hands after wringing out your filthy prod.
Here’s the problem. The other day I got a very basic hand-washing sequence entirely wrong. I turned on the water, squoze liquid soap into my hand, then immediately turned and started “drying” the soap off my hands with the towel. You could reasonably assume I got distracted by the mirror’s rendition of my handsomeness. If you looked like I do, you would too. Get distracted. And if you saw me drying straight soap off my hands, you’d probably go “Goddamm that dude’s handsome.” No big deal. But then I did it AGAIN. And in a different wrong sequence. I...shit, ellipses again...but...fuck. I can’t remember what I did. I think I...ok, I’m pretty sure I just turned on the water then grabbed the towel straight off, with dry hands.
So here’s what I’m saying, basically. Just to be clear. When the day comes, probably as early as my 45th year, that I need to sit in a wheelchair after naptime all bundled in a blanket and staring unfocussed past the autumn leaves, and I can basically only feed myself with food that fits through a straw, I want the nice lady pictured above spooning my applesauce.
That’s all I’m saying.
Me, her, applesauce.
I hope that’s clear.
Thank you in advance for sorting it.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Lingering Fallout From Nagasaki
Dropping the big one might end a war, but the long-term, unforeseeable consequences continue to horrify.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Gay For Six Minutes
My conscience is a porcupine. I gotta come clean; level with my readership. Your commitment to the truth is evident and deep-seated, or you wouldn’t be following the-blog-the-authorities-don’t-want-to-exist; wouldn’t risk capture by agents and offices running cyber sweep programs and shit. So here’s me telling it straight-up, in the manner to which ALB™ has accustomed you: this weekend I was totally gay for about six minutes.
As a male reader, you’re shocked. But you don’t want me to feel bad, all ostracized and everything, so you go, “Well, since you can admit it, no big deal, summer after college we were all dancing, pretty deep into the piña coladas, and this dude sort of started making out with me, and I just kinda went with it. No big deal. I figured whatever, I’m in Europe, the music was going UNTS UNTS UNTS, and I just sort of let him in my pants and everything. No big. And returned the favor. No big deal. The fag. So, yeah, totally been there. I hear you.”
And I’m all, Uh, no, I’m talking about the few minutes I let that Nothing’s Sweet About Me song into my head. Spacing out over morning coffee.
Thanks for your story, though.
As a male reader, you’re shocked. But you don’t want me to feel bad, all ostracized and everything, so you go, “Well, since you can admit it, no big deal, summer after college we were all dancing, pretty deep into the piña coladas, and this dude sort of started making out with me, and I just kinda went with it. No big deal. I figured whatever, I’m in Europe, the music was going UNTS UNTS UNTS, and I just sort of let him in my pants and everything. No big. And returned the favor. No big deal. The fag. So, yeah, totally been there. I hear you.”
And I’m all, Uh, no, I’m talking about the few minutes I let that Nothing’s Sweet About Me song into my head. Spacing out over morning coffee.
Thanks for your story, though.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Advanced Meat Recovery
That's, like, a thing. It exists. In the world. It’s even got its own acronym, AMR (doi). You could be forgiven for assuming it's a rehab program for Ultimate Fighters. It's not. Nor is it a group of specialists John Wayne Bobbitt keeps on speed dial. It's also not a patented injection to revive comatose rodeo bulls, nor a back-translation of the Mexican for Viagra, nor a proprietary tracking system for bris fallout, nor a means to return dropped hamburger patties to the griddle—that's called a McDonald's Employee. But in mentioning McDonald's, nice segue, you got close.
Advanced Meat Recovery is quote a slaughterhouse process by which residual meat trimmings are extracted from bones and other carcass materials unquote, and why AMR is not at least as well-known as E=MC squared or the Pythagorean Theorem is beyond America’s Leading Blog™. The name of its inventor should enjoy equal billing with Lincoln, Washington, and Hannah Montana in the minds of American schoolchildren, and the Nobel Committee owes a fat apology for its obviously indiscriminate method of bestowing top honors.
Here’s AMR in action:
Now, without that machinery to aid comprehension, your eye might think a Macy’s Parade-sized Porky Pig backed one out in your cat’s litter box. In fact, you’re looking at the birth of multiple Chicken McNuggets. No, I didn’t just misspell Strawberry SofServ. That ain’t fake ice cream. It’s real, actual meat.
Lots of people won’t eat something that begins life as a turkey-sized Porky Pig turd. They’ll wrongly consider themselves above the pictured pink. “Well if THAT’S where Chicken McNuggets come from, I can assure you I have eaten my last McNugget.” I say fuck your attitude. Right in its face. Your knee-jerk, birth-of-a-vegetarian bullshit don’t wash in the Halls of Logic. If you care about animals, don’t you want to make sure we gobble every last edible molecule of an animal that traded its life for human nutrition? Of course you do. Say you’re sorry. Ok. Apology accepted. Welcome back.
See, AMR, glorified, not incriminated, in the photograph above, is the means by which we ensure no animal dies in vain. The ghosts of slain chickens used to hover over a meat worker's shoulder going, “You missed a spot. There, you missed another spot. And there. FUCK, what the fuck did I even die for, motherfucker? If you’re not gonna eat all of me, just amputate my leg or some shit next time. FUCK.” (It sounded like “buk-buk buk, buk-buk,” but if you understood ghost chicken you knew that’s exactly what the fuck they were complaining about. And they had every right to.) Nowadays, thanks to AMR, the ghosts of recently evacuated chicken carcasses don’t gotta waste time checking a meat cutter’s work. They get to fuck around doing the shit chicken heaven was made for while AMR makes sure we get every dead bit. Good for the chickens; good for us.
ALB™ cold droppin the knowledge on the AMR.
You’re welcome.
P.S.: Now if I showed you the running sores that give us Honey Mustard Dippin Sauce, I could totally not blame you for keeping that shit out your mouth.
Advanced Meat Recovery is quote a slaughterhouse process by which residual meat trimmings are extracted from bones and other carcass materials unquote, and why AMR is not at least as well-known as E=MC squared or the Pythagorean Theorem is beyond America’s Leading Blog™. The name of its inventor should enjoy equal billing with Lincoln, Washington, and Hannah Montana in the minds of American schoolchildren, and the Nobel Committee owes a fat apology for its obviously indiscriminate method of bestowing top honors.
Here’s AMR in action:
Now, without that machinery to aid comprehension, your eye might think a Macy’s Parade-sized Porky Pig backed one out in your cat’s litter box. In fact, you’re looking at the birth of multiple Chicken McNuggets. No, I didn’t just misspell Strawberry SofServ. That ain’t fake ice cream. It’s real, actual meat.
Lots of people won’t eat something that begins life as a turkey-sized Porky Pig turd. They’ll wrongly consider themselves above the pictured pink. “Well if THAT’S where Chicken McNuggets come from, I can assure you I have eaten my last McNugget.” I say fuck your attitude. Right in its face. Your knee-jerk, birth-of-a-vegetarian bullshit don’t wash in the Halls of Logic. If you care about animals, don’t you want to make sure we gobble every last edible molecule of an animal that traded its life for human nutrition? Of course you do. Say you’re sorry. Ok. Apology accepted. Welcome back.
See, AMR, glorified, not incriminated, in the photograph above, is the means by which we ensure no animal dies in vain. The ghosts of slain chickens used to hover over a meat worker's shoulder going, “You missed a spot. There, you missed another spot. And there. FUCK, what the fuck did I even die for, motherfucker? If you’re not gonna eat all of me, just amputate my leg or some shit next time. FUCK.” (It sounded like “buk-buk buk, buk-buk,” but if you understood ghost chicken you knew that’s exactly what the fuck they were complaining about. And they had every right to.) Nowadays, thanks to AMR, the ghosts of recently evacuated chicken carcasses don’t gotta waste time checking a meat cutter’s work. They get to fuck around doing the shit chicken heaven was made for while AMR makes sure we get every dead bit. Good for the chickens; good for us.
ALB™ cold droppin the knowledge on the AMR.
You’re welcome.
P.S.: Now if I showed you the running sores that give us Honey Mustard Dippin Sauce, I could totally not blame you for keeping that shit out your mouth.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
pimper than pimp
So you've memorized the book of pimp moves, you know the game, and you get this next-level, ultrapimp notion to have the germans make you an ultrapimp platinum car—not stainless steel, which was so like done in the 80's, but straight up platinum—and with that you're all superconfident you got the pimp sweepstakes won. every organization responsible for making lists of leading pimps will put your shit at the tippy top. a platinum car. blue-ribbon, first prize-at-the-county-fair-winning PIMP. you're so fucking pimp you can wear a dress all day and people still be all, "Daaaamn. Pimp." and then some motherfucker safely lands a plane on the motherfucking hudson river.
as shown above, all your shit can do is drive to the mall. order an Orange Julius. front like some pilot didn't just leave a slap mark on your face so deep CSI can I.D. his fingerprints.
crap
"I'm dead, Will Robinson."
keeping y'all up-to-the minute, supplying the breaking 411 as frequently as every 6 or 8 months, sometimes means sharing hard news too. like a choice hot dog, you have to eat the asshole with the loin. that's just the nature of remnant meat. and news. (sorry, i don't make the rules. i just rule.)
the boring-ass version:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/21/arts/television/21may.html?_r=1
I apologize for fucking up your day. No i don't.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
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